Some Thoughts on Stephen Hunter

Who is Stephen Hunter?

From 1971-1996 he was a film critic at the Baltimore Sun (every critic's dream) and since that year he's written for the Washington Post. As liberal as that paper is accused of being by fair-and-balanced types like Bill O'Reilly and John Gibson, one can find a good, patriotic, America-loving conservative in the chief of its film department. He's actually expressed admiration for Dick Cheney's "samurai blankness" and, on the occasion of Cheney's famous hunting accident, wrote that "Some may say of Cheney: He was really unlucky." Unlucky?! What about the poor fucker Cheney blasted with a shotgun?!

ANYWAY, about two months ago Hunter wrote an article about an essential quality he felt lacking in modern-day cinematic protagonists: heroism, or more specifically masculine heroism. Hunter claims that stars like Ben Affleck or Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow are "too pretty." Hunter lionizes characters like John Wayne's hero in "The Searchers," a loner whose irrational bloodlust for the In'juns drives him to search for a kidnapped white girl. Naturally, in the end, he reneges on his claim that it's better for her to die than be an Indian, instead hugging her and telling her to come home in a screenplay maneuver whose narrative logic isn't unlike that found in "Snakes on a Plane." After all, if Wayne had carried out has masculine mission to assert white goodness over Indian otherness, how could audiences sympathize with him?

"Where have all the action heroes gone?," Hunter asks. "They certainly haven't gone to be soldiers; no, they've gone to be sensitive, not so much in the touchy-feely way, but in that way that strikes at their essence. They no longer dominate." He later writes that "Only a few boys seem to have the man-junk that can get them through the heavy lifting of a hero's role."

So Hunter's ideal action hero is a dominant male with huge balls. Well, forgive me for calling an Expert Well-Paid Well-Published Well-Polished FILM CRITIC an ignoramus, but perhaps he's forgetting about a character who's become as iconic as Indiana Jones over the past thirty years: Ripley, Sigourney Weaver's protagonist in the "Alien" films. I defy anyone to name me a more spine-tingling, get-ready-for-some-ass-kicking moment than Ripley walking out in her power-loader to face the Alien Queen and spitting out "Get away from her, you BITCH!" with such vitriol and conviction that the Academy Award nominated Weaver for Best Actress for her performance. Let's also not forget Uma Thurman's Bride in the "Kill Bill" movies. Besides, it seems that successful action films these days (do they exist anymore?) are less and less about one-person tour de forces like Indy, Ripley, or John "Die Hard" McClane. One might say that the last action hero was Mel Gibson's Martin Riggs in the "Lethal Weapon" movies, a man pushed to the edge of insanity- and watching those movies now, one wonders just how much acting Gibson had to do.

Back to Hunter. His non-fiction book is called "Violent Screen: A Critic's 13 Years on the Front Lines of Movie Mayhem." The front lines of movie mayhem? You're telling me that your idea of a battlefield involves sitting in cinemas, seeing movies for free and writing asinine reviews about them, all the while developing a quite impressive double chin? Is being a movie reviewer as dangerous as facing down Charlie?

Film criticism shouldn't be viewed as some kind of battlefield with its combatants seeking out to prove themselves. It should be a community of devotees to the art of cinema who love, understand, and know the movies and wish to share that love, understanding, and knowledge with a larger audience. A man whose delusions of grandeur con him into the belief that he is a rootin' tootin' gun-totin' cowboy has as little place in that arena as he would as President of the United States (whoops). Surely Hunter's article is not the work of someone forcing his own petty sexual insecurities onto Washington Post readers unfortunate enough to read his critical Holocausts, filled with Hunter's signature bombastic, arrogant prose. He's almost like the character played by his fellow Stephen, Colbert- but without the awareness that he is a self-mythologizing prick.

So who is Stephen Hunter? I'll tell you: Stephen Hunter is someone who deserves to DIE.

Fat Woman Falls Down Hole

Courtesy of Peter Bradshaw of the Guardian, here's a video that defies belief. Be ready to piss thy pants.

The Metaphysics of Mayonnaise

I was scrounging around looking for something I could put on my overcooked hot dog (note to self: get that damn microwave fixed, it's caught fire three times in the last two days), and reached past the ketchup, mustard, relish, onions, and Jesus' Official Hot Dog Sauce for the finest condiment known to mankind: mayonnaise. I slathered about four or five tablespoons' worth onto the small, stale bun then began to close the mayonnaise jar when something on the label caught my eye. In between the words "Hellmann's" and "mayonnaise," which had been printed in the same font, was the italicized, yellow-colored word "REAL."

