Hollywoodphony.com

I'm moving!

2006-08-14T03:09:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's true. After talking about it for months, I have a found a new, free blog service to host my blog. The new address is http://hollywoodphony.wordpress.com, but from now on, hollywoodphony.com will direct to that address, not this one.

This blog will still exist, it just won't be updated. There really is no reason to go here anymore.

All my old blogs are up at my new page, which, like I said, is located at hollywoodphony.com.

Please update your bookmarks, if you have set them to my blogspot address. If you bookmarked hollywoodphony.com, you should be all set.

If you subscribe to my blog via rss feed (which is a great idea, by the way), please re-direct your feed reader to my new feed http://hollywoodphony.wordpress.com/feed.

I hope you like the look of my new blog, I think it is better, please let me know how you feel, either way. If enough people like the old version, I may switch back. So feel free to send me an email to efilipkowski@yahoo.com.

Thanks for reading,
Eric

The blood of democracy...

2006-08-12T12:11:00.000-07:00

"Don't move or I'll blow your fucking head off."

The voice was calm. It emitted absolute authority.

Mark DePonce woke his wife, Cheryl. As she came to, she saw the four armed men in masks standing in a semi-circle around her bed and she screamed. Mark put his hand over his wife's mouth.

"We just do what they say, honey," he assured her, as her eyes grew wide with terror and she thrashed against her husband as he held her still.

"Yeah, this bitch would do well to listen to you." Only the leader spoke.

"I will not have you speak like that in my home--". He was trying to be a toughguy, but the sawed-off shotgun to his temple put an end to that act.

Mark DePonce shut up and urinated all over himself and his wife, but neither seemed to notice.

The four men motioned for them to walk downstairs to the living room where two more men were waiting with the three DePonce children.

"Daddy, what's going on?" asked the middle child, Jessica.

"It's gonna be OK, baby. Just be quiet and do what these men say, OK?" She nodded.

Jessica held on to her little sister, Megan, who was only six. Their older brother, Matthew, had his arms around both of them. He was protecting his little sisters and his father swelled up with pride until he noticed the lack of urine on his son's underwear, which stood in stark contrast to his own soaked pajamas. His pride was quickly replaced with shame.

Mark's mind was going a mile a minute. He looked for any sort of blunt instrument he could use to turn the tables. Not finding any, he reminded himself he was no Steven Seagal. No, it was best to play along, do whatever they said.

The family stood there for a moment, not sure what was coming.

After what seemed like a whole lifetime of waiting, the leader produced a 9mm handgun and issued a command to Mark: "Choose."

The children looked to their father, confused. He couldn't look back at them, though. He knew all too well what the man in the mask was asking him to do.

"I can't... I can't do it," he pleaded in a tone of desperation that sent shivers up the spines of his wife and children. This was their father, their husband, their protector. He sounded like a scared, little child.

"Fine. Then I shoot them all. All but you," said the voice.

"You bastard!" Mark grew a sack and lunged at the leader. It was futile. Two others grabbed him and a third hit him on the back of the head with the butt of his shotgun.

Mark felt his face against the cold floor, the knee of one of the men on his back. The face of the leader loomed large above him.

"You fucking coward," he said with disgust, "you wanted us to shoot you. You go out the hero and you don't have to make the decision."

As he said it, Mark realized the man was right.

"Pick this piece of shit up," he commanded.

The others roughly pulled Mark to his feet. His wife and children were crying now.

"Listen up, buddy boy, no matter what you choose, someone's gonna die. And it ain't gonna be you. You'll live a long life, grow old and have to think about this choice you're going to make for a long time. I'll see to that."

Mark hung his head. How could anyone make such a decision?

"I can't," he whispered.

"Fine, they all die." The man raised his gun to Matthew's head.

"Daddy?" he sobbed.

"No!" Mark yelled, "I'll do it."

"Good," said the man.

"Cheryl, I'm sorry," Mark said through his tears.

Cheryl felt immediate betrayal. This was her soulmate, the man she loved. But in the seconds that followed, she realized she would have done the same, to protect the children.

"I love you," she mouthed to him.

"Wrong," said the man in the mask. "You choose one of them." He motioned towards the kids.

"Goddamit!" Mark cried out, "Have some fucking mercy, they're children for Christ's sake!" The kids crying got louder.

"5..." the leader counted down.

"No, I won't," insisted Mark.

"4... 3..." Continued the voice behind the mask.

"2..." He cocked his gun.

"1..." He again raised his gun to Matthew's head.

"Wait! Fine! It's Megan! Shoot Megan!" screamed Mark DePonce, motioning towards his youngest daughter.

"What?!" came the words, so primal and frenzied from Cheryl DePonce as she struggled in vain to protect her youngest and most-treasured daughter. "Why not Matthew?" she asked, not realizing what she was saying.

Matthew looked up at his mother, who was so quick to feed him to the wolves, but before he could say anything, the man in the mask cut him off.

"It's done. You made your choice." He strode over to the little girl, held the barrel of his handgun against her forehead and squeezed the trigger.

"Click."

They all stood there. Not sure what had happened. There comes an acceptance in the last few moments of your life. An acceptance of the finality of things. And this finality had been disturbed.

"What the--" asked Mark, speaking for the group.

The man in the mask knelt down by the littlest girl and did something odd: he hugged her.

He flung his arms around her neck tenderly and held her head against his face and whispered in her ear as she sobbed.

"It's going to be OK, none of you are going to die. But you must always remember: they picked you. They love you the least."

And with that, they were off. The family remained standing there, in a trance, wondering what the fuck had just happened.

Outside in the van, the leader took off his mask. As the guys congratulated themselves on a job well done, he called someone on his cell phone.

"Hello?" asked the voice, groggy with sleep.

"It's done," the man said.

"Chad?" I asked.

"I did it, buddy," he said with pride.

"Oh God, what did you do this time?" My mind began to wander the universe of terrible possibilities.

"I got even with that no-good son-of-a-bitch who stole your presidency!"

Albert Johnson of 1629 Bluebird Lane had ran against me in the election for leader of our town's Harvey Danger Fan Club. Things had gotten pretty heated and it seemed like someone had been spreading rumors about me and my past involvement with a loose association of people who traded tapes of Dave Matthews shows. Chances are it wasn't even Albert, but one of his supporters who was behind it.

Anyway, like I said, Albert lived at 1629 Bluebird Lane, right next to Mark DePonce and his family, who lived at 1633 Bluebird Lane. When my "good buddy", Chad Robuckle, heard about my loss in the election for presidency of the Harvey Danger Fan Club, he took it upon himself to "fix things", concocting this elaborate revenge scheme on Albert and his family.

Of course, after months of planning, it never occured to Chad to make sure he entered the correct house and hatch this scheme on the right guy and not some innocent bystander whose wife was now filing for divorce and custody of two of her three children.

But hey, that's Chad for ya.

Score one for "progress"

2006-08-09T12:08:00.000-07:00

Am I the only one?

Will no one else stand up to the tyranny of commercialism?

Today, I was deeply saddened to read that Disneyland will be removing the roller coaster ride from its beloved classic attraction, "The Matterhorn" (http://abcnews.go.com/US/wireStory?id=2291769).

"Oh no, they're tearing down the Matterhorn?" you ask?

No, they are not. They are removing the ride and leaving the building intact.

And what are they putting in the building, you ask? A store.

Not just a store, a Disney Store.

Maybe I'm showing my age, call me a relic, if you like, but I actually like the Matterhorn.

Sure, it's old and it's corny when the abominable snowman lights up and growls at you, but what's wrong with some good, old-fashioned, corny fun?

When I go to Disneyland, it's not to ride the latest thrill rides. If I want to go on a roller coaster that's 500 feet tall and goes 120 miles an hour, I'll go to Six Flags. That's also where I go if I want to get stabbed, but that's a topic for another time.

I go to Disneyland to relive my childhood. I walk under the train station and onto Main Street, USA and I am a kid again. Everything is safe and fun and the world makes sense. I see limitless possibilities laid out in front of me. Life is good.

Do I believe those are real elephants in the Jungle Cruise? No, they look fake as hell. Am I scared by any of the ghosts in the Haunted Mansion? Fuck no, asshole. I'm no pussy. Do I think I'm really in "the world of tomorrow" when I walk past Space Mountain? I'm not even going to answer that.

It's called "willing suspension of disbelief" and to all those people out there who lack an imagination: you should try it. If you can't take 10 hours out of your day where you pretend you're not a miserable son of a bitch, then I truly feel sorry for you.

When I would get in line at the base of that big, white mountain, I would look up at its peak in awe. Since I don't believe in vaccinations, I'll never get to travel overseas and see the real Matterhorn, so this is as close as I will get. I stand there by the pine trees and breathe in their scent. The sound of yodelers fills my ears. I close my eyes and I'm in Switzerland.

The ride is old, I understand that. According to the article, that's the reason they gave for closing it.

"'Popa granda' is a Swiss word for 'grandfather' and we believe the Matterhorn is the Popa Granda of Disneyland. Unfortunately, it just got to the point where it was no longer cost-effective to keep repairing the track, but it was important to us that we kept the spirit of the Matterhorn intact," said Sharon Mullcahy, Senior VP of Attraction Development.

They plan to "keep the spirit of the Matterhorn intact" by continuing the Swiss mountains theme of the original ride inside the store. Whoop dee doo.

The article goes on to cite the cost of several major refurbishments in the past few years and it does seem prohibitive, I will give them that. I remember visiting Disneyland many times and seeing a big white wall around the entrance to the ride as the Imagineers fixed it, yet again.

When you ride it, it jostles you around and you've only got an old, frayed seat belt holding you in. It is definitely a "blast from the past" and I feel that's why it needs to be saved. You can't find rides like this anymore. I, for one, would be willing to take a bump in admission price if it meant saving the Matterhorn.

But, like I said earlier, this isn't about old rides getting phased out. This is about the tyranny of commercialism. I might even buy the Disney Company Line, if not for the fact that they're replacing my favorite ride of all time with a store.

Tear it down, make a new ride - even that would be less objectionable. Screw it up by making it "The Emperor's New Groove Presents: the Matterhorn". I would take all these options over the one they have now.

The last thing Disneyland needs is more shopping. May I remind the executives that this is not a mall. It's a theme park. I understand the need for merchandising, but not at the expense of the visceral thrills that draw you to the park in the first place.

That should always be the focus of a great theme park, everything else is ancillary.

In the past, this has always been the Disney way, but now, I fear they've taken that model and flipped it.

If the Matterhorn Disney Store is a big hit, what's next? "Tom Sawyer's Nike Emporium Island"? "Peter Pan's Magical Flight Through the Apple Store"? "Pirates of the Caribbean starring characters from the motion picture starring Johnny Depp"?

Doesn't seem so crazy now, does it?

Thank you, American Girl!

2006-08-07T12:07:00.000-07:00

I know there's been some controversy regarding these recently, what with young kids being told to go out and get abortions or something, but I don't care.

I love my American Girl doll!

I know what you're going to say.

"You're a 30 year old man, you like women, you went out and bought an $87 doll from a website: THAT'S A GREAT IDEA!"

And you're right: it is a great idea! I named her Cristifina Filipkowski, after my brother's childhood imaginary friend who died of neglect. What brought me to this life-altering decision?

Some would call it genius marketing but I have a different word for it: kismet. Look it up.

Just like you
It’s your story, your star! Choose a doll, clothes, and accessories that tell a story all your own. For ages 8+.

Just like me? I've always wanted something "just like me". My whole life, I've felt ripped off because I wasn't a twin. I've hated and blamed my parents all my life for not being a twin but with Cristifina in my life, I feel the healing can now begin. I'm a star!

Tell a story? I love writing! How did you know?!? This is getting spooky now!

For ages 8+? That's me! OMG! I am so excited!

But which doll to choose? There's so many to pick from.

Well, cross off the minority ones right off the bat. While I often feel alienated from society, like an outsider, I'm looking for a doll who's "just like me" and I don't want to co-opt anyone's culture.

That leaves the white ones. I don't have curly hair, I'm not blonde... the list is getting narrower... I need the one that's truly "just like me"... Here we go!

"Light skin, red hair, blue eyes"

Just like I have! I had found the doll that was "just like me"! I think you'll agree, the resemblance is remarkable.

Now it was time to place my order, sit back and wait and start telling stories of my (our) own!

When Cristifina arrived, I was not disappointed. She was a beauty and her resemblance to her paternal great-grandmother was dead-on. I took her out of the box and welcomed her into the world.

"You are special," I told her, as I cradled her in my arms, "there's no one in the world just like you except me."

