Update?

Don't bet on it.

I'm too busy but I will try to put up new cartoons three times a week. That sounds smei-professional, right?

Oh, and you need to find Alan Cox.

This beligerency brought to you by the letter CRACK.

This one is a tangent. It doesn't really mean anything. Can't you take a joke?! Jesus Christ, what is your problem! IT'S A JOKE! FUCK YOU!!

FFFFUUUUCCCKKKK YYYOOOOUUU!!!!!




later

And now it all makes scat...

There has been some discussion as to what my motives are by doing this comic, since I am not, myself, Jewish in any way.

Allow me to elaborate all over myself.

I was arguing to someone the value of stereotypes. I said that there are no completely untrue stereotypes, like the idea that...oh, I don't know...Jewish people ride dinosaurs.

The person I was talking to laughed so hard, his testicles exploded.

And I was horribly scared for life.

Apparently after this I went on a killing spree, murdering my family and much of the town I lived in at the time. I came to consciousness in a straight-jacket, being force fed by US marines at Guano Bay military base. When it was discerned that I wasn't an "enemy combatant" through the most wonderful means which I will now elaborate upon in full detail: [THIS SECTION HAS BEEN CENSORED BY THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT UNDER REVISED AMENDMENT ONE "The right to (not) free speech." DO NOT BE ALARMED. YOUR GOVERNMENT STILL LOVES YOU. ALL NIGHT LONG.]

Anyway, after that whole ordeal I found myself a ward of the state in Louisiana, being raised by this enormous monster who kept beating me with crosses. Since she didn't speak english and I didn't speak crazy, I could never understand the meaning of any of this.

Then, one night in my darkest hour, a hassidic rabi on the back of a T-Rex rescued me from the evil witch and carried me off to the holy land, Miami.

I vowed to that brave warrior of justice (read "Jew-stice") that I would immortalize he and his kind for all foreverness.

So, there you go. My comic is not motivated by racism, but by a deepfelt and true sense of complete and utter insanity.


Having thus shpeiled, a new comic for y'all.

Enjoy!

Holy Shit, Son.

I got spammed!
Some bitchtard with no funnybone told me I kan't rite good.

Wul, hoo ev'r u r, u SUCK.

I joke, but this is a serious issue, one which I feel the medical community in our country is not taking seriously.
The number of people in this country living without a funny bone is appaling. There are many reasons for this, many directions to point the finger of blame. It could be the fact that there are not enough funnybone donners in this country, or the innadequate progress in medical technology dealing with these funnybone transplants. Many choose to lay the blame on the shoulders of our government, who have been passing anti-funnybone legislation for almost six years now.

But all this finger pointing just draws attention away from the real problem.
No one is talking.

If someone you know has no funnybone, make sure to tell them about it. Preferably loudly and in a public place. This is no laughing matter, but you should make it as funny as possible. Because that's where the cure lies.
Not in hospitals, on surgery beds, but in our hearts.

I...I forgot what I was talking about.

Jigga What?

OOh shit! Didn't see that comin' did ya?
A new one, already!
It's like I'm takin' it serious, or someother word.


But, it's me, and you know I'm not.

Just...just read the damn comic.

No, you tell meh.

So that thing I said about Boston has been changed to Burlington, VT, and baring some act of the non-existant godforce, it's going to happen. It will be I and my good freind Alex, who I call Vlad the Art-Major, hopefully getting a good, cheap apartment, some jobs, and a bar tab.

I don't really want to turn this into one of those blogs where I list off my daily life, because, I know, it's not very interesting.

So, to justify gloating about the above, I have included the next installment of Jewish Dinosaur Cowboys.....maybe.

(conditionally) Enjoy!

Some days it doesn't pay to get into bed.

Well I figure enough time has past to admit something about the previous posting. I was so fucking drunk when I wrote it that I don't know what it says, and I havn't read it yet to find out. I understand the highlights, and have spent the past couple of days soulsearching, trying to find out where the fuck they came from.

