"In Spray Paint Veritas"

It’s been said we’re all allowed three vices, what was never made clear, however, is what happens if we exceed that allotment, abuse one particular vice to great excess, or pick a vice so fucking weird people don’t want to be seen with you in public, like dwarf-tossing or audiobooks. When people speak of “vices,” however, they are usually referring to intoxicating, addictive or commonly abused substances that really aren’t good for you. I would list among my vices single-malt scotch, deep dark chocolate and the occasional incendiary tobacco product. My pal Luke would probably list coffee, cigarettes and an almost fanatical interest in ice cream (but not with nuts, on the ice cream, I mean).

Meet Patrick Tibetts. Patrick was arrested a few days a go on charges of “abusing harmful intoxicants.” Can you guess what old Pat was huffing?



You guessed correctly, my good friend, Patrick was inhaling gold spray paint. The man was collared at the Bellaire’s Dollar General Store in Bellaire, Ohio as he attempted to purchase several more cans of the glittery stuff, slurring his speech and coated with a thick layer of paint on his hands and face.

When I’d read that Tibetts was arrested for his actions, but that he had not been driving or even really bothering anyone, I became a bit irritated. While I was greatly amused by the sight of this dipshit glittered like he’d been chewing on Liberace, I believe that any adult has the right to put any substance into his or her body for whatever purpose they might deem worthy. All intoxicating substances, including even the “hardest” of drugs should immediately be legalized, or at least decriminalized, and barring anyone endangering the lives of others while under the influence, users of these substances should be left to their own devices and not have their own governments telling them what they can and cannot do in their free time. The more I thought about it, the more I became incensed at the idea of this pathetic, lowlife pile of human excrement not being able to BUY gold spray paint and squirt it up his nose, if that’s what he wanted to do! Upon further research, however, I stumbled upon the fatal flaw in that idealistic utopia of mine, a flaw my wife, an employee of the local district attorney, routinely brings to my attention: Tibetts is a violent man.

Pat Tibetts has been arrested numerous times by the Bellaire Sherriff’s Department, and spent many nights in that jail cell. He’s been taken in on assault, domestic violence, drunk and disorderly and numerous other charges, all while under the influence of some kind of inhalant. What I routinely forget, in my endless rants about the flawed criminal justice system and the amount of municipal, state and federal money spent on jailing people for possession of controlled substances, is that virtually every one of those criminals in custody has a rap sheet as long as my arm. While one can see the statistics regarding the number of people in jail for drug possession and lament the idiocy of some poor guy getting shoved in the back of a squad car for a dime bag in his pocket, this scenario is so rare, it’s almost laughable.

The majority of people in prison for possession have extensive histories of distribution, racketeering and many include violence related to their drug use and sale. While a prisoner’s conviction may read “possession with intent to distribute,” what is not included on that sheet is the four hundred times he’s been before a judge and a jury since he was seventeen, the convictions of domestic abuse, child endangerment, assault and even attempted murder he’s received in the past and either pled away or was “matrixed” out of the justice system. The society I would like to envision where everyone gets to do what they want behind closed doors is, for all intents and purposes, a reality. If Pat Tibetts had never gone to the general store to purchase more spray paint, he would never have caused the store clerk to phone the police. If Tibetts didn’t have a history of violent crime while under the influence of “Rust-Oleum,” the police probably wouldn’t have arrested him, most likely opting to set him in the drunk tank until morning. If the people incarcerated for possession every year didn’t have files as thick as Chinese phone books, the vast majority of them would never find themselves behind bars.



My opinion holds fast, however, if only slightly adjusted. The audacity of my government to tell me I can’t grow a plant in my backyard or cook a crystal in my kitchen for the purposes of my own private enjoyment in my own home is infuriating. If the “War on Drugs” were ended today and the black market that spawned these criminals here and abroad dismantled, the crime rate in this country would plummet. Philip Morris would start manufacturing marijuana cigarettes and suddenly the shady guy in the Lincoln over on MLK Blvd would be out of business.

The lesson here is that if you huff spray paint you’re an idiot, but you probably won’t live long enough to be a real nuisance to anyone except the management of the local hardware store. Whatever your vice is, you should be able to enjoy it freely without the molestation of the government, provided you don’t endanger anyone else. If Luke were to attack someone on the street under the influence of several pints of “Moo-llenium Crunch,” the charged peace keepers of the city of New Orleans have every right to arrest him and give him several good doses with the taser and the bean bag shotgun. Luke, however, always enjoys his ice cream quietly on the couch, with only Lindsey to stalk when that mad sugar rush / ice cream headache hits and he turns thirsty for blood.

He’s got that look in his eyes, Lindsey, run! Grab Mojo and run!!!

On July 7th, passengers on the London public transit system were targeted by Islamic terrorists, and today it seems either some copy-cat cocksuckers, or worse, other members of the same Islamo-fascist group, planted “dummy” bombs on buses and trains in the biggest city in England. On my way to work this morning, listening to the news about these “fake” attacks, the reporter announced that security would be increased on the MAX line, our light-rail train here in Portland that runs about three quarters of a mile from start to finish, built at a cost of around 37 billion dollars a yard.

I couldn’t help but snort in amusement.

Increasing “police presence” in Portland after a terrorist attack in London is like increasing the security around Bobcat Goldthwait after an attempt on the life of Justin Timberlake. Also, when exactly did the hippies, busybodies and malcontents of the city of Portland start to value the presence of the police? According to Rose City Copwatch and whiney-pants faggots like Phil Busse, the cops in Portland ARE the problem, right? Sure, let’s completely ignore the fact that, for it’s relatively large size, Portland’s crime rate falls just a notch above Peoria, IL on a July 4th weekend.

I hate you Phil Busse, not just because you ran for mayor based on the premise of “Whatever you want, I’ll make sure the government gives it to you!” but because you have no respect for the men and women that leave their homes and families each and every day to hold up that thin blue line between your cushy suburban pad and the minor criminal element in Portland that consists mainly of meth-heads, their personal chefs or the occasional Democrat ex-Governor roaming the streets on the prowl for Oregon's youth.

The New York Times reported today that the NYPD will be conducting random searches of people and bags in the subway stations of NYC, in response to the London bombings. What the fuck took you so long? Oh, I know it was the ACLU, the Phil Busse’s of NYC, complete with equally cleft assholes. "The police can and should be aggressively investigating anyone they suspect is trying to bring explosives into the subway," said Christopher Dunn, associate legal director at the New York Civil Liberties Union. "However, random police searches of people without any suspicion of wrongdoing are contrary to our most basic constitutional values. This is a very troubling announcement."

