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Monthly Archives: March 2011

Good News For People Who Like Ray Guns

And it’s especially good news for one of my daughters, who has been talking about boats and engines since she could speak, and who has been talking about joining the Navy ever since she figured out that that’s where you can get a job riding boats and fixing engines. 

Chrissy, did you know the Navy will teach you how to kick the crap out of people, too?  Why, no, she says, I did not know that.  Intriguing.

Yes, and so even more intriguing to her is going to be something like the technology described in this article on Dvice, Navy laser will blast through 2,000 feet of steel by 2020.

A nice, descriptive title if you ask me, and it’s even fairly conservative.  It stops short of telling you that the laser cannon they are talking about will be able to blast through 2000 feet of steel every motherscratching second.

I mean, that ought to do it, right?  What we need to do is build a space station so big it can be mistaken for a moon, and put a couple of these suckers on it, get a black suit and helmet for whoever the President is by then, and invent white body armor for soldiers which for some reasons is really susceptible to laser attacks. 

Star Wars comparisons aside, there is a lot to learn about laser technology in the article, and I don’t know why I’m always surprised that we’re working on sci-fi stuff like this, when we’re all sitting around in the future like this, but I am, every time.  Invisibility cloaks, robot monkey suits, remote control cockroaches – all bets are off.  Let’s get it going, say the scientists – somebody’s going to be evil, so it might as well be us.

Currently, weaponized laser technology (you heard me) is not too impressive, but like anything, it’s all downhill from here.  Once they get a working prototype going, they typically do a pretty good job of improving it every six months until it’s right where they want it.  The first serious laser weapon they’ve built is about the size of a football field, and it’s only capable of blasting through twenty feet of steel.

Seems a little clunky, doesn’t it?  The only thing we can put something like that on would be an aircraft carrier, and then would there be room for aircraft?  I don’t know, but don’t expect to see any laser fire in Libya.  The boys in the lab have some work to do first.

From the article: 

“Currently, the free-electron laser is about the size of a football field, which is a bit too big to install on anything short of an aircraft carrier. But as improvements in technology enable the laser to shrink, it’ll also become more efficient, and by 2015 the goal is to get it down to 50 feet by 20 feet by 10 feet. And by 2020? It might be smaller still, able to fit into helicopters and drones, and it’s not too much of a stretch to imagine something small enough to be handheld by 2030.”

So I don’t know if you caught that or not, but helicopters with lasers that can blast right through entire cities within nine years?  And then a handheld version within 19? 

I think you’d all better start being nicer to Chrissy, because she likes boats, engines, the Navy, and I can assure you, she would like a ray gun, too.  Yes, just as soon as you can get her one. That’s the first thing she’s going to tell the Navy when she walks in the door – where do you keep the weaponized lasers, and who do you want me to point it at?

And that’s not the only thing she’ll have to play with – check out this electromagnetic rail gun, capable of hitting a target from a hundred miles away.  That’s fourteen years from now, according to Dvice, and I’m just doing the math, but that puts Chrissy at about age 27.  As far as patriotic carnage goes, she’ll be in her Destructive Prime.

And the good news is, nobody ever gets a hold of our weaponized technology and uses it against us, so old-fashioned, American world domination should be pretty much locked in by then.  I’m sure the Chinese are just sitting around over there weaving baskets and making noodles – no way they have any terrifying answers to either of these superweapons.  Everybody crack a beer and relax – there’s no way they’ll find out about that wamprat-sized Destructo Port.

I guess that such a laser beam could be used for mining or drilling, right?  Just point it down and turn it on, and you have a shaft down into the center of the Earth, where depending on what movie you are watching, dinosaurs live or Aliens fight Predators.  So it’s really a diplomatic tool, too – imagine if we have a Death Star and an alliance with Predators.

And you know, all you war protestors are probably feeling pretty silly right now, because without war, we wouldn’t have any need for cool shit like this.  It’s the answer to the age-old question – War – HUUU – what is it good for?

It’s not absolutely nothing, like the song suggests.  It’s ray guns.  It’s good for evolving toward the Death Star and we get to be the guys driving it – Eat it, rest of the world. We can slice this whole planet up like a raw potato, just clip you right off the surface and send your whole country spinning off into space.  We’ll probably get that refined to where we clip you off just above the oil, know what I’m saying?  Efficiency.