But I know what you're thinking:
"How could you have possibly been drunk when you wrote that? It's so good? No inebriated mind could produce such a wonder of rhymless poetry/obervational almost-humor."

My answer? Two words: Ernest Hemingway is a bitch.

He's back.....

This morning I was walking up Beall when I saw something out of the corner of my eye.
Of course I knew who it was. That's not how we meet our demons. That's just how they return to us, out of the background.

He zipped behind a tree, and I pretended not to notice. I wanted to know what he would do. Not because I wanted it to happen, I would have been much happier to call him out, but my damn curiosity got the better of me.

You know all about curiosity.

He walked out from behind the tree, a man on two legs. He had been demoted again. The poor creature had a look on his face I can't contain with words, but was close to primeval fury and complete hopelessness.

He looked like a barbarian.

Now we sit across the table from each other. He's feeling much better now. He tells me it's the worst kind of feeling.

"Done?"

"They deserve an introduction. They don't know."

"Well, now they do. Can we get on with it?"

"Still ashamed, I see."

"Of course I am, stupid. Now can we get on with our lives?"

Damnit.

"Yes, we can."

"Good."

I reply only with my angry face.

"What do you want to grill me on today?"

"Anything. I have a headache. What did you do today?"

"I worked a little and I played a little and somehow it's over already, and I want to go to bed."

"Well just pull some energy from within yourself. Like Olga told you."

"Right. I...what did I do today. I learned the name of a pretty girl. I'll say hi to her some day."

"Cassonova..."

"I used the last of my stuff. I talked about new stuff. I heard a conversation."

"That. Tell me about that."


I was walking down Beall when I heard two people talking behind me. A girl and a boy. The boy was telling the girl why he wasn't coming back to school the next year. He said he had some mental problem. I don't know who the boy was, but I know he's one of the strongest people I've ever heard.

He was joking about it. Just laughing, him and the girl. He intoned a complete popping of character, a jump into a new personality. He went, "Guherrr.... drak!!" and made like a demon possessed retard on steroids.

It was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.

He was so open, so in touch with himself and his problem, whatever it was. I don't know anything about it, obviously, but if it's enough to pull you from school, it must be rediculous.

'Cause there are some fucked up people her, let me tell you. There are a lot of complete nutjobs. And the're still doin' IS. I know more people than I can count on both hands who need mental help. I won't say who, I refuse to say, don't ask.

(silence)

"Wow, you really hate me don't you?"

"Yes. There's your story. Use that. You want to analize me, you fucking imaginary cat? I'll say it. I'm insane. I talk to an imaginary cat. What? Tear me down more than that."

(nothing)

"Worked for Eminem, and worked for me."

"You...damn. You know people read this as a series. A fucking retarded series, the feature movie to which hasn't even been released yet. Where's the Russia part?"

"You want my Russia mind? You can't have it. I don't want to deal with it yet. When I come to realize that actually happened to me, I'll tell it."

"Any time soon, Tolstoy?"

"As soon as my postman gets here. That weekend."

"Post man...?"

-------------------

"Seriously now. You hate me, I know it, but this is your job. You don't have a say. I'm glad you got that out of your system, but we're going to do this, no matter what. This is a cat dictatorship of your mind. You don't choose. Don't forget that."





"Fine."

"Good."

---------------------------

"Tell me something. Anything."

"I don't like christians."

"Well that's not surprising, your parents being preachers and all."

"My brother's religious too. He reads this."

"Shit, son."

"Yeah."

"You sure you want to go there?"

"Well why not? No matter how much this mirrors real life, it's still just fiction."

"It's genre-less garbage."

"And your it's main character."

"..."

"I don't like christians."

Straightening up in his slouch against the wall, "Why?"

"Because I think they ruined the world. Imagine what would have happened on this planet if there had never been a Jesus?"

