Black People Stole our Penises: A Look Into the Mind of Don Imus

Recently Don Imus came out of his space cocoon on Planet Sasquatch to open his mouth once again. Although in the past he has come out to display nuggets of far-out space age wisdom, such as that black women are prostitutes with black curly hair, this time Mr. Imus has emerged a “wiser”, more “intelligent” man, excepting that he still cannot keep his big mouth shut. In other words, he basically said that black people are dirty criminals.

Newsreader Charles Warner Wolf: …[H]e’s been arrested six times since being drafted by Tennessee in 2005…

IMUS: What color is he?

Wolf: …He’s African-American

IMUS: Well. There you go. Now we know.

Now I think we know what Mr. Imus is talking about. Some of the actions of black men against white men in this nation have been positively criminal. If they aren’t stealing the melanin straight off the skin of white people, they’re using their insane powers to steal precious inches from the white man’s penis. Let me be honest here, and say I think that that’s a shame, and the black people of the United States should be forced to give white people their melanin back, in the same way white people gave back to black people after beating and abusing and raping them for generations, that is by loaning them forty acres and a mule.

And let us not forget, the mule should at least be housetrained.

They should also give a formal, heart-rending apology to Conan O’Brien’s wife. I can only imagine what their late-night conversations must be like:

Mrs. Conan O’Brien: Half an inch?

Conan O’Brien (frantically): It’s O.J. Simpson’s fault!!

I also believe that Michael Jackson should be thanked for being the first to give back nearly all of the melanin he has ever had in his entire body, although it would have been nice if he could have given some of it to Macaulay Culkin.

Macaulay Culkin: Half an inch?

Michael Jackson: Hey, that’s what you get when you try to give white men their melanin and penis sizes back!

The reason Don Imus is so serious about penis size and melanin to the point that he’d make a racist comment about a basketball player over it, other than the fact that he is gay for Howard Stern, is because he lives on a ranch in New Mexico. I know by experience that New Mexico ranches are no place for lily-white rednecks with no ability to handle the sun. For example, recently my uncle, his nephew, and his nephew’s Wiccan girlfriend and I went fishing in the rivers of Northern New Mexico, an area known for having one billion parts sun for every part water there is. I learned many things from these three, for example, that Arab people have contributed nothing to Western civilization and apparently things like algebra and the alphabet are nonexistent entities or lies perpetrated by liberals. But the most important thing I learned is that, if you have no melanin in your skin, it doesn’t matter how much SPF 50 sunscreen you put on. You will still wind up peeling like a banana, whereas others will be outside with bronze skin, wearing nothing but tanning oil and a smile, and their skin will just get more melanin, and they’ll become more attractive and more likely to take away your wife. And she will most likely never go back, especially if the guy taking your wife happens to be Seal. You’d be lucky to get your Garth Brooks CDs back at that point.

Seal, “Crazy”, 1990, Warner Bros. Posted to Youtube by “SealOfficial”

Maybe these people are stealing the white man’s melanin, too. I’ve seen a lot of dark Hispanic and Asian people too. In fact, I’ve seen lots of white people with really dark, bronzed skin. Maybe all these races are just stealing melanin from poor old folks like Don Imus.

And maybe–just maybe–all these races are capable of stealing, being thieves, riding in low-rider cars, cutting in front of me on the freeway, and just generally being assholes. Maybe even Don Imus knows this. Maybe, just maybe, he was saying that “Pacman Jones” was arrested all those times because he was black and black people get arrested more than white people. Maybe his comment was an attempt to repair his racism-scarred reputation. Perhaps, as a shock jock, he felt the need to make an important racial statement while simultaneously pissing people off. Perhaps this “Pacman Jones” person will eventually become well known outside of the realm of being a basketball player jock with a history of run-ins with the law.

Or what if it’s the opposite: That Don Imus is really trying to sneak racism and hate-think into American society via a news show nobody listens to, except rich white people who are already more racist and culturally insulated than a glorified talk-show host ever could be? What kinds of ramifications could there be if such thought entered the general American populace? Would it hurt black peoples’ feelings, or cause white people to become neo-Nazis and join the Ku Klux Klan? Who knows what Don Imus could be capable of?!