All right then, so okay, and now I’m going to go jump in the shower, because I feel guilty and filthy and wrong.  I think the Dark Side is going to take a little bit of getting used to.

 
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Posted by on March 31, 2011 in News/Commentary

 

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The Weird Pool Table Coincidence

It will no doubt delight my friend Moira to know that this is another story about a bar.  She has been counting, and calculates that something like forty percent of my stories have something to do with a bar, and she’s right.  That’s because I’m a drunk.

But, I’m a functional drunk – that’s how I rake in all this Blogging Cheese.  Just look at this sweet, custom-made, free blog template on this free blogging site.  Sometimes art equals scratch, dawg – so don’t knock it.

Anyway, in this story, I’m a bartender, and I’m working at my uncle’s bar.  That’s also why all the bars, Moira – my whole family is either bar owners or women who left bar owners for really good, solid, understandable reasons. 

So I’m standing there bartending, which in this joint was mostly opening beer bottles, making kamikazes and watching the USA network, and I notice this young woman named Monica looks a lot like my ex-girlfriend Samantha.  Samantha’s not really my ex-girlfriend’s name, and this girl’s name wasn’t really Monica, I’m changing them for a blog post, dig?

The reason I notice Monica is that looks just like Samantha, and she acts like her, too.  She has the same mannerisms and a similar voice, and it’s not just her face.  She is lithe and slender and quiet and she’s watching you, oh yes she is, you bet your ass.  She’s watching you.

Monica walks up to the chalkboard to put her name on the list to shoot pool – this is a classy joint, with actual chalk.  And when she puts her initials up there, I notice that the second initial is the same as my ex-girlfriend Samantha’s.  So I’m thinking, man, that would be weird.  I wonder if Monica is related to Samantha – she sure looks and acts like it.

So I used my words, as I would later in life urge my toddler to do.  I said, “Hey, Monica.  What’s your last name?”

Much to my surprise, she said, “Chalfant.”

And in case you don’t know, that’s my last name, and it’s not a terribly common one.  I must have had a cartoon question mark over my head because she smiled and nodded and said, “I know, I have the same last name as the owner of this bar, but it’s a coincidence.  We’re not related.”

“Quite a coincidence,” I said.  “Because I also have the same last name as the owner of this bar, because he’s my uncle.  And the funny thing is, I was asking because I thought you must be related to my ex-girlfriend Samantha.  You look just like her.”

Except I said the actual last name – another last name which starts with a C.  I’m not going to tell you what that name is for some reason, it’s just another C name, don’t worry about it.  Let’s say Clark.

And Monica said, “Did you say Samantha Clark?”

“Sure did,” I told her, because she said the same name I did instead of Clark.

“How weird,” she said.  “I went out with a guy named Bill Clark, and his sister was named Samantha, but I never met her.”

And the weird thing was, my ex-girlfriend had a brother named Bill.  Now that I’ve changed the names, it’s less striking.  Their real names are not so common – I knew it had to be the same person.

So we compared notes and figured out that Monica was dating Samantha’s brother at approximately the same time I was dating Samantha.  The two siblings were dating unrelated Chalfants, and it never came up and they never knew.

And then ten years later, I saw Monica and thought she looked like Samantha so much that this conversation happened.  Which means Bill Clark was dating a chick who looked just like his sister and probably just like his mom – go look in the mirror, Bill.  Something’s wrong there.

And also, since my uncle and father were both swinging, divorced bar owners from the Seventies – well hell, it was perfectly possible that Monica was really my half sister or cousin.  Now that I thought about it, it was possible that practically anyone under a certain age including Samantha Clark Herself could have been my half sister or cousin.

Still – a weird coincidence, if we were going to meet.  It wasn’t through our significant others, but instead ten years later, standing in my uncle’s bar, and if either of us had left out a single piece of information, we wouldn’t have known that we’d met, or that we’d ever had anything in common at all.

That’s the kind of coincidence that is going away now.  If we ran into each other in a bar in 2011, our phones would start humping each other.  Doesn’t matter if I know you, if my phone knows you, and oh yes, my phone knows who you are all right.  My phone’s like J. Edgar Hoover.

