On the Threshold of Hell

As Clark W. Griswold said in Christmas Vacation, "We're standing at the threshold of hell!" Barely a month since I lambasted the antics of the shallow and recently moleless Jen Scheft, who despite vehemently denying that she was dating her boss is now dating her boss (and says in Us Weekly "I just hope people respect my privacy and realize this is personal" - good luck, you plastic surgery disaster), ABC has rolled out a new installment of The Bachelor, and this time it's a doozy.

Meet Charlie O'Connell, America's newest Bachelor! He is the brother of Jerry O'Connell, formerly Vern the fat kid in Stand By Me, and currently banging Rebecca Romijin-Stamos-Romijin. You see, the folks at ABC decided that recycled singles from previous seasons, heirs to a tire magnate's fortune, and third-string quarterbacks did not pack the celebrity punch they were looking for. Now, they have resorted to securing the services of the sibling of a B-list celebrity. Who wouldn't tune in for that??

Thankfully, not me for the first half of the premier episode. Given the recent outcome of Molegate, I swore to myself that I would never patronize this steaming pile of pigshit of a TV show ever again. That vow lasted about 67 minutes into the new season, as the unsettling part of me that exists in every human, that horrid desire that resides deep in the darkest recesses of our collective psyches, that makes us slow down and watch a car wreck or tune into surgeries on television, implored me to turn on channel 7, if for no other reason than to gawk like a country fried rube staring at a boy in an iron lung at a carnival sideshow.

I assure you, nothing could have prepared me for the horrors I witnessed. I tuned in to see Charlie - who comes off like your typical club-hopping, cleft-chinned, pompous ass, hanging with a bunch of desperate, young women with low self esteems...do I sound like a fucking broken record here??? This is the same schpiel I spew EVERY TIME I write about this damn show! But ABC has taken it to the extreme. There were make out sessions, provocative dance floor maneuvers, body shots, heavy petting - and this is the FIRST EPISODE! And it's all happening in front of all the other girls! And they don't seem to care! They just want to be the next one whose throat Charlie chooses to shove his tongue deep within. And he doesn't seem to mind that he's completely shitfaced as he does his obligatory "talk to the camera, but not TO the camera" soliloquy. Smarmy, defined.

I couldn't take it - I had to walk away, and come right to the computer so I could alert you, my nine loyal readers, of what was occurring. I am sickened. I am having a hard time keeping my food down. I realize that this scene is the norm as far as mating rituals go for folks in this early-to-mid-twenties age range. How sad. Right now, as I type this, Charlie is standing in front of these girls wearing a black shirt with the first three buttons undone, with NO SPORT COAT, no doubt drenched with the wretched fumes of some vomit-inducing, pheromone-laced cologne product, explaining to one of the 97-pound waifs that he didn't pick her because "I just want someone I can, you know, have, like, fun with, you know?" AAAGH!!!

Given the boundaries that Episode the First has already pushed, I am fully confident that there will be an outbreak of venereal disease before we even get to May Sweeps. I can only hope that I can repress the unholy urge to witness this piss-poor excuse for copulating deep into the desolate corners of my mind, lest I go mad in the process...

Still, my money's on the bartender from Ft. Lauderdale - I felt that she and Charlie had this amazing connection...

The Most Important Meal of the Day

I’m sure the first thing that popped into your mind when you read the title of this rant was the word “breakfast” – and rightfully so. Research has shown that our brains and our metabolism function much better when we begin our day with a nice balanced meal. It could be a bowl of cereal with fruit and milk. Maybe you decide to opt for cheese and crackers and half a grapefruit. Perhaps oatmeal with raisins is more to your liking. Or, if you’re like thousands upon thousands of people all across this great land of ours, you might use this opportunity to kick your day off the right way by downing two eggs, a sausage patty, two slices of American cheese and three strips of bacon, all on a delectable specialty bun.

