Quick Review: Mercedes-Benz Internal Corporate Propaganda Video

Do you ever wonder what the funniest internal corporate propaganda video ever made looks like? ‘Cause guess what? The guys at TTAC and Autoblog have found it. I give you:

Sometimes in a corporation’s life, it has a life-affirming question it must ask. “Will I go after Toyota, or will I put out a corporate-propaganda video that pretends I’m better than Toyota?” Mercedes has chosen the latter route, and that will make all the difference. I like to think that, for time immemorial, when a man goes to his local dealership, and sees all those shiny cars, with their shiny headlights and shiny hood ornaments and shiny windows and just everything generally as shiny as possible, including the dealer’s bald head, he’ll look at that car, and when it’s time for him to write out that check, the thing on his mind is: that video. And then he’ll go set the car on fire, because he knows these people made it.

Who does this guy think he is anyway? I’m guessing Audi, because of the text on the bottom left saying “Audi bye bye”. At least, that’s what I’m hoping. Please, singer bye bye. Audi I can live with. I’m assuming you probably couldn’t even watch thirty seconds of the video (and just think, Mercedes-Benz employees had to watch the whole video, four and a half minutes long!). I won’t force you to look at it again. You can thank me later. I know. Feel free to cry. It’s OK. It’s going to be OK. Yeah, go ahead and let your emotions out. We all wept for humanity when we saw the video. There you go. Anyway, you might think he’s just some random rich white kid the executives drug out of the local Hot Topic (he might be, don’t get me wrong), but he’s actually the lead singer for the music* too. Imagine that! A likely Dragonforce fan makes horrible music*! My God, I never could have guessed!

(Just so you know, I did guess it was Dragonforce. Yeah, I’m a badass.)

*I would call it “aural holocaust”, but this would probably be offensive both to Jews and Nazis**.
**P.S. also U2 and Bono.

I think the part that sold this video for me is when they get to the “We make the Japs cry” part. It isn’t so much that it’s funny, it’s that it shows how disconnected from reality corporations like Mercedes-Benz really are. Mercedes-Benz makes the Japs cry? Really? Yeah, guys, I’m sure Toyota’s just shaking in its shoes as the number one automaker on Earth, with ten billion dollars in cash that it could literally use to build anything, when it thinks about you. “AHHHH OH JESUS NO MERCEDES-BENZ IS GOING TO DESTROY US WITH ITS SUPERIOR GERMAN ENGINEERING AHHHHHHHHhahahaha oh wait my brain went out again. Silly me.”

Then in the end the employees make a giant Mercedes-Benz logo, redefining pathetic in one fell swoop. Underneath the human logo is the slogan “THAT’S HOW WE BEAT THEM ALL.”

I like to think Hitler made them do this. Hell, maybe he did. I don’t really know. But, what I do know, is that this “motivational” video is yet one more indicator that Germany’s not done with racism and fascism yet. From the folks that gave you Hitler’s car, we give you… more Hitler’s car. “WE MAKE THE SLANTY-EYED PEOPLE CRY ROTFL!”

What I’m saying is, it’s hilariously stupid racism, but it’s still racism. Sorry guys. And for those of you pathetic losers that actually bought a Mercedes-Benz, remember–your money went into this. It isn’t like Mercedes just made a big pile of cash materialize out of thin air and then used it to make this pile of crap, they used your money to make this pile of crap. Way to support fascism and racism, chump.

Man. And I thought buying a Jeep Patriot would be cool. Then I realized that these guys helped design it. I think I’ll be buying a Tacoma now. Thanks a lot, guys.

Great Writers Throughout History: Maddox

(Pantera, “Cowboys from Hell”)

Very few times in the epochs of human existence has a writer so fluent, intelligent, and tolerant as the great George Ouzonian been able to express himself, least of all on such a large expanse on the Internet, without being summarily tortured and killed. It is a testament to our time that such a great writer as Mr. Ouzonian–known on the Internet as “Maddox”–can write enlightening, progressive treatises on issues current to our time without fear of retribution.

Maddox’s most important contribution to the literary world can be seen in his poignant essays on the women that make up our world, our mothers, wives and daughters who give us life and provide millions of men with love and compassion when they need it the most. This can be seen especially clearly in his groundbreaking masterpiece The Alphabet of Manliness. This avant-garde epic, which stretches 204 pages in length, tackles important issues of today, such as Ass-Kicking, Boners, Copping a Feel, Female Wrestling, and Chuck Norris.

