The Halloween Post

By now, even the Easter Bunny knows that Jack Skellington served Santa Claus his mistletoe on a silver platter right up his big red ass. I mean, this guy is the real deal. The war of the holidays is over. I saw The Nightmare Before Christmas in Real-D tonight. I have to honestly say that Real-D is, in fact, not to 3-D what Pepsi One is to Diet Pepsi. This one particular method of bringing movies that much closer to theme park rides is actually much better than the old method. The discomfitting hues of red and blue are gone. This new method goes right for your rods and leaves the cones cold in the dust. I didn't expect it to be this good. I can honestly say now that I was wrong. You see what this holiday does to me? It makes me feel vulnerable, and thus, able to admit that I was wrong. I feel warm all over. On which other day can you finally pay homage to Steve Irwin by pasting a stingray barb to your chest, and walk up to that girl with Freud quotes all over her slip, and say, "Hi. I'm scared too. You wanna make out?" Vindicated.

Vindicating in the Bathroom

By now, it's 11:47pm in the evening, and the last sparks of the last fireworks flicker from the sky. Clancy snapped his suitcase shut and walked out of the door, and out of Claire’s life forever; falling to the bed, she tried to hold back her sobs, all the more troubled by the fact that part of her sobs not for the absence of Clancy (she quietly loathes the man) but for her own sudden aloneness, just a small step – another 10 summers? One more disappointment in the eyes of one more man? Another half-inch on the sycamore out back? – to complete aloneness, sobbing as she remembered my lecture at Yale University’s School of Comparative Zoology where I said that the brief life of the tiny amoeba is not the splendor to behold, but the march on of its species and how the species collectively intertwines, nay underpins, all of the Earthly species, themselves products of a mathematical unlikelihood so immense as to inspire pure awe, but still she cried while half a country away in my bathroom I brushed my teeth, prosaic and, without me even realizing it, vindicated.

Now THIS Shit Will Do It

By now, I’ve finished one crackerjack of a college application essay for you. It's very Amy Tan. That's great. Bearded Princeton admissions officers eat that shit for breakfast.

At first I thought I would just tighten the language a bit but then for some reason I got involved with it and readjusted the introduction, which was all over the place in terms of relevant retrievable content. You'll also notice I removed a lot of your (stretched) similes, metaphors and rhetorical questions. They jumble the text up so much. If you want to say it, just say it. There are plenty of sufficient words out there to do it. Economize! Your audience is a couple of know-it-alls in a hurry and they don't want to untangle nests of likes and as ifs, and they most certainly don't want to waste time wondering why you didn't choose the most appropriate word. That's also why I removed several thesarusisms.

I removed several distracting details, such as in the introduction where I softened the attention to the meathook. That was offputting enough to give me a momentary flicker of gruesomeness. That's not good. Also in the introduction, I added the language describing your father as a fisherman. Unless you already offered your father's occupation elsewhere in the application, don't change this. If you need to, describe the occupation as something clearly symbolic of the working class - there are plenty of words out there to downgrade even the most prestigious of jobs. But make sure to retain the accompanying sensory detail; that keeps with the logic in the first two sentences about describing the few details you remember.

I also hid your presence a lot more. This helps because previously many portions of the essay smacked of self-indulgence and self-promotion. I realize that may not have been your intention, but it came out that way through your arrangement of ideas. I humbled you also by describing your many talents as "unwanted." That also helps.

I completely rewrote your schmaltzy ending. Now the very last word keys into the essay's topic. That's hard to do. I also stated in very economical, precise wording your thesis - that is, without exactly stating it. These beards want to be teased just so; they don't want it to hit them over the heads, yes, but likewise they don't want to spend half a minute recalling your earlier "clues." This is your money shot. Pander to them.

Vindicated.

Puerta Abierta al Matrimonio Gay

By now, my love should be here by my side, en mi alma, mi amor. I smell the coming of Autumn, and it reminds me of those cold nights we spent together in Hidalgo. The bitter winds swept over the gulf and pressed hard on our tender bosoms. But I was never afraid with you by my side. Su estuvieron tan caliente. When the banditos came for you, I cried a river of tears. The river drained all the farmland of San Luis Potosi, and our sheep and crops all died. I couldn't bear to save them, to nourish the animals, to nurse the crops back to life, and remind myself of the love I lost. I let the land reflect my heart, and famine took it over. El pene fue duro. I have not forgotten the promise we made just before you were duct taped and tossed in the bed of a poultry truck. We promised we would meet again in America. Añoro su esperma. I yearn for you so. Come to me now, my love. Láveme en su jugo de pene de monstruo. I came to America, la tierra de homosexuales, where we do not have to shade ourselves from prying eyes, and our trunks can grow together as one, under the forgiving eyes of God. I can feel your heart still beats with life. Your soul remains here with me on earth, and I wait en purgatorio for your embrace. Empuje el pene dentro mi ano. Justificado.