America, say hello to Burger King’s Enormous Omelet Sandwich! Get your day started right with 730 calories and 47 grams of fat (both more than a Whopper, which contains a paltry 700 calories and 42 grams of fat – weak!), not to mention a salt-ilicious 1860 mg of sodium. I have the utmost confidence that many Americans will seek the convenience and flavor of this breakfast option, thereby bucking every piece of conventional wisdom known to man. The best thing about the Enormous Omelet Sandwich (as if there were only one)? If you eliminate the “specialty bun” from the equation, you’re only downing 5 grams of carbs! That’s right – if you’re a carb counter, and you leave out the bun, you’ve got a meal sent from the heavens. Granted, you’re still left with 44 grams of fat (16 of which are saturated) and over 1400 mg of sodium, but man, will you ever lose some weight!

My only question is this: what the fuck are these fast food restaurants trying to prove? It’s like they got word of the ruling that says that the fat slobs that make them their staple meal can’t sue them for making them the fat slobs that they are, so they’re reveling in their innocence. “Hey, since Joe Trailerpark and Suzie Morbidly-Obese can’t hit us in the pocketbook, let’s thank them by speeding them towards heart disease and certain death!” Now, I’m all for holding people responsible for their own actions, but come on – this sandwich is ludicrously horrific. Can’t you just picture tens of thousands of half-assed parents across middle America saying to themselves, “Well, I should buy Cheerios, but that fat little shit will throw a fit if I make him try and eat them, so I’ll just shut them up with an Enormous Omelet Sandwich. In fact, that sounds so good that maybe I’ll shove one down my engorged esophagus to assist with my certain heart and/or liver failure. Who cares that I’m already past the point where I can sit in a regular movie theater seat?”

Yes, I can hear it too, and it’s too damn bad. As I alluded to in an earlier writing, the Center for Disease Control (http://www.cdc.gov/) indicates that approximately 65% of American adults are either overweight or obese. Now granted, the Body Mass Index gives a crude indication of whether one is overweight, and at 5’5” and 145 lbs, I am on the fringe of being “overweight”, so there is some room for error here. But let’s dumb it down and say 50% of American adults are at least overweight. HALF of us are a heart disease case just waiting to happen. This will lead to earlier death, higher health care costs, skyrocketing insurance premiums, and a whole bunch of shitty habits passed on to the fatbodies of the future (i.e. eating an Enormous Omelet Sandwich due to price and/or convenience).

I realize that eating healthy can be considered somewhat of a luxury – fresh fruits and vegetables and healthy grain-based products are not cheap. There seem to be 10 times as many drive-thru shitholes as there are remotely healthy options. Kids are much more inactive today than they were even 10 years ago. And goddamn, if that Hardee’s Double Monster Thickburger doesn’t look divine (what, with two 1/3 lb meat patties, three slices of cheese, six slices of bacon and mayonnaise – mmmm, good). Why don’t you go build a meal at Hardee’s.com and see how many ways you can kill yourself slowly: http://www.hardees.com/nutrition/.

As with most of these rantings, I am not sure what my point is. Maybe fast food restaurants need to take it upon themselves to offer more sensible options (instead of chicken fingers and salads that often have more fat and sodium than the burgers). Maybe the government needs to protect idiotic Americans from themselves. Maybe we should just let the fatbodies be grossly unhealthy and sort out the consequences another day. I guess you are what you eat, so you can either choose to be healthy, or you can choose to be an Enormous Monster.

Enough is Enough

OK, yesterday I was able to make light of the situation, be sarcastic, even work in a reference to Mr. Romance, but man, enough is enough - it's serious time. People need to let Terry Schiavo rest in peace. I understand the concept that no parent should be forced to outlive their child - I can appreciate what the Schindler family is going through - it must be absolutely miserable to have to let their daughter go when there's still a flicker of life left.

But then again, there's only a flicker of life left. This woman has not been able to have any meaningful interaction with other humans, let alone EAT, in 15 years. Fifteen years ago I was driving an '82 Ford Fairmont and tight-rolling my jeans - so much has happened in that time, so much life has been experienced, and Terry Schiavo has laid in a bed, staring at the wall, mumbling incoherently, receiving her sustenance through a tube - a FUCKING TUBE - for 15 excrutiating years, as life has passed by. And the man who married her, who loves her, who watched her suffer with an eating disorder, wants to let this SEVERELY BRAIN DAMAGED woman that he loves die in peace, just like the state courts said she could SEVEN YEARS AGO.

