The heart and spirit of America has been co-opted re-packaged and re-wired. Some would have you believe that the spirit of America lives within the military industrial complex. Some insist that it is fostered amidst the political system. Some truly misguided folk maintain the marrow of America is alive and well in the form of organized sport. All these people are fools. They have bought the vicious horrible lie that propagates itself and nothing more. The truth of matter is that what little spirit is left in this malign country of ours has been pushed to the margins of society and in some cases killed, stamped out or pushed to suicide. However, the margins are precisely where America’s heart has always been and always should be. Down to its very quintessence America is a land of tragic rejects. We should take pride in our inability to fit in any where. Unfortunately, the bulk of American society has joined in the race to homogenous safety. Where are our true American heroes? Where are our horrible forsaken gods? Men and woman who understand and embody the inherent truth of what it means to be an American. To kick the king in the nuts, declaring whatever arborous behavior we should desire to take part in is our inalienable right.  To be American is not defined by what you buy, rather what you refuse to buy… The bullshit.

Paris Hilton is not an American.

 Paris Hilton is a vapid whore with a bottomless bank account.

George Bush is not an American.

George Bush is a mindless frat house narcissist with death wish and a god complex.

Barry Bonds is not an American.

Barry Bonds is an overpaid under worked science experiment.

This is not my America. It never has been. That America is sick and not in the magical glorious way that it ought to be.  

From an early age I was able to see America for what it was and what it should and could be. Brian Wilson is a true American. Paranoid and prophetic. As was Phillip K Dick and Hunter Thompson. That’s the kind of sick I can get behind. These men were mad and self destructive. It’s the “self” part that makes them true Americans. As an American it is you’re right to destroy yourself in any way you see fit.

Destroy for yourself and create for your community. Not the other way around.

This is not good time viewing.

Zeitgeist Movie

America: Freedom to Fascism

Le’ sigh

So when I go to moderate the comments for the website occasionally I find posts from people who actual read and enjoy my writing… Well the enjoy part is arguable. However, what I find most often are posts not unlike the one Tracy left for me most recently.

Copywriters can take your marketing materials to a whole new level by the way they craft their words eating hairy penis. They can write original copy, or refresh existing copy as well as edit and proof promotional or publicity materials for print or electronic publication busty mom blowjob.

I did the world a favor and removed the links from the text but you get the idea. I wish I had that kind of creativity.

Am I to believe that copywriters craft their words while eating hairy penis? and where does electronic publication busty mom blowjob fit in?

Cant wait to see how many search engine hits I get after this one.

Gotta go! Dinners ready and it smells like hairy penis again!

Perhaps its because I’m a masochist or maybe it’s the fact that I’m the sick sort of soul who sees the magic in the truly horrifying. Regardless there is something truly enchanting about having a shitty job. Aside from the discounts it’s the only thing that explains why I continue to work at a comic book store for minimum wage. The amazing and tragic specimens of humanity that walk through that door make it all worthwhile. One of my most hated and therefore favorite customers is the kind of character I couldn’t come up with on my own even with unlimited amounts of the finest drugs. Allow me to paint the picture for you. About five foot eight inches tall and two hundred eighty pounds. An oversized fanny pack clinging to the underside of his porcine breadbasket which seems to be perpetually wrapped tightly in a purple polo shirt which bears the war wounds of ultimate cheeseburgers of days gone by. Would you expect any less than greasy matted hair? I would assume not. However, allow me to up the anti; mutton chops. This addition baffles me every time I see his nauseating visage. Is this suppose some sort of hip garnish who’s intent is to convince you that you’re not eating uncooked pig intestine stuffed with Crisco? Its not working. His fingernails are unreasonably long. I can only assume the reason for the protractedness of his nails is to accommodate the accumulation of the crusted sewage that won’t fit in his fanny pack. Granted he is not a pretty man but it only gets better from there. He has a ritual. He comes in at the same time every day without fail. He walks directly to the new comic book rack and picks up the most recent Scooby Doo comic book or some comparable children’s title. Then its right over to the adult section where he carefully chooses very important titles like Sticky, Blowjob or Anal Intruders From Mars. It’s a horrifying and amazing juxtaposition. This is where our interaction begins which is just as ritualized as the rest of his weekly trip to the comic book store. I tell him how much he owes for his smut and children’s books and he gives me the money. I carefully drop the change into his palm with the intent of avoiding direct contact with his disgusting paw. Then even if I already have his comics in a bag and have them held out for him to snatch up and run off to mothers basement he says the same thing,

“I’ll take a bag. If you got one.”

