Toyota Six Feet Under

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It’s ridiculous! First the accelerator sticks and now the brakes don’t work. Enough with the hollow apologies and hokey whoopsie-doo-baby-made-a boom-boom commercials, alright? We expect more. We didn’t collectively kill our auto industry for shoddy workmanship and unreliability. If we wanted that we could have just bought a Buick. I mean it is a Japanese company. Shouldn’t a couple of those execs be falling on their swords, literally? See that’s the problem. We need to bring back good old-fashioned Samurai ethics. I guarantee that the impending threat of hara-kiri would get ole Akio to personally double check those vroom-vroom pedals and stop-stop pads before they left the assembly line for our crumbling pot-holed highways.

Lucky this didn’t come to light five years ago or it might have sullied Six Feet Under’s stellar season finale montage (one of the greatest product placements in the history of advertising). Where instead of Claire driving her pristine Prius into a panorama of the great wide open to Sia’s Breathe Me, she’d have floored it directly into an oncoming semi-tractor trailer (due to a jammed gas pedal and ABS failure) ending in the sound of screeching metal and a death-rattling scream. Surely a subdued sewing-up and embalming of little sister Fisher’s mangled corpse by David and Rico, concluding in a tasteful yet somber service, would not have held the same place in our hearts.

Punxsutawney Meltdown

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PETA demanded this week that the organizers of Pennsylvania’s Groundhog Day festival replace Punxsutawney Phil with a robotic stand-in.

A disgruntled Phil has steadfastly refused to abdicate his position and be replaced by what he calls a “animatronic fraud”. He has reportedly armed and barricaded himself in his burrow, chittering that he would shoot if he sees “anyone’s motherf*cking shadow” . Recently fathering a litter of six and with unemployment at an all time high in Pennsylvania, the laid-off rodent would be hard pressed to find a job, let alone one with a premium Health Plan for his brood.

Fox’s Barracuda Jumps the Shark

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The end is nigh. Watching Bill Kristol’s Eliza Do-nothing struggle to dress up her red-meat-tea-party talking points in snarkily delivered, barely comprehensible, pseudo-intellectual jargon on Fox News, as she is coaxed by Bill O’Righty like an over-eager poodle pup makes me think this Frankenditz might be the harbinger of the Rapture she’s spent her entire charmed life preparing for (AKA God’s Plan).

I’d rather be exposed to Glenn Beck after a full-blown Healthcare-Is-Fascism hissy fit, eyes streaming crocodile tears, rocking back and forth in the fetal position with his thumb in his mouth and a pool of drool dripping down his moisturized chinny chin-chin (actually high-fructose corn syrup, but it works for the camera) than this former second-string Miss Alaska smarmily playing pretend at punditry.

It’s like being forced to listen to your overzealous eight-year-old niece’s rousing rendition of The Music Man’s Pick a Little, Talk a Little at the Thanksgiving table. As she mangles the song by sputtering and stuttering and over-confidently mugging, going from moderately cute to overly grotesque in the ten minutes it takes for turkey to get cold and the mashed potatoes to grow a hardened crust.

And yet there Sarah is, being paid to spew lukewarm air and mutilate the English language on a national “news” network.

Exhibit A (On Obama’s poll numbers):

I-It was just a matter of time before more of that reflection of the people’s uncomfortable… ness that they feel towards this administration is manifesting in these poll numbers.

What??? How is it possible that she has a degree in broadcast journalism? I mean this is what she is allegedly good at, folks!

Exhibit B (On Harry Reid’s controversial remarks):

I come from a very diverse state. My family is very diverse. I’m married to an Alaskan Native. A lot of us don’t think along those lines that somebody’s skin tone would be criteria for, a-a qualification for the presidency. So his- his thinking and articulating of that that thought was-is quite perplexing, is quite unfortunate and is unacceptable.

I myself have many 1/8th Alaskan Native American friends (like her hubby Todd whose mother is a whole one-quarter Yup’ik). And far be it for me to argue that Alaska is not in fact the poster state for diversity… just as Iran is the poster nation for Zionism. However, I do find her unflagging support for the Tea Bagger Movement, whose fringes so blatantly assert that somebody’s skin tone should be “criteria for, a-a qualification for the presidency”, a tad bothersome.

Palin’s Bread n’ Butter

Wonder if she’ll be at the keynote address? Fingers crossed.

Man, as if the creepy, self-satisfied croak of ole Spin Lizzy Cheney wasn’t bad enough to bear, Fox had to go and up the ante with this brainless Barracuda. Could it possibly get any worse? Certainly! Let’s not forget that Palin has recently begotten Prejean, opening the floodgates for any bimbo with a bathing suit, baton-twirling act, fully realized implants and a dream. Why, Jason Chaffetz (R-Utah) has already suggested to TMZ (that other bastion of Fair and Balanced reporting) that Prejean could be a serious contender in the political arena, stating that: “[Carrie] has the ability to draw crowds and if she has a strong message to go with that, who knows what she can do? She has star power which can open doors.” Sound familiar? Hey, at least her video footage is mite more interesting to look at.

If George W. Dunderhead has succeeded in lowering the bar for any black-sheep trust-fundian screw-up with a powerful papa in politics to have a clear shot at being leader of the free world, then Sarah has certainly out-limboed the former Commander-in-Puppet by shattering the glass basement for both women and humanity alike.

Good thing Rupert Murdoch snatched her up.