"There would have been something else. There is always going to be a dominant religion in the world. It might be a godless religion, but there will be one. Dogma and all. We can't live without it."

"I question that as an absoltue statement, but agree in general."

"So, then, what's your point? You gonna whine for a liberal religion? We're not there yet."

"No, I was going to argue for the development of human, well, honestly Western society?"

"Well, I'm Western. Honestly it interests me a great deal more to examine my own culture than someone elses. That's why I like Russian. I don't necessarily agree with anything Russia has ever done, or even like it as a state now. I like some of the people from there, but there's always going to be a minority of good people in every country. I just like looking at something that is, to me, at the same time both 'self' and 'other'."

"Damn, Derrida."

"You used that joke already."

"Well you used that language already and it pissed me off then too. I don't by that babble. Actualliy say something."

"I don't like that I don't like christians. I think that it puts them above me, and that pisses me off more. I don't like them, and in many ways, they're better than me. Well, at least on paper. I don't know about all of them, but it's like I said. There will always be a minority of good people."

"You should put that on a t-shirt."

"I'm thinking about it."

"Well this one is easy. You love your family, right?"

"A lot, actually. More than a lot of people my age it seems."

"Are you calling yourself a freak?"

"No."

"Fine. You love your parents. A lot, hu Edipus?"

"Oh. Well you're a sick fucker. I--"

"Shut up! We get it. I don't want another damn story. I'm sorry, it was a joke. You love your parents, your brother, you can love other goddamn christians. It's not like running a marathon. It's not work. It's just telling yourself to shut the hell up on the inside and not judge everyone, you jerk."

"Uh....okay."

"Good."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I want to make a four or five person commune in Boston this summer. Anyone interested?
Leave a comment if you are. Well, if you're interested and not a total fucking moster freak psychopath killer ninja bomber knife juggler. You're no good.

This is what Valentines Day makes me think:

That's not the whole truth, though. I was also listening to Sufjan Stevens when I wrote it.

--------

The first day in weeks it’s not freezing, but even the somewhat warm air flowing through his hair is forgotten almost as soon as he notices it. That seems to be his mode today.

He is sitting on hilltop, looking down into the valley he has called home. From up that tree, he knows from childhood, he can see the old house where his grandmother lived. He doesn’t bother to look anymore; he hasn’t looked for a long time.

What he’s looking at now is the whole of his life until that single moment. He sees his first dog, his first car, his first kiss, his first death. He remembers all of those things.

There are moments of lucidity in his random musings, streams of cause and effect building up in his mind, but there is just as much confused recollecting. Just a lot of thought, no point or purpose.

Without warning he is hit by a feeling satisfaction, not with life, but with memory. He’s remembered enough now, and it’s time to go.

The young man turns to face the other horizon, stretching across a grid of pasture and forest. Somewhere out there is a new future, a new feeling. But not for him. That future is for someone else.

The blood pools heavy around him. The old man who drove the car is sitting on the curb, head in his hands. He’s probably crying, but the impact’s done something to his hearing and he can’t tell. There’s a man in blue trying to get him to lay down, but the sunset there, over the fields and trees, is just too good to stop looking at.

Today is a day for....

making my angry face.
Boy am I pissed off today.
Wow.


Anyhoo, someone asked me if I've done another Jewish Dinosaur Cowboy yet, and the answer is, I don't know enough Jewish jokes to keep doing that. I considered replacing that comic with an equally rediculously titled one, but nothing's really developed very far. I toyed with the idea of a series about A guy who gets superpowers when he gets high, but can feel the message of that one falling on deaf ears (namely mine because, what the fuck?).

I'm having a not-creative slump right now. Don't expect magic.

"Laundry day is a very dangerous day."

That's right, I'm cleaning my clothes today. Fun, hu?

