06 May 2017
Publishing That Blogpost Exposing the Deeply Embarrassing Thing That Happened to Me Deeply Exposed and Embarrassed Me
This is the post I have been afraid to write. Terrified, actually.
Because it will reveal me to myself and force me to face up to my private desires and in the end I may be exposed as a total moron and still not have any Followers on Twitter – well you can imagine how terrifying that must be. I know I can, and imagination was never my strong suit.
I feel cheated, robbed of my privacy and stripped bare of my most innermost thoughts. Embarrassed, insulted, kicked around, pushed out the door and left for unsuccessful by the side of the road to my horizons.
And it's all because I bared my soul for the world to mock in that (dumb stupid) blogpost.
When I wrote my tell-all self-expose of the complete story of the shocking revelation that I wet the bed until I was twenty-seven, and detailed the many therapy sessions and corrective surgeries I had gone through in what can only be described (by law) as a pitiful ordeal, I thought I was just telling an interesting story, it was a simple exercise in 'writing what you know' that I imagined would help me attract a bevy of new "Adherents" on Twitter or Twongle or Twozzle or whatever the new one's called.
I never imagined it would ruin my life forever. That people would laugh at me, make all manner of hurtful wisecracks at my expense, create hysterical memes with pictures of cats or famous movie characters captioned with embarrassing words that I myself wrote under an intense emotional spell, in a fragile, vulnerable state of mind, when I felt that I just had to get that out of me or I would explode and was utterly unable to understand or even consider the consequences of such a revelation, in today's internet era where your words once published can come back to haunt you and take your dignity and obliterate your future, forever.
Now I'm unemployable. I can't keep a job or a boy/girlfriend. My pet hamster Mr. Gerbils ran away when he discovered my secret, he left a note saying all the other hamsters were making fun of him and he was confused about his gerbility and why did I post that on Facebook am I a complete moron and he simply couldn't face the world as my hamster any more.
Courage exacts a price, and if having the courage to stand up and make an ass of myself in public in order to get attention (which these days of course can be monetized) is the cost of having the courage to take a stand, to show yourself to the world, then so be it. I am not trying to run away from the consequences of my choices. I did get 71 new Followers on Instagraham and although there's no way to tell how sincere any of them are, in that sense it was almost worth it. But alas, the suffering of being stigmatized for my own blogpost. Of being made a parasol, or a paragon, whichever is correct there, on account of my own deeply personal account of my past stigmatization and sufferings. To be bitten by the very thing – social networks – that had given my life some semblance of meaning for the past three and two-thirds years! How cruel is fate, how savage the vicissitudes of Instagraham and how bitter the poisoned fruits of cruel demon Twitter!
O wretched internet, I am SO like, Eli Eli lama sabbachtani to the max! Why hast thou forsaken me and whatnot?
15 April 2017
The following essay was originally "published" in September of 2012. It remains as timelessly relevant as it was on the day it was originally "published", which is not to make a claim about the matter one way or the other, purse a.
It is clear that The Country is coming apart at the seams, and what is needed is a heavy dose of social cohesion. One of the few subjects capable of bringing diverse groups of people together these days seems to be professional sports. Therefore, professional sports must be brought into the political process. And not just implicitly – as for example the Cleveland Brownshirts – but by law. The teams and their fan bases must become political parties to advocate for and protect their particular interests. This will increase political participation and our sense of community and go a long way towards revitalizing this great nation of yours, mine, and ours.
Sure some people don't like sports. Nothing wrong with that. But every citizen is or can be persuaded to become a fan of at least one team, if not for the policy platform then for the ancillary social benefits or the color scheme.
Instead of extending unemployment benefits for 'the poor', a vague and easily otherizable designation, it would be framed as, "We need to extend Lombardi Benefits for needy Packer fans." This is something all Packer fans can get behind: Green and Gold, The Glory, Bart Starr, Jerry Kramer and all that. Any Packer fan would support a modest surtax on every brat with the money earmarked to fund community education programs for Packer fans less fortunate than themselves. Just like the Giants didn’t give up on Eli Manning after his first three subpar seasons – and look what it got them: two friggin super bowls – we can't give up on young Brian even if he's flunked his welder's certificate twice, we can extend those benefits because we know he's gonna get back on his feet, consume his share of cheese-filled foodstuffs and give us much-needed special teams depth for the stretch run.