Troubling? What exactly would the alternative be? Perhaps, in an effort to curb the police from searching and bothering people who most likely have nothing to do with such nefarious activities, the police could single out, according to their discretion, people who would fit the physical characteristics of the four men that bombed the London tube, or those that crashed planes into the World Trade Center, or bombed the USS Cole, or the Khobar Towers, or generally been responsible for the deaths of over 4,000 people since 1993.

Wait a tick, is the New York ACLU advocating profiling?

Why Dogs Drink from the Toilet

I’m reminded of the opening scene in Waterworld, where Kevin Costner (read: Charlie the Tuna) urinates into a contraption resembling a meat grinder with a funnel glued to the top. He shakes, zips, then turns the crank on the odd machine which spills clear, fresh water into a metal cup on the other side. While Waterworld completely sucked, this bizarre activity is not without its basis in reality. There is a large contingent of people that drink their urine on a daily basis, without the aid of an apocalyptic/futuristic meat grinder, all the while proclaiming the mystical healing powers of pee-pee.

On one hand, urine is completely sterile and does contain various vitamins and mineral compounds that are used by the body. On the other hand, the only reason those vitamins and minerals would be in your pee in the first place, is because your body has rejected and filtered them into your waste, signifying it has no need for those specific compounds. On the other, other hand, YOU’RE DRINKING YOUR OWN PEE, YOU TWISTED, DISGUISTING PILE OF BATSHIT.



An acquaintance of mine once told me about her friend, let’s call him Larry, who had been, for as long as she had know him, a strict “raw foodist.” This means that he only eats raw vegetables, fruits and nuts, a lifestyle that is often celebrated, but rarely undertaken, by the hippies and malcontents here in the Pacific Northwest. Larry was convinced that the act of cooking food “destroyed” certain proteins and amino acids that were necessary to higher brain function and anyone that didn’t follow the diet of “raw foodism” was, by definition, stupid. Needless to say, he was unable to provide any empirical evidence to support this contention, but those bound by the burden of proof lack imagination, anyway. While having a conversation about “those of no fontal lobe” called users of “urine therapy,” this same acquaintance updated me on Larry’s current condition.

Larry wakes up every morning to a tall, steaming glass of his own teetle, and swears the kidney juice gives him strength, vitality and prevents all illnesses. She went on to explain, however, that she was beginning to worry about him. Apparently, Larry has become convinced that everyone in the world possesses, regardless of genetic heritage, bright blue eyes. The only reason a person would feature green or brown eyes is because fecal matter is backing up into their brains, on account of the various toxins being ingested along with cooked and processed foods. Ergo, everyone with brown eyes literally has shit in their brains.

So what’s next? Will the next issue of Health & Fitness feature an article on the health benefits of “golden showers?” Will the loony, moonbat transcendentalists be scrambling for “trucker bombs,” guzzling them down for health and posterity?



Would you drink you own pee, just because someone told you it was a good idea? What kind of a person accepts that statement as fact, without demanding some kind of empirical evidence? Even if the evidence does exist, who the fuck drinks their own pee!!?!?!?

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B12 is Important for Proper Brain Function

Doom 3 is a pretty bitchin’ game. It’s got it all, zombies, spider zombies, headless, bloody zombies with rusty chainsaws and disembodied screaming zombie heads that shoot flames out of their open mouths. As a throwback to the old school “Doom”, and as a modern 3D masterpiece of blood, violence, gore, and creepy sound effects, both of the offending demons and the gigantic, cartoonish but very awesome artillery you use, it’s very effective.



I’ve had the game for about three months and managed to blast my way through just about every level of the “Marine Outpost of the Damned.” I’ve splattered the metal grating of many a storage sector in that military outpost with the sticky guts of a giant zombie-spider, but it seems the novelty has worn off.



Like any economical gamer, I listed my game (unscratched with original box and inserts) on eBay, hoping to recoup enough money to buy Unreal 2 or Resident Evil 4. I listed, it didn’t sell. Oh, well. I listed again, dropped the price, content with the fact that I would probably lose about five bucks in the end. I just got an email from eBay informing me that my game had sold, barely passing the minimum reserve I’d set, ending at $9.99 plus $5.00 shipping and handling. Since I ship from the office, it’s gravy anyway, so I’m coming out of this on top. In the email it lists the winning bidder’s user name as “deepfriedtofu.” I clicked on the username to discover his email address is deepfriedtofu@hotmail.com.

Being of a curious lot, I decided to run a Google search for that email address, to see what websites he frequents, perhaps figure out where he lives. I do this routinely, I don’t know why, I’m just an insanely curious type. His name is Nick Atwood and he lives in West Palm Beach Florida. Originally from Minnesota, Nick attended Macalester College in St. Paul and went on to receive an M.P.A. in Non-Profit Management from New York University. Nick is also an extremist, an animal rights whack-job and a terrorist.



In May of 1995, Nick got his name in the papers as part of an organized protest of the Shriner Circus in Minneapolis. “A popular argument for circuses is that they teach children the value of endangered animals. But that is false," said Nicolas Atwood, a Macalester College senior who protested the circus. “What kind of an image does seeing an elephant on a ball or a bear on a bicycle create? I don't think seeing them do that encourages people to protect their habitat,'' Atwood said."

In 1997, Nick was arrested for climbing on top of the Oscar Meyer Weiner Mobile wearing a pig mask and screaming, “Meat is murder!!” Dave Barry apparently penned an article about he incident entitled “A Frank Exchange.” In that same year, Nick was listed as a “patron” of No Compromise, a militant “direct action” animal rights group that supports violence by providing means, organization and even instructions for building crude, incendiary devices, presumably designed specifically to not harm any animals except humans. My favorite line of the website is the disclaimer,

“The views expressed herein are not necessarily those of the steering committee, contributors nor volunteer staff. No Compromise is not intended to encourage illegal/unethical activity or behavior. The information herein is solely intended for entertainment, educational, research, academic, or other lawful purposes and is from sources independent of No Compromise.”

Laughable.



In 1998, Mr. Atwood was arrested along with Eric Phelps, husband of PETA big-wig “Lettuce Lady” Kristie Phelps, for defacing, damaging and spray-painting a statue of a swordfish outside the Broward Fishing Museum in Palm Beach, FL. Three years later, in 2001, Atwood started a promotional website for the Animal Liberation Front, Bite Back, in which he advocates “direct action” (read: violence) against a myriad of targets such as farmers and researchers. I just got an email from Paypal informing me that Nick has paid the $14.99 for the game, the mailing address he provided is the office for Bite Back.



Terrorism - The unlawful use or threatened use of force or violence by a person or an organized group against people or property with the intention of intimidating or coercing societies or governments, often for ideological or political reasons.