Hmm, I wondered. Hellmann's REAL Mayonnaise. Just what is it that makes this particular mayonnaise more 'real' than other kinds? What is "real," anyway?

Realizing that there are experts on what's "real" and what's not, I immediately strapped on my jet-pack and rocketed over to Oxford's department of philosophy for answers. After landing and plucking the feathers remaining in my teeth from that goose I collided with I asked Regent Professor Edward William Harry Tottington Victoria Wellingtonkingshire IV, esq. for an answer to this query, which burned through my head like a poorly-tiled space shuttle.

"Professor," I screamed, "Just what makes mayonnaise 'real?'"

He stifled an aneurysm brought on by the incredible intellectual weight of this question, then replied, "Well, Son, there are many possible answers."

Hmm, he called me Son, I thought. I hadn't recognized the paternal link but hey, this guy's a Professor; he must know what he's talking about.

"What are they, Dad?" I replied.

"It depends on which school of thought you choose to pursue. After all, as Descartes said, 'I eat mayonnaise, therefore I am,' thus explaining mayonnaise's importance in French cuisine and why the French are assholes, but conversely one might take the Nietzschean approach of 'The only true stable emulsion of vegetable oil and egg yolk died on the Cross.'"

Just then the doors to the hall burst open and several heavily armed men surrounded us. "Don't move! You're surrounded by the Secret Sauce police!"

"My god, I thought you people were a myth purported by Tabasco as a fear campaign against benign sandwich toppings!" Wellingtonkingshire squealed in terror, violently shitting his pants.

"Our existence has been kept secret by all the manufacturers of spicy sauces. How else would we keep people hot under the collar?"

An idea hit me like a glob of mustard plopping on a clean t-shirt. "Professor! Hold on to me!" Wellingtonkingshire complied, and I released all of the fuel-synthesized mayo from my jet pack and dropped the cigar that Wellingtonkingshire had most conveniently been smoking onto the ground, incinerating the Secret Sauce agents and the whole of the Oxford campus.

Wellingtonkingshire and I were married two weeks later and, using the royalties given us as spokesmen for Hellmann's, bought a chateau in Nice where scantily-clad Greek boys feed us grapes covered in mayonnaise. One day, the ghost of Socrates stopped by, and we asked him "Socrates, just what makes Hellmann's mayonnaise 'real?'"

He sampled some mayonnaise, pondered for a second, and replied "They make it with eggs instead of margarine-based products. Also, it's fuckin' tasty, man."

Gettysburg Address - The Powerpoint Version

David Byrne loves Powerpoint, and looking at something like this makes it clear why.

More Human Than Human

Courtesy of Sehar, here's a really fascinating article from the New York Times about Image Metric, a company whose software can duplicate human faces and facial expression perfectly. We're at a point in history when technology is becoming so advanced that we're wading into Philip K. Dick territory. Is Image Metric our Tyrell Corporation? Wouldn't a good word for these computer-generated performers be 'replicant?'

Some Thoughts on Sienna Miller

Who is Sienna Miller?

She's an actress, I think. I know she's blonde and had seen her name on the covers of highbrow publications like In Touch Weekly and Us, which was all I really needed to know. Then my friend Maura, a Pittsburgh native, told me about an interview that Miller, who's presently shooting a movie called "The Mysteries of Pittsburgh" in the titular city, gave to Rolling Stone. This quote is excerpted from that interview:

"Can you believe this is my life? Will you pity me when you're back in your funky New York apartment and I'm still in Pittsburgh? I need to get more glamorous films and stop with my indie year."

I visited Pittsburgh for the first time last summer and loved it, so after reading Miller's quote I went on the Interweb to find the answer to my slightly modified question: "Who the FUCK is Sienna Miller?!" I turned up the following points:

A) The only movie that Miller has done of any note is the shit remake of Alfie with Jude Law.
B) Miller used to fuck Law on a regular basis, surely launching her into the public sphere. Law wisely dumped her; perhaps she broke down crying while still in bed with Law and said "I could be fucking Orlando Bloom, Johnny Depp, or Clive Owen! Can you believe this is my life?!"
C) Sienna Miller is a bitch. Not only that, she issued an apology for her remarks. As Karl Rove would put it, this makes her a flip-flopping bitch.

QUICK! Somebody call the In Dire Need of a Savior hotline to Bono and tell him that the revenue from his Red iPods must be redirected to the Save Sienna Miller from Mild Boredom Fund! Fuck you, starving disease-riddled African children; you are not worthy of the pity of those with funky* domiciles! Obviously, Sienna Miller's glamour is more important than your well-being; compared to you, Sienna Miller has the WORST LIFE IN THE WORLD! CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT MAKING MOVIES ON LOCATION IS HER LIFE?!?!?!?

