It’s 2 am and I can’t sleep, so I thought I’d pull myself out of bed and blog; maybe it would help me snooze, but I hope it doesn’t have the same effect on you.
Oh, and if my editing skillz don’t pay the billz at 2 am, eat my turd.
I know why I can’t sleep: I’m in Phoenix, and not in my own bed, and that always seems to fuck with me; today’s my birthday, and that’s certainly fucking with me — even though I hate to admit it; I didn’t bring my nite-nite medication with me, and the 1/2 bottle of wine I just knocked down didn’t really help much; a girl I fell in love with is such a pathetic liar that it just breaks my heart; but the bestest, most fun thing that kept me up is my new hero — Muntadhar al Zaidi — the journalist from Iraq who whipped his zapato at our shitty, fucked-up President.
I know this might sound silly, but Muntadhar al Zaidi has some big fucking balls, man. Mainly cause he knew once he did what he was about to do he’d pretty much lose his journalist job forever, and trust me, even if you hate your fucking job, you still gotta have some juevos grandes to do something so crazy you’d lose your job forever.
The only thing more impressive than Muntadhar al Zaidi’s two great attempts at taking off George W. Douchbag’s head with his shoes was W’s super-sleek, super-agile dodges at the shoe coming straight for his head. If that silly motherfucker did his job over the past 8 years 1/2 as well as he did ducking those shoes, we’d be calling John McCain Mr. President-Elect.
I heard after the whole thing went down they wanted to test Muntadhar al Zaidi to see if there was any drugs or alcohol in his system. To which I say are you fucking kidding me? First off, there’s about a zillion American’s who want to do what he just did — let alone Iraqis. Second, let’s have Mr. President piss into a cup so we can see if he’s under the influence of any booze or dope, cause that’s the way he’s run this country the last 8 years — fucked up out of his gord.
God damnit I wanna take my shoes off and clock the President upside his noggin. Imagine the amount of money the RNC could raise if they ran some sort of County-Fair-Type-Thang which featured a bunch of cool bands playing, a few kegs of beer, and a single booth: The Take Off Your Shoes And Whip Them at George W Bush booth.
I would pay $500 a shoe for such a privilege (really, I would); some would pay more, and a whole lot less, but if that stupid Mofo would just sit at that booth long enough for, say…Wilco and Radiohead and Beck to play full sets, the RNC could easily raise a few million bucks…which they could just hand to Sarah Palin for her run in 2012.
Imagine the Shopping Spree Ho-down those Alaskan Hillbillies would have! (Again).
You probably heard the same thing I did today — that feet are a stinky, yucky thing to our fine Arab friends, and when someone hurls a shoe at you while you’re in, say, Saudi Arabia, they really think you’re a dirty dog. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, Muntadhar al Zaidi called Mr President a dirty fucking dog while security was taking him down.
Why did security take him down? It was a secure room, and he was throwing shoes at Bush. What the fuck? My sister used to throw her shoes at me all the time, and even when she made a direct hit, the worst thing I ever got was a bloody nose.
Know what Muntadhar al Zaidi got?
Maybe 8 to 10 years in the slam.
And a whole bunch of dead relatives while we made Iraq a great place, Free & Full o’ Democracy.
Wait. Wasn’t it all about Al-Quaida?
Wait. Wasn’t it all about liberating Iraq from Saddam?
Wait. Wasn’t it all about the WMD’s that were all over the place?
Wait. Wasn’t it all about 911?
Wait.
You’re in for some good news. I’m starting to feel sleepy. So sleepy I’ll skip over the sappy, stoopid Falling in Love with a Big Fat Liar ghey-ness (cause I’m saving that one for a rainy day) and move right into my birthday, cause it’s almost 3 am, which means at almost exactly this time, some 45 years ago, I crept out of my mom’s V-Jay Jay to start my life.
Did I tell you the very first thing I ever did was piss all over the doctor and his nurses?
Really, I did. It was a long, fine, golden stream that seemed to catch everyone (and by surprise, too) so much so that the doctor said something along the lines of, “well, we know his plumbing works!”
It was 20 below that day, and the very first picture taken of me was in my great-grandmother’s arms, with my great-grandpa smiling at me. He was a retired Chicago cop — a big Irishman — and she owned a bar on the South Side for years and years. (She served “ice cream” during prohibition, and somehow I think she’s the only dead relative I have that thinks what I do it OK).
Ever think your dead relatives watch you beat off to porn? And they’re tsk-tsking you in Heaven, and waiting to chide you for it once you get there?
I bet you’ve thought that — more than once. And I bet you’re worried that God has watched you beat your fucking meat as well.
You fucking pervert.
How about this: your relatives are watching you beat off and they’re envious, and they’re cheering you on, cause they know how much fun that shit is, and they wish they could do the same.
You fucking pervert.
Once I asked Father Mike what Heaven was like. The only thing I remember was, “the streets are paved with gold” which, even when you’re 12, sounds a little off. I wanted to ask Father Mike something like, “if the streets are paved with gold, that makes gold valuable, which means people in Heaven will want it, which means we’re all have jobs in Heaven, which means to me, heaven kinda sucks, and I’m only 12 and never had to work a day in my life.”
Instead I said something like “Wow Father Mike! Tell me more!!” which, at that point, he led me into the Rectory’s hot tub for a little chat.
Just kidding.
Not really.
Father Dale was another story. He was the fine Catholic priest who would come say a prayer at my little brother’s football games, and then linger around and ask all the boys after the game — while they were showering — how it all went. He was also the one the had those same boys write his name on their underwear, so when they got dirty, lustful thoughts, they’d see the words “Father Dale” rise with their tighty-whiteys, which, of course, would make them cease thinking about whatever it was that was giving them a boner; hence, they’d lost the filth and only think pure, clean thoughts…and their boners would suddenly vanish!
You fucking pervert.
I’m telling the truth about Father Mike — who really was a great guy and never once asked me to take a dip with him in the hot tub; as well as Father Dale — who really did do all the things I just said.
Oh, and the hot tub thing came from Father Dale, who really had a hot tub.
At his rectory.
Just in case any of the teens from the group he founded — “Life Teen” — wanted to take go tubbing with him.
And you were worried about God and your dead relatives watching you beat off to porn.