Starschmucks Folly: VIA, the Instant New Coke

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You could put lipstick on a pig, but…

So it seems that Starbucks, the U.S. brewing behemoth, has decided to hawk an upscale version of Folger’s Crystals (currently gathering dust at the back of your out-of-touch nattering Nana’s pantry), but don’t you dare display your displeasure whilst within the immediate vicinity of one of their brainwashed baristas, or be prepared for a barrage of inane talking points and propaganda rivaling Liz Cheney’s blind backing of enhanced interrogation techniques. I’m not sure what remedial reprogramming retreat these poor part-timers were forced to attend, but it was apparently led by that murderous maenad Maryanne from True Blood or a direct descendent of Jim Jones ’cause there is zero room for dissension. Resistance is futile. You simply must drink the Kool-Aid… or neo-Sanka swill.

Is it somehow surprising that the franchise’s base of upscale liberal lefty latte-guzzling pseudo-intellects, who pride ourselves on being caffeination connoisseurs, might be a mite perturbed over the prospect of having a white-trash product pimped to us while trying to get our five o’clock fix and recharge our iPhones? We aren’t brewing up a batch of crystal meth in the bathroom units of our double-wides, looking for a quick-fix beverage to wash down our derelict dinner of Cheez-Whiz and Ritz Crackers for Cletis’s sake! Give it a rest; we don’t want to take your stupid taste test! We don’t care if this isn’t our grandfather’s instant coffee, it reminds us of our grandfather (who was last spotted hollering about health care at a town hall meeting due to a combination of dementia and Glenn Beck).

We have already agreed to pay three dollars for a cup of coffee. You’ve won. Don’t insult our intelligence by trying to get us to pledge allegiance to an inferior un-brewed commercialized commodity conceived by some snotty young marketing exec fresh out of grad school with plans for cutting losses by diversifying your elitist appeal to the general populace. Talk about watering down your “brand”. It was bad enough when you started in with that awful homogenized Pike’s Peak to compete with the Dunkin’ Donut’s demographic and their pansy palates. And let’s not forget those putrid pre-manufactured breakfast sandwiches (re-heated in those creepy gray cancer-causing ovens) prominently featured in your fly-ridden refrigerated display cases–yummers!

But for the coup de grace, it’s hard to believe your insolent insistence upon undermining the entire foundation of your existence: freshly ground, percolated C. Arabica that we pay a premium for you to prepare. Something authentic to be ingested and savored as we make our way through another impersonal, cyber-connected, pre-fabricated day. The churning in our stomachs, the burning in our bowels, the bing! bing! bing! of when it finally kicks in and everything is ok in the universe again. Gradual descent into despair transforms into rocketing ascent into possibility, hope and “what if?” Why would you want to dilute that?

Sarah “Barracuda” Doesn’t Sleep With The Fishes!

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She’s no dead fishy, folks! Though many are questioning her status as a vertebrate due to her lack of spine shown by not finishing what she started in the Land of the Midnight Sun. No, this live barracuda refuses to go with the flow–the path of 99% of most successful, satisfied, self-actualized people on the planet…and expired sea bait, apparently. No Zen Buddhist bullsh*t is gonna keep her from not fulfilling her compact with the people of Alaska! She made a promise and she is bound by her shattered inner-compass not to keep it, by golly.

She’s not running away from concrete responsibilities and difficult decision-making, she is running towards her publishing deadline, major network pitch sessions and the fanatical love and adoration of her fractured fringe base sans the annoying albatross of things to do and accountability (outside of the meticulous maintenance of her trailer-trash-pedicured little piddies and shoppin for the perfect little mini to showcase her GILFY gams for her next inarticulate pressless-conference-backyard-block-party diatribe in Wasilla).

She is not a narcissist. She just has the good sense to realize she is better and more deserving than most people to rule the planet and prepare humanity for the end of days. No duh! It’s obvious to any uneducated, backwoods creationist patriot that she was forced to endure the humiliation of merely being runner-up Miss Alaska because the Holy One, blessed be he, had bigger plans for his latter-day prophetess of perjured platitudes. Have any you read the story of Job or Abraham? You can’t say she hasn’t paid penance for the greater good, people! Did you see the talent portion of the pageant? She was robbed! And getting back to the Good Book, unlike ole Abe she actually went through with sacrificing her little Bristol Lynn Spears on the altar. Never hesitated. So don’t you dare insinuate she lacks the get-up-and-gumption to actually follow through with anything.

Of course there are always the cynics and non-believers who insist that there is some devious underlying rationale for why she decided to release this bombshell of a story at the close-out of a news cycle on a holiday weekend (when most of the depressed populace had begun their bacchanal of binge drinking and consumption of high quantities of grill-charred, lard-filled, meat to numb their niggling concerns about mortgage foreclosures, gas prices, health care, the swine-flu pandemic, raging wars in Afghanistan and Iraq and that pesky impending threat of Nuclear Armageddon from our remaining arch-nemisi of the ole Axis of Evil trinity, and merely desired to sit on the couch like fat ticks and Tivo themselves out of existence until the pretty, multi-colored boom-boom lights appeared in the sky) but these faithless, jaded, naysayer heathens have obviously deadened themselves to the elevated spiritual concepts of synchronicity and serendipity. Everything isn’t always coldly calculated and planned out. Sometimes you just need to go with the fl–um …never mind.