You’re going to miss the secrets America, I’m telling you.  The digital age is going to take our secrets away, and it’s going to hurt and it’s going to make us cry.  I learned part of that in a bar ten years ago, and part of it today on Facebook.

What did you learn today, Blogosphere?

 
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Posted by on March 30, 2011 in News/Commentary

 

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Trump And The Art Of Douchebaggery

I just checked, and there are apparently no synonyms for “douchebag.” 

I really wanted to find one, because I’m sitting here laughing my ass off at what a stupid, bald-headed, pathetic, douchebag Donald Trump is, and I really don’t like that word.  Douchebag.

But it lacks synonyms for good reason – no other word comes close to really describing someone like Trump.

This is a man who talks with a straight face about running for President when pretty close to everyone in the nation sees that as a hilarious joke.  I mean, we’d vote for Charlie Sheen or Sarah Palin LONG before this douchebag.  Literally.

Here’s a guy who buys the Miss America pageant.  A gross, old, mid-life crisis guy who isn’t happy driving his Ferarri to a high-class strip bar and making sure everyone sees him with the Super Prostitutes, so they know what a Man he is.  Here’s a guy who can’t just pay a supermodel to marry him, like a normal multi-millionaire.

No, he’s got to buy the Miss America Pageant, and no, he’s not compensating for anything, why on Earth would you suggest such a thing?  He’s obviously a serious stud – that’s why the hilarious hair piece and the fifty plastic runway models with his name stamped on their butts, and the delusional-unless-he’s-joking-and-I-sure-hope-he-is presidential ambitions.

Keeping his name out there – I gotcha.  Smart.  Savvy.  Business-y.

Except did you notice how Warren Buffet and Bill Gates completely dwarf this overgrown frat boy economically, and yet they don’t see the need to walk around acting like douchebags about it?

He’s insecure.  That’s clearly the problem.  All the other Multi-millionaires in the Multi-Millionaire club – they don’t take him seriously enough.  Sometimes when he hits on super models, they tell him, you know, there are younger, less gross multi-millionaires around.

And it just makes his wrinkled, white ass steam, doesn’t it?  I’ll show you supermodels – I’ll buy an unholy army of you!

The most recent example of what a dumb, impotent, dollar-sign-for-a-Johnson punchline of a human being this guy is, would be the way he decided to throw in with the Birthers, a weird move since most Birthers lack the money or the confidence or whatever, to be real douchebags.

You might say, they aspire to douchebaggery.  Which is nice – perhaps Trump will be their mighty king.

If that’s what he’s angling for though, he’s off to a rocky start.  After announcing that he’s “very concerned” that President Obama might not have been born in this country, Trump made what I’m sure he thought was going to be an aggressive, type-A Alpha Dog move, straight from the black heart of the Eighties Themselves, when he posted his own birth certificate on Newsmax, boasting that it only took him an hour to come up with it.

I guess the idea was to say, “See, Obama?  It’s not that hard, just show us the birth certificate like I did.”

Except because Trump’s such a douchebag, he didn’t check to see if it was really a birth certificate, and it’s not.  So, hmmm – not quite as easy as you thought, was it tough guy?

If he were really the President (BLARG – sorry, just did one of those burps where it tastes like barf, you know?) and the Birthers were questioning where he was born (which no one is), well this wouldn’t cut it.  They’d all clap their hands to their cheeks and go, “AHHHHHHH!!!!  That’s not a real birth certificate and it also says Jamaica on it!”

Except no, they wouldn’t do that, because Donald Trump is white.  A white douchebag, to be sure, but he’s white all right, and where are white people born again Birthers?

America, that’s right.  And Trump is one of the whitest people I’ve ever heard of, and no, not in a good way, I’m afraid. 

Anyway, leave it to Trump’s gaggle of lap dog employees to clean this up for him.  After mouthing off about how simple it ought to be, and then screwing it up like some kind of Three’s Company subplot, he sends out his personal bootlicker to ironically tell everyone to stop being such a bunch of sticklers about birth certificates.

The little toad man – actually a lawyer named Cohen – even praises his douchebag boss for having the incorrect document.  (From the CNN article Trump aide says release of unofficial birth certificate an ‘oversight’)

“It’s incredible he has that,” Cohen said. “I know I don’t have mine.”