Why do I write in CAPS, which is the typing equivalent to RAISING MY VOICE? Because some people just don't get it. I see the images on CNN.com of "protestors" with red tape over their mouth with the word "LIFE" scrawled across, holding signs reading, "There is a Higher Law." What does this mean? Don't these people have something else to do with their time? Isn't there another way to make a difference and get your pont across than to latch on to this lost cause? What point are they trying to prove?? The family claims that she can make a meaningful recovery with treatment - so why was this treatment not applied during the last 15 years?

Now I read that Terry's parents are trying to get the Florida State Legislature to take up a bill to restart food and hydration for their daughter. Um, I'm no political expert, but I would think that a Federal Appealate Court decision upholding a previous ruling issued by that state would somehow supercede that state's legislature from passing a new law that contradicts that original ruling. Isn't that what "unconstitutional" means? If I'm wrong, please call me on it, but I think I'm somewhat on track.

Look, I agree that life is a precious thing. However, so is liberty. And I think that the pursuit of happiness can be tossed in there as well. Yep, those are our unalienable rights as Americans: Life, Liberty, the Pursuit of Happiness. Now ask yourself - how happy would you be if you weren't given the liberty to put an end to your life as a vegetable with no chance at a meaningful recovery? Is that the American way?

CNN.com also reports that there has been a boom in living wills since the Schiavo case kicked into high gear. Of course by some twisted logic, if Terry Schiavo had a piece of paper that said "if I ever fall into a vegetative state with no hope of a meaningful recovery, please pull the plug," I imagine these "right to live" folks would back off and we wouldn't hear anything of it. But since her wishes are not notarized by a lawyer, we, the American people, have a duty to keep this woman alive? I am at a loss here, folks.

Consider this an open memo to my family - I love talking to people, eating cheeseburgers, playing video games, and the like. That being said, if I am ever in a vegetative state with no hope of a meaningful recovery, I implore you to end the misery. It's my belief we'll hang out again in some afterlife - by keeping me clinging to some form of living, you'll just be prolonging the pain.

Sorry to be a downer - it's just too bad others can't come to terms with this and let this woman rest in peace.

So Much to Live For

The news is all abuzz today with reports that a federal judge would not order the reinsertion of brain-damaged Florida woman Terry Schiavo’s feeding tube, which will likely ultimately result in her clinical death. This news comes much to the chagrin of “Right to Live” folks everywhere, including the Bush boys, President George W. and G.O.B., er, P. Governor Jeb of Florida. Despite the House of Representatives’ last minute mad dash to keep alive this woman who hasn’t been able to feed herself in almost 15 years in order to “protect life”, right now it appears that her husband Michael will get his wish and allow his wife to discontinue her suffering.

Oh, poor Michael – doesn’t he see how much Terry has to live for? Think about it – she gets to stay in bed all day and gets to avoid common annoyances such as going to work, paying bills, chewing and swallowing food, and having meaningful interaction with other humans. We should all only be so lucky! You wouldn’t have to answer to anyone if your only method of communication was saying “AAAAAAAANNNNMMMM”! Thankfully, there are congressmen and nutjobs all over this great land of ours who are good enough to pry into private family affairs via emergency legislation and misguided protests in order to keep alive a woman they’ve never met or interacted with. Who cares if all she would do is stare blankly at them should this interaction ever occur? She’s got a right to live! “This is your President speaking – stick that tube of basic nourishment back into that woman so she can keep on enjoying the good, catatonic life she’s lived for 15 years!”

Why should we want to see anyone die? They have a right to live! Every person in America has that God-given right, so let’s not take it away! Well, unless of course you’re a criminal on death row – in that case, it’s an eye for an eye, buster, so good riddance! Fire up that electric chair, but make sure you keep that feeding tube in!

