Tag Archives: government

“I’m 124 Bills Away From Republicans’ Begrudging Respect”


Image courtesy of Thegrio.com

My politically ideological opposites, the Republican Party, is the dominant force in the Legislative branch of the American government, but they always want me to sign bills into law that are in their favor.

Each day, they ask, “President Obama, how long have you been taking our shit today?”

“Too damn long,” I’d reply.

“You’ve been taking our shit that long, and you haven’t signed one of our bills into law?”

To them, laws are like hookers or sandwiches. Or hooker sandwiches. “Laws make us horny,” they say. “Especially when we make you make them. You can’t get hard off the proletariat from working across the aisle.”

One lazy January day about 4 years ago, I finally gave in. I assembled my cabinet and worked to sign legislation that would please the conservative political party. I spread my ideological legs generously, and I made sure my dignity was perfectly in line with the ground.

As they finished listing their increasingly insane legislation desires, they made an unexpected declaration of how much they respected me and my diplomatic gift horse: “Negro, you’re 300 laws away from our begrudging respect.”

I stopped.

Was our S&M-type relationship as simple as signing a few of their bills into law?

Our relationship has always centered upon their selfish needs and my utter humiliation. We met in 1997 in Washington, D.C. when I was a junior senator from Illinois, and a friend I worked with spotted a pack of old white men. An introduction was made, and I found out they’re largely affiliated with the nation’s red states, kind of dickish, obsessed with Ayn Rand and very good liars.

On our second meeting, January 20, 2009, they cooked up a proposal–to make my life a living hell for as long as I was President of the United States. More showdowns, nearly all of them embarrassing to my status as the leader of the free world, and soon, we were locked in heated battle.

Maybe I needed to show them that I could lay down and prove they could get what they want out of me. If they wanted 300 laws, I’d give them 300 laws–and I’d age at an unnatural pace. I set up my top internet employees on WhiteHouse.gov. I perused Drudge Report and Fox News for legislation ideas. I asked friends for ways to excise the last of my stature, but some, especially my international friends in power, were less than supportive of the plan.

“How pussified of you!” said Vladimir Putin, President of Russia, whose shirtless adventures were used to demonstrate his iron fist.

My own wife was doubtful. “Honey, can you be a punk bitch for that long?” she asked.

“No, but I’ve been learning from them!” I argued.

I started with easy laws. Naturalization laws for Afghan and Iraqi translators. Commemorative coin acts. My early thinking was quantity, not quality. Dozens of laws in, I did the math. This was a shitload of kowtowing. How would I finish 300 laws in time for us to not stare each other down without deep-seated hate that would pass for politeness in the Jim Crow era of our nation’s history?

Putin was the voice of reason. “Relationships are about getting what’s yours,” he said. “Take it one law at a time.”

I made laws as if my life depended on it. Updating the Patriot Act, making sure the NSA was more invasive–it was all in effect to get those crusty assholes off my back at the expense of the hip, young assholes that voted for me.

Even after attending foreign conferences and loads of bus tours, I found myself stumbling into the Oval Office to make the Republicans a law they’d like while in my tuxedo.

Making all these laws, I’ve learned how much the Republicans love to debase me. They love trying to defund the Affordable Healthcare Act, picking out sections and trying to rule them unconstitutional. Though I still want to curry their favor and not want to kill every single one of them, I’ve also put less pressure on the run-up to 300 laws and I’m enjoying not having a spine.

Today, I’ve made and signed about 176 bills into law. Over the years, my signed legislation has grown more complex–battery recharge stations for POVs, improving critical infrastructure cybersecurity. No matter what’s crossing my desk, the Republicans smile and say thank you for rolling over. He’s just happy I only have three years left in office after all.

Ten Sexy Secrets to Keep Your NSA Snitch!

ten sexy secrets for keeping your nsa snitch

Image courtesy of vigorellefaq.com

1.       Spruce up your dirty talk with mentions of metadata and giving access to your top-secret files! They’ll pilfer your records in no time!

2.       A little roleplaying goes a long way! Pretend to be a righteous American citizen breathlessly trusting their government and watch the sparks fly!

3.       Be mindful of your partner’s emotional state. Make him/her feel sexy with a back rub or massage with music in the background–preferably  “Cowgirl” or “One Love” from the Hackers soundtrack.

4.       Sex hormones can cut down on your lover’s anxiety that they will be pursued by the government to the ends of the earth. Make sure not to withhold that good loving like your government would!

5.       Orgasms are the best prescription a love doctor can write. Aside from the release of endorphins and waves of pleasure, they’ll be incapacitated for several minutes and unable to leave you.

6.       Connect with your lover. Gaze wistfully into their eyes and whisper “Blow MY whistle, you sexy informant.”

7.       Stimulate your partner’s intellectual and impure heads by light teasing of their genitalia. Anything causing severe discomfort will take them out of the moment and into a nightmarish hellscape not unlike the show Oz.

8.       A regular sex life will reduce your partner’s wandering eye. Use your carnal powers whenever you suspect he or she is distracted by flirtatious civil liberties.

9.       A homemade meal by candlelight can light a match under your lover’s kindling. Avoid foods like bread and water that will remind your flame of their pending imprisonment.