And really, so what if there were other factors involved in her shot-gun resignation? There are many plausible pretexts as to why she exercised her freedom of choice to abort her governorship before it came to full term. Its not like she was hiking the Appalachian Trail with Governor Sanford after all (not his type). Perhaps she’s simply chosen this precious time to prepare for her inevitable 2012 presidential run by hunkering down and finally studying how to wink more effectively (and not like an epileptic who was recently exposed to a strobe light). Maybe she’s utilizing some of her rumored contractor kickbacks to renovate her porch so she can keep a better watch on those Russkies (c’mon, you all saw Rocky IV, they will stop at nothing to break us!). Perhaps she is plotting further retribution against her Late Night adversary David Letterman by finding more myriad ways to increase his ratings share. And has anyone even considered the possibility that she has gotten some insider info on the impending Rapture? Hello! Perhaps she is simply working with the First Dude and fam to single-handedly start re-populating the planet with the Chosen as fast as humanly possible (clandestinely meeting with Nadya Suleman for pointers) and getting a healthy head start on constructing an Ark big enough to hold all God’s creatures… and her Saks Fifth Avenue designer wardrobe (“Lose the platypuses, Todd, I’m not leaving my Jimmy Choos!”).

One thing is for sure: she is no quitter… not if you’re going by the non-dictionary definition of the word… which is… um… gotta go!

Che Gueverette: Rodizio Slayer

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Like grandfather, like granddaughter, I guess. As it seems that 24-year-old Lydia Guevera is now taking up the revolutionary reins from her famous family patriarch. Is she waging war against U.S.-controlled conglomerates that have diabolically implanted puppet dictatorships and repressive regimes around the world? Helping those aging Castro hermanos get their hands on some brand spanking new thermonuclear-armed ballistic missiles to test the mettle of yet another U.S. prez in a life-or-death showdown, bringing us all to the brink of atomic annihilation? Desperately trying to drum up a Neo-Marxian revolution by teaching remedial guerilla-tactics classes to the natives in the deep, dark jungles of the Congo? Don’t bet your Batista!

Don’t get me wrong, she’s still serious about defending the rights of masses that have been forced into labor, their entire lives consumed by hungry capitalists who just see them as a meaningless multitudes of bodies and oh so much meat–they just happen to lack a cerebral cortex and prehensile thumbs! That’s right, folks, Lydia is taking the fight to the carnivorous powers that be by posing semi-nude for the latest PETA ad campaign. ¡VIVA LA REVOLUCION DE VEGETARIANS! Yesiree, the ole family legacy lives on as the Butcher of La Cabana’s bodacious petite-fille is out to butcher the butchers by showcasing her prime cuts.

And have no doubt that her titillating spread will become equal in notoriety as her revolutionary progenitor. Just look at the publicity still where she strikes the Guerillo Heroico pose (which graces the hats and t-shirts that so many disaffected over-privileged, upper-middle class white teenage suburbanites wear–not with any consciousness of its historical context or meaning, but because it looks so f*cking badass dude!). I mean the similarities are uncanny. Both look highly bangable in their sexy berets and bandoliers (only his is comprised of life-stopping bullets while hers is fashioned from organic baby carrots whose high concentration of vitamin A help maintain healthy retinas). One wonders if she’s also armed with extra-firm tofu grenades and a flax-seed thrower for when things get totally FUBAR.

I for one am totally stoked for the inevitable five-hour Steven Soderbergh biopic of this young woman’s harrowing struggle against sweetbreads and tripe. If I can only somehow manage to attain tickets to the gala premiere (fingers crossed!) I will most certainly doll myself up in my best pleather pants and hempen baja (and if it’s wet wintery day, my lush faux-fur-lined galoshes) to celebrate.

Hate to Smudge the Lipstick but Could We Get a Muzzle for that Pitbull?

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Enough is enough, Sarah. It’s over. You lost. Please get off my analog-wave-free television screen and fade to obscurity. Seriously, don’t you have an imminent Rapture to prepare for in the Land of the Midnight Sun, perhaps some freshly murdered moose stew simmering on the stove to stir or a pack of wolves to mow down from an Apache helicopter (aided by your trusty night-vision goggles and the shotgun you used to pressure backwoods lothario Levi Johnston into proposing matrimony to your defiled progeny–that is before the American public voted against you and you realized perhaps your cold-hearted political calculations were not in Bristol’s best interests).

Oh and there is always that state you’re supposed to be governing…what’s it called? Alaska. Remember, you’re the governor of Alaska! Sure it’s only 626,932 people (not nearly as many as even one paltry Nielson point representing those watching as you desperately try to keep your media- contrived feud with Letterman alive on the Today Show so you do not peter out from the public eye for a nanosecond) but they are kinda like depending on you and stuff. And perhaps if you spent more time out of the Big City and up on the tundra you wouldn’t have to filch your speeches from Newt Gingrich and you could learn to be the doting parent you pretend to be on the big screen (opportunistically dragging your brood in and out of the spotlight so your give-’em-hell soccer mom silhouette can be featured prominently in the periphery). You betcha!

You’re the joke and the punchline, a ratings ploy, a rejected reality-show pitch, a residual check for Tina Fey that she’ll use to treat herself to a carefree pampered day at the spa followed by a nice juicy porterhouse din- din at Peter Luger’s. The annoying non-gadfly on the pile of excrement calling itself the GOP base who’s only reason for existence is that no one can stomach the smell long enough to swat you.

No one takes you in earnest. You’re simply a side-show freak in the corner of the Republican tent that everyone points and titters at as you continue to bark and sell tickets to your own dwindling, embarrassing performances–ultimately destined to the fate of the sad, sodden, bedraggled bearded lady who’s been laid off by the circus. Sitting alone on a park bench, all hunched up and forlorn in a tattered terry-cloth robe and dirty pink bunny slippers, with her little grizzled granny goatee and soul patch, heroically feeding the pigeons on a paint-chipped bench…not a flame-breathing midget juggler or unicycling pink poodle in sight. Ba da da da da da da da da da… tears.

Please disappear.

