HALL OF SHAME

 

I saw an AP wire story today about Jerry Falwell being hospitalized in critical condition, battling viral pneumonia. I hate for anyone to be sick and I wish old Jerry the best, but it got me thinking about a sub-set of humanity, a group of individuals so vile, so completely devoid of basic human decency that it’s hard to talk about them without fighting back rising bile. I’m speaking, of course, about television evangelists. I truly believe that Dante should have included a special level in hell for many of them.  So I thought I’d list a few of my all time “favorites” and tell you what “level” of Dante’s inferno I think should be waiting for them.

 

Jerry Falwell – Since I started with Falwell, I’ll elaborate. Jerry is the king of making wildly offensive comments. Let’s begin with how Jerry and the Moral Majority have fought the equal rights amendment, and how Jerry has made such eloquent statements regarding women as: “I listen to feminists and all these radical gals. These women just need a man in the house. That’s all they need. Most of the feminists need a man to tell them what time of day it is and to lead them home. And they blew it and they’re mad at all men. Feminists hate men. They’re sexist. They hate men; that’s their problem.”  However, his most inappropriate comments came two days after the tragic events of 9/11.  He made the following two comments about who he thought was “responsible” for the attacks: “God allowed the enemies of America to give us probably what we deserve.” and “The abortionists have got to bear some burden for this because God will not be mocked. And when we destroy 40 million little innocent babies, we make God mad. I really believe that the pagans, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU People for the American Way, all of them who have tried to secularize America, I point the finger in their face and say: you helped this happen.  Dante’s level of hell: Jerry should spend all of eternity forced to guest star as a gay neighbor on episodes of Will and Grace.

 

Great side note:  One of my best friends was an English professor at Lynchburg College for many years. This school is in the same town as the infamous Liberty University founded by Jerry Falwell. Liberty did not have a complete core curriculum and had to send their students over to Lynchburg College to take classes in order for Liberty to be able to offer accredited degrees. My friend said the faculty at L.C. referred to the students from Liberty as “Jerry’s Kids.”

 

Oral Roberts – I live in Tulsa, Oklahoma. This is the home of Oral Roberts University, affectionately referred to by locals as “Six Flags Over Jesus.”  My problems with Oral began when my grandmother became convinced that she really needed to send half of her social security money to Oral every month, which basically left her living in poverty.  That was her choice, however, and I could live with that until an incident occurred which involved my cousin. He worked in the mail room at the university and was processing form letters one day from Oral to his “Seed Faith Partners.”  In the letter, Oral stated that he had been in the prayer tower at a specific date and time and that God had given him a vision stating that all seed faith partners needed to send in extra money. The only problem was that my cousin was processing those letters prior to the date and time Oral had said he received the vision. My cousin called a local news station, which came out and interviewed him on camera concerning the letters. Needless to say, my cousin no longer works for ORU. The final straw was when Oral stated that he had seen a 900 foot tall Jesus who told him that if supporters didn’t raise eight million dollars by a specific date, that God was going to “call him home.”  I’m sorry, but threatening your own death in order to guilt people into sending in money is below contempt.  Dante’s level of hell: Oral’s level of hell should be one in which he is constantly chased and stepped on by his 900 foot tall Jesus – kind of like being chased for all eternity by the cool aid guy.

 

Benny Hinn – I really don’t have a problem with Benny other than the fact that he has sported the worst comb over in all of television history. Yes, even worse than Donald Trump’s. Dante’s level of hell: Benny’s level of hell should be one in which there is no hair spray.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jim Bakker – Criminal tax evasion, Christian water slide, Jessica Hahn, Tammy Faye – enough said.  Dante’s level of hell: Jim should have to spend all of eternity looking at Tammy with no makeup.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And the eighth level of hell is reserved for:

 

 

Robert Tilton – This level of hell is reserved for the most vile Television Evangelist of all time; Robert Tilton.  In his heyday, Robert was raking in approximately 80 million dollars a year through his direct mail campaigns and through his television show in which he espouses a “prosperity doctrine”; the basic tenant of which is “if you give money to me, God will make you rich.”  His downfall came in 1991 in which a Prime Time Live segment showed thousands of letters from contributors thrown in a trash dumpster here in Tulsa. Apparently, he was telling his audience that every prayer request they sent in was being prayed over. The truth was that he was instructing office workers to take the cash and checks out of the envelopes and throw the letters in the trash. In an obvious testament to the utter stupidity of at least a portion of the evangelical community, Robert is back at it again. He is now broadcasting out of Florida where he recently purchased a 50 foot yacht and a 1.3 million dollar ocean-front lot to build a home on. His income is back in the 25 million a year range and is climbing daily.  While I’m being silly about there being a level in hell for the evangelists I listed above, I truly believe this man deserves it.