I think someone should really document the poverty which seems to be growing in the town I now call "the place with the most suitcases" (home). There seems to be quite a lot of it.
But I don't feel like it. I just think someone else should do it.
So it's never going to happen.

expiriment of poetry

I'm bored with working, so you get something wierd.

I feel stranded, like the man on the moon,
stuck out of place in time that flows like a river.
hounds bark at my heels and I run
remebering neither origin nor destination.
I can't tell whether or not I move over the world,
or if the world just moves under me.
But I get no where, either way.
And in the end, I'm still just stuck.


...rriiiiiight.

back to work.

HOLY NU-UH!

+NEWS ALERT+

VicePresident Dick "Shoot-em-up" Cheney shot and killed an "ecoterrorist" supposedly poaching teddy bears on a friend's ranch.

The VicePresident and his friend, a Ms. Katherine Armstrong who has requsted to remain annonymous, were smoking crack and clubbing baby seals when they noticed an elegedly strong smell of elegedly "stinky hippy" elegedly wafting through the air. Elegedly elegedly elegedly.

When Mr. Cheney and Ms. Armstrong realized what was going on, they hopped out of bed, grabbed a rifle, and headed outside to see what all the fuss was. Finding no fuss, they decided to create some.

The "terrorist" was one Dude Whittington. When the VicePresident and his whore emerged from their den-o-sin, they found Dude Wattington stuffing live Teddy Bears into a sack in an attempt to take them to safety in Canada where it is illegal to kill and stuff the now endangered Teddy to make childrens' toys.

Realizing it was his patriotic duty to kill a liberal, the VicePresident grabbed a shotgun, aimed, and, while listening to the national anthem and getting a blowjob, shot Dude Whittington in the face. His entire body then exploded, leaving a creater roughly a billion miles in diamater in the dirt of wherever-the-hell-they-were.

They VicePresident was so happy, he had another heart attack. Luckily his team of crack-pot physicians were at hand to lend aid. They decided that the VP's heart had finally just given out. So they killed Ms. Armstrong and took hers.

President Bush proptly gave both physicians medals and peed on Dude Whittington's grave.

The VicePresident is said to be doing fine, although he does profess a strange desire to "suck cock and shoot H up [his] ass."

Or...something like that

There ought to be a pill for morning-afters.

My head hurts.

In celebration thereof, I give you one of my first ever cartoons, which you've already seen before. No one will accuse me of being inventive.

Gala is lame.

That's right, Gala is lame.
Do you know why they call it "Gala?"
Because "College Prom" makes your ears bleed, that's why.

I will not be going to Gala tonite, obviously. I will, instead, be geting krunk and 'jamming out' with the Daves (minus one Dan Piotrowski, who is a Galoffender) sometime around eleven, so long as Dave and Dave don't cave in and go.

Of course, I say all of this now, when I'm sober and listening to Sefjan Stevens (oh my god, he's awesome). In a couple of hours when I won't be able to remember my name, I may find myself falling down in Lowry. That's what happened last year.

But this post is lame, much like Gala itself, and that shames me greatly.
I will therefore pretend to be creative in an attempt which I already forsee being a complete failure.

Here goes!

....nevermind. See you on the dance floor.

Something new

I promised myself I would come up with something creative to post here. I don't think my life is very worth blogging about.

So, I wrote some poems.


Life is slow here, but we fill it with our lives.
we fill it with our loves and our hates,
our hopes and our failures.
We fill it with ourselves,
and before we’re ready for it,
the slow days are over.
But we look back,
and we remember
what life was like during those slow days.

and

The snow falls
and gathers on the power lines.
The arc-lamp makes is go yellow.
I remember when the snow used to fall
and gather on the boughs
and the moon made them yellow,
the motes of light.
But there are no boughs outside my window.
Just power lines
and arc-lamps.

Hope you like them.

Recap

Okay, my team won, and I'm ecstatic and all that, but I have a lot of work to do. I'll blog poetic about it, and post a new cartoon, but not right now. Don't give up on me though. It's just going to be a while. You all have patience, I know.

