Guess Who’s Back? Shady’s Back

You might not know this, but back in 2000, I ran for President of the United States. Or at least I’m told I am; I wrote my statement of intent and Paul, co-founder of The American Jerk, said he would handle the fundraising, and that was the last I heard of it as far as I can recall between it being year seven of a fine 21-year alcoholic haze and Paul constantly distracting me by shoving his new Goddamned Rolex Hyperion in my fucking face.

I did it mostly on a lark; after all, I was only 28 and therefore legally ineligible to serve even if I was somehow elected. And obviously I didn’t take it seriously at all, because back in those days, only a dingbat would have thought that the American people would elect a serious drunkard with a sophomoric sense of humor and absolutely no experience governing on a national level. Unfortunately, it didn’t occur to me that the Supreme Court might elect one.

So obviously I missed what turned out to be a legitimate chance at the Peak Seat, so I never bothered running again and I’ve never regretted it. Until now. I’m thinking that it might be my time to chuck my hat into the ring and enter the national Presidential debate, even in spite of an extra twelve years of unpresidential behavior including, but not limited to, a Jagermeister-fueled call, on the public airwaves, to alleviate a Boston winter cold snap by nuking Calgary.

Particularly if it means I get to debate this self-important douchenozzle.

Newt Gingrich will be crippled in the Republican primary race. The only reason I can think of for him to run for the Republican nomination for President would be that he has rareified personal tastes and his wife is tired of getting weird looks at the dry cleaners when she picks up the gimp suits and giant diapers.

Newt’s past is so checkered, particularly by conservative Republican standards, that it makes me look like a CPAC darling, and I have made life choices that have, more than once, put me in situations where I had to choose between being potentially arrested for either public urination now or wait until it turned into an arson charge.

That’s right: on paper, I am a better Republican than Newt Gingrich, and I’m the guy who called Michelle Malkin a cunt and said that John McCain should rub his scrotum on a nuclear warhead. There isn’t a plank in the conservative platform that I couldn’t use to beat Newt about the neck and head with… if I weren’t so convinced, based on this doomed “potential” candidacy, that he would like it.

Let’s go down the list, shall we?

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Eight Ball Out, or: Two And A Half Grams

Charlie Sheen’s on Twitter as of about an hour ago. Which means that by midnight he’ll be calling Biz Stone a filthy backstabbing kike, and by tomorrow morning he’ll be suing J. P. Morgan Chase for 250 quadrillion dollars for implying that someone with his winnosity would ever label his glorious visage as a “twitpic“.

It would be easy to set up and knock down a few hundred words making fun of Charlie – these days it’s the written humor equivalent of Sharpieing a penis on a drunken freshman’s face –  and God knows that I am that lazy. After all, cheap, quick jokes like: “Charlie has ‘tiger blood‘ because he snorted Tigger,” and: “Charlie’s on a drug named Charlie Sheen, if by ‘drug’ you mean ‘blow-up doll,’ or if by ‘Charlie Sheen’ you mean ‘DCon-laced Arkansas Winky-B-Gon methamphetamine extract,” really do write themselves.

But I’m not gonna do that, because believe it or not, I actually have some sympathy for Charlie. Not much, and certainly not for his general behavior in life. It’s hard to wish anything but a hard stretch in the pen for a man who beat his wife, assaulted a hooker, and starred in The Wraith.

But imagine, just for a moment, that you’re Charlie Sheen. You wake up on satin sheets next to a porn star. You get out of bed in the dark and bump into a coffee table, knocking several thousand dollars of cocaine – cocaine that loose women with enhanced breasts bought for you – onto the carpet. You fire up the iPad to check your bank balance, and while waiting for it to warm up, you check your voice mail and delete another message from Emilio asking to borrow $200 for a cell phone that Paula Abdul doesn’t have the number for.

You check your account balances see you have a cool 85 million dollars sitting there, which even stuck in the shittiest ING Direct savings account is earning you $850,000 a year for doing absolutely nothing… and you sure as fuck don’t have a shitty ING Direct savings account, because as far as you’re concerned, only Charlie gets to tell people to “touch the ball“.

So imagine you’re Charlie Sheen, sitting there with that life and that money on a Tuesday morning. What do you do? Bang the porn star again? Go out and buy another Bentley just in case some miscreant rolls the one you have off a cliff again? WRONG! You get in that Bentley, sit in L.A. traffic for two hours, and go to a fucking day job. A day job where you have to spend all day talking to Ducky and a mouthy fat kid.

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…Lest Ye Become A Monster

I was clicking around Salon today when I came across an article by the Ask The Pilot guy entitled Worst Flight Ever: Middle Seat in the Smoking Section with a picture of a dude from the 70’s sitting contentedly in a burnt orange airline seat with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. So I clicked through to read it and whip myself into a frenzy… of nostalgia and desperate longing because I haven’t had a cigarette in eight months.