I’ve never met Nicolas Atwood, but I dislike him severely. I disagree with virtually everything he stands for and think anyone that resorts to violence to further their cause, has already lost the battle in the realm of ideas. While I have no evidence suggesting that Nicolas Atwood himself is a terrorist, he has spent many years in support, both financially and ideologically, of terrorists and their actions. Here in the U.S. they’re called “eco-terrorists” by the media, handling the issues with kid gloves, purposefully separating the religious fundamentalists from the ELF and ALF, but this separation is neither prudent nor necessary. Terrorism is terrorism, regardless of your motivation, be it religious fundamentalism or “animal liberation,” you’re still a whack-job with no concern for human life and you need to be in chains, being force-fed Vienna sausages by Colonel Sanders armed with a rusty shovel.

I suppose I have no choice, on account of eBay rules, to sell Nick my copy of Doom 3, especially since he already paid me. I’m not happy about it however, and I think I’m going to include a photo of myself rubbing a picture of Rod Coronado all over a fresh steak.

It Only Hurts the First Time

In June 2001, Jinx, a division of Image Comics, published a trade paperback by Brian Michael Bendis, a veteran writer for Batman, Daredevil and others, titled “Powers.” “Powers” was met with resounding success, landing Bendis and the illustrator, Mike Avon Oeming, nominations at the prestigious Harvey Awards and readership enough to guarantee a long and fruitful series.



“Powers” was unique in that, while its subject matter dealt with the tired and formulaic stories of superheroes and super powers, the structure of the stories humanized these characters to a degree in which no series had ever attempted. The main character, Detective Christian Walker, is a jaded homicide investigator working to make a difference in the seedy underbelly of an unnamed metropolis while superheroes and meta-humans run amok zipping across the skies above and shooting laser eye blasts all over his city. Detective Walker and his rambunctious partner, in the first issue, have occasion to investigate the death of one of these superheroes, and in the process discover that these “meta-humans” are just like the rest of us. They’re scared and lonely, they feel regret and routinely make horrible mistakes, and they die, albeit with more difficulty, but just like the rest of us.



In the world of “Powers,” the relationships between superheroes and the rest of humanity functions very much like hero worship or the cult of personality; the meta-humans are famous, magazines advertise tell-alls and candid photographs, bold letters decry “The Olympian and Retro-Girl together again?” In one issue, a superhero is being interviewed on a daytime television talk show. She’s sitting languidly in the chair answering inane questions about her ability to fly and shoot sparkling explosives from her fingertips, all the while dressed in the obligatory skin-tight spandex leotard and Zorro mask. When the interviewer asks when she first realized she had these amazing gifts, she replied, “When I realized god was dead.” Somewhat taken aback, the interviewer asks her to explain, she says, “When I realized there was no god, and that I alone was responsible for my past present, future and eternity, I became my own god. Almost immediately, I realized I had these amazing powers.”



I dislike using the phrase, “I don’t believe in god,” because the structure of the phrase itself is inappropriate and misleading. The phrase is a negative qualifier built on the premise that “belief” in god is default and I’m simply opting out, like “I don’t eat meat,” or “I don’t breathe oxygen.” By stating “I don’t believe in god,” I’m automatically putting myself on the defensive, in terms of sentence structure, and placing myself separate from most of humanity. While this is technically true, because most people in the world do believe in a “god” of some manifestation, the millions of skeptics and critical thinkers, in whose ranks I share, don’t have a tight phrase like “I believe in god, “ or “I believe in Ganesh” or “I believe in Hopi the wind spirit.” All we’ve got is “I don’t believe in leprechauns, faeries, ogres, gnomes, trolls, magnet therapy, homeopathy, aura cleansing, acupuncture, divination, breatharianism, audiobooks and countless other silly things.”

Needless to say, it’s rather cost prohibitive to print t-shirts.

The “I don’t believe” mantra is exclusionary, needlessly defensive and I don’t think it fits the humanistic and hopeful ruminations in which the philosophy of objectivism and self-reliance is steeped.

I propose a different approach for the atheists, secular humanists, skeptics and critical thinkers of the world. It’s time to stop qualifying ourselves in terms of what we don’t accept, but simply embrace what we do. It’s time to stop shouting our well-founded disbelief in all the stupid shit people do and think to make themselves feel better, it’s time we declare unwavering faith in the one institution that’s been with us all along. It’s time to declare steadfast conviction and unshakable belief in ourselves.

Say it with me now, “I believe in me.”

“I believe in you.”

I believe in humanity and automobiles and little tabby kittens. I believe that a plane can fly because of the shape of its wings and that the resulting differential pressure creates lift. I believe in the atom and the molecule and in deoxi ribonucleic acid I trust. I believe in broccoli and I believe in whiskey (especially in whiskey.) I believe in science, medicine, peer review and reproducible results. I believe in the fallibility of science because I believe in the fallibility of humanity, but like humanity and the free market, science’s success can be attributed to the fundamental procedures in place to correct its mistakes. I believe in humor, computers and lizards. I even believe in humorous, computerized lizards.



I believe in the atmosphere, the universe and Alpha Centauri. I believe in white blood cells, both the White Stripes record and the blood component. I believe in internal combustion, and I believe science will make it obsolete in my lifetime. I believe in my house, my wife, my kitties and my friends. I believe in Kanda, The Video Lair, and Clay’s Smokehouse Grill. I believe in the microchip, the cellular phone and the elastic waistband.

I believe in me.

I believe in things that are real, and choose not to define myself in terms of the non-real things that I do not accept.

Yes, I even believe in P. Diddy.



“Everyone has right to his own opinion, but no one has a right to his own facts.” – Daniel Patrick Moynihan

That's a Dog in a Rat Suit!

Wading through as much online drivel as I do, as posted by the breatharians, creationists, Kabballah mephistos and fans of audiobooks, I rarely come across anything that truly shocks me. Even after researching for my recent post on the more amusing aspects of capitalism, even I could not be prepared for the nonsense of Attackchi.org.



Don't click on the link immediately, just look at the photo and try to guess what the page you are about to visit is all about. Could it be that this person has bred the perfect genetic bastard of a Doberman and a Great Northern Black Bear? Perhaps the site provides contact and booking information for The Amazing Rando, New Zealand's greatest midget illusionist, able to perform incredible feats of prestidigitation, though tragically afflicted with extreme osteoporosis and severe lycanthropism!

In my home town of Crowley, Louisiana (Crowley Clique, represent!) we celebrate the harvest every year with the annual Rice Festival. What traveling carnival would be complete without a few booths boasting the most amazing and rare creatures, captured at great peril, from the deeps of the savage jungle? We paid our $2.00, and stepped in line, and slowly scooted forward for our turn to see the "World's Largest Rat," swaying occasionally from coconut rum and Milwaukie's Best. When our group of four or five guys got to the enclosed viewing area, we all fixed our eyes on what looked like a nutria the size of a Labrador, quietly napping in the corner of the metal box where it lived. Somehow, the claim that it "savagely devoured twenty pounds of raw meat every day" seemed a bit exaggerated. One in our group, Kyle Hodges, if memory serves me correctly, swaying back and forth, his hands gripping the rail with white-hot intensity, looks at us all in utter rage and yells, "That's not a rat! That's a dog in a rat suit!"

