"Return to Normalcy," and Other Phrases I Hate.

In fourth grade, my science teacher was Mrs. Gay. (I know, this is endless fodder for a ten-year-old. The really unfortunate thing was that she had an overweight son named Jude that played air-guitar A LOT.) The only thing I remember from that science class, aside from the fact that she pronounced the word “urine,” “YOUR-EEN,” was a pearl of wisdom she shared with us idealistic children. “There is nothing you can think,” she told us one day, the reason why eludes me, “that has not been thought before.”

This was a supremely harrowing and life-changing bit of information. When the truth of that statement socked me hard in the gut, like Joey Ivy had done only a year before, my perception of life and the possibilities of my future took a sudden and cataclysmic turn. I was returned to that moment when I read Fight Club years later, when Tyler was explaining to me that I was not a beautiful and unique snowflake, and I was never going to be famous.

I don’t know what to do at this point. I have so many things to say, but it’s all been said before, by people more involved, more informed and more articulate than I. The news coverage is more and more overbearing, and I find myself less and less interested because they never say anything new. I can only find solace in the fact that all of my family are safe and dry, and many are helping in the recovery. It’s sad to think that New Orleans, a place so close to my heart, will most likely never be the same place I remember, but then, I never spent much time there at all, so perhaps the place I remember never really existed anyway.

I feel no obligation to write anything about the hurricane, the subsequent disasters or the relief operations. I have no desire to congratulate those sacrificing so much to help, or even to expose the opportunistic shit-bags that want to blame this on any one person for the advancement of their own twisted ideologies. Except this once: Fuck you, Phil Busse. If I see you on the street, I’m going to kick you in the neck and put dog poo down your non-branded, non-sweatshop, boot-cut, $80.00 American Apparel corduroy trousers.

Is it time to laugh again? It feels like it’s been so long. Since my “brief departure” to, once again, defer to my betters, things have really taken a turn for the worse, and spirits have been way down, here at the OTR Institute. We, the team and I, fully intend to rectify that solemn situation. There is perhaps no better way than to regale you with the world’s funniest joke:

Two hunters are out in the woods when one of them collapses. He doesn't seem to be breathing and his eyes are glazed. The other guy takes out his phone and calls the emergency services.

He gasps: "My friend is dead! What can I do?" The operator says: "Calm down, I can help. First, let's make sure he's dead." There is a silence, then a gunshot is heard. Back on the phone, the guy says: "OK, now what?"

Okay, so now you’re nice and warmed up, right? What’s next? Shall I point you towards a great story about the testicle-cooking championship in Zagreb, Croatia?

Or shall I mention that there is a 100-square mile “bulge” growing in intensity in southern Oregon. (note: this is most likely unrelated to the child-care facility recently opened by former Portland Mayor and admitted "suffer unto me the little children" enthusiast Neil Goldschmidt.)



No?

Nothing?

I admit, it does seem a little strained.

I tell you what, take one of these, and I’ll call you in the morning.



* “When they slick their hair back, they look nine!”

A phenomenon I encounter so often, as certainly do so many other folks that write and paint and draw and "do" to exorcise those cathartic demons, I find myself humbled to my hands and knees by my betters. Those true writers, wordsmiths and artists that can speak my sentiments far better than my feeble talents will allow.

Reprinted without permission from one of the greatest columnists in the United States, a man that knows and feels more for my homeland than perhaps I am capable, Chris Rose:

Tuesday, 6:30 p.m.

By Chris Rose

I got out.

I'm mystified by the notion that so many people didn't even try, but
that's another story for another time.

We left Saturday, my wife, kids and me. We went first to Picayune,
Miss., thinking that a Category 3 storm would flood New Orleans and knock
out power, but that we'd be dry and relatively comfortable in the piney
woods while the city dried out.

Sunday morning, of course, Katrina was massive red blob on our TV
screens, now a Category 5, so we packed up and left again.

We left my in-laws behind in Picayune. They wouldn't come with us.
Self-sufficient country folk; sometimes you can't tell 'em nothing.

We don't know what happened to them. My wife's dad and her brother and
their families: No word. Only hope.

Like so many people around the country wondering what happened to those
still unaccounted for; we just don't know. That's the hardest part.



If you take the images you've seen on TV and picked up off the radio
and internet, and you try to apply what you know to the people and places
you don't know about, well, the mind starts racing, assumptions are
made and well, it consumes you.