Yes, that sure is incredible, my friend.  It’s incredible that he was trying to make a point about how simple it is to show a birth certificate and then did exactly what he was bitching about Obama doing the whole time.  And it’s incredible how you stuck your smarmy little snout up his ass for it, yes, that’s incredible, too. 

I’ll bet he loves going golfing with you, doesn’t he, Cohen?  “Good shot, sir!  Good shot, sir!  Good shot, sir!”

God, I’m so disgusted I’m banging my face against this desk and I can’t even feel it.  For the love of God, man, this guy’s like Zapp Branigan but he’s not funny. 

Here’s the best part – when someone pointed out to Trump that the hospital placed ads showing Obama’s birth in the paper within days, here’s what he had to say:

“That was placed in the paper days after he was born,” he told Fox. “He could have come into the country and then did it for social reasons – for whatever reasons.”

Ah, yes, that makes perfect sense.  Obama wasn’t born in the country, he was born elsewhere and then slithered in and placed sneaky ads in the paper days later, because he was not only capable of doing that at forty-eight hours of age, but he had every reason to since he knew he’d eventually get elected President.

Unless you’re thinking time travel – is that it, Trump?  You figure ACORN went back in time and placed those ads?

You know what, I was wrong – there is a synonym for douchebag, and it’s you, Donald Trump.  Your name is the synonym.  That’s also the reason the President of the United States is not showing his birth certificate – because he doesn’t have to jump every time a bunch of douchebags and their Apprentices tell him to.  He can just say, why don’t you morons shut the hell up, the People have already spoken.  And We have.

Please.  Please.  Please, Trump – run for President, you comically stupid douchebag, and bring your boot-licking lawyers with you.  I’ll put on some banjo music and pretend I’m watching WWF while Obama kicks the living shit out of you right in front of me and every supermodel in America.  

That sounds like a hoot, yes it surely does.  And it sounds more likely than Barack Obama doing anything – anything at all – just because you’re feeling “concerned” about it.

Douchebag.

 
 

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Piling On Back To The Future For No Reason

One of my favorite movies, no doubt about it, and easily one of the cornerstones in any conversation about films from the eighties.  Watching it is like watching Happy Days, if you’re a Baby Boomer.  Like going back in time, one might say.

But I was watching it with my daughters the other day, and I have to say, they had a pretty nice time ripping it apart.  These are veteran Doctor Who fans, so they take their time travel pretty seriously, and old Marty McFly and the Professor just weren’t cutting it, I’m sad to say.

In the non-time travel category, they were not very impressed with the Professor.  Said one daughter, “His robot dog food can opener looks like it takes up a lot of energy and space, and must have cost what?  Six thousand dollars back then?  And it saves him all of ten seconds a day.  Our giant three gallon upside down dog food bin refills itself without using any energy at all, and it doesn’t refill itself if the dog doesn’t eat the food, and it’s dry dog food, so it’s not gross.”

Yes.  Well, the professor is an eccentric one, you know?  That’s why he built a twelve-foot speaker, gave a guitar-playing teenager access to the key, and then forgot to hang a sign on it saying don’t use this.  And that’s also why a man so absent-minded feels free to test his time machine by driving it straight at himself and said teenager, in the parking lot of a mall at one-thirty in the morning – the eighties were a wild time, I tell them. 

In addition, although the girls were in full agreement that a scientist on the verge of time travel might not have been afraid of Libyan terrorists since he was about to escape into the future, it sure seemed questionable that he would involve his teenage pal, with no apparent contingency plan in case they find him (which they did, he didn’t know how, but they found him.)

“Run for it, Marty!”

I mean, that’s it, that’s the plan?  You brought a kid into a serious beef with international terrorists and you figure, RUN!? 

Not, quick, get in the time machine?

Then there is a real debate about the absence of a second hand on the clock tower.  I mean, said one daughter, it sure was a stroke of luck that the lightning happened to strike at the exact instant the minute hand moved, otherwise they’d have NO idea where in that minute they needed to hit the cable at 88 mph.

Good thing that pine tree farmer didn’t bring his gun out the first time, like he almost certainly would have in 1955, another daughter observed.  That’d be a pretty short movie.