I kissed her gently on her forehead and rocked her back and forth. I was so happy! For the first time in my life, I felt complete! Thank you, American Girl!

I had also purchased the "Kickin' Back" outfit for $26 and as I changed my doll into her cropped pants, diagonal-striped tank and green hoodie, I could barely contain my excitement at the thought of showing her off to all my friends!

I packed her extra clothes and accessories into the $38 "Backpack for Girls" (yes, I think that's sexist too) and we were off.

We were off to the local watering hole to meet up with some friends. As I strode into the bar, we immediately became the center of attention.

"Cool sandals!" enthused a normally surly-looking biker from his bar stool.

Three 20-something girls walked right up to us, drinks in hand. "Oh my god, she is adorable, what's her name?" one asked me.

"Cristifina," I said with pride.

"She is too cute! I have a hoodie just like that!"

And the night pretty much went like that.

People wanted to hold my doll, give her a hug, get their picture taken with her. She was a hit. We were a hit.

It was one magical night. Unfortunately, it would be our only magical night.

My story with Cristifina Filipkowski ends there. I'm sorry it's not the fairy tale you may have been hoping for. If you want to stop reading here, I don't blame you, but you'll be missing out on a cautionary tale that anyone who has ever given their heart to someone unconditionally will be able to relate to.

When you meet someone online, you're not really getting to know them, you're getting to know who and what they want you to see about themselves. It's an idealized version of who they are.

If I had known the real Cristifina Filipkowski, I would have never taken her anywhere that served alcohol. Not in a million years. But I didn't know that side of her. The ugly side, so full of pain. The side that didn't really like who she was and certainly didn't know how to love herself. The side that tried to bury all her problems at the bottom of a bottle.

I'm not going to recount all her awful behavior that night. I'm not looking for revenge, I'm not "venting". I don't want to slam her. She's a good kid and we really could have made something out of this and I hope one day, when some time has passed, we can start over as friends.

As we left the bar that night, Cristifina was flying high. I didn't think anything of it, at first. She was new in town, had just been getting acquainted with me and all my friends. I understood she was probably nervous and looking to unwind a bit. But when we stepped out into the cool, night air, she became a different person. As I went to get my car from the valet, I took my eyes off of her for maybe 30 seconds, but when I turned around she was making out with the biker who had complimented her sandals earlier. The sandals I bought her.

"Cristifina," I said, my voice heavy with hurt, "baby, what are you doing?"

She broke off her kiss with the biker and turned to face me with nothing resembling love. "Who are you calling "baby"? I'm not your fucking baby!" she screamed at me.

"Please, Cristifina, you're making a scene," I pleaded with her.

"I'm making a scene? I'm making a scene? You bring a fucking doll to a bar and I'm the one making a scene?" the words came from someone I thought I knew but clearly didn't and that's what hurt the most.

"I think you've had too much to drink, let's go home before you say or do anything you're going to regret later," I tried to reason with her.

"What the fuck did you just say? Are you fucking threatening me?" asked a hysterical Cristifina Filipkowski.

She pulled out the "Cuttin' and Stabbin'" switchblade I had bought for her ($23) and waved it at me in a menacing fashion.

This cleared the crowd out pretty quickly.

I backed away, trying to hasten my exit before the cops got there.

"Are you crying, you little faggot?" she asked me, mockingly.

It was true, I was crying. If things weren't going to work out with us, fine, I can deal with that. But seeing her this way broke my heart. All I ever really wanted was for us to be happy.

"I'm sorry, Cristifina, I hope you can find some peace, someday." I genuinely meant it.

"I'm serious, asshole. Get the fuck out of my face before I cut you!"

I didn't need to be told twice. I heard the sirens as I ran for my car. I guess she got out of there too because I didn't see any mention of her in the police reports in the paper.

I really do want to thank American Girl. I don't regret my experience in any way. You live, you learn and you move on, stronger and smarter than you were.

I know this is a company that has helped lots of young girls expand their imaginations and that is a great thing, I don't begrude them that. I mean, I know the target customer for these dolls is not someone who's likely going to bring their doll to a bar, so I don't know if I see a need for any sort of rigorous background testing for drug and alcohol dependence.

I know Cristifina is a good person. I know that what I witnessed was a relapse. It's an illness and to deny her the right to love would be as unfair as denying the same to a cancer patient.

I just wish it could have worked out because I know I could have made her so happy.

What? Another blog??

2006-08-03T15:31:00.000-07:00

OK, so I admit it.

I have too many blogs.

But, this is an attempt to cut back. To consolidate. From this point on, I will have hollywoodphony.com, where I will put up my fictional stories, chadrobuckle.com, where I will host my podcast and happyfuncamp.com, where I will post real blogs about pop culture, technology, gossip, stuff I saw, cartoons I drew, fake movie reviews, pictures I've taken, videos I think are funny, etc.

What about the other 15 blogs I've got? Well, most likely I won't be posting on them... maybe a lone post from time to time. It's just too much work, between those blogs and my ten Myspace accounts, I hardly have time for my six-hour mid-day naps anymore.

Anyway, enjoy!

My greatest hits updated

2006-07-31T13:28:00.000-07:00

Here is what I consider my best work, condensed into an easy to follow set of links! Imagine that! There are so many of them, not because I'm egotistical, but rather because I'm indecisive. And egotistical. If there's any you like that aren't up here, feel free to email me and let me know. Thanks!

These are in chronological order of when I wrote them because I am too lazy to do it any other way, so feel free to skip around. The Chad Robuckle ones are at the bottom and I consider those some of my best work.

The Revenge - A boy gets revenge on his parents for reasons unknown to the author.

Pickles the dog - A story loosely based on the time I tried to pay a girl to make out with her brother at my birthday.

The fish who couldn't swim - A fish who couldn't swim. Duh.

Dear Grandma - A cute little letter I wrote to my grandmother when I was younger.

My trip to Subway - I stand up for my beliefs in alternative condiments and I get a glimpse of a secret, tiny world.

Meet Mary Raptorapper - An imaginary friend and her unusual job. I don't know why I never wrote another story about her, I guess there are just no good roles for women in Hollywood.

Craig's List find of the day! - I make a fake Craigslist ad involving tattoos or something.

Jimbo hates the Olive Garden - A boy who hates the Olive Garden and almost commits murder because of it.

Roger Stubbins: American Patriot - A story about a boy and his lion. It sounds like something Chad Robuckle would write, but it's not. I wrote it. It's all true. (Also republished here.)

Ironically, literary editor caught mis-using the term, "ironically" - Don't let this happen to you!

These knuckleheads at the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru are really starting to cheese me off! - A guy gets pushed too far and takes the law into his own hands.

The time I fucked Kelly Clarkson - Yeah, it's true. I did it.

The spectacles party - My mom attempts to make me feel better about being different.

You want a piece of this? - A criminal's letter to the old woman he victimized. Or is it vice-versa?

The new "what 'chu talkin' 'bout, Willis?" - I really thought this putdown would catch on.

Clueless movie review - King Kong - I review a movie I never saw.

The worst thing that happened in 2005 - I miss out on watching a movie at Disney World. No, I don't think I'm over-reacting.

Ms. Pacman speaks out against abortion - Who knew video games were so political?

My name is Eric Filipkowski and I was a victim of child molestation - The harrowing, true tale of the day my life was shattered. *warning - graphic content*

Girlfriend insurance - I get sexist for a change and explain the phenomenon that is sweeping the country.

My telegram to Jesus - A tribute to the passing of the telegram.

Camera corner: how to... - Some tips on taking great pictures of something.

Why I love clowns (Koko) - This is a story I wrote for my girlfriend while I should have been entering a contest.

My new ad campaign - I decide to give up comedy and do something productive with my life.

I invented a new day! - I invent a new day and luckily, have the foresight to register its domain name.

My broken heart - No, not another story about my operation and how everyone should feel sorry for me. This is a true story about my attempt to make the woman I love stay with me forever.

Abramowitz Co. Launches 'Black People Brand Hot Sauce' - Because nobody writes fake news stories, especially ones involving racial issues, I decided to be a hero the nation and the world and take on that responsibility.

Letters to home - A chronicle of my journey into manhood.

Podcasting by numbers - Why I love bald eagle egg omelettes.

Ross, I didn't declare your zero-interest loan you gave me to the government - I come clean.

Cunt - I use the c-word and get all "political".

How Lucky lost his leg - The true story of how my three-legged dog went from being a four-legged dog to a three-legged dog.

The Ray Bans - A story about a man and his sick aunt. Sounds like a Chad Robuckle story, but it's not. Cuz I changed the names.

Things I've Noticed - by Eric Filipkowski - I wax philosophical about some issues that have been pickin' at my craw!

Another Entirely True Story - Eric Filipkowski - My plans to kill a kid don't go so well.

23 Days Later - I deliberately try to gross out my family with this true story from the seedy underbelly of life.

Here are links to stories involving my imaginary friends.

Chad Robuckle

Chad Robuckle: imaginary "friend" - My introduction to my imaginary friend who may or may not have raped someone.

Look what I found - Chad Robuckle's letter to Mythbusters.

Chad Robuckle's Dad - Hopefully, this will explain why Chad is the way he is.

A completely original work of fiction - Chad Robuckle (doesn't) learn the lesson of the boy who cried wolf.

The early bird gets the worm - How I met Chad Robuckle.

Fish Killer - Chad's love of animals backfires.

The adventures of Arthur Q. Pennybottoms - Chad goes on an epic quest for adventure. People die.

I hate Carly Simon - By Chad Robuckle - Chad wins a contest and makes an enemy of a recording artist and 70's icon.

Number 17 - Our friend Chad recalls the 17th worst thing he ever did. Needless to say, kids get orphaned.

Terry Bradshaw and me - by Chad Robuckle - Chad's brush with celebrity.

The Bachelor Party - Chad decides to have one last hurrah for his friend.

Immigrants gone wild - by Chad Robuckle - Chad sheds some light on a side of the immigration debate that many people may have overlooked.

The Assassination Factory - A heartwarming tale of a boy and his mother.

The time I lost my way - by Chad Robuckle - Chad talks about a turning point in his life.

Tucker McGrath

The worst thing I ever did - The time I convinced my other imaginary friend to tell his parents he was gay.

My note to the tooth fairy - How I found out the tooth fairy isn't real.

From the desk of Tucker McGrath - Tucker takes it upon himself to turn the tables on criminals.

Rob Wagman

The time I won a ventriloquism contest - Here's a heart-warming tale of a boy and his dummy.

A true story! - Some childhood pranks go wrong.

23 days later

2006-07-30T15:16:00.000-07:00

A note to my family: If you are reading this now, please consider before continuing: you will remember that in July of 2003, I disappeared for a while. When I returned, I told you that I had been on a last-minute, emergency charity trip to Burma to help out some orphans. This was not true, but for a long time, I would rather you continued believing this lie than knowing the truth. Thank you.

There is a show on the air that you may or may not know of. It is called “South Park” and it is an animated series that airs on the Comedy Central cable network. It is known for its outlandish and crude humor, but I have found that it often treats current issues with a surprising amount of thought and insight, if you manage to look past the potty humor.

One episode, however, went way too far, in my mind. I believe in freedom of speech. I’m all for protecting the rights of artists to follow their vision and not be prevented in doing so by the government, BUT, along with this right comes a responsibility. The responsibility to own up to the consequences of the art you create.

Do I feel celebrities should get a free pass and be protected from criticism or satire? No, of course not. Paris Hilton is a public figure. She has chosen this path and courted her own celebrity status. The issue is not whether it’s ok to make fun of her because she’s a celebrity. The issue is whether it’s ok to make fun of anyone who has befallen tragedy.

It’s not wrong to make fun of Magic Johnson and his AIDS because he’s a celebrity; it’s wrong because AIDS is a horrible thing. You shouldn’t make fun of anyone for having AIDS or cancer or whatever. It’s not the law, but it should be.

And just like it’s not ok to make fun of people with AIDS, it’s not ok to make fun of people who have befallen Paris Hilton’s fate, either.

In season 8, episode 12, Comedy Central aired an episode entitled “Stupid Spoiled Whore Video Playset” in which Miss Hilton comes to South Park and exerts her influence over the town’s young girls, to disastrous results. I see the need to satirize a situation in which a young woman of questionable morals, famous only for being rich and spoiled, becomes a role model to the youth of today. Believe me, I understand.

But how do the creators of South Park dispense of the villain in this episode? By having a naked gay man jump on her head, inserting her whole body into his anal cavity.

I am not making this up; this is actually what happened in this episode.