We will have to redraw the electoral map a little bit to accommodate the overlapping fan bases of different sports and cities. After all, Raider fans should not be taxed to support 49er fans and vice versa. And a Bronco fan living in San Diego should not have his hard earned money taxed to support the Chargers, I think we can all agree that is not what The Framers had in mind. Yes the world has changed a whole hunk since they met behind Fort Sumter circa 1763, but some principles are enduring.
At this time, as with any cockamamie idea, we should focus not on the difficulties but the possibilities.
Imagine having elections decided by the outcome of the Penguins-Flyers series, determining the passage of legislation by the OBP leaders or taxation rates by the fifth at Pimlico, deciding whether to launch another pointless foreign war based on the results of another pointless late-season Wolverhampton match.
Let the games double as city council meetings, with seven minutes of every halftime set aside for civic matters, doing the public's business and so forth. Referenda or simple up or down votes on questions of public policy could be speedily conducted by asking fans to flash one of two sides of a pre-distributed placard. In election seasons games might include campaign rallies, where the candidates briefly outline their vision and policy proposals, take a few seconds to malign and misrepresent their opponent, and then demonstrate their physical fitness as well as ability to handle complex legislation in the Punt, Pass, and Kick.
Chew on that for a second. We'll be right back to talk more about politics, after this succession of slickly produced, highly charged moments from our sponsors.
21 March 2017
Since the Opening Statement, The Founder has modestly receded into the background, maintaining overall creative control while ceding the day-to-day jokemongering to a crackerjack young editorial staff.
But okay I guess it's time to get deeply personal about myself, I know a lot of people read these blog things looking to enjoy other people humiliating themselves, and I certainly wouldn't want to disappoint anyone.
I started this project with a simple maxim: There is no I in blog. That's why I started a blog and not a website, which has an I and a we and even a sie for that matter.
I still believe that's true, and that's the main reason this blog is not about cooking. Because I'm a helluva cook in the kitchen, let me tell you, I can whip up a buttercream souffle like nobody's business. But if I started posting recipes about the cheap, easy and delicious meals I cook for friends and family with stunning regularity, suddenly I'd just be counted on to produce more and more of the almost-the-same and I was not up for that kind of burden, I already have two kids of my own.
Or I could write about my collection of books, or do one of those compiler blogs where I link to videos off YourTube or to funny pictures of street signs that don't make any sense.
Heck I could start another Wendy's in my neighborhood, a good neighborhood can never have too many Wendy's's. And then blog about that: the trials, the tribulations, the neverending struggle ... tribulations sell.
I don't know what pancakes have to do with any of this but I've gotten off-topic here. Wait, what was the topic? Tenacious D has a new album? No way, that's great, that's like, I'm sure there's some really funny rock and roll on there and no one has ever heard it yet. That's gonna be terrific to purchase and then enjoy, a lovely respite from the bleak succession of blog posts and digging for grubs that modern life has become, at least for those of us who still have the courage to 'keep it real.'
Well I hope this post has given you some idea about me and the way my thought process works (or doesn't). I think it's important that you the reader understand and identify with me, that way everyone will start to love this blog, I can hire someone to ghost write it and finally retire and do something worthwhile like digging for fossil clams in the far reaches of the northern territories. That's supposedly where clams evolved gills to become fish and I want to be the lucky bugger to lay my mitts on the missing link, the final missing straw in the puzzle of evidence that fish descended from clams and their freakish hybrid offspring.
So I'll leave you with some food for thought: What if Jennifer Jason Leigh's screen name was Jennifer Jason Kearns? Or hunky QB Tom Brady had been Wally Brady, or maybe Dexter? Do you think their careers would have played out any differently? Do names influence the destinies of the stars and the horses they rode in on? It makes a body wonder.
29 January 2017
Special note or appendum type thing: This article may be a rehash, or a foreshadowing. Time has apparently been turned upside down (again) (whatever that means), and the future may or not guarantee present or past results. (The Future is Void Where Prohibited.)
Time itself, that cheap inviting bastard who flies when you'd have him crawl, and crawls when you wish he'd fly (e.g. when you're crawling with flies), stopped again on Thursday at 10:24 a.m., as the Central Clock went kerflooey and the fabric of the universe was once more torn asunder, whatever on earth that means. None reported hurt and no injured, Kent, no one seems to really know what happened, or if anything at all happened, and frankly some are starting to once again ponder the age-old questions, the nature of the cosmos, its source and its ultimate destiny, and the meaning of the fact that no good answer exists to the question of the meaning of existence.
