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2006-02-02 08:49:39 (link)
January: The Buzzkill Month

“Can you believe it’s February already?

I work in a file room, surrounded by co-workers who dwell in cubicles whose walls are carpeted. We banter back and forth about “the game” last night or what weird bitch was on “American Idol” the night before. It’s the sort of place where people pin up pictures of their children/dozens of cats next to that particularly side-splitting “Far Side” cartoon they tore off from their desk calendar or that “Hunks of Lost” poster they found at ShopKo. I’m used to having these sort of talks about the weather, or the news or who’s cheating on whom with whom. Truth be told, I like my co-wrokers and our daily discussions. It’s safe conversation with people I must co-exist with for nine to ten hour stretches of time. Granted, I do have close friends, family and my girlfriend, but those people don’t offer me full health, dental and 401(k) benefits…yet.

And like clockwork, Kimberly my 45 year-old file room henchlady asked me the above question: “Can you believe it’s February already ?”

“No, Kimberly,” I reply, ”I can’t believe it’s black history month already. I’m afraid if I blink again, it’ll be over with and I’ll have to revert back to celebrating your history, you white devil.”


“Just kidding.”

I’m liking February though. Not because it’s Valentine’s Day and I actually have some plans (provided Jess doesn’t dump me for that good-looking guy she works for). I just really loathe January, the worst month in the calendar.

January is a hangover month that falls after the holiday orgy known as Thanksgiving/ Christmas/ New Year’s, and a full month before V-Day, Spring, the new Radiohead album, etc. It’s still winter, but it's that dead winter, when the snow stops falling and you’re left with gray landscapes as though the Man Upstairs is going through his Goth stage. You could see Him in His room right now, doors locked, listening to Evanescence (who’s sole reason for being popular has to be the intervention of God Himself), painting his fingernails blacker-than-Malcolm-X-drilling-for-oil-in-Mordor-black. In other words, January just depresses us all.

And you know what we do when we get depressed: We go slummin’.

January is the reason Big Mama’s House 2 can be the number one movie of the weekend. It’s why Nickelback can tour the United States without being lynched. It’s why “American Idol” debuts this month. It’s why George W. Bush gives his State of the Union speech at the end of this month. Because by January 31st, our country will give any motherfucker the time of day.

Fortunately, there’s hope. Fortunately, there’s February. If January is gray, then February is red. Because of Valentine’s Day? No. Because we’re off the January rag and we know we don’t have to deal with the Santorum of a month for another 334 days.

So if anyone asks you if you can believe that it’s already February, I hope you do what I do: Smile and rejoice that the 31-day nightmare is over.

2005-09-08 16:06:05 (link)
Me and George down by the Schoolyard

A few nights ago, my favorite college dropout revealed that George Bush hates approximately 15.88% of his population. In other words, “he hates black people”. Why would the leader of the free world do such a thing, you might ask? Surely, he must have a good reason to despise the black race and let them (along with non-blacks) suffer from a lackadaisical response to probably the greatest natural disaster in American history?

Well, I’d like to apologize to all suffering people everywhere. Bush hates black people because...well..I’m a bad friend.

George and I met while he was campaigning in the fall of 1999. I was a senior in high school, a moderate Democrat with an Air Force vet for a father. We went to the local American Legion Post to see him speak about veterans’ rights. It was amusing to say the least, since he had been given the wrong stump speech and addressed the dozen’s of men as the League of Women Voter’s about how they were America's last hope to defeat the pro-choice movement. After the speech, he had some downtime and bellied up to the bar, as I was preparing to pay the barkeep for my Sprite and my dad’s Canadian Club neat. Mistaking my dad’s drink for mine, he commented, “What’s a young buck like you drinking that fire water son?”

At first, I thought he was hitting on me. But I relaxed a bit, explained the situation with a self-deprecating joke and ambled back to my seat, without realizing that the then-governor took that as an invitation to sit with my father and I. I thought of correcting him, but how many times do you have the chance to talk to a presidential candidate? My father was not so pleased.

“Boy, why is this cracker moron sitting with us?” he whispered under his breath.

“Lighten up pops, it’d be cool talking to a governor,” I said.