Oh sure, I still smoke the hell out of my e-cigarette because it’s better than smoking nothing at all and unlike real cigarettes it’s still legal to use in bars, much to the consternation and fruitless vocal complaint of many total non-smokers, who, upon realization of their total lack of recourse, take on a look much like Armando Galarraga, who also thought he had a perfect game going.

Which, as someone who wasn’t allowed to have a single cigarette indoors during the last five of his 17 years smoking, is a very satisfying look to see… but nowhere near as satisfying as a cigarette. Let’s just say that if I had known at 21 that I would live to see the day when I would be cigarette free? I would have immediately ramped up to five packs a day to try and be dead before that day. But I digress.

So anyway, I skimmed the article and noted its attendant glee at 23 years of having treated smokers more ruthlessly than terrorists (Who were at least allowed on the fucking plane), when I came across this little jewel, hidden right in the middle:

While we’re at it, here are some other things we ought to consider banning:

…Shrieking Children. The crying kid is, hands down, the single greatest scourge of modern air travel. It’s the kid; it’s the indulgent parent; it’s the air pressure … whatever, just make it be quiet. How about a kids’ section in the back, where the smokers used to be sequestered?

…and then the Internet exploded.

While I’m writing this, the article has 268 comments (The article about Republicans gearing up to turn off the government has 42 comments), mostly from parents, who apparently somehow managed to put their future Supreme Court Justice with the Beiber eyes, cure for cancer brain and rainbow-emitting anus into their ergonomic snuggie high chairs long enough to comment (But not so long that the attendant 90 second lack of attention might trigger cascading autism) in the following ways:

…you are not entitled to complain about children on airplanes (or in general). I, and the rest of the world thank you for not reproducing because chances are, if you’re an enormously unreasonable, pain in the ass, entitled,unsympathetic, whiny baby now, as demonstrated by your bitching about crying babies, you were just as unbelievably miserable as a child as you are now and so would be your spawn.


Again, children are members of the public. Suck it up. I have to listen to your whining and endure your nasty expression when I board the plane with my child, who is amazingly well-behaved on flights actually.

Now, I recognize that many parents who are readers of Salon are probably not smokers and not used to this kind of reaction from people, but let me go on record with my take on this situation:


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Look, I know it’s been a while, but fuck you. It’s 2011, which means we’re in our fourth year of recession, which further means that here at The American Jerk Home Office, the last quarter of 2010 was very interesting in that Chinese curse kinda way.

Funny little story you can take away: when the president of a potential employer tells you during your interview process that, “We are fully financed until March,” I have learned that it’s probably best to assume that the (allegedly) treacherous little knobgobbler is using the Royal form of “We” and continue your job search elsewhere. And if you don’t, I have learned that it is possible to take solace in the fact that at this point March is only seven days away, and therefore that President might soon learn that when an employee tells you during his layoff interview (less than 100 days after he left a lucrative job to join that little corporate disaster and well more than 100 days before March) that, “I will honor my non-disclosure agreement,” well, you can probably guess the rest.

But enough of all that. Bygones, right? Bygones and I would need to see a sweet litigation-precluding bankruptcy declaration on their corporate Website before I could even consider unveiling my long-rehearsed gravedancing routine (Step, ball, change, motherfuckers… emphasis on the ball).
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Tragedy Is When I Cut My Finger

They say that Sarah Palin’s one of those people that you either love or hate, but I think people are too complicated to be reduced to a binary choice like that. While I sure as hell don’t love her, I think that “hate” can be a very strong word, and if we’ve established nothing in the past week, it’s important to be careful to always use the correct word for the correct purpose. So let’s leave it at: I don’t “love” Sarah Palin, but I would “fuck her purely for the purposes of revenge.”

And I think Sarah would be okay with me saying that, because this week she’s established that, just like me, she’s all about the First Amendment:

“I can understand how [Dr. Laura Schlessinger] could feel ‘shackled’ by those who would parse a single word out of decades of on-air commentary,” Palin wrote. “I understand what she meant when she declared that she was ‘taking back my First Amendment rights’ by turning to a new venue that will not allow others the ability to silence her by going after her stations, sponsors, and supporters.”

Palin added, “That’s why I tend to defend people who call it like they see it while others stop at nothing to shut them up.”

Thank you, Sarah! God knows that millions of… er, thousands… well, some… yeah: some have chafed under the inability to throw around the word “nigger” whenever they choose just because society deems it “offensive”, polite people think it “inappropriate” and black people would “stab them about the face, neck and chest for doing it.”

It’s important to be able to use any term we wish, whenever we wish to, even if some unenlightened souls think those terms are inappropriate. And to think differently is, quite simply, retarded.

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