Politics Sucks Monkey Balls But Let’s Indulge A Second (or: Being 47% A-Hole should disqualify one from human contact, & Ronald Reagan was not a god)

Let’s see if I can follow the numbers. 1. When the powers finally convinced the poor that getting pissed on in the face, with patience, would turn into lemonade, things slid with the quickness. Reagan and crew didn’t invent the ethos of trickle-down economics, but they perfected the marketing of it. Trickle-down economics is a terrible psychology to live under. 2. Meanwhile the 1980s world felt like it was an itch away from nuclear annihilation so there was this huge, mass ‘Fuck It’ when it came to personal responsibility and caring about one’s future. 3. Bush One was elected only because of his link with Reagan. 4. Bush Two – same by extension, but more out of a sense of desperation on Republicans’ part than anything else. Hence all the voting shenanigans, outright fraud, and Florida. Beautiful Florida. 5. With no publicly viable links left to Reagan, GOP turned into McCain/Palin. Then Romney/Ryan (the same, only strangely stickier in the way that a noxious booger is), a team that came out of the most ludicrous batch of contenders for the highest office in this land that this country has ever seen. One would think we’ve been in the grips of a massively funded, national performance art piece, one which we’re not sure when it’s ended and we’re too embarrassed to leave our seats. That said, let’s move on to the polemic. Prosperity always comes at the expense of others. It’s been America’s heartbeat since day one. Worship the hoarders known as the wealthy, demonize all else; invest obscene resources into commercialization with which to buy expensive husbands, wives, cars and lives, and create intricate systems of industry-- like prisons or the cattle-car public school system-- designed to propagate social woes. Keep people focused on winning the lottery, becoming American idols, becoming instant chefs, eating diets of fool’s gold in the hope of ingesting enough iron to become lightning rods for that one good strike. Do that, and wealth can put the country (the world) on cruise control. I guess if you’re gonna “Thelma & Louise” you might as well do it in a luxury car, huh? “On Star? Hi, yes, I see a cliff up ahead and I have no plans on stopping so I just wanted to see if there was anything you could do before I kiss my ass goodbye. No? Ok, thanks.” Monkey balls.

Wagging The Dog

Why is verbiage about a man's willy always in inflated form? You'd think we're talking about High Science. "Erectile Dysfunction." "Premature Ejaculation." "Men with erections lasting more than four hours should seek medical help." As well as an attorney for the very much deserved harassment suit you'll receive at work. Even the balls get to sound like Greek heroes: "Testicles, the hidden Argonaut." So much foofery, when willies are the goofiest, most Forrest Gumpish things on the planet. Even Idris Elba's willy is goofy. I'm sorry, ladies. Truth hits everybody. Whereas technical lingo for lady bits always sounds like something Jabba the Hutt's dentist might mention about Jabba's general oral health. Woke up with this on my mind, y'all. It's on my mind. There's a reason the "running in slo mo on a beach" scene is never of a man with "a lot on his mind," yes? This isn't to say there aren't some majestic ones out there, otherwise we would never have come up with the names "Sweet Dick Willy," "Goldenrod," or "Thy Rod and Thy Hammer." This isn't to say they can't be cute and cuddly. I'm sure if we men could get the message out it would be "Hold one every day," but, lo, we are prevented from expressing our true feelings. But such a tiny minority hardly grants every dong wearing a Gomer Pyle smile ambassador status. No more pomp and circumstance, Erectile Dysfunction commercials. As my man Willy Shakespeare said (y'all didn't realize that's the first porn name ever, did you?): "What a piece of work is a rupert, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals—and yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust..." {pre-edited version. Historical note: "Rupert" wasn't seen as aristocratic enough so it became "Richard" and then shortened to the colloquial "Nixon."} What is this quintessence of dust, this schlong of such pedigree that Cialis commercials must interrupt my every waking moment? Willy Shakespeare (yes he will!) knew what was up. The rupert might have its recommendations, but nothing about it is like attaining Everest.

Hopped Up On Chocolate Covered Peanuts, Ma!

There are so many people in this world who are better than me. Me? I’m going straight to hell, otherwise this whole heaven/hell thing is a dubious affair. I can just see me in heaven blaspheming away and wondering what’s a brother gotta do to get a copy of Emmanuelle in Space on VHS. Twice in my life I’ve been burned by holy water. I imagine that says something. I mean, my thoughts are absolutely vile sometimes. If I was psychic I’d be Firestarter, Carrie, Cujo (granted, he was a big, rabid dog, but if he’d been psychic he’d have been a big, rabid, psychic dog), a pissed-off Professor X and maybe even a little pissed-off Second Coming Jesus on the side. If my thoughts create bubble universes I’ve got a trail of death and destruction a mile wide and six miles deep in my wake. And a bunch of naked women. Sacrifice your pizza to me; I am come the Beast. See, I did an online personality test recently. I’m an INTJ, which is code for introverted think tank of a sexual dynamo. I added that last bit. Actually it means Mastermind, so you can see why I get to add that last bit. Astrologically I’m a Scorpio, which means I’m practically a dark, vampiric, mysterious god of sex. (D’you see the trend here? Women are supposed to spontaneously give birth after hugging me. Says so in all the pertinent literature.) Religiously I’m basically a neo-pagan heathen, which means I worship goddesses and nature nymphs so I can see naked women dancing around fires; my heathen-ness stops short of human sacrifice unless we’re counting the scores of dumb people I’ve mentally consigned to the squish of Rabinandrath Dragoon’s hoary hoof. I’m doomed also because when it comes to family less is always so much more, and when it comes to marriage there are times I wish I’d kept the receipt. It’s all about temptation, isn’t it, that sliding door to heaven or hell? I’ll bet temptation makes God jealous. God enters the room from one doorway and walks toward me. He/She/It’s wearing its best universe, it’s smelling good—then Rosario Dawson enters the room from another doorway. She too walks toward me. Here’s paint and a brush; finish the picture. But here’s the kicker: despite the raging cauldron of barely restrained meat muppetry that is my boon and curse… I am a rather mild dude. I don’t seek titles, don’t feel the need to impose outside of telling someone “Kneel before Zod,” and could quite easily live an entire week without saying a word. Yet there are many driven the opposite way. The ones always at war with the clerks at Walmart. I have never warred with a clerk at Walmart. This begs the question: If I’m going straight to hell, what’s the level below?