“I got yer fiscal responsibility…

…right here in my lapbanded gut.” Governor Sammiches: football seasons 2010 and 2011, somewhere in Fuck-All, New Jersey

Chris Christie has t3h munchies

Short and sweet: how in the name of sweet holy fuck do you rack up $82,000 in expenses on fucking stadium food and beer when you have a gastric band in yo motherfucking belly? Let’s just ask the resident blowhard in Joisey, Governor Chris Christie, to tell us. But he won’t. He can’t. His mommy told him not to talk with food in his mouth.

Now, I’m sure there is a logical explanation for this astounding display of supply chain management discipline. After all, we Sayers-of-the-Word-NO make damn sure there are limitations in place so the P-Card system couldn’t possibly be abused. You know, used at places such as department stores and sports arenas. Unless, of course, you’re the governor and you can throw any purchasing and contract grunt out on their ass with the snap of a greasy finger and toss of a chicken bone over one’s rotund shoulder and quadruple chin.

Awww. I’m being hard on the man, am I? Fuck him. I’m going to call him a fat, miserable lout. I’m going to take the low road and mock him whenever the opportunity presents itself and it’s not solely because he’s from the cesspool that is New Jersey, either. I’m going to do it because he’s a double-talking, idiotic shitstain who yells at teachers and is, generally, a blight on humanity.

$82,000. How many teachers, combined, make $82,000 Governor Sammiches? Of the teachers you have verbally eviscerated while provolone cheese drips down your Jabba the Hutt chin, how many of those would have to work one year to make $82,000? And, what would their personal financial outlay be to make sure their classrooms are appropriately equipped with all necessary supplies that you and your horned cohorts cut from budgets like you slice through butter to put on your margarine covered bread?

Governor Sammiches, you could come up with an iron clad alibi. You could provide receipts showing that you took every single foster kid and/or orphan in your state to a game for Christmas for all I care. There’s no excusing $82,000 on foodstuffs in two years. I don’t spend $82,000 on stuffed animals, toys for my kid, my hair and my wardrobe in a decade and I can spend some money. I’m so motherfucking talented at spending money, I made a career out of it.

Such a gross display of disregard for one’s office, one’s civic duty and the tax payers is so vile it doesn’t even merit a spot in the Go Fuck Yourself Weekly hall of shame. Nope. It merits a much nastier penalty: living in New Jersey for the rest of your artery clogged, loud mouthed life. And to be precise – Newark or Trenton.

“USA! USA!” is the wrong response

By David Sirota via Salon

There is ample reason to feel relief that Osama bin Laden is no longer a threat to the world, and I say that not just because I was among the many congressional staffers told to flee the U.S. Capitol on 9/11. I say that because he was clearly an evil person who celebrated violence against all who he deemed “enemies” — and the world needs less of such zealotry, not more.

However, somber relief was not the dominant emotion presented to America when bin Laden’s death was announced. Instead, the Washington press corps — helped by a wild-eyed throng outside the White House — insisted that unbridled euphoria is the appropriate response. And in this we see bin Laden’s more enduring victory — a victory that will unfortunately last far beyond his passing.

For decades, we have held in contempt those who actively celebrate death. When we’ve seen video footage of foreigners cheering terrorist attacks against America, we have ignored their insistence that they are celebrating merely because we have occupied their nations and killed their people. Instead, we have been rightly disgusted — not only because they are lauding the death of our innocents, but because, more fundamentally, they are celebrating death itself. That latter part had been anathema to a nation built on the presumption that life is an “unalienable right.”

But in the years since 9/11, we have begun vaguely mimicking those we say we despise, sometimes celebrating bloodshed against those we see as Bad Guys just as vigorously as our enemies celebrate bloodshed against innocent Americans they (wrongly) deem as Bad Guys. Indeed, an America that once carefully refrained from flaunting gruesome pictures of our victims for fear of engaging in ugly death euphoria now ogles pictures of Uday and Qusay’s corpses, rejoices over images of Saddam Hussein’s hanging and throws a party at news that bin Laden was shot in the head.

…more…

…bin laden’s dirt nap

Hoo. Hah. Bin Laden is dead.

Oddly enough, it doesn’t seem to lessen the loss, horror and complete nightmare that is 09.11. It’s not revenge. There is no retribution. How could there be retribution for the worst attack against our country?

There are three things that bother me right now:

It took us over 10 years to do it.
A bullshit war that destroyed all credibility in the arena of American foreign policy is still going on.
Haters still gonna hate.

While the American attention span is not much greater than that of the ordinary house-fly, I have a distinct feeling that the blind hatred of Muslims will still be pervasive in our society. I fear that we will never move beyond our xenophobic ways and still target the innocent. I will be tremendously embarrassed by chest-thumping and flag waving of my fellow citizens as this is not an achievement. An achievement would be smiting him in 2001. An achievement would be getting our enemy without destroying other countries.