Not in My Backyard: Fear of the Guantánamo Legion of Doom

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Well, it seems our Superfriends in Congress might be a mite too paranoid about a latter-day Legion of Doom escaping during transfer from Gitmo and wreaking havoc on voters in their districts while fulfilling diabolical plans of world domination (aided and abetted by mutant powers and arch-villain alien technology). Except Brainiac, Bizarro, Scarecrow, Sinestro, Solomon Grundy and Gorilla Grodd aren’t the prisoners in question and the malevolent mastermind Lex Luthor isn’t leading them in the pursuit of a dastardly Death Ray to eradicate the masses.

In fact, up until now maximum-security prisons have had a pretty good record of securely holding normal, mortal human beings for life (especially those isolated in solitary confinement for twenty-four hours at a time–sans the sixty minutes of mobility time granted so that their terrible terrorist muscles and brains don’t completely atrophy–this is after all the Post-Cheney Torture Era, we aren’t savages, you know!). And to date Ramsi Yousef (convicted in the first World Trade Center bombing), Richard Reid (AKA “the Shoe Bomber”) and Zacharias Moussaoui (9/11 co-conspirator–who could forget that creepy wide-eyed mug shot!) all being held in the Colorado Supermax Penitentiary haven’t managed to band together, burst out of their poured concrete cells and overthrow our freedom in one fell swoop.

This is, after all, reality we are living in, not the prime-time sensation Prison Break or motion-picture blockbusters The Rock or Escape from Alcatraz. Republican fear-mongers, however, would have you believe that one of these non-extradited Afghanistani POWS may have secreted away a stray nipple clamp or doggy-chain link during his enhanced interrogation (not torture!) at Guantánamo Bay and is just waiting for a chance to settle into his new digs to slowly scrape a hole in a wall (sneakily concealed under a Muslim prayer mat a lá Shawshank Redemption) gradually leading to his inevitable geriatric escape in 2078. Whereupon he will hobble away and be able to reap the benefits of an Al-Qaeda senior-citizen discount until the not-too-distant day when he meets Allah and those blessed 41 virgins. Foiled again!

Yup, that’s right, the self-same prison system that has held Charles Manson, Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer and the Son of Sam is apparently no match for a bunch of unarmed, sensory-deprived foreigners who have spent the last seven years stripped of all contact with the outside world (not even a book deal or a 20/20 interview, sheesh!) and attended to by a most accommodating Dick Cheney as concierge. Not to mention all the extra money that would surely be overspent to over insure that their alien jihadist hatred didn’t magically disintegrate all God-fearing American patriot prison guards that were unlucky enough to come in contact with such atrocious archnemeses of mass destruction.

Even John McCain has done a post-failed campaign 360. Suddenly comparing the Gitmo closure to the infamous proposed nuclear waste disposal site in Nevada, he said: “You think Yucca Mountain is a Nimby Problem? Wait till you see this one.” Setting aside his cantankerous use of the antiquated acronym “NIMBY” (“Get off my lawn!”), it should be pointed out that the half-life of a human terrorist equals the half-life of a human being (which unlike the aforementioned radioactive refuse gets weaker and less dangerous over time, and while thousands of years later the toxic sludge will still pose a bio-hazardous health risk, the detainee will have been long ago broken down into harmless, minute molecules of evil which at most might lead to a mildly annoying sneeze on a sunny spring day in the good ole’ U.S. of A.).

Heaven forbid we should disassemble what has become Al-Qaeda’s number-one rallying symbol of recruitment in a politically and economically viable way. For that would hardly serve to fan the sputtering flames of a desperate, ravaged, failed post-Dubya Republican Regime left clinging to one worn, creased crumbling trumped card to play (Buildings go boom! Monsters out to getcha!! Boogie Boogie!!! ). There is nothing to fear…but freedom itself.

Or perhaps it’s just time for the general public to grow up and banish our irrational fears into the Phantom Zone (hey, it worked for General Zod, right?).

Free Drugs for the Unemployed… Not the Fun Kind

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Whoever said big billion dollar medical conglomerations didn’t have a heart, as well as shill high-risk chemical concoctions for it? It’s official: Pfizer Inc. has announced that it will provide 70 of its most popular prescriptions (like Lipitor, Zoloft and Viagra) gratis to the poor, fat, flaccid sad sacks who have been unlucky enough to have lost their jobs and medical coverage… and (read the fine print) been loyal Pfizer customers for three months or more–JUST DON’T BUY GENERIC! WHATEVER YOU DO, STAY AWAY FROM GENERIC BRANDS THAT DO THE SAME THING BUT COST MARKEDLY LESS!!!

Yesiree Bobby, it seems altruism is alive and well within the amalgamated capitalist model. Slap on back. Hand on heart. Salute. Zoom up on single tear trickling down a chubby corporate fat cat’s face, starting from his rad Ray-Bans and slowly pooling within the dainty dimple in his jaunty jowl.

Meanwhile, legislators in eight states are advocating that beneficiaries of Uncle Sam’s subsidized programs such as food stamps, unemployment benefits or welfare be required to submit to random drug testing (AKA Operation Buzzkill) for certain substances that are not government approved. It seems the marijuana lobby, not surprisingly, isn’t all that organized.

Seriously, though, I know there are diabetics that desperately need their testing supplies and medicines in order to survive, but Pfizer’s plan (recently hatched at a leadership training program) seems more aimed at maintaining product loyalty than preserving the phalanges of the masses. What about all the non-Pfizer-buying sufferers left in a life-or-death limbo without the aid of desperately needed pharmaceuticals? F*ck em’, I guess. ‘Cause this is really about cutting losses and making sure none of the docile drug-buying sheeple stray away from the pack.