My favorite line of Attackchi.org: "Take your dog outside and spray it black."

no...
no...
no...
no...
no...
NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

7/4/1776

Two hundred twenty-nine years ago, the first major, legal step to establish a sovereign and independent coalition of states was taken by some of the most brilliant and corageous men in history. The document they drafted, whose adoption we celebrate on Monday, was the precursor to, second only to the Magna Carta, the most important and ground breaking, legally binding document ever conceived by a body of men. I salute the actions of these men, and hope that everyone will take only the thinnest moment, on this upcoming anniversary, to consider the audacity of the action we celebrate, and honor the many men and women throughout our short history who have fought and died protecting the philosophy from which it was born.

"When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation."

You Might Be a Moron if...

Divination - the occultic practice of ascertaining information by supernatural means.

Most people know what the word “divination” means, and many would even be able to give a few techniques used by practitioners of this ancient “art.” Predicting the future by interpreting the shapes in steeped tea leaves, casting various animal bones to the ground, and examining the entrails of freshly killed chickens top the list. What many people don’t know, however, is that virtually every culture, in almost every place at sometime, someone with either deep delusionary tendencies or a really twisted sense of humor, decided to do something, examine the results of that something, and then predict the future based solely on how that particular pile of dog poo smelled, or something as equally ridiculous.

Fact – If you believe in divination, or any human ability to predict the future with any more accuracy than a statistical guess, you’re a moron and you need to have mommy put your helmet back on before two o’clock pudding.



I’ve compiled a short, and very incomplete, list of the various types of divination known throughout human history, each one being more ridiculous, incredulous and amusing than the last. Many end in 'mancy', from the ancient Greek manteia meaning “divination or fortune-telling”, or 'scopy', from the Greek skopein meaning “to look into or to behold.”

aeluromancy - dropping wheatcakes into water and interpreting the result
aeromancy - divination by examining what the air does to certain things (like a kite?)
alectoromancy - divination by a chicken: grains of wheat are placed on letters and the chicken "spells" the message by selecting grains
alphitomancy - dropping barleycakes in water and interpreting the result (for years there was a white-hot debate over which kind of cake most effectively told the future, we can only hope most of those people were too busy arguing and throwing cakes into buckets of water to get around to breeding.)
anthropomancy - divination by interpreting the organs of newly sacrificed humans
astragalomancy – casting, like dice, knucklebones marked with letters of the alphabet (Come, on! Daddy needs a new Psionic Manifesting Capsule!!)
axinomancy - divination by the hatchet: interpreting the way it quivers when whacked into a table
belomancy - divination by the flight path of arrows
bronchiomancy - divination by studying the lungs of sacrificed white llamas
capnomancy- divination by interpreting the smoke of an altar or sacrificial incense
catoptromancy – divination by interpreting images in a mirror
cleidomancy - divination by interpreting the movements of a key suspended by a thread from the nail of the third finger on a young virgin's hand while one of the Psalms was recited (okay, seriously, what the fuck. Somebody had a laugh with this one…)
coscinomancy - divination by a balanced sieve
cromniomancy - divination by onions (onions?!?!?)
dactylomancy- divination by means of rings put on the fingernails or the number of whorls and loops on the fingers
daphnomancy - divination by burning a laurel branch and interpreting the crackles of the flames
extispicy - divination by examining entrails
fractomancy - interpreting the structures of fractal geometric patterns
gyromancy - divination by walking around a circle of letters until dizzy and one falls down on the letters or in the direction to take (this one is a personal favorite…)


hydromancy - divination by examining what certain things do in water or when taken out of water, such as coffee grounds or tea leaves; hydatoscopy - if rainwater is used; pegomancy - if spring-water is used (BillCosbyscopy – if chocolate Jello pudding is used.)
hepatoscopy- divination by examining the liver of sacrificed animals
kephalonomancy - burning carbon on the head of a mule while reciting the names of suspected criminals; a crackling sound will be heard when the name of the guilty party is spoken (How the fuck do you get a mule to sit still for this?)
lampadomancy- interpreting the movements of the flame of a lamp
libanomancy - interpreting the smoke of incense
lithomancy - divination using precious stones
lecanomancy - dropping precious stones into water and listening for whistles (I don’t get this one either, but I’m also not in the habit of dropping precious stones into water and waiting to hear them scream…)
metoposcopy - interpreting frontal wrinkles
molybdomanc - (divination by melted lead: interpreting its noises and hisses when dropped into water
myrmomancy - divination by watching ants eating (okay, seriously, this is just getting ridiculous…)
oinomancy - divination by wine (I’ve been told I can predict the future after I drink too much whiskey, “I’m think I’m gonna hurl..”)


omphalomancy - interpretation of the belly button (My father-in-law used to tell my wife that, not only was the belly button installed into the human form to act as a reservoir for ranch dip while eating carrot sticks, he also warned her that if she unscrewed it, her butt would fall off. He is a very powerful wizard.)
oneiromancy - interpretation of dreams
onychomancy - interpreting the reflection of sun rays off fingernails (I used to know some guys that did that all the time, “whoa… Dude, check out my fingernails… they’re, like, glowing…”)
ornithomancy - interpreting the flights of birds (They’re all going south, that means the Broncos will win the Superbowl.)
ovomancy - breaking eggs into a container of water and interpreting the shape of the egg white
papyromancy - divination by folding paper
pyromancy - divination by fire
rhabdomancy - using the divining rod or magic wand
rhapsodmancy - divination by a line in a sacred book that strikes the eye when the book is opened after the diviner prays, meditates or invokes the help of spirits
sideromancy - interpreting straws of hay thrown on a red-hot iron (what about interpreting wads of watermelon jello thrown at the exposed scrotum-sack of a guy dressed like Hitler?)
skatharomancy- interpreting the tracks of a beetle crawling over the grave of a murder victim
splanchnomancy - reading cut sections of a goat liver (these people sure like cut open animals…)
tasseography - interpreting tea leaves
tiromancy- interpreting the holes or mold in cheese (that’s right, divination through cheese, and you thought it was just a tasty snack. By the way, what does cheese say when it’s picture gets taken?)
urim v'tumim - reading sacred stones attached to the breastplate of the high priest in ancient Judaism
uromancy - divination by reading bubbles made by urinating in a pot



Okay, that’s enough. All the rest were in good fun, but interpreting the bubbles in your pee is about as preposterous as it gets. The lesson here today, folks, is that divination is stupid and anyone that believes in it is equally so. Here at On The Rocks, we are committed to exposing sham and flim-flam at every possible opportunity and plan on taking down this behemoth of ignorance one brick at a time.