If someone could explain to me how this is funny in any way, shape or form, I would appreciate it, because I am clueless.

Perhaps I’m biased, due to my own experiences, but this is just plain gross. Nobody should have to endure that kind of punishment, no matter how awful a person they are.

Trust me, when I say this is a fate worse than death.

July 17, 2003: Alicia Jane Stevenson, certified by the Guinness Book as the world’s fattest woman, is flying from her home in Texas to the (unfortunately named) Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota to undergo emergency gastric bypass in a last-ditch attempt to save her life.

Miss Stevenson is grossly obese and suffering from numerous medical problems related to her enormous weight.

As the custom-retrofitted C 27 cargo plane chartered by the Oprah Winfrey Show for the sole purpose of bringing Miss Stevenson to the weight loss clinic is passing over Des Moines, Iowa, it encounters severe turbulence, causing the plane to rock back and forth. As it does so, its cargo breaks free from its tether and begins rolling around. This, in turn, causes the plane to pitch violently from side to side, setting off a disastrous chain reaction.

The pilots, unable to control the plane and steady its 1200 pound passenger, had only one option. I don’t blame them for lowering the cargo ramp and going into a steep climb. They did what they thought was their only option. Are three deaths better than one?

Meanwhile, 23,000 feet below all of this, a lone man spies a black spot emerging from an airplane. He notices it getting slightly larger as it falls to earth. He cranes his head upwards, unable to discern what it is. By the time he realizes what it is and where it is headed, it is too late to run.

You may remember the story of Alicia Jane Stevenson: her courageous journey, her terrible fall and her miraculous survival. It was all over the media how this poor woman had been jettisoned from the very airplane that had been trying to save her. How she had fallen from that height, reaching such speeds and yet walked away from the incident without a scratch. It was the lead story for days.

Doctors wanted to examine this miracle woman and make sure that all her bones and internal organs were intact. The problem is, there isn’t an x-ray, cat scan or MRI machine in the world that is large enough to contain her.

I am sad that we live in a world where the almighty dollar dictates who gets medical treatment and who doesn’t, because if they had been able to stuff that fat bitch into an x-ray machine, they would have seen the grown man stuck inside of her vaginal cavity.

They would have seen me.

The fact that one person could have survived such a fall is beyond explanation. The fact that two people could survive such an impact is beyond belief.

What I have been told is that thanks to a one-in-a-million shot, I entered this woman in the exact right location. Her body absorbed the shock of our contact, as if one of those giant air bags that people jump from a building and land on had landed on me, instead of the other way around… I don’t really know, it doesn’t make much sense to me.

All I know is, I was now trapped in a living hell that would eventually last for 23 days.

On South Park, Paris Hilton crawls around and interacts with mythical characters. In reality, you are in complete darkness, breathing in foul air, unable to move.

I screamed, but nobody could hear me. I tried to make noise by tapping on the walls of this woman’s internal organs, but that only made horrible, horrible things happen. This was easily one of the worst things that ever happened to me and I wouldn’t wish it on all but the most evil of men.

Her body recognized me as a foreign entity and her immune system reacted by trying to destroy me. I was covered in goo, which I was forced to eat to survive. I began to hallucinate. I imagined I was an olde tyme miner and I had been trapped in a cave-in. At one point, I believed I was an astronaut, set adrift in his space capsule, unable to contact earth.

As the weeks went by, eventually, I gave up all hope. I looked for a means to hasten my demise, but finding none, accepted the fact that I would probably starve to death.

Then, it happened. The literal light at the end of the tunnel. Hands. Reaching in and grabbing me.

Had I indeed died, then been reincarnated as a newborn baby? What was happening? I reached out to steady myself, the sensation of falling was overwhelming.

I was lying on the floor of a large, white room. I was wet and cold. There were doctors everywhere.

“Ga ga goo goo,” I said, trying my best to adapt to my new situation.

The room erupted in laughter. “Well he’s still got a sense of humor, that’s a good sign!” said one of the doctors. I looked behind me and saw the most enormous person I had ever seen. There was a gaping chasm… I followed the slime trail from it to my present location… everything clicked… and I lost consciousness.

For 23 days, the state of Iowa had been unable to locate a freight scale that was mobile, yet could handle a 1200 pound load. At last, a cattle farmer in Altoona was located who had the equipment to handle those specifications.

The first sign that something wasn’t right came when this 1200 pound woman was rolled onto the scale and it gave her weight as 1400 pounds. Even someone on a 20,000 calorie diet can’t gain that much weight in such a short time.

The scale had to be wrong. It was quickly recalibrated and again, the same result came up.

The doctors were mystified, but luckily for me, a young intern named Sandra Chopak had a hunch. The best OB/GYNs in the state were brought in and an ultrasound of Miss Stevenson’s uterus was ordered. That’s when they saw it, or rather heard it: another heart beat.

Naturally, they jumped to the wrong conclusion. What are you going to believe? That some fatass had a 200 pound baby in her or that she fell on a grown man when she was ejected from a cargo plane? Don’t be an idiot.

Well, further tests revealed what was really going on and I was quickly removed from my vaginal hell.

I could have cleaned up, financially, with a lawsuit, but the last thing I wanted was more publicity; to relieve this experience over and over on national TV. I was embarrassed. I told Oprah and her producers that if she wanted to make this all go away, she had my word I wouldn’t seek a dime from her.

And I haven’t. I have not spoken to anyone about this until just now. The medical staff, bound by the laws and oaths of their profession, were forbidden from repeating anything they had seen.

Through the ordeal, a large number of high-powered people had been put in rather embarrassing positions by all that had taken place, so they were more than happy to keep silent.

As was I. Until I realized I needed to get my alcohol and drug dependence under control. With the help of several 12-step programs and a newfound belief in my higher power, I have come to terms with my past, part of which is letting people know the truth about the awful events of those 3+ weeks.

Thank you to those doctors; especially Sandra Chopak. Thank you Oprah and thank you Miss Alicia Jane Stevenson. To my family, let me say that I am sorry I hid the truth from you for so long. I was ashamed of who I was and that had nothing to do with me or any of you or the fact that I had been inside an enormous woman’s vagina for over 3 weeks.

I leave you now with the words that inspired me to accept myself for who I was and all I had been through. I wish you the same.

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.

Another entirely true story – by Eric Filipkowski

2006-07-20T17:18:00.000-07:00

When I was 25, truly living on my own for the first time, I decided I was going to kill a kid.

Before you fly off the handle and call the cops, understand this: that fat bastard had it coming.

His name was Evan and he lived next door. Evan’s parents were gone all day so this porky loser had nothing to do all afternoon but sit on the couch, getting fatter, playing video games and watching TV.

When he would grow bored of that, he would start looking for trouble.

Luckily for Evan, his parents tried to make up for their absence with a lack of discipline and an indulgent attitude. In case you can’t read between the lines, I’m saying he was spoiled.

So Tubbs would roam the neighborhood with his BB gun, shooting cats and younger, smaller children and no matter how many people complained, this dipshit’s dipshit parents wouldn’t take any action. Usually, they would defend him and start accusing the other kids and parents of being at fault, but sometimes they wouldn’t even do that. They clearly just didn’t care. Someone else might feel sorry for this douchebag, but not me.

Well, the final straw for me is when Fatty figures out that if he calls my house when I’m at work and taunts my hyperactive yellow lab, Ellie, over the speaker, he can make her go nuts and trash the house.

I come home one evening and the place is a wreck. My first thought is that I had been robbed. I’m searching around, trying to see if anything is missing, but all I really see is someone made a mess, there’s dog shit everywhere and no signs of entry.

Then I see my answering machine is blinking and I have 27 messages. I push play and hear that bag of lard’s voice calling Ellie’s name over and over and it all clicks. Apparently, this genius was smart enough to figure out this answering machine prank but not smart enough to realize he’d be leaving behind the evidence to prove he did it.

I should have called the police at this point. I had a house with hundreds, if not thousands of dollars of damage and a tape that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt who was responsible for it.

But, then I thought that he probably wouldn’t be criminally prosecuted, he was only ten or whatever. The cops would most likely leave it up to the parents to discipline their child and I knew what that would lead to. No, it was much better to just take the law into my own hands and murder Tons of Fun, myself.

I had to be patient, though. I couldn’t just run over there and strangle him and expect to get away with it. I had to think this through.

While I shoveled my now-destroyed belongings into a wheelbarrow and out to the curb, I plotted.

The next day, my plan fully sketched out, I went down to the local magic shop and bought what I needed.

I had taken the day off from work and while I sat on the floor of my barren living room, I laid everything out before me and waited for nightfall.

When the sun had gone down and all the lights were out at Evan’s house, I snuck over there, OJ-style, decked out in black, as quiet as a cat. From my rucksack I produced a satchel which contained 3 pieces of magic chalk I had purchased earlier.

Trying to remember what the store owner had told me, I sketched a small door on the side of house, maybe 3 feet high. I uttered some magic words which I will not repeat here and then the door lit up and to my amazement, began to open by itself. A door that opens by itself?!? What the F???

So I got on my hands and knees and crawled through the opening into a small tunnel. There were tiny little torches lit along the wall and I could smell something sweet, like cotton candy. I thought I must have lost my mind.

I followed the tunnel for about 30 feet and figured I was directly under the middle of Evan’s house. I marked an ‘X’ so I would be able to remember my location, when I went back, as this was just a scouting mission. Tomorrow night, I would return with some dynamite and blow that family of fat-asses back to Ohio or whatever part of the Midwest “those types” come from.

I started the fairly involved process of turning myself around when I heard some faint singing off in the distance. I strained my eyes and ears and concentrated down the dark tunnel and again, thought I was losing it, when 3 or 4 tiny people approached, smiling and waving at me. As they got closer, I realized they weren’t actually tiny people: they were elves.

“What’s up, dude?” the one in front asked me.

“Um, not much. What’s up with you guys?” I replied, not really able to think of anything else to say.

“Just chillin’. You wanna smoke some weed with us?”

Did I! They whipped out their bong and we all got high as shit. I think the cramped quarters of the tunnel served as somewhat of an airlock, trapping us in a cloud of our own second-hand pot smoke.

When the bong was cashed, one of the elves flipped it over and dumped the bong water out onto the tunnel floor. It was instantly absorbed into the dirt and seconds later, a large, bright flower grew from its spot. The flower was taller than the elf people and as my bloodshot eyes struggled to see in the dim torchlight, I realized that it was entirely made out of candy. Which was pretty cool.

I followed the elves back down the tunnel from where they had come. They told me all about the magical land they lived in. They called it “Super Cool Dude Land” and explained that for thousands of years, they had been the source of the world’s candy.

“I thought candy came from England and was made out of sugar and crap like that?” I asked them, naively.

They told me that I was being stupid, which was good enough for me, cuz I was out of my mind, fucked up, at that point.

When they asked what brought me to Super Cool Dude Land, I explained my situation and they seemed more than eager to help me get rid of this punk.

They laughed at my dynamite idea and explained that a minor cave-in would never produce the catastrophic results I was looking for. No, it would be best if they were to sneak in while Evan’s family slept and just slit all their throats.

Their three hundred and fifty dollar “suggested donation” sounded more than reasonable to me, but I asked to sleep on it. They agreed and said I could meet them back there at the same time tomorrow night with the money if I wanted to go through with it.

I thanked them for the weed and crawled home.

My problems were solved, my prayers had been answered. Evan would be dead and nobody would be able to pin it on me in a million years.

So why did I feel kinda bad about the whole thing? As crazy as it sounds, I was having second thoughts.

The next day, I asked everyone at work what I should do and my friend, Karen, told me that if I’m hearing little voices telling me not to do it, then I should probably give them a listen. I’ve always valued her advice, she’s a smart lady and one hell of an office manager.

By the time I pulled into my driveway, that night, my mind was made up: I was going to tell the elves “thanks, but no thanks”. I hoped it wouldn’t hurt their feelings.

I brought the 350 bucks with me, just in case there were any hard feelings. I figured a week’s pay wasn’t worth losing some really good friends over. I had a hunch they’d be cool with it and tell me to keep the money. If the shoe had been on the other foot and I had been the one offering to murder their neighbor for three hundred and fifty dollars and they had backed out at the last minute, I would really have appreciated if they had offered to pay me for my trouble anyway. It seemed like the stand up thing to do.

As I reached the spot where I had made my mark the night before, I sensed something wasn’t quite right. Where was the singing?

When the elves from Super Cool Dude Land approached me this time, there were no smiles. As they got closer, I could see the littlest one, who I called “Elve-us”, had been crying. He looked me in the eye and mouthed the word, “Sorry.”