Last night, as I struggled to understand this complicated issue, I found something that gives Terry – and yes, all of us – a reason to live, to choose life, to respect that right to keep our base organs functioning despite having little to no functioning cerebral cortex – of course, I am referring to the Oxygen network’s newest reality experience, Mr. Romance!

(Great segue, huh? Bet you didn’t see that one coming)

Yes, it’s Mr. Romance – “hosted”, I guess you could say, by the greatest living hunk with no other discernable talents – the one, the only, Fabio! I say “hosted” because the only time I saw him during the 15 minute span I was fortunate enough to watch was leading into a commercial break where he declared in broken English, “There can only be one!”

One what, you ask? Well, in order to do this contest any justice, I’ll need to let http://www.oxygen.com/ explain…

“Nobody said being a male fantasy figure was easy -- and 12 men are finding out firsthand just how hard it can be in this six week ‘romance academy’ reality series, culminating in America’s first annual ‘Man Pageant’. One winning Adonis will be awarded a $50,000 cash prize, a lifetime gym membership and a contract to appear on the cover of future Harlequin romance novels”

That’ll get Terry Schiavo’s brain cells boiling, eh Bush brothers?? Twelve of the hunkiest slices of beefcake this side of Venice Beach are participating to be the guy who’s poorly painted image will appear on the cover of raunchy period-piece novels penned by struggling writers and read by unfulfilled, frumpy housewives and divorcees all across America. Last evening, I was “fortunate” enough to watch the guys go through a “Greek Mythology” challenge, which consisted of the following:

- Tearing off their Oxygen network-supplied toga in front of a group of nameless toga-wearing females.

- Standing still as the aforementioned females donned blindfolds and groped at their muscles to determine which Adonis was the most rock solid, hairless and pleasing to the touch.

- Seeing who could hold the required “novel pose” for the longest period of time – in this case, the guys had to drop almost to one knee while standing on a 2x4 and pulling back a bow and arrow. One of the guys was eliminated after 16 seconds because he became too focused on figuring out which of the women were checking him out at the time.

As much as I wish I had the imagination to make this stuff up, and as much as I wish that none of this were actually happening, I can assure you this was 100% real. After watching the loser of the pose competition ask another guy to take a few polaroids of his shirtless torso as the other hunks snickered at him, I quietly turned off the TV and thanked God for such quality programming. And now I implore all of you to write your local congressmen, the President and the Supreme Court and let them know that there is now yet another reason for all of us to choose life!

I thank you.

Erin Go...BLAAAGH

Ah begora! Top o’ the mornin’ to ya! Corned beef, Blarney Stone, U2, potato famine, green beer, paddy wagon, Thin Lizzy, boiled potato, leprechaun, and whiskey to you all as well! It’s St. “Paddy’s” day, as I’ve heard so many people refer to it today. Wear green! Go to a bar at 10:00 AM! Disgrace the heritage of Irish everywhere! ‘Tis the day for it, me lad!

Those who know me should understand where I’m coming from. In my younger, angrier days (yes, hard as it may seem to believe, I was once angrier about this holiday), I would denounce anything and everything Irish. I never why this day made me so angry – after all, given the number of Irish that emigrated to the U.S. between 1840 and 1880, there is a damn good chance that many people born and raised anywhere near a major metropolitan area had some Irish in their background, giving them some semblance of a right to celebrate. Even I, Mr. Seemingly Anti-Irish, can claim an Irish heritage. That’s right – a full 1/16th of my background can be traced back to the Emerald Isle – that’s 9 lbs. and 1 oz. of whiskey swilling, riot inciting, jail breaking good times packed inside this frame. Again, in those lost younger days of mine, I would make ridiculous claims that I bled out all of my Irish blood as a child, seeing fit to denounce a part of my heritage, albeit a small one.