10.   Spice up your lovemaking by inviting a prosecutor into the bedroom!

My Year of Transition

On the morning of October 1, I woke up in an unfamiliar bed at my friend’s house in Southern Phoenix. A few day’s worth of clothes were next to me in a suitcase. Some of my essentials were locked in my car in front of the house. My books and other goods were in a storage facility in Central Phoenix. The downstairs stirred as my friend got her kids ready for daycare. I looked around and took in my surroundings and my new life: limbo.


The morning of February 6, I had settled into work and the daily routine (breakfast, checking email) when I got an instant message from the director of organizational development. I locked my computer and went up to the corporate office to see her.

Upon seeing me, she stood up and went toward the conference room. A packet in her hand included paperwork, the visible page having  the word “termination.” It was my worst fear come true. We sat down and she ran down a list of reasons for the layoff, the transition and next steps. I nodded and listened intently, but my head was elsewhere: what would happen now? 

I knew that I would not be at that job forever; in fact, I was surprised that I lasted as long as I did. For all the kudos I got for my work and performance as a writer over the years, I always felt that I was under-qualified, an impostor that would be found out. Never mind my unfounded neurotic-ism; I never felt that I would last long at any job. I had that conference room layoff talk 8 years prior: the same dour tone; cold-blue, vacant room that felt a mile long; and feelings of helplessness that draped over the proceedings.

I told her that this could be my chance at a new opportunity, and she replied that it was probably a blessing in disguise. I’m not sure if my fear registered on my face, nor my numb brain. As we parted ways, I wondered if being adrift would be indeed for the best. My first thought was to tell my intern writer about the change, that I would be leaving her to finish out the semester. She was stunned and upset; this surprised me. I then broke the news to my co-workers, and they were at least able to act shocked. As I gathered the last of my things and attempted to pull my files off my work computer, but I was locked out. That was it.

With my cousin (and surrogate brother) and my brother in suburban Chicago

Now fending for myself, I had an new opportunity: a chance for a new beginning somewhere else. No longer bound to Phoenix, I threw myself into the job search like never before. I added career websites to my RSS feed, flooded recruiters with resumes and cover letters, and monitored my LinkedIn profile like a hawk, looking in the area for opportunities. I was also introduced to the world of government assistance, filing for unemployment, food stamps and job-seeking help. I familiarized myself with paying for my own health insurance, as the COBRA plan my former employer offered was expensive. (Seriously, COBRA is a damn racket.)

But then in a conversation with my mom, she noted that I was not tethered to the Valley of the Sun; after selling my house last year, I could go anywhere–a plus because I hated Phoenix’s heat and general hillbillyness. My potential destination was akin to throwing a dart at a map of the United States: San Francisco; Portland, Oregon; Chicago; New York City; Washington, D.C. I had phone interviews on a weekly basis. (There was one, perhaps two weeks in my 8-month hiatus that went by without some sort of job screen.) I felt that I would be on the move soon.

Weeks out of work soon turned into months. I found myself wondering whether employers knew of my insecurities and put my resume in the reject piles. (Answer: yes.) Now in a daily routine of job hunting, I balanced my time and sanity with grad school homework, creative writing, and leaving the house once a day to avoid going stir-crazy. I reconnected with friends of friends, played pub trivia weekly, and did the occasional improv show. Meanwhile, my family checked in on me regularly, there for my venting and money worries.

My choices for new cities narrowed down to San Francisco and Chicago, with some sprinklings of NYC. Several of my Phoenix friends had moved to the Bay Area, and I thought about following them. Between March and September, I flew out there four times for interviews and job fairs, each time thinking I would work my gumption and interview skills into a new position. A session with a medium brought up the theme of transition coloring the next year for me. Meanwhile, I entertained the idea of moving back to Chicago, hesitant about how life would be picking up the pieces and reconnecting with family and friends. I made three trips home during the unemployment period for interviews and job fairs, and I hoped that my pluckiness and gosh-golly work ethic would get me employed.

August rolled around, and I got a new push to get a job: my landlord, from whom I rented my townhouse, carpet-bombed my world by telling me that I had to move out by the end of September. My job hunt took on a new, frenzied fervor, as I had to decide on one of two locations: San Francisco or Chicago. This was it. And I couldn’t decide.

With friends in suburban Chicago

August transitioned to September, and I was still unsure of where I would go–job in hand or otherwise. I started forming my contingency plans for September 30: I made two trips to San Francisco that month, one for an interview, and the other for a housing search, planning to subsidize my lifestyle on my savings and freelance work while I looked for work; or moving in with a buddy in suburban Chicago and continuing my job search there. Both options were a big change, uprooting myself and my belongings and taking to the wind. For a rigid planner like myself, this was the scariest situation to be in–letting fate decide my next step. And I waited for something to make the choice for me.

About a week before that September 30 deadline, I got a text from one of my friends in Phoenix, asking if I was still interested in a job. His company, one I had applied at a few times, was looking for a writer. I told him I would send my resume, and I returned to my efforts to forget the looming decision I had to make. I made good on my promise, thinking that nothing would come of it. My head was occupied with other thoughts: packing; ordering a PODS container to move my stuff; WHERE to move my stuff. Any distraction was a good one, and I hoped that a call about a job would be one of them.