 

Do I think all Television Evangelists are vile, money grubbing, immoral, scumbags? Not at all. In fact, one of my personal heroes is a television evangelist; the one, the only, the man, the myth, the legend – Billy Graham.

 

Billy Graham – Mr. Graham is the ultimate “class act”.  His ministry now spans more than 50 years, and in that time there has not been even a hint of scandal.  The Billy Graham Evangelistic Association takes in millions of dollars annually, but the yearly salary that Mr. Graham takes from that association has never even broken the one hundred thousand dollar mark. Looking like you might think God himself looks, Billy could have exploited his enormous popularity for personal or political gain, yet he remains incredibly humble and soft spoken. Even though he has supported many Republican causes, he has never courted the religious right, and the message he preaches today is the same one he preached in the eight week crusade in Los Angles in 1949 that launched his career. Billy will always stand as the ultimate example of what every evangelist, television, or otherwise should be. I think there’s a special place in heaven for Mr. Graham.

 

 

 

(Note: Before I get lots of angry comments, I don’t really think these people should go to hell. They should go to Arkansas, it’s much worse)

SCHIAVO SCHMIAVO

 

I’ve not posted about the Terri Schiavo situation primarily because I was afraid that my vehement disgust over the political posturing surrounding this poor woman would cause me to set my computer on fire as I pounded away at the keys.

 

I have no need to post on the subject now, because my son has said it 1000 times better than I ever could. Please take a moment to read his post and comment.  Boofshavik

 

I want to be him when I grow up

My wonderful wife was balancing her checkbook over the weekend and remarked that she was spending too much money on our dogs and on eating out. I replied that the obvious solution to the problem was to eat the dogs.

 

…..geeze…some people have no sense of humor.

STUPID THEOLOGICAL QUESTIONS

 

Most everyone in my office knows that I used to be a Southern Baptist Minister of Music. They often have a tough time getting their heads around that on Thursday evenings when I go to Uncle Bentley’s Bar and Grill with them and I’m dancing on the tables after two or three Long Island Iced Teas. Still, they like to come by my office from time to time and pose stupid theological questions just for fun. Yesterday, our shipping clerk came in and said “Ok….I understand the Easter story, but I’ve never been able to figure out where the chocolate eggs fit in.” We talked a little bit about how funny it is that we as Americans mix Santa Claus and baby Jesus, and the crucifixion and Easter bunnies with absolutely no sense of irony. It did get my warped little brain thinking, though. I knew the story of the Easter Bunny had to come from somewhere, but I couldn’t recall its origins. I started to Google it and decided I didn’t want to be influenced. I thought it might be fun to write a story about how the Easter Bunny came to be. Here is the result:

 

THE EASTER BUNNY

 

It was the first time the boy had been allowed to go to market by himself. His name was Micah, and he had turned eleven that winter. He was proud that his father had felt he was ready for such a task, but he was also terrified that he would lose the money he had been given or that he might buy the wrong thing. He didn’t allow his fear to get the best of him, though, and his determination to be worthy of the task and the prospect of a couple of days of freedom and adventure shown bright in his dark eyes as he headed down the road that led away from home.

 

Micah entered the city early in the morning.  He had never seen so many people in one place at one time. It was Passover and he knew the streets would be crowded, but he actually had to dodge and weave just to keep from being pushed to the ground and trampled. He wanted to take in everything, so he didn’t start trying to locate the items on his list right away. Instead he spent the day investigating the city; mentally devouring every sight, every sound, and every smell.