Not anymore. As I continue my inevitable march towards senility, I feel like I am finally starting to wipe away some of the clouds that have hovered around my judgment and am beginning to see things as they are. My Irish heritage (miniscule as it may be) is something to be proud of. I should consider that the Ellis family, who emigrated to Chicago’s south side during the 1850’s or thereabouts and opened…ahem…a tavern and lived on land that was later donated to the City when the area around it was annexed and renamed Ellis Park, are a part of who I am and not something to be ashamed of. I have many, many friends who can claim much more of a link to Ireland that I can – the O’Hallorans, O’Connells, Brennans, Buckleys, Sloans, etc, of the world – these are good people who come from good families. So why did I ever feel the need to be a prick about the whole Irish thing???

Well, now that I’ve swept some of those clouds away, I can plainly see why – St. “Paddy’s” day has been hijacked. I’ve harped on it time and time again – in Ireland St. Patrick’s Day is a holy day, much like Super Bowl Sunday is here (except they will actually go to church). Yet all you ever hear about when people discuss St. Patrick’s Day in the U.S. is “when are you going out?” and “how drunk do you plan on getting?” Ugh. Now, please do not confuse this rant with a condemnation of drunkenness – I have been drunk many times before, and I plan to be so many times again; let the good times roll! – it’s more the stigma that’s put around it, like you’re expected to be soused, lit, pissed up, shitfaced, and the like. Either you’re with us or against us.

Case in point: I was riding on the elevator at my day job today and was asked, “Where are you going to drink tonight?” When I stated that I had no plans to go out, another person reacted as if I had used a whiskey bottle to beat a pregnant Irish woman wearing a Notre Dame sweatshirt. Yes, that’s right – I am not going out drinking tonight. Why is that an issue? Why would I want to go to an Irish pub with a bunch of wannabe Irish people and drink horrible beer (i.e. Miller Light) that’s made to taste worse thanks to the green food coloring that’s been added?? Where’s the allure? I had this thought running through my head as I walked by the plant and balloon decorative display in my building’s lobby, which had one balloon featuring three leprechaun men drinking mugs of beer looking like they were about 10 minutes away from lying in a pool of their own sick. On this jaunt, I also spotted several folks wearing green of all shads, with a few individuals wearing buttons touting the green beer that is so prevalent on this day. To me, this basically sends the message “Either you’re drunk or lame on good ol’ St. Paddy’s Day!” Hogwash!

My guess is that none of these people are aware of the prejudices the Irish endured in the latter part of the 19th Century. They know nothing of the “Irish Need Not Apply” signs, the lazy/troublesome/anarchist stereotypes, and the simian-like portrayals of their “race” in editorial cartoons in newspapers across the country. My second guess is that they never will, and the proud tradition of treating this day as a grand excuse to act like a drunken fool will perpetuate, much to the chagrin of true Irish folk everywhere.

So since this is the case, let me propose a toast to…the Irish! May they enjoy their blessed day of inebriation! The lousy micks.

Seacrest...OUT!

As American Idol limps through its fourth season, I have come to realize that many of my nine or so loyal readers have likely never taken the time to view this wonderful program firsthand, thus missing out on a once-in-a-May-sweeps chance to see who will be crowned the next pop star chosen by you, the American public, followed by a quick tumble into obscurity. This fine piece of Fox programming has given us three young pop stars – Kelly Clarkson, Ruben Studdard, Fantasia Barino – none of whom have a song I can name off the top of my head. Oh wait, I forgot, I don’t listen to shitty Top 40 radio – my mistake! At any rate, aside from producing Idols (which I could have sworn were prohibited by the Ten Commandments…but I digress), Idol has also produced some fine by-products, including NBC’s A Clay Aiken Christmas (which included guest stars Barry Manilow, Will and Grace's Megan Mullally, and gospel star Yolanda Adams), the hit musical/film From Justin to Kelly, William “Snaggle Toothed American Idol Reject” Hung (who Us Weekly informs us has gone from “Hung” to “Chunk” thanks to some recent weight gain), the budding music career of Ozzie Smith’s son, the Diana DeGarmo home page (http://www.diana-degarmo.net/), and tens of thousands of losers that believe in their own minds that they are musically talented that are good enough to make asses out of themselves on national TV as they emit horrible sounds that are comparable to what a yak might sound like were it caught in a bear trap.