More importantly, who cares?

Advertisements

Attention: The Boltzmann Brains Need Your Help! Send Donations Today

Genesis, “Land of Confusion”, 1986, posted to Youtube by Astralroundabout

The Internet does a lot of things to a lot of people. For example, furries. Now, in a normal environment, a person–let’s call this hypothetical person “Tom Fischbach”–who loves his cat–we’ll call her “Flora”–so much that he draws an entire comic about her–we’ll call this hypothetical comic “TwoKinds”–would instantaneously be considered a complete wackjob such as has not been found this side of planet Pluto. But on the Internet, this type of person thrives, to the point that other people–we’ll name our hypothetical person “SpikeRulesHell, Templar GrandMaster of the TwoKinds Forums”–feel it necessary to discuss on his forums about their having performed oral sex on their cats. Now, we could argue that I, The Luigiian, having drawn entire comic strips about my dog, Sissy, would be on the same level as people like these. This could be argued–I would disagree, primarily because Sissy is a dog, not a cat–but regardless of what you think of these types of people, they simply cannot be put on the same level as those disgusting psychopaths who call the website Something Awful home. These Something Awful forum members are so deeply mentally distressed that they forced me, at 12:28 in the morning, in my underwear no less, to write about the Boltzmann brains hypothesis today.

Apparently, one Ludwig Boltzmann was a hippie from the nineteenth century who insisted that there were nonexistent brains floating around in space.

A little bit of background is necessary, and this background I shall steal from Wikipedia without asking. You see, in the universe there is a force called “Entropy”, also known as “The Refrigerator Contents Force.” The way it works is, that energy, like the contents of your refrigerator, is gradually becoming more and more disorganized, so that even as you have the same amount of stuff as you had in your refrigerator several months ago, you can’t use any of it, because it is behind the milk carton, which I might add is several months past its sell by date, so you can’t use that either.

However, there is another force acting in your refrigerator–let us call this force “disgusting cockroaches”. Now, these disgusting cockroaches are little dirty bastards, and therefore are an excellent way to describe hoomans. But clearly they are examples of this disorganization in your refrigerator being reversed, right? Or at least they’re proof that there is some kind of organization going on here. I mean, they’re organized enough to completely consume every bit of food inside of your refrigerator, for God’s sake, including the fruitcake your Aunt Edna made for Christmas, which is organization on a level even the Mafia couldn’t undertake, or else you would have already given the damn cake to them for fuck’s sake. And they’re definitely self-conscious enough to not think for a moment about you, the poor schmo who bought all this food for himself and is currently feasting on the dog food he bought for his dog because he loved her enough to make entire comics about her. Clearly, these organized cockroaches couldn’t have existed without the organization of your refrigerator, but your refrigerator is pretty disorganized, right? I mean, it just keeps on becoming more and more disorganized. It seems like it should already just be a giant festering disorganized mold by now. So if your refrigerator is still pretty organized but things just keep on becoming more disorganized, well, dammit, you’ve had your refrigerator for it seems like about a billion years and the cockroaches have been there at least half as long, so why in the hell does your refrigerator seem so organized whenever it keeps on becoming more disorganized?

And then you think: Holy shit! And you turn around to find your entire house a mess. The apparent organization of your refrigerator was an island of organization compared to the rest of your house, which is crazy. And then you think: But wait a damn minute here! My closet is still organized, too! Just like my refrigerator! And in your closet you find: Ghostly nonexistent organized cockroaches floating around.

It turns out that your refrigerator was organized because of random fluctuations in space-time that make it more organized than the rest of your house, which is not organized. And the roaches that live inside your refrigerator think that everywhere is just as organized as your fridge, but that’s only because the organization of your fridge–you know, organized in that everything in there is food, except possibly the fruitcake–keeps them alive. And the ghost-roaches in your closet exist without real bodies because there was only enough organization to make them think that they were alive, when in reality they do not exist, because there’s not enough organization to make them exist.

