MCCAIN'S CHOICE, AMERICA'S CHOICE

I was skeptical at first about this Palin character. But after studying the record and the photos, I am now convinced that this could be a winning ticket!

THE PALIN SLUT

Every school has its bad girl. It's a sad aspect of the teenage, cultural landscape. We all know the type: They engage in pre-marital, vaginal sex… freely. They are shameless, seductive sirens, who use their budding sexuality as a weapon to distract boys from their studies, sports, church and family. They are motivated by the need for attention and compulsion for destruction. They are hell-bent to unravel the moral fabric of society.

When a teenage girl engages in immoral sexual acts with her vagina, she is attacking more than her family and community: She is attacking the very values upon which this country was founded. Therefore, a teenage slut is not merely a “good-time girl,” but a national security threat. And this lewd, manipulative strumpet should be treated as such.

Not even during the height of the Cold War was this country more threatened than by the prowl of loose girls. And as we struggle through this age of terrorism, these taunting vessels of wickedness become an even greater risk to our way of life than a Mexican bus-boy without a valid Social Security number.

When John McCain is elected president, he will know how to deal with this plague. Teenage girls who engage in vaginal intercourse should be removed from society, incarcerated and taught that their vaginas are predestined for a higher purpose.

Unfortunately, this tragedy does not bode well for Sarah Palin, the vice presidential candidate. What does it say about her parenting abilities if she failed to control her own daughter’s vagina? How can she be expected to control our daughters’ vaginas? She has failed in her own home. For the sake of our nation, John McCain must rethink his VP choice. We need a second in command who can control his own family, her own house. Not an absentee, professional female who can’t prevent her own daughter from slinging her vagina from boy to boy like most kids pass notes in school.

We have an obligation to prevent and persecute teenage girls who spread their private parts around like the common cold. Furthermore, we have duty to reject the candidacy of Sarah Palin for her failure to wrangle her daughter's legs and keep them together. Blame can not only be laid at the welcome mat of the Palin home, however. Obviously, young Bristol was exposed to information about her own sexuality and physiology through unauthorized sex education programs. There was most definitely a hole in her high school abstinence-only program through which harmful information was leaked. But still, this does not excuse or forgive the perpetrator. It merely fortifies the need to clamp down on the information and education our children can access.

Any decent parent knows that there are always alternatives to vaginal sex. And if we as a people can wipe out polio and TB, we should be able to eradicate the perilous contagion of the teenage vagina.

ADVENTURES IN STUPIDLAND

True stories of life among the dumbest.

Farmers’ Market. Hollywood. The fish & chips stand. Wednesday January 31, 2007.
I approach the diminutive fellow of Mexican or Central American extraction.
I order: “Fish and chips, please.”
He asks: “Would you like fries with that?”
I answer: “No.” Then thinking twice about it, I add: “And hold the fish.”

In the end, I got my fish & chips with the French fries and found it to be, like all fish & chips with fries, incredibly disappointing.

Why was I surprised when I asked for malt vinegar to get one of these?

I don't know who's dumber; the guy who served me this crap or the fatso who ate it.

IT’S THAT TIME OF YEAR AGAIN!

Yes, that’s right. I’m talking about that most wonderful time of year: Ashura.

AH, ASHURA! A world-wide celebration of the death of Mohammed’s grandson, Husayn. The festivities usually kick off with a concert, group sing-alongs and colorful folk dancing, all celebrating the insuppressible Islamic spirit and passion for the arts. Just kidding!


PUNKS LOOK OUT! You can call them crazy, but you can’t call them poseurs! Yes folks, it’s true. Our Shia brothers and sisters congregate for the world’s largest public bleeding. Oh wait, wrong again! Our sisters are excluded from the party. How absolutely sexist, backward and unenlightened that girls and women are not permitted to slash their heads, chests and backs open with intricate tools of torture that resemble things from the SAW movie franchise.


BRING THE KIDDIES! That’s right, folks. What would Ashura be if it weren’t for the looks on the little ones’ faces as their warm blood poured over their rosy cheeks and stung their eyes.






A SAD DAY for American children. They must feel gypped not ever knowing the Joy of Ashura. I'm almost embarrassed that all they have to look forward to is one paltry day of Christmas. Or in the case of our Jewish brothers and sisters, eight empty days of Hannukah. Though we could attempt to "Ashurize" our holidays a bit. For instance, when lighting the Hannukah candles, we could also light ourselves on fire? Or maybe just our children. Or when trimming the tree, we could impale the little ones on a branch until their blood flows like a river on the living room floor. Something to think about. In any case...

HAPPY ASHURA!

David Pincus Where Are You?

It seems fitting that my first posting will be of no concern to anybody. Well, anybody except myself and the name-sake of this story. It also seems fitting that I should make my web debut with a brief yarn about my debut into adulthood... That is, the vices of adulthood.
Somewhere on the North Shore of Chicago many years ago, though not that many, two long-haired boys of ten in short-pants and knee socks sat in a musty basement listening to records. One of the boys, having the advantage of two older sisters and divorced parents, was far more a man of the world than the other. The worldly boy-wonder was David Pincus. I was the other. Pincus reached for an album I had never seen.
"This one is my sister's," he explained. "And it's really cool."
He handed me a white, double album, the cover illustrated with an ink drawing of bricks. In fact the lines of bricks with their alternating vertical lines filled both covers.
"Cool," I said. "It looks kinda like the White Album... Only with bricks." I was a Beatle fan.
"It's better," David assured me.
I opened the double album to see what was inside. What was inside startled me: Pellets. Dozens of tiny pellets rolled out of the album like Lilliputians fleeing the giant who's really a ten year old kid.
"What the hell are those?" I asked confused.
David panicked. "Oh shit!" He said as if I had just accidentally set his house on fire. "Those are my sister's pot seeds!"
I thought about this, trying to understand if this meant his house was indeed on fire. Those words ricocheted around my head for a minute: "My sister's pot seeds." The truth was that on their own, individually, I could define each of those words with ease. But assembled in that context they meant the same as "my mother's dish plant."
It was no secret that David, worldy and wise, knew more about the complexities of the planet than I, or most people in general on the North Shore. So I fessed up.
"What are your sister's pot seeds?"
He explained. I understood. Though I wondered what effect being in such close proximity to marijuana seeds would have on my ability to finish the 5th grade. Pot, as they said at the time, is a gateway drug, a seed narcotic (if you will), that ultimately compels one to try angel dust and eventually murder your parents for a few dollars to pay a pusher for more.
We listened to The Wall... twice before I went home for dinner and silently contemplated David's sister walking down the street with a handful of strange seeds, purchased from a man who promised her that if planted, would sprout a beanstalk guaranteed to grow high. Very high.
David moved to Milwaukee in the 6th grade. But not before introducing my palate to the sophisticated tastes of beer (Neer Beer), Pink Floyd, Marlboros, Oui Magazine and a few other vices too private, bizarre and/or humiliating to mention here. He was Bar Mitzvah'd on his 13th birthday somewhere outside of Milwaukee. I remember it well. My parents drove me up there in a violent and treacherous blizzard in which we nearly died. That's why I remember his birthday. January 14th.
Happy Birthday, Pincus.