(under Copping a Feel)

Figure 2: A droopy, pudgy, lumpy mess of an ass. Notice the pockmarks (1), awkwardly shaped slabs of meat jettisoning out from the sides of the waist (2), the clenched uninviting crack (3) and the burgeoning folds of cellulite (4). Just nasty.

Figure 3: A thick ass looks like a happy smile. You can see that this ass is healthy and bursting with flavor.

A fat ass is a sad ass. You don’t want anything to do with a fat ass, other than to loathe it. A thick ass, on the other hand, is plump and beautiful; it should make you feel hungry like when you see a glazed ham that you can’t afford in a Christmas catalogue. (Alphabet of Manliness, page 23)

(under Chuck Norris)

I walked up the staircase for what seemed like days, and when I finally reached the top, I saw Chuck Norris sitting on his throne. I dared not look him in his eyes because one time this guy looked him in his eyes and Chuck Norris spontaneously combusted him. No one is allowed to speak with Chuck; the only thing you are allowed to do in his presence is bow, kiss his ring, bow again, and leave. So I walked up to his throne and saw that he was wearing a ring made out of solid diamonds with a unicorn on it that had an erection [Figure 3; the caption reads “I’d have a boner too if I were on Chuck Norris’ ring.”]

I kissed his ring, and then I wanted to thank him, so I said, “Sir, permission to thank you for the privilege of allowing me to kiss your ring.” If Chuck Norris doesn’t immediately kill you, that means he has granted you permission. I thanked him, bowed and left. It was the happiest day of my life. (The Alphabet of Manliness, page 117)

Can enlightening passages like these give us any doubt as to the genius concealed within the hallowed pages of The Alphabet of Manliness? No. No, they really cannot.

Really, I cannot express in words the kind of thinking and writing ability that went into constructing such brilliant quotables as

I saw slick Willy Clinton on TV today. He was signing some bill to ban imports on goods that come from companies that violate child labor laws. Why? What good are kids if they don’t work? If kids don’t work, then who will mine the coal?? (From here)

Bob Saget is Satan* (*Note: Bob Saget is a great comedian outside of Full House and America’s Funniest Home Videos, don’t take this page too seriously.) (From here)

“I think you’re cute!” Lie. No girl thinks I’m cute. I’m repulsive. I’m hideous. (From here)

Evil Nazi Feminists From Hell.

Where the hell is the feminist movement today? I looked through some feminist books at the library, and almost every one of them bitched about male patriarchy. Oppression this and equal rights that. BORING. Where’s the violence? Nobody wants to read about a single mom trying to raise a kid and keep a job. People want to read about explosions, monsters, and exploding monsters.

Feminists are loud, stupid, bitchy and above all: annoying. All they do is run around shrieking about men. News flash: nobody gives a damn. Go away. I’m pretty tired of taking responsibility for some slack-ass women that expect special privilages [sic] from men.

And lest we not forget, Maddox links to the webcomic Ctrl-Alt-Delete on his front page, here:

This is Ctrl-Alt-Delete’s comic for today:

With these two artists being at the level of intelligence and ability they’re at, I thought I should combine some of their finest work into a powerful synthesis. See what you think of my efforts:

The bottom panel in both comics is from a story arc in Ctrl-Alt-Delete. In the arc, the comic’s lead character Ethan and girlfriend Lilah are preparing for the birth of their child. Lilah suffers a miscarriage. This really happened to Buckley. He said regarding his hoped-for family’s real-life miscarriage:

Some many years ago, I was in a relationship and we suffered a miscarriage. Now, this relationship was toxic to begin with and doomed to fail regardless, so that the miscarriage was the straw that broke the camel’s back came as no surprise. Still, it’s a tough thing to handle because it’s nobody’s fault. And I know that it’s often much harder on the woman than on the man. However, I also know that it doesn’t necessarily turn you into a sad, depressed sack of tears for the rest of your life. People move past it.

Really, that’s all you need to know to understand the caliber of writer we’re dealing with here. It’s always nice to see a guy like Maddox: A guy that likes webcomics of the caliber of Ctrl-Alt-Del; a guy that shows such incredible humility; a guy that has such love for his fellow man; and a guy that has the state of mind to tell us about how women are sluts and feminists are Nazis. Like Rush Limbaugh or that pathetic nerd in your Computer Science class, Maddox’s commentary on America rings out above the intelligence of well-adjusted, normal people.