And it was. George, or “G.B” as I came to know him as, was funny. Not in a refined way or anything. It was like talking to a 48 year-old Stifler. He made comment after comment about some waitress’ “tatters” or how “long his horn is”. A bit crude, but mostly harmless. The post was closing, and my dad and I were heading to the car, when a creepy staffer who looked like a pederast came up to me and requested my phone number, “in case the governor is in town and could look me up.” I thoughtlessly obliged to “Karl”’s wishes, and went home figuring never to hear from him again…

…until I got a call a month later, at 7:00 a.m.

“Hey Hoss!”, the voice screamed, “guess where I am?”

“Wait, wait, wait. Who the hell is this?”

“What, you don’t remember G.B.?”

“Oh, fuck. Yeah, uh…are you on a plane?”

“Yeah, and I’m fucking wasted! Whoooooo!”

And that’s how my Saturdays went. I would get a call from G.B., and he’d vent his frustrations on how everyone called him an idiot on foreign policy. So I gave him some of my map tests from 10th grade World History. He’d talk about all the “hotties” he was meeting on the road, but I was there to check him back into reality.

Even then, I knew it wasn’t much of a friendship. And it wasn’t just the economic, religious, age or political differences. G.B. was just one of those guys who clung on to someone once he met them. And quite honestly, I was too busy to give him the attention he needed. I had AP courses, JROTC officer duties, extracurriculars and college applications to deal with. Not to mention, I had my own friends, ones who didn’t call me about that “kick-ass Incubus” song he downloaded and just needed to play for me over the phone at 2 a.m. But I didn’t have the heart to tell him off. He wasn’t a bad guy, just an idiot.

I came close in the summer of 2000. His campaign was in full swing, so I figured he’d be too busy to drunk dial me from Bangor, Maine or wherever he was. Not to mention he wasn’t too happy with me after I promised him I’d take Jenna to prom in February, but upon meeting her for the first time, I came down with “pneumonia” a few days beforehand. But there I was, blowing off a movie with a girl I’d been dying to bed, to calm his anxieties about his future. By then, I had committed to Wisconsin-Madison. But his broken voice made me fear for his sanity, so I promised him I’d get an apartment with him in Austin, “should the whole election thing fall through.” When he was elected, I must have been the only relieved Democrat in America. Now, I can focus on my life without G.B. latching onto me.

But it got worse from there. He’d fly Air Force One to Madison in a heartbeat. It did have its advantages from time to time. I never waited in line or got carded when we were “trollin’ for skanks”, as G.B. would put it. But once we were in, he was the worst wingman ever. He’d disappear, vomit on girls I was flirting with or begin lisping while talking about how I was a tiger in bed “lasth nighth”. It was embarrassing. I tried yanking in Condi and Colin to help me, but were more amused than concerned.

It all came to a head a couple years back. G.B. flew in to see "8 Mile" with me at Point. On the way back, he began “freestylin’” to the Patriot Act and how all Dems were “Hatas of Freedom an’ Shit”. I gently chided him for a) slamming the Dems for questioning a highly questionable piece of legislature and b) for rapping like he was from the hood.

G.B. just blew up.

“Why you hatin’ on me Homes? Ain’t we tight!?!,” asked the President.


The car grew deafly silent. “Well, maybe if they weren’t on welfare all the…”

It was at that moment that I punched the shit out of President George W. Bush. His agents immediately pulled my car to the side of the road, dragged me out of the car and were going to execute me…gangsta style, when G.B. spoke.

“No, I ain’t capping you like a bitch,” he proclaimed. “But you’ve ruined it for me. I can’t look at another black person without thinking about how you hate on me. I’ll hate on you all from now on. You ain’t seen hatin’ till you seen my hatin’!”

And with that, he was gone from my life. He called me hundreds of times (especially during last year’s election season), but I never answer it. He sent me a BFF collage, but I burned it. He made me a mixtape with Blink 182’s “I Miss You”, but I snapped it in two.

Maybe one day, we’ll talk and hash things out. But for now, I guess I’ll have to live with the knowledge that G.B.’s hate on the south's black folk was a result of our fractured friendship. So for all of you affected by the hurricane and the government's criminally slow response. bad

by Mike Jones

2005-07-13 07:50:10 (link)
Or the more aptly titled: An open letter to anyone who runs pop culture into the ground with their stupidity

Michael: From the Hebrew name Miyka'el which meant "who is like God?"

Jones: A Welsh patronymic name meaning "son of John (God has favored or gift of God)."