So who is Sienna Miller? I'll tell you: she is someone who deserves to DIE.


*What does this even mean? Did James Brown do the plumbing?

1950s Print Advertising

Courtesy of that source of all things good, Boing Boing, here's a website called Plan 59 with a host of classic and weird old advertisements.

Mark Foley and Me

This makes two things he and I have in common.

Terry Jones of Monty Python on George W. Bush

Terry Jones writes a letter of congratulations to the President on his acceptance to the international league of despots.

The public and freedom of the press

Here's a really good editorial from the Guardian about Anna Politkovskaya, the murdered Russian journalist and vocal critic of the Putin administration.

Bowing at the Altar of Captain Kirk

“For who is greater, he who sits at the table, or he who serves? Is it not he who sits at the table? Yet I am among you as the One who serves.” –Jesus Christ, the book of Luke

“Don’t grieve, Admiral. It is logical. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one.” –Mr. Spock, Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan

I used to be a recovering Catholic; now I'm a recovering Trekkie.

Catholicism was something I was born into, like nobility or crack addiction. Every Sunday morning when I was younger, my family and I used to go to church, where I’d quietly nosh on the Cheerios my mom always brought in Ziploc bags and patiently wait for the service to end. But then, every Sunday night, we would go from church to my grandparents’ house for dinner, and at 7 o'clock I'd always run downstairs and turn on the T.V. There I would sit enraptured for the next hour, mesmerized by the adventures of the gallant crew of the starship Enterprise on Star Trek: The Next Generation.

I grew up hooked. Just as any priest worth his salt can perfectly dictate key Scriptural passages from memory, I could (and still can) recite bits of dialogue and technical minutiae from the Star Trek universe. For example, did you know that a Galaxy-class starship carries a crew complement of 1,012 people and has a maximum speed of warp factor 9.2?

Paraphrasing Triumph the Insult Comic Dog, the correct answer is: who gives a shit? Star Trek was not about its technobabble, most of which existed out of plot contrivance anyway. My obsessive behavior towards Trek and all its lore and details was what could generally be referred to as ‘weird,’ but it certainly wasn’t unique. There are Trekkies all over the place, enough that what was a cancelled NBC series has become one of the biggest entertainment juggernauts in modern times. A search for “Star Trek” on amazon.com turns up no less than 15,551 books, to say nothing of dishware, clothing, and a range of other merchandise that would give Elvis’ apparatus a run for its money. At the Las Vegas Hilton, there’s an attraction called Star Trek: The Experience where Klingons serve Romulan ale and visitors can take pictures sitting on the Enterprise’s bridge. One Trekkie just paid $500,000 at an auction for the model of the Enterprise that ILM used for The Next Generation (which gave me a bit of relative comfort about how much money I’ve spent on Trek merchandise over the years, but not that much). There’s even a Trek Wikipedia site called Memory Alpha. Trekkies are completely and full-heartedly devoted to their future universe; they want to explore the final frontier, to boldly go where no man has gone before, and so they watch Star Trek ritualistically. There’s a moral code to be found in Trek, too, in the form of the Prime Directive and IDIC, which I’ll discuss later. Trekkies even have their own holy land of sorts: the Star Trek convention, to which Trekkies make pilgrimages as though it were Jerusalem or Mecca.

Hmm- a large, powerful community of loving devotees to a supernatural work. It almost sounds like…a religion.

Now, bear with me here. Religion can be defined a set of beliefs concerning the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe, usually involving devotional and ritual observances, and often containing a moral code governing the conduct of human affairs. Granted what I’ve already established, don’t Trekkies fulfill this definition? There are even savior figures in Trek. Jesus Christ sacrificed himself to save humanity; Spock and Data, probably the two most popular characters in Trek, both died to save their friends. Besides, the elevation of a science-fiction entertainment to the status of holy text with faithful followers isn’t far-fetched; on the 2001 U.K. census, 390,127 respondents listed their religion as “Jedi.” If some equally mystical group to those lightsaber-wielding Knights were to be found in the Trek universe, then the old rivalry between Star Trek and Star Wars fans might’ve taken on the aspects of jihad.

Most people see Star Trek as a television and movie franchise, but for Trekkies, it’s something much more; it’s something to believe in.