 

As evening approached he came across a shop where a man was selling and slaughtering animals. Cages were stacked everywhere containing chickens, rabbits, quail, and pigeons. Sheep were tied off in a pen in a corner and the owner’s donkey stood at a post looking bored by the proceedings.  Micah had always wanted a pet. However, where he grew up, animals were used only for labor or for food. He knew he would have been ridiculed and thought a sissy if he had ever allowed himself to develop an emotional attachment to any animal. Still, he was drawn to the creatures and wanted to reach into the cages and touch them.  As he looked on, the man with the animals began reaching into a cage and pulling rabbits out by the back of their necks. He took one over to a block, sat it down roughly and pulled a large knife from his belt.  He took the point of the knife and stuck it into the rabbit’s throat just below its chin and then split the animal open down its gut with a quick sawing motion. Blood spurt across the man’s face, but he didn’t flinch even for a second. He pulled out the entrails and then laid the rabbit down on its face and cut a quick slash across its shoulders just below the back of its head. He pulled out a set of tongs and grabbed the flesh at the point of his crude incision and began to peel the hide and fur back from the muscle. Micah thought that the tearing sound was the most awful thing he had ever heard. When the man was done, he tossed the bloody pelt onto a pile of other bloody pelts and threw the meat and bones into a bucket as his feet.

 

Micah had seen animals slaughtered all his life. His father did it all the time, but he always did it with a strange kind of gentleness and respect for the animal. He couldn’t quite understand it, but he got the feeling watching the man killing the rabbits that the man enjoyed it and that it fed some kind of sick need that he had.

 

As Micah watched the man he noticed that the rabbits never made a sound, and that when the man would reach into the cage with a bloody hand, the rabbits would lick at the blood as he carried them over to the block and began the ugly work with his knife. Micah became enraged at the rabbits. Why don’t they try to squirm away? Why don’t they at least try and bite his hand? Why do they seem so damn willing to die?

 

Micah saw that there was only one rabbit left. He started to reach toward the cage while the man’s back was turned and lift the latch so the rabbit could escape, but he thought better of his plan as he watched the shop owner’s cruelty.   Micah was momentarily distracted by a group of men walking by carrying food and wine. They were making their way up a narrow stair case to a small room where he assumed they would be observing Passover.  One of the men caught Micah’s eye. He seemed to be important because all of the other men were making a fuss over him. In contrast to the man with the knife, this man had very kind eyes, and he stopped and looked down at Micah standing there next to the cages. It was almost as if the man immediately understood what was going on. The man waited until the shop owner’s back was turned and stepped up so that he was standing in front of the cage with the one remaining rabbit. He pretended to be watching the shop owner with interest, and with the heel of his foot he lifted the latch and kicked the door open a few inches. The rabbit scampered out of the cage and darted through the crowd towards a hole in the wall. The man with the kind eyes looked down at Micah and winked and then turned toward the stairs and made his way up toward the room with the other men. Micah watched the rabbit as it darted for the hole, Just as it was about to scurry through the opening, the rabbit turned back toward Micah. Micah knew that animals don’t actually produce facial expressions the way humans do but just for an instant he thought he saw that stupid rabbit smile, and then it was gone. When the shop owner turned and saw that the last rabbit had escaped, he saw Micah standing there and assuming he had opened the latch. He began to swear at Micah and started trying to make his way to him through the crowd. Micah was just as quick as the rabbit, and in an instant he was gone too.

 

That night Micah slept in a doorway, but he didn’t sleep well. His dreams were haunted by tearing flesh and smiling rabbits.

 

The next day Micah tried to erase the image of the shop owner slaughtering the rabbits from his mind and began to make his way around town collecting the items on the list his father had given him.  Later in the morning he came upon a large group of people and was shocked to see the man with the kind eyes again. People were still making a fuss over him, but this time it didn’t seem like it was because he was an important person. This time it seemed like the people in the crowd were really angry with him. He watched as a soldier tied the man’s hands together and then secured the rope to a ring at the top of a post. They stripped the robe off the man’s back and began to beat him. It was the most brutal thing that Micah had ever witnessed. The flesh was actually being ripped out of the man’s back and it sounded so much like the hide being torn off of the rabbits that Micah wanted to scream. The man with the kind eyes acted just like the rabbits, he didn’t make a sound or try to fight back. Micah wanted to run, but he felt frozen where he was. He couldn’t take his eyes off the man. He hung back in the crowd and when they started moving down the street he followed along.