When I read Maddox’s literary masterpieces, each crafted with all the strength of brain, firmness of message, and reason of being I have come to expect from the Internet, I tremble. It is like a dream, in which I am taken down the river of Life, and I hit a rapids, and am thrown from my raft and crack my head on a rock. I am given that kind of feeling reading Maddox’s blog. And I can be comforted in knowing that his kind will be with us for a very long time.

Hey, a couple thousand years of progressive human civilization can go fuck itself.

UPDATE (July 31, 2008): I have found images which, in my opinion, prove that Maddox is a homosexual and likes the cock. These images were found here.

Maddox Sucks.

I’m not exactly sure when I came to the conclusion that Maddox–the sole writer for the wrongly-titled Best Page in the Universesucks. Maybe it was when he deleted his parody of Something Awful from his website. Or maybe it was when he released his literary abortion known as The Alphabet of Manliness. Perhaps it was whenever his fanboys started writing knockoffs so bad they almost made The Alphabet of Manliness seem palatable by comparison. Or maybe it was when he wrote this. Or maybe it was whenever he diluted the title of “Real Man” by applying it to his own pale, fat chauvinistic nerd ass.

All of the above reasons–plus a plethora of others I’ll get to in this review–are perfectly acceptable reasons to hate Maddox. Yes, hate. In the same way that Maddox “hates” old people, children, women, the Microsoft X-Box, the iPhone, and cheese pizza, I despise Maddox for being Maddox. To put it another way, I dislike the kind of guy who names his website “The Best Page In the Universe” and then uses it to mock people who somebody might actually give two shits about. Punctuating this L. Ron Hubbard-styled exercise in egotism is his brown-nosing fanbase which worships his work to the point of religious obsession. Could The Best Page in the Universe be the next Scientology, with Douglass DC-8-styled battlecruisers and intergalactic feminist aliens? Is that not the most terrifying possibility ever put onto the Internet? Let us not even entertain the thought of either and just move on.

Probably the easiest reason to hate Maddox is because he’s a terrible writer. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. “HURR HURR, TALK ABOUT A HYPOCRITE. SHITTY WRITER MAKING FUN OF ANOTHER WRITER’S SHITTY WRITING. LOLS!” Whatever you say, Captain Dumbass. Regardless of my writing talents, my site is tiny and inconsequential. Nobody cares what I think about anything. The likelihood of anybody–let alone several hundred thousand fans–actually reading this post and caring about what it says are slim to nil. The reason Maddox’s shitty writing is so obnoxious is because he is actually a professional because of it. People actually give a shit about what Maddox thinks about something. Somehow, in spite of being a parody (one hopes) of every single stupid manly clich√© ever made by anybody, ever, this man was able to get a book deal. And he got it based on–get this–his writing work on a fucking blog. Which puts him on the same publicity-hunting rung as Tila Tequila. Minus the tits and ass, of course.

Now, fair’s fair, some of Maddox’s later blog posts (were) actually decent. He criticized Bill O’Reilly–and was funny doing it! He coherently lampooned various crappy cars. He successfully made a tribute to some actual manly men without seeming like a chauvinistic douche about it–particularly the bits about Gregory Peck and Judge Mathis. Well, except for the part where he describes Peck driving with “a woman in the passenger seat, just like God intended”, but since this is Maddox we’re talking about, and he and chauvinism go together like shit and toilet water, I’ll let it slide. He even satirized Sesame Street’s decision to make a muppet with AIDS–and didn’t even make AIDS jokes while he was doing it, which puts him above many other bloggers and so-called “humorists” one could name.

Those were the good times for Maddox–a period of time stretching all the way from 2002 to, oh, around the end of 2003. So, about a year of half-decent humor and satire. But what if you look deeper, back to where he was starting, around, say, 1998? Boy, are you in for a surprise!

It’s not that I’m against a guy venting about those nasty high school jocks that stripped him naked and strung him up a flagpole or those girls that refused to touch his penis or whatever the hell people did to Maddox when he was a pasty-skinned nerdy loser, but Christ if it isn’t the most irritating thing whenever “entertainment” writers start putting it on their front page. As a warning: No, nobody wants to hear that you think girls are Nazis. As a side note: Nobody gives a shit. Seriously, cut it out.

In later years, “just to be a dick”, Maddox started timing his posts once every few months instead of once a week. Just about everything Maddox has made during this period–which, unfortunately, includes the present–is unfathomably terrible. Some argue he bottomed out around where he started ranting over crappy movies nobody cares about.¬† Others say it happened when he criticised states nobody cares about. Probably his worst-ever blog post was his bit on puns, where he lashes out both at people who make puns (who nobody cares about) and Dave Matthews Band (a band nobody cares about). Clearly, two things can be inferred from these posts:

  1. Nobody cares about the topics of the blog posts.
  2. Nobody cares about the blog posts themselves, either.

Nobody cares because all of this is stupid bullshit.