The expression of the Trekkie religion can seem pretty goofy. Remember the Whitewater trial? Barbara Adams, one of the alternate jurors, wore a red Starfleet uniform to several court sessions. When CNN asked her why, she replied: "I always wear my uniform to formal occasions." Obviously, what Adams wore wasn’t really a uniform; it was a costume worn by actors pretending they’re flying through space hundreds of years in the future. But Adams’ answer as to why she liked Star Trek enough to wear one of its uniforms to a serious legal hearing is much more significant: she said that Trek is an alternative to “mindless television” that promotes inclusion, tolerance, peace and faith in humankind.

Yes! Adams summed up what Trek is all about; it’s not about warp speed or phasers or “aliens” that all speak English and look like humans wearing dodgy television-budget makeup; it’s about the humanist values that brought mankind into the 23rd century. Trek espouses two central philosophies: Starfleet’s General Order 1, better known as the Prime Directive, and the Vulcan concept of Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations, or IDIC. The Prime Directive states that under no circumstances can a Starfleet officer interfere with the development of any culture. This regulation acknowledges that human judgment is all too fallible and limited when compared to the natural development of the cosmos, and so Starfleet officers are required to allow cultures to develop on their own free of contamination, sacrificing their own lives for that preservation if necessary. IDIC is a similarly broad-thinking idea, a celebration of the unknowable kaleidoscope of variables in the universe. Respect for other peoples and awe at the universe- what wonderfully human ideals. Thus, even the most extreme Trekkies are harmless and much less annoying than certain other religious freaks. I guarantee you that a Trekkie would never make serious claims about a Teletubby’s homosexuality or scream at Matt Lauer about the dangers of psychiatry.

Star Trek’s forward-thinking attitude is inspiring, and it’s touched everyone from people like Barbara Adams to my own father. With the intention of being an astronaut, my dad joined the Air Force; he later launched experimental sounding rockets in White Sands, and now, he works at an aerospace engineering firm where he helps put advanced equipment into space and teaches engineering courses. And back in 1967, when he was 21, he always tuned in to NBC and intently watched Star Trek. It was the same set I’d wind up watching The Next Generation on- my dad beat me to it by 25 years.

In fact, one might be surprised to find out who some famous Trekkies are. Stephen Hawking, probably the smartest man in the world, loves Trek so much that he once played himself in an episode of The Next Generation. Whoopi Goldberg also had a recurring role on that show, but her relationship with Trek is more illustrative of how progressive and inspiring it is. When Goldberg watched the original show in the late sixties, she saw the character of Uhura, a bridge officer on the Enterprise and a black woman, she realized that there were possibilities for African-American actresses other than the secondary roles to which they were usually relegated and so sought a career as an actress herself. The actress who played Uhura, Nichelle Nichols, was considering leaving the show after the first season, but by chance she ran into a Trek fan who asked her to stay on because she was a vital role model for young American black women; after that meeting, Nichols decided to stay on. The fan was Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

At this point, it’s fair to point out that the difference between most major religions and love for Star Trek is that religion usually deals with the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe, especially when considered as the creation of a superhuman agency or agencies. The idea of a creator has taken on many expressions throughout human history; these days the most prevalent ones are those of Jesus, Yahweh, and Allah.

Star Trek has explicitly dealt with the idea of God only once, in Star Trek V: The Final Frontier. Its plot had Spock’s half-brother Sybok embarking on a search for God and taking the Enterprise to the center of the galaxy, an allusion to the Source or Heaven. When the Enterprise arrives there, the crew indeed finds a seemingly all-powerful being, but it’s far from benevolent. The being is a trapped alien power who wants to free itself by stealing the Enterprise, and it nearly kills Kirk and Spock in attempting to do so; Sybok dies fighting the creature.

There’s an important line at the movie’s end. After Sybok’s death, Kirk, Spock and McCoy stand on the Enterprise’s observation deck, looking out onto the stars. “We were speculating. Is God really out there?” McCoy muses. Kirk’s simple reply beautifully encapsulates Star Trek’s view of human spirituality: “Maybe he’s not out there, Bones. Maybe he’s right here-” he points to his chest- “in the human heart.” It’s a line that William Shatner, who also directed the film, had to fight to include in the final released because Paramount studio executives feared it would be controversial.

But why? If God created the universe, then wouldn’t God be omnipresent in all things? Can’t the best that mankind has to offer be found within our hearts, within ourselves? Like any other species, it’s our instinctual task to survive and to propagate, and so at our most basic, we’d prefer a sense of certainty, safety, and security. But we are not so basic; we are explorers, adventurers into the unknown. The idea that people can overcome their failings and petty squabbles and adventure together is essential to Star Trek. We can realize our true potential, can gather together for a higher purpose and seek out that purpose. Our best destiny, as Captain Picard once put it, is “work[ing] to better ourselves and the rest of humanity;” the human adventure is just beginning.