I got an email from my buddy’s company about an interview October 1, and I accepted. This presented a quandary, as I would need to stay in Phoenix for a few more days; it also bought me more time for my move. I put my storage as I pondered my final decision. A call out to Facebook regarding a place to stay in Phoenix brought a reply from several friends, including one that I was close with, offering me a spare room for as long as I needed.  I also became more impulsive, as stress is prone to do to one’s psyche; in the panic about the PODS container blocking people from accessing their garages (it was pretty big), I decided to cancel the order and sell off all my furniture. The money would fund my move–wherever that would be–and not weigh me down with bulky stuff.

With friends on the Pacific Ocean coast

September 30 came. My landlord was greeted with me feverishly packing up the last of my stuff. He graciously (perhaps out of pity) helped me box up some of my items as I crammed my car with what I could. I turned over my keys, and he helped me move my couch into storage. I said goodbye to my place, and I drove to my friend’s house. I was officially in flux.


The week that I stayed with my friend was tumultuous. I hunted for work during the day, and I hung out with the family in the evening. I tried not to get in the way and not disrupt their routine–going as far as buying my own food. I interviewed with my buddy’s company October 1, and they seemed enthusiastic about me. Errands to pass the time felt like trips to the big city, as I was staying on the outskirts of the Valley. Good news filtered in from my buddy’s company, as they wanted me to get the paperwork process started. Errands became job-related–getting fingerprinted, finding an apartment, and getting my bearings. A friend of a friend on Facebook posted about renting her condo, and I pounced. Word came that I would start work October 8; it was a contract position but it was work. I signed the lease for my new apartment October 5. It appeared that I would be in Phoenix for a while longer.

As I hugged my friend goodbye, I thanked her for letting me call her place home while I wondered where my new one would be. The previous eight months were a search for my sense of home–emotionally and physically. And while that dread of transition led me to monetary fears I hope to never experience again, that sense of limbo shaking me out of my comfort zone gave me new highlights: traveling; networking; seeing family and friends; eating healthier (seriously); writing more; and becoming more assertive in my career. The future is as cloudy as ever, but I know that I can face it.

New Meetup Group: Arizona Seccesionist Movement

Meetup.com knows my tastes SO well:

I’ll confer with an expert.

Oprah, do you think that I would join an anti-government cult that did not exist before Jan. 20, 2009?

You know me well, Oprah. You know me well.

The Book of Statham: The Essence of Statham

Movie star, ex-footballer and sexual conquistador Jason Statham transcends mere categorization. His tough-as-nails persona is a front for his even tougher-as-more-nails inner psyche, crushing the emotional states of the world’s most intelligent minds with a mere thought of them being “tossers.” His machismo is enough to turn America’s red states gay; his sexual charisma whips through vaginae like tornadoes through trailer parks.

Jason Statham, emerging from the "Sea of Fucking"

In other words, Statham is the pinnacle of Stahamnosity.

Thanks to the combined efforts of archaeologists and relics of Variety magazine, we have pieced together accounts of That Which is Statham — translated from stick figures engaging in strongly suggestive content by Stathanmian sociologist “Arran,” himself bold in the boudoir and jet ski arts.

Excerpts from Book XVI:

New York Times Arts Critic Ben Brantly once said of Statham: “That guy makes Charlie Sheen look like the cast of Will and Grace.” Leaving out the fact that Brantly’s comment was in a review of the 2011 theater performance of Macbeth,  Statham’s legendary masculinity was the stuff of love nectar legend.

Statham has had sex with many men, but it was not gay because he was Statham. The world is infinitely pliable to his whims. If he says it ain’t gay, it ain’t gay. When Statham said that being gay wasn’t gay, his words reinterpreted history: the Bible no longer says that a man could not lay with another man, but that man could lay with Statham; history books touted Nazi Germany as the “Sausage Nigels” party; “the gay condition” was known as “Statham Fever”; and actor Tom Cruise rented out his house for Craigslist sex parties.

Statham didn’t really like being subject to regular human labels, but if pushed (something you don’t want to do, of course), he acquiesced to the following:

Gender: Statham
Sexuality: Stahosexual
Religion: Statheism

The one reported case of someone mocking Statham was a teenage internet user that ironically claimed to be a Statosexual. Statham, sensing someone using his name in vain, reached through the user’s smartphone [an ancient form of wireless communication — Ed.], grabbed him by the neck, punched his penis off (through the kid’s pants) and said “Next time, I’ll deflate all your balls, friend.”

The incident resulted in a change to the Obama Administration’s much-vaunted net neturality rules – ISPs do not have the legal right to filter content through their service, however the Statham Amendment to the bill allows providers to voluntarily block access to anything Statham related in order to protect customers’ safety. Apple was ahead of the curve – Steve Jobs personally blocked the Statham App from the iTunes App Store in order to avoid complaints of iOS devices overloading due to sheer machisimo, while the iOS autocorrect facility automatically changes “Statham” to “state of ham” to avoid the possibility of arousing Statham’s ire.