Next week: audiobooks.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

The first revolution took place on November 29, 1877, when Thomas Alva Edison made the first public demonstration. At the time, few people saw the potential of the contraption he’d designed, mostly because he described his “talking machine” as a means for businessmen to record their own dictations with the ability to play them back at will. The secretaries of America (at least the ones that weren’t being schtupped at the time) paused for a collective shudder. Like any great invention that escapes into the pristine wilderness that is capitalism, evolution takes over as busy-fingered tinkerers strive to offer bigger, better, faster and more at low, low warehouse clearance prices. The phonograph, literally meaning “writing sound” in Greek, underwent numerous incarnations in the hands of manufacturers worldwide, such as the “Gramophone, “ “Zon-o-phone,” “Graphonola,” and the most successful, “Victrola.”



The second, and most important, revolution occurred in 1892. It was this year that a company called Berliner patented the disc recording media, which they successfully argued was so different from Edison’s cylinder technology, they needn’t pay royalties. With the recording discs being easier to manufacture and ship, and by avoiding the costs of royalties, they were cheaper than cylinder recordings. In addition to the cost benefits, consumers found it much easier to store and catalogue their collections as thin discs as opposed to the cumbersome cylinders, and with the affluence that typified the late nineteenth century in America, the home stereo system was born.

For the first time in history, music could be enjoyed without the need for live musicians.

Many minor improvements were made on the design over the course of the following years, but no great changes took place for a very long time. The record was the standard in almost every American home, but as we all know, technology builds upon itself exponentially and the next revolution was inevitable.

The next occurrence that most closely resembles revolution, ignoring the strange but very important 1956 invention by Bill Lear called the 8-track cartridge, was the reel-to-reel cassette tape, or the compact audiocassette. Introduced by Philips in 1963, this little technological wonder not only boasted the “not-terribly-crappy” sound quality guarantee, but its miniscule size shot off the next great leap forward in audio technology: portable audio.

Dass right, I’m talkin’ about the muhfuckin’ ghetto blaster!




It’s revolution left and right, because as soon as the boom box hit its peak in the early eighties, Sony’s 1979 invention, the Walkman, was flying off the shelves like so much volleyball. The portable audio revolution was taken a step further into personal portable audio. The only problem was that it was terribly difficult to break dance with headphones on.

The “Big Bang” of digital audio took place in 1983, when Philips introduced the compact disc. Suddenly, as a consumer, you could have it all: inexpensive, compact and portable media with flawless, truly digital audio quality. While many folks still hold dear to their boxes of vinyl Dylan albums, the compact disc was the high mark of audio fidelity.

We find ourselves currently in the midst of another audio revolution, and it’s no surprise it’s related to computers. MP3 is an audio compression format, known as “lossy compression,” which allows the large “WAV” tracks of a compact disc to be compressed at about 10:1 without losing significant audio quality. This medium became greatly popularized with the transmission of data over the Internet, allowing people to rip, store, trade and play audio files over their limited bandwidth. According to Wikipedia, the sound quality of MP3 can be described thusly:

[MP3] provides a representation of pulse-code modulation-encoded (PCM) audio data in a much smaller size by discarding portions that are considered "less important" to human hearing.

It is here, in the gap between CD and MP3, in the concept of “less important to human hearing” that the debate occurs. As MP3 technology grows more and more standardized, as more and more people rip their audio CDs into MP3, or simply download them from the internet onto their iPods and other devices, will audio quality standards drop as well? Will anyone ever come to know the rich, full, dense sound that can only be achieved on a vinyl recording? If the CD is the benchmark, are the differences between CD and MP3 so great, that audio recordings at large will suffer because someone has deemed huge sections of data “unimportant to human hearing?”

Until now, every worthwhile revolution in audio technology has been in the arena of better quality, less degradation, smaller media and more portable technology. MP3 seems to be an exception because, even to an untrained ear, the quality of an CD significantly outpaces that of MP3, but the MP3 format grows each and every day, backed up by the smallest, coolest and best technology available on the market.

Will there be a time when a young music aficionado will have gone his whole life without ever setting his ears to a compact disc, much as many our age have never heard a vinyl record? Will MP3 destroy not just music industry, but music fidelity as well?

I love capitalism. Capitalism is the fairest, most successful and equitable economic structure ever devised by mankind, and until socialism can shake its association with Soviet gulags, Chinese re-education facilities and Nazi concentration camps, it will remain so. Capitalism’s global success is attributed to the primal human need to achieve and create, and then the primal human need to sell things for fantastic profits, and then the primal human need for the new Resident Evil game, and maybe one of those cool wireless controllers with the built-in fan that keeps your hands from getting sweaty.

It began with the barter system, a chicken for a bag of flour, a few squirrel pelts for a sack of potatoes, a handmade chair for a new pair of pants. The barter system proved so successful, and with the growing acceptance of coin money, the open market was born. Many major cities around the world can attribute their growth and success because their location was a successful marketplace in years gone by.

The modern marketplace, much as it is tied directly to the technology of transportation and communication, is constantly changing and fluxing, building upon itself exponentially in order to bring you, the consumer, bigger, better, faster, more, and all for less. There is no place on earth that better exemplifies the core principles of the perfectly chaotic and beautifully unregulated marketplace as the ubiquitous “Internet”. The Internet, cyberspace, the worldwide web, it has many names, but only one function: the transmission of information, mainly pornography and stock quotes.

When the twisted world of capitalism collides with the information superhighway, only good things can happen. What we see now is an explosion of every imaginable market, cars, boats, houses all the way to bikes, garden hoses, ballpoint pens, jeans, scotch tape and multitudes of live creatures are bought online, sold online, and sodomized live online by perverts with web cams for the enjoyment (and subscription fees) of the quivering masses. The only thing I love more than capitalism is chicken-fucking for a low monthly fee.

The old adage goes, “Necessity is the mother of invention.” While this may have applied to the automobile, the light bulb and the double-headed, jelly dong, the free market no longer bends to the will of market demand, mostly because in the civilized world, virtually all our needs have been met. What the producers in every major economy want is to be ability to stay one step ahead of their competition (the defining and most virtuous aspect of capitalism) by staying one step ahead of the consumer. Instead of “what does the consumer want today?” the question that burns in the mouths of the many is “what will the consumer want tomorrow?” In an effort to meet demand that has essentially been conjured, manifested or simply prayed for in board rooms and basements across the country, we the consumers are bombarded with products that no longer strive to meet our needs, but to create for us new needs that must be filled.