Well, sure.  But he didn’t so let’s move on.

Then a big discussion about what happens when you get erased from existence.  The general consensus seems to be that you don’t disappear from photographs one limb at a time, as the movie suggests, but rather that you’d stop existing, and then so would your wisecracking, time-traveling kid.  And also, no one would have taken the picture if those three didn’t exist to pose for it – the picture itself would stop existing.

That really bothered them – it sure looked at the end like Marty and his siblings were going to stop existing, but someone still bothered to take a photograph of nobody standing in front of the well.

And then if you managed to reunite your parents such that they were on track to get married and have kids again, well wouldn’t they end up doing everything differently now that McFly was a hardass instead of a dork? 

And that includes the sexual intercourse which led to the kids.  And unless we’re all mistaken, different sperm carry different sets of genes, and therefore any change at all to when and where the parents had sexual intercourse would result in a different sperm reaching the same – or possibly a different – egg, and that would of course result in a different child.

You gotta think that the newly confident George McFly went about sexual intercourse in a markedly different way than the old, nerdy George McFly, right?  I mean, right? 

So Marty not only would have stopped existing, but if the professor managed to get his parents back on track in the same manner Marty did, he wouldn’t be re-creating the same kids.  He’d be creating new, previously uncreated siblings.

Also, if Marty turned his dad into a confident, literary go-getter, why’d it take thirty years to get his first novel out, even though it appeared inspired by Marty in his radiation suit?

And if Marty’s sister and brother were so cool and rocking now that he changed the past, why’d they still live at home?  They had to both be in their twenties.

Also, the girls were relieved to know that once a vanload of armed Libyan terrorist crashes into a Fotomat a few hundred yards away, they are all disabled and you can pretty much forget about them.

And they were all alarmed by the casual, nostalgic way that Marty’s parents recalled the time Biff sexually assaulted the mom.  “If it hadn’t been for him, we never would have fallen in love!”

You mean, the sexual assault in the school parking lot.  If it hadn’t been for Biff and the way he sexually assaulted you in the school parking lot, you guys never would have fallen in love.

Is that grounds for keeping a guy like that hanging around the house with your teenage kids, washing cars and whatnot?

Way to yank the fun out of the movie, girls.  Now you’re all locked into the sequels so get comfy.

 
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Posted by on March 28, 2011 in Television/Movies, Time Travel

 

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I Must Ask You To Give The Old Lady Her Weed Back

How are you, sir – it’s good of you to meet me at my favorite bar in the blogosphere, informally and fictionally, so as not to misinterpret what I have to tell you as a baseless, slanderous accusation of a serious crime.  I don’t think that would be ethical of me, though it would sure be ironic, sir, for you to lecture me about ethics.

Now listen, I’ve called you here because I just read this article – Woman makes claim for lost marijuana shipment – which is about your client Elvy Musikka, 71, of Eugene, Oregon.  As you know, she’s one of four remaining patients in America who is getting free, government-grown, super-powerful marijuana as part of a federal program from the eighties called the Compassionate Use Protocol.

She has glaucoma, and right out of a Harold and Kumar movie, it turns out that there are really government labs where they grow Super Weed.  Ms. Musikka has been ordered – ordered, mind you – to smoke ten joints of Free Government Super Weed every single day, so she goes down to Florida every six months or so and picks up six tin cartons containing 300 pre-rolled Super Joints apiece.

Legal.  As.  Hell.  You know it and I know it, and so does the government.  I can see why they scaled the program back, of course – this looks like the sort of program that an unethical person might take advantage of.  For example, one might attempt to qualify for the free Super Weed in order to avail oneself of the recreational features of the crop, as opposed to the documented medical uses.

I know, it’s a crazy world – you can’t trust a soul, can you?

So anyway, this last time Ms. Musikka flew down there – and the stuff is apparently so documented and legal that she can rock right on through airport security with it, probably mouthing off the whole time, I know I would – and when she got there, they said the shipment was delayed.

No problem, she said.  I’ll just sign this document and that will allow my attorney to take possession of the nearly two thousand pre-rolled Super Joints, because he has agreed to totally mail them to me.