In those hours in my grandparents’ house each week, I found something new and different, a way to visit strange new worlds. When I believed, I wasn't alone; Trekkies are true believers- believers in humanity. Trekkies are no different from everyone else, least of all spiritual people, in that they aren’t satisfied with what is; they stand in wonder of what is and dream about what could be. And in that sense, Ringo Starr’s words from Help! seem all too appropriate: “It’s a different religion from ours- I think.”

An Open Letter to Bongo, The Sister Sledge, and those other two guys in U2

I'm a big U2 fan. When they were at Abbey Road Studios a few weeks ago, I waited three nights so I could meet them and get their autographs. Yes, the song "With or Without You" is shit, but they were one of the best bands of the 80s and 90s.

So, as someone who loves U2, I'd like to ask them here and now: please stop.

They have plenty of other career opportunities- Larry and Adam could do another version of the Mission: Impossible theme song for the next M:I movie (as they did for the first), Edge can keep pursuing his Music Rising foundation in New Orleans (and I think he'd be wise to go the way of Ocasek and Jerry Harrison and start producing other bands), and Bono can keep on being Jesus. If he ran for President of the World, I think he'd do OK.

U2's putting out (yet another) best-of disc soon with songs spanning their entire career plus two of the songs they recorded at Abbey Road, which is good cos the last good new album they put out was 1993's "Zooropa." Why not have a last hurrah a la the Rolling Stones' "Forty Licks" tour? I fear that if they don't, they'll become the next Stones (if they haven't already), a near-parody cover band of themselves. They can carry on their self-fashioned Most Important Band of All Time Ever image, which is becoming as easy to take as sandpaper rubbed on the genitals, or go out as they should: the band that wrote "New Year's Day," "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For," "Mysterious Ways," and a bunch of other really good songs. Consider it, fellas; let it go, and so to fade away.

The Sandwich Heard Round the World

The possibility of becoming a revolutionary figurehead or an enemy of the state would never have occurred to John O'Brien, but then again, few things had ever occurred to him at all.

For two and a half years, John had been enrolled at American University. He had never felt more liberated, his mind open to the possibilities of academic enlightenment and free to be generously bombarded with whatever chemicals John could bum from his friends. While enjoying one such chemical once, John received the Secret of the Universe and, citing his college education's irrelevance in the cosmic scheme of things, chose to discontinue it.

Luckily, John's friend Carl Ward had found part-time employment in the mailroom of a prominent investment bank in the heart of Washington, D.C. Carl, possessing a good heart and a head perhaps only slightly less muddled than John's, recommended his friend to his supervisors. And so John, taxably employed and supplementing his acknowledged income by dealing to his friends and landlord, was on course to lead an uneventful, unremarkable life.

At 11:42 A.M. one Tuesday, John stumbled out of bed, free to enjoy a day off. Aside from a small cadre of cockroaches and some mold around the sink, the only other living things with whom John shared his small basement apartment were a pair of hamsters so addled that such a nominal task as running on their wheel often brought on seemingly impossible mechanical difficulties. Observing the absurdity of their condition, John had named them Vladimir and Estragon. He fed the sleeping rodents then prepared his own favorite breakfast: a bowl of Lucky Charms and a bong of chronic. He settled on the couch and switched on the T.V., beginning to light up and chow down as the local news glowed to life.

"...the alleged incident on the farm, which is said to have take place three weeks ago. Mr. Beck, the goat's owner, has agreed to drop the beastiality charge after receiving an out-of-court settlement offer from Ms. Coulter's attorneys.

"And in local D.C. news, protestors have been gathering in front of the White House for the second annual Peaceable Assembly Day. As per the terms of last year's H.R. 74656, better known as the First Amendment Security Revision Act, citizens are allowed one day each year to petition the government for a redress of grievances in a safe, military-patrolled setting. And as you can see here in front of the White House, people are turning out for all kinds of causes on this once-a-year opportunity."

The newscast cut from inside the studio to a shot of the protestors. A scowl spread across John's cereal-stuffed face. "Echh. Hippies," he muttered.

"Everyone from the A.C.L.U. to Jews for Jesus is here today," the newscaster continued, "and I think I speak for most D.C. residents when I say I can't wait for them to be gone tomorrow. When we come back, we'll bring you an update on Hydra, the three-headed cat born last week, and bring you a dire official warning from the Surgeon General's office about marijuana use and its newly declared side effect of rotting off men's testicles. We'll be back in a moment."