I’ve never been ashamed of my moniker. As generic as it is, sooner or later I expect my name will go to weird, fascinating and embarrassing places. Mike Jones won the Super Bowl for the St. Louis Rams in 2000. Mike Jones is a promising pitcher for the Milwaukee Brewers’ farm system. Mike Jones is the Microsoft Director of Distributed Systems Customer Strategy and Evangelism . Mike Jones runs an auction house in Texas. Mike Jones is a solo jazz pianist. Mike Jones is also a sportswriter for the Dallas-Fort Worth Star-Telegram.

So how did Mike Jones, the Houston-based rapper, make me want to change my name.

Because of you.

“Me?” you ask. Yes, you. You and your fucking insistence on regaling me with your insipid “Mike Jones! Who’s Mike Jones? Who’s Mike Jones?” Every time I call you, IM you or shake your hand. Oh, you think it’s funny and cute to ask me about my ringtones or whether or not I’m still “tippin’”. Well that’s just fucking hilarious. That is soooooooooo funny. Because, you know, we have the same first and last name. And by playing off what the rapper says and does, you transfer his personality to me and my actions. Which is, you know, hilarious.

You laugh at the way Bob and Bob connect Michael Bolton (soft rocker) to Michael Bolton (Initech employee) in Office Space, but guess what? It actually happens! Do you realize how many people have asked to see my teeth since that fucker blew up? With all sincerity in their (and by “their” and I mean ALL of you) hearts, they honestly believe I have his album.! That I play it incessantly on my computer and mimic his every move because we share the same name as thousands of people in America. Well I don’t. I’ve listened to his album once and it was…well, boring. But you all seem to insist that this is still funny.

Well let me make it clear: The joke is over. File it with “I’m Rick James Bitch!” and “Did I do that?” as catchphrases that have come and gone. Why is it over? Because 50 year-old secretaries know Mike Jones. Wanna know how I know?

True Story Me: “I’m Mike Jones, and I’m here to pick up my paycheck.”

Middle-aged white Soccer Mom Secretary: “Before I give you this check Mike, may I ask you something?”

Me: “Sure.”

Middle-aged white Soccer Mom Secretary: “ARE YOU STILL TIPPIN’ NIGGA?!”

So for all of you who still insist on using my name for personal amusement, go right ahead. You are now in the same comedic league as Jeanie from Sun Prairie.

by Mike Jones

2005-07-06 17:22:18 (link)
A Fake Hilary Clinton nude!?!? Well, I guess it's sexy...

Just between you, me and everyone who’s reading this hallowed website, I’m writing this on a Microsoft Word Document saved to a disk I found in an abandoned desk. On this disk are a series of pornographic images, some fake, some real, all hilarious. The mere coincidence that of all the jobs I could have come to, of all the disks I could have found, of all the desks scattered in this cubicle ghetto, at all of the jobs I could have taken, I came across the disk with a file labeled “madonnabj.jpg”.

Such are the random occurrences that make life worth interesting.

For instance, I should still be in Eagan, Minnesota, delivering the mail for the U.S. Postal Service. But thanks to circumstances beyond my control, I was allowed to retire early from the delivery business in enough time to pack up my gear and vamoose three weeks ahead of schedule. Which allowed me to find this temp job and discover the secret perverted desires of an anonymous co-worker of mine at this financial institution which shall remain nameless. A bit has happened since last I wrote for BigCheese. I’ve moved back to Madison, Wisconsin to write. Oddly enough, I’ve written less often here because I’m just trying to hold down an office job (which I am neglecting currently) to make enough money to afford trite shit like bedsheets and matching pillows from Target when I’ll go shopping there with my girlfriend this weekend. I used see those couples holding hands and discussing linen patterns, and shudder at the thought of that being me. But there I was, debating the merits of dark blue or red plates with Jessica. Thankfully, we both agreed that it would be better if I stole some housewares from the local dorms than pay for Target’s shit selection.

But I actually kind of like this transition phase. Instead of wasting my days getting wasted, I’m actually contributing something to our modern society. On the other hand, I’m still planning on finding Evan Rytlewski tonight and saturating my liver with alcoholic matter in a venue of our choosing. I’ll return to work the next couple of days, making jokes with middle-aged Jean Teasdales about whether I’m “working hard or hardly working.” But at least there’s Andrew Joanis coming in this weekend.