For in times of dire economic depression some might question the actual malady they are “suffering” from, seeking out alternate measures to treat the trauma they’ve been mindlessly medicating, as long it didn’t make them choose between the deluxe cable package or the other little blue pill (that was for all you Matrix nerds). Worst of all (cut to aforesaid corporate fat cat’s sweat-drenched visage, crocodile tears dried, eyes red and frantic, his douchebag-designer sunglasses long ago having slid down the slippery bridge of his rhinoplastied, cocaine-caked nose and shattering into a Million Little Pieces) some might even choose to exercise, change their diets or question the source of that mental pain they have been numbing for months or years–rather than directly line the pockets of an industry that, more often than not, encourages dependency rather than a cure. Can’t let that happen!

To conclude, let’s just take the Viagra subsidy in and of itself. Unemployment plus artificially stimulated erectile function in the elderly and/or infirm can only lead to positive developments for society as a whole, right? Hey, far be it from me to knock the importance of providing the prescription-paying public with boner pills so that they might procreate in their down time, breeding a whole new generation of loyal customers indoctrinated into the practice of pharmaceutical instant gratification by their pill-popping parents. Best of all, these newly distracted descendants who spend their formative years ministering to their drugged-out adult dependents can open up a vital ADHD market. Win-win!

Now if only they could concoct a new drug to stave off the impending Swine Flu Apocalypse, or better yet cook up a new virus to contrive a drug to avert …that would be a real money-maker! Oh well, back to the drawing board.

Worse Spokespeople Than Bristol Palin

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So a lot of people have been giving poor little Miss (not Mrs. mind you) Bristol Palin flack for actively advocating abstinence as a realistic option for the disaffected, hyper-sexualized MTV Generation (not by example but by hypocrisy).

To be fair, she is not alone. A good share of public personages have recently taken unexpected stances on major issues of the day. Here are ten of them:

1. George W. Bush for RIF (Reading Is Fundamental). He’s is not just the former president, he’s a client.

2. John and Elizabeth Edwards to host Parents Without Partners mixers. In hopes of finally pairing off party-girl Rielle Hunter and her illegitimately conceived offspring. They’re waiting till after the Oprah appearance, though, as ongoing rumors of the not-so-immaculate conception will no doubt boost book sales (Oprah’s Book Club? Fingers crossed!).

3. Dick Cheney to head Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence. Why shoot someone solely in the head when you and your compatriots can waterboard him 183 times? Bullets are for p*ssies!… or close friends in the woods.

4. David Duke becomes major supporter of NAACP. Advocates new “no Colored or Jew” membership plan.

5. Wilbur (of Charlotte’s Web fame) named new spokespig for Tourism in Mexico. Claims Swine Flu Pandemic to be anti-Mexican media driven conspiracy and that the Mesoamerican hot spot is actually “some”, “terrific”, “radiant”, “humble” country. Offers free buttermilk baths to first 100 people to book a flight. Still continues to cross-promote his international crusade against arachnophobia.

6. Nadya Suleman argues for hysterectomies. As long as all removed uteruses are implanted within her body (AKA the “Baby Factory “).

7. Ron Paul makes the case for the Somali pirate’s plight. Proposes we contract them as an independent militia to overthrow our over-bloated federal agencies and restore the gold standard, starting with the doubloon (YouTube video coming soon–currently being transferred from his Betamax machine).

8. Noam Chomsky becomes the new face of the WTO (World Trade Organization). Points out that while it is simply a tool to enforce hegemonic obedience to U.S. interests and rationalize our intervention across the globe, it sure is fun to run. Overheard to say: “Wow, what a rush! Suck it, Nader!!!”

9. Rick Santelli starts up Tea Baggers for Taxes. Abandoning all previous qualms with Obama’s economic policies, he now calls on all citizens to send packages of Earl Grey, Orange Pekoe, Green, Oolong, and Darjeeling tea to both congressmen and senators who advocate not only for the mortgage bailout but universal healthcare, public works projects and education reform. His bizarre behavior is rumored to be related to recent unconventional glaucoma treatments received in California. Has also been seen doing shots with Rielle Hunter (currently searching for a step-baby daddy–she gets around), who’s allegedly working on sweet talking him into producing and starring in a re-make of Network for TBS.

10. Levi Johnson for Planned Parenthood. Perhaps the best reason to support a woman’s right to choose.

Preparing for the Swine Flu Apocalypse

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First SARS, then Avian Bird Flu, and now the Iddy Biddy Piddy Pandemic. Here we go again, and this time we are at DEFCON 2, apparently. And of course in times of artificially manufactured duress we must remember to not under any circumstances remain calm–it is very important to panic and support a good healthy public hysteria. Do your part. Support the mass media’s fixation on a modern-day Captain Trips narrative. They need the ratings. There hasn’t been a good old-fashioned saucy sexual scandal among the politicos in quite some time, all is quiet on the tsunami/volcano front, and the Craiglist Killer just doesn’t got what it takes (hard to empathize with sinners’, who were utilizing casual encounters, most unfortunate endings when they were financially hawking happy ones). I mean we seriously can’t be expected to sit in front of the boob tube drooling over Arlen Specter’s spectacular defection to the Democratic Party can we? Where are the tantalizing titillation or doom and gloom? Please! I might as well read a book or pursue my dreams or something.

Also, it is important to boycott bacon and pulled pork sandwiches, even though the offending pathogen’s transmission has not been scientifically connected to the consumption of the succulent buttermilk-bathed bodies of these mud-trolling cob rollers. It shows that we are serious and committed to overreacting. I mean you’d think the United States would take a world leadership position here. Instead we have to idly watch as other nations out-frenzy us. Russia and Gabon are blatantly banning all imports of the other white meat, while Egypt has ordered the mass-execution of all of their unhallowed hoggies (although this could merely be a convenient excuse to settle an age-old Islamic grudge–why must unsanctified flesh taste so delicious!).