Excerpts from Book XVIII:

The Statham Amendment would become its own amendment in the Constitution in 2014 after a Senate meeting incident to vote on the changes to the Net Neutrality bill. On the Senate floor, after John Boehner rolled his eyes when reading the motion of the bill to pass, Statham crashed his Land Rover — otherwise known as his “Fuck Truck” — into the U.S. Capitol building, hurtled himself through the windshield at full screen and tackled Boehner, beating him with his gavel until the orange skin tone was removed from his face.

A real-life event filmed for Crank 2.

The Statham Amendment incident was the start of Statham’s involvement in bureaucratic service. Statham immediately removed the Senate and Congress from Washington, leaving the Legislative Branch in the hands of Statham. The Supreme Court, fearing hostile takeover, vacated their spots. President Obama promised to relegate himself to Vice President. (Joe Biden was kept on as Statham’s White House jester.)

The national tragedy was immediately challenged by Statham as a “National Correction.” Fearing similar government incidents, foreign countries enacted similar measures of Statham-blocked internet information to prevent his wrath.

Despite the measures being purely for the safety of the citizenry of the world and not a slight against Statham himself, Statham worked from within the system to remove all restrictions on the world gettings its dose of unchecked, uncensored, grade-A fuckworthy Statham. He had only appeared to support the amendment from the outside because he was bored and felt like a challenge in getting it repealed (“challenge” being a relative term when it comes to Statham; being something which takes him using just 1% of his immense brainpower).
He worked to both undermine and publicly support the Amendment through means of democracy and the power of the vote and…

Just fucking with you; he totally boned Nancy Pelosi.

Excerpts from Book XIX:

The magnificent bonetude of Pelosi gave Statham an immediate dosage of political savvy and knowledge — partially from absorbing Pelosi’s chi and literally blowing her back out. (Pelosi’s spinal fluid worked as a stem cell-like supplement that also gave Statham Pelosi’s past memories and feminine attitudes, which he mentally eradicated from his brain with the thought “I’ll give you five seconds to remove your pussy thoughts.”)

Statham, emerging from the "Fuckorghini"

With decades of political knowledge, Statham managed to uproot all America knew of democracy, running afoul of political friends and foes alike. Political pundits fell into step, praising his name in reverent tones like Gregorian chants.

FOX News [a former broadcast television network for Conservative political propaganda, hosted by retired strippers — Ed.] was the first, with the cable news leader changing their name to “FOX Statham” and the slogan to “Statham and Balanced.” Glenn Beck, fearing not getting a ratings boost by not having him on his show, offered himself up as a Stahosexual conquest. Statham took that as a challenge, strapping Beck to the hood of his Fuck Truck and driving it around Australian prisons while having a seven-way with the female anchors.

Excerpts from Book XXIX:

After conquering FOX News, Statham took over every single cable news and television network in similar fashion. Americans could not turn the channel without seeing Statham riding his jet ski in Fuck City, yelling and pointing at the sky, or having graphic sex with the WNBA league while shouting “You know you won’t understand it, but it’ll be good practice for me!” CNN became known as Statham News Network. MSNBC changed the meaning of its initials to be “Motherfucking Statham National Broadcasting Company”. Even the Onion News Network changed to “Statham Statham Statham!”

The former country of the United States of America wondered how its airwaves became a haven for Statham porn programming so quickly. Once-professional networks such as CSPAN and MTV4 were reduced to clearinghouses for Statham’s “Fucking from the Fuck Palace” recordings. His bedroom trysts with models and supermodels were top stories on televised news; his bonings of super-duper models were prime-time shows on NBC’s “Must Fuck TV” lineup.

Statham’s book-publishing companies — Statham Books, Lil’ Statham Kids’ Books and Statham’s Adult-Time Monographs — celebrated Statham’s sexual exploits in printed form, with his biography, 20,000 Fucks: Tales from the Set of Crank 2, winning the Mark Twain Award. Statham’s reach extended itself to the internet, with academic and carnal material re-purposed for shrines in his honor.

His reach over all communication channels went unmet for 12 years. Meanwhile, a small group of counterculture radicals, calling themselves “Alarmists to Subvert Statham,” plotted to overthrow their ruler. And the time for revolution was nigh.

Commentary: Genial Black Man Talks Things That Don’t Concern Him

In the April 2010 issue of Essence magazine, R&B singer and actress Jill Scott offered a commentary on why interracial dating — particularly that involving black men and white women — bothers her. As the magazine’s cover teased, Ms. Scott was so bothered by the pairing of two consenting adults in a emotional and physical bond that it “still hurts.”

Obviously, this chronic pain was too much for her to bear that she had to unburden her soul about 15 years after the racist and exclusionary nature of her feelings — those shared in the African-American community — were deemed quaint. (Who can forget Spike Lee’s movie Jungle Fever and the funky, on-the-nose Stevie Wonder’s soundtrack contribution of the same name?) Still, the magazine — and America, thanks to its aversion to people of color (hi, Tea Party!) — is bothered enough to deem intercultural parings to be problematic enough to run commentary editorials.