For those of you who haven’t seen the show, the following is a brief description of the main cast of characters:

Ryan Seacrest; Host: On Jeopardy, it would go like this – Answer: This spiky-haired, blonde-highlighted, perma-grinning metrosexual that serves as a model for the vast population of vapid Los Angeles males annoys us weekly as the host of Fox’s American Idol and radio’s American Top 40. Question: Alex, who is Ryan Seacrest? Correct, select again.

Simon Cowell; Judge: British prick who insults everyone and keeps show from being a total loss.

Randy Jackson; Judge, Token Black: Think of someone who talks in hip-hop lingo to a fault and brings nothing to the table. Now make sure they are black and have a love for absolutely horrible music. This is Randy.

Paula Abdul; Judge, Token Woman: In the winter of ’92, I was at Disney World with my mom and brother Greg, during which time he got Abdul’s song “Straight Up” stuck in his head. I watched him vainly attempt to make it stop for three days to no avail – pure hilarity.

(I know, I know – I realize by writing about this show that I come off as being extremely lame or extremely gay – however, I am providing you a service, so I suggest you quit looking this gift horse in the mouth and continue reading).

To sum it all up in a nice package, the show typically plays out in three stages:

1. Tens of thousands of “hopefuls” pack venues like the Louisiana Superdome and Cleveland Browns stadium, hoping for their shot in front of the judges. Episodes during this time feature contestants as either raw talent who get passed through to the next round (about 5% of the aired footage), or delusional losers with no talent who often times become enraged and psychopathic, causing the judges to fear for their lives. Easily the best period of any season.

2. Semi-finalists are assembled in groups of eight, during which time they all sing a song from a similar genre in front of smallish audience – on average, seven of the eight tank and one manages to perform decently as you, the American public, take over the voting responsibilities. During this phase of the season, the following canned judge responses can often be heard:

Randy: “Yo, man (regardless of whether it’s a guy or girl singing), what’s up. Yo, you did your thing dog, and, I don’t know, I just didn’t feel it, I guess, well, it was just ayight.”

Paula: “I’m amazed at how far you’ve come – you are so brave and you’ve inspired me to be inspired to inspire others – you just had one or two octaves that you needed to hit, but I think the best is yet to come – outstanding job, you should be commended for your bravery.”

Simon: “That….may have been the absolute worst thing I’ve ever heard (crowd groans). If I stuck a hot compass needle up my dog’s anus and captured his wailing on tape, I think I could sell more records than with your voice…(crowd boos)…I’m sorry.”

Seacrest: OK America, text your message on your Cingular phone to IDOLS-4 to vote for Chartrice. We’ll be back after this word from excellent sponsors Coke and Ford.

Brutal.

3. Finalists are selected to sing in a giant auditorium that’s somehow packed to capacity every episode. Thousands of signs likely made by Fox staffers are wielded throughout the crowd with clever phrases like “All the way with Clay!” and “We Love Amber!” Celebrity judges such as Paul Anka or Smokey Robinson are dusted off to hear their songs butchered on national television and heap ridiculous compliments on the performers like "you are ear-delicious". Judges spew compliment after compliment. Idol is announced, but hey, they’re all winners.

So there you have it – you now know what you’ve been missing out on all these years. Who will capture America’s hearts to become Idol #4? Whose songs will be sandwiched between the latest Vanessa Carlton single and “I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues” by Elton John on Lite FM stations across America? Who will Ryan Seacrest prop up on his American Top 40 show that he hijacked from old codger Casey Kasem? Only time will tell, so stay tuned and text those votes using your Cingular Wireless phone!!

Seacrest…OUT!