The kids ask you questions. You don't have answers. Sometimes they look
at me and though they don't say it, I can see they're wondering: Daddy,
where are you?

My 6-year-old daughter, she's onto this thing. What is she thinking?

We spent Sunday night in a no-tell motel in a forgotten part of
downtown Vicksburg; a neighborhood teetering between a familiar
antiquated charm and hopeless decay. Truth is, it called to mind my
beloved New Orleans.

Most of the folks in the hotel seem to live there permanently and it
had a hard-luck feel to it. It was the kind of place where your legs
start itching in the bed and you think the worst and you donÂ’t want your
kids to touch the carpet or the tub and we huddled together and I read
them to sleep.

Monday morning, my wife's aunt told us they had a generator in Baton
Rouge. As Katrina marched north and east, we bailed on our sullen little
hotel and drove down along he western ridge of the storm, mostly alone
on the road.

Gas was no problem. We had catfish and pulled pork in a barbeque joint
in Natchez and the folks there - everyone we have met along our
three-day journey has said the same thing: Good luck, folks. We love your
city. Take care of it for us.

Oh, my city. We have spent hours and hours listening to the radio.
Image upon image piling up in your head.



What about school? What about everyone's jobs? Did all our friends get
out? Are there still trees on the streetcar line? What will our economy
be like with no visitors? How many are dead? Do I have a roof? Have the
looters found me yet? When can we go home?

Like I said, it consumes you as you sit helplessly miles from home,
unable to help anyone, unable to do anything.

If I could, what I'd do first is hurt the looters. I'd hurt them bad.

But you have to forget all that. You have to focus on what is at hand,
what you can reach and when you have three little kids lost at sea,
they are what's at hand and what you can reach.

I brought them to a playground in Baton Rouge Tuesday afternoon. They'd
been bottled up for days.

Finally unleashed, they ran, they climbed, they fell down, they fought,
they cried, they made me laugh, they drove me crazy; they did the
things that makes them kids.

It grounds you. You take a breath. You count to ten. Maybe - under the
circumstances - you go to twenty or thirty this time.

And tonight, we'll just read them to sleep again.

We have several books with us because - and this is rich - we brought
on our evacuation all the clothes and things we planned to bring on a
long-weekend trip that we were going to take over Labor Day weekend.

To the beach. To Fort Morgan, right at the mouth of Mobile Bay.

Man.

Instead of that, I put on my sun tan lotion and went out in the yard of
the house where we're staying in Baton Rouge and I raked a massive pile
of leaves and limbs from the yard and swept the driveway.

Doing yard work and hitting the jungle gym on the Day After. Pretending
life goes on. Just trying to stay busy. Just trying not to think. Just
trying not to fail, really.

Gotta keep moving.

See WWL for more photographs.

Katrina: You Bitch

I’m sitting in front of the computer/television/radio/interocitor like the rest of America, waiting for the latest news. I know all this information, to which I’m hopelessly addicted with no chance of recovery, is the very thing that’s causing my feet to stomp and my scalp to itch in nervousness. Despite it all, however, I find myself in awe of humanity in its calmness and its kindness.

With enough warning, most people simply packed up the things they couldn’t replace with mere money and headed north, bound for hotels or the homes of family and friends. They too are glued to all available forms of media, waiting as if the perky weather girl on channel 10 will say, “As you can see here, the home belonging to Mrs. and Mrs. Sonnier in the Irish Channel is just fine.” If anyone panicked, we didn’t hear about it.

Of course there will be idiots, there always are. We’ll have our Falwell-style idiots claiming divine retribution against “The Big Easy” for letting women bare their breasts, men to consume beverages of an intoxicating nature, and for allowing Vinay to roam the streets unencumbered. You’ll also get your standard jihad-screaming loonies claiming a different kind of divine retribution for allowing women to drive cars and smoke cigarettes, listen to rock music and touch chicken feet on some holy Tuesday afternoon, or something stupid like that. The worst of all, because they'll get thrown onto the pile of bad science of global warming, global cooling, and other undecided stuff that gets far too much credibility with far too little evidence, will be the moonbats that see this disaster as evidence of the failure of the President's environmental policy, as if five years of GWB in the white house has caused the Earth to start breaking shit in retribution for so many people voting Republican. Oh, and we can’t forget the assholes: the looters, the crooks and the profiteers. News reports are already hitting the wires of people breaking into Winn-Dixies and department stores around the city.