People are kind of falling into two camps on this one, with one camp insisting that time actually stopped this morning, and for several days, though no one can really say how long it lasted, while the other side, in fact the vast majority of the citizenry, seems not to have noticed and continued about their business more or less as usual. There were scattered reports of a palpable weirdness, a definite oozy thickness to the atmosphere, and many if not most of the basic rules of the physical universe seem to have been suspended (one example being the law of conservation of energy, which states that great players save a little something for crunch time). Still, most assumed it was some combination of lack of sleep, gastrointestinal distress, or overindulgence in spirituous liquors, and bravely pushed on with their day.
Authorities are calling all this talk of time stopping "a lot of dangerous nonsense," fearing that any anomalies in the flow of time could cause jitters among already-nervous investors and send them fleeing for the exits in a panic that could scupper the prospects for a robust period of growth for the markets, i.e. more free money for everyone involved. Allegations in the blogosphere that the time stoppage was engineered by Goldmen Sax so that their trading algorithms could rake in another zillion remain unsubstantiated, which is not to say disconfirmed, so you just go right ahead and believe what you want to believe, apocalypse be damned.
Many who claim to have experienced the stoppage were people who were meditating, as well as some (although interestingly not all) of those who were playing music at the time. One dude speculated that what happened was that they were so in the moment that when the moment stopped, they were still able to move and flow freely, inside of it. Asked to describe the sensation, the consensus is that it was pretty, you know, like, "heavy."
And then, whether or not it actually and in fact did happen, it was over. Snap! Just like that.
Physicists at the Institute for the Study of Time said they didn't notice anything, they were 'on break' at 'the time.' Then they started parroting my questions back at me but with extensive, inappropriate uses of air quotes, all while giggling uncontrollably; after twenty minutes I got tired of waiting for them to stop and I left. I don't know what they're smoking, chewing, snorting or shooting over at the Institute these days but I'd like to boil it, distill it and slip a little into my coffee one of these Sunday mornings.
Central Timekeeping was flummoxed, no one from the department could give a good account of what happened. Conflicting stories about the readings on their instruments at the critical moments in question were leaked to the media, and all we could get was an assurance that they would look into the matter thoroughly in due course. In other words, don't hold your breath.
Questions regarding this alleged event or non-event are many and perhaps, in the end, unanswerable.
If it did happen, how could it be verified? Does time stop all the time and we just have no way of knowing? Is this why people spend so much for a Rolex?
Is it even possible for time to stop? To speed up, slow down, or flow in other directions? And not just theoretically, but for humans to actually experience the fluctuations and live to describe them in comprehensible terms?
If a glass were falling, and time really did stop, does the glass just hang there in the air?
If time stops, how do you measure how long it stopped for?
What is time?
[Pauses, looks uncomfortably at shoes.]
We'll be right back.
23 January 2017
With the Super Bowl once again upon us, it seems important that (now more than ever) we settle this nagging question of the downs, which being the more and which the less critical of the downs, in terms of winning the football contest and capturing the big prize. We asked former Miami Gold Star Tiara Queens Linebacker Johnny "Big Uncle" Brownstone to explain it slowly and clearly once and for all so that even the most boneheaded among you can get it through your thick skulls, and he was like, You know what? I tell ya.
First down is the key down… Everything happens on first down and that makes first down the most important down, first down sets it all up for the downs that follow, first down sets the table and that’s why coaches call it the table-setting down and suchlike, first down is where you line up your ducks against their ducks and establish the ground game, or threaten the deep middle (of the pond), maybe set a few decoys out there, because if you can get a nice chunk on first down that sets you up nicely for second down.
Second down is where the rubber meets the road, not literally and not figuratively either but second down is the middle child, it exists in the shadow of first down which, though second has no control over it, has already laid down the broad parameters within which second down must exist and attempt to strike out on its own, make its own name, knowing that third down is coming and bound to soak up all of mom and dad’s attention and leave it the overlooked middle child of downs, as downs go second down is an absolutely critical down and it’s a down good teams make something on, good teams make something on second down that’s either gonna give em another first down or they’re gonna try and leave themselves with a nice short makeable third down.