That’s enough of talking about Maddox’s blog (and yes, Maddox, your “webpage” is a blog), so let’s go on to his “professional career.” There are two principal parts to Maddox’s career as a professional writer: Namely, a comic book about beating up women and children which is so bad it probably makes Shredded Moose look like Penny Arcade in comparison; and The Alphabet of Manliness, which I’ve read and therefore can confirm is so bad it makes Shredded Moose look like Penny Arcade in comparison.

The Alphabet of Manliness is possibly the longest, most knuckle-draggingly stupid treatise on everything that is wrong with men that has ever been published. Its twenty six chapters are arranged alphabetically, as follows:

  1. A is for Ass-Kicking
  2. B is for Boners
  3. C is for Copping a Feel
  4. D is for Taking a Dump (Seriously, does Maddox know how to spell? Since when does T equal a D… You know what? Nevermind)
  5. E is for Enlightenment
  6. F is for Female Wrestling

Seriously, good God.

In case you’re wondering, yes, it gets worse from there. There’s the chapter on “Knockers”, another chapter on “Chuck Norris”, another in which he teaches his fans how to obedience train their women, under “O”, and the obligatory pieces on urinal etiquette and violence. This book–which runs 204 pages long–includes such memorable passages as

(under Copping a Feel)

Figure 2: A droopy, pudgy, lumpy mess of an ass. Notice the pockmarks (1), awkwardly shaped slabs of meat jettisoning out from the sides of the waist (2), the clenched uninviting crack (3) and the burgeoning folds of cellulite (4). Just nasty.

Figure 3: A thick ass looks like a happy smile. You can see that this ass is healthy and bursting with flavor.

A fat ass is a sad ass. You don’t want anything to do with a fat ass, other than to loathe it. A thick ass, on the other hand, is plump and beautiful; it should make you feel hungry like when you see a glazed ham that you can’t afford in a Christmas catalogue. (Alphabet of Manliness, page 23)

And no, I’m not including the nasty pictures.

(under Chuck Norris)

I walked up the staircase for what seemed like days, and when I finally reached the top, I saw Chuck Norris sitting on his throne. I dared not look him in his eyes because one time this guy looked him in his eyes and Chuck Norris spontaneously combusted him. No one is allowed to speak with Chuck; the only thing you are allowed to do in his presence is bow, kiss his ring, bow again, and leave. So I walked up to his throne and saw that he was wearing a ring made out of solid diamonds with a unicorn on it that had an erection [Figure 3; the caption reads “I’d have a boner too if I were on Chuck Norris’ ring.” Boy, do I feel sorry for the talented artists who had to draw the picture of a ring embossed with a bucking unicorn and what appears to be a two-foot erection. But, oh, wait, these artists asked to be a part of the project. Nevermind then, into the pit with you all. THIS IS SPARTAAAAA]

I kissed his ring, and then I wanted to thank him, so I said, “Sir, permission to thank you for the privilege of allowing me to kiss your ring.” If Chuck Norris doesn’t immediately kill you, that means he has granted you permission. I thanked him, bowed and left. It was the happiest day of my life. (The Alphabet of Manliness, page 117)

Why the hell did Maddox even decide to include this? Seriously, he’d get a boner from being on Chuck Norris’ ring? He’s willing to kiss an engraving of a unicorn with an erection? He thinks Chuck Norris wears a ring with an engraving of a unicorn with an erection? Is he some kind of gay zoophile or something? Oh wait, it’s a joke, and he says “I’m currently not single” on his FAQ page on his blog anyway. Okay. Male or female partner, Maddox? I seriously can’t tell anymore.

Oh yes, and then there was the chapter on “Metal”, which I will use as an excuse to put this music video here. Hey, screw you if you don’t like it, I do this for every post.

(Iron Maiden, “Number of the Beast”; posted by Nitro285, assuming he doesn’t force me to take it down because he’s a Maddox fan)

The most obnoxious thing about Maddox’s fanbase is how they use the term “satire” to defend his articles. Whenever Maddox’s fans are called upon by somebody with some modicum of decency to argue why it’s all right that Maddox writes multi-page essays on beating women or abusing children, and they refer to his work as “satire”, they are arguing that his arguments are just joking around. To put it another way, they’re saying it’s OK to talk about beating women as long as you’re just joking. Or, I guess, that it’s OK as long as you’re just mocking women, somehow.