Did you know the three top-selling items when people are preparing for a hurricane?
1. bottled water
2. beer
3. strawberry pop-tarts



Despite the idiots and assholes, most people, the ones you won’t read about, will simply leave and hope for the best. They are, like me, reading “hurricane blogs” and watching the television at the same time, though in Portland (as I’m sure is the case with the rest of the country) the news coverage is hyperbolic compared the stuff I can read on the local news wires. “New Orleans under 28 feet of water? Find out at 10 o’clock, only on FOX.”

It seems people are more likely to panic at a soccer riot than a genuine disaster, natural or otherwise. When the shit hits the fan, humanity, by and large, puts aside their differences and starts picking up the pieces. After September 11, 2001, while Palestinians danced feverishly in the streets in celebration, Americans lined up to donate blood and write checks to the Red Cross. When the tsunami hit southeast Asia, the United Nations bickered about who was going to pay for it, while U.S. Army helicopters flew in food and water and private American charities, whose contributions to the cause outweighed the donations of every other country on Earth, began preparations to rebuild the devastated villages.

Humanity is amazing in that it can so easily become a force for purposeful and positive change in times of crisis, especially Americans.

Chin up, y’all. Our hopes and manifestations are with you, and I’m just glad to know that my own family and friends are safe. If you have the time and the scrap to spare, donate a few dollars to help those affected by the disaster. Look here for a list of charities and aid organizations already mobilized alongside our National Guard to provide shelter, food, and water to those in need.

Why Can't We All Just Get Along?

Human beings are violent creatures, much like most of the other creatures on Earth. While there are those among us that feel we’ve finally begun to assuage this tendency from our species, the instinctual basis for this characteristic is far from gone. Everything from a granny pinching her disobedient grandchild to the tactical missile strike on an insurgent outpost in Mosul, force is, and will be for a very long time, the most effective and realistic punishment and deterrent we have.

In many ways, however, violence, in its more mundane forms has been minimized, if not eradicated, from our daily lives. The paddling a of a disruptive student, the flogging of a heretic in the public square, and the tarring and feathering of witches, has all fallen by the wayside of history. Unfortunately, the basis for these actions, the pure unadulterated anger from whence these actions came, has not been addressed. Sure, folks don’t get whipped in public anymore, but where does all that public anger go now ( aside from a crazed mob stampeding on innocent women and children for a cheap laptop)?

Human anger and violence is a necessary component of the human experience. We are emotional, irrational at times, and ultimately capable of extreme acts of brutality. This fact has not and will never change, no matter how many peace vigils you attend, burning candles you clutch to your peace-loving bosom or how often you vote for the Green party. Even Ralph Nader certainly has to fight the urge to raise his fist in anger when a well-spoken person in a smart suit starts talking about “free markets” and “consumer choice” and other “founding principles of the greatest and most successful nation on Earth” gobbledygook.

So where does all this aggression go, in this peace-loving 21st century? Aside from the drinking, most of it falls squarely on the shoulders of those that most deserve it: retail customers.

Don’t pretend to be shocked. Don’t pretend you’ve never done it. Don’t pretend you’ve never been tempted spit in that club sandwich, or slip Visine into that Cosmo with a twist (even though the rumor that Visine ingestion will cause the hot poops is a total myth). We all worked retail at some point in our lives, and all of us have experienced customers that made us drop the popcorn scooper on the floor a few more than times than usual, and then rub it on our junk a few times for good measure.

A friend once told me about working at an upscale restaurant on Boston’s swanky Newbury St. strip. He was waiting on a table of obnoxious middle-aged women, all going on about the diets they had all recently started, how much money they’d spent that day and how they’d love to have the duck but it would go straight to their thighs. After the meal, they wouldn’t leave, and kept asking my friend to bring them pitcher after pitcher of water, “Do you have Fiji? No? Evian then, maybe fill half the pitcher with ice, and can you cut some lemons? Not those on the bar, those have been out all day, can you cut come fresh?” They just kept drinking water, positively gushing about how good it was for you and how they ALL drank at least ten glasses a day, while everyone in the restaurant rolled their eyes in unison. That afternoon, these four women drank eight pitchers of water, but what they’ll never know is that pitchers 3-8 were painstakingly filled from the toiletbowl in the men’s restroom.