Get your mind out of the gutter!

Girl voice: "I'm sorry. It just came out really fast."

Boy voice: "That's okay, just use the sock."

------

Girl voice: "Why won't it go down?"

Boy voice: "Oh, just drink it." *sucking sounds*

Girl voice" "Oh, it's because it's full."

-----

Anyway, if you havn't seen "Cannibal Women in the Avocado Jungle of Death," you really need to.

A funny thing happened....

Two interesting things came out of history class today. They are:


"Arbitrary Valuation

If one accepts the nihilist model over the pluralist model, the possibility becomes available to artificially value things and ideas within one’s world. This valuation is called “artificial” to differentiate it from real processes of valuation based on experience and function. Artificial valuation is marked by an arbitrary nature; it is more accurately referred to as Arbitrary Valuation. The process is arbitrary because both objects and value are chosen arbitrarily. An example would be the decision to fake worship of a saltshaker because it is central to a lunchtime social scene.

As one can imagine, this process is most heavily used in modern humor. There is an understanding that randomly gifting an ordinary object with god-like status is funny. This may be related to human history and the intense valuation, which has taken place in the past. When, in the past, an icon was viewed as part of something holy, it was very seriously given the distinction. When, in the modern day, a lunch box is promoted to a holy position, it is for the purpose of belittling the past tradition, as well as social character creation.

This process is valuable because it contributes to the demotion of past ideas, thus allowing more space for new ideas to be created in."

--and--

"Unless you like vodka and pork fat, don't watch the Super Bowl in Russia."

Brilliant.

Absoltuely, mind-bendingly brilliant.

My comb is totally a redneck.

I was just combing my hair and decided to share this with y'all.

I don't suppose anyone knows where I can get the Extended Director's Re-Cut 2007x Edition of "Buckaroo Bonzai and the Battle for the Eight Dimension," do they?

an explanation...

My friend: how did you or someone else try to deal with a difficult situation with bird calls?
Me: ah yes
Me: well I was having breakfast with Ghandi and Mohammud, as I usually do on the first Thursday of the month when we saw, out the window, the rare red breasted woodpecker
now, Ghandi said that it was, in fact, not the aformentioned bird but, instead, a taxi
now, as you can imagine, Mohammud didn't take kindly to this remark, because of the events of that certain Wednesday, back in 624, which I'm sure you remember
anyway, to prove his point Mohammud attempted to reproduce the call of the rare red breasted woodpecker. He made such a ruccus that the sniper was able to find him in the crowd and I was picking brain out of my beard for an hour afterwards.

Things I learned today

1. Dont' read away messages. They only cause anger.

2. The Steelers are totally going to kick ass on Sunday.

3. Chocolate cookies do not taste good with green tea.

4. There are several ways to deal with difficult situations. Bird calls is not one of them.

5. God created dirt, air, and fire. Man created the ipod, sticky notes, and beer.

I rest my case.

And now it's raining

I know it's stupid to complain about rain. There's not anything I can do about it and whinning just makes it worse. But, goddamnit, I fucking hate rain...
whatever

Today I didn't do anything. I predict this trend will continue throughout the rest of the evening. Perhaps I will have time to do something creative, but we'll just have to wait and see about that.
(read=don't hold your breath)

I promise I'll try harder later.

A little something to share.

Hello world. I'd like to tell you about a friend of mine who has changed my life. Changed it...for the better.

No, I'm not talking about Jesus. That pansy carpenter bastard screwed up my cabinets, and now I'm sueing him on Judge Judy.

My friends, I am speaking of the wonderous awesomeness that is Dan Piotrowski.

This man single handedly saved the entire world, and you don't even know about it. So let me enlighten you all.

Three weeks ago last Thursday I was hitchhiking down a long stretch of Rout 66 which runs through Missouri. It was almost noon and none of the three cars which had passed me had given any indication that they were going to pick up a grizzly madman, which just happened to be the costume I wore to the costume party which I was walking home from.