This latter revelation caused a Vesuvius-like eruption of coughing in the wild-eyed John, sending a marshmallow pot of gold rocketing from his mouth and splatting against the T.V. screen, where it remained stuck. Estragon briefly opened one eye to investigate the loud hacking, recognized it as part of his master's routine, and immediately fell back asleep. John had not yet completed his coughing fit when the guitar riff from Black Sabbath's "Paranoid" filled the room; his phone was ringing. He picked up its receiver.

"(cough) Hello?"

"Johnny, why aren't you at work?"

A grimace spread across his face at the sound of the shrill voice. "I've told you a hundred times, Benneta, I have Tuesdays off."

"And I've told you a thousand times, John O'Brien, that I want you to call me Mom! If not Mom, then Mother, or Ma, or something else that acknowledges the fact that I carried you for nine months and brought you into this world!"

"Right. Uh, thanks for that. What's up?"

"I know it's probably no use, but I thought I'd call again to see if you'd sent your resume anywhere else."

He sighed and twirled the phone cord. "No, Benneta. I told you that I've got all I need right now."

"But John, don't you want something more? Do you have no ambition at all?"

"Of course I have ambition," he said as he took a huge bong hit. "I swear, one day my music is going to take me places."

John's band, a conceptual Christian death-metal act called the Bloody Virgin Marys, had inexplicably failed to take him places in the arenas of either Christian rock or death metal.

"John, you left college three years ago! The band is going nowhere! When are you going to make something of yourself?!"

"Uh-oh, Benneta, I think I hear the air-raid sirens- the terrorists must be coming. I've gotta go." He quickly put down the receiver, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Beginning to reload the bong, he looked over to Vladimir and Estragon. "The nerve of some people!" he proclaimed. In response, Vladimir shook his head, licked himself, then fell back asleep.

John was just returning to his placid stupor when the Sabbath riff filled the room again. Exasperated, John picked it up. "Now what?" he exclaimed.

"Uh, now what what?" a perplexed male voice replied.

"Oh, hey, man," John said, recognizing Carl. "What's goin' on?"

"Not too much. Want to meet for business lunch?"

"Eh, I'm just finishing breakfast," he said, scraping at some bong resin.

"You sure? I was going to go to McDonald's," Carl replied.

John had often said that there were only three things that drew him from his apartment: work, weed, and the sweet promise held within the Golden Arches. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes," John declared. Imbued with a sense of immediate purpose, John arose, hung up, and headed toward the Metro.

-

On the north side of the White House, more than several squads of heavily armed Secret Service officers flanked the group of citizens employed pliably enough to attend Peaceable Assembly Day. They corralled the conscientious objectors into a neat, tightly patrolled quadrangle in which pandemonium could safely ensue. Two protestors had broken out in a fistfight, violently pummeling and strangling each other and trampling their respective cast-off signs, which read "Peace for Israel" and "Peace for Palestine." Three others, one wearing fashionable Nike sneakers, another sipping a Frappuccino, and another chattering into a Razr cell phone, held signs bearing vehemently anti-corporate slogans. With the exception of one joker holding a sign reading "I'm Holding a Sign," the protest was a spectacular kaleidoscope of causes, a gathering of concerned citizens joined not by common origin or thinking but by common purpose: to speak out, to right what they saw as wrong, to keep fighting the good fight. They knew that one day, they would overcome.

"I fuckin' hate hippies," John said, observing the scene. Carl and he had just crossed 17th St., noshing on their just-bought McDonald's sandwiches and having a spirited conversation, when the Peaceable proceedings came into their view. The Secret Service agents had moved the crowd several yards back from the White House lawn, centering it on the road that separated Lafayette Park from the President's palace. Thus, John and Carl sauntered along as close to the White House fence as possible, keeping John's hippie allergy from being agitated by maximizing their distance from the mass of civil obedience.

"Anyway, as I was saying, ZOSO is obviously better than II," John continued.

"You're out of your mind," Carl replied. "That's like saying Physical Graffiti is better than I. Do you like Foghat now, too? Tell me, are the Eagles better than Creedence?"

"Man, don't be such an elitist. The guitar part from 'Life in the Fast Lane' is real, real good." John finished his McChicken, then turned his nose up at the wrapper that was left. "Hey, do you see a trash can anywhere?"

Carl looked around. "Not one in sight. They probably don't want the hippies to have anything to eat from."