LaChania Goven called her cable company to complain about poor channel reception, but was transferred back and forth between customer service reps and was eventually disconnected. When she called again, in a real tiff, she was transferred to a rep that only spoke Spanish, a language LaChania does not understand. What she did understand, however, was when she got her cable bill that following month, and it was addressed to “Bitch Dog.”

“”I was like ‘you gotta be freaking kidding me.’” Said Govan, 25. “I was so mad, I couldn’t even cuss.””

LaChania has subsequently cancelled her service from Comcast.

In a related story, People’s Energy of Chicago has been sending bills addressed to Jefferoy “Scrotum Bag” Barnes for almost three months. The odd thing is that Jefferoy has never made any complaint against his energy company. Needless to say, Jefferoy is currently consulting with an attorney to see if he’s entitled to any monetary damages, though I can’t imagine how he would be.



In defense of all the schleps that pour our coffee, sling our eggs and mix our drinks, they put up with a lot from the jerks they’re duty-bound to serve, and they deserve the right to vent their frustration once in a while. We’ve all been in that position, and many of us still are. So don’t cause a fuss when the dessert-spoon you get has been all snotted up. Don’t make a scene when your cheeseburger arrives as more of a “feces-burger.” You probably did something pretty bad for your cell phone bill to be addressed to Luke “Has Sex with the Corpses of Farm Animals” Sonnier, and it’s way better than a punch in the face.

Fucking Update

The town of Fucking, Austria has released another statement to the English-speaking world: Good luck stealing our Fucking signs, now!

Do the Residents Call Themselves "Fuckers?"

The concept of profanity is one that has always interested me greatly. The fact that a word, a sound or combination of sounds that symbolizes a meaning, can cause offense, simply because of the pleasantries of a particular society, is simply astounding. Discussing the subject with my boss, an Englishman hailing from Liverpool, he volunteered a supremely nasty English euphemism for poor, unwashed and generally disliked foreigners: wogs. The word derives from the heady days of Queen Victoria’s grand British Empire, when a single woman ruled over nearly a quarter of the human population and %33 of the Earth itself. This era of unprecedented imperial expansion, know ironically as “Pax Britannica,” was also marked by Britian’s subjugation of numerous “less-advanced” races and peoples for the purposes of physical labor. Today, we call these unfortunate souls “slaves.”

The poor bastards were required, with the help of British technology (mainly the muskets pointed at their backs) to build the infrastructure needed to make the land they called home worthy of forceful suppression by the British Empire. While on the job, these workers were sometimes required to wear green jackets with the letters “WOG” written in big white letters on their backs, meaning “Worker of the Government.”



Thankfully though, much like the employees of the Multnomah County District Attorney’s Office, free range was given as to what kind of shoes they could wear.

When Crispin, my boss, was explaining this interesting bit of history, he seemed to flinch each time the story required him to say the word “wog.” This term is so offensive, and caused him such discomfort, that he eventually started referring to the word as, “Well, you know.” In an effort to communicate the gravity of the word, he said, without a moment’s hesitation, “It’s sort of like the American word “nigger,” but a little worse.” Despite my best efforts, the surprise of hearing my quaint English boss say the word “nigger” caused me to flinch, while it caused Crispin no discomfort at all.

The word “wog” means nothing to me, much like the word “nigger” means nothing to Crispin, much the like the word “fuck” means nothing to a Japanese person, while the word “kusottare” means nothing to the rest of us. (Except, of course, I had to ask a Japanese friend for a bad Japanese word for the sake of this blog entry.)

The concept of profanity is clearly arbitrarily defined not just by cultural traditions, but also by fashion and modern culture. One of my favorite television programs of all time is Penn & Teller’s “Bullshit!” The reason they named the show “Bullshit!” is not just because it’s patently offensive and bound to get some attention, but also because it perfectly communicates the attitude of the show and its hosts regarding things like Feng Shui, UFO abductions, recycling, PETA and even profanity. Another reason the show is called “Bullshit!” is because of Harry Houdini.

Houdini, later in life, committed himself to debunking the modern fad of the séance and the charlatans that claimed they could communicate with the “other side.” That’s right, this parlor trick has been around for about a thousand years before John Edwards and James Von Praagh. Houdini, on a well-publicized quest to expose these frauds as the thieves and liars they were, called their claims “humbug.”