Yes I have a bag. Its right here. Your comics are inside of it. Take it and go away.

People are magic and horrible. If you’re disgusted take a moment and let it wash over you’re pallet like a fine wine. There’s a reason Da Vinci liked to work in grotesques.

Like most straight men with a set of testicles hanging from between their legs there’s a part of me somewhere that wishes I was capable of performing the ol’ fuck and flee on any pretty young girl which causes the blood to flow in all the right places. Unfortunately for me and fortunately for a few pretty young girls my parents chose to raise me with some respect for the fairer sex. It’s this engrained belief which has resulted in missing out on more than a few nights of filthy no-strings raunchy sex. On the second night of my first US tour I had one of the most painful experiences regarding my inability to treat women as objects. I had a girlfriend at the time and as if it’s not hard enough to be away from you significant other there also just happens to be all kinds of girls willing to offer their bodies for single serving use simply because you’re in a band. The show was in Seattle and there was a blonde girl with a figure that was capable of throwing babies into seizures. It was painfully obvious that this young lady was desperate to get a chance to try to damage my sensitive parts. And good god did I ever want them damaged. The way she presented it seemed like a perfect idea regardless of what any girlfriend’s, wives or priests had to say about it. Despite the fact that there was a part of me making a list of all the depraved acts I wanted to perform in, on, around and to her we had to leave that night to play Vancouver the next day. I proceeded to explain this to her and mentioned that she should ‘come on out’, as if it was just short drive across town to drop off some movies to the video store. I hopped in the van to leave certain that I would never see this girl again. However it seemed that this young lady was far more persistent than I gave her credit for. She did show up in Vancouver and this time she had brought back up. Between them, these three girls had enough curves to give a café racer wood for months. During our set I watched these predatory sex demons point at me while exchanging what I’m sure we’re tactical methods any army would kill for. After we had finished playing, they descended like vultures.

“We’ve got a hotel room a few blocks from here,” they told me “we’re just gonna go back and get naked. You should come over.”

‘Yes’ I thought, ‘I should come over. I should come right over. In fact we should leave right now. I’m not sure I have enough time to preform all the depraved acts I have written down in my note book here. Times a wastin!’

Although the reality the reality of the situation was that I didn’t say that in fact I didn’t say anything like that.

“Umm… That sounds really cool. I mean… I would love nothing more than to go back to your hotel where the three of you will be uhh… Naked. But I you know… Have a girlfriend”

I had figured that the unveiling of this information would be just cause for these ladies to relinquish their campaign. However, the one flaw in my rational was due to the fact that I had yet to learn one universal truth. That being that most girls wanna get laid as much as most guys do. The statements that followed were not unlike the ones I received later upon relating this story to many of my male friends.

“What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.”

“It doesn’t count if it’s in another area code”

“When are you ever going to get a chance to have sex with three girls at once?”

It was this last rebuttal which had almost caused me crumble. I’d like to tell you that I’ve had plenty of chances to have sex with three girls at once. Perhaps I have and just didn’t realize it but I can tell you this; none since have been served in such a blatant and enticing fashion.

The four of us went back and forth for a while I leaned on the flimsy crutch of an excuse that was having a girlfriend. Finally they relented.

“Look, we’re gonna go back to the hotel take all our clothes of and smoke some pot. If you decide you wanna come by here’s the room number”.

So I stood there holding the golden ticket watching them walk away while they pawed at each others asses which I’m sure were the flavor of some exotic candy the likes of which I would never taste. As regret washed over me like a punch to the groin a friend of mine walked over and asked me,

“What the fuck did you just do?”

As I explained to him what I had repeatedly told my hunters it started to sound even more ridiculous.

“You’re a jackass.” He declared as he snatched the hotel number from my hand and disappeared into the night. I didn’t see him til the next day when he showed up at my hotel room. I had tried desperately not to think of the kinds of things that had gone on in that hotel room but I knew there was no way he was going to let me live in comfortable ignorance. He walked right up to me with a satisfied and smug look on his face smiled and said,

“Wanna smell my fingers?”

I told him that I couldn’t. I had a girlfriend after all.