"Aw, man, I want to get rid of this trash. Maybe I'll just drop it."

"Just wait until we find one," Carl advised as he looked on at the armed agents. "I don't think it'd be wise to even litter right now."

"Echh," John replied. He then looked to his immediate right, at the White House lawn beyond the fence. Inside John's foggy head, a lightbulb blinked on. He raised one eyebrow, looked around him, and believing that there were no eyes on him, made a decision. He crumpled the yellow wax paper into a tight ball, and nonchalantly, without looking, cast the McChicken wrapper aside and onto the White House lawn.

This was, indeed, unwise.

Before John knew it (quite literally, as a result of his chemically dulled reflexes), three Secret Service troops had thrown him to the ground, trained their automatic weapons on his head, and bound his hands and feet. "Ow!" was all he could muster as his face ground against the pavement and a booted foot pressed down on his back. "Jesus, man, that hurts!" he cried.

Then a conscientious objector who had been protesting for peace in the war on Christmas noticed the agents as they detained John. "Hey, look, they're beating that guy for throwing trash on the lawn!"

A pro-NAMBLA protestor joined in, saying "We have a right to put our trash wherever we put it! Fuck the man!" He quickly dug through his pockets then threw the first thing he could find: an empty condom wrapper. It plopped onto the meticulously cut lawn next to the McChicken wrapper.

Others began to join in. "The President is trashing our country!" "Take back what you give to us!" they shouted as they catapulted their missiles. Soon, every protestor, having found their martyr, began to emulate his action, throwing whatever trash they had on their persons onto the White House lawn, creating a no-man's-land of flying garbage.

As the Secret Service agents hoisted John atop their shoulders, something occurred to him. "Oh, shit!" he exclaimed, desperately scanning the crowd in search of Carl. He spotted him standing by the fence, trying to appear as innocent a bystander as possible. "Hey, man, can you take care of the hamsters?" he called. Carl did not turn to acknowledge John, but gave a brief thumbs-up to signal his affirmative.

Meanwhile, the trash-tossing had become a full-blown deluge, an ongoing meteor shower of waste that continued to pelt the White House lawn long after John had been hauled away.

-

"...runners-up in the Time Magazine poll include Mahatma Gandhi, George Washington, and Martin Luther King, Jr. In a press release, Ronald Reagan's estate thanked Time's readers for naming him the Most Popular Leader in World History.

"And in a continuing story, the attack on the White House during Peaceable Assembly Day appears to have been a first strike, as several similar assaults have taken place in the subsequent days. Insurgents have spray-painted the Thomas Jefferson Memorial black, covered the statue of Franklin Delano Roosevelt in silly string, and most appallingly, thrown several Whopper burgers at the face of the George W. Bush Memorial. Federal troops have been authorized to use all necessary force to put down the uprising.

"The terrorist leader, apprehended immediately after he launched the first projectile towards the White House, remains secure in federal custody."

-

As he walked toward the interrogation room, Agent Edwin Johnson clutched John O'Brien's FBI file in his left hand while he clenched and unclenched his right. Johnson, a gruff, mustachioed man who had distinguished himself at Bob Jones State University and Quantico with his unswerving constancy of ineptitude and flights of self-heroizing fantasy and who for fifteen years had been enjoying a thoroughly unsatisfying marriage, was excited; at long last, he was able to interrogate a real live terrorist. He had been disappointed when he found out that the terrorist's last name wasn't Muhammad or al-Whatever, but found immediate solace upon reading the name O'Brien. A fervent Protestant, Johnson relished the prospect of taking down an IRA operative.

And so, upon entering the room, he was shocked not to find the burly Mick he'd expected, but the scrawny brat who greeted him with "Oh, hey, man. Can I have my phone call? I have these two hamsters, see, and-"

"Shut the fuck up," Johnson reflexively snapped, still off-guard at the sight of this punk. He collected himself and looked at the file. "John O'Brien. That your real name?"

Quieted but smirking, John replied "My mom named me after her favorite Beatle. I suppose some asshole was gonna get me sooner or later."

Agent Johnson mentally vowed retribution for the terrorist's insolence. "You seem to have no prior ties to terrorist organizations, but you do have a criminal record."

"Aw, man, I thought I got that expunged," John said exasperatedly. "All I did was walk out of a 7-11 with a bag of Cheetos, but I honestly just forgot to pay."

"Tell me, Mr. O'Brien, what have you got against the United States?"

John considered this, furrowing his brow and looking up to the ceiling. After a moment, he replied "Mmm, not too much. I wish our drug laws would be more like Canada's, but no biggie, really."