Did you flinch? Of course you didn’t, because the word “humbug” isn’t offensive, at least not to us. In Houdini’s time, saying “humbug” was about as bad as saying “horse shit!” in a room full of grannies at tea-time. Sort of gives you a new take on Ebenezer Scrooge, huh?

The concept of the “profane” varies from country to time period to language to ethnicity, except for swinging your cock in public like it was a dead chicken, that’s considered “profane” pretty much everywhere. So why get offended when someone on television says “poop chute?” Why get up-in-arms when a billboard has the word “snot” written on it? Come the fuck on, people, it’s time to lighten up.

Assholes.

In Austria, there is a town called Fucking. As best the elders of this small village can remember, their community was founded by the Fuck family, and the suffix “-ing” was added, as it commonly was, to signify it was as settlement. Their small town is frequently visited by tourists from the English-speaking world, driving up from the nearby city of Salzburg, simply to take photographs in front of their municipal signs. The city of Fucking has recently issued a public announcement: Please stop taking our Fucking signs.



At the end of the article where I read this amusing story, the following appears:

“…when someone asks them [the residents of Fucking] where they come from they are a little ashamed to say it."

Residents of two other Austrian communities, Windpassing and W**k on the Lake, suffered a similar reluctance, he added.”

I get “Windpassing,” and frankly, that’s pretty funny. Who doesn’t love a good fart joke every now and again? But what the fuck is “W**k on the Lake?” What naughty word are they omitting from their article? Week? Work? Wonk? Can anyone think of an offensive word in the English language that might fit?

Heck Is For People That Don't Believe in Gosh

In an effort to deeply and profoundly offend, not just my readers, but the general public as well, I’ve decided to jump on the bandwagon and acquire a tasteless t-shirt. While the visage of Che Guevera on my chest would be of ultimate affront, I’m going for more of an outward offense, and I’m frankly concerned that his scraggly beard would cause my chest to itch.
I’ve narrowed down my choices to the following four designs, and I need your help to decide which is mot likely to make strangers form a mob to burn me at the stake. I’m not merely looking to offend, I’m looking to get a law passed against whatever I wear. (Although, with the hippies and busybodies of Portland constantly trying to make all our lives “better through legislation,“ that may be easier than I would like to admit.)



Having a laugh at the disabled has always been a standby for the patently offensive, but I think this particular design takes it a few labored and shaky steps too far. That’s why I like it.



Cancer, always a crowd pleaser, but combined with the humorous thrill of child abuse, you arrive at a joke funnier than the sum of it’s parts. I think I’ll especially enjoy the looks of joy, and then the squinted eyes of derision only moments later. Cancer makes me laugh.



This is a style of humor known as the “double entendre.” I’m afraid, however, that the intricacies of French comedy will be lost on most people, but at least will still have the hilarity of cancer to fall back on. Cancer still makes me laugh.



This one, even I must admit, might be a few yards out of bounds. I mean, sure, cancer is funny as all get-out, but starving children? Let’s just say a shriveled, malnourished boy from Zimbabwe won’t be making an appearance on Saturday Night Live anytime soon, unless they can really play up those flies around his nose and eyes. Now that shit’s funny.

Please cast your votes for the most personally affronting of the bunch, and if you have a spare moment, check out T-Shirt Hell, they’ve been on a mission to offend for years now.

Wookin' Puh Nub...

A police officer was strolling down the sidewalk on his late night beat. He came around the corner to see a man on his hands and knees, shuffling around under a street lamp with his face inches from the ground. The man was wobbling and smelled of liquor, and was even heard to hiccup every now and again. The officer approached the man and said, “Good evening sir. May I ask what you’re doing?” The man looked up at the officer and said, “I’m looking for my *hic* car keys…” and went back to the job at hand. The officer, perplexed, asked, “Well, where did you lose them?” The man straightened his back, pointed towards the pitch darkness to his right and said, “Oh, about three blocks that way.” Even more confused, the officer asked, “Why are you looking for them here?” The man cocked his head at the officer and responded, “The light’s much better here.”

