Let's Hope This Primary Crap Is Finally Over

I've never voted for a Democrat president, ever.

Neither have a lot of people, but apparently, people are all over the Democratic primaries this year like a buffet made entirely of sex. It's been a weird experience for me, looking at things from the blue side. Mostly, there's the bitching. You dems bitch a lot. I swear, somebody could rebuild the economy, destroy the national deficit, and shit dollars in an envelope every day to mail to every citizen of these great United States, and all you guys would do is complain about all the horses that died so those envelopes could get licked shut.

But nobody can fault you for not having candidates that at least dream of a brighter tomorrow. I'm used to voting for the side that says, "hey, the rich get richer, but if you become rich, then that's you." Of course, it seems like this year nobody really knows how to give up either. Maybe it's because the PATRIOT Act pretty much gives you the right to take pictures of all of our wives, Gone Wild, and watch them in privacy at the super secret CIA Department of Pornographic Surveillance. I mean, come on. Fringe benefits.

Maybe with the exit polls in North Carolina, Hillary will finally give up? I don't know. I haven't been on this side of the fence before. It's like the first time I did acid- the whole idea is pretty cool, but all the little things are really pissing me off.

UPDATE: Half an hour before Indiana's polls close, CNN, who apparently got slammed for being hypersupportive of Obama, shows higher percentages for Clinton than anybody anywhere is reporting. Hilarity. 63% to 37%.

UPDATE: Those >60% figures are now showing on HuffingtonPost as well. And to think I spent all this time without reading the hilariously silly liberal media sites.

Today Is Slapping Day

To satisfy my need to both increase violence and celebrate completely worthless holidays, I declare today Slapping Day. It's pretty cathartic to cut to the root of an issue, and then slap other people for being wrong.

Target	Righteous Vengeance
Emo Bands	SLAP. STOP CARING.
Girls named some variation of Mackenzie	SLAP. STOP BEING TRENDY.
Jimmy Albright	SLAP. STOP LIVING.
Waitresses	OMG I HATE BEING TOUCHED I'M GOING TO TIP YOU ANYWAYS SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP

In another instance, Jimmy Carter (who now looks exactly like the Cryptkeeper as played by Don Knotts) is "hinting" at supporting Obama. And by 'hinting', I quote: "My town ... is for Obama. My children and their spouses are pro-Obama. My grandchildren are pro-Obama. As a superdelegate, I would not disclose who I am rooting for, but I leave you to make that guess.

SLAP. Stop endorsing McCain.

America The Costly

Ah, subprime. You can hear the venture capitalists screaming in their uneasy sleep as the mortgage-backed securities they used to use to clean up after a steamy session of solo sex plummet in value, like so many used lottery tickets. Hell, out of my back window I can see places that young, stupid couples used to call home. Now, they're like the older prostitutes in a brothel; working double-hard to show that their new, reduced foreclosure value is a good deal, an economical lay for a john with less discerning tastes.

On top of all that craziness is that demon banshee ethanol, the new monkey on the back of the energy economy; a magical elixir sent down upon us from the Corn Goddess herself to keep the truck lanes flowing with overpriced grain and clandestine nuclear waste. Never mind that the grain and milk are more expensive because the Corn Goddess wasn't slutty enough to put out enough produce for both the rice racers and the cattle. You can't blame the farmers; they'll grow whatever crop keeps them from going into debt.

A week or two ago, I heard that gas prices were going to hit $4 by summer, and I pretty much ignored it. That's what we've learned to do recently, collectively as American citizens in a badly mismanaged federation; just ignore the doomsayings and hope that there's enough of a country left at the end of this reign of apathetic terror to rebuild. It was a shock to come back from a long drive and see the pumps had jumped by a quarter, seemingly during my travails. I don't know about you, but I'm going to stock my acorns for winter and hope that somebody is smart enough to blow all this over.

Kerplunk Updates Site Once, Hell Slightly Less Balmy

After several thousand years of me whining, Kerplunk has finally completely stolen borrowed some chat logs to update her site once, sort of, throughout all history. Now that her site has a massive two posts, I'm double-linking her via this post, mostly so that I can ride the hugantic wave of American laziness by pretending to post while actually just linking to something else that has a semblance of content. Which is how most blogs work, anyways.

From The Surprised Chairman of Utopia Colony

Dear Pan Galactic Overlords and Chairpersons:

Really, thank you. I have no idea what I did to win your nomination for the Solarium Prize for Most Fantastic New Colony. I suppose it's through the hard work and dedication of my prize Ruling Board that we've managed to, if only for a brief moment, stand out above the other Colonies.

Having been born, as you know, on Beaten Slave Colony, I gained an early view into the intricate workings of law as it affects a district of the Pan Galactic Solarium. For instance, all of the beatings that were administered to us slaves. Talk about pain. When I was but 12 years old, I knew that if I ever had the opportunity to run my own dominion, I sure as hell wouldn't beat the fucking slaves. For one thing, it seems to fly in the face of morale.

And I do believe that morale is important, but it's not the only thing. When I was transferred to Nova Sentia Colony, then-chairperson Gale Strew had the brilliant concept of mandating doses of euphoria-inducing drugs in order to promote a sense of well-being. Yeah, right. I saw what kind of well-being that engendered. The work was less backbreaking than the work of my childhood, but often, entire assembly lines would turn out virtually none of the antibiotic kits which were being mass-produced. Everybody was too busy tuning out. I managed to gain several promotions in one year by virtue of being the only person to remember to attend board meetings.

The final thing I learned during my long journey was when I, the Vice President of Nova Pharma, accepted a lateral transfer to Risper Colony, where I oversaw a group of brilliant engineers who seemed obsessed with upgrading the base technological components which drive the entire Solarium. It was later that I learned that Risper's primary function is as an asylum facility for obsessive-compulsive savants, but I still managed to glean a valuable lesson- people will work with dedication and drive if you give them projects they love or care about. I guess. It might just be crazy people.

And so it is that Utopia Colony maintains its killer public opinion, perfect safety record, and fantastic production rates. And we promise to continue in the manufacture, testing, and improvement of robotic sex slaves for the entire Solarium for many years to come.

My Meds Turn 23

Over the years, I've apparently put a ton of chemicals in my system- the count of nontrivial medications has just turned 23 with the change from Ambien to Rozerem. Mind you, that's because the weekend was crazy insane.

See, my doctor doesn't want me to stay on the Ambien for longer than a few months, due to some excuse about it being habit-forming (personally, I just enjoy the zombie state and massive retrograde amnesia). People have a tendency to try and keep me from being inherently awesome, so we sat around for a while, and after I beat him at poker, he prescribed me amitriptyline as revenge.

Amitriptyline is a tricyclic antidepressant with off-label use as a treatment for insomnia. It came in little green pills that smelled like absinthe, so I figured, what the heck, let's go for it.

Bad idea.

The next morning was like death. Nausea, restlessness, and almost passing out every three seconds. After some educational time in the ER, I learned something important: let your doctor win. Otherwise, they try to kill you. They have the secret powers and a huge list of drugs that will Officially Mess You Up Bad.

So, yesterday, I went in to apologize, and in a show of magnanimity (spurred, likely, by my completely contrived humility - I've seen people being humble before, I know how to fake it) he gave me some of this Rozerem stuff. Which, apparently, is made of tiny leprechauns, sent into the Iraq of your brain and told to find the WMD's. Except they actually find them, and the WMD's are the part of the brain that makes you go to sleep. No feeling doped, no giggling for hours while 'watching' a still life portrait, no forgetting who's sleeping next to you or waking up wearing nothing but a white sheet in the middle of downtown Vegas. Actually, I think I've been gypped.

Anyways, I popped this magical wonder drug with half an Ambien last night, and them leprechauns done rushed in and molested my sleepy switch all good. I woke up about eleventy billion times, but I do that anyways when I'm not heavily sedated. I still don't remember falling asleep, but that tends to be the boring part anyways. Yay for Rozerem. Yay for pills. I love America.

Breaking News: PSYOP Gives Me Seizures, Nightmares, Priapism

While there are times when I am unhappy with the way things are going, I am nevertheless almost jingoistically proud to be an American. From the Founding Fathers to the rise of American Capitalism, our country is so full of fantastic innovations and moral triumphs that I can't help but get all weepy at the patriotic hymns.

Sometimes, you don't want to be all weepy. There are moments for pensive reflection and there are moments when you want to be ten thousand feet tall, monstrously aroused, and capable of beating people up by hitting them with other people. And when you want that kind of sensation to be derived from your home country's status as the globally dominant superpower, you need look no further than PSYOP, our psychological warfare branch.

Recent events being too, well, recent to speak out about, let us make absolutely sure that one thing is clear - even when we are horribly wrong about something, we will still scare the shit out of someone. During the Vietnam War, we thought the Vietnamese were superstitious about the symbol of the spade - so we mass produced the Ace of Spades, jammed them in the mouths of assassinated Viet Cong leaders, and left them en masse all over the forests. Mission accomplished. I bet they're scared to death of the thing now.

We're big on the sound thing - we put loudspeakers on humvees and scream insults at our opponents. I should have enrolled, I swear. One of the things I can do well is improvise horrible scathing insults for long periods of time. After school one day, on the bus ride home, I vented my mild annoyance at the kid in the seat behind me for the entire half hour ride without even stopping to breathe. He was so outclassed he literally applauded me after the fact.

Intersperse those bombing runs with big, confusing fireworks. Airdrop pamphlets showing people exactly how to bend over for Uncle Sam. Right after we start a police action in a country, I think the very first thing we should do is build a McDonalds restaurant right at the point of landing. It's like Plymouth Rock, except you can supersize it.

I need to go be alone with Old Glory for a bit.