If you haven’t met Joanis, and you imagine him being a friendly fellow from his poignantly hilarious comic/blog, allow me to tell you that he’s a vindictive cunt who’ll slice your mother’s patella tendon should you ever impede his upward mobility in life. I imagine he’ll be arrive as he’s always had: carried by a team of Chilean eunuchs with a crown of titanium (that he’ll insist is adamantium) on his head and an rack of ostrich meat in his teeth as he has Suicide Girls fan him palm branches and whisper in his ear honeyed verses regaling his “intensity”. And when he does, I will be ready…bourbon in one hand and a bottle full of arsenic in another.

I guess that’s what this section of life is supposed to be. I never understood this when I was home, as I could cloister myself in my parents’ basement and recall the Jacks and Coke flowing through my urethra against the local building of religious devotion every single night. Nowadays, my micturations against the Lord’s Houses are reserved for weekends. I’m stuck in a cubicle job, but I’m pretty sure I’m the only one listening to a mix that has The Game and Neutral Milk Hotel. It’s a give and take with everything. I’ve never been a rebel, but I’ve also never been respectable. I never thought about clothes in any sense other than what smells and what doesn’t. Now I ponder whether or not my screaming eagle “FEEL THE WIND!!!” t-shirt will ever be allowed within the confines of “Business Casual” at my work.

Ah, yes. Maturation.

by Mike Jones

2005-05-16 19:52:02 (link)
Terror Begins at a Wells Fargo Branch

Usually monetary transactions don't make me weep, save for when I see my online bank statement reading "GENERAL TRANSACTION" for the amount of $19.95 and I know that it was for whether or not Wells Fargo does. But yesterday, I was making a deposit in the drive-thru ATM when the sedan in front of me sported two stickers. One was the "Support Our Troops" ribbon, and the other read "Eagan Wildcats", as in the hometown high school team. However, "Eagan Wildcats" was also in ribbon form, with a blue and white design instead of the "troops" yellow.

I don't know what came over me, but according to the police report, I slammed the Dodge Neon from behind with repeated thrusts. Not only that, but I was screaming "SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS" over and over again. In case you forgot, that's was John Wilkes Booth cried out after he shot President Lincoln in the noggin'. It literally means, "Thus always with tyrants!" And while I usually try not to repeat phrases uttered by true sons of the South, it found it wholly appropriate at that juncture.

The most annoying aspect about post-war America is that the general citizenry becomes insecure with their patriotism. On September 10, 2001, my guess is that your average suburban housewife didn't need a colorful magnet on her car to prove she was proud of being an American. Since then, the list of "patriotic" gestures have included:

- Listening to jingoists spew xenophobic taunts disguised as "true country music"

- Yellow stickers where a small portion of the sales actually go to anyone associated with the military.

- Referring to anyone that disagrees with pre-emptive strikes as "cowardly" or "unpatriotic"

It's not surprising really. Nationalism is naturally stronger when a state goes to war. But in the past, that nationalism was usually in the form of buying war bonds, throwing USO shows or donating materials for military use. Nowadays, patriotism has this sort of exchange:

Customer: "Gimme a pack of Marlboro Reds, the new Barely Legal and a Caramelo...Hey, what's that?"

Cashier: "Oh, a 'Support Our Troops' ribbon. The true mark of a patriot goes for only $2.99."

Customer: "Well, shit. I'm a patriot. Gotta take care of 'dem ragheads o'er there."

Cashier: "Well, I'm an Iranian-American. But I'll let that slur slide if you buy the sticker."

So now those of us who do not sport the sticker are seen as unpatriotic. Which is funny, as I am a member of the Sons of the American Legion, I've volunteered at the VA and I wrote a column a few years ago hoping that the soldiers come home safely. But if I publicly rolled my eyes at the sight of a yellow sticker, the armchair Ann Coulters of the world would demand that this was America, and I need to "Love it or leave it!"

Perhaps I'm a bit too harsh on the Dodge Neon lady. Maybe I should look at the positive of this. Maybe the lesson I should learn about the "Wilcats" sticker is that many Americans are suckers for anything in ribbon or bracelet form.

So today, I suggest a "Support our Whores" bumper ribbon along with "FUCK STRONG" bracelets in bright yellow rubber. Honestly, if you are not in favor of our streetwalkers, you are against the freedom to exchange money for sexual favors. And the limit of money exchange runs contrary to why our nation was founded. And if you support views which oppose our American roots, then you hate freedom. And that, my friend, makes you a terrorist.

God bless America.

God bless our freedom.