Boo Pooh

By now, we're all familiar with how things run in the world of Winnie Pooh and his friends. But Fisher Price has recently thrown the animal hierarchy of the Hundred Acre Wood completely out of whack. Here we see Pooh riding a turtle like he's a beast of burden. Yet Eeyore the donkey is Pooh's equal. Isn't that dumb? Vindicated.

Fox in the Dem House

By now, everyone can see that Michael J. Fox is a heavy-hitter on the campaign trail, especially for Democrats. There's a large sympathetic vote to gain if a candidate can get the support of this former Spin City actor and current Parkinson's disease sufferer. Fox is a very charismatic guy, but not many people know the true horrors of his disease. I met Fox just once. It was last Spring, at a benefit to support stem cell research held at Oprah Winfrey's house in Chicago. Oprah's maid left her child upstairs in the coat room while she washed the dishes. When I entered the room late that night to get my coat, there was Fox hunched over the crib, a bloody mass of stem cells dripping from his chin. The man is beyond sick. Vindicated.

Poor Showing on the BOBS

By now, everyone knows this blog hasn't fared well in the BOBS (Best of the BlogS) awards. I just read about them for the first time in The Guardian. And frankly, now that I know they exist, I'm really pissed off no one nominated us. What's wrong with you people? I'm also going to go ahead and call the awards sponsor, German broadcaster Deutsche Welle, a Nazi. What else can you take from my people? What else can we give you? Look at this. Which blog is currently #1? Some crap called JoeApology.com. Apparently, anyone can go on this site and apologize for anything they want. Oh shit, you created a website where a bunch of pussies can whine about how cute they are?! Well, Goddamn, someone give this Einstein an award! Hey, I'm going to start my own blog where random strangers post stuff no one wants to read. It's gonna be called: Post a List of Awards You Didn't Win and Don't Give a Crap About Anyway. Vindicated.

A Bush Turn of Phrase

By now, everyone knows this whole Iraq mess has gone on long enough and that "staying the course" just isn't an option. In fact, President Bush said yesterday, at a press conference from Naval Station Norfolk in Virginia, that he was dropping the phrase "stay the course" from his personal vocabulary altogether, and he hoped for a speedy drop from the national consciousness as well. "I realize that that phrase is maybe not so hot," said Bush. "What we need now is some new way of talking about this war - we need a radically fundamental new way of looking at this thing, this here War on Terror." Bush later added, "But when you find yourself in the face of grave danger, you can't just count your blessings and run away. You've gotta hunker down, and squat in your own shit, and pray that someone comes to save your ass." Bush then declared the new phrase would be "ride the wave." Vindicated.

It's a Vindication, Miami Style

By now, David Caruso's pregnant pause has given birth to a bouncing baby afterthought, with ten fingers and ten toes. When asked by the Nielsen Ratings how it feels to be a first-time father, the 50-year-old star of CSI: Miami responded by lifting his characteristic Joe Cool shades and revealed that his eye sockets are actually the undiscovered 665th and 666th portals to hell. The spokesperson from Nielsen Media Research dropped to his knees and crossed himself, begging for mercy. Mr. Caruso then created a swirling ball of flame erupt from a catheter and shot it at the man. Upon hitting the man's skin, the flames turned into tickle bugs, which then proceeded to tickle the man to a bloody death. The scene was witnessed from afar by Dr. Jafar Ramkavi, who reported that the Nielson spokesman seemed "very cowardly ... like a baby ostrich looking for a hole in the sand." Mr. Caruso said he would take time off from his popular TV show to spend time with his family. Vindicated.

Trash Time

By now, the Waste Management company better step it up, or I'm taking my business elsewhere. What's that, you say? There's really nowhere else I can go? Well, that makes no sense to me because I've seen a number of Waste Management commercials on TV. Why would they advertise to me if they're my only choice? I mean, whenever I see a group of young people on the screen, dancing and singing a Pepsi jingle, I go out and buy some Pepsi. But when I see a dump truck rolling around on the screen, what am I supposed to do? I guess it makes sense that a company whose sole purpose is to dispose of things would so callously toss off money on pointless national TV spots. I asked the students in my third grade social studies class what they thought about all this. And then they pointed to a construction paper chart I made for them over summer break. They told me that when it comes to trash, we all have to remember our R's: Reduce, Reuse, Recycle, Regenerate, Repair, Restock, Regroup, Rework, Repaint, Rewind, Refuse, Retire, Remorse, Reproach, Resize, Recriminate, and Don't Litter. And also Reduce. I gave each student a Pokemon sticker, and then I told them about what else we can do to save the environment. Their assignment, to be completed by the time we return from Thanksgiving break, is to create an anaerobic digestion program in their household and to create a system of pyrolosis and gasification; all inorganic waste must be converted into an inert vitrified glass, and there will be bonus points for the student whose plasma reactor discriminates between the fewest different types of waste. There will an automatic F for anyone who tells his or her parents about this. Vindicated.