Today, Governor Ted Kulongoski of Oregon has signed into law a bill that will require the citizens of Oregon to obtain a doctor’s prescription in order to get any product containing pseudoephedrine, which includes the most popular heretofore over-the-counter cold and allergy remedies like Sudafed, Benadryl and Claritin-D. The purpose of the bill was to curb the manufacture of methamphetamine in the state of Oregon, of which cold medicines containing pseudoephedrine are a necessary ingredient. The state house and senate, ignoring the usual laments of “government overstepping its rights and responsibilities” from the unwashed masses, overwhelmingly passed the bill. One lawmaker (who remains conveniently unnamed in every report on the bill) even referred to opposition to this bill as “ridiculous.”



Governor Ted Kulongoski sucks. Governor Ted Kulongoski sucks badly and has been really bad at virtually everything he’s done since being elected, all with the aid and abettance of the Oregon legislature. It was less than a year ago that the Governor signed into law a bill that required drug and grocery stores to keep products containing pseudoephedrine behind the counter, forcing citizen such as myself to spend twenty minutes with Ray the cashier pointing to the box of Sudafed four feet away saying, “No, that one. No, that one. Higher… two to the left. Not that one, THAT ONE!” and then filling out a registry with my name and address, just in case Steven Wu wants to call me at home to wish me a quick recovery from my crippling head cold.

Ted’s last little plan obviously didn’t work, and only made the purchase of fairly common and benign cold medicine much more trouble than it was worth for the average, law-abiding citizen. All of us in the minority here in Oregon, that is, with functioning frontal lobes, said as much, but Ted’s not a quitter. He came up with this last plan about six months ago, and we all thought it was a big joke.



We’re not laughing anymore.

Unfortunately, methamphetamine IS a problem in Oregon, and if Ted wants to be re-elected next year, he’s got to pretend to be doing something about it without looking like a “hawk,” a.k.a. someone who believes in arresting criminals when they commit crimes. Ted is like that drunk looking for his keys under the street lamp, sure the problem is way over there, namely meth being manufactured in Mexico, slipping through our porous national border, but he’d much rather be trying to solve the problem here, where the light’s much better and he can get brownie points from his constituents for “cracking down.” The problem is, however, the real “cracking down” is being done to folks with allergies and sinus infections who now have to switch to another drug that might be less effective, or pay their doctor $75 for a visit to get $2.99 box of pills.

Government sucks. Government sucks badly. Government is really bad at virtually everything it’s supposed to do, and even worse at the stuff it has no business doing. The founding fathers of this great nation saw government as a necessary evil and formulated a document, only the second of its kind in the world, which was legally enforceable and designed, first and foremost, to limit the power and breadth of influence of the federal government. This concept is known as “Federalism.”

Government never gets smaller, just ask the citizens of Multnomah County about the income tax that was supposed to expire last year. Without real outrage from the citizens of Oregon, this bill will remain law, even if the limited manufacture of meth in this state remains exactly the same. Government is like a destructive toddler, when it fucks something up, it’s always us adults that have to make sure it gets fixed, invariably at our expense, after all, government has no money of it’s own.

What’s next? If this bill has no effect on meth in Oregon, will Ted ban hydrogen peroxide? Will he limit the amount of iodine or ammonia someone can legally purchase at one time? Will Ted launch a campaign to make pressure cookers and camp stoves illegal in the Pacific Northwest?

Ted Kulongoski has the best of intentions, but is a moron because he actually thinks this will work. The legislature of Oregon are assholes for passing this law, just going to prove how out of touch representatives are with their own constituents, even in a small state like Oregon. Unfortunately, the liberal majority here in The Beaver State, like liberals across the globe, will invariably see a problem, no matter the nature, turn to the government and ask, “What are you going to do about it?” thereby empowering government to grow bigger and impact the lives of more and more citizens with half-baked schemes like prescription over-the-counter drugs, which are happily passed into law despite the lack of even the tiniest shred of evidence that the plan might work.



This summer, in an effort to reduce the amount of electricity used by the populace, the Japanese government dumped the equivalent of millions of dollars into an ad campaign playing down the importance of dressing formally at the office. The logic they used was: People dress more casually, less energy is used for air conditioning. What was unforeseen, however, was that sales of dress clothing, specifically neckties, would suffer accordingly. The biggest necktie manufacturers in Japan are formally protesting the ad campaign, and even threatening to file suit against the government for damages incurred. In response, the Japanese government has decided to dump several more million dollars into a study to determine any impact on businesses their campaign might have, and pay losses accordingly.

It’s not a coincidence that The United States of America, the greatest, wealthiest and most successful nation on Earth, is the ONLY nation on Earth that features a Constitution that works specifically to limit the power the federal government can exercise over the states of the union, and the citizens therein. Government is bad for you and should be taken in very small doses. Vote Libertarian.