God bless fucking.

by Mike Jones

2005-05-11 06:36:48 (link)
Performance Anxiety
Don't Worry, it Happens to A Lot of Guys

Lou was rolling down the stairs with chocolate syrup running down the crack of his boxers. He was moving in diagonals, shirtless and with only one sock to show for the excursion. In fact, he could only find one shoe for going out.

M.A. was wearing his suit. Mind you, it was 8 A.M., and we were on our way to Bennett’s on the Park for some breakfast and porn. M.A. was wearing his suit because he had pissed his bed the night before on the last of his clean clothes. He too was moving diagonally.

A.R. was in better shape, having no condiments down his pants, nor the shame of urinating all over himself the night previous. However, he was loudly complaining that his lung was collapsed. Apparently the stripper (the three were attendees at a bachelor party) was a little rough on A.R. and left plenty of belt welts on his chest. A.R. was the most excited about this trip to Smut and Eggs, as he crowned himself an expert on both breakfast and pornography.

These are some of my friends. These are why I miss Madison.

I was in town for Mifflin, the greatest party ever known to man. “Better than that house party freshman year, when I made out with that total hottie?,” you ask. Yes, better than that party. And by the way, she wasn’t hot. She was a 46 year-old bar skank who stumbled into the basement to find a place to crash after spending 12 hours at the Echo Tap. Mifflin party consists of two dozen houses with multiple kegs and enough debauchery to make Caligula blush. I promised Joanis that I’d recount Mifflin, but here’s the thing. I was drunk before Mifflin, I got drunker at Mifflin and I got even drunker after Mifflin. I don’t remember a damn thing, save for running into KVJ and throwing my Taco Bell cup (I needed drunk food at 11 A.M.) to the ground in disgust.

I have also been consumed by my high school reunion. Unlike many, I loved my high school and left with no regrets about the experience. However, my St. Thomas Military Academy experience and my Wisconsin-Madison experience were slightly different. For starters, I didn’t drink in high school. I didn’t write in high school. And I didn’t leave threatening messages to Steven Spielberg in high school either (I swear, The Terminal was my fucking idea! Mine!). And a five-year reunion gently reminded me that I was not the same, razor-sharp youth that left for Madison and came back an oft-convicted crackwhore who break dances for cash. If anything, the reunion reinforced my opinion that Minnesota is not my home anymore. Although I have made the annoying habit of passing out in my parents’ basement in Eagan, Minnesota for the past year.

It's just a matter of experience. When you're home, every day is like the previous one. You wake up, you work, you eat dinner at the same place and you find the same group of friends to hang out. Anywhere else, one's routine is determined by making one choice which leads to variables in experiences. But a glance at the hungover, half-dressed buddies who’ll attend a porn-and-pancakes establishment with me are a reminder of everything that I'm not experiencing. My hometown friends and I don't think about doing these thing because they're not the same things we did when we were younger. It's not a shame, it's just...different.

Everyone out there has their own "Madison", a place where every day guarantees to be different than the next. For some, that "Madison" is where they grew up, where they went to high school and where they want to live for the rest of their lives. For others, their "Madison" is out there somewhere, waiting to be discovered.

And this is depressing, looking at your hometown friends and family and constantly wishing you were somewhere else. I guess that’s another reason why I’ve been a bit reluctant. I’m trying to spend as much time out and about before I make the move in July. So if I’m a bit inconsistent, I apologize. But it’ll get better. Hopefully.

by Mike Jones

2005-04-19 19:53:27 (link)
What has two thumbs and is now the Pope? THIS GUY!

Today, the College of Cardinals elected Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger to become the next Pope. As Pope Benedict XVI, the elderly German is well-known for being a staunch conservative within the Church’s hierarchy, holding down the role as Head of Doctrine for almost two decades. While some Catholics are concerned with his inflexible views, many fail to know the real Joseph Ratzinger, a man who can connect to Catholics of all walks of life. Allow me to bullet-point some things he has done in the past, as highlighted by his recent memoir, Give Me the Damn Papacy!

- Arrested outside a David Hasselhoff concert in Munich after threatening to excommunicate the security detail if he wasn’t allowed on stage.

- Crashed the popemobile into a Des Moines cornfield after being told that J.R. was shot.

- Formed Bel Biv Devoe

- Twelve inches…around. Think about it.

- Shot 50 Cent nine times in the head.

- Although adamant in his celibacy, once spent an entire weekend at Studio 54 with Martin Scorcese, Mick Jagger and David Bowie.