It’s an interesting quandary Essence has upon itself, playing to their audience. Oddly enough, Essence seems perfectly fine with splashing its website with images of two other consenting adults in an interracial relationship, white R&B singer Robin Thicke and black actress Paula Patton, and crowing about their love story, which once again proves the age-old credo that it’s all right if she ain’t white.

Explain this, Essence!

But I digress, as editorials are one person’s opinion. The main point is that Ms. Scott is in emotional distress, and I can empathize. After all, I too am bothered when legal citizens can do and say as they please. People over the age of 18 with freedoms as granted by the U.S. government to copulate with who they want while caressing their guns? Lord, have mercy!

I decided to tap into the portion of my head-space that houses my own terminal self-esteem issues, and I present to you:

Consenting Adults: Genial Black Man on Why It Hurts So Damn Bad

My two new strangers that I just encountered are of average looks, Caucasian and Latina, questionable intelligence and seeming capable of upright movement. They are both homo sapiens, love their movable digits on their hands and feet, and are happily bonded to one another. I admit that when I saw his hand on her ass, I privately hoped that he would offer me up a piece of that candy. But something inside me knew that they wouldn’t offer me a piece. Although my theory was spot-on, when my equally over-observant friend told me that they were indeed two consenting adults doing things that did not concern me, I felt my spirit… vomit. I didn’t immediately comprehend why. My raging boner read happy for you. (She had a great ass.) My non-throbbing portions of my body showed no reaction to my inner projectile vomiting, but the stench was there, festering like a fart in a glass jar.

Whoever smelt it was the smarter of the two.

Was I jealous? Did the reality of whatever they were going to do somehow warp my overly-inflated negative view of them. The answer is not easy, for I couldn’t find it on Google. One could easily brush off my spirit vomiting as being nosy or meddlesome, but that’s not how I was brought up. I was raised in a sanction-minded household (i.e. not of Mississippi). I was taught that every person should be judged by their compliant interactions with me and not what I heard from “the hens” at the hair salon, as my pappy called the women that frequented the local styling boutique, and I firmly stand where my parents left me after they skipped town. (Gambling is a hell of a drug.) Human beings around the world are known to be free-spirited and receiving. We share ourselves and our cookware, sometimes to our own peril, and most of us love the very notion of a hearty casserole. My position is that for people of bipeds of intrusion. This very common “vomiting” has everything to do with the snooping story in Humanvania. (For your sake, I’ll call it America.)

The desire of all humans: the casserole.

When our people were bound and chained, “Master” (or whoever was then the editor-in-chief of People magazine) placed approving people of age on a pedestal. They were spoiled, revered and the ideal, while the non-agreeable people were flogged with leftover salt pork. They were nothing and neither were their views on who President Andrew Johnson was procreating with in the Lincoln Bedroom. As the prying anthropoids were emancipated for the greater good of Humanvania (sorry, “America”), and the movement towards yielding lurched forward, the permitting-minded hominid was the subject of the every haut monde (or similarly fancy-sounding place of frequenting). They were the crème de la crème of fleshy mortals, the glory of every person that wanted to think, feel and act for themselves. They were undoubtedly the pillars of American society, resoundingly too fair to be dragged down by negative thoughts or poor self-image. We spirit vomiters were seen as investigative, scrutinizing and uppity, good for dishing dirt on people, while our brethren were called muckrakers and old, haggard biddies with no value to humanity whatsoever.

We reflect on this shameful history and recall that if a subscribed person even conferred with a nagger, they would have been flogged with several pieces of salt pork, tarred and feathered or shunned by the village idiots. In the midst of this, quizzical people struggled together, cried together, gossiped together, braved the liberal nature of the sophisticated and their scary, submissive ideas and ways, and wept for actress Sandra Bullock and her marriage problems together. These harsh truths lead to what we really feel when we see two strangers together. That feeling is oh-no-they-didn’t. While we work to raise our sons and daughters to interrogate everyone and what they do, most of us end up judging others alone, with no casserole to eat, limited cookware and sex boners to point and thrust. It’s frustrating and it hurts so damn bad!

Entertainment Weekly's "Most Hated Man in America," Jesse James. I guess Michael Jackson's father is no longer in the running.

Our brain-sponges can comprehend that people of all tolerances find genuine items of interest in many places. We dig that the world is all diverse-like, daddy-o. But underneath, there is a stench, no matter how much Febreze is used, that has yet to stop stinkin’. Some may find these truth bombs I’m droppin’ Hiroshima-style to be painful. That is not my intention, to be a buzzkill dingleberry . Just sayin’.

The Book of Statham

There are legends, there are myths and then there is Jason Statham.

The star of action franchises like The Transporter and Crank appears to be an invincible powerhouse of tenacity, brute strength and homoerotic machismo that could fuel 10 Top Gun movies. Most people know of him as an actor, former footballer and a man’s man. There is, however, more. Much more, in fact.

Jason Statham, or "Statham."

Jason Statham, or "Statham."

According to official records, Jason Statham was born in London, England in 1972 to human parents. However, he is much more than human. Researchers from Southwest Florida College in Fort Myers, Fla. recently unearthed ancient records that nullify British documentation. An Aug. 13 excavation in the Republic of Cameroon by the scholars, leading researchers in Statham Sciences (the only institution in the world to offer the major) produced the first-known records of modern human beings, with one simply known as Statham. His status, elevated above modern homo sapien, is homo stathian, or “very human.”