When all of a sudden I got attacked by giant alien bird-monsters from out of the sky! Each one of them carried a spear and they spoke a strange language that sounded like a garbage disposal.

I didn't know what to do! I dropped my bag and just started running flat out. I didn't make it more than a half mile before they were on me. I thought I was done for!

But then, all of a sudden, like an angel from the sky, the voice of Dan Piotrowski told me I was tripping out, and to chill the fuck down.

So I did. And it was good.

The End.

*This may or may not have happened. If my mother or father finds this, it didn't. For everyone else I retain an air of mystery.

Offensive Cartoonery.

Here's a little something for y'all. I drew this at lunch today. I hope you like it.

Actually, I hope you're offended by it, not because I'm into shock-cartooning (or "shock-" anything, for that matter) but because it would give me something else to talk about. I know, it's not Timmy the Tumor, but I do my best.

And now it works.

I would like to take this opportunity to rant about the internet, and how it's only "user friendly" if you have to time to devote to learning how to be a "user," but I have to write a paper about Eugene Onegin and how...letters...lovers...elaborate and ingenous point...etc.

So, instead, I'll leave you with this poignant (name tie-in! name tie-in!) though:

If pro- is the oppostie of con-, does that mean Progress is the opposite of Congress?

Trying....

Okay, so I need to learn HTML. I don't know what blog you're seeing, but the one I'm posting is all green with a nice silver bar along the top. I think you have the one that looks like tetris gone all metro.

Stupid internet.

Addictive like crack.

Yes, like crack. Why be original when you can cliche?

Anyway, I'm talking, of course, of this damn blog. And since I can't sleep....

When I was in Russia I had to write only one paper. It was supposed to be a sort of general academic digression into what we saw in Russia and what we thought about it. Most people found one element of Russian life that particularly fascinated them/pissed them off. Or they picked something that was easy. I don't know, I'm guessing. I didn't read them.

Either way I wrote mine about an imaginary cat.
To be more specific I wrote about getting drunk on the street and meeting a talking black cat with whom I had a sort of philosophical dialogue. We talked about all sorts of fun Russian things and he belittled me to the best of my creative imagination. As soon as I get the damn thing translated I'll probably post it.

Now I could go into the meaning of a black cat in twentieth century Russian literature, but I want you to keep reading, so I'll just leave it at, "It's significant."

Well, anyway, I had such fun writing this little series of dialogues that I knew I wanted to keep writing them. The only problem is that I hadn't figured out how to satisfy my ego by tricking people into reading it and telling me how wonderfully brilliant I am.

Well, voila.

It's getting late, and the alarm is set for 8:30 (no way in hell is that gonna work), but I think I'm gonna give this a shot. It's not a very different formula. I wrote that paper in one go as well. Got an 'A'.

Pardon the ridiculous formatting. Apparently Blogger won't recognize indents, so I have to put an entire line after each little, whatever those are called. Paragraphs? Whatever.
Also, if the spelling sucks (it does, I know) I still haven't figured out the spellchecker on this yet, so just pretend. You've all got good imaginations.

I will preface this by saying that I am neither the cat nor the narrator. I'm in there somewhere, but I'm not sure where...

---------

I am sitting on the front porch of my small south campus house, smoking a pipe in the cool evening breeze. It's January, but whatever. There's no snow, no snow coming, and the smoke tastes so good.

And then I see the cat. He's back to normal, walking down the alley. He isn't looking at me, because cats don't acknowledge people that way. He leaps, skillfully onto the railing, lays down and closes his eyes.

"I thought we were done with this."

"We were. Then you got a blog. You can always hit the 'delete' button if you want."

"That's no good. It's not snowing here."

The cat smiles. He looks up at me and almost purrs.

"So, what's on your mind today? We don't have to do the Russia thing anymore."