- Played his “Folsom Prison Blues” backwards once. Subsequently, killed a man in Reno just to watch him die.

- Invented Snapple.

- Punched out Lou Reed at Andy Worhol’s studio over an alleged comment that Nico preferred “American hot dogs” over “German sausages”.

- Won the Stearns County, MN “Pie-eating Contest” in 1965.

- Has cut five albums from 1979 to 2004. The last one earned him 4.8 rating by after Ryan Schreiber saw him collaborate with Ryan Adams on a duet in Chicago.

- Once ordered a copy of The Book of Mormon, “just to see what it’s all about”.

- Was the second gunman on the grassy knoll.

- Won a break dancing competition in 1983, thus saving the Youth Rec Center from the greedy hands of rich developer, Wilmington Q. Finchmeyer IV.

- Signed onto a Greenpeace boat. Scuttled said boat.

- Is also known as the “Dean of the Keg” amongst the College of Cardinals.

- Can do that thing where he can smoke a cigarette, tuck it into his mouth, and pull it out again and smoke some more.

- Did some films for Jackie Treehorn as Karl Hungus’ older brother who fixes the computers, Klaus Hungus.

- Once ate a bear to prove his virility.

- Was an exec at Matador records from 1993 to 1996.

- Wrote “The Thong Song”.

- Stood in front of the tank in Tienamen Square in 1989.

- Cited as an influence of Joy Division.

- Can eat three pretzel rods in one minute.

- Once killed two birds with the same stone.

- Was cast to play the lead in Ray until Jamie Foxx auditioned and rocked their world.

- Once argued for increased wages for the world’s poor by proclaiming, “Because a nigga can’t shine on $3.65.”

- Employee of the Month, Victoria’s Secret of Omaha (July 1999).

by Mike Jones

2005-04-10 21:15:39 (link)
Widespread Panic (and no, not the jam band you hippie)

What did we do Friday night? Some were on their way to a show. Perhaps they were dining out with loved ones. Perhaps they were digging their tunnel to get out of prison with their rock hammer (Sorry, I’m watching Shawshank Redemption right now). All I know is that at 8 p.m. on a Friday night, at least three men in their twenties were reading Far Side Collections of various years while at a Barnes and Noble in Eagan, Minnesota. How do I know that? Because I was one of them.

Not only that, but we were all dressed alike. Polo shirts, jeans, glasses and unkempt hair in the fashion that the kids keep these days. I looked up and made eye contact with both of them. In case the moment didn’t dawn upon us beforehand, we were now fully sentient that we were somewhat intellectual young males wedged in a corporate bookstore, reading comics of our youth on a weekend night while trying to avoid the disheartening reality that we, in fact, were somewhat intellectual young males wedged in a corporate bookstore, reading comics of our youth.

So I ran. I ran real, real fast.

Well, being a hefty gentleman, it was more like a spirited shuffle out of the suburban bookstore. But it was panicked in nature, as I proved by knocking a middle-aged woman and her teenage daughter into the discount cookbook rack during my flight. I
didn’t really understand why I was doing this. But then again,                 Mike Jones used
neither did the hard-working employees of Barnes and Noble, the                to get down
poorlady or the police that arrived on scene twenty minutes later.

As I waited the cops out from the Dairy Queen across the street, I finally understood why I freaked out in such a matter. If you could go back six years ago, to the 8th of April in 1999, I would be doing the exact same thing. Wearing the same Old Navy ensemble. Reading Gary Larson. Trying to evade the indomitable conclusion that I was a very unimaginative human being when given a vehicle, some cash and an evening to myself.

I think that’s at the heart of the turbulence we call post-grad life. Once you finish your education, everyone tells you that your life will change as you know it. You hear it from everyone who graduated or left before you. So you prepare for it. You brace for the impact. Hell, you even close your eyes and expect to see your whole world differently when next you open them.

But when you open them, you find out that you’re doing the same fucking thing you were doing in high school and college. Hanging out until something better comes along. And when that thing comes along, you move until you get bored there as well? So is that what life’s all about? Hopping from job to job, place to place, lover to lover, until your legs can’t take it anymore and you settle the last place you land?

Aside from the comfort of the chocolate chip cookie dough permeating my mouth in all its Blizzardy goodness, I felt pretty bummed. Even if I move to Madison, Milwaukee, Mali or Moscow, would I ever be happy? Maybe it’s the ice cream headache talking, or the fact that the police are coming my way, but I’m going to finish this tomorrow.