A Visit to the Funeral Depot, or As I Lay Buying

By now, we all know you only get to bury someone once. You mess up that one burial, and you mess up that one chance to show God and all your neighbors just how luxuriously people in your family wish they had lived. "We send our corpses out in style," is what you want to say. Personally, I've never understood this, and I've known for a long time that I want to be cremated once I die. After which, my ashes will be mixed into a broth, which is then to be consumed by all surviving members of my immediate family. (Any wife I've had for more than a year will be included in this group.) I recognize my funeral will be uncommon, but that's the way I've planned it, and I can't change it now. For more conservative readers, I can however, recommend a few coffin designs I happened to come across. These are real. Here are my top three :

This one is called "Remembrance of Things I Killed."

And this one is called "Remembrance of a Tragedy More Important Than My Death."

And my favorite: "Remembrance of Tact." Vindicated.

Insincerity: The New Sincerity

By now, everyone loves irony, right? I can't tell you how many times I've heard the words "I love the 80's" coming from some teenybopper who wasn't even alive before Sean Penn and Madonna got divorced. If daddy's little girl actually lived through the 80's, she might just remember what a sugar-coated pile of AIDS-infected elephant dung that decade really was. The Brat Pack, leg warmers, Pong? Are people really sad these things are gone? This is the decade where men either wore pastels or a rat tail, and all women looked like linebackers. And who knows what technological advancements could have been made if our greatest minds hadn't wasted so much time fiddling their Rubik's cubes. There's only one good thing I can think of about the 80's. Well, maybe two. First: Michael Jackson was black, and as far as I know, he only slept with adult women. Second, and most important: the idea of something being "so bad that it's good," as far as I know, hadn't been invented yet. A shlub was a shlub, but at least he knew his place: Hollywood Squares. But things have changed. This is a very different world we live in today. And now that any washed up boob can revive a dead career with just an ironic curl of his lip on a reality TV show - no matter how rotten and un-sought-after that corpse may be (Dave Navarro, Gene Simmons, that guy from "Saved by the Bell") - all I ask is that you, the viewing public, please prepare yourselves for the comeback we've all been waiting for. From the very depths of every mother's nightmare, here he comes, the one, the only, Meat Loaf! On Broadway. Bat Out of Hell III. Album in stores soon. I mean, with all this shit you folks just ram down your own throats every day, just go out and buy the damn album. It's Meat Loaf, for Christ's sake. Vindicated.

College Girls Gone What?

By now, every guy in a Billabong shirt, and unemployed people, know that college girls go wild. Well, suspecting I might be vindicated, I ordered the video. Those girls are so not wild. They were mostly just flashing. And overweight. That's not wild. Wild is like when I got a rustry trombone from a prostitute while giving a Dutch knuckle right into the vagina of your mom. Last night. Vindicated.

Just Dropped Huge Bomb

By now, even the most doveish among us knows that North Korea detonated a atomic bomb underground on Monday morning, creating a magnitude-4.2 seismic event. I mean, I was so right about this all along. Four years ago, in 2002, I came out of the bathroom and went into the living room where everyone was seated and said, "It was like a magnitude-4.2 seismic event in there." Everyone then groaned, waved their hands before their noses and made a fuss about my tact. Truly, I did drop a massive load in the bathroom. But everyone knew I was referring to the detonation of a nuclear weapon in rural North Korea four years later. Even then, everyone at my party knew I was so Vindicated.

Mom Comes Through

By now, Doug from 7th grade biology class should be 22 years old, right? He was the only 12-year-old in our grade with a mustache, remember? He insisted he was 12 just like the rest of us. But why did his dad let him drive the car? "That kid's gotta be at least 16," I told you all. "He must have failed, like, 3 grades, at least." But no one listened to me. Well, just today my mom sent me a clipping from the Buckeystown Daily Reporter, and what does it say? "North Buckeystown resident Doug Finkle was fatally injured last night in an alcohol-related hunting accident. He was 26 years old." Vindicated.

Hot Swan on Swan Action?

By now, every Johnny Punchcard with a news aggregator knows that, in Australia, a black swan has fallen in love with a swan-shaped paddleboat. It'd be a lie if I didn't say I wasn't wrong about this all along. In 1952, I wrote in my seminal work of sexual psychology, On the Homosexes, that unnatural situational bonds will not lead to a deep, permanent love, and especially should not lead to marriage. I wrote, quote: "There are three things I find most foul and injurious to our sacred institution of marriage: A) The possibility of homosexual marriage, B) the possibility this may lead to other types of unnatural love (between, say, I don't know, a bird - we'll say a swan, - and a boat), and C) the institution of marriage itself" (my emphasis). Reverend, if you are asking me if I would take that hand and, in sickness and in health, in richness and in poor, until death do us part, say "I do," then - if that hand is the hand of vindication - I most certainly do. Vindicated.