Before I could figure out what this all meant, a charge went off behind me. Soon the small tunnel was filled with tear gas and everything turned to chaos.

I felt my eyes burning as I gasped for air. Strong hands were dragging me from the tunnel, I felt the rocks on the ground tear the seat of my trousers.

Though I could barely see, I knew I was now outside. I could feel the cool, night air on my tear-stained cheeks. This sensation was soon joined by that of cold steel being slapped onto my wrists. An FBI man read me my rights.

I tried to explain that I had only showed up to tell them I couldn’t do it, but the fact that I had the money with me didn’t do much to convince them of my honesty.

I looked and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk, my neighbors looked on with surprise to see this pleasant young man who kept to himself being handcuffed on the lawn of his neighbor’s yard.

I didn’t care what they thought. What really tore at my heart was seeing my elf buddies remove their plastic elf ears and pocket a roll of hundred dollar bills that was doled out to them from their field agent.

I wanted to confront them, to ask them why, but what does that really ever get anyone? There are no answers, only more questions.

As the officer lowered my head and helped me into the back of the car, Fatso came over to taunt me.

“You ain’t so tough now, are you, bitch? Answer me, faggot! What’s up, dude? I’m still here! Take your best shot!” he yelled, before being restrained by some FBI guys.

We drove away and I thought how right Evan was. I wasn’t feeling very tough now at all. Down at the office, they told me I was looking at 25 years to life.

They had spent 3 years on that sting operation. 14 bureaus in counties scattered throughout 5 different states had been in on it. But it had all paid off in the end: they got their patsy.

Obviously, that’s not how things ended. I’m not in jail right now. In fact, I never went to jail at all. The DA botched the case, got caught leaking confidential details to the media and a mistrial was called. I walked. Scot free.

Surprisingly, I heard Evan really turned himself around. He slimmed down, stopped being such a prick and became a doctor or a teacher or something. He even wrote me this nice letter apologizing for the way he had behaved as a kid and told me he didn’t harbor any hard feelings against me for trying to kill him.

I guess if there’s any lesson to be taken from this story it’s that you shouldn’t go out and try to kill kids who are annoying because they might grow up to be not fat at all, you just never know.

And also don’t ever trust magicians, because they are liars. That’s what they do: they lie to you.

Survey time!!!

2006-07-20T12:06:00.000-07:00

Don't worry, this isn't one of those mass-mailed things that everyone claims to hate yet keeps sending me 400 of a day, I made this one myself! Feel free to pass it on and answer these yourself!

1.) First thing you said after you were dumped for the third time for not being Jewish:

Um, why do I even bother? Maybe I should go to the library and check out a copy of the Koran? Just joshin!

2.) Number of dumps per day your roommate's three-legged dog takes on the patio because he can't go in the backyard due to the fact that he hasn't learned yet that if he digs up that one bush, he'll keep getting nettles in his eye:

3 or 4? I don't really count them... that seems like a weird question.

3.) If you had to choose between the third and the fourth and time you had open heart surgery, which one would you say was worse and why?

Wow, these seem really specific to me. I would have to say the fourth due to the prolonged recovery time and the fact that I'm still experiencing side effects to this day.

4.) Amount of money you were awarded when you were shot in the eye due to gross negligence on the part of your neighbors who allowed their hyper-active son with learning disabilities to shoot a bow and arrow unsupervised:

Um, none. My parents didn't sue them even though my vision never fully recovered. I'm not sure, my dad doesn't like suing people, I guess.

5.) Percentage of people you know who still believe to this day that you actually have a monkey heart even though that's medically impossible and has never been performed successfully on a human:

I would say it's now down to probably 20 or 30 percent. It was much higher for a while. Like... at least half. I mean, these are largely college-educated people we're talking about too.

6.) Number of bananas you end up throwing out because you never manage to eat them all before they go rotten which you buy out of some futile attempt to balance out all the bad shit you consume daily, as if one piece of fruit is going to do that:

Well, it's not my fault that they go from green to brown so fast. You've got a window of 2 to 3 days where they're yellow and it grosses me out when they're squishy. So... 3 probably? I usually buy five or so and only get around to eating 2. Can you buy just two? Maybe I should do that.

7.) Number of dents in the hood of your car from the time you fucked up your bumper in the Arby's drive-thru and were so mad you punched it:

OK, come on! The banana thing I'm sure people can relate to, but this one is ridiculous. There's only one person in the world who's probably done that exact sequence of events and it's me and I only punched my hood once and it's a small dent.

8.) Why do you keep all those t-shirts in the bottom of your closet that you're never going to wear? I mean, they're all ragged and have pit stains and are probably too small anyway? What's the deal with that?

I can't throw them out because they are a physical reminder of past events. They were touching my skin cells when momentous occasions in my life happened. Some of which I can't even remember, but I feel their absence like my roommate's dog feels his missing leg. Those skin cells have long fallen off and turned to dust in some apartment that housed me 7 owners ago, but the shirt lives on.

9.) Why does your toe curl under the other one like that? That's gross.

This is a great survey. I'm sure people are going to love answering these questions, I mean, that's some universal appeal we've got going here. I have no idea why my toe does that. I'm sure it's related to my genetic defect in some way? You tell me, smart guy.

10.) I sense a lot of anger in you, why don't we end with you telling us why you're so angry:

OK, well I don't think I'm angry, I'm just a little annoyed at the questions--

10.) Because I think it's due to your sense of entitlement. Like "ooh, I had heart surgery, the world owes me! Poor Eric Filipkowski, let's shower him with blessings!"

You know what? Fuck you, I don't need this.

10.) Oh no, now crybaby doesn't want to play anymore! Boo hoo! Why don't you fly back to Rhode Island again? Better book your ticket FIRST CLASS like you did last time, that way you don't have to mingle among the common folk who haven't had any heart surgery.

Are you done?

10.) Pathetic.

Look, do I feel I have been dealt a shitty hand in life? Yes, in some ways I do. In other ways, I know I am a very lucky person who has been given gifts many haven't. I know that I have great friends and family who love me and would do anything for me. I have come back from the brink of death to enjoy living on my own, free from illness and able to go about my day as a normal person.

Of course, there is more I could be doing right now to make things happen in my career, etc., but I'm getting myself out there, albeit slowly. All in all, I feel I'm in a pretty good place and have a lot to be thankful for. I'm sorry I sometimes wallow in self-pity, I'm sure it gets old. I apologize to anyone who has to listen to my bitching, but I think we can all benefit from taking the time to look around at our lives and--

10.) OK, OK! Enough! Jeez, this wasn't very funny at all.

Well whose fault is that? I have to go get in the shower.

10.) Alright, take it easy. Hey, come up with something funny for the next one, OK?

I'll try.

Things I've Noticed - by Eric Filipkowski

2006-07-18T17:12:00.000-07:00

Apparently my last “fuck you” to everybody was too subtle, as I still have some friends left. Hopefully, this pile of shit will fix that.

1. First off, have you ever noticed there are lots of differences between men and women? I have and I don’t think anybody really points them out. Especially in comedy. For instance: men like watching sports and women like shopping. Men enjoy casual sexual encounters and women are looking for lasting, meaningful relationships. I know this is probably pretty controversial stuff, but that’s what I do: I SAY the things everyone is thinking but are too afraid to admit! If you’ve got a problem with this, it’s probably because you’re on your period or something.

2. I was listening to the song “Foxy Lady” by Jim Hendrix and noticed there is a line that I believe goes, "’scuse me, while I kiss the sky", but if you listen carefully, you can almost hear him say, "’scuse me, while I kiss THIS GUY!" LOL! How embarrassing! My heart goes out to you, Jim, for this terrible gaffe. I haven’t laughed that hard since I heard that guy sing "wrapped up like a douche" in that song about being blind.

3. Speaking of homosexuals, I think that, in general, they pay more attention to their appearance and matters of cleanliness than their heterosexual counterparts. Of course, there are exceptions to this rule: Jim Belushi comes to mind, but in general, I think this is a fair thing to say. Obviously I’m not talking about lesbians. We all know what their deal is.

4. I was watching Scooby Doo the other day and I realized that whole show seems to be about drug use! Think about it: that guy, Shaggy, totally looks like some kind of marijuana-smoking beatnik and him and his dog are always hungry and paranoid! It makes sense. Can you believe people would do that in a show marketed towards kids?

5. White people are worse at dancing than African-Americans. I think the problem is we have less rhythm. That’s what a black guy told me once. If you don’t believe me, go to any club and check out the dance floor. I think this is actually a form of racism where white people dance worse on purpose so that black people won’t feel bad about us being so much better at sports than they are. Which is pretty condescending, if you think about it.

6. TV isn’t as good as it used to be. Back in the day, you could flip on the tube and be greeted with such classics as “Men Behaving Badly”, “Friends” and “Just Shoot Me”. Even “Caroline in the City” is better than that crap they show now. Case in point: “Arrested Development”. I can’t watch this show. It could be funny, I’m not sure. How are we supposed to know when to laugh if we can’t hear the audience laughing? Lame. I’m glad it got cancelled.

7. Old people drive too slow! Normally I’m not one to harp on the negatives of “The Greatest Generation”, I’m just glad I’m not speaking German right now, but this really grinds my goat. I’m no speed demon, myself. I stay within the boundaries of the limit of the law, at the maximum and the minimum. Also, what’s with them wearing their pants so high? And Geritol? What the hell does that do? Am I right? Right?

8. Sometimes alcohol makes certain members of the opposite sex more attractive to me. I know, it sounds awful, doesn’t it? But I’m trying to be totally honest here. There are times when I’ve had a little too much to drink and a woman I previously thought to be unattractive will suddenly look much better. Usually this occurs late at night, right before the drinking establishment I am at is about to close and I have been unsuccessful in wooing my previous choices for companionship. I think this is related to the alcohol impairing my judgment in some way and not really a vision problem, but I choose to call this phenomena “beer glasses” anyway. No wait, that could be confusing. People could confuse my meaning and think I am speaking of an actual receptacle for beer, instead of something that goes over your eyes and alters the perceived appearance of other bar patrons. I will say “beer spectacles” in order to avoid any confusion.

9. Billy Crystal is hilarious, but I feel that, as of late, he has lost his way. And believe me, it pleases me not to say this. I am a huge fan. Huge! His “more pepper for my paprikash” bit in “When Harry Met Sally” kills me every time. Ditto anything from “City Slickers”, but recently he can’t seem to get in that classic Fernando groove. My advice? Make good on that promised Harry/Sally sequel and Mr. Crystal will soon be “looking mahvelous” once again!

10. Finally, I’ve saved my most controversial “thing I’ve noticed” for last. I think that sometimes politicians aren’t entirely honest with us. I know Nixon famously said “I’m not a crook” and I’m certainly not going to go so far as to put that label on anyone in office because I feel nothing gives us that right, but I find the practices of some politicians both past and present to be questionable. I’m not going to name any names (well, besides the one I just named), but where are those weapons of mass destruction you promised us were in Iraq? I thought you said you didn’t have sexual relations with that woman? You really didn’t chop down that cherry tree? I suppose it chopped itself down, huh?

OK, well if you’re still reading, then you are either really bored or drunk or unintelligent. Perhaps both. Maybe it’s 4:23 and you just got high or your Dane Cook DVD got scratched and there’s nothing on Spike TV. I don’t know and I don’t care. Just give me my damn money and tell me where you took my daughter last night. I’m not mad, seriously. I just want to know. Call it curiosity. I’m not going to get in your face about it. I swear.

Eric Filipkowski: Champion of the World!

2006-07-18T15:39:00.000-07:00

(if this makes no sense to you, feel free to read the original article on thephatphree.com)

I did it, suckers!

Check it out. Number one. I am your king/god.

Having bested the formerly-top rated “Look At My Striped Shirt”, I hereby announce my retirement from writing forever, effective immediately.

You see, a couple of months ago, I noticed that one of my stories, “Number 17 – by Chad Robuckle”, had a really high rating. In fact, its rating was high enough to place it in the top 5 of all time.

So where was it?

I looked again and saw that you needed a minimum of 100 votes to be eligible to have a top 5 story. Hence, these last few months, every time I would check out the site, I would go and vote for my own story, so that it could get the necessary 100 votes.

In the process of repeatedly giving myself fives, I also bumped my rating up to a ridiculously high 4.49, as you can see from the un-doctored picture attached with this article.

Is this fair? Certainly not. Is it extremely lame? Probably, but who cares? I win.

Remember that kid in grade school who would play you in four-square, over and over? You’d kick his ass 99 times out of a hundred, but that one time he beat you, he’d throw up his hands and run home, proclaiming himself Champion of the World as he announced his retirement. You still hate that kid, don’t you?