Meanwhile, pork industry lobbyists are out to ruin all our fun by trying to change the name of the swine flu back to H1N1 Flu or even worse: Hybrid Influenza. Borrrrring! One sounds like a Star Wars robot and the other like an environmentally sound automobile that runs on germs (actually not a bad idea–someone contact Al Gore), but neither is particularly catchy. How are we supposed to foster widespread irrational pandemonium with these mundane lab-coat clad monikers?

And keep up the good work out there by continuing to make stupid jokes about acts of bestiality with our pink, hooved, pot-bellied friends, poor Kermit’s marital bed quandary, and awful puns about overweight women and those who protect and serve on the police force. Hysterical! You are quite a card! And doing your duty producing uneasy titters and groans while perpetuating paranoia among your co-workers. Sales of Purell should increase by 20%.

I myself survived the dreaded SARS epidemic (in the heavily populated Asian neighborhood of Elmhurst, Queens) in which a total of 779 people died worldwide. There were eight U.S. cases, all non-fatal. I may be wrong but I think more people have actually lost their lives at Great Adventure… and that’s just from the concession stands (More Flags, Less Fun! ). Though that didn’t stop the local populace from panicking like pros. I rode the subway into NYC daily across from faces covered in surgical masks and red bandanas. As if we were heading towards some bizarre convention catering to Wild West outlaw bank-robbing bandits and the medics who loved them. It was exciting. Why not full Hazmat suits and oxygen tanks this time? Let’s go full-blown Outbreak and spice up the morning commute!

Ultimately, though, the excitement it bound to end and the drama to abate as the world survives another media spin cycle and the perfect storm for virulent virus mutation once again fails to form. Odds are most of us will survive to watch yet another sub-par episode of American Idol thanks to the technologically advanced art of hand-washing we practice. It also doesn’t hurt to have access to stockpiles of Tamiflu or the ability to mass-produce more, this being a first-world country and all. And let’s remember this is a strain of influenza, not AIDS, and the majority of us would probably kick it on a mucus filled Nintendo-Wii-filled sick day vacation from our cubicles.

However, if it comforts you more to fantasize about a dark and dreary post-apocalyptic dystopia where a sole bedraggled man trudges down I-95 with a shopping cart desperately searching for any signs of other survivors (perhaps, with the re-tread REM ditty Cause it’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel swine, as background score), I say go for it. It’s either that or waiting for the much-anticipated cinematic adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road to come out…or you could just go outside, live your life and enjoy the spring. Nah! What if???

Dog the Pirate Hunter???

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(Please feel free to refer to the Pirate Glossary for all terminology)

Avast, ye picaroons! If landlubber Rep. Ron Paul (R-Texas) has his way, good ole American privateers will be set loose on ye wily pillaging Somali buccaneers and get all War of 1812 on yer booties. According to his yellow-tinged amateur YouTube video (seemingly recorded on a Betamax device preserved from the early 1980s in front of a motley assortment of reading material being balanced on a rickety bookshelf that is mounted on the wall of a faux-wood-paneled den in the Old Batty Cave), Ron advocates reinstating the archaic letters of marque and reprisal, last utilized in the early 19th century, to bring down these bilge-sucking blaggards.

Of course, things would have to be a little different these days. Privateers would no longer be able to possess the vessels and treasure they seize. In fact, the wealth of most of these renegade seadogs is no longer romantically secreted in chests full of golden doubloons destined to be buried in the briny deep, but gets wired into Swiss bank accounts as cold hard cash destined to be lavished on flashy sports cars, semi-automatics and saucy Somali wenches. Instead, our government would have to offer sizable bounties as incentives for capture. Much like the 25 million dollar one on the head of Osama Bin What’s-His-Name.

Blimey! On second thought, using a colonial-era policy to solve a 21st-century problem might not be so legally hunky-dory with the rest of the planet, especially if we unbeknownst employ a backwater Blackwater to flog alleged marauders with a cat o’ nine tails, feed them to the fish, or make them dance the hempen jig. Do we really want to trust these disparate conglomerations of ex-military, post-traumatic-stress-disordered servicemen, soldiers of fortune, and racist rednecks armed to the teeth (the ones they have left) looking for action outside the double-wide trailer park and five-and-dime to police international waters and be the minutemen of diplomacy? I mean I loved the A-Team too, but it was a TV show, not a model for global relations.

The African corsairs in question themselves consist mainly of local fisherman (the brains), ex-militia men (the brawn) and technical experts (GPS navigators). Many of them who, in addition to seeking independent wealth (73% of the Somalian population lives on a daily income below 2 dollars a day–with an estimated per capita GDP of $600/year for the entire country), hold a personal grudge due to the ten million tons of toxic waste dumped on their shores by European firms (causing highly elevated rates of radiation-related sicknesses among coastal inhabitants) and the 300 million dollars’ worth of illegal trawling and poaching that takes place in their territorial waters (the pirates themselves only accumulate about 100 million dollars in ransom annually). So it’s safe to assume they would rather visit Davy Jones’ locker than surrender. No quarter!

Shiver me timbers! It seems we have quite a quandary here. Do we really want to dispatch mercenaries to further muddy the waters? Then again, me hearties, dead men tell no tales.