 

The crowd made their way up a hill. On top of that hill he saw the man with the kind eyes forgive the soldiers who were hurting him in ways that were so horrible, Micah could no longer stand to witness them. He was angry with the man for not fighting back. He reminded Micah of those stupid rabbits licking the blood off the hand of the man reaching into kill them. Micah turned and began to run towards home. On his way, the sky became dark, and thunder began to rumble across the hills. Micah knew that he didn’t understand what he had just seen but he knew that it was important in a way that might take him a lifetime to understand.

 

He got home just before dawn. He had all of the items on the list, and he hadn’t lost any of the money. His father was proud. Micah slept through most of the day.

 

On Sunday morning he awoke and began his chores. His father approached him and was hiding something behind his back. His father said “You did a fine job at market and I thought you needed a reward. I know you’ve wanted a pet, and this little fellow has been hanging around since about the time you left.”  Micah’s father produced a crate and Micah peered inside. Two eyes peered back and he was almost certain that stupid rabbit was smiling.

 

Happy Easter everyone.

FLY THE FRIENDLY SKIES

 

My job requires me to travel…..a lot. On average, I make about 45 round-trip flights a year. People often comment that getting to travel all the time must be “great fun.” I respond that it’s great fun in the same way that a colonoscopy might be considered great fun.  The next time you’re on a flight, look for me. I’m the guy in the rumpled business suit with a half empty cup of Starbuck’s coffee, a dog-eared paperback, and a perpetually dazed look on my face caused by excruciating boredom and the sugar rush I just got from having a Cinnabon for dinner.

 

I fly Southwest Airlines most of the time. I can tell you that there are 46 aisle seats and 138 total seats on a Southwest Boeing 737. By counting the number of people that deplane as I’m getting ready to board, and referencing that number against what boarding group I’m in and the number of people in front of me in that group, I can calculate my chances of getting an aisle seat to within a couple of percentage points. Doesn’t the fact that I actually do that make me, pretty much, the most pathetic human being you’ve ever heard of?

 

If any of you are thinking about flying somewhere for vacation this year, please allow me to share some observations and advice from a “jaded business traveler” point of view.

 

• If you’re one of those people who have a tiny ear bud on your cell phone, so that you walk around the airport appearing to have loud animated conversations with absolutely no one – you look like an idiot – stop it.
  
• If you’re a 45 year old man and you just happen to get seated next to the cute little college coed cheerleader on her way to a game somewhere – your pathetic attempts to chat her up are failing miserably. Although the gagging motions she is making to her friends when your head is turned are pretty funny.
  
• If you are irritated by toddlers on planes that cry, and find it necessary to either complain about it loudly or berate the poor mother for her lack of parenting skills, you need to realize that their little ears hurt and they don’t understand why. You also need to realize that you are a jerk.
  
• Carry-on luggage is supposed to be small. If you bring your water skis on the plane with you and try to shove them into the tiny little overhead bin directly above where I am sitting, I reserve the right to beat you to death with those water skis.
  
• The security people are just doing their job, deal with it. If you get embarrassed because they opened your carry-on luggage and discovered your wide assortment of motorized sex toys, you should have been smart enough to check them.
  
• (Another comment for males) If you insist on calling the female flight attendant “sweetheart”, “sugar”, or “honey”, please understand that although she may be smiling at you, she is not amused or flattered. In fact, she is actually fantasizing about stabbing you in the neck with one of those flimsy plastic knives.

 

I could go on and on, but I’ve got to stop typing on my laptop because we are making our final descent and my tray table needs to be in its full, upright, and locked position. Besides, I think the coed in the next seat is finally starting to warm up to me.

MY FRIEND THE DEMOCRAT

 

The workplace can be an interesting environment when it comes to friendships. It has the potential to foster an “us against them” mentality that quickly bonds like minded people together. It might manifest itself as labor vs. management, or sales vs. engineering, or even men vs. women. In my office it is Democrats vs. Republicans.

 

There are only 27 people in my office, but it is an office so staunchly Republican that I’m surprised we are not required to kiss the feet of a life size statue of George Bush upon entering the building. During a presentation made by a manufactures rep, the name “Bill Clinton” was mentioned, and our office actually “booed” out loud.

 

Out of those 27 people there are only two Democrats; myself and my friend David Schultz. To say that we are pariahs would be an understatement. Although the ribbing we receive is good natured (most of the time), it’s quite obvious that we are held somewhat suspect for our political beliefs.