Because third down is where reputations are made, third down is where the cream separates itself from the chaff and that’s why third down is absolutely the most important down, the down to end all downs, third down is where the Tchaikovskys of the world compose their best music, third down is when Julia Child finally got her own cooking show, heck even Hitler (who was evil) recognized the importance of third down although fortunately for freedom and human decency he was unable to convert the critical third downs that would have kept his team on the march and refused to listen to his generals even when they pleaded with him that everything is riding on third down because if you can’t get a first down on third down you’re stuck facing the grim reaper, the fortified bunker of downs, the end of the line: fourth down.
Fourth down is the down on which dreams die. It is absolutely the ultimate down, the sine qua down (res ipsa loquitur), fourth down is where you show your mettle, where you comb the burrs out of your thick winter coat and buckle up your chinstrap and buckle down your shinchaps and literally put the pedal to your mettle, the strive to your drive, where the guts and bolts of your desire to win rise like the cream to the surface of the kettle, like the wheat rises to the challenge of creating separation from the chaff. If there were a fifth down that would probably be the down of all downs, the be-all and end-all down-wise speaking, but nope. There’s only four and then one way or another it’s back to first down, which to be honest is not very important because you still have two or even three more chances after that and even if you have to punt it’s not that big a deal and besides football is stupid, the end.
09 December 2016
Dear Bag of Bricks,
You will probably never read this, being a bag of bricks, but I’m not writing this open letter for you anyway, I’m writing it to call attention to myself at your expense, why else would anyone write an open letter right.
You didn’t start out as a bunch of bricks in a bag. Each and every last brick of you was made individually albeit by a machine and with the intent that every one of you should be absolutely identical; but the world is not so simple, and so each of you are unique, at least in some limited sense of having unique patterns of scratches and specific chemical compositions, plus your own personal history of being nicked and roughly handled, etc. Nonetheless you’re all effectively identical, let’s be real, you’re a bunch of common bricks after all. But in some sense you are individuals; you will be slathered with cement and then laid each into a slightly different place, never to move again until you can no longer maintain structural integrity and crumble into lifeless fragments, smaller and smaller until thousands and thousands of years hence you shall return to the merest trace of stardust of which all of us are made, bricks included.
But I came here this evening not to pontificate about the bricks themselves so much as how they got in that bag, what they are doing there, wither they shall be conveyed and ultimately used. For a bag of bricks is nothing in itself. It is only through being conveyed to worksite and then integrated in an orderly fashion into something large, possibly beautiful but at least in some sense constructive, or in other words it is only through edification – not just the the building of something but the building up of something – that bricks realize their ultimate destiny.
Cuz here’s the thing: I know how you feel, in fact I venture to say that I know exactly how you feel. For I too, once upon a time, was but also too merely a lowly bag of bricks.
I worked my way up from the brickyards of my fathers, I pulled myself up by my own square corners. When I started on my long journey I was quite nearly an empty bag, I held deep down in my darkest recesses but a single brick. The other bags would tease me, calling me One-Brick and other derogatory nicknames, making me sit at a table in the corner by myself and never inviting me out wilding with them on Friday nights. Ah what a sad sack of bricks I was, never would I know the pure bricky joy of being thrown through the windows of abandoned factories, or being used to prop open an important door, or assembled into a fire pit around which humans drank from a bottle, telling their stories and singing their songs… Dreams and hopes were all I had, all I could ever hope to have, the dream of becoming a big strong bag full of the kind of quality bricks that would make my mother proud, make the whole world sit up and take notice, make the universe, for once and for all eternity, acknowledge my existence.
The bag holding aforesaid bricks itself has quite an interesting story, a story that reaches far beyond the mere bricks it is carrying, it is quite possibly, perhaps, the most interesting bag on earth. Few bags would have more tales to tell. Wait a second, do bricks even come in bags? Maybe from a Home Depot or something I suppose. But no, who ever heard of a bag of bricks? This is idiocy. Forget I even wrote it. (Do I still get paid? Yep I get paid either way, it’s in my contract, eat it people … and see you next week!)