But you know what? He’s Champion of the World and you’re not.

Such is life.

There’s a system in place that works pretty well until someone comes along and exploits its weaknesses for his own gain, ruining it for everyone else in the process.

Imagine that's me on top of your grandma's house.
Since you guys aren’t as smart as me or as good at writing as I am, I will spell it out for you: that someone is me.

This is huge. I wouldn’t be surprised if my actions lead to an entire overhaul of the voting system, if not the site as a whole.

Who knows, they might follow my lead and just close up shop, now that the pinnacle of fiction writing has been achieved.

And let’s not kid ourselves; that’s what this is.

Homer? Shakespeare? Steinbeck? How many websites were they the champions of? That’s right: ZERO. Cuz they suck.

Look, I know you guys are just gonna vote me down in five minutes. Though you can’t match me in writing ability, I am confident you will surpass me in bitterness.

As I write this, I see some angry loser is going from computer to computer at the Best Buy across the street from the Burger King he works at, giving me ones for my story in a futile attempt to "set things right”. By the end of the day, my rating will probably be .03, but it doesn’t matter, because I’m retired.

Nothing can take away from the victory of this petty, childish deed I have committed.

While some may say the ratings process is an incidental part of a larger scheme where people express themselves creatively in order to bring laughter and joy to the masses, we all know what that really is: loser talk.

This isn’t France and we’re not at the Special Olympics.

Here in the real world, only the strong survive and the cream rises to the top. And sometimes that cream has to help itself by surreptitiously holding on to some balloons or putting lead in the shoes of some other cream. I don’t know, that metaphor doesn’t really work and if I had anything left to accomplish in the field of writing, I would probably care, but I don’t, so I won’t.

But let me leave you with this, my not-so-loyal subjects/slaves: I am better than you because I am better than everyone else and you are a part of the subset of “everyone else” and that’s not just my opinion, that’s math or something.

So again, fuck you guys, I win. In the immortal words of Carol Burnett, "See you in hell, assholes!"

Look, it's something I'm in!

2006-07-07T11:21:00.000-07:00

Now that's some fine acting!

For more info about what this thing is promoting, check out www.itvfest.org.

untelligent

2006-07-06T06:45:00.000-07:00

This has not been doctored in any way.

Can't see it? Click on it and check out the orange "news alert" banner.

The Ray Bans

2006-07-04T00:49:00.000-07:00

"The man at the tire store wore a yellow shirt to church last Sunday!"

Stuart found himself sitting at the end of his Aunt Sonya's bed with nothing to say.

His mother's aunt had developed cancer and the whole family was taking turns visiting with her in the hospital as she recovered from her surgery.

He hated being here alone with her and usually managed to rope someone into going with him, but today he was flying solo.

"That's great!" he tried to feign enthusiasm.

Stuart wasn't very good with old people.

In the background, Don Henley's "Boys of Summer" was playing from a radio in someone else's room.

It was summer and it was hot as shit. He should be out at the lake, jet skiing with Dave and Bonesy right now. He looked over at this frail old woman smiling back at him and felt sorry for himself. Things couldn't get much worse.

He remembered his sister's advice on how best to cope with these visits: Aunt Sonya was old; she just wanted to listen to a familiar voice. Just find something to talk about and blab on and on about it without even thinking.

But what the hell did he have to talk about with this 80 year old woman?

I can see you-
Your brown skin shining in the sun
You got that hair slicked back
And those Wayfarers on, baby

"Wayfarer's?" he thought. "Oh shit, those stupid sunglasses Stevie used to wear!"

He had something to talk about. He launched into his story.

"Hey Aunt Sonya, remember Alan's friend, Stevie? His dad worked for that sunglasses company and he had those stupid aviator sunglasses? Remember those?

I remember when I was a kid, everyone thought those were the coolest. I think that was the last time anybody wore those without being ironic about it.

That kid was such a tool. He would walk around in those like he was Tom Cruise or something and they looked so ridiculous on him. They were way too big, like those clown sunglasses they wear at the circus or something.

Anyway, I remember that kid and my brother were like best friends for the longest time. Personally, I could never stand him, but I guess he was the only kid in the neighborhood who was close to Alan's age.

They used to play Nintendo together all the time. They would sit there for hours in front of the TV until they finished a game. Then they'd get a new one and start all over.

That's why they stopped being friends, you know. When I was ten, we went to Disneyworld for spring vacation and Stevie convinced my brother to lend him like ten games, because he wasn't gonna be around to play them anyway.

So we get back and Alan asks for his games back and Stevie gives him his three suckiest games. Alan's like, "what the hell? Where are the rest of my games?" and Stevie tries to tell him that he only lent him three.

I remember the look on that little bastard’s face. So smug and arrogant. Alan gets Mom and she asks Stevie where the rest of the games were. He stands there and lies right to her face. Swears to her that Alan only lent him three games.

So Mom piles everyone in the Taurus and we drive over to Stevie's house and she explains the situation to his mom but of course she takes Stevie's side. He was the perfect little angel and if he gave her his word that he didn't steal any games, that was good enough for her.

Not only does she refuse to go look around in his room, but actually starts to lose her temper and basically kicks us out of her house.

I remember we're driving home and Mom is about to lose it. Swearing and calling Stevie a little brat. Then she goes off on his mother and what a lying bitch she is and no wonder her kid turned out to be a rotten little shit too.

She tells Alan that tomorrow she's going to Toys 'R' Us and she's going to buy him all new games and he's not allowed to hang out with Stevie anymore, which I really don't think is a big problem, because believe me, he's pissed too.

And that was it. They never spoke again. We were pretty tight with their family for a while too. Not best friends but they'd always come to our Christmas parties and shit like that, but all that stopped.

So, fast forward ten years and Alan and Stevie are in high school. Stevie's a year ahead of Alan and he's in band or something. Alan's got baseball practice so they're both there after school. It's pretty late and Alan goes back to the locker room to grab his books and he hears this awful noise.

He looks down the hall towards the pool and there's like 4 or 5 seniors from the wrestling team and they're taking turns raping Stevie. Like full-on sodomy, I guess. Stevie's screaming for help but there's no one around cuz it's so late.

Alan grabs his books and sneaks out without anyone seeing him. Mom is there to pick him up and he gets in the car and she drives him home. He doesn't say a word to anyone.

Doesn't get a teacher, doesn't tell Mom what he saw, doesn't call the cops, or anything. He's still pissed about the video games.

So later that night, he tells me all this and we kinda realize how serious this is. I mean, we knew this kid was gonna be fucked up for life and even though he didn't do anything wrong, people are gonna blame Alan for not helping Stevie. Right there, we make an oath that we're not going to tell anyone, ever. And I kept that oath until this very moment.

I mean, in his defense, in high school, that kind of thing is a no-no. Nobody wants to be a snitch. Alan always saw it as karma, I guess.

Then one day, he called me up from college. It was right before I moved to Chicago. I answer and he's like, "Do you know what today is?" And I've got no clue.

He tells me today is the seven year anniversary of Stevie getting raped and now the statute of limitations is up so he can't be charged for anything. I guess that makes it OK to talk about now, but I still didn't ever bring it up with anyone. "

Stuart paused and looked up, fully realizing what he had just been saying to his 80 year old great-aunt.

She looked stunned, she didn't move. For a second, he thought she might be dead: killed by the shocking events of his story.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw her draw a breath before speaking.

"I never liked that little son of a bitch."

She smiled. Stuart smiled back.

He had been wrong about Aunt Sonya. He thought she was a worthless, old lady, but she was actually pretty cool.

He looked up at the clock and felt something he had never felt before: he was sorry visiting hours were over.

"Well, I should get going," he said, reluctantly, "but I'll be back tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's your cousin Katie's turn to visit me, you don't have to stop by," she said sadly.

"I know I don't have to," he said, "I want to."

Again, they shared a smile.

True to his word, Stuart was there at the hospital right as visiting hours began the next day. He took the stairs two at a time because he didn't want to wait for the elevators. He bounded into her room with a bouquet of flowers for Aunt Sonya but his smile vanished when he saw the nurse placing the white sheet over his dead relative's face.

The nurse turned to him, "I'm sorry, she just passed," she said.

Stuart's knees went weak. He quickly sat down in the chair by the door. As she walked by, the nurse touched his shoulder and left him to grieve.

He couldn't believe it. His Aunt Sonya was gone. He had cancelled his plans with Dave and Bonesy and now it had all been for nothing.

The time I lost my way - by Chad Robuckle

2006-06-26T19:49:00.000-07:00

I am a bitter, broken man.

I believe in nothing.

Hope. Love. The will to live. Foreign concepts, every one.

I would say that my only friend is myself, but I actually hate me more than you do.

It wasn't always like this, though.

Some people live their whole lives surrounding themselves with the idea that everything is great. Then one day, they wake up and they're 70 and they see it's all been one, big, cruel joke.

Life fucks you over and you don't even realize it. There's no single moment you can point to and say, "That's when it all went to shit."

But I can.

I attended Westbury Elementary School in Tuckertown, Connecticut from the time I was four until I was ten.

In third grade, my elderly teacher, Mrs. Tanzarian, had to leave for six months and we got a substitute we all called "Mrs. Wubble You", for reasons that are lost on me today. She used to give us candy if we got 5 gold stars on our homework and stuff. Nice lady.

Actually, I once got caught stealing homework candy from the bag she kept on her desk. Like all the monsters of the world, I was only following the lead of my friends. They had it all worked out: you went up, asked her a question, dropped your pencil into the bag "by accident" and when you took it out, you grabbed a piece of candy along with it. Brilliant, no?

So they pull this off without a hitch for weeks. At first, I can't get up the nerve to do it, but the sight of them stuffing their fat faces with candy was too much. So I whipped out my tiny, 8 year old testicles and strode up to the teacher's desk. First time, right off the line, I get busted.

"Chad, what are you doing?" she asked.

"Stealing candy. But Meredith and Rick were doing it too."

Let that be a lesson to you: I will sell you out in a heartbeat to save my own skin if you dare to make the mistake of trusting me.

Anyway, before the candy-stealing incident, me and "Mrs. Wubble You" were pretty tight. Until the big spelling test, that is.

I call it that to make it sound more dramatic, but really it was just a quiz. Every week, we were given 20 words in our book. We had to learn them and spell them correctly each Friday. Simple enough, right?

Well, apparently this book felt that the correct way to spell the singular form of the word "cookies" was "cooky".

What the fuck, right?

So even though I know that's how they spelt it in the book, I write the correct way of spelling it on my quiz. "Cookie"; for my developmentally disabled readers.

I get my quiz back and sure enough, it's marked wrong. I got a 95.

I march up to the front of the classroom and inform "Mrs. Wubble You" of her mistake.

Au contraire, punk, she told me, as she produced the book, backing up her original assertion that I had spelled the word incorrectly.

As I retrieved the dictionary, in an attempt to tell this bitch to shove her stupid book up her fat ass, she cut me off.

I can't remember exactly what she said, but the gist of it was that the quiz was not a test of actual spelling ability, the quiz tested us on our ability to memorize what was in the book and then later recall those facts.

I shit you not.

To top it off, I think she tried to buy my silence with a piece of candy.

Nobody would back me up on this one. Not my classmates, not the principal, not even my own so-called "parents". God forbid anyone get political or the tiniest bit controversial and dare to question the mighty bureaucracy of the Tuckertown Public School System!

Is it any wonder I joined a gang shortly thereafter? When you've got nothing to believe in, what's to stop you from punching an old lady in the face "just for kicks"? Society? Morals? The Bible?

Please.

I do what I want. If I see something I want, I take it. If you bust me stealing candy these days, I won't punch you, I will shoot you in the face with a sawed-off shotgun.

One of my professors in college described me as "the personification of the unbridled id". Guess what happened to that fruitcake? That's right: shot in the face.

When my parents had their "tragic accident" at Legoland a few years ago, the lead detective on the case came to my apartment and brought up the fact that when they dragged the bodies from the bottom of Adventure Lagoon, there was significant evidence of cranial damage from what appeared to be a sawed-off 12 gauge. That was right before I shot him in the face.

So, to sum up: for all the teachers out there, molding these impressionable young minds, remember that seemingly innocent decisions to make your job a little easier may have far-reaching consequences.

And you may even wake up one morning in heaven because someone has snuck into your house and shot you in the face.

How Lucky lost his leg

2006-06-24T18:25:00.000-07:00

Alot of people ask me how my roommate's dog, Lucky, lost his leg. I always tell them the same thing: Nobody knows because Lucky was a three-legged dog when Bordo got him from the pound and not a single person there knew anything about it.