Taxing THC: Turning Old New York into New New Amsterdam

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Bollocks! How is that California, the crossroads of implants, spray tans and superficiality (Find Yourself Here–no thanks!), has a leg up on the Empire State, historical haven of beatniks, punk rock and Andy Warhol, on the possible legalization and taxation of Cannabis sativa? Where is our Assemblyman Tom Ammiano, calling for the replacement of the corner pusherman with an over-the-counter sale sanctioned by our own groovy, bearded, winking Uncle Sam (with a red, white and blue bong in one hand and a star-spangled hacky sack in the other)?

I mean aren’t we Sodom to their Gommorah? Seriously, let’s get that sin tax a-rollin’! We’ve got a 1.2 billion-dollar budget gap just for the Transit Authority alone. Two-fiddy a ride is getting pretty ridiculous, especially for those post-Metrocard swipes when you realize you forgot your ID or mace and must return home to equip yourself properly (you never know when you might have to deal with state bureaucracy, a random bag check or a hostile homeless man in a state of psychosis who must be put down). You would think that our optically challenged governor (who was rushed to the emergency room late last year to alleviate severe pain associated with glaucoma) should certainly empathize with medical Mary Jane advocates’ plight enough to begin planting the seeds for the grow- houses of tomorrow. If he plays it right he could be NORML’s modern-day Davey Kushyseed.

Depending on the actual size of the crop (and I’m leaning towards the higher end here based on sales for Hot Pockets and Paul Blart: Mall Cop), nationally taxing the sticky icky could bring in anywhere from 2.4 billion to 31.4 billion a year (which states would get about one third of) according to economists and policy analysts. That’s enough to seriously subsidize our failing school system, healthcare for all… or launch a pre-emptive assault on yet another autonomous nation in the Middle East (that’s how we’ll have to pitch it to get the party pooper neo-conservative vote–apparently swilling bourbon, puffing on cigars, masticating red meat and nurturing an unrelenting xenophobic blood lust are All-American but smoking grass and preaching peace and tolerance are socialist, detrimental to the fabric of society and definitely do not do much to up recruitment for the military-industrial-complex-motivated attack machine–um, sorry, I was listening to War Pigs).

Back to New York. Being that as a state we traditionally consume more of the aforementioned organic hydroponic panacea (hell, we even have home delivery services here–no, I don’t have a number you can get!) we would therefore collect a higher proportion of taxes which could be used to shore up our deficits, re-build our ailing infrastructure, provide much needed raises for underpaid public servants and even make the fantastical tales of a future Second Ave subway line become a dank, underground, urine-drenched reality (although I think whatever lives and breeds on the Upper East Side should stay there, with the occasional Lincoln Town Car chauffeured trip to Barneys or Saks Fifth Avenue to stimulate the economy).

And think about what it would do for the tourist trade. Why should the dikey Dutch have a monopoly on specialty “coffee shops”? Hell, we could just dispense it from our Starbucks (there are two to three on every city block as it is). Really, who could resist a Venti Carmel Machiatto, Cranberry Bliss Bar and 1/8 of Mauwie Wauwie Combo? It would also increase traffic to all eateries from the trailer-trash-trodden Ranch One to the overly indulgent credit-card-maxing Il Mulino. Hello Euros! Best of all, with any luck it might actually put a stop to the endless picture-snapping at Ground Zero, on account of it being too much of a bummer! There really is nothing more reprehensible to a native New Yorker than some rube on hiatus from his hick town making rabbit ears over his gap-toothed Cheshire-grinning girlfriend (clad in matching, ill-fitting, street-hawked USA t-shirts) as if our dire tragedy is ride at Disney World. I mean you never see people yucking it up capturing a digital still with “the fam” in front of the levees that burst open in the Eighth Ward in New Orleans. Have a little respect, Silas!

Speaking of Disney, what better way to make the crass commercialization of Times Square less repugnant to the local populace? After all, in a slightly altered state it’s easier to suspend disbelief, cynicism and see it for the truly magnificent magical wonderland that city planners, marketing executives and licensors have painstakingly worked to simulate for the selfless sake of the bottom line.

Really, what are we waiting for? As a society we’re currently doing a good job of dismantling our out-of-date Blue Laws, how’s about mowing down the Anti-Green ones, shattering our antiquated puritanical shackles and moving forward into a slightly hazy but free-choice-filled future where we can choose to be as indulgent or abstinent as we want, individually, while everyone makes a tidy profit and the public coffers are filled to the brim. That sounds like America to me.

Aw, Nuts: The FDA Pistachio Scare Nightmare

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How’s about a nice hot fudge sundae with two big scoops of pistachio ice cream and a smattering of Salmonella? Wait a second! Acute abdominal cramps, projectile vomiting, debilitating diarrhea and sallow skin the color of the aforementioned frozen dairy treat doesn’t sound so appetizing on second thought. Also, if you happen to be frail, a senior citizen, a young child, or have a compromised immune system you might want to steer clear of Kraft’s Back to Nature Nantucket Blend Trail Mix… that is, unless you’d like to start singing Happy Trails (the delightfully infectious bacteria can cause fatalities in these delicate demographics). Jeez Louise! A death sentence hardly seems like the proper encouragement for the health conscious among our young, elderly and bed-ridden who happen to be nuts about deez nuts. Even astronauts orbiting the earth in our ramshackle International Space Station are at risk, as the microscopic contagion has recently been shown to become more virulent in a zero-g environment (best to stick with Tang and tortillas, spacemen!).

It seems that the FDA done did it again! Or didn’t do it… what they’re supposed be doing, that is, mainly regulate and prevent widespread contamination of our food supply from harmful microbes and bacteria. That and be the tool of an overzealous Pharmaceutical Complex pimping products to alleviate ailments they themselves have created to make a quick buck off the public’s paranoia, hypochondria and dissatisfaction with their droll everyday existence (which usually includes lists of side effects more frightening than the symptoms being “treated.” Anal bleeding and sudden stroke? No thankee. I’ll mourn my kitty cat’s unfortunate demise sans the Dr. Feel Good pills, Pusherman!).