That is the Boltzmann Brains theory in a nutshell, if I read the Wikipedia article correctly. Basically, according to this gonzo “philosopher”, the reason that entropy is increasing in our universe but seems so low to us is because we were created out of an island of non-entropy. And so everything to us seems all peachy-keen like, because we get to live in Not-So-Much-Entropy Land, while there are starving children on Planet Zargon-5 who have to live with lots of entropy, and thus don’t get to take a trip on Einstein’s Super Relativity Brain-Busting Science Ride like we do.

And that’s only the half of it, according to Boltzmann anyway. Not only do some people have to deal with more entropy than us–I’m looking at you, Janet Reno–but there are some places in the universe where sentient beings don’t even get to have bodies. There’s so much entropy around them and so little energy to live off of that they’re just brains floating about in space, having pretend lives and believing that they’re living just like we are, on a nice little Earthen flat relatively devoid of entropy, excepting that they’re really just brains floating about in space. Excepting that we could be these brains floating about in space, because we’d never know, because we’d still think that we were living in states of relative non-entropy.

And how does this guy explain the whole ridiculous idea? Random fucking fluctuations! Let me remind you that that might be how Hitler was created. He says the whole entire universe is the product of a random fluctuation, and that our world is the product of a smaller random fluctuation, and that the only reason we perceive our little lovey-dovey happy happy universe as having less entropy is because it’s not normal, and the only reason we see it that way is because that state of existence–one without so much of The Refrigerator Contents Force–is the only reason we exist. And if it weren’t for that, we would be made by the little tiny fluctuations that make the peasant bodyless Boltzmann Brain People, living on the streets, on whatever little scraps of random entropy fluctuations happened to pass by.

And that, random Google stumbler, would suck.

Usually, I’m not a very charitable guy. I mean, I give money to the Defenders of Wildlife, but that’s only because they give me wolf shirts in return. So this is unusual for me, but I say it’s time to devise a charity. We’ll call it the “Give energy to the Boltzmann Brains” fund. The way it works is, you give, say, twenty-three milliwatts of your energy to our fund, and we’ll use special space-age technology from the (not Boltzmann) brains at General Electric and NASA to send your energy to a Boltzmann Brain in need. With your contribution, within a month a needy Boltzmann Brain could have the energy necessary to be rescued from the clutches of chaos. Within a year, he (or she) might have the ability to develop a real working cellular body structure. And within forty years, that Boltzmann Brain might finally be able to have the ultimate realization of sentient consciousness: the prostate examination.

Send your donations to: “World Boltzmann Brains Federation”, c/o The Luigiian, West Earwig, Wisconsin, 90210. Remember: the Boltzmann Brains need your help.

Not to mention Tom Fischbach. Especially if you’re a psychiatrist.

Texas Part 2: Bikini Ladies, Jellyfish and Sea-Poo

Although I promised a prompt delivery of Part 2 of my oh-so-interesting trip to Texas, sometimes important things come to pass. For example, I recently came to within an inch of my life, and the reason I am currently able to write this post is because I chose Red Lobster over Bennigan’s on Saturday. Let me explain.

Apparently, there was recently a Gay Pride Parade in Albuquerque. Now, we all have our own opinions on homosexuality; for example, I nicknamed my gay friend Dessie “Sabrina” after the noted deviant pervert furry comic “Sabrina Online”, about a skunk who works at a porno studio. This is not to suggest that I think that Dessie is going to work in pornography; she has already told me she plans either to become a physicist or a worker at a sewage treatment plant, both of which she would probably be very good at, considering her impressive sexual experiments with the female anatomy and all that. But still.

Anyway, apparently Albuquerque homosexuals stayed up very late, until 2:00 PM on Saturday, offending one woman, who said to our local NBC News Affiliate (Motto: We’ve Got The Same Theme Music As Every Other NBC News Affiliate), I quote, “the loud noise kept thumping into our room”. I should note that this woman was wearing plaid when she said this.

The reason this is important: Yesterday I had a choice: I could either go to Bennigan’s, which was near the gay pride parade (this was next to a Subaru dealership, I should add), or Red Lobster, which was not. I chose Red Lobster, because I wanted the taste of fish, which I knew I absolutely could not get at a gay pride parade, because I am male. And so I narrowly survived being trapped in a gay pride parade and forced to party fabulously until two in the morning.

