Poker advice for the masses

Hi y’all. I’m Jimbo “The Drunken” Trucker, answering your poker questions from my trailer park in Suffern, NY. I can’t ever seem to get into a WSOP event because I can’t pass a Breathalyzer test [if anyone has a way around that, let me know], so I’ve decided to dedicate my time to YOU, the aspiring poker champions of the world.

The WPT hole cam brought to you by Bud Light? MALARKY! You’ll see it on TV? Who needs that? All you need is one of these here clippings to guide you to superstardom.

POCKET ACES SHOW NO MERCY

Dear Jimbo,

I played a sit-and-go in which somebody in early position moved all-in. They had me outchipped, but I had pocket aces so of course it was an easy call. I lost to their suited 9 10 and I was railed. How can I avoid this in the future?

- Susie, Brooklyn

Dear Susie,

Congratulations! You got your hands on something Congress couldn’t – the Weapons of Mass Destruction. Unfortunately, however, when the cards were revealed, you had to realize it was the worst time to call as suited connectors are statistically best poised to crack those aces, and that’s exactly what happened. Pocket aces are horrible in other scenarios as well. During last year’s EPT in Monte Carlo, Isabelle “No Mercy” Mercier had pocket aces wiped away by Ross Boatman’s pocket 9s. He flopped a set of 9s, and the board tripped 6s in the end, giving him 9s full of 6s over Isabelle’s 6s full of those dreaded pocket rockets. They blew up right in her face and the result was pain, heartache, humiliation, and tilt. Of course, all these chips are in Euro, so that dismay was multiplied by the conversion rate [Today, the Euro is worth $1.31 to the American dollar – OUCH!]. Later on she would once again have those very aces done away with by pocket kings, making her the ultra short stack, and making this lesson horrifically clear – if you are dealt American Airlines, switch to US Air. Muck those aces IMMEDIATELY, if not sooner. In order to avert the sting of being felted, start treating A-A as if it’s 8-3 offsuit. Eliminate “the best starting hand in poker” from your repertoire, and quit giving in to the poker sensationalism created by the Chad Normans and the Vince van Pattens of the world. They tout these “monster” hands only to make for good TV. You can overcome this media manipulation, and the next time you come across this miserable mire, you’ll know better.

TEACH ME HOW TO READ

Dear Jimbo,

I would like to think I am a decent poker player, but I am positive my reading skills need to be better. I am fairly certain I have been moved of the “better hand” on several occasions. How can I guard against this?

- Bill, Milwaukee

Dear Bill,

Drink heavily – and OFTEN! Many poker gurus would advise against this as booze tends to impair judgment and ability, but that horse poo doesn’t get my buy-in. Clearly, there are alcoholic explanations for what we see on TV. Take, for example, WPT Ladies Night IV. The final two competitors, JJ Liu and Kelly Griggs, were in heads-up play for the title. JJ started off with a pocket K-7, dominating Kelly’s Q-7. The flop came J-7-6, giving both ladies middle pair. When the turn came an inconsequential 8, Kelly made what looked like a sensible check and JJ made a move, which elicited an almost immediate all-in raise from Kelly. JJ took a step back, gulped from her flask, and wondered what the hell was going on. Kelly was very evidently on her own generous dose of moonshine as she started chanting “this is my destiny” over and over to the point of nausea. JJ finally tired of this spew and made the amazing call, winning the final hand and the tournament. Come to find out later on, JJ would not have made that call without the help of her friend and mine, Skyy Vodka. That elixir provided the insight and mentality she needed to overcome that all-in move and make the correct read. In the end, Kelly could not get JJ off the better hand. You can apply this to our own game as well. It’s a technique I’ve employed for years - Drink and Think. The next time you get a pocket of Q-Q, let that blurred vision work to your advantage, and before you know it, WOW, you suddenly have a pocket of Q-Q-Q! AMAZING! The key here is not to repeat stupid lines – you certainly do not want to give away any information as to the strength of your hand. Simply sit stoically and pensively, and patiently wait for the flop. When you see it come Q-6-4, look very intently at the board then back at your hand, darting your eyes back and forth at mind-boggling speeds. The proverbial fireworks go off in your head as you realize you hit the dream flop – FIVE QUEENS!!! Your opponents will bet into you, thinking you have crap, because the massively pained expression on your face is indicating weakness. This is the perfect time to come over the top and let your opponents know that you’re not the fish [at least in poker] that they think you are. The Drink and Think method is particularly useful because you no longer have to waste time and effort reading your competitors. The other players will be spending their time misreading YOU, and you can successfully translate their poor reads into winning hands and dollars.

Jimbo’s random thought of the day: Friends don’t let friends play 7-2 offsuit. The next time you see that suspicious hand, report it to the authorities immediately!

Poker Gone Wild

Many years ago, poker was a big term in middle America, having much to do with cows, farmland, ranching, and other boring shit that real people have no interest in. Today, poker has taken on a meaning that has transcended the ma-and-pa nickel and dime crap – it means celebrity, large sums of money, fabulous casinos, TV specials, the fiber that holds this great nation together. Every week, we can tune ourselves into nobodies donning track suits becoming overnight millionaires. The Ace of Spades is no longer an annual gardening award, and the World Series of Poker no longer features the most beautifully trussed cattle.

This sports sensation we call poker inspired me to think, “Where HAVE all the cowboys gone?” The obvious answer would be in Texas, the birthplace of hold-em, not to mention many Bessies. Once there, I knew I had to find only the best the area had to offer, so I Googled “Where the bloody hell can I possibly find a great poker who knows about poker?” The very first search result led to me the famous Elmer Rhodes of Laredo, multi-time Best in Barn winner and three-time World Poker Tour watcher. I came face to face with fame and fertilizer and I was floored. When I recovered, I was lucky enough to remember that I had come here to perform the Texas Inquisition, and this gracious gentleman was happy to oblige me.

What has poker meant to you, then and now?

Why, I remember the days when poison ivy was a plant and being a poker was an honorable occupation passed down from generation to generation. Back then, hard work was paid off and this gambling riff-raff was the work of the devil. My pa was the best back in his day at handling this type of rugged work – managing a farm is no easy task ya know – in fact, he was the equivalent of what I believe you east coast city type folk would call “miss thing.” Nowadays, with Hollywood glamorizing everything, the respect of the occupation has gone to pot and all these youngins run around with no real career path ‘cept for that there gambling.

You’ve watched the World Poker Tour a few times. What was going through your mind as millions of dollars exchanged hands on TV?

Exactly that this is the type of thing that only happens on TV and not real life. I mean, the wads of cash, those biker bimbos, kids too young to drink even a can of pop becoming drunