They are living breathing Bermuda triangles.
Loaded with cash but not one iota of interest in anything other than the mundane.
Problem is—the terrorists get basic cable too.
TRUMP VODKA
The Donald doesn’t drink.
At all.
Ever.
But some brilliant business guy came up with the idea for Grey Goose vodka—a smooth, sensational drink that would be distilled in its best form and become the best vodka in the world and be delivered into your hands in the most gorgeous bottle you could imagine.
Years later he sold the brand for over one billion dollars.
The Donald couldn’t keep himself away.
He came up with an okay vodka that is distilled in an okay form but comes in a gold-plated bottle that is worth far more than the drink itself.
He went on CNN and told Larry King that even though he hadn’t tasted the stuff himself, the people who worked for him guaranteed it was the best-tasting vodka ever made. And oh, yeah, boss—by the way—no one ever makes fun of your hair.
See, no matter what you might think about extreme Islam and its fevered believers, one thing you can take as a guarantee is this: they have a really truly madly deeply held passion for the things they love/hate. In other words, if they do not drink beer the last possible idea they would come up with is Muslim ale. Unless every bottle contained a secret hidden explosive device that was ignited by the opening of each individual cap.
And how many times could that work.
Maybe once.
Except in my family at Xmastime.
Then—maybe—somewhere between the second six-pack and the fourth dead uncle—we’d be bound to figure it out.
BILL CLINTON / BLOW JOBS
One of the big downsides of the Monica Lewinsky scandal as far as men were concerned was this—the highly acclaimed and heavily leaned upon “blow jobs don’t count” rule that so many men had loved and lived by as a way of not really cheating on their wives/girlfriends was not only on full public display but became everyday fodder for discussion with almost every woman you knew—cousin, friend, spouse, sister, daughter, mother.
It’s the one thing men will never forgive him for.
But had he not gotten caught—most men, including myself—along with a large bevy of women—would have agreed with the basic idea: balance the budget, orchestrate a healthy and robust economy, keep our country away from war? Free blow jobs.
Talk about an incentive. If every president knew—if he had it in writing—that a balanced budget meant a free blow job? Take my word for it—there would no longer be a federal deficit.
I’d even take it a step further. JFK slept with Marilyn Monroe and Angie Dickinson—the two hottest chicks on the face of Planet Hollywood during the early sixties.
Let’s run with it, baby. Lower taxes? Tag Tyra Banks. Unemployment goes down? So does Sienna Miller. You win a war while in the Oval Office? You get to bang Halle Berry. And if Halle or Sienna or Tyra or whoever has a problem with the whole idea—hey, it’s for the good of all mankind.
Let me tell you something. George Bush Junior looks like he hasn’t gotten laid—never mind a blow job—since he quit drinking and snorting coke. If you guaranteed him that Sharon Stone would suck his testicles on Tuesday afternoon the war in Iraq would be over on Monday morning. He’d be sitting at his desk with his pants down watching a director’s cut DVD of Basic Instinct Three—the widescreen edition.
The point I’m trying to make here is this: most of the world never understood the anger and unrest over the Monica Lewinsky deal because the idea that a world leader would receive oral satisfaction from a surrogate in a historically significant location made perfect sense to them. The conquering hero, the triumphant tribal chief blah blah blah. In France, Greece, Italy, Ireland, Turkey, Turkistan—everywhere else on this green globe—no one gives a crap who their leaders end up in bed with. All they care about is results—food, family, shelter. That’s all anyone should care about.
We finally get a leader who not only solves most of our financial problems but is intelligent and compassionate and is not only interested in foreign policy but seems to have a pretty good sense of how to go about dealing with it and what do we do? Fry him up over a late-night snogfest.
Even terrorists like blow jobs.
And I’ll go one step further: I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired of right-wing, clean-living, religious fundamentalists trying to run this country. It seems to me that the less fun the president has the more trouble our country gets into.
JFK? Womanizing, cigar-smoking, beer-drinking, boat-loving guy who scared the shit out of the Russians and Castro and started the Peace Corps. Nixon? Staid, isolated, intellectual monogamist who hated half the people who were breathing and the limits of the Constitution. LBJ? Lunatic pussyhound with a penchant for bourbon who gave us welfare and signed the civil rights bill and when he screwed up in Vietnam decided to get the hell out of the way. Bush Jr? You get the idea.
I think every presidential candidate—man or woman—from here on in should have to prove that they not only drank but smoked weed and tried blow and had casual sex while in college and maybe even beyond. In other words—they were fairly normal, just like the rest of us. No blow, no booze, no weed, no sex? Guess what? No federal matching funds. You want my vote? Show me some pictures of you in a rum punch-stained bedsheet at a college toga party. Forget some bullshit behind-the-scenes-developed middle-of-the-road policy on stem cell research or the future of the Middle East—I want to hear how many Twinkies you ate after the Halloween bong hit competition during your sophomore fall term.
Now Bush Junior apparently performed many of these actual tasks but decided to cover all of them up. No dice, folks. You gotta be proud of them. Cut to the chase and avoid all the bullshit. Like Obama. Did he do blow. Yup. How do we know. He told us. Weed too. Now that’s the kind of candidate I like. Made mistakes. Owns up. Probably also wore ridiculous pants and had shitty haircuts too. Get the point?
Forget your grade point average and your congressional voting record—I want Polaroids of your ass etc. on display during some drug-and-sex-fueled youthful indiscretion. And we wanna see them in People magazine. DURING the campaign. Released by your own staff. Make it personal—not presidential. One of the great things about JFK was the fact that he was funny. As was Reagan. As was Clinton. And if the leader of this country doesn’t find his job funny—believe me, we’re fucked.
KATIE COURIC’S EVENING NEWS
The day of her debut as a network news anchor her third story from the lead was about Tom Cruise’s baby.
She led with a report about the war in Iraq.
The second story dealt with the skyrocketing price of gas at pumps across the country.
And then—Tom Cruise’s baby.
Poverty? Nope.
Genocide in Darfur? Not yet.
A possible cure for cervical cancer in preteen American girls?
Nope.
Tom Cruise’s baby.
That’s what the news has come down to in this country—with minor variations on any given night:
MONDAY
Wildfires continue to rage in Southern California.
President Bush to visit the Middle East.
Gwyneth Paltrow chokes on a raisin.
TUESDAY
Hurricane Carole set to hit the Florida coast.
Mitt Romney wins Republican primary in Michigan.
Nicole Kidman’s face doesn’t move.
That’s all I’m asking for—throw in a curveball. I know that no one in America is really reporting vital facts and true information anymore. It’s all showbiz. Anderson Cooper only looks forward to being live on location in New Orleans or Malibu so he can climb out of a monkey suit and wear a tight-fitting T-shirt that shows off his pecs—so let’s have some fun with it all. Make some shit up that catches us off guard or—even better—makes us laugh.
And you wonder wh
y half of the audience gets their news from The Daily Show with Jon Stewart?
THE DOUBLE QUARTER POUNDER WITH CHEESE
Most of the people on this planet have massive problems finding enough food to eat, yet we not only throw away more food in the course of a single day than they might see in their entire life spans—we also have obese pets. And books about obese pets. And sidebar segments on national news programs about how to put your obese pets on a weight-loss/ workout regimen. Meanwhile—most of these pets that are eating too much dog and cat food actually ARE food in other parts of the world—so while we are desperately trying to slim them down there are families of eight in Africa who are dreaming of roasting them on a rusty spit over an open flame. They hate us and our pets. We make no sense to them.
Not to mention The Food Channel.
FIFTEEN-MINUTE ABS
A lot of people on planet Earth spend every waking hour of each and every day “working out”—walking twelve miles with ceramic jugs on their heads to get clean drinking water and another twelve miles back. Hunting and searching for scraps of rice. Or killing and skinning and deboning what we would call pets for dinner. Or chopping branches and wild brush in order to rethatch the rooftops on their meager huts after the most recent monsoon/hurricane/tsunami left them sleeping under the stars. This is when they aren’t working for slave wages under the scrutiny of whatever dictator/communist regime currently runs their country while they work seventeen hours a day to make Nike sneakers that cost pennies to produce and sell at your local Foot Locker for slightly less than five hundred bucks. Meanwhile—we buy aluminum- or titanium-tubed gizmos they made for Suzanne Somers to sell to us so that we can tone and firm up our oversized thighs and ass cheeks. Then we wonder why the ones who can’t get here to live just wanna watch someone—anyone—blow us up. Hmmm.
NASCAR
Most of these people have never been IN a car even though they live in countries absolutely polluted with deep, thick, unbelievably rich oil and gas preserves. And we have rules in place so that if Kasey Kahne or Jeff Gordon tries to sneak jet fuel into his gas tank we can fine him—just so they don’t have an unfair advantage as they race around a circular track at two thousand miles an hour for half a day in order to win a couple of million dollars.
Look—I’m like you—I like to see car crashes as much as the next guy. Especially when it doesn’t happen on a highway I’m driving across and therefore affects my commute. And especially when it’s in a controlled situation that includes high-def cameras so I can watch the crash replayed in digital slo-mo from seventeen different angles.
But let’s face the facts—in many places other than America and Europe—this may be the biggest example yet of profligate waste and arrogant expense. One tribe saunters along through 27,000-degree heat under a desert sun on top of a thirsty camel in search of moisture and food while down in Daytona Beach well-fed white hillbilly guys with leather jumpsuits on ride multicolored road rockets 500 miles to nowhere.
Tennis, anyone?
How about golf?
REHAB
They’ve never even heard of it.
Until rich white American celebrities started “entering” it.
They drink red wine with lunch and dinner and live to be one hundred and sixteen years old.
We have celebutards who can’t make it past age nineteen without downing eleven-hundred-dollar bottles of champagne and vodka while blowing eight balls up one orifice and sucking weed and x through another.
Been drinking without wearing panties for six to eight months?
Rehab.
Image declining because of late-night drunk-driving arrests and numerous public pukefests?
Rehab.
Wanna kick that nasty heroin/cocaine habit and get back in the good graces of the studio execs who won’t hire you for that next big movie or TV show?
Rehab.
Why—we can even cure your homosexuality. Ted Haggard did three weeks in a rehab center and came out claiming he was back in love with women.
What a deal. Go gay for as many years as you like—hell, throw in an addiction to methamphetamines—and whenever you feel the need (or you get outed in the press by a male hooker/drug dealer, whichever comes first), get back in the good graces of the public AND your wife by spending three weeks in a glorified spa and pop out the other side drug free and no longer desiring anal sex with men.
Talk about worth the price of admission.
And then—once again—there’s Britney. She did one day in Eric Clap-ton’s Crossroads rehab facility and then checked out. A week later she did a day at Promises in Malibu before checking out. Then she checked into a third rehab joint about a week later. She was a little confused at first, apparently she thought “one day at a time” was meant to be taken literally. Thirty days in thirty different rehab centers in thirty different cities. Hey—she spent most of her life on tour, so can you really blame her?
ICE CREAM
You scream I scream we all scream.
Yup. One of the first food items welcomed back onto the streets of Afghanistan after the fall of Osama et al. was—you guessed it—ice cream.
Even terrorists love it.
And we have the best.
Hands down.
Hence—one very simple reason for them to hate us even more.
Häagen-Dazs.
Ben and Jerry’s.
Maybe that’s the key to peace on earth.
Instead of dropping bombs we drop half pints of Chunky Monkey and Cherry Garcia and good old just plain chocolate.
Somebody get the Dove Bar people on the phone.
ANGELINA JOLIE
Okay. It’s not just Angelina.
It’s Angelina and Madonna and Rosie and Meg Ryan and whoever else in the female acting world fits the following requirements:
Fame
Cash
Raging hormones
A private jet
That’s it. That’s all you need. Those four simple items will allow you to fly into any Third World country and scoop up a black or brown or yellow baby, sign a couple of autographs and then head on home.
Where you can name the kid according to whatever whim strikes you. No need to adhere to the kid’s actual ethnic or national background.
Chinese boy? Name him Johnny Boy.
African girl? Name her Ellen.
Totally up to you.
Now I have a cousin who adopted a Chinese kid years ago and named her Colleen. Which is well within her rights as the adoptive mom. But she wasn’t famous or rich and didn’t have a private plane so it took her THREE GODDAM YEARS to pull the whole thing off.
And why is it always white actresses flying in and scooping up?
Oprah flew into Africa in a private plane—with cash and fame and more than likely a SHITLOAD of raging hormones—and she started a school for African kids.
Why aren’t black actresses flying into piss-poor white countries and nabbing parentless little pink children and jetting them back to the Hollywood Hills?
Grab a so-white-he’s-almost-transparent white boy out of the Belfast slums of Northern Ireland, jet him off to a mansion in Bel Air and call him Jamal. Or Kaleel.
Never happen.
And you wanna know why?
’Cause caustic see-thru white kids with new names don’t make for good press.
OR fashionable appearances.
I think a lot of these kids are like Gucci purses or Jimmy Choo shoes—not only are they cutting-edge accessories.
They’re on sale.
THE WESTMINSTER KENNEL CLUB DOG SHOW
We’ve already discussed what most of our household pets are considered in other countries.
Throw in a full week’s worth of dogs that have personal groomers and personal trainers and individual walkers and their own hotel rooms?
Death on a leash to a terrorist.
DR. LAURA AND MIKE AND MIKE IN THE MORNING
I like Dr. Laura.
I really do.
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Besides the dirty pictures she took when she was young and foolish (and let’s face the fact—weren’t we all) in which she is actually very hot, she has grown up to piss people off. And by people I mean the morons with cell phone service who call up to complain about how their mom won’t listen or their boyfriend doesn’t wanna have sex anymore or their husbands want dinner on the table at such and such a time and her in a pink thong and high heels and they feel like they are not appreciated and blah blah blah and Dr. Laura comes thisclose to calling each one of them a whiny, self-obsessed, deaf and dumbass bitch. Over and over again. Which is what I wanna say when I listen to them. I love Mike and Mike in the Morning as well—when it’s just the two of them OR the two of them and a sports expert discussing sports. Once they get into the cell phone calls from ingrate assholes on their way to work but unable to make it there without wondering how the Yankee pitching staff or the Islanders’ goaltending or Eli Manning’s left hamstring is gonna work out—I wanna grab a gun and take no hostages. This is a running, screaming, constant commentary on why we need to thin the herd on our own before the terrorists do it for us. Let’s make it this easy—if you feel the urge to call Dr. Laura and ask whether you should stay in your current relationship even though your boyfriend has told you he doesn’t love you and he’s moving out and you weigh too much and he’s banging your sister AND your best friend—and Dr. Laura tells you to get out now and you still don’t wanna go? Save us all the trouble and swallow four bottles of aspirin. Better yet—make that sleeping pills. Maybe she’ll even send you the prescription for them. If you really really actually for certain no bullshit now I’m serious here cannot drive to work without finding out what an ex-lineman and a nerdy little Jewish guy think about Brett Favre’s ballsack? Drive off the highway and into a lake. Now. Otherwise we may have to place a suitcase bomb in your garage long before an angry Muslim fundamentalist does.
Why We Suck Page 4