The White Man's Burden

I am fortunate enough to be married to a loyal subscriber/reader of the classiest of the classy celebrity rags, good old Us Weekly. As long as I allow Michelle the first shot at the magazine and don’t try anything funny, like reading over her shoulder or asking her if she’s come across any Hilary Duff photos, she is good enough to allow me second dibs on this fine piece of weekly literature. One of my favorite regular features in Us, aside from the “Stars…They’re Just Like Us!” photo spread and the obligatory article speculating on the stability of Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey's much-televised marriage, is the section called “Loose Talk”, which features various quotes from a wide range of celebs, who are likely being peppered with such hard-hitting questions as “Who did you have a crush on growing up?”, “Are you in favor of World peace?”, or, “Pilates or Yoga?”. One of these questioners must have asked Sandra Bullock, star of the upcoming completely-unnecessary sequel Miss Congeniality 2: Armed and Fabulous, “What’s your favorite type of music?” Bullock’s quote addresses her love of music with a Latin flavor, something that’s more urban and edgy or something, and then she lays this one down:

“It ain’t easy being white.”

Wow, I couldn’t have said it any better myself. In fact, I was afraid to say anything on the subject, what with this being such a politically correct world these days. But thank God someone was brave enough to put it out there – to express what all of us ‘whiteys’ are feeling – being white is hard work! And how great is it that someone of Sandra Bullock’s standing was courageous enough to speak the almighty truth?? Only a celebrity could be truly relied upon to so eloquently profess the truth!

White folks do have it rough! None of the white people I know have ancestors who got a free trans-Atlantic trip with a bunch of their close friends – all for a job where they get to work outside most of the time! Man, I’d love to work outside! As it is, I sit in this stuffy office in this cramped cubicle, making a good living wage, wondering what it would be like to be so lucky! And up until the 1960’s, black people got their own drinking fountains, bathrooms, railcars – the works! Where’s my piece of that pie?? Everyone knows that the back of the bus is where all the excitement is! I tell you, I’m feeling somewhat gypped!

It’s hard being white! I don’t think many people throughout America, and yes even the world, know the kind of pressures we’re under! There is such a tremendous responsibility to carry when your family’s mean income per 1999 U.S. Census Bureau statistics sits at a lofty $44,366, while that of the average Hispanic and Black families is $30,735 and $27,910 respectively! Do you think those Power Point presentations are just going to format themselves? I think not! And consider what a slow news day it would be without all those white CEOs and CFOs bilking their companies for all those big bucks! We’re obviously doing all the work seeing as those black folks only hold 8.1% of the Board seats of Fortune 500 companies – where’s the work ethic, guys? It sounds like they must be slacking off in college, given that out of 433 new tenured professor positions at Ivy League schools filled during 2003, only 14 of the hires were black and 8 were Hispanic. Slackers! And I’m sure it must be nice to be able to sit home and watch Judge Mathis all day – however, we white folks are working too hard to enjoy such spoils, given that only 8% of us lived below the poverty line in 2002 – why, 24.1% of blacks and 21.8% of Hispanics enjoyed the spoils of poverty during that same year. I sure wish I had that many friends to keep me updated on each day’s episode of Maury!

Man, being white is tough! We are always worse at sports than black people! When you consider that 47% of athletes at major Division I universities participating in football and men’s and women’s basketball are black, it makes you feel pretty inferior. Yet blacks only hold 8.7% of coaching positions at these schools for football, 17% for men’s basketball, and 13% for women’s basketball, leaving us poor white guys and gals with the majority of the work related to watching film, drawing up plays, disciplining players and collecting paychecks – where’s the fun in that?? These kids get to play a game, and we get stuck doing all the work! Sure, they don’t get paid, but give me a break here!

Gosh, it’s hard to be white! Given that huge mean family income I have, I’m stuck with the responsibility of eating healthy! Booo! All the Hispanics and Blacks get to use that “I’m on an extremely tight budget” excuse so they can eat McDonald’s and Burger King all the time! I love Whoppers – where’s the love for me?? Sure, statistics from 1999-2002 provided by the Center for Disease Control indicate that 23% of Hispanic kids and 21% of black kids aged 12-19 are obese (compared with 14% of white kids in that age range) but that only means that those Hispanic and black kids are getting Big Macs for lunch every day, along with all the best Happy Meal toys! We’re missing out on some true deliciousness here, white people!