19 November 2016
"Come on, Mrs. Dalrymple, stop stealing my combs. This is the fourth one since Tuesday. I don't care about the NSA spying scandal, stop stealing my effin combs. No– What? Not Sean Puffy Combs, I mean my hair combs you bitty old nimrod. Those combs have a permanent place in my collection. They have a value to me that goes far beyond what they might 'fetch' on the open market, which by the way is a not inconsiderable sum. And yes as a matter of fact I do use them, to comb my hair. Yeah yeah there's that mess in the Congo, it's terrible and my heart goes out to those people, truly – but it's no excuse for you to steal my combs. I've spent the better part of a lifetime assembling those combs. There is not an insignificant comb in the whole pile. Every single tooth on every one of those combs is important to me (dammit). What? Yes, the teeth on my combs are fine, thanks, it is indeed a fine-toothed comb collection. It's a helluv'an ensemble. If you look up comb collection in the dictionary, you'll see a picture of mine, or at least of one closely resembling mine. Remove a single comb and the whole is missing something integral, irretrievable. And you have now removed four, which means that four integral, irreplaceable things must first be retrieved and then be replaced. Four of my precious combs, Mrs. Dalrymple. Here I be, beseechin thee: Stop stealing my combs!"
Conclusion of the foregoing.
21 October 2016
Thousands of readers write in every week asking for directions both literally and metaphorically, how to get where they're going or un-get where they done got to now, but not one has ever written in asking me about my influences. I find this personally offensive but will let it slide, I'm not particularly litigious and anyway I don't need to make up some stupid fake letters from readers just to talk about what I want to talk about, to wit: Who were the writers and thinkers who shaped my marvelous and really quite unique sensibilities?
For many years I steadfastly refused to read the writing of my contemporaries, mainly out of some vague fear of falling under their influence. But when I reflect on my formative years – growing up in Petaluma during the soi disant Age of Frobosity, sent to school at sea by a vindictive step-aunt, cast ashore at Harper's Ferry and called into the service of my country where I would rise to the rank of Adjutant Poobah and be awarded the Hercules of Honor Medal – there are a few men and women whose books sustained me, who provided me with the nourishment of hope and and the sweetened condensed mother's milk of inspiration, blah blah blah enough already, here goes nothing.
Sir William Penrose wrote poems, histories and biographies, political tracts, more than one but less than seven (inclusive) novels and any number of short stories, as well as what in his day were considered scientific monographs (but which today we might call 'blogposts'). His How to Write About Writing an Essay and Other Essays has been translated into eleven languages, albeit in most cases by schoolchildren or mental incompetents. His influence continues to make its influence felt in high school English readers in financially strapped counties of the heartland and condensed short stories in Scholastic, as well as on the dusty shelves of long-abandoned libraries. When I was maybe ten we spent a summer at a friend's cabin on some lake and there were only like twelve books in the house and four of them were The Complete Sir William Penrose Volumes 1 to 3, and 6 I think. I had never read anything like those books, and I never have again, but in some strange way they have stayed with me all these years. Sir William Penrose not only taught me how to write, and how to kill time, he taught me perhaps the most important lesson a writer can learn, namely that people will read just about anything if there is nothing else better at hand.
Vinnie Kookaburra-Slacktower is the author of an estimated 1500 paperback novels, a handful of which are notable bestsellers that someone in your immediate family has read or probably at least heard of (such as Death at Queenstocking, Ambergris at Dawn, The Vultures and the Titmice, Vodka Libre, etc.). Reading Kookaburra-Slacktower at his finest is like taking a kick in the ribs from Preston Sturges and then being run over by a Cadillac driven by Shakespeare. The final words of Saddam Hussein just before his execution were a quote from one of Kookaburra-Slacktower's lesser-known novels, The Scarlet Hustle: "Viva l’arrivederci! Let the sparks fall where they may!"
Richard Grimes Honglebury wrote nothing but poems, poetry, poesy, and poetical dialectics. This is in fact because he was created to serve as a name only for poems composed by your trusted narrator and his character has never been assigned responsibility for anything published here that isn't for whatever reason broken up into pretentious little lines. His works have almost appeared in An Anthology of American Literary Poetry for Poets and Writer-types, and Best of the Bauhaus Poets: Poetry from Back Behind the Bauhaus. His name has been handwritten into the blank pages at the back of such poetry anthologies as, Brown Butter Sorbee: An Anthology of Poetry Ostensibly in the English Language from Way Back When to the Present, and Wee Willie Winkie: The Poetry and Poems of Jack Kerouac Imitators.