And then I see from the article that the Post Office “lost” the shipment.  It never arrived.  And you’re pretty outraged, except I also see that the reason they lost the shipment was that you put the wrong zip code on the package.  By one digit, you specify for some reason.

Come on now – fictionally, between you and me.  You’re telling me you were putting that sort of package in the mail and you didn’t triple check the address?

And then later you’re characterizing the situation like this:

“I find it fascinating that the post office can tell me because of their tracking that it was misrouted and can acknowledge that it went to the wrong place, but they can’t tell me what happened to it after that,” Kent told CNN. “It’s astounding.”

Cause see, it was misrouted because you labelled it wrong.  It went to the right place, my friend.  You just put the wrong place on the packing slip.

So as an attorney, I find it fascinating that you find it fascinating that the postal service sent the package to the post office your label indicated they should, and that now you’re baffled as to how this could have happened.  I find that very fascinating indeed.

I have to tell you, my friend.  It sure sounds like you shipped something else of approximately equal weight, intentionally to the wrong post office, so that you could document a claim and establish plausible deniability, while handily pocketing 1800 Super Joints.

It does seem to me that as an attorney, you’re supposed to be trained to execute complicated legal documents, file court cases and lawsuits, negotiate deals with Satan, etc.  And so the screw-up on the zip code really stands out to me as either comically, unbelievably careless or suspiciously, motive-clear-as-day intentional.

I’ll bet the woman who gets free Super Weed from the government gets her joints replaced, either by an insurance company or the Postal Service or the same government lab which grows it.  And I’ll bet that’s a big part of what anyone’s rationalization might be, for going ahead and stealing them.

But I’ll also bet it takes a little while for the replacements to come in.  Just a few weeks maybe.

And so again, I want to be clear, we’re not really sitting in a bar and I’m not really talking to you and all of this is fictional or satirical or whatever it needs to be.  I know that you didn’t really steal thousands of dollars worth of Uncle Sam Special from a little old lady with glaucoma.  I’m totally joking and I think that’s “obvious” to anyone.

But just in case you know anyone else who fits the shoe I just described, maybe let them know that we all understand yoinking the Super Weed.  Attorneys roll how attorneys roll, and who are we to judge you folks?  You’re professionals.

Just send Ms.Musikka a couple hundred of them.  She’s used to ten a day, for crying out loud, and her eyeballs hurt.  Just knock a couple hundred off the top and send them to her, get her through til The Man comes ’round.

If you need help filling out the packing slip, just ask the friendly postal worker behind the counter.  Perhaps you could just put Ms. Musikka on the phone so she can tell them the address personally – zip codes are tricky, but they aren’t anything to ballpark.  Much like a phone number, if you get it wrong by “one digit(!)” then the whole thing’s wrong.

Nobody goes, oh, well that’s Charlie’s Super Weed client, she lives in Oregon, not California.

No, sir.  That’s not how it works.  A very large number of people mail packages to a very large number of places every single day, and the postal service relies upon the information the sender puts on the package.  It’s not motherscratching rocket science, counsellor.

Just give the phone and the joints to the postal worker and then – well, crap.  Those are stolen Super Joints now, so it’s probably not legal to send them through the mail anymore is it?

Oh well.  You’re the attorney.  You figure that part out, and you don’t have to admit anything or yell at me or make a scene.  Just fictionally send the old lady a chunk of her fictional weed back, pretty please.

Now I’m out of here.  These beers are on you.

 
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Posted by on March 27, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Obama Poops Wrong, Conservatives Agree

A recent poll of self-described conservatives, as well as independents who are full of crap and are actually Republicans, revealed a startling list of things Barack Obama does incorrectly, including pooping and pooping-related activities.

“I poop in a Port-a-John on a construction site, usually,” said one Southern Ohio respondent.  “Have you ever seen Barack Obama poop in a Port-a-John?  This guy’s supposed to represent us, but the only place he wants to poop is an Air Force One toilet with a fully-functional French bidet in it?  I don’t think so.”

Over 81% of respondents agreed that President Obama should make an effort to not be such a limp-wristed sissy boy about where he poops, and to try harder to connect with Main Street Poopers, some of whom are perfectly happy pooping outdoors in broad daylight.

“What I want to know,” said another respondent, “is how does he have all this time to sit around pooping when there are three wars, a crisis in Japan, and the NCAA tournament going on?”