Hopefully, the Most Offensive Post Ever

Aaaah, back in the proverbial, digital saddle. In case you were wondering, I passed my stupid class and, after 20 minutes (of my given 105 minutes) in an eerily quiet and solemn testing dungeon in Tigard, OR, I passed my stupid test. That’s right, certified, after many hours of training and studying, by the oldest and most tireless nemesis I have: The State.

I was driving to the office this morning, after almost two weeks absence, knowing full well that a blog was very much in order and trying to snare an idea from the buzzing hive that is my brain. At a stoplight, I saw what I consider to be the ultimate in limp-wristed self-expression. Desperate to articulate their political and social opinions concerning current events, but unwilling to permanently mar the paint job on their new Subaru, this douche bag TAPED a bumper sticker into the rear window of his station wagon. This miserable ass-hat feels so inclined to expound on the news of the day, but apparently isn’t brave enough to scratch his paint job, or perhaps wants the option to drop the subject when he drives outside of Portland (read: into the real world). But this subject is tired, and frankly I don’t care anymore.



Then, when I arrived at the office, I check my good pal’s blog only to be linked over to another blog where the author is pontificating on the worthlessness of a series of young adult books he’s never even read, seemingly, for purpose of dropping names like Joyce and Fitzgerald, as if most of us weren’t required to read the two in high school. Shall I retort further than the few words I felt compelled to leave on his site? I think not. At least, not yet.

I thought perhaps I’d make addendum to my completely not-sarcastic entry about my endless love for capitalism and the “virtue of greed” by adding a few more bizarre products I’ve collected over the last few weeks, like Spray On Mud or Liquid Ass or the ever-popular Banana Guard. But perhaps that subject is best left unresurrected.



Unfortunately, as I scan the news wires, there is no news with any humorous potential, except for the woman who fell out of her car on the highway while hanging out of the open door, attempting to hock a lugie onto the asphalt. Even that, however, warrants little more than a brief chuckle.

On The Rocks has been around for over a year, now, and I recall all the fondest feelings I’ve had while acting as Chairperson and CFO of the OTR Institute have been when you losers, my readers, have gotten really angry and started bickering like crazed geese. Granted, these outbursts are mostly warranted because they follow revelations that I felt compelled to bring to your attention, like how both god and racism are both mostly figments of the imaginations of people best poised to profit from their existence.

What patently offensive remark can I make now, in order to churn the shit and get you hornets moving in this mid-summer heat? Shall I make a highly unsavory and offensive comment about homosexuals like, “Wake me up, before you ejaculate on my face!”?



Shall I rail on about pretentious assholes that think everyone that hasn’t read Metamorphosis (Kafka or Ovid) should be dragged out of their pickup trucks, mesh hats politely removed from their unwashed heads and shot in the streets like dogs? Shall I take it in the other direction and endlessly scorn the sponge-heads that proclaim audio books as “just as good as the real thing,” while somebody chews their food for them and fucks their spouse on their behalf, following up with a full written (or possibly recorded) report on the experience?

What’s it take to get you people going?

How about this?

Means Testing

Okay, seriously, I thought the purpose of requiring state licensing of drivers was supposed to weed these people out and keep them off our busy streets, armed with several thousands of pounds of steel.

On the Lam

In response to the ceaseless barrage of endearing emails from my exclusive (read: virtually nonexistent) base of readers, I would like to explain my recent hiatus from OTR. Much like Luke over at Uselees and Pointless, I've been in class, learning about current insurance policy in order to pass a state licensing test. Since Monday, I've been forced to rise an hour and a half earlier than normal, drive almost forty-five minutes to Portland's exceptionally lame suburb of Beaverton, and sit with a roomful of middle-aged women who want to sell insurance. I have no interest in selling insurance, I just have to take this class.
Since Monday, I've revisited many things I thought I had left behind permanently, all of which I hate. Some are more surprising than others, given my situation, but no less annoying.

1. I hate traffic. If I wanted to sit in traffic for upwards of an hour a day, I would live in Tigard and get to enjoy the tax benefits of living outside the greasy grip of the Portland City Council and the many other municipal thieves that comprise "Little Beirut." I suppose I'm spoiled that since I've moved to Portland I haven't worked more than a few minutes drive or bike trip from my place of employment, and I intend for that luck to last.