Lettuce, poultry, tomatoes, peanut butter and now pistachios… and that’s just the Salmonella, folks! Let’s not forget our friendly neighborhood fecal contaminator, E. Coli, that, all too recently, was found in spinach, ground beef patties and frozen pizza (affecting everyone from the patchouli-soaked vegan to the Sarah Palin-supporting soccer mom and munchie-craving stoner alike). And what pray tell is being done to protect us? Two million pounds of allegedly roasted pistachios have been recalled by Terra Bella, Inc. (the second largest processor in the nation) to determine the cause post hoc! As baklava lovers across this great nation go wanting and suburban Chinese restaurants are forced to frantically push the mango pudding (yuck!).

Perhaps its time for the FDA, which supervises 80% of our food supply (the USDA is responsible for the rest, mainly focusing on meat, poultry and eggs), to refocus its efforts from clean-up to prevention (so we may enjoy a nice crisp Cobb Salad or old-fashioned PBJ without worrying about running to the restroom to release our churning insides from an orifice on either end and subsequently survive surreptitiously sipping sickly tasting bubble-gum-flavored Pedialyte for the next 36 to 48 hours, praying our tummy won’t revolt and reset the whole rigmarole to the beginning).

One can only hope that Agriculture Secretary Tom Vilsack and Kathleen Sebelius (Obama’s nominee for Health and Human Services secretary) will be successful in splitting the FDA’s drug and food safety obligations into two autonomous agencies so they can concentrate on heading off such catastrophes before they become part of our digestive tracts, if not, I guess we could always form hippie communes, raise our own organic produce and livestock, or intravenously feed ourselves from bags of glucose solution… but really, who has the time or inclination?

Operation Buzzkill: Random Drug Testing for the Unemployed

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Down on your luck? Pondering whether to scrounge up the rest of your life savings to pay next month’s rent or save it for a swell little secondhand Salvation Army tent you’ve had your eye on along with a month’s supply of Slim Jims and Ho-Ho’s, and cut your losses by moving directly into the brand spanking new little neo-Hooverville/Slumdog USA shantytown that just popped up on outskirts of your urban hood? Don’t you dare relax, forget about your woes and take a toke of that roach, buster, ’cause it looks like you might have to urinate in a cup or have some hair plucked if you want a shot at a future governmentally assisted supper. It seems that legislators in eight states are advocating that beneficiaries of Uncle Sam’s subsidized programs such as food stamps, unemployment benefits or welfare be required to submit to random drug testing (AKA Operation Buzzkill).

It looks like the public safety net may morph into a straitjacket of sobriety. ‘Cause obviously everyone lacking a job in this vibrant economy is simply a do-nothing, good-for-nothing beatnik who’s just refused to get up the gumption to get a little dirt under their nails and sweat on their brow ridges, working diligently for a good honest day’s wages… not victims of a massive elitist swindle and prey to predator creditors that pick at the carcass of their dwindling assets while they precariously attempt to avoid the brink of poverty.

Logically, only the successful and affluent understand how to abuse substances properly and have earned the right to do so. Not everyone has the innate instinct of a Paris Hilton to be born a bimbo heiress to a vast hotel empire and be able to live life like its Mardi Gras 24/7 without any financial repercussions or underwear. Some of us are just struggling to get by and occasionally reach for a certain illegal natural organic glaucoma alleviator to simply relax or blur the edges of our non-luxury, horizontally mobile existences. Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors cost a pretty penny after all and are not distributed gratis to the 45.7 million American citizens for whom the possibility of major medical resides in the land of Santy Claus and the tooth fairy (who does not provide dental by the way, no matter how many quarters you place under your Tempur-Pedic pillow!).

Let us also make no mistake that it’s those who partake of the sticky-icky that will be most prominently persecuted here. How many crack-heads or junkies do you know that have the patience, discipline and fortitude to diligently deal with the red-tape paperwork, Internet updates and/or automated touch-tone phone bank re-directions needed to collect the minimal money these services dole out? When every cell in your body cries for a fix you’re more likely to forgo all that banal bureaucracy and hurriedly hawk your bratty little niece’s iPod or provide sexual services to the kind gentleman who is nice enough to meet you in an alleyway in a frayed straw hat, tattered terrycloth bathrobe and flip-flops at 4 in the morning. Last I checked no one was taking food stamps for hypodermics or free-basing spoons either (and these guys generally tend not to be big eaters–although they are likely to have an excellent aptitude for speed talking or lethargically swaying in place without tipping over).

It’s also inevitable that some conservative critics will be prone to point out a loophole in my argument. Mainly the munchies… but should a few hardcore stoners abusing the system ruin it for the rest of recreational users who sporadically partake to decompress? Do they really represent that much of a serious threat to bankrupting the economy and national reserves of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey Ice Cream? Besides most of them still live with their parents anyway (or eat most of their meal’s at Nana’s house) and are much too busy mastering the intricacies of The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess on their Nintendo Wii’s to bilk the government out of Benjamins.

So if you are struggling to stay afloat, looking to alleviate your Depression depression and do not dwell on the righteous path of abstinence and salvation it seems the only other alternative is to put down that blunt and pick up some booze. That All-American wholesome government-sanctioned depressant that has provided the basis for so many violent domestic disputes, shattered childhoods and colorful bestselling, Oprah- approved memoirs. After all, no one is suggesting breathalyzers… yet.