This was a common sentiment – fully 915% of respondents agreed that no matter what, the President should never be doing anything except talking into a microphone to the American people, talking on the phone to other world leaders, giving the thumbs up to military commanders, washing cars for conservative Senators, and extending tax cuts for really, crazy rich people.

Similarly, the same poll suggested that when a President is elected, his duty lies not in meeting his campaign promises, but instead in obeying the most recent polls, which are really like four-dimensional voting vortexes, trumping the actual votes with their temporal, polymorphic Super Accuracy Pellets of American Consensus.

For example, 51% of respondents agreed that any majority in any poll at all is reason enough to completely invalidate the policies a candidate ran under. 

Like health care reform, which was a cornerstone of Obama’s campaign – and which did among other things get him elected – but then certain polls showed that if you rephrased his campaign promises using more conservative language and repeated use of the word “comrade,” a majority was against the same promises.

That’s the tricky, metaphysical way that the American people voted for a man who promised health care reform with a public option, but then staunchly agreed that such a thing would be a communist, soul-destroying attack on everything America ever stood for.  In just six months.

Which is also why the Republicans won the House in the next election, a clear mandate from the American people to Washington:  Do everything the Republicans say, do it the way they say it, and maybe we should be throwing garbage at the President whenever he walks into a room, instead of playing that one President song.

You don’t need to yell at us, 88% of respondents agreed – because polls don’t lie unless they’re bullshit left wing media polls, which are dumb.

Other statistical surprises:

  • 77% suspected the President doesn’t fold the toilet paper before wiping his butt, instead balling it up, which they described as “wasteful,” “lazy,” and “not very green.”
  • Just 12% believed that Barack Obama had the stones to pee in the shower, instead stepping out to use the toilet like a simpering, pansy-ass Mama’s Boy. 
  • Among the foods that Obama should not be eating, respondents overwhlemingly chose chicken, beef, carrots, anything green, lamb, tacos, portabello mushrooms, pizza, turkey burgers, sushi, eggs, turnips, Pez, cereal, fruit, hot dogs, popcorn, spaghetti, fish, candy bars, Girl Scout Cookies, Slim Jims, peanut products, and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.
  • A solid 100% believed that the President bombed Libya too late, with another 100% agreeing that he never should have bombed Libya because he’s Kenyan and not really the President.  Five million percent were outraged that the French got to bomb Libya first, while 8% believed that Libya had nothing to do with pooping at all.
  • 166% of respondents described the specifics of Obama’s pooping preferences as both “an outrage against God” and “definitely some of our business.” 
  • One bright spot for the President, the respondents were in unanimous agreement that Obama could potentially do something right, if for example he were to announce publicly that everything he does is wrong and then resign.
  • The study also showed that although the vast majority – eight million percent – sincerely and fervently prayed to God every single morning and night that Obama would magically turn white, a significant portion admitted to an irrational fear of such a development, many of them citing the Joker’s feelings toward Batman, and the whole Who Would I Hate If He Were Gone thing.
  • 100% of respondents indicated that the First Lady should never speak or leave the White House, though admittedly 0% were able to come up with a complete sentence which could be accurately attributed to Mrs. Obama.
  • 87% believed that the President’s bracket was “wasteful” and “possibly homosexual and communist at the same time,” whatever that means.
  • Suggestions were varied in terms of what Obama might be able to do to change his abysmal poll ratings, some suggesting that he resign (70%), leave the planet (88%), fornicate with an intern (66%) or get really into an addictive X-Box game, like Starcraft 2 or Gears of War(44%) and not come out of his basement til he beats it.

 

Either way, the poll spells trouble for Obama, who was no doubt relying on the Comically Confused And/Or Racist Vote for re-election in 2012.  The White House has declined to comment on the poll, citing “fiction,” “satire,” and a “lack of interest in blogs and bloggers.”

 
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Posted by on March 26, 2011 in Fiction, News/Commentary

 

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The Emergency Notary Situation

The guy enters the bank looking like a walking heart attack, his broad shoulders sagging under the weight of his serious gut, his hair gray and sharply cut but disheveled, his face bulging and twitchy.  I glance up from my deposit slip at him as he passes in front of me, and calls out to apparently the bank in general.