What a pain in the ass my white skin is! I’m out here in the work world, busting my hump every day – meanwhile, U.S. Department of Corrections statistics tell us that 9.3% of black males aged 25-29 are living the good life in prison with 3 hots and a cot! Um, hello, I pay for my food! Granted 1.1% of white males of the same age range are getting that same treatment, but fair is fair – let us in on the fun! I’ve seen Oz on HBO – I know it’s all sex and heroin and good times in there! Yet here we white males stand, with only a mere 465 of every 100,000 of us living it up in our nation’s correctional facilities, while a whopping 3,405 of every 100,000 black males are taking us to the cleaners! What a crock!!!

So, as anyone can plainly see, Sandra Bullock hit the nail right on the head – it ain’t easy being white!!!

You gotta start somewhere...

So here goes...

Hello friends/relatives/unfortunate strangers! Welcome to what I'm sure will become either a source of refuge, insult, annoyance or general disinterest for you in the coming weeks/months/years! Allow me to introduce myself: I am J. I spend far too much time and energy writing about reality television, sports, politics, religion, society, celebrity trash and general annoyances than any healthy person should. But hey, everyone needs an outlet, right?

Now, normally my modus operandi is to type everything down in a Word document, include a few weblinks and/or pictures, and force it into the inboxes of several people who have been "fortunate" enough to have been added to my distribution list over the years. Five or six of these people may or may not remember when the only thing I wrote about was 90210 (I am pathetic, I admit it) and they were the only ones who read it. But we all watched it, we all thought it was unintentionally funny, and we all loved to ponder what would happen next in the lives of those fictional high school/college/post-graduate folks played by people who in real life were at least 10 years their senior.

Oh how far I've come since then! Being a TV Casualty all my life, I naturally branched out to bigger and better things: Temptation Island, Chains of Love, Elimidate, all that bullshit. But somehow the antics of the oversexed apes who appeared on these shows continued to fuel my writings - here I was watching utterly despicable people act in an utterly despicable fashion, which caused something to boil inside me, something unnatural and wholly foreign to me: pure unadulterated hatred. Thus, a theme developed: stupid young people with overactive libidos would make asses of themselves on national TV, I would watch them, I would become angered, I would express my anger in writing, and lo and behold, people actually liked it! Soon, my radical political views and violent sports fandom were brought into the fold, and a legend (in his own mind) was born.

Now, not everyone likes what I write of course. I've had plenty of people tell me that they don't get it, what the hell are you talking about, please take me off of your list, seek help you shut-in, and so on. But as some douchebag on Cheaters likely said at some point: "Don't hate the playa, hate the game."

Yes, we are all filled with hate, whether we like to admit it or not. Everyone has something or someone that drives them to the point of insanity, that makes them wish gonherrea upon everyone that crosses their path, that makes them want to kill a man with their bare hands. Hell, it's human nature, has been since Cain smote Abel; it's just that some people are better at refraining themselves than others. Thus, I choose for this to be an outlet rather than something so unhealthy as murder.

What do I hate, you ask? What drives me so mad that I need to waste time writing about it? Well, for starters: MTV and everything it has to offer, Maroon 5, Bill Wirtz, the word 'bling', bling, THE Ohio State University (you caught me on a bad day - enjoy watching the tournament from home, rockheads), John Ashcroft AND Alberto Gonzalez, FHM/Maxim/Stuff and any other magazine of the same ilk, lines outside of bars, bars with lines outside of them, pigeons, tequila, olives, The Detroit Red Wings, the Hollywood mentality, the Dollywood mentality, coconut flavored anything, pretty much anyone who participates in a reality TV show (in case you haven't figured it out yet), Colin Farrell, Dick Cheney, the Olsen Twins, the fact that many young girls thing the Olsen Twins are the ideal of what is attractive, the Moral Majority, vegetarian lasagna, bandwagon Cub fans, the band Bowling for Soup, child porn, assholes, just to name a few.

Will you be offended reading what I have to offer? At some point, more than likely. Will you find it humorous? I sure as hell hope so. Am I way too self-important for my own good? Goddamned right I am. Will there be more to come? Stay tuned and see.

Until next time...