2. I hate cliques. Even among the thirty-three people in my class, and even though we've only been in session for four days, two completely separate "cliques" have formed and battled for turf more than once. The first is comprised of three younger, sassier, color-matched and dyed-of-hair miscreants with fires in their belly and seven children between them. Let's call this first group the "Cryps." The second contingent is one middle-aged, bespectacled women with equally dyed cioffs (but for entirely different reasons) constantly chattering up the successes of their progeny to people they won't ever see again after next Tuesday. At all times armed with extra-large decaf vanilla lattes from Starbucks and cell phones that apparently are unable to be silenced, they glare like monarchs over their their bifocals like demonic librarians. We'll call them the "Bloods."
The main point of disagreement between these rival gangs is the temperature in the class room, which I might add is in a 50 x 35 room in the rear of a strip mall. At any given point during the day, depending on who has the current upper hand in the ridiculous turf war, the temperature in the room will be somewhere between "meat locker" and "Turkish bath house." The most dramatic change always takes place over lunch because, while the classroom is empty, one enterprising member of either gang will steal into the room for the sole purpose of adjusting the thermostat, treating us to the mumbled complaints of the rival group for the rest of the day, or until they send one of their own to turn the tides while the class is out on the afternoon break.

3. I hate strip malls. This particualar aspect of capitalism had always been lost on me. They are unsightly blights on the landscape and always seem to house businesses that no one patronizes. This particular strip mall boasts a Curves (read: quasi-gym for the hopelessly obese interested only in parting with a monthly fee,) a sports bar I wouldn't partonize with someone else's money, and a department store full of slob-art and stuff even the Chinese won't manufacture, for fear of damaging their national reputation for export of quality goods.
Although, I am typing this as I sit in one of the best teriyaki places I've ever enjoyed, which, believe it or not, offers wi-fi connectivity.

4. I hate school. I always have. I often assumed that my current level of maturity and blistering intelligence would lend itself well to any academic pursuit, should I choose to return to school, but I still find myself zoning out, nearly falling out of my chair in sleep, and doodling stick figures dying horrible and imaginative deaths, much like I did in the geology class I took with Luke in college.

Not to mention that my mood is none improved by the fact that I'm tired, hung over, and sore from the night out I had with Luke and our old pal Doogs, and the subsequent fight I had with Slash from Guns and Roses, which left me with a gaping, beer bottle shaped hole in my skull.

This class sucks, it's boring and I want to go home. My only joys are teriyaki chicken and being able to get up and go to the bathroom whenever I want.

In any case, all you loyal fans of the work we do, here at OTR will just have to wait a few more days until I can get back in the saddle. For now, stop emailing me worried requests about my health and well-being and go read Useless and Pointless, he's done with class for now.

"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!!?!?!?

To all you health nuts out there, desparately clinging to anything and everything that someone tells you might make you healthier, you been duped, scammed and alleviated of your money by people who are smarter than you. The On The Rocks Institute, however, is here to help.

Do you have a problem with believing everything you read, hear or dream up in a grape-seed extract induced hallucination? Do you find yourself drinking expensive “activated” water, costly “rare” fruit juices and even your own urine? Does your monthly expenditure on balms, creams, salves labeled “elloptic energy” or “psionic tesla hydrogen gobble-dee-gook,” exceed half your income for that same period of time?

OTR Health Solutions, Inc. has the solution!

Introducing Gulli-Go, the ultimate, all-natural and side-effect (and ingredient) free, 100% homeopathic solution to you gullibility problems! One pill, eighteen times daily, is guaranteed* to alleviate all your gullibility problems and make you a smart, contientious and gullibility-free critical thinker!



Made from the rare “dum-ass” berries, native to the snow covered peaks of the Java Islands, which the local tribesmen have been eating* for billions of years to support free thought, self-reliance, and even increase sexual stamina!*

For your very own bottle of Gulli-Go, send a signed, blank check to:

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Isn’t your health worth it?


*not actually guaranteed.
*not actually eaten.
*This statement has not been evaluated by the FDA or the makers of Gulli-Go. Not recommended for people with heart, weight, sight, hearing or gullibility problems. Not recommended for pregnant or nursing women. Not recommended for people under the age of eighteen, or above the age of eighteen. Do not taunt Gulli-Go.

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.