If you’re going to write “playful” satirical essays on beating the shit out of a woman (LOL, playful?), don’t make an early statement about how feminists are Nazis and whining about how girls don’t like you and all women are sluts. Seriously, just no. And, as a corollary, don’t feed me shit about how your article on child abuse is a joke whenever you write early about how children are worthless without so much as cracking a smile.

I don’t know how else to explain to you why this (by which I mean Maddox’s anti-feminism shit) is not satire. I guess I can try the simplest reasoning I can think of: The reason it’s not satire is because the person who wrote it seriously believed what he was writing. Let me put it this way: Satire means that a person is making fun of somebody else, mocking them to make a point about their arrogance or stupidity. It’s not like Maddox is making fun of chauvinist pricks when he says feminists are Nazis. It’s not like he was just pretending to have a grudge against women when he wrote early on “To all those guys out there looking for a good woman… STOP LOOKING.” No, it’s quite clear this pathetic bullshit is not a joke. Maddox is making his opinions heard with the striking of a hammer, pounding them into your skull, with all the humor and intelligence of Ann Coulter or Rush Limbaugh. Which means that unless Maddox had an unusually enlightening conversation with the Tolerance Fairy and everything after that, including the obedience-training women chapter of the Alphabet of Manliness, is just Maddox making a commentary on how incredibly stupid and barbaric the American male is, he’s just being a chauvinist pig.

(Update Nov. 30, 2008:) I have heard increasingly angry commentary about this point, from many, many people who still argue that Maddox can be defended by simply saying he’s a satirist. To these people, Maddox is not just a “humorist” or a “humorous writer” or even a “shock writer”, they insist on the pretensions involved in calling a writer a satirist. Many have used the term “fratire” to describe Maddox’s style of writing. Which I suppose is honest, since “fratire” basically means “frat-boy satire” and Maddox is basically a frat boy without a fraternity. I will argue simply this: Satire is the art of ridicule. More specifically, it implies a folly or vice upon which scorn must be heaped. I wrote this article thinking that no sane human being, not even Maddox, could ever seriously believe that the women’s civil rights movement was a folly, and therefore I believed his fans merely to be wrong, not defending hatred and segregation of the sexes. I also felt that it was clear that Maddox could not be heaping scorn on anti-feminists and chauvinists, since Maddox has made it quite clear that he is against feminism in general. I suppose if Maddox regards the continued women’s rights movements as a “vice” or a “folly” seriously believes his commentary in Salon magazine that women’s subjugation in American society amounts to “not being able to vote”, and believes that womens’ rights are indeed much less important than rights for blacks or any other oppressed group, then I will relent and admit with shame and revulsion that Maddox’s work does indeed count as satire. The absolute most repulsive satire I have ever seen.

This post is at least five pages long and I still haven’t even begun to list all the reasons that Maddox is possibly the worst popular writer in the history of the Internet: The long list of obnoxious meme-like “manly” traits like his obsession with beef jerky and hot sauce; the inability to list a “like” that does not include lesbians, violence or antisocial behavior (because apparently his target audience is–you guessed it–35-year-old sexually insecure basement dwellers or thirteen-year-boys); suggesting that people kill themselves and then attacking anybody who says differently; and much, much more. Ha ha ha, Maddox, that suicide piece is hilarious. And your rebuttal to your detractors is just icing on the cake of brilliance.

In the end, you could almost forgive Maddox for being so awful if he were just venting. But when the guy’s so fuckin’ insecure of his self-worth he literally mentions in his bottom-of-the-page stat counter that he won’t be eligible for the Presidency until 2016 (“Vote for me then, guys, I’ll take away female suffrage and legalize rape”), says that his fans would make him President if they could, and you know they would just like he says, it becomes unforgivable. It’s like looking at Hitler before he became Chancellor of Germany, and yes I invoked Godwin’s Law. Because you know that’s how Hitler became Chancellor of Germany. Because you just know that it was sycophantic morons like this guy that contributed to Hitler’s ability to enslave all of Western Europe. Thank God Maddox’s legions of fans will never leave their computers, because otherwise I’d be terrified of their collective strength. Head for the hills! Maddox’s fans are coming! They’re going to go after the women and children like 4chan’s Scientology raid, only a billion times stronger and infinitely more stupid.