 

This political distinction has led to a fast friendship between David and me. We generally get together at least a couple of times each week at the office to discuss current political events. It’s always great to know that someone else is in your corner.

 

Two weeks ago David was having some back pain and the doctors thought it was a slipped disc. He checked into the hospital to have some further tests done. They discovered that the reason for the pain was actually 4^th stage pancreatic cancer. He died Saturday. He was 45 years old.

 

David left a wife, a 16 year old daughter, and an 11 year old son.

 

No one here at the office today cares that David was a Democrat. The political distinctions that seemed so important two weeks ago seem pretty silly today.

 

During my years in the ministry I was around death a lot. I even served as a hospital chaplain for a brief time, and I am still caught off guard by how quickly our friends and loved ones can be snatched from us.

 

Look around you today. Are the issues that separate you from others really as important as they seem? I bet they aren’t.

 

WELCOME TO THE WORLD – JORDAN PAUL LABOUFF

 

This is a somewhat belated birth announcement. My son, Jordan Paul LaBouff was born on this date 22 years ago.  (Side note:  How the HELL could TWENTY TWO YEARS have gone by?!?!?)  We typically celebrate his birthday together; however, he is currently skiing with friends at Copper Mountain with nothing to remember me by except my credit cards.

 

In honor of his birthday, I’d like to point out some notable moments in his 22 year existence:

 

(Nausea alert!  If hearing parents drone on about their children makes you queasy, you may want to grab an air-sick bag now.)

 

Year 1:   I had the “midnight to six a.m.” feeding shift, so he is entirely to blame for my addiction to late night HBO.

 

Year 3:   The ritual of bed time stories involving a fictional little boy named J.P. started. The J.P. stories ended years ago and I simply haven’t had the heart to tell Jordan that J.P. is now in Joliet serving 10 to 20 for money laundering. (What can I say, sometimes fictional characters go bad.)

 

Year 6:    The formidable language skills that serve Jordan so well today emerged early.  During a party where other adults had come over to our home to play board games, Jordan, wishing to be involved, picked up a playing card and correctly read and pronounced the word “pontificate.” The adults at this party steered clear of Jordan for quite awhile after that, fearing that he might actually be demon possessed.

 

Year 7:    Jordan was rushed to the hospital with appendicitis. Unfortunately, his appendix ruptured before he could get into surgery, and he was a very sick little boy for awhile. During his recovery someone gave him a water pistol disguised as a Coke can.  When his doctors and nurses came into his hospital room he would squirt them with the Coke can and then giggle in delight. However, laughing hurt so bad that he would immediately begin to cry in pain. In order to cheer himself up, he would squirt the next person who came into his room with the Coke can again. This cycle repeated itself 30,000 times during his hospital stay.

 

Year 12:   Jordan had a disagreement with a teacher at school. This was the first indication of a very pronounced, and often repeated, personality trait in which he will not take shi*t from someone just because they happen to be in a position of authority. He quickly developed the unique ability to completely destroy someone’s position on an issue and at the same time make them think they have been complemented. To this day, I have no idea how he does this.

 

Year 15:   He came home from a Halloween party talking about this incredibly cute girl he met named LaRae. They have been together ever since. You are cordially invited to attend their wedding on June 11^th.

 

Also year 15:   He became involved in an underground and highly subversive group bearing the code name “Bisky Boys”.  I have had this group of gentlemen as quests at my home on numerous occasions. I can attest to the fact that they are a truly demented and highly dysfunctional group of young men, and I have photos to prove it. This tight group of friends continues to exist today. In fact, that is who he is skiing with at the moment. They will make their next appearance as groomsmen at Jordan’s wedding.

 

Year 17:   Jordan discovers he has a knack for debate. He and his partner become a debate dynasty in Oklahoma, sweeping state and placing in the top 10 at nationals during year 18.

 

Year 19:   Jordan and LaRae left for Baylor University together. I predicted at the time that he would own Baylor by the time he graduated. The deed to the University will be given to him at Graduation this spring.