“There are many different ways of being alive -- at least ten million different ways if we count the number of distinct species alive today -- but, however many ways there may be of being alive, it is certain that there are vastly more ways of being dead!” – Richard Dawkins

Inevitably, when anyone makes the leap of faith to manufacture a product that no one yet wants, just like the brilliance of evolution, you get more flops than home runs. When the worlds of capitalism and cyberspace collided, a new hinterland was created, and that is where these creatures live. These unwanted flops, bizarre products conceived by the insane and purchased only by those with too much money. These oddities of free market evolution are like the bizarre creatures fashioned by geographic isolation, like the wallabies of Australia, the lemurs of Madagascar and Jeanine Garafolo of New Jersey.

Bowel Buddy



This one instantly takes the prize for the most revolting product name. We can all breathe a sigh of relief that they’re bran “cookies” and not some sadistic, wire bottlebrush, or worse, a Russian dwarf hamster.

Best line in product description: “If you suffer from constipation, chances are you know it!”

Shower Shock Caffienated Soap



Is one cup of coffee really that time consuming? Between coffee, tea, soda, caffienated water, and caffienated malt beverages, I don’t see why anyone has to look to soap for their morning fix. Alcohol and nicotine soap, I could understand, but this is just silly.

Best line in product description: “Have smelly co-workers that sleep in too much? Give them the gift of Shower Shock!”

The Nap Cap



What better way to advertise to everyone in sight that you’re a blithering, drooling, “time for your two o’clock applesauce” drain on your family’s funds? Imagine yourself walking into an airport and seeing hundreds of chubby tourists from Florida in the terminal sleeping with their heads strapped to the chairs like an army of autistic short-bussers. Disturbing.

Best line in the product description: “Tell a friend and get free shipping!”

Location Earth Dog Tags



At first, you may think this is a gag. Perhaps the creator of these things is laughing all the way to the bank (the “money back guarantee” would certainly support that contention), but many people that purchase these things think that they are making simple investment in their own safety. These things sell like crazy at UFO conventions and whack-job storefronts across the globe. I’m thinking I’ll get one that has Lindsey Lohan’s address on it so at least I’ll have something to look forward to if I ever get abducted. I figure it’s the only way I’m getting over that fence and through those attack dogs. Stupid attack dogs.

Best line in product description: “Engraved with several methods of locating Earth in the galaxy, an alien pilot does not need to understand any human language to use this information.”

Octodog: the Frankenfurter Converter



Is the default shape of a hot dog so offensive that it requires a special tool to liven it up? And of all the shapes into which one can carve a chopped, pressed wad of meat scraps, why an octopus? My only response to this product is: what the fuck?

Best line in product description: “Surprise your guests, serve Octodogs!”

Squirrel Liquor Decanter



Okay, seriously, would you drink anything that came of this thing’s neck? I didn’t think so.

Best line in the product description: “The artist has a deep respect and appreciation for animals and the natural world.”

Talking TP



This nifty little gadget lets you record a short audio message that will play every time someone reaches for a wad of bathroom tissue. If I was in a friend’s home, doing my business, and when I grabbed a few squares of tissue heard the roll say, “please stay seated during the performance,” I would just exit the bathroom, find the nearest living thing and kill it.

Best line in product description: “Be the first on your block to have bathroom voicemail!”

“Sizzling Bacon” flavored Rolling Papers



I had two contenders in the “bacon-flavored” category, but the bacon flavored dog bubbles just weren’t as funny, mainly because dogs are stupid and pretty much love anything, bacon-flavored or not. Potheads, however, like to pretend they’re not stupid, that they can really play the guitar, and that Darkstar is actually a good band. In case you needed another bit of evidence that potheads need to have all the sharp objects in their homes confiscated, it got to be the bacon flavored rolling papers.

Best line in product description: “Toke it easy.”

There were many products that didn’t make the cut. The “Flightsuit” pet bird diapers, the “Executive Laptop Steering-Wheel Mount,” the dog umbrella, and many others.



The point is that there are countless people, from the industrial design mogul in a high-rise in New York, to the retired mail carrier in his basement in Peoria toiling away hour after hour to make some dumb thing you might buy. These people are making stupid products just for you! Bask in the beauty that is capitalism!

Ten Things to do in North Carolina When Your Wedding Tackle Doesn't Work

Would anyone like to make the case AGAINST immediate chemical castration?



I think it's a safe bet that a young man who can't control his urges to FUCK THE NEIGHBOR'S DOG, needs to have his pillypacker privileges taken away.

I know a place where the Sun never sets.

It's a mountain, and it's on the Moon. It sticks up so high that even as the Moon spins, it's in perpetual daylight. Radiation from the Sun pours down on there day and night, 24 hours a day — well, the Moon's day is actually about 4 weeks long, so the sunlight pours down there 708 hours a day.

I know a place where the Sun never shines. It's at the bottom of the ocean. A crack in the crust there exudes nasty chemicals and heats the water to the boiling point. This would kill a human instantly, but there are creatures there, bacteria, that thrive. They eat the sulfur from the vent, and excrete sulfuric acid.

I know a place where the temperature is 15 million degrees, and the pressure would crush you to a microscopic dot. That place is the core of the Sun.

I know a place where the magnetic fields would rip you apart, atom by atom: the surface of a neutron star, a magnetar.

I know a place where life began billions of years ago. That place is here, the Earth.



I know these places because I'm a scientist.

Science is a way of finding things out. It's a way of testing what's real. It's what Richard Feynman called "A way of not fooling ourselves."

No astrologer ever predicted the existence of Uranus, Neptune, or Pluto. No modern astrologer had a clue about Sedna, a ball of ice half the size of Pluto that orbits even farther out. No astrologer predicted the more than 150 planets now known to orbit other suns.

But scientists did.

No psychic, despite their claims, has ever helped the police solve a crime. But forensic scientists have, all the time.

It wasn't someone who practices homeopathy who found a cure for smallpox, or polio. Scientists did, medical scientists.

No creationist ever cracked the genetic code. Chemists did. Molecular biologists did.

They used physics. They used math. They used chemistry, biology, astronomy, engineering.

They used science.

These are all the things you discovered doing your projects. All the things that brought you here today.

Computers? Cell phones? Rockets to Saturn, probes to the ocean floor, PSP, gamecubes, gameboys, X-boxes?

All by scientists.

Those places I talked about before — you can get to know them too. You can experience the wonder of seeing them for the first time, the thrill of discovery, the incredible, visceral feeling of doing something no one has ever done before, seen things no one has seen before, know something no one else has ever known.

No crystal balls, no tarot cards, no horoscopes. Just you, your brain, and your ability to think.

Welcome to science. You're gonna like it here.