While it’s nice to see the evil dispatched to the gates of a non-existent hell, it is also nice to conduct oneself with a bit of humility. This admonishment is addressed directly towards the segment of American society that is now blasting Toby Keith at the top volume of its dated boombox.

Humility, folks. Humility. Think about it for a second before you rush to the streets screaming about our greatness.

The Four Hour Reading Pledge

By Arvind Jain originally posted to Flickr as "Match on TV"

According to a Nielsen study, Americans spend an average of four hours a day watching television. I first thought that sounded like an awful lot, until I realized how much the television is on in my own household. I generally watch the news in the morning if my youngest one is not watching The Jungle Book for the millionth time. During my lunch hour I usually catch the news again, and in the evening my wife likes to watch The Biggest Loser or American Idol, and we both like PBS and some of the crime dramas. It seems every time we are home, our television is on. I can imagine it’s the same in every American household. Pretty soon four hours does not sound like so much.

But it is a lot. It is a lot of time that is wasted. Time that could be better utilized. Time that could be spent with your family. Time reading perhaps. I’ve got nothing against television. Like I said, we do a lot of television watching in our household. I just think it’s time for me to expand my brain and fill it with something useful. Reading stimulates the brain, it’s an active thing. It requires thinking. Watching television does not really require much thought, and it really does depend upon the program you are watching whether or not it stimulates your brain.

I propose the following, a Four Hour Reading Pledge. Instead of turning on the box with moving pictures, perhaps we should spend those four hours on reading instead? Who is with me? Let’s try this and see.

The Ugly American

Although I do my best to blend in and not make a spectacle of myself while travelling abroad there are times when I have blundered, sometimes in spectacular fashion. I think anyone who’s ever visited a foreign country can relate- mangle a pronunciation here, misunderstand a sign there, and suddenly you’re the laughingstock of the general vicinity. I’d like this to be a semi-regular feature but fortunately, my stories aren’t endless. So, for future installments I’d like to solicit stories from the rest of you as well- Americans or not.

Riquewihr France, 2002

Kang and I were travelling through eastern France with our friend Don. Riquewihr is a beautiful medieval walled village in the middle of Alsatian wine country near Colmar- the nearby hills are dotted with vineyards and abandoned castles. My only previous experience in France had been in Normandy, along the northern coast. Although the Normans were (much to my surprise) quite hospitable and I enjoyed much of their cuisine, I quickly discovered that Alsatian food was very different, and very, very good. Alsace is on the German border, and during various parts of history has been part of Germany- the blend of French and German culinary influences in this region leads to some mind-bendingly great food.

That first afternoon in Riquewihr I had been introduced to flammenküche, aka tarte flambée. How I had managed to walk the earth for 30-some years and never taste this gastronmonical delight is beyond me. One of the most cherished memories of my life is sitting in an outdoor courtyard on a cool spring afternoon, drinking Kronenbourg 1664 and eating my first flammenküche (oh, getting married and seeing my son born were cool, too).

I had sometimes struggled with the food in Normandy (we had two mystery meals- one good, one not), but the Alsatian cuisine was leading me to become more adventuresome every day. It is with this mindset that I entered a restaurant in Riquewihr for dinner. The place was obviously very old, with ancient exposed timbers holding the roof and a collection of antique farming equipment adorning the walls. I was in an exceptionally good mood that night- we were in a delicious smelling restaurant in a charming little village in a beautiful region of a wonderful country, and I was positive I would shortly be eating one of the best meals of my life. We settled into our table, and before long the waiter came with menus and silverware. He also deposited a parfait glass on the table, containing something that in the dim light looked a bit like unpopped popcorn. It didn’t look like any appetizer I’d ever seen, but I was not about to miss out on any facet of the Alsatian gastronomical experience because of any smallminded American biases. I quickly took a piece and ate it.

It was, in fact, stale unpopped popcorn. I was attempting to figure out what possible edible application this could have when our waiter returned with a votive candle and an absolutely horrified look on his face. He quickly placed the candle in the parfait glass, lit it, and ran away from our table. I had eaten part of the centerpiece.

To Don’s everlasting credit, he stoically took a piece of the popcorn and ate it himself. “There, now you’re not alone” he said. I don’t remember what I ate that night, though I’m sure it was great. Every time the waiter reappeared he approached our table warily, as you’d approach a cage of wild monkeys that might, at any moment, begin flinging their feces around the room. There was no telling what these idiotic Americans and their friend of undetermined European origin (Kang) might do next. We left quickly after the meal, and repaired to the bar across from our hotel where my two companions laughed loud and long at my stupidity.