 

Year 20:   Jordan spent a semester at the University of Voronezh in Russia, where he developed a taste for Russian Vodka and Fanta Orange soda. (Long story)

 

Year 22:   Jordan will graduate in May with a 4.0 GPA as the senior class Valedictorian and has been nominated for Outstanding Graduation Senior. Ballot boxes are being stuffed by the Bisky Boys as we speak. 

 

After graduation Jordan and LaRae are getting married and moving to New York where LaRae will be working for Nickelodeon and Jordan will be attending Grad School. Apparently they couldn’t find ANYPLACE closer to Oklahoma to move. I guess all the grad schools in Mongolia are full up for the fall semester.

 

It’s been quite a ride this past 22 years.

 

Happy birthday son.

ANNOUNCING THE JOSH GROBAN – METALLICA WORLD TOUR

 

I mentioned in my last post that I was going to see Josh Groban in concert at the Ford Center in Oklahoma City and that I’d let everyone know how the concert was. I took a lot of grief at work for spending so much money on tickets to a concert that my co-workers categorized as nothing but “glorified elevator music”, but I can say that the concert was as finely orchestrated an evening of entertainment as I hoped it would be.  As I was entering the arena for the show I suddenly realized that the last “large-venue” concert I attended was when I took my son and some of his buddies to go see Metallica at the International Raceway in St. Louis.

 

That was a somewhat different experience.

 

Do you remember those dreadful “compare and contrast” papers that you had to write for your freshman comp and western lit classes in college?  As I pondered the two concerts I decided that it might be an interesting exercise in this case:

 

Metallica: There were literally hundreds of young women baring their breasts for the appreciation of the band.  Josh Groban: I didn’t see a single breast, but I did have an 80 year old woman flash me a little glimpse of slip on her way back from the bathroom.

 

Metallica: I couldn’t understand the lyrics because James Hetfield isn’t exactly known for precise articulation. Josh Groban: I couldn’t understand the lyrics because most of them were in Italian.

 

Metallica: Most of the audience was in their twenties and most of the band was in their fifties. Josh Groban:  The performer was in his twenties and most of the audience was in their fifties.

 

Metallica:  There was a haze over the audience that smelled suspiciously like burning rope. Josh Groban: There was a haze over the audience that smelled suspiciously like Ben Gay.

 

Metallica: The show started with James screaming “We’re here to rock this f*^king house!”  Josh Groban: The show was started with Josh screaming “Je suis ici pour roche la maison baiser! (Literally – I’m here to rock this f*^king house!)  Ok…not really.

 

Metallica: The St. Louis fire department was there to actually “hose down” overheated concert goers. Josh Groban: For twenty bucks a guy in a tuxedo would dab your temples with a little Perrier.

 

Metallica: The band shared the stage with Kid Rock and a midget. Josh Groban:  Josh shared the stage with his concert master and several members of the OKC symphony (although some of them were kind of short).

 

Metallica: There were lots of muscular men in bright yellow t-shirts labeled “security” stationed strategically around the arena in order to keep hormonal 15 year old girls from storming the stage. Josh Groban: There were lots of muscular men in bright yellow t-shirts labeled “security” stationed strategically around the arena in order to keep hormonal 15 year old girls from storming the stage.

 

Actually, the two concerts had a great deal in common. There was an eclectic mix of people at both shows because good music, whether is be a metal power ballad, or an orchestral power ballad, speaks to people of all ages. I was a music major in college and grad school and I still never ceased to be amazed at the shear emotional impact that music of all kinds can have on the human spirit.  Back in college I met my share of musical snobs. You can find them everywhere, and they appear to have followed me to my workplace. I had no tolerance for them then and I have no tolerance for them now. I may not like a particular type of music, but that doesn’t mean that it has any less power to touch the mind and soul of a person who does. For them and all the others in the world that look down at others because of their musical tastes, I’ll close with a line from a Don McLean song that Josh covered at his concert:

 

And now I think I know what you tried to say to me
how you suffered for your sanity
how you tried to set them free.
They would not listen
they’re not
list’ning still
perhaps they never will.

 

Edit:  At the time of this edit/entry I have received 18 comments. I wish to thank each of you who stopped by my site and took a moment to leave a note. As a result of your generous outpouring of comments, the authorities have released me from the mandatory 72 hour lockdown/suicide watch that I was under, and are again allowing me to possess sharp objects.  The .44 has gone back in the night stand and all is right with the world.  Some people did indicate that pandering for comments is an indication that I am truly pathetic. Well…I may be pathetic, but I got more comments than you…nany nany nu nu! (Pathetic and immature; it’s a great way to go through life!)