Just to finish this off: One of Maddox’s posts is entitled “Wireless Internet may well destroy our chances of contacting intelligent life.” In it, he describes how one of his fans is a complete retard and goes off on the rest of his fans using her as an example. The apparent gist of it all is that these people are making aliens think we’re all a bunch of semi-intelligent Neanderthals that aren’t worth contacting. Just so you know Maddox, it’s not your fans. Oh no. They’re the least of our problems. Our bigger problem is with the half-cocked, insecure dumbshit leading them into new levels of stupidity by driving asshatted unfunny chauvinistic crap into their thick skulls, calling it “humor” on the way down the Golden Road To Retard Center. Seriously, Maddox, go fuck yourself, or get your man-crush Chuck Norris to do it for you. You’re such a pathetic excuse for a “manly man” it would be a miracle if he even let you suck his cock. And even though I said I’d let it slide, seriously Maddox, if you think “a woman in the passenger seat, just like God intended” is the pinnacle of masculinity, you’d might as well trade in your penis and get a vagina. It wouldn’t be missed, trust me.

UPDATE (July 31, 2008): I have found images which, in my opinion, prove that Maddox is a homosexual and likes the cock. These images were found here and were uploaded to MaddoxMania’s “Hidden Maddox” archive.

The (Long, Long, Long, Long) Voyage Home: My Trip to Texas Part IV or III or Something

Last time I wrote about my trip to Texas I wound up on a long tirade about Albuquerque’s gay pride parade, which apparently caused many problems in spite of the fact that I wasn’t there and am not gay. Period. I am absolutely completely not gay at all in any way. My friend Dessabrina the Pagan Lesbian Skunkette Transformers Slash Fanfiction Author is but I am not.

Glad to clear that up. Now, first I mention this only because Shrimporee, the large and incredibly obnoxious celebration of shrimp I attended in Texas, was gayer than a gay pride parade, in that it sucked far more dick than the guys at said parade, and you were more likely to get screwed over by the price of shrimp there (approximately $4.59 a piece) than you were likely to get screwed by a twink wearing spandex at the parade. Look, I’m not saying Shrimporee sucked, but I’m saying that I think my going on a fishing trip in which the only thing I caught was a sunburn was considerably more fun than Shrimporee.

(Also, to appease my mother and conscience, which never shuts its mouth: Thank you guys again for accepting my dirty New Mexico blood into Texas.)

So anyway, like I was saying last time, we left Texas as fast as we could. It was hot, it was humid, it was San Antonio, with the ugliest highway overpasses in America bar absolutely none, it was Texas. We were going so fast I didn’t even have time to take a picture of a giant cowboy boot in front of an upscale clothing store in San Antonio. You’re going to have to take my word on this. It was huge.

Like, this big. For serious.

By the time we were within a hundred miles of the New Mexico Border, my mother, my grandmother and I had decided that we were going to make it to New Mexico before nightfall. At that point, we would rather stay in Artesia–site of an oil refinery, smell of an oil refinery, proud home of the only elementary school slash nuclear fallout shelter in the United States–than wind up staying in the Lone Star State. I’m saying if there were a nuclear war that started as we were driving that night, and we were a hundred miles from the border, and the bombs fell and we were still a mile or so away, we would mutate our way across the border, just so we didn’t wind up dying on Texas soil. The locals would probably tell us about the benefits of a John McCain presidency until our ears literally fell off if we didn’t anyway.

So, long story short, we made it there, and started cheering and hooting and yelling and thanking God that we finally got out of Texas alive. First stop was Carlsbad.

(Note: There is a large hole here.

Do not drive into it, it is not a tunnel. If you try to drive into the hole, bats will attack you and National Park Rangers will scream at you and possibly beat you to death with their walkie-talkies. I know this by experience.)

There were no rooms in Carlsbad. Well, okay, there was one, but it was at a hotel called “America’s Number One Value Choice Hotel” or some other ridiculously long name, and as you hotel conoisseurs know, a hotel is only as good as the number of syllables in its name. Three syllables generally are good, such as “Best Western”, unless there is a number behind them, such as “6”. Any more than that and it’s a fleabag, any less and the owners couldn’t afford three syllables. Remember that tip next time you go on vacation, it could save your life.

It was ten o’clock, and next up was Smellville, also known as Artesia. My mother lived there only six months, and it was still enough to give her flatulence, because of the oil refinery they have there. I was weary of staying here, because this would be too easy. Also, their only hotel was named the “Artesia Inn,” which was about as nice sounding as “Cockroach Alley”.

It was eleven o’clock.

Next, we wound up in Roswell. Now, Roswell is a large city, but apparently, there was a freak influx of “tourists” (READ: ALIENS) when we went here, so there were no rooms in Roswell, either.