Speaking of fish: My Texan fishing trip. This was an important part of my day before Shrimporee, the largest celebration of shrimp in America. Before we could go to the festival of sea-roaches, it was necessary that we go fishing. Our crew included:

  • Mike, a second cousin of mine.
  • Cindy, his wife.
  • Mike II, who was the husband of Debbie, a second cousin of mine or something.
  • Matt, who got sunburned very badly, to the point that all of his skin fell off, who was my third cousin, according to my mother who has already had several beers.

We drove out into the water and the heat, the searing, burning heat, oh God the heat, with country music playing loud enough to scare off fish for a distance of several hundred miles, and proceeded to not catch any fish for three hours. Well, to be honest Mike and Matt caught fish that were large enough to club several people to death, whereas I caught a sunburn that would stay with me until we finally got to New Mexico, which was a source of much more cursing.

Cap’n Mike got a catfish, which was also very large, and which added to its size by having large whiskers that could be used to cut people with. I was impressed by all of these fish, as well as all the water, which does not exist in any form in New Mexico, except in the form of occasional flash floods.

This fishing trip was immediately followed by Shrimporee, and although I very much wanted to use the fish we caught to smack around whoever invented Shrimporee, I thoughtlessly chose not to act on my impulses. This was probably good, because had I actually attacked somebody I wouldn’t have been able to watch my various cousin relatives get stung by jellyfish, which is a convenient way to introduce you to Part 2 of my story.

Apparently, in Texas they have large festivals, with much hooting and shouting and beer-drinking and country music, whenever a young Texette is actually able to graduate from high school in spite of being a Southerner. These festivals are huge, accommodating as many as twenty of the graduate’s friends, and are generally commenced by the graduate, in this case my cousin Jamie, throwing a random object, in this case a water balloon, at a random helpless sea-dwelling creature, in this case a seagull, which in this case appeared to waddle off, muttering under its breath that it was going to have its revenge. Such a festival is a source of great pride for a Texan, and so the proud Texan parents introduce their children to shitting seagulls and sand that smells like poo.

Indeed, “poo” would describe very succinctly the beach in Corpus Christi. For example, the sand underneath the ocean smells like poo; you swim around in various fish poo; the seagulls above you poo into the water; you feel like poo after having a jellyfish wrap its tentacles around your leg, as happened to my cousin Jamie; and so on. Basically, the beach is composed of various types of poo.

The first thing you notice in Corpus Christi water, besides the poo and the fact that it is surrounded by sand that is very sharp and painful to step on, is that the water is basically a giant pool of jellyfish that float back to shore, attacking anything that gets in their way, such as priests, nuns, Prince, clowns, and mimes. Jamie was outright terrified of these creatures, and asked that the large posse of people currently following her out into the ocean swim back into shore. We, the collective members of this large sheeplike congregation, chose not to, and were consequently confronted with Wrath of Jellyfish which immediately surrounded us.

“Hi”, I said to a passing jellyfish.

It began to move towards me, forcing me to walk away very slowly, making sure I did not haphazardly step on a stingray or some other Godawful stinging creature God put into the oceans to keep us out of them.

Jamie, naturally being the one who suggested we get back to shore, was the one who got stung by a jellyfish. The males in this party were then forced to carry her, kicking and screaming, all the way back to the hot sharp sand surrounding this scene, which by my estimates was at least twenty-five miles away, and which stretched at least one hundred miles before we could finally put some shoes on and get our collective glasses back on.

Once we finally got back to shore, it was time to “hang out”, which in this group meant “chatter nervously while people sing karaoke”. As a good example of the way these festivities went on, I mentioned to Jamie’s boyfriend that my favorite Def Leppard song was “Rocket.”

(Courtesy Choppo the Great)

I mentioned this because he was wearing a Def Leppard T-shirt.