But this is a lie.

I know Lucky's whole story because Lucky told me himself.

It's true. Some may say I'm a liar, some may say I was drunk and they would both be right, but what they don't realize is that a lie is nothing more than a truth that has gotten wasted on Jaegermeister and starts bragging about how hot those chicks it had sex with that it met last night at the strip club were.

Do you follow?

Good.

About four years ago, Lucky was on top of the world. His agent was in talks for him to replace Anthony Clark on "Yes, Dear", he was dating a great girl and he had four legs.

Then, everything went to shit.

CBS decided to scrap plans to air a two-part season finale in which Anthony Clark's character develops a nasty staph infection from a hang nail and dies, saying it was unnecessarily morbid and not in the tone of the show. Lucky and Susan Sarandon then decided to pull the plug on their 17 year relationship and go their separate ways.

Lucky made the rounds of the Hollywood party scene. He was on the cover of Us Weekly, dating a new starlet every week. He was hitting all the hot clubs and doing coke. His work suffered. He stopped getting callbacks. Then he stopped getting auditions.

Lucky's luck finally ran out one night when he got caught banging some dude's wife. He had always been a careful dog but now he had gotten sloppy. In the heat of their passion, they left the front door open and forgot to take down the sign on the lawn that says "I am cheating on my husband right now with a brown dog".

So this guy (who's a firefighter, no less), comes bounding up the steps, screaming that he's going to kill both of them. The chick manages to lock the door but now he's chopping it down with his firefighter axe, ala Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

Well Lucky's no dummy, he says a quick "goodbye/don't call me" and jumps out the window. The only problem is, his back, right paw got caught on the window sill.

So as the guy busts through the door, Lucky's dangling from the ledge, swinging around like crazy and practically rips his own leg off.

But then, right before the dude is about to grab him, Lucky breaks loose and falls down the side of the house, landing softly in a bush. As the guy hurls epithets at him from above, Lucky trots to the end of his yard, takes a dump right near the mailbox and is on his way.

As he's high-tailing it back to his place, vaguely aware that the guy is probably gonna get in his car and try and run him down, his super-sensitive sense of smell picks up the smell of smoke and burning children. He heads down a street he's never travelled before and sure enough, there is an orpahanage on fire.

All the poor, little orphans were screaming for help but of course, they didn't have any parents who loved them and would call 911 for them, so society left them to burn to their deaths.

Lucky felt this was unfair and sprang to the rescue, ignoring the flames and fearing not for his own safety, he ran into the orphanage and dragged those unloved little bastards out of there by the scruffs of their parent-less necks.

Only when he had brought the last one to safety and he had collapsed on the ground from exhaustion and smoke-inhalation did those show-boating firemen arrive.

Sure enough, there was the guy that Lucky had just been cuckolding. Well he sees Lucky and he doesn't care that he's a hero. He grabs Lucky's back, right leg and is just about to take a bite out of it, like it was a drumstick he had gotten at Disneyworld, when the other fire fighters pull him off.

"You can't do that, this dog saved all these orphans!" said the sergeant.

"This dog was just banging my wife!" replied the fireman.

"Oh get off your high-horse, Clemons," said one of the veterans of the force, "we've all had our dicks in your wife's vagina, she's a goddam whore!"

All the firefighters shook their heads in agreement and Clemons saw the error of his ways. He put Lucky down and shook his paw, telling him, "Any dog that can drag 15 worthless orphans from a burning building is fit to bang my wife anytime he wants."

All the firemen and onlookers burst into applause. Fortunately for Lucky, the local news crew caught the whole thing on tape and it was re-broadcast all around the world.

Lucky was flying high again. He was the toast of the nation and was soon making the scene at fashion shows in New York, Paris and Milan.

But just as it looked like things were going Lucky's way again, tragedy struck: Lucky was diagnosed with back, right leg cancer, which is cancer of the back, right leg.

As hard as he fought, through all the chemo, it looked like Lucky's luck was out of luck. His leg would have to be removed.

The night before the surgery, Lucky kneeled by the side of his bed and out of desperation, prayed to Satan that his leg would be spared.

When he awoke the next morning, Lucky felt like a brand new dog. The doctors were confounded. His cancer was gone. It was a miracle. It was only then that Lucky started to panic and realize what he had done.

To break his contract with the Dark Lord, Lucky purchased a band saw at Home Depot, keeping the receipt so that he could return it once he was done with it. He sawed off his own leg and since the Prince of Darkness hadn't really saved him from anything, the deal was off.

His options in Hollywood now limited by his handicap, Lucky did what all washed up losers do: he went on the Surreal Life Season 5. There he shared a house with the likes of Janice Dickinson, Omarosa, Balki and Jose Canseco's dog who introduced him to the homosexual lifestyle which he now enjoys.

If you are gay and you enjoy dogs who bark all the time for no reason and smell really bad and have terrible farts, perhaps you would be interested in making your own stories with Lucky. Mine is almost at its end as my roommate is about to leave for 48 days and I have a feeling there are some medical researchers out there who want to meet this dog.

I'm just joshin'!

The Assassination Factory

2006-06-15T11:53:00.000-07:00

As I employ literary constructs in an effort to shape the Chad Robuckle mythology and build venture capital for my novel, one thing that comes up, over and over again in the focus groups is Chad's mother.

People want to know about her. What's her deal? Where was she when all this was going on? Is she hot?

I guess this is the same sort of fascination people have with Hitler's mother. They want to know what someone who has birthed pure evil is like. Are they evil themselves, raising their seed to be the same or is it rather a genetic anomaly, a force upon itself? You know, the usual "nature versus nurture" bullshit that is all the rage in the stand-up comedy clubs these days.

The truth is, I haven't really spoken of Chad's mother for two reasons:

First off, while in the greater sense, she played a very big role in shaping who Chad would become, she did so mostly by her absence. She carried him inside her for the standard 13 months, pooped him out and was gone, not to return for 27 years.

Secondly, it's actually a pretty sad story. We can all laugh at Chad's antics because he seems so incapable of feeling human emotion. But there's just something so universal and sorrowful about an unwanted child. I just didn't want people to empathize with him at all.

Not that you should feel sorry for him or refrain from passing judgment on him because it's "not all his fault". I think you will see that his path was indeed chosen by him through his free will.

But enough psycho-analyzing. "Why don't you tell the damn story, already and let us decide for ourselves, Eric?"

You're right, imaginary voices in my head. So without further ado, I give you "The Sheila Robuckle Story".

Sheila was a wealthy socialite who met Chad's father at a cotillion. Or maybe it was her coming out party, I don't really know/care.

Anyway, they met, fell in "love" and were married soon after.

It was the 70's and they were pretty heavy into the swinging thing. I know there was a lot of concern on Mr. Robuckle's part whether or not the child was his, though I am pretty sure all doubt of that has been erased in the time since then.

The Robuckles were also heavily into drinking and drugs. Now, before you get all uppity, remember, it was a different time. People didn't know about the dangers of smoking, drinking, doing drugs and getting triple-penetrated by a team of soccer players from Brazil while you were pregnant back then.

I'm not going to defend them and their actions, but I'm sure if you ask your parents, you probably rode around with your child seat facing forwards before you were 9 months old are something else on par with the mistakes the Robuckles made.

Sheesh, I keep getting off track here! Focus, Eric!

One night, the Robuckles are out partying, I believe this was close to the beginning of their fourth trimester, when Sheila decides it will be a "larf" to go and get a psychic to talk to the fetus.

Back in the 70's, that thing was all the rage and people actually believed in that crap, so Mr. Robuckle agreed. As soon as all the mescaline was gone, they take off in their dune buggy and drive around looking for an all-night psychic. Luckily for them, the party let out right around 11 am, so they didn't have too much trouble finding one.

The psychic is playing her hokey little game, dressed up like Stevie Nicks with the flowing scarves and all that. She takes Mrs. Robuckle's hand and starts her incantation in that "spooky voice" they all seem to use, when suddenly, she goes stiff as a board, her face gets as white as a sheet and she wets herself like some other cliche I'm too lazy to think up.

Mrs. Robuckle freaks out and tries to pull her hand away but this lady has a death grip on her. Mr. Robuckle tries to help out by smashing a chair over her head. Apparently, he thought if she was dead, she would release her hold on his wife, but no such luck. Even though she's bleeding from her ears and mouth, she won't let go.

Finally, she starts speaking, no longer in the sing-song Scooby Doo villain voice we're all used to. This is deep, low and robotic. The voice tells them that they will give birth to a son and the son will bring darkness upon the world. He will signal the coming of the anti-Christ and herald the arrival of the Four Horsemen.

Well, the Robuckles were pretty freaked out. Even for them, that was some pretty fucked up shit.

The lady comes out of her trance, lets go of Mrs. Robuckles hand and collapses onto her chair. She has no idea what has happened and can't understand why her head hurts so much.

Being a man of action, Mr. Robuckle throws a twenty at her, grabs his wife and they get the hell out of there.

Well the whole drive home, Mrs. Robuckle can't stop talking about what she just saw. Mr. Robuckle, on the other hand, just wants to forget the whole thing. He tells his wife that it's all just a big act to spook people and she needs to shut the hell up and give him another beer as he's almost done with this one.

Well, Mrs. Robuckle isn't so easily swayed and behind her husband's back, she seeks out members of the clergy and other spiritual leaders, asking for them to consult her on what she should do about her demon child.

Most of them laugh it off but a few take her seriously and realize that if she's been carrying a baby for 11 months who isn't dead from all the harmful chemicals and strange penises she's put in her body, their might be some validity to her claims.

Now, they're in quite the conundrum because they know what the answer is, but they have to weigh the good of the world against the teachings of their faith.

Finally, a rabbi of all people, tells her flat out that she needs to abort that thing, ASAP.

I'm not going to get too graphic here, let's just leave it at this: she tries and nothing works.

And I mean NOTHING.

So despite the best efforts of 19 different abortion doctors, six dentists and 3 demolition derby drivers, Chad Robuckle is born into the world and his mother splits from his life, soon thereafter.

For 27 years, Chad is raised by his father and his ever-changing roster of girlfriends, nannies, butlers and street-wise prostitutes that he befriends while skipping school. And I think we all know how that went.

Fast forward to a few years ago, Chad is at one of his lucrative speaking engagements, regaling the crowd of underclassmen at Vassar College with his famous "I hate Matlock" speech when a lone figure slips into the back of the auditorium. Nobody really noticed the middle-aged woman in her blood-red robes as she stood against the wall for a few minutes, before discreetly pulling out a high-powered rifle and doing the sign of the cross. Certainly, everyone was unaware as she softly incanted, "In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti" and took aim at the stage.

What they definitely did notice was the gunshot blaring in their ears and echoing across the hall as Mrs. Robuckle missed her target by a good 15 feet, splattering the brains of Dean Oxham-Chipperly across the stage.

Panic ensued, but Chad was ready. Before she could get off a second shot, he had sprang forth from behind the podium, producing two Glock 9mm handguns from the inside pockets of his jacket.

As he ran towards her, shooting from both guns John Woo-style, he shouted at her, "You missed me, bitch, just like you did with that coat hanger!"

Unfortunately for those 14 or so audience members who lost their lives that day, while it looks cool in movies, shooting from both hands while running is not the most accurate way to take down a target.

People screamed as the Robuckles exchanged gunfire, Mrs. Robuckle getting off a few more shots, until she was out of ammunition.

At this point, Chad was a mere 3 feet from her, they were shooting at each other from behind the opposite sides of a chair.

Triumphant, Chad held his gun to her temple and locked eyes with the woman who had both given him life and tried to take it away so many, many times.

"You're out," he said.

"So are you," she replied.

He pulled the trigger and heard only a click. She was right. He was out of ammunition.

They stood there for a few seconds before the tears started to well up in her eyes and she began to smile.

In spite of himself, Chad couldn't help smiling too. He threw down his gun and they embraced, laughing heartily.

"How did you know?" he asked her.

"You're my son, you know you can always count on me!" she replied. They laughed some more at her joke which would have made even Michael Bay cringe.

"You mean you can count on me!" was his witty comeback.

More inane laughter.

It went on like this for another twenty minutes before the SWAT team arrived. Chad and his mother, now arm in arm, explained the situation to them.

"You see, officer," said Chad, "it's all been a big mix-up. One big mix-up." He looked fondly at his mother, "Surely you wouldn't take his mother away from a fella, now that he's just getting to know her?"