Let me put it this way: The next town was three hours away.

It was twelve o’clock.

At night.

At this point my mother’s screaming and threatening to crash her vehicles into other vehicles, my grandmother’s on the verge of crying, the car’s almost out of gas, I’m afraid of being anally probed by the Roswell aliens, and it is dark and the mean streets of Roswell, New Mexico are filled with seventeen-year-old deviants with tiny foreign-made cars blasting punk rap in a desperate attempt to seem kind of cool while living in possibly the most white-bread part of all of America, where the only non-corn-feds are the hippies who come here to look for aliens and get pierced in vital organs.


Yes, we found a room, although I believe my mother would not have minded a nuclear war, at this point. (Hell, we could have stayed at the Artesia Elementary School Slash Fallout Shelter.) The room was at a Holiday Inn, which I do realize has four syllables rather than three, but we figured, screw it, it’s good enough. It cost us $150 for one night. And the damndest thing is, we were happy to get it.


Our trip back to Albuquerque was “fun”, in that we were well rested and my mother was no longer wishing death on passing vehicles. The soundtrack was Dire Straits’ “On Every Street”, which contains such tear-jerking lyrics as

We would like to thank the following for their

Invaluable contributions:

Danny Cummings, Paul Franklin, Vince Gill, Manu Kache,

Phil Palmer, Jeff Porcano & Chris White.

Dire Straits, “Calling Elvis”, 1991. Uploaded to Youtube by the user Bosstrack. No, I don’t know what’s going on in the video either.

Oh wait, those are the liner notes. Nevermind.

On this particular trip, I never bought any wolf shirts. I did get one with imprints of bare feet on it, apparently from a man named “Seaside Sam” who has some kind of “Barefoot Adventure” I never went on. This was given to me by my uncle Kevin, who also plays the guitar really well.

(Just so you know: I do not want to know what this “Barefoot Adventure” is. Please do not enlighten me if it has anything to do with any kind of perceived “romance” with this Seaside Sam. Also: TOTALLY NOT GAY)

What I did do on this trip home, however, was fun. It included:

  • Drinking lots of water
  • Urinating a lot
  • Driving (well, okay, my mom drove and I talked about pickup trucks the whole way home)

This pretty much summarizes the rest of the trip. As with many of our trips, we concluded at a restaurant named Gardunio’s, which, in addition to not sucking, has chocolate tacos.

I can think of no better end than that.

…And now, for some George Carlin

…Ranchers raise pathetic, worthless cattle and sheep, animals who cannot live off the land without human supervision, and the same ranchers kill wolves, magnificent, individualistic animals fully capable of caring for themselves without assistance. Individualism gives way to sheep behavior. Sound familiar?

I root for a wolf to someday grab a rancher’s kid. Yes I do. And you know something? The wolf would probably take the kid home and raise him, in the manner of Romulus and Remus; and probably do a better job than the rancher. Remember, wolves mate for life, and they care for their sick and infirm; they don’t run them off, or kill them, or abandon them. Give me a wolf over some fuckin’ jerkoff rancher any day of the week.

One last item to demonstrate the depth of human perversity: Some zoos now sell surplus animals to private hunting ranches where rich white men hunt them down and kill them for amusement.

No wonder they call it the descent of man.

–George Carlin, May 12, 1937-June 22, 2008.

Lupe approves of the above message.

Celebrating the Fourth of July with Muslim Footstools and Piccolo Petes

(Seriously, support our “coutry”. It’s a great “privilage”. Don’t be an asshole. Video supplied by “raatikainen22”.)

Perhaps in some countries they celebrate a holiday like the Fourth of July. Perhaps Mexicans have the Cinco de Mayo. And maybe the French have Bastille Day, sure. But there is no holiday like the Fourth of July. Very few holidays exist solely for the purpose of blowing shit up.

OK, sure, so the Fourth of July is technically supposed to be about celebrating America’s independence from the British. We had a damn good reason to get away from Britain. First, the British have dental problems. This is not funny because it is true.