“Hey, where’s your notary?”

One of the girls behind the counter makes eye contact with him and so she inherits the question.  She does the Cute Girl Grimace and says, “Ooooo, that’s Marcy and she’s out to lunch right now.”

So the guy makes a sound like several farts coming out of different parts of his face.  “You got to have another notary around here.”

Not a question, just a statement about the way the universe works.  There must be another notary here, because anything else is inconceivable.

But the unfortunate teller continues shaking her head, Cute Girl Grimace falling away in the face of the angry man’s demeanor.  “I’m sorry, but Marcy is the only notary we have.  She’ll be back in another half hour?”

Her voice rising at the end there, making the question mark.  Is that okay, her tone wants to know?

No, it’s not.  “You got to be kidding me,” snaps Angry Man.  “What kind of bank doesn’t have a notary in it?”

“Well, we do have a notary, it’s just that she….”

And now I’m doing the Cute Girl Grimace, doing it poorly I imagine, but I just know he’s not going to be interested in a recap of where Marcy is.  I know that Marcy’s metaphysical connection to the bank he’s standing in is not going to calm him down.

“You need to get me a goddamn notary,” he tells her, pointing at her now.  “I got a million and a half dollars in this bank, and I need a goddamn notary.”

Spit visible in the air around him now, and a manager comes out from one of the cubes and says, “Sir, I’m very sorry that Marcy is out, is there…”

“I don’t need your sorry, I need a notary,” Angry Man tells her, and he starts to bark at her some more but then I’m tapping on his shoulder, my lips pursed in a tight smile, my eyebrows up.  He turns to look at me, seems a bit startled for a moment.

Then I tell him, “I’m a notary.  No need to yell at anyone.”

Very calm, too – his face looks like it might explode in the face of my possibly-smartass calmness.  His jowls quiver.   “Well, then go get your notary stamp,” he insists, about five times louder than he needs to.

I pause and sort of theatrically consider what he’s said to me, then I shrug and nod and say, “Okay.”

And I turn and walk out to my car, get my notary stamp off the front seat, and by the time I come back in, someone has explained to the walking Heart Attack Man that I do not work for him or the bank, that I’m just a random notary who happened to be standing there.

He looks a little sheepish now.  He says, “They just told me you don’t work here and I…”

“Don’t even worry about it,” I tell him.  “I can see you have some kind of situation here and I’m happy to help.  Just need to see your driver license to confirm your identity.”

And he shows it to me and starts to explain that he’s settling a lawsuit and that he has to have this document in the overnight box and that it needs notarized, and I tell him, “Sure, I can see there’s something serious going on here, no doubt.”  I examine his license and add, “Okay, looks good.  Go ahead and sign right there.”

So he signs it and apologizes again and reaches for his wallet.  I tell him, “No, no, no – forget about it, that was thirty seconds.”

But he holds out twenty bucks anyway.  Do I bother explaining to him that I’m not allowed to take twenty bucks for notarizing a document?  It’s more like a buck fifty, is the max, by law.

I stamp it and just tell him, “Seriously, I can’t take your money, I’m just glad you got it taken care of.  Nothing these nice ladies can do about Marcy and her lunch break, you know?”

But he drops the twenty anyway, right in front of me on the counter.  I look at it and he says to the air, “Where’s your FedEx box?”

“We don’t have a FedEx box,” someone tells him, way too quickly, and out comes his forehead vein, and he spins to bark at her, and I sigh heavily.  For crying out loud.

“Hold on,” I tell him.  “Come here, I’ll show you.”

And I walk him to the front door and point across the street and tell him, see that, over in the printing company parking lot? 

He sees it.  He thanks me again and casts another quivering, sheepish look around at the rest of the bank employees, and then he’s gone.  The employees at the bank break out into applause.

“Think nothing of it, ladies,” I tell them, and then flick the twenty toward the first girl he barked at.  “There – I’m pretty sure he meant to apologize with that, and buy you all lunch.  But probably not Marcy, so much.”

And then I rock on out of there, another day in the life of an Extreme Notary, just handling the Emergency Notary Situations as they come, because that’s the only way I know how to roll.

 
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Posted by on March 25, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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