Tomorrow :

You know what? Maybe I was just bored with life and creating pretentious notions of fear for no good reason. I went to the Guthrie Theater for a rousing (a-rousing. Get it?) adaptation of “As You Like It”, and then went home and got drunk while watching Family Guy: Season 2 with my bud, Charles. So maybe it’s not about hopping from one thing to another, but trying to do as many things as you can no matter where, when or who you are. Shit, this is sounding like a Doogie Howser journal entry isn’t it? Well, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders.

by Mike Jones

2005-04-03 21:25:42 (link)
Jesus the Pinko Liberal
Bleeding Hearted Roman Sympathizer?

Many ignorantly believe that the gospels are the only firsthand accounts of Jesus’ life on Earth. But archeologists have discovered several testimonials of the Christ when he walked among humans. The following is a transcript from a Pharisee pundit who held court in a Canaan town square and discussed/debated the day’s events, specifically about Jesus and his new teachings:

Welcome back folks, Rabbi Rosh here to bring you the truth without spin from those crazy liberals out there. Today, we’re talking about this guy some are calling the “Messiah”. Now, now, I’d like to believe that my years in the temple would have prepared me for who the Messiah would be, a man from Jerusalem, educated by the greatest scholars and elders for decades before he comes and reveals himself to us in all of Jehovah’s splendor.

But now this crackpot from Nazareth just saunters into town and says he’s the Lord? What was the Messiah doing all of these years you might be asking? He. Was. A. Carpenter! A carpenter people! Truly God’s messenger wasn’t preparing himself for leading us chosen people by building doorframes until he was thirty? Who’s asking this question of credibility? Here’s another example of these liberals in the streets, trying to dupe Mr. And Mrs. David Q. Almspayer into believing this unwashed carpenter is the Chosen One without definitive proof. No proclamation from above even.

Now I’ve heard these stories about him turning water into wine at a Caanan wedding, but where’s the accountability? The husband and wife didn’t know him from Adam, and I’ve received first-person accounts by wedding guests that there was plenty of wine before he showed up and made this “miracle” occur. And what’s Jesus’ spin doctors saying about this? And I quote his main goon, Peter, from a discussion I had with him yesterday, “You didn’t have to be there to have faith he did it.” Well, what do you know, a liberal without sworn proof of this “miracle”.

And now I’m hearing that he’s keeping company with tax collectors (maybe he’s learning some new tricks in collecting money), not to mention a former prostitute…a prostitute! A harlot from the streets is part of his entourage? Now people, I understand the times are changing, but when was would the Messiah consort with such morally-reprehensible characters. These are actual admissions from Jesus’ camp that a Mary Magdelene is, in fact, a good “friend” of Jesus. I remember a time when moral character counted for something when you were talking about leaders of the community. I’ll tell you something folks: Abraham, Moses, David and Elijah did not keep company with prostitutes. But these liberals think they can run roughshod over how we teach the Torah or how we celebrate the Sabbath. Ask yourself, do you want someone of such immoral stock leading the chosen people? His response to his friends who lack moral values?: “Everyone deserves to be loved.” OK, OK you pinko lib. There’s might be enough love to go all around, but you know what’s more important than that? Accountability. The sinners suffer and the religious right thrive. But now, Jesus is saying the rich will get into paradise when a camel passes through the eye of the needle? Just another liberal lie saying it’s alright to sin, alright to gamble, alright to not stone a whore. I guess we can do no wrong in this guy’s eyes, huh?

But it’s not just this guy. His family is in on the racket too. Now his mother is claiming she hadn’t slept with another man when her son was conceived. And that, “…an angel named Gabriel came to me and told me I was with child.” Now I don’t doubt someone named Gabriel was involved with Jesus’ conception, but does his mom seriously think she can sidestep nature to feed her pack of liberal lies?

I don’t know about you people, but I’m a tad skeptical of this Jesus guy. His mom was a virgin when she gave birth, he preaches love to all, including sinners that he cavorts with and has the audacity now to say that he’s going to rise from the grave after he dies? Now I’ve heard of some liberal crackpots in my time, but this Jesus guy takes the cake. You know, let him die. I hope he dies. So his liberal followers can all stand outside his tomb and just wait…and wait…and wait. Until they realize he ain’t coming back. Maybe that will knock some sense into these liberals.

by Mike Jones


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