The officer thought it over. "No, I guess I wouldn't, young man. Gee whiz, I'd have to be some sort of monster to do that. Pack it up, boys, we're going home!"

And with that, it was over.

15 people lost their lives that day. 7 lived but will now be at least partially paralyzed from their wounds. This is what I mean, this asshole does what he wants and never has to face any sort of consequences! It's infuriating!

I'm a good person, I haven't killed a single person! But if I park my car for 63 minutes in a one hour parking zone, you can bet your ass I'm gonna get a ticket. And I will have to pay it, because my car isn't stolen and I have a license and insurance. UNLIKE CHAD.

Wait a minute, a baby! That's the cliche I was looking for. The psychic wet herself like a baby. God, it's so obvious. I'm sure I could have thought of it if I was Chad Robuckle. I'm sure I'd have a Pulitzer Prize by now, if I was him.

You know what? Fuck it, I'm done. Have a nice life.

What the hell are these people?

2006-06-13T15:50:00.000-07:00

I'm serious, this isn't a joke. Are they black or white? Mixed?

The guy looks like a white guy with a really dark tan and the woman looks like she's a very light-skinned African-American woman.

I'm really confused.

This picture is of former Atlanta mayor Bill Campbell and his wife, Sharon. This is a story about how he got convicted of corruption or something, I don't care. I am just mystified about this picture.

Is this racist of me to ask? I feel like I maybe shouldn't be doing this, but I can't help myself.

I know we're all the same color on the inside and people aren't black or white, they're people, blah blah blah. But c'mon, look at that picture! I am totally at a loss. The guy looks like the white dad from that show Ice Cube did where the families switched races.

OK, they're black, right? No?

Seriously, this is not a bit, help me out.

A request

2006-06-04T17:05:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone, Eric Filipkowski here.

I have been thinking about assembling my blogs into a "book" of some sorts, it's been on my mind for a while but recently I've been a little more pro-active about it.

At first, I was just going to take the short stories I've written and put them into a collection, but I think I would be doing a disservice to myself if I excluded the things about my real life and what I've gone through this past year or so.

It is really weird for me to read through all my old entries and have to re-live some of my recent experiences.

This is why I think the book should be about my journey as a person AND a writer. Because this isn't just a place I post stories I've written, this is a journal. This is a place where I come to share what's going on with me with the rest of the world. Or at least the people who read this.

And to those people, I really want to thank you. I think if you go back, you'll see this blog has definitely helped me through some very difficult things in my life.

I guess that's the appeal of it. You share with others and they relate to what is universal in all of us. Blah blah blah.

But seriously, I look back on where I've come from and it's kind of amazing. I'm sure lots of people go through changes like this all the time, but when it's sitting right there on a computer screen for you to see, documented through words, it's really cool to witness and this is what I'd like to share with people.

When I started writing in my blog, I was healthy and I had just started dating someone I thought I was in love with. I came to see that both of these weren't really true.

Even though I thought I was really happy, looking back now it certainly doesn't look like I was. My outlook on life was pretty negative. I think I had grown complacent.

I had my surgery and the long recovery period which gave me hours of time I had to fill without being able to do anything remotely physical.

This lead to me writing in my blog. What had been a practically abandoned webpage was soon updated on a daily basis. New characters were born and my mind took adventures my body was unable to.

Gumdrop streets with candy cane light posts opened up before me as I took a journey on a magic cupcake filled with dreams and frosting!

As my health improved, I wrote about my progress and my hopes for the future.

I talked about Harry Potter and Disneyworld and my imaginary friend who may or may not be a rapist.

I churned out story after story and got my confidence back as a writer. I moved from Los Angeles to Rhode Island to Florida and back to Los Angeles. A journey of nearly 1000 miles!

I have a very special friend and she believes that everything happens for a reason. I'm not sure if I believe this completely, but when I look back at who I was and who I am now, I am glad for what I've gone through. I'm glad for the friends I've made (or re-made), I'm glad for the change in my attitude. I am thankful for the chance to re-examine my life and the things that I value as important to me.

So as I try and piece together some sort of narrative for this book, I'm going to ask for your help.

First of all, do you think there would be any interest in a book like this?

Do you think I should stick with my fictional stories or try and combine them with my real-life blogs?

Which stories would you like to see?

On a scale of 1 to 10, where 1 is "Superman" and 10 is "Jesus", what score would you give me as a writer?

Thanks for all your help!

Stop taking down my videos, YouTube!

2006-06-03T15:12:00.000-07:00

Let me start out by saying that I love YouTube.

If you've never been to youtube.com, you are missing out. They have taken video web hosting to a whole new level.

In the old days, getting video online was a laborious and expensive process and they have made it easy and free.

Now, kids across the country are posting their homemade videos and expressing themselves creatively. Instead of joining gangs, they are posting videos of themselves beating up people who aren't in the gangs they've joined. Instead of getting pregnant, they are posting videos of themselves getting pregnant. It is literally changing the way the world watches video entertainment.

And this isn't just bored kids. Bands have gotten signed by making videos and posting them on YouTube and just getting millions of people to watch. I'm sure someone's gonna get a film deal the same way (hopefully me).

But along with this wave of innovation, there are always the bottom-feeding degenerates who have to ruin the good time for everyone.

Copyright infringement, inappropriate content, racism and episodes of "Joey" are causing the watchdogs to take notice and try and pass legislation to put an end to all the fun.

We in the internet movie-making community need to police ourselves so someone else doesn't come along and do it for us.

I understand this. But who sets the standards of "good taste"?

Whoever he/she is, he's a fucking moron, because that's the only thing that could explain my videos getting taken down.

Imagine if you had a kid and you made a video of that kid taking his first steps and you put it up on YouTube cuz now your kid is older and it's just a really cute video.

Now imagine if YouTube took this video down and deleted your account because "somebody" had flagged it as inappropriate.

It would make you sick, right?

Your precious memories have been labeled as sick or disgusting by a complete stranger. Someone who doesn't know you and knows absolutely nothing about your life.

Now, if you will, imagine that instead of your child's first steps, it's actually your child's first time having sexual intercourse. You were lucky enough to be there to capture the magic as your 12-year old boy became a man with your 37 year old best friend and tennis partner.

You put the video up because you want to share it with your friends and family, not to mention anyone else in the world who appreciates beauty, but then one day you go to watch it and its gone. Not only that, you can't even log into your account because it's been deleted and you've got some investigator from the FBI knocking on your door.

Does that make any sense? Is it illegal to look at "child pornography" if you're the child in the pornography? Because I am. That's me in those videos having sex with my mom's friend while both my parents videotaped it.

Seriously, I think this brings up an interesting legal issue. Where is the "victim" if you're essentially victimizing yourself?

It was the greatest day of my life. Mrs. Johnston worked me over like no woman has ever done since. She literally ruined me for anyone else, she was that good.

Watching that video brings a tear to my eye. But my tears of happiness turn to tears of rage when I think about someone sitting there and judging me for aspiring to achieve what so many can only dream of.

So, in summation, I am against child pornography in all forms. I also feel global warming is bad too. Let me be clear about that. But I ask you: how can you molest yourself? That's only illegal in Alabama, I think. But unless someone invents a time machine, it's not even a possibility. And if someone does invent a time machine, I've got bigger plans than molesting my 12 year old former self.

I'm gonna go back and bet on sporting events that were huge upsets. That way, I'll get great odds on a sure thing and become rich and have my own casino.

cunt

2006-06-01T17:01:00.000-07:00

If you've ever wanted to see me go off on a rant for really no valid reason and have me go totally apeshit, you're in luck.

Everyone else, go to hell.

So I'm trying to print out a fairly important set of files today, totaling about 30 pages. My printer doesn't work, I knew that. What I didn't know is that the 17 other printers in my house that belong to my roommate also don't work. At all.

So now I've gotta figure out some way to get my files somewhere else where I can print them out. Seems easy, right?

Long story short, it's not. They're in Final Draft, so it's not like I can just take them to anyone's computer and print them out like a text file. I have to convert them to a Word document. The problem with that is, they're scripts and scripts that are written in Final Draft don't always look great in Word but I was hoping this is one time that wouldn't be an issue.

It was. Or wasn't. I don't know which one. The one that means "they look like crap." That one.

I had to re-space everything and get it right in Word. Then, just to be sure everything would work right, I copied all the files (both Final Draft and Word) into my USB memory key AND burned them to a CD. I figured I would be set.

There is no one I know within a half-hour drive who works in an office who is either willing or able to print these out for me and plus, I figure, "well it can't be that much, I'll just go to Kinko's".

WRONG

The guy at Kinko's tells me it's $.49 cents a page to print them out from one of the Kinko's computers. If you're keeping track, that's 15 bucks. For 30 black and white pages that are probably costing them .0028 cents.

So I log onto their ancient Dell with the shit for brains asshole burnt out screen that makes you blind and my time is ticking away in the corner. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention it also costs $.25 per minute for the honor of using their 50 dollar computer from 1987 which conveniently takes forever to do anything. Odd that they would have a slow computer, don't they realize that's jacking up the price for people who are using their services?

Not only is this thing slow, but it's got a dirty roller ball mouse. It's 2006. There is no excuse for using a roller ball mouse. Digital mice can be had for 10 dollars. If you have a computer with a roller ball mouse and I catch you with that thing, I am going to take your whole computer, break it over your fucking head and then have sex with your wife. Then I will buy you a real mouse for the new computer you're going to have to buy which probably comes with one anyway, because, like I said, it's 2006.

So I'm trying to print this crap out as quickly as I can and the counter is ticking and I'm fast approaching the 10 dollar mark and I'm not even half done. So then this girl starts talking to me--

I can't stress this enough how much I hate fucking roller ball mice. Even when they're brand new, out of the box, they still suck. Having to use one of them makes my stomach muscles spasm. I feel like I'm going to throw up just thinking about it.

OK, so anyway, I finally get my shit printed out (20 bucks later and not even looking right but at this point I don't even care) and then I've gotta staple everything and stick it in the envelope. Of course, they don't have any pens there for you to use so I have to go and ask the Fed Ex guy for one. I tape everything up and get it ready to be shipped out via Fed Ex - Ha, yeah right! Like I'm going to spend 30 dollars to send something when the Post Office charges me 2 bucks. Keep dreaming, assholes.

So I'm in the car, I'm trying to calm down. The Post Office is probably 500 feet from Kinko's, but the way the intersection is set up, I have to go in the total opposite direction, down a backstreet and around to the other side. There are cars everywhere. It's 4 o'clock and I'm at Laurel Canyon and Ventura. It's basically a nightmare.

I finally get to the Post Office, which goes surprisingly well, but now it's time to leave and the parking lot is basically a parking lot (LOL!). I'm trying to leave but the street is so backed up, nobody can move. I'm sitting there, with 3 cars in front of me when I see her.

OK, GET READY.

She's waving at me frantically, "what could she want," I wonder? I roll down my window.

"You have to move your car! I can't get out of here!" Boy is she pissed. Well I better move my car so she can get out of here, seems reasonable enough--

Wait a minute! I'm trying to leave too (see diagram). I can't move, I'm blocked in. Why is she yelling at me?

OH YEAH, THAT'S RIGHT, CUZ SHE'S A STUPID FUCKING BITCH.

Imagine Elaine Boosler's uglier, fatter mother. Then cover her in feces. Punch her in the face til her bones turn to mush and then flip her over and start punching the other side. Rip off your own arm and then use it to--

OK, I'm calm. This doesn't affect me. I am above it all. You want to yell at people for no reason on a hot day when traffic is murder? That's your deal and if anyone out there believes in karma, it will come back and bite her in the ass sometime in the near future.

"You have to move your car! I can't get out of here!"

Oh, you're trying to get out of here? That's weird, cuz I was just sitting here admiring this parking lot. I had actually planned on staying there for the next six hours cuz I just love it so much. We're going to the same place idiot and neither of us can get there until the people in front of me move.

I mean, come on. I know I said I'm over this, but how fucking dumb can one person be?

OK, now here's the thing about the title. I know people don't like that word. I know it's "not cool" to say it. I thought about saying "c*nt" or "the C word" or something like that, but why?

She's a cunt. Plain and simple.

That's why words like that are invented. Yes, they get over-used, but sometimes they are appropriate.

I don't refer to all women this way, I don't really refer to any women this way because I'm not sure this beast was human.

Maybe I'm not seeing this from her side of things, maybe she was having a bad day (kinda like the one I was having), maybe she was about to shit herself because she's old and she forgot to put on her Depends that morning.

Not my problem.