The mythos of Statham reaches far back, beyond what his 36 years suggests, for his true life spans time and space. His so-called movies are stark portrayals of his real-life experiences; purported Hollywood special effects and writing mistaken for the reality that surrounds him.

Excerpts from the researchers’ article in scholar journal, Variety Magazine, listed below, were translated from a form of communications derived from stick figures depicting violence and strong sexual content:

Excerpts from Book XIV (estimated to take place in 2013):

Kirk Cameron and (Jason) Statham team up to save the world from Satan. Cameron resorts to prayer, while Statham simply kicks his face in and stabs cigarettes out on his eyeballs. Then Statham breaks Cameron’s neck for being a pussy.

During the pivotal fight with Satan, Statham would then do a slow-motion flying kick into Cameron’s head, causing it to immediately explode and propel his body into Satan’s body, causing Satan to explode. Statham would then flash his smirky smile while having sex with three women on top of the remains of Satan and Cameron.

Statham in the documentary, Death Race, chronicling his leadership regime of Statham.

Statham in the documentary, Death Race, chronicling his leadership regime of Statham.

Then Statham becomes our God and re-writes the Ten Commandments so there’s only one: don’t be a pussy. World peace is rapidly achieved, and there is only violence in the world when Statham feels like fighting ninjas and robots for practice in case of alien invasion.

(Statham) rewrites the commandments by breaking a crying child in half, claiming it was “too muck of a daft pussy to live.”

Excerpts from Book XXII (estimated to take place in 2019):

Six years have passed, with the world enjoying prosperity unlike what it has ever witnessed. Peace remains until a terminator with Arnold Schwartzenegger comes from the future, challenging Statham to a fight for the survival of the world. Statham says, “Let’s Crank this up.”

Statham bends the limits and physics of reality to his whim.

Statham bends the limits and physics of reality to his whim.

Arnold starts to say “I’ll be ba…” but is interrupted by Statham kicking his head off. Peace reigns supreme once more. Statham then rewards the world by inviting everyone to watch him banging Angelina Jolie and Cameron Diaz at the Colosseum, using the U.S. Constitution as a condom.

While engaging in such lovemaking, he shouts out numerous phrases altered from the condom to have the essence of Statham, including “We the People of the United States of Statham, in Order to fuck a more perfect Union!” and “No hot-ass bitch shall be a Representative who shall not have attained to the Age of Staham-grade fuckability, and been seven Years a Citizen of the United States of Statham, and who shall not, when erected, be an Inhabitant of that State in which she shall be fucked silly.”

Book XXIII (estimated to take place in 2024):

Statham travels to New York City, now known as Fuck City, and renames the United Nations the United Stathams, with only one member – himself. As head of the Security Council, he then passes a binding resolution declaring “Statham rocks” before blow-torching the building and roundhouse-kicking its smoldering remains into dust, thereby making the resolution impossible to be repealed.

Statham, on his way to overtake the United Nations from Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon.

Statham, on his way to overtake the United Nations from Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon.

Excerpts from Book XXVI (estimated to take place in 2026):

Statham brings his influence to Washington D.C., taking over the Legislative, Executive and Judicial branches by punching every single person in government once, causing simultaneous explosions. He then names the branches Statham, Statham and Statham, names Washington D.C. into Statham, District of Cock-Knocking and reforms the Washington Monument into the shape of his penis (adding material to it, of course).

He also simplifies the lyrics of the national anthem by replacing every couplet with “STATHAM! STATHAM!”, with the music simply being the main riff of “Master of Puppets” over and over again. The inaugural airing of the new anthem is played at the Lincoln Memorial, now renamed the Statham is Awesomeial (and the monument itself is now a statue of Statham fucking Megan Fox from behind), with AC/DC, Slayer and Queens of the Stone Age providing the musical backing while Statham yells the lyrics while greased-up and naked.

Cloned actress Megan Fox, reminiscing about her passionate and overpowered lovemaking with Statham.

Cloned actress Megan Fox, reminiscing about her passionate and awesome lovemaking with Statham.

The footage is aired on every television station on Earth, now simply renamed Statham after Statham took over the U.N., annihilated Osama bin Laden by driving his Audi (from Transporter 3) headfirst into the Afghanistan mountains and fucked Kim-Jong Il in a non-gay expression of power until North Korea exploded in awesomeness. As Statham delivers the State of Statham, he points at the camera to accentuate every point, using quotes from his movies (“You know my fourth rule? Never make a promise you can’t keep,” “Who’s got my fucking strawberry tart?” and “You pair of sausage nigels! How do you sleep at night?”)

Statham, vacationing off the shores of Fuck City

Statham, vacationing off the shores of Fuck City.

Excerpts from Book XXXII (estimated to take place in 2092):

The planet of Statham enters the most prosperous of times in its history. Interstellar threats are thwarted with Statham pointing his penis at the sky and yelling “Massive homo cunt!” He celebrates these many victories by fucking a Maxim hologram magazine movie star/celebrity from the Hot 100 list while the reunited androids of classic rock band System of the Down plays live in the background — one day hoping for their freedom, which may happen when Gabriel Yulaw (depicted in the sci-fi documentary The One by color talkie-film action star Jet Li) beams into the Statham is Awesomeial.