- Phil Plait, author of Bad Astronomy addressing an eighth grade class of science fair participants in June 2005.

The Shiny, Red, Candy-Like Button...

Reading as much news as I do will go a great length in diminishing even the greatest faith in the human race. It seems far too often, I will finish a story off the lines of the AP or Reuters, clasp my hands over my face and start humming to drown out the voices in my head that tell me none of us deserve our place at the top of the food chain. This morning was particularly gruesome, not just because of the subject matter of the stories I encountered, but because I’ve just spent the last twenty minutes curled into the fetal position, sucking my thumb, visions of sweet, sweet nuclear halocaust dancing in my head.

The Goat for Coke Scandal

Four men, ages 20 to 38, are currently being held and charged with theft, cruelty to animals and other charges in Bullskin Township, PA. It seems the “ringleader” James W. Albright (I shudder to apply such a flattering title to the type of guy that yells at the television during the Montel Williams show, but “drooling, mouth-breathing sack of pig excrement” does very little to betray his status in this group of vacuous pus-bags) developed a plan of fiendish mastery, and convinced his fellow idiot savants on the virtues of a greatly underestimated avenue of extraneous income: goat-napping.



Albright stole his neighbor’s daughter’s pet pygmy goat and tied it to a tree in his back yard, where he and his friends proceeded to beat it to death with sticks. While the image of four drunken hillbillies beating a miniature goat to death with some two-by-fours they found under the house may seem funny as hell, I assure you little Kimmy next door found it none too amusing. They then took the corpse of the goat to Albright’s father and aided him in skinning and butchering it with the intent of selling the meat FOR COCAINE.

In all seriousness, if you’ve got a coke habit that you need to feed, what kind of a person (scratch that, four persons) decide the most likely bargaining chip in the seedy underworld of the drug market would be goat flesh?

The Chicken for Sex Scandal

Our next tale brings us to Stoddard, NH, and into the life of Ryan Park, a door-to-door meat salesman and recalcitrant lover of the fairer sex. Mr. Park is currently in custody, charged with assault after he offered a potential customer an uncooked chicken in exchange for sexual favors. When his advances, and his uncooked chicken, were rejected, he forced himself upon the woman and “forcefully kissed” her. While we can be happy that the poor woman’s sanctity was violated no further than a forceful kiss from a meat salesman, we can only hope he washed up after touching the raw chicken.



I just get fed up sometimes. I wonder about the future of the human race when some skinhead nutter saws off an old guy’s head over a property line dispute, and then makes it into this country with the bloody chainsaw in the trunk of his car. I get distraught when an abortion doctor is accused of devouring human fetuses. I start to worry when Sean Penn decides to become a reporter and go to Iran to cover their sham elections.

Although, the new Pope-Mobile sounds pretty cool...

Wall of Hair: The Legacy of Phil Spector

The world loves celebrity. Here in America, we especially love the formulaic story of rise to fame through hard work and perseverance, and making success from meager beginnings. The only thing the world enjoys watching more than the rise of a star, is its inevitable fall. With the trial of Michael Jackson at a close, the media in the United States is in a blind panic. “Wacko Jacko” has been acquitted, and Robert Blake is out walking the streets again, a proposition that keeps many of us up at night. The folks that decide what’s going to be important to you have nothing left to report, especially in New Jersey. What celebrity court debacle will the nation fawn over for the next six months? Sure, Russell Crow will be going to court soon, but he’s already admitted to assault on The Late Show and will probably plead no contest, not much to report there. Phil Spector’s trial is scheduled to start soon, but who the hell knows who Phil Spector is?

The answer: You should.

It’s very likely that you don’t know who Phil Spector is, or if you recognize his name, don’t realize how fundamental he was in the shaping of American music, and by “American music,” I mean all music. Spector has been a huge figure in innovation of the music industry in the last thirty-five years, and has made millions developing recording technology and techniques, and has created some of the biggest names in music history, and the media can’t even justify following the proceedings of his murder trial.

Spector’s life, like most folks that fight the current in an industry as unforgiving as music, has been marred with turmoil and struggle, leaving him eccentric and, some would say, dangerous. If one examines the evidence, it becomes clear that Spector’s career, which peaked in 1970, can be said to have gone downhill in perfect ratio to the increasing circumference of his hair.




In 1958, and the age of 19, Phil’s first band, The Teddy Bears, release their million-selling hit, “To Know Him is to Love Him.” This was to be the beginning of an illustrious career in music, and as you can see, is marked with cute, short, wavy hair typical for the time. Phil and his hair are destined for big things.




Armed with the reputation garnished from the success of The Teddy Bears, and gifted with perfect pitch, I might add, Spector went on to his first independent production success in 1961 with “Pretty Little Angel Eyes” but Curtis Lee. That same year, before he even turned 21, Spector started his own label, Philles Records, with music great Lester Sill. With complete creative control, Spector went on to produce numerous hits from his tiny Gold Star Studio in Fontana, CA.




During this time, 1965-1969, Phil introduced names like The Ronnettes, The Crystals and many others, developing for the first time the concept of the “girl group.” Unfortunately, as you can see, his hair had started its journey skyward, marking the beginning of the end. The real breakthrough, however, was Spector’s “Wall of Sound” recording technique that used numerous musicians in the tiny studio playing orchestrated parts on top of one another, lending the recording a rich, dense sound that was especially enjoyable on jukeboxes of the day. The song usually credited with popularizing Spector’s technique of layering music was “You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feeling” by The Righteous Brothers.




In 1970 both Phil and his hair exploded in terms of recognition, success and density. John Lennon, a great fan of Spector’s work, approached him that year and asked him to lend a hand in completing the abandoned recordings of the Beatles’ “Let it Be.” Already on the rocks, the relationship between Lennon and McCartney became even more strained after Spector completely reworked the album, and fundamentally changed McCartney’s “The Long and Winding Road,” applying his signature “Wall of Sound” techniques and added an entire orchestra to McCartney’s sparse piano ballad.




The 70’s and 80’s were tumultuous years for Phil and his hair. There were some significant gains, but also some real setbacks. His name was as well-known as it had ever been, but his eccentricity and need for complete control over the projects he produced gave him a reputation as a tyrant at the boards, and he was even said to have discharged a firearm in the studio while John Lennon was recording and forced Leonard Cohen to record “Death of a Ladies’ Man” at gunpoint. Despite these bizarre occurrences, this time was greeted with the success of albums he produced for John Lennon, George Harrison, The Ramones, Dusty Springfield, Harry Nilsson and The Beach Boys.




In the early 90’s, it seems Phil realized what a danger his hair had become and for the first time, he was trying to fight it. He had retreated into relative obscurity, probably brought on by the epic battle he had incited with the mass of tangles and curls that had nested on his head, bent on world domination. Unfortunately for us all, Phil was not to win this battle.