Travel Tip: If a guy is wearing a band shirt, don’t ever say what your favorite song from said band is, because chances are it is absolutely terrible and he will tell you everything that was wrong from said album, such as that anybody who likes THAT album is WRONG and BORDERLINE RETARDED because the drummer had recently had his left arm amputated and thus could not play as well, and the album you are referring to marks the date the band SOLD OUT and WENT COMMERCIAL and EVERYTHING THEY DID AFTER THAT WAS MADE FOR STUPID RETARDED SHEEPLE WITH NO TASTE IN MUSIC LIKE YOU.

Travel Tip Number Two: It doesn’t matter if Allmusic liked the album. Nobody understands a band like the guy that demonstrates his love for said band by wearing a T-shirt.

So anyway, what I’m basically saying is, that being a desert-dwelling wolf-person who is as accustomed to the sea as a porcupine is accustomed to Swedish folk music, I did not fit in with the sea dwellers around me. I felt like an outcast, especially when I decided not to participate in the Great Volleyball Tournament that was to come. As some background, by this point all of my female cousins had taken off all of their clothing save their bikinis, and my own libido not knowing that they were in fact my cousins, had taken off; and thus I was thrust into the unenviable position of being the Jay Naylor of the group, which, as you may already know, is not a good thing, and you can probably imagine why it is not.

The other reason I chose not to participate in the volleyball thing is because various seagulls had taken to pooping on the beach, in their traditional mating style known as “shit on everything that moves”. I was debating with myself whether or not I should leave the underneath-part of the elevated building I was currently under. After a very long while I chose to try to run underneath the seagulls, until one, apparently seeking revenge on Jamie for the earlier balloon-throwing thing, flew before me, and as I watched it fly past, gracefully, out of its rear, came a pair of small white globes, which landed on the ground with a tiny “splat.”

“Fuck this,” I said.

Later on, we threw water balloons around in a circle, wherein if the water balloon exploded in your face, regardless of the pain and suffering and bodily wetness it dealt to you, you were “out”, and then finally left for home. This was the last day of our trip. There’s more to come, but I know you don’t care, so notice the tab above you marked “Toyota A-BAT”, especially if you happen to be named Matt Sperling or Ian Cartabiano, or if you think ugly pickup trucks are funny.

Until next time, when I lose what is left of my dwindling Internet audience.

-To Be Continued-

Texas Part I: “Shrimporee”, Satan-Killing Sticks, and Throwing Beer Bottles at Stop Signs

So you’re going to Texas, eh? That’s fine by me. I know while I was there, I was all a hankerin’ for a swell time, sweller even than the buffalos get when they get a big ol’ lick of that there salt lick, ya follow me pardner? Y’see, goin’ down to the coast, likes them thar in Corpus Christi, gives ya a long, long time ta relax, to take yer mind off of yer problems. Just gets ya a big ol’ American pickup truck, drive out to the beach and relax. Then ya can partake of an ol’ time shrimp roastin’ before you get back on the trail to drive them cattle up down near ta’ ol’ Johnson’s barn and get back to cursing at furriner’s and people drivin’ Japanese cars before sundown. Yee-Haw!

All right, sorry. It’s just that, having been in a state like Texas, with humidity so high that you can see the individual droplets of water in the air, I have taken to speaking in Traditional Southern Drawl, and thinking Traditional Redneck Thoughts. You know the drawl I’m talking about. It’s the kind of drawl you get after having a stroke that paralyzes the entire left side of your body. It’s the kind of drawl you get because it’s so damn hot that you would rather die than use the requisite energy to reach for the suntan lotion. It’s the kind of drawl Texans use for obvious reasons.

So anyway, sorry if I sound a little odd in this post, because I’ve spent an entire week in Texas, where it is hot and humid rather than hot and bone-achingly dry. As a New Mexican, being in Texas this long was also difficult because I kept on wanting to refer to the state as Dumbfuckistan. This is not necessarily because I think all Texans are dumbfucks, but because whenever Texas does something really cool and fun, like adding rest stops on their highways so my bladder doesn’t explode, I, as a New Mexican, must insult and belittle them to make up the difference. For example, here’s a sample conversation I once had with my mother:

My Mother: Wow, it’s real nice that they have rest stops every few miles here, huh?

Me: Yeah, but that’s only because all Texans are full of shit and they have to shit every few hours to stop from exploding from all the shit that is pent up in their bodies.