Second of all, the British like to start massive wars and then blame them on their colonies. For example, say you’re trying to figure out why the hell Iraq is made up of various people that don’t interact with one another in any meaningful way except via hand grenade, or why Iranians hate everybody. These things can all be blamed on British people, and the Ottomans, who were Muslim footstools that took over the entire Middle East until 1921. For example, Iraq got settled by the British after World War I because the British thought that the Iraqis were dirty savages who couldn’t take control of their own affairs. This gave the British the right to take over their entire culture and ruin their lives by putting all kinds of different groups in the Middle East into one “nation-state” they referred to as “Iraq”, apparently because they felt that “Land of Savage Sand People” was too long to say in normal conversation. They did the same thing with Iran, excepting that instead of having a “mandate” to civilize Iranian culture, they just took all their oil and pissed them off. So, one could argue that the state of the Middle East is partially–if mostly–to blame on the British. But, of course, it is the Americans that did this, according to Britain anyway, because, like I already said, Britain blames everything on its former colonies. Hell, by tomorrow I’ll bet they’ll start blaming the lead paint in Chinese stuff on Hong Kong.

(Note: If you are British and believe that I am an unfunny idiotic douche who doesn’t know what he’s talking about, please send me hate mail at Luigirepublic@aol.com. I find it most entertaining.)

Anyway, so America had a damn good reason to leave Britain. Fledgling America, in an intense desire to “spread its wings” and “fly away” and “smack straight into the same old vat of shit Britain got itself into”, wanted to invade Iran and Iraq too. Just like old Mama Britain, except this time less racist and infinitely dumber.

The purpose of this post, however, is not to lambaste all the great things America has done for the world, writing pretentious anti-war messages as I go (such as NO LAND WARS IN ASIA YOU STUPID CONSERVATIVE HONKIES). This post is to talk about blowing shit up. Using explosives to fill the air with glowing embers and toxic chemicals is something America does best, as Iraq knows very well by now. And now I want to show you, as a typical white-trash American conservative, about how you, too, can blow shit up. And don’t worry: You don’t even need a gun permit to get fireworks. You can also leave your Klan uniform at home.

Step 1: Buy fireworks in huge boxes covered in American flags with names like “Freedom Fighter Explosives” and “Black Cat” and “FUCK IT LET’S KILL SOME NEIGHBORS.” These types of fireworks are generally bought by women at the supermarket so they can feel like good parents. They almost always include the following:

  • Cardboard tanks
  • Fountains with names like “Egyptian Bathing Princess”.
  • Fountains with names like “FREEDOM KILLERS”.
  • Sparklers, which can be used to set things on fire.
  • Little white bags filled with sand that nobody likes.
  • “Piccolo Petes”, which are obnoxiously loud but cause no major damage unless you use them properly.

Step 2: Buy bottle rockets, you big pussy. There is no better way to show off your retarded inner-American then by buying something that can be guaranteed to blow children’s fingers off or set your neighbor’s roof on fire. These are best accompanied by a handgun, which you fire off into the air like a moron so that all your neighbors know how much you care about our country. They can then call the authorities to express their gratitude.

Step 3: No All-American party is complete without at least three cases of liquor, steaks, ribs, other assorted meats, potato salad, and a big cake decorated to look like an American flag made out of cake. These are to ensure that by the time you get around to setting off your death candles, you’ll be drunk as a skunk and ready to celebrate your fat American ass off.

Step 4: Light your fireworks by putting your face right above them so if they malfunction you blow your face off. Almost every stupid person I’ve ever seen light a firework lights it via this time-tested method. I have no idea why. I always stand back a couple feet. To each his own.

Don’t forget to light a Black Cat next to your eardrum, so that you’ll lose your hearing for a week and cause permanent damage. Lighting a firecracker in your hand is a great way to blow your hands off. Don’t worry, you’ll probably make more off the lawsuit than you’d make actually using your hands anyway, considering how much of a moron you’d have to be to hold a lit firecracker.

(Also: Don’t worry if you accidentally grab a real black cat and light it on fire next to your ear. It will have the same effect, except that it will also claw your face off.)

Step 5: Shoot off the gun some more at twelve O’clock for no apparent reason. When the bullet comes down, you can be sure it won’t be your dumb ass that gets a slug of lead through his thick skull.

The rest of your extra-special Fourth of July should be obvious. For example, when little Billy gets bitten by a venomous snake or garden hose, you should take him to a hospital, while shooting your gun up into the air to call attention to law enforcement officials that you have driven your child to the hospital while drunk and wearing only your beer-stained undergarments. Extra points if the snake turns out to be the kind you get in the fireworks box that starts out as a little tablet and grows into this long ashy black thing. You will know it because the box it comes in will have ludicrous pictures of cobras on the outside with names like “FLASHING BLACK COBRA OF DEATH”.

That’s it for this year. I hope your Fourth of July can be as fun as you can make it while at Guantanamo Bay. Don’t keep Bubba waiting. He’s from Iran.