Stupid MSN News Headlines – May 2009

MSN News, let’s cut the charade: it’s over. It’s been over for some time.

Your brain-melting story headlines and equally dumbfounding content within was attractive at first – sexy, even. But the fire just isn’t there anymore. Things have become stale. There just isn’t any excitement anymore.

I remember when you used to entice my eyes with trite wordplay about fighting over pork at Dunkin Donuts or anything involving Sanjaya; now it’s like you’re not even trying. I mean, look at this stuff you’re trying to pass off:

Watch what’s ahead for stock market – This article suggests that I can see what lies ahead for the troubled Dow Jones. If this is the case, I think this info can be put in better hands – like the U.S. Treasury, for example – instead of the monkey who wrote this headline. Why are the idiots so privileged?!

Woman declared dead; she disagrees – I can imagine the woman shaking her finger at the doctors, perched on a floating cloud in Heaven and shaking her finger with sass… and then realizing that she in Heaven and is dead.

Offended by virtual sex? Get $35 – While the article talks about a Grand Theft Auto settlement, you’d think someone was being recruited for a focus group on their scale of perviness. (Note: 3D models engaging in sex? Kinda pervy.)

Why women regret tattoos more than men – Mmm… sexism. I mean, where do you get off on trying to tell me that men don’t regret lower back tattoos? I mean, immortalizing the lyrics to “Chocolate Rain” where only my lover could see it seemed like a good idea at the time.

I mean… whatever…

Theres nothing sexier than a Japanese childrens mascot.

There's nothing sexier than a Japanese kids' mascot.

Teen surfer describes shark attack – Let’s not mince words: I don’t think there be anything of substance besides, “Whoa… dude… there was, like, this shark… and, like, it was big and… stuff, man…”

Slate: Who owns my trash? – MSN News, are your children from your baby mama writing these headlines? No adult could be in their right mind asking these.

Jubak: Why this recession is scary– Fear-mongering stuff like this is why people don’t trust the media. Good thing that people don’t consider MSN News to be real media.

Extra breasts turn up in the oddest places – Oh, don’t I know it! I know that I’ll be scratching my back and – DAMN! – found another boob!

Are we a new nation now? – Damn you’re so impatient, MSN News! Obama hadn’t even taken office and you want results! It’s like you’re a Republican or something.

Bank of America headed for a breakup? – And they seemed so good together…

In food scare, beware hidden nuts – While this is mostly likely about the salmonella scare earlier in the year, this could also be the lamest pickup line ever.

8 ways to love toast – So wait… are there more ways to enjoy toast besides eating it? Do I want to know where this article is going? Won’t someone please think of the children?!

Wal-Mart to open Hispanic-focused stores – Wow, Wal-Mart is behind the times. I mean, Eskimos are the new hot minority! Where’s their corporate-sponsored racism?

Once you go Eskimo, theres nowhere else to go?

Once you go Eskimo, there's nowhere else to go.

How to be good at falling in love – I like that there is an article telling me how I can manipulate someone’s heart. I guess being a sociopath is okay when it boosts the romance industry.

Why does my sweat smell like cheese? – The eternal question. You might be asking yourself this as we speak, and you would be in your right mind to do so, but it must be a common phenomenon for MSN News to comment on it; that, or the writer is putting feelers out about his problem.

Help: I’m jealous of my hot daughter – Her father used to look at me like that… before the change

Opinion: Beware of this rally – While this story mentions the Dow Jones rebound, it could look like they’re warning minorities to avoid that crowd of people wearing white linens and shouting racial slurs.

How to live your whole life on Facebook – It’s funny when mainstream media tries to understand and articulate new Internet trends. Again, this is MSN News, so this is just sad.

Men’s shorts sale: Save up to 50% – In theory, aren’t people ALWAYS saving up to 50% off shorts compared to pants? AMIRITE, folks?!

Twitter king Ashton Kutcher pranks CNN – I didn’t know that the Twitter social network was a monarchy – if I’m to believe this headline. Also, is this supposed to be awesome that a douchenozzle assbag fooled a news organization? Oh yeah… MSN News… right…

Can someone PLEASE put Ashton Kutcher in a movie so hell stop this Twitter shit? PLEASE? I will pay you.

Can someone PLEASE put Ashton Kutcher in a movie so he'll stop this Twitter shit? PLEASE? I will pay you.

End of the line for poetry? – I didn’t know that the art of poetry, around for hundreds – if not thousands of years – could be referred to in the same way as a once-great athlete:

“You’re best days are behind you, poetry. Why don’t you hang up the spikes, go in the broadcast booth or endorse a lawnmower?”

MSN News, we certainly had our good times, but lately those times have been few and far between. But maybe we can still be friends…

Aww… fuck it. I’m just going to keep coming back to you. Maybe it was my troubled upbringing and shattered family life, but your retarded idea of love is the only type I know.