Holy fucking Christ on a crutch! I never knew it would get this bad. By now, the roots have sunk deep within his brain and he is no longer in control of his actions. He is utterly at the tender mecries of that horrible creature, coiled on top of his head, ready to strike at any moment at anyone who dares stand in its' way.

In February 2003, Harry Phillip Spector and his hair were arrested as part of the investigation into the murder of Lana Clarkson, an actress whose body was found in Spector’s home in Alhambra, California. It would seem Phil’s hair won the struggle that kept him for the public’s eye throughout the 90’s, and now we shall all suffer.

Phil Spector has been responsible for the success of acts like Tina Turner, Cher, Darlene Love, The Righteous Brothers and has greatly influenced musicians and producers like Brian Wilson and Bruce Springsteen. Spector’s imprint will always be felt in music, and the fact that most people are unaware of his legacy is unfortunate. So next time you pop in “Let it Be” and marvel at the genius of those four chaps from Liverpool, think about Phil and his life long battle with the maniacal tendencies of his hair, and how great success is always tainted with great struggle.

Poor Guy, He's Got Bandwidth Issues...

Proof positive that, on average, we all have far too much free time on our hands. I might also add that I can't believe I (or Luke) didn't think of this first.

Cats + Stuff = Awesome.

Paying Someone to Punch You in the Nuts: Priceless

The Psionic Kabbalah Manifesting Capsule $90.00



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The Tesla Purple Energy Shield $179.95



The Tesla Purple Energy Shield™ energy is said to be beneficial to all life...plant, animal or human. Science has proven that by projecting love or positive energy to a plant, the plant will flourish. The plate energy will also do the same thing to plants. Burns, cuts, aches and pains involve a sudden change to the normal vibration rate of tissue. The theory is that the energy around the plates helps to accelerate the healing and thus return the injured area to its normal rate of vibration.

The Tesla Purple Energy Shield™ is an antenna for cosmic energy (tachyons), create a harmonizing field and may thereby affect body and soul positively. They may clean food and water on an energetic level and promote plants/vegetables in their growth and proliferation. Many people use them to support physical healing (e.g. headaches, cuts, wounds, fractures etc.) or they carry them around in order to raise their vibratory frequency.

The Tesla Purple Energy Shield™ has been anodized with the color Violet, which is the healing ray of the rainbow spectrum. Their atomic structure has been altered, so that they are in resonance with a high-frequency vibration of the life energy force, in a complex way, connected with the known energy of negative ions. The Tesla Purple Energy Shield™ possesses a field of energy capable of penetrating any living thing - plant, animal or human.

Measurable effects of The Tesla Purple Energy Shield™
The life force energy, or Prana, can be measured in several ways. One of them is through radionic equipment. Using this measurement, the energy level of an individual man or woman not yet fully illuminated might register, say, 20 on the scale. When this person is handed The Tesla Purple Energy Shield™ the reading will instantly increase to 90 or 95. It won't remain at that level, but continual use of The Tesla Purple Energy Shield™ will gradually bring the person's energy to 100 permanently, Enlightenment. And higher than 100, since the life force energy cannot be completely measured by any device presently known. And so, the use of this New Age "magic" will eventually raise your frequency rate of angstrom units per second.

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Bison Designs Capsule Keychain $2.95



This keychain features a small, watertight capsule to store something important.

Top unscrews for access
Water-tight design with rubber gasket
Split ring holds keys

Also available in purple and red at REI.com

Reaping What You Sow: Federalism, Not Wacky Tobacky

Yesterday, the Supreme Court of the United States ruled 6-3 that state allowances of marijuana usage and possession for medicinal purposes do not trump the federal ban and these patients and their doctors can be prosecuted under these restrictions.

Boy, howdy, ya’ll stepped in it this time, but iss ya own damn fault.

News flash: The War on Drugs has been an unmitigated failure since day one. The prohibition of drugs themselves has created the very crime you’re attempting to stamp out and the black market you created is the only reason drug prices remain high. Your bans are the very reason there is a drug problem!!




Unfortunately, I have no sympathy for pot smokers. I don’t smoke pot, but have always respected someone’s right to ingest whatever they see fit, either for recreational, medicinal, suicidal or “sitting on the couch watching Caddyshack” purposes. I have routinely signed petitions to strengthen Oregon’s medical marijuana laws, and the outright legalize the stuff. But you people get no sympathy from me regarding the decision of the Supreme Court because it’s mostly your fault. Your typical pot smoker, at least here in the beautiful Pacific Northwest, can be safely described as a smelly, dread-ridden, pinko, bike-riding, protesting, tree-hugging, vegan, dirt worshipping Commie. Commensurate with this description, these folks are the kind of people that empower their government to step in and make activist decisions on their behalf, such as Roe v. Wade and the Assisted Suicide Act here in Oregon. While these things are fundamental rights under “physical sovereignty,” these activists have gone about it all wrong.

If you believe in the Constitutionality of Roe v. Wade, you cannot complain about Ashcroft v. Raich. Roe v. Wade, contrary to popular belief, does not guarantee the right of a woman to terminate a pregnancy. Roe v. Wade simply states that, according to the opinions of the justices of the Supreme Court, the state governments in the U.S. do not have the right to ban the practice of abortion, even if the majority of citizens in that state wish for a ban. Roe v. Wade is a perfect example of the Federal government over stepping its’ bounds and sticking its’ fat nose into the business of the states, and Ashcroft v. Raich is simply an extension of that situation. You Commie bastards, you’re the one’s that have empowered the Federal government to solve your problems for you in the first place, and now you’re pissed that they shot you in the foot with the gun you gave them!

To all you pot smokers out there, I feel for you. I feel even worse for the folks that really need the stuff to deal with chronic pain or the effects of chemotherapy. The answer lies not with demanding the government solve your problems, but with stripping the government of the ability to change these rules without your permission. Do you see why conservatives are always so up in arms about “activist courts?” There is nothing more enraging than a bunch of self-important, gown-clad, busybodies up on an oak bench declaring to the country what rights you do or do not have, especially when they’re dictating to sovereign states.

As an aside, I just want to point out that pot would most likely be legal if it weren’t for pot smokers. When you step in front of someone, wearing a giant plastic marijuana leaf necklace braided through your dreads, a Bob Marley t-shirt, giant, stinky corduroy pants, clay beads and wittled driftwood strung around your neck, your gross Rasta beard just crawling with parasites, reeking of patchouli and butt, and ask them to sign a petition to help legalize your favorite recreational drug... they’re not going to help you.

You want pot to be legal within your lifetime? Get a haircut, get a job, put on a tie and vote Libertarian.