 

Now that my spirits are restored, I’m headed down to Oklahoma City to see Josh Groban in concert tonight at the Ford Center. I’ll let you know how the concert was.

 

MY FATE IS IN YOUR HANDS

 

Lately I’ve felt listless, depressed, discouraged, and generally morose. Unable to get out of bed in the mornings; I’ve been spending my days eating Hagen Das, smoking unfiltered Camels, drinking cooking sherry straight from the bottle, and watching Jerry Springer re-runs. Deep introspection into the cause of my depression yielded few insights. I even wrote Ann Landers about it and got really pissed off that she didn’t write back until I remembered she was dead.

 

Then, as I was surfing through Xanga posts, I suddenly realized the reason for my suicidal funk:

 

I have extreme comment envy.

 

It’s true, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. I spend lots of time composing my posts and I’ve never gotten more than six comments. I generally average only one or two. As I surf through Xangaland, I’ve noticed that some folks get 10, 20, even 50 comments on a single post. I’ve tried to determine what it is about their posts that merit so much ardent blog worship.  One thing I have noticed is that the people who often get lots of comments tend to be attractive college women. That’s not going to be an option for me unless I procure a time machine, gender reassignment surgery, a Hollywood special effects team, and lots and lots of counseling.

 

So I’m asking for your help. If you stop by my site from time to time, would you leave me a comment below and let me know? I have one hand on the keyboard of my laptop and the other on a loaded .44 with a single bullet. My fate is in your hands.

 

MY RUSH LIMBAUGH IS BIGGER THAN YOURS

 

A fellow Xangaite recently posted a very witty discussion about how some women obsess over body image and how this obsession effects their social interaction. She implies that, socially, men don’t share this obsession. I agree with this completely. Men, as a species, have the unique ability to climb out of bed in the morning, arrange the eight hairs remaining on their shinny scalp, scratch the enormous beer belly hanging precipitously over their skid-marked tighty-whities, and think “Damn…I’m fine” with absolutely no sense of irony.

 

So what is it that men do obsess about? The answer is as universal as it obvious. Men constantly obsess over the size of an insignificant, and often unreliable, portion of their anatomy.

 

I do not wish to offend any of my readers by actually naming this portion of the male anatomy, so I’ll use a euphemism.  While there are many euphemisms readily available in colloquial English, for my purposes, the euphemism I have chosen is “Rush Limbaugh.”

 

Exactly why men obsess over the size of their Rush Limbaugh is unclear. However, it’s easy to document historically that the size of man’s Rush Limbaugh is the key factor in almost all male interaction.  

 

Allow me elucidate:

 

Each year my company has an awards banquet for its salespeople. The awards that are passed out are cylindrical and pointy on top (I’m not kidding). The higher your sales are, the larger your award is. Obviously this indicates that the awards ceremony is really all about who has the biggest Rush Limbaugh.

 

Why do U.S. Olympic male gymnasts and ice skaters wear those ridiculously tight outfits? It has nothing to do with freedom of movement; we just want to prove to the world that, collectively, we have bigger Rush Limbaughs than the Czechoslovakians.

 

When Bush decided to invade Iraq, it ultimately had nothing to do with weapons of mass destruction. It had nothing to do with humanitarian concerns. It really didn’t even have anything to do with oil. He simply wanted to prove to the United Nations that he had a bigger Rush Limbaugh than Saddam Hussein.

 

So, who in America currently has the biggest Rush Limbaugh?

 

Colin Powel used to have a huge Rush Limbaugh but not anymore.

 

John Ashcroft thinks that all Rush Limbaughs are evil and should never be discussed.

 

John Stewart has a big Rush Limbaugh for taking on the political establishment every night on “The Daily Show.” 

 

The size of President Bush’s Rush Limbaugh is directly proportionate to his approval rating.

 

I think the prize for the biggest Rush Limbaugh should go to Condoleezza Rice for the admirable way she handled herself during the Senate Confirmation hearings.

 

Finally, if an individual’s power and influence is directly tied to the size of his Rush Limbaugh, then Ron Jeremy should be ruler of the universe.