You can only imagine our stories about San Antonio.

So anyway, on my trip to Texas I saw many things of beauty, such as rest stops; places to eat, like a truckstop where I got sick off of an apparently nuclear radiation-emitting chicken-fried steak (the waitress felt the effects especially bad); and really hot places, like Ingleside, Texas, where I went to see my cousin Jamie escape from the penitentiary known as small town high-school.

I noticed some important differences between Ingleside, Texas and Albuquerque, New Mexico. For example:

  • In Albuquerque, they have a great many poisonous centipedes that make you wish they were dead, and a few cockroaches that people don’t really care about. In Ingleside, they have a few centipedes nobody cares about, and a great many cockroaches that make people react as if Satan created cockroaches to interfere with the mechanisms of the universe as we know it.
  • In Albuquerque, the dry air and hot sun makes your skin burn and peel during the summer. In Texas you are simply covered with a thin disgusting film of saltwater and God alone knows what else year round.
  • In Albuquerque, there are mountains and balloons: In Texas they have water and shrimp.
  • Did I mention they have shrimp?

As you might expect, I went to Shrimporee, one of the largest and most important shrimp celebrations in America. Let’s be honest, this is the most important thing that happened to me on the entire trip. Jamie’s graduation, for example, went fine, but it wasn’t particularly unique, except that Jamie chose to wear humongous white boots that made her instantly noticeable by anybody watching the graduation that day, including aliens in space. And I did in fact go fishing, and did not die in the attempt in spite of my companions having caught fish that were large enough to be used as weapons. But shrimp, well, they’re on a different level of concern for me. Shrimp gumbo, shrimp scampi, fried shrimp; it didn’t matter to me. I just wanted something, well, shrimply amazing.

And so we traveled to Shrimporee. Shrimporee is exemplary of everything that is Texan. It is filled with many important Texan themes. Among the many I noticed:

Of course, these were not the prevailing themes. The prevailing theme was quite clearly shrimp, oftentimes tied to the other important themes. For example, they had a massive papier-mache shrimp attached to the back of a Ford F-250 Super-Duper-Duty 2500 SuperCrewMax Doublecab Deluxe.

More commonly, however, they simply had fried shrimp to eat, priced a dollar per piece, which I was told was overpriced.

I wound up getting lost at Shrimporee, in spite of the fact that the festival is only held on maybe a few dozen acres of land. I would make some kind of snide comment, such as that it was because all the fat Texan asses at the festival made it difficult to find my integral family units, but I will instead contribute it primarily to the fact that I was taking pictures of the rides so that I could make fun of them later in this post.

The people at this event purchased many items, but judging by the most common item on the shuttle we took to get home, I’d say the most popular item at Shrimporee was wooden sticks for $5 at Dick’s Stick Shoppe. Apparently, these were simply wooden rods, the proceeds of which went to a local church which said the sticks would help people walk with Jesus. I do in fact know that they would probably help kill Satan, but this is beside the point. Texans were a’purchasin’ sticks by the bushel and I couldn’t blame them. Hey, it’s Jesus, people. He’s awesome, and generally doesn’t make fun of small town festivals like I have throughout this post.

Don’t get me wrong, Shrimporee was cool, in the same way that the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta is cool, and I thank the respective family members that took time out of their busy days roasting in seaside Texas’s sweltering heat to take me to the festival of shrimp. You go to the festival, eat the shrimp, check out the cars and such, ride the rides, and go home, which is very similar to the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta except that at the balloon fiesta you go out at the crack of dawn without sleep and watch giant bags of hot gas rise into the air for entertainment purposes, whereas at Shrimporee you eat overpriced shrimp without tartar sauce. As one guy said:

“Really? No shrimp sauce?”

I think that summarizes Shrimporee. Go, check out the giant papier-mache shrimp, eat shrimp, ride rides, throw up, complain about the lack of tartar sauce, go home, set your house on fire, etcetera. It’s a great festival, that was the height of my trip to Texas, until I got to go to the beach to see sea-poo, jellyfish, pooping seagulls and sexy ladies with cute bellies. But that’s for another post, one that will probably be written by next week.

-TO BE CONTINUED-