"I know." Inhale. Exhale. Too much wind for smoke rings. "But I've got something on my mind."

"Let me guess."

"You can't guess if you're in my head. That's not guessing. That's just answering. No deal, cat. This is my monologue."

I know this cat, this insane projection of my delusional mind. I know he's got a witticism waiting for me. And, of course, I'm wrong. He just sits there.

"Well, Othello? You promised me a soliloquy."

"Uh...right. Well, I just watched the 'State of the Union'--"

"You didn't watch any more than two minutes of that. You watched part of it muted, and mostly just made fun of the Republican clapping machine. You did not 'watch the State of the Union Address."

"Alright, fine. I saw the president's face tonite. Made me ill."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. He...I don't know. I don't like him, his policies, or his glib look of self-satisfaction."

"Admit it. The thing you hate most is the fact that he's not miserable on camera."

"Well he ought to be. He's a bad person."

"Well there's an academic description." He jumps into the chair next to me and sits, staring off into the same nothingness that has my attention. "He's a 'bad person'. You're quite the Hemmingway."

"You're such a great hallucination."

"The very best."

And we opt, for a while, not to talk. The sun sets and it gets colder. My pipe is empty and it's time for coffee.

Inside, unlike in that other reality, the breakfast nook is set for conversation, not storage. The coffee isn't any better because it's already damn good.

When I come in the cat is grooming. He sees me and stops, leaps into the couch opposite the once I choose.

"Okay," he says in his authoritarian voice, "this is getting dull and you're rambling. Why don't you like the president."

Goodbye comfort zone.

"I don't know. I hate his policies. I hate the gloating expression on his face. I really hate his personal outlook on life. So I guess I just hate him too."

"The man is his policies? his expression?"

"Well, what else is there?"

"You don't believe in the soul, I know that. So, what? You can discount an entire person because you don't like the look on his face? That seems, well, entirely too simplistic. Not surprising, considering the source."

"Hey, you come out of this simplification machine I call a brain. Be careful or you'll end up a black fluffball out of My Neighbor Totoro."

"Answer the damn criticism. They're probably not even reading anymore."

"Okay, fine. Yes, I can discount the man because of what he believes in. He thinks he was appointed to the White House by God, that he's some kind of holy warrior for the Religious Right in this country, and that he can act without oversight in all official matters. For those reasons, including the dumb look on his face, I hate him. I think the world would be a better place if he was in alcoholic rehab."

"So, your opinion is right and his is wrong? I'm speaking in absolutes, of course."

"Damnit, I'm not. I don't use absolutes and you know it. Besides, all I'm talking about is impeaching the bastard. Being president should have nothing to do with absolutes. The fact that he's employing them makes him bad for the job. That's all. I'm not saying that he's such a bad person he should be burned alive, just that I don't want him to be my president anymore."

"Well, what of all the people who do want him to be president? I mean, he won. Doesn't that mean he has the majority?"

"He didn't have it the first time. And, what about them? Fuck them! They're ignoring us! Why shouldn't we ignore them?" It's hard not to hit the cat, I'm swinging my arms around, and so I spill coffee on my lap. "FUCK!" I run-hobble to bathroom to make sure everything still works.

From the other side of the door I hear, "A little bit extreme, don't you think? Couldn't think of a better way out?"

"Oh fuck you, cat."

"I'll see you around, genius."

I know he's gone. I lean against the wall and sink to the floor, sigh, start to relax.

Arn't I lucky? My very own devil's advocate.

Luckiest Joe in the world.

---------------


Okay, so I don't know how I feel about that, but it's late and you'll cut me some slack, I know. I'll try and get that thing from Russia up as soon as I can. It puts all this into a little better context. I probably shouldn't even be putting this up before that, but I've never been one to listen to my own cautious voice.

Oh, and pardon the topic-overlap. That's just what's been on my mind lately.

I hope you're all sleeping.