Let us never fight again…

Casual Aggression

A few weeks ago, I saw a teenager with a white-font slogan on a black t-shirt. Shirts passing off themselves and the wearer as witty are nothing new and are rarely funny — though they are downright hilarious when they are ironic in a sad, “Cletus the Slack-Jawed Yokel” sort of way. This particular wearer — a plain-faced, lanky kid that looked as though shampoo was a luxury — sported the sloganized wear, “Everybody Sucks All the Time.”

This struck a nerve with me — after the initial silent giggling, of course. The angst dripping from the words could only be worn by a teenager (“Like, Oh-M-Gee and whatever!”), along with the naivete of the interpretation. How is the average person supposed to take it if they are being told by a $10 that they “suck all the time”? If they have somewhat healthy self-esteem, they would look at the owner and leave it at that. After all, whoever would want to possess a garment like that has anger issues that a shirt won’t work out.

However, it could also be seen as a common — and increasing — trend in society: the practice of casual aggression. I interpret casual aggression as spreading a message inspired by hate/anger/angst through passive-aggressive means, and you can see it almost everywhere. From clothing to our media forms and societal trends, we not only communicate things we wouldn’t dare speak, we often become indignant when we are called out for it. Racism, sexism, bigotry, biases — it can all be masked and/or deflected with a few words and distancing.

That t-shirt example? It’s as old as printed t-shirts themselves. You name the type of clothing, and I’ll show you one used for calling something or someone out.

WHY, brotha?!

WHY. brotha?!

Whether it’s hate speech, snide remarks (“I’m with stupid,” anyone?), something sexual in nature or good old fashioned jackassery, socks, shirts or pants, the words are there to provoke a reaction. The worst thing is that if you question the person about the garment and your reaction irks the wearer, there is a lack of understanding/accountability for the message they are putting out. (This can be a particularly-sensitive topic when it comes to sexually suggestive clothing with slogans on shirts or pants buttocks.) There is certainly the idea of free speech, and that’s all well and good, but in some cases…



…don’t be surprised when I exercise my right with my words.

And it only goes from there. Websites like Facebook and Twitter encourage aggression through the anonymity of the internet. It’s easy to paint an extreme version of your viewpoint online when you are hiding behind a computer screen – often thousands of miles from other people. And with said power, the weight of our words take on that much more weight when we do not know who is reading those words — let alone their individual backgrounds, past experiences, cultures, etc.

Hell, we see this practiced in the media all the time. During a President’s Day sale for Sanderson Ford in the Phoenix, Arizona area, a xenophobic radio advertisement derided people thinking about buying cars that weren’t American, followed by the stereotypical Asian music jingle (think Mickey Rooney’s Mr. Yunioshi in Breakfast at Tiffany’s). Though Arizona in general is as enlightened as Larry the Cable Guy, the lack of foresight to see how offensive that would be to anyone outweighed the poor attempt at humor — and magnified how scared that dealer was of the foreign car competition by stooping to racism. I wonder how they reacted if someone had a few negative comments of that ad.

When I think of Asian people, I immediately think of Mickey Rooney.

When I think of Asian people, I immediately think of Mickey Rooney.

Another example of this subtle form of aggression in the media is one that is gathering traction with a particular segment of the population: Fox News. Though network and cable news networks are manipulated by corporate backers and agendas, few court people that are as ignorant (willfully or unknowingly) and resistant to change Rupert Murdoch’s news outlet. The conflicting message of its channel slogans and talking heads bounce between hard-hitting journalism and lighthearted entertainment, and those messages take potshots and words out of context when it comes to politics. The increasing outrage/Republican talking-point targeted messages/sponsorship of anti-government meet-ups and sometimes charged accusations come off like a spoiled trust fund kid who was written out of the will. For a viewer not in on the joke, it is easy to confuse the ludicrous and the… well… more ludicrous. Worse than that, the network can easily hide behind their line of “It’s only entertainment” or “We’re balanced!” and wave it away like “Obi-Wan” Kenobi using The Force. But perhaps that is easily overlooked considering the source and the target.



It all is a symptom of an increasing lack of accountability by our culture. We wear our true feelings on the outside or funnel them through third-parties, and immediately separate ourselves from it — no matter how close it is to us. And examples of deflecting blame are seen every day, from big business to government, sports stars and in our own homes. Is it any wonder that it is rare when someone is NOT defensive about something they champion?

We’ve all been guilty of it at some point; heck, I’ve done it more times than I am proud of. But owning up to views and actions without the need for clothing or someone/something else is something that is more commendable than however witty or cool that thing might be — even if you are with stupid.

Happy Holidays from…

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With the job market slackin’, you best be packin’.

And it’s not just about buying gifts; hell, you might need money to feed your brood of kids. Well, the Chandler Pawn Center has you covered.

That’s right: they will buy your house from you! Cha-ching, indeed!

Whether it’s one mistake or a hundred, the Chandler Pawn Center will bail you out — like the U.S. Government with irresponsible businesses. After all, they are as charitable as good ol’ Saint Nick:

The Chandler Pawn Center: Because even Santa knows where to get his “piece” from, especially when taking down terrorists sons of bitches.

Resident approved.

(Please use other door.)


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