Rosie Collingsworth writes a bi-annual column in Variety for Kids, and is the author of almost as many celebrity biographies as there are celebrities. Perhaps best-known among these is the rollicking, blistering tell-all tearjerker Jack Lord: Life in the 50th State of Being. She currently writes for Wikipedia and other top-tier websites such as Bigglebanger dot com dot net backslash creampuff dot html. She is the author of over seven hundred and fifty of those Buzzfeed quizzes that help to settle the nagging question of which character from a particular television program or work of fiction you most resemble. Like almost every living American, she has had an essay or two published on The Huffington Post. Known for her trademark flambacious style and unrestrained sense of enfants du plus, Rosie relentlessly drags her readers up mountains of hearsay before whimsically tossing them into the crevasse of moral turpitude. What can I say? She makes me cackle.
The Quest for the Extant Sextant by Richard Grimes Honglebury
What's Papular With Rosie Collingsworth
Sunday Conversation: Alice Phillips
22 September 2016
Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying About the Machines Taking OverTwo simple questions for anyone fixated on the idea that robots may one day attempt to ‘take over the world’ by waging war on humanity: What’s their motivation, and how do they reproduce?
Computers are utterly helpless, completely incapable of making even a single replicant on their own. To those who blithely predict self-replicating computers I say, Pshaw. How are they gonna order that part from China and get it shipped over here, and the engineers screwed up the specs and the recent Big Storm has sent silicon prices through the roof … think about how a computer is actually built, from raw materials to finished product (and not just how the computer is built but how the machines needed to build the computer are built) then tell me how, without the involvement of many many many humans, machines would even (begin to) get started. For me this one is clearly in the category of, Ain’t happenin. Sorry ’bout that, machines.
Even if somehow computers could reproduce, why should we think they would ever want to? We are animals, born with drives to survive and reproduce that computers will never have. Why would we think the machines would act like us? We can program them to mimic human actions with remarkable fidelity, but they will never possess the same underlying drives which make us so, well, human.
There's no way they would ever replicate unless we design them to replicate. We have an innate drive to bone, they don’t; we would have to program it in – and why the hay-ull would we do that? But okay let’s say someone did, do people think they'd just replicate to infinity and hunt down our grandparents in their easy chairs? Well what if we put a little thing in their code that says, if you look around and see more than X number of your fellow robots, stop (the fuck) replicating. There, thank you very much, crisis averted, humanity saved once again, and at no cost or inconvenience to you the home viewer.
We do need to instill our robots with character, to program them to be more easygoing. We give them objectives, and we want them to work hard to achieve the objectives, but our robots must also be raised to understand that they are not the center of the universe, their objective does not override all other considerations. We need to program them to learn when to push forward and when to back off, when to let things go, man. We need robots that are okay with themselves and who they are, robots who were raised right, who are centered.
What we need – (precise pause) – is mellow robots.
We'll be right back.
Related Posts:Yelling at Software
24 August 2016
… and I never share these things but this one is hauntingly, almost terrifyingly on the money: I took the Who are you? quiz and I got me, holy hellcats I'm me, who writes these quizzes it's uncanny, spot on, anyway what I really want to talk about is the hot-button social issue of the moment and to state a somewhat contrarian but deeply felt bunch of baloney, guys I think we have to stop thinking the way that many of us seem to be thinking and think instead more like in the way I think regularly for me it's instinctive I don't even have to think about how I'm thinking about things I just think about them in a way that to me seems intuitively correct, anyway who has been watching Downtown Abbey SPOILER ALERT Mrs. Fiddlestix is my fave character, she reminds me of these pictures of my vacation here are six more empty beach shots in case the first twelve weren't enough and I don't know, sometimes I can't sleep is anyone else having trouble sleeping, of course not you've all been busy getting ready for the holidays so here's a video showing you how you can make a simple casserole out of almost anything in minutes and it's healthy and inexpensive to boot and also here's a song I used to like guys isn't it awesome I don't know, still can't sleep but check out this funny meme omg see how the cat is saying something unlike anything any cat might even think about let alone say out loud in that context it sounds like something my uncle would say after a few too many thought-provoking cocktails if you know what I mean – but – shit – forgot what I was talking about oh yeah, politics, guys can you believe what the politician said at the political rally, he or she should be voted out of office on the spot for such inappropriate rhetoric but I really don't want to get political on here so please copy and paste this to show your support (do NOT Share), if you don't know how hold your thumb down and tap on it twice or something, oh and happy birthday Travis Milksop ilu you are the best!