Johnson fumed. "I want to know why you launched an attack on this sovereign nation, Mr. O'Brien."

"Man, like I told the other guy, I just couldn't find a trash can. In retrospect, I guess chucking the McChicken wrapper was a bad idea. There, I apologized- can you mark that down in your file?"

The fury within Johnson was barely containable. "Goddammit, I'm going to get the answers I want from you, no matter what I have to do. Tell me, Mr. O'Brien, have you ever heard of waterboarding?"

"Well, I went to Maui for spring break once, but I'm not a big surfing fan."

Johnson exploded. "I swear on Jesus' name I'll take you down!! Try all you want, you terrorist piece of shit, but freedom and justice will always prevail in this great land! America will never fall at the hands of uppity hippies like you!"

For the first time since Carl had slipped Woodstock into his Netflix queue, John became livid with rage. "A hippie?! Man, fuck you, Porky Pig! Hey, while we're at it, nice mustache- you've really let yourself go since you were in the Village People! Now where's my phone call, man? I've got hamsters to worry about!"

Johnson cursed the activist Supreme Court, which had unfortunately prohibited him from doing what he felt was necessary for the good of the nation: beating the living hell out of his suspect. He forced himself to exit, but not without first turning around and leaving John with a warning: "You're going down."

-

"Protestors are once again violating the terms of H.R. 74656, forming a demonstration outside of the White House in a show of support for John O'Brien. It was announced yesterday that the terrorist leader was convicted by a federal grand tribunal of violating Title VIII of the USA PATRIOT Amendment and was sentenced to death.

"Demonstrators appeared not only for O'Brien, but rallied for other imprisoned criminals and insurgents like Mumia Abu-Jamal, Dennis Kucinich, and the late Cuban guerrilla leader Che Guevara. Despite numerous letters and phone calls from his prison cell asking for support, however, no one outside the White House today stood in support of Michael Moore.

"O'Brien's execution is scheduled for midnight tonight."

-

"Mr. O'Brien! Any last words for the record?" the Fox Daily News reporter giddily asked, drooling at the chance to get a top-of-the-fold quote from the most famous terrorist in America.

"Yeah," John replied as he was strapped into the electric chair. "Don't fuckin' litter."

The chair was every bit as uncomfortable as John had imagined. His newly bald head itched but he was unable to scratch it, owing to the fact that his hands were secured and he was wearing a helmet designed to zap him into oblivion. Worse still, he had heartburn. Refusing the lobster and steak offered him by the prison's cook for his last meal, he instead made a special request. It was granted, and the last meal John had on earth was the same that had doomed him in the first place: a McChicken sandwich.

As the minister began to administer the last rites, John's mind began to wander. He looked around and smiled as he noticed Carl enter the room. "Oh, hey, man!" he called.

Carl stared at his friend in trancelike disbelief. "Uh, hey."

"How are the hamsters?" John asked.

Carl snapped out of it and grimaced. "Uh, I'd kinda hoped you wouldn't ask. There was a terrible accident with the wheel, and after that, well, there wasn't much left of them."

John gave a look of final exasperation. "Ah, shit," he said resignedly.

"Yeah. Sorry, man."

"No biggie. It could be worse, after all," he said, indicating the helmet with his eyes. He sighed.

As the priest finally quit his droning and finished the rites with "May God have mercy on your soul," John caught a glimpse of the TV in the next room. The news was broadcasting from outside the White House, where swarms of the same hippies whom John so loathed waved signs supporting him. Some even held McChicken wrappers in the air. John's thoughts turned from mangled rodents, and he grinned. Aghast, Carl asked his friend "What're you smiling about?"

Just before the executioner threw the switch, frying him like his favorite foods, John looked to his friend and replied "Tell Benne- tell Mom that I made something of myself."

Islamist Happy Fun Time

The first post in what I'm sure will be a recurring series of the madcap zany antics of fundamentalist Islamists! Let the laughs begin!

The Merchant of Venice didn't completely suck.

All that glistens is not gold;
Often have you heard that told.
Many a man his life hath sold
But my outside to behold.
Gilded tombs do worms infold.
Had you been as wise as bold,
Young in limbs, in judgment old,
Your answer had not been inscrolled.
Fare you well, your suit is cold.

-The Merchant of Venice, Act 2, Scene 7

Blogs are for assholes

And lookie here- it's a blog. Guilty as charged.

Well, why not start with something good, like Iggy and the Stooges' absolutely hilarious tour rider? Raw power is sure to come a-runnin' to you.