In the general sense, she is an asshole. But in the specific sense, she is a cunt, because if she was a man, I would have gotten out and beat the shit out of her. Or more likely, she would have beaten the shit out of me, but whatever. It would be over. But because she's a woman, that's not tolerated in society. That's looked down upon. And bravo, says I!

But if you're going to play upon that, it makes you more than an asshole. If you think it's OK for you to go around being an asshole because you know there will be no serious repercussions because you're an old woman, that makes you a cunt.

I stand by my assertion and rest my case.

Jesus fucking Christ, I need a beer or some heroin or something.

I'm just joshin!

Happy Birthday Bill & Maggie!

2006-05-30T00:56:00.000-07:00

If you consider a marriage a person, then they were just born, so shut the hell up.

This weekend I went to Iowa or Idaho or something like that. It was Boise. Now, if you're normal, you probably would say, "oh, he went to BOY-zee". Right? Yes, you are right. But if you are not normal, i.e. you live in Boise, you would say "oh, he went to Boyce-cee".

I'm not kidding. Isn't that crazy? I never knew it til I went there.

It's not a bad place. It's clean and it doesn't get really crowded. There is a river you can go tubing in but I didn't cuz it was too cold or the water was too high or some crap like that. Did I mention they have alcohol there?

So my friends got married and I flew on a turbo-prop plane which is kinda cramped and scary. The bathroom on the plane didn't have a sink so I had to wash my hands in the toilet. Don't worry, I flushed it first. I think.

I went swimming in a pool and sat in a hottub that was really hot. I know you're probably saying "duh, no shit it was hot you stupid idiot, that's why they call it a hot tub" but no, you are wrong. It was way too hot. Much more than a regular hot tub. I ate a lot of food and saw alot of my friends, most of whom were drunk.

The wedding itself was really nice. It was short and sweet and when it was over, we all went to a great reception that didn't have any assigned seating. I had some steak and then everyone started dancing which normally I hate, but whatever.

Also, I gave a speech.

I brought my business cards with me because I was hoping to pass them out to all the people who were taking pictures so that they would email me copies of their pictures but I kinda forgot to do that so I will probably never see those pictures. But if you are reading this and took some, send them to me please.

Hmm, what else? I stayed in a hotel, that was fun. I rode on a trolley but it was fake. I saw a racist mural in a closed-down courthouse. Oh and I saw this guy spill a pita sandwich all over my friend's suit which he then tried to clean by pouring beer on it.

Now I am really tired. I will probably podcast about it tomorrow, I may even have a special guest, who knows.

I'm just joshin'!

2006-05-25T01:54:00.000-07:00

This isn't a blog so much as it is me expressing my intent to let everyone know I have a new catchphrase. And here it is:

"I'm just joshin'!"

It means, "I'm just joking" or "I'm just kidding".

"Joshin'" means "kidding", I guess.

So, for example, if you invite me to your show and I go and afterwards you're like "thanks for coming, Eric. What did you think?" and I am like "I can't believe you made me drag my ass out here to watch this piece of shit. Seriously, you should just quit. Maybe you could go to law school or something?" if I were to do that, I'd be a dick, right?

BUT, if you invite me to your show and I go and afterwards you're like "thanks for coming, Eric. What did you think?" and I am like "I can't believe you made me drag my ass out here to watch this piece of shit. Seriously, you should just quit. Maybe you could go to law school or something? I'm just joshin'!" then it's a funny joke.

These are the rules of comedy, I didn't make them up. I'm as helpless as you are when it comes to the way things are. We could try to fight it, but like Bruce Springsteen sang, "That's just the way it is, some things will never change". And he was right.

So, to sum up:

a.) you aren't funny
2.) you should quit
d.) I am much better then you
four.) seriously, give up

I'm just joshin'! You guys are great, I've never seen that before, in a show, before. You know, that thing you did, up there. That was hilarious. Seriously, no I'm not just saying that. You're great. What's that? No, you're right, yeah, totally. So many people in LA just want to hear you tell them how great they are, but not you. Not us? Oh thanks man, I really appreciate you including me in that, seriously. Great. What? Oh, no, nobody told me about a party. Shit, yeah, I'd love to, but I gotta go to this thing tomorrow. What's that? Oh, it's my pilates class. 6 a.m. Yeah, it sucks but this body takes work. Heh, yeah, I hear that. Alright dude, I gotta jet. No, I mean it, awesome. Hey, take care, have fun at that party. Keep up the good work.

Ross, I didn't declare your zero-interest loan you gave me to the government

2006-05-21T11:06:00.000-07:00

Ross, these past 3 weeks, my life has been a living hell.

I have slept probably six or seven hours total in that time. Ever since we got back from our trip to Las Vegas.

We were all excited, we were going to have a great time and you even got us a deal on our hotel room.

"I'll put it on my card," you said, "it's not a big deal, pay me back whenever!"

True to your word, due to your busy schedule at work, I didn't end up seeing you for a few weeks. When I finally did, I wrote you the check for $102.00, just like you requested.

Here's the problem: my share of the hotel room was $102.00. That's zero-percent interest. You laid out one hundred and two dollars of your own money, which I was able to keep in my low-yield savings account. I accrued interest on that. I turned a profit and you didn't get a dime.

There isn't a bank in the world that would give me money for free, but you did, Ross. You did.

I know I tried to pay you the 34 cents I estimated I would have owed you, were you charging me the normal compound interest comparable to a rate I would get from any mid-sized financial institution, but is it fair for me to say, "Ross wouldn't take it?" and then be on my merry way?

I don't think so. I know some might say, "it's only 34 cents, who cares?" but it is sad to me that this is the prevailing attitude of the society we live in.

As an example, 34 cents is probably too small to register in peoples' minds because they don't have the patience or imagination to see the possible scope of the damage my illegal activities could have.

What I have done is stolen money from you, Ross. You can forgive me, but I can't forgive myself. That is a profit I am making that I am not declaring to the government. They are not taxing me for this. That is tax money that I am not paying them that could be used for better schools for our children, health care for indigents, or fixing potholes on our roads.

I am a criminal.

Let me elucidate how big of a problem this is. If we were to apply my little scam to a much larger sum of money or perhaps more appropriately, a larger number of these small loans, we can begin to see the potential for financial mischief.

Say that you loaned me that same $102.00, interest-free, but now you've done it ten thousand times in a row. That comes to a grand total of $1,020,000. That's a lot of money! You know what the interest on that kind of cash would be, if you were to carry it for the same two week period without charging me any interest? Well, I don't, but I'm guessing it would probably be like six grand, at least!

Six thousand dollars. That's a used Honda Civic from the mid-90's. That's transportation for many years for a poor, Mexican family.

But now Felipe won't get to his job as a day-laborer. Manuel won't get that ride to school. Lupe will have to walk on her own, two tired feet to clean that rich, white family's home. All because I was selfish and felt it was OK to rip off you and the government.

I am sorry, Ross. I'm sorry.

I can't say it enough and it will always sound hollow, but I am sorry. I wish you could see me right now, I can't stop crying. I feel like--

Wait a minute, I paid you $102.00, right? But don't you remember when I bought breakfast at the Peppermill? You had like six mimosas and when I gave the waitress that hundred dollar bill I won at keno, you said I should take your share of breakfast out of the money I owed you. I tried to turn you down but you insisted.

With your mimosas and your steak and egg omelette with no eggs, that came to $37.28. Subtracted from the original $102.00, that would leave $64.72. So I over paid you.

You cheap son of a bitch. You screwed me, Ross. You screwed me. I can't believe I let you do this to me. I felt so bad. I was fucking crying. You asshole. It is taking every ounce of restraint I have to end these sentences with a period because believe me, in my mind I am screaming at you.

I know you're going to say that we were all drunk and you just forgot, but fuck you. Fuck you and your drinking problem! There, one slipped out. This is the worst thing anyone has ever done to me, ever.

You have ruined Las Vegas for me forever. You have permanently sullied our happy memories we made on that trip. My keno winnings are tainted. The same goes for the excitement I felt meeting Celine Dion. Ditto that picture Keren took of us riding the Big Shot on top of the Stratosphere.

I hate you, Ross! I am glad Mr. Whiskers got feline AIDS and died! OK, I'm sorry, Mr. Whiskers had nothing to do with this and I'm sorry I said that.

But you know what? I feel that since you have no loyalty to me, I have no loyalty to you and am free to tell everyone about how before you moved to California in sixth grade, you had to wear braces on your legs and everyone called you FDR at your old school! That's right, Mr. Cool! You weren't so cool then, were you? It's hard to be a badass and a rebel when you ride the special bus to school with all the retards!

Don't forget to take your urinary incontinence pills tonight, Ross. It would be really embarassing if you were to pee all over your fiancee. Oh that's right, she still doesn't know about that. Well don't worry, I'm sure she won't read this blog even though she reads my blog every day. I'm sure this time it will be different. Yes, that sounds likely. This one time she will forget to read my blog and won't find out your terrible secrets.

Asshole.

Podcasting by numbers

2006-05-18T13:28:00.000-07:00

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I hate getting political.

The thing is, sometimes you have no choice.

I couldn't believe this article when I read it. Basically, it says that they're trying to pass a law that would make it legal to murder people while you are podcasting.

Crazy, right? Well if this bill becomes a law, that's exactly what anybody with a computer, a microphone and a Feedburner account will be able to do.

I am opposed to this on so many levels. It just blows my mind that people could think that it's OK.

When I first saw this, my immediate reaction was anger. No, it was rage. No, it was anger.

Anger that we lived in a world where these Washington fat cats have nothing better to do than make legislation for legalized murder!

If I'm walking down the street and I shoot someone, that's against the law and I will pay a hefty fine. BUT, if I'm sitting in my room podcasting and I shoot someone I am interviewing, it's perfectly legit. Where's the sense in that?

Look, I'm all for free speech and I believe we need to take steps to protect the rights of artists in this country. The Bush Administration has repeatedly sought to censor dissident voices and that can not be allowed. The Founding Fathers didn't write the Second Amendment so we could have some Texas redneck shutting down museums and taking away school budgets for music class.

But there's a limit, people!

Murder?? Are you serious?

First of all, if we're really looking to protect the sanctity of artists in America (and yes, I do believe podcasting is an art), we need to stop alienating the rest of the world with our crazy laws. It makes us all look bad if a few loose cannons turn the American podcasting community into a joke.

I am a podcaster, so maybe I'm not the most objective person to be writing this response, but I don't see any of my fellow podcasters rushing forward to do it. Change starts with the individual and apparently that individual is me.

Oh sure, murder is great. I understand that. As a podcaster, I know the temptation experienced when a strange woman comes over to your house and you two are alone because you've misled her into believing you've got a real studio and that your podcast is a legitimate media outlet.

She's got something on her mind and she needs a forum to say it. Saving the yellow spotted flounder is important and she wants to make sure my six listeners are aware of that.

Well I've got something on my mind and it involves her lifeless corpse and an industrial-sized horse carcass meat grinder.

But that doesn't mean I should do it. Maybe it does, but it certainly doesn't mean that there should be a law on the books that allows me to do so, consequence-free.

Have these people ever heard the expression "the grass is always greener on the other side of the mountain"?

Why is murder fun? Because it's illegal. It's wrong. Society looks down upon those who do it, except in cases where you're doing it to save a baby from being aborted.

Do you remember when you were a kid and you pleaded with your mom to buy you that BB gun? You begged and begged and watched countless birthdays and Christmases fly past you until finally, when you were 27, your parents broke down and got you that BB gun.

And then what? You didn't even want the fucking thing. It was boring. You couldn't kill shit with those BBs. It takes like six of them to knock a goddam bald eagle out of the sky. What kind of bald eagle sits around and lets you shoot it with a BB gun six times? An asshole kind, that's what.

Now I'm pissed and getting off the subject. My point is, this law doesn't make any sense. Keep murder illegal for everyone. Podcasters included.

Goddam it, I hate that stupid fucking bald eagle. I'm sorry, but it was really pushing my buttons. Maybe I should have had it on my podcast, then everything would be fine!

That was sarcasm.

But now that I'm thinking about it, I realize I've inadvertantly brought up a really valid point.

What kind of world do we live in? I'll tell you what kind of world we live in: the kind of world where these New York liberals twist their crazy laws to make it legal to kill whoever you want, just as long as that person isn't a bald eagle.

Fucking shit, do you see the lunacy we're dealing with here, people?

I am retracting all my previous statements. I am now 100% FOR this law and as soon as it is passed, I invite all these asshole politicians down to my "studio" so that I can podcast about it and congratulate them in person.

Then we'll see if they keep flying around, squawking at me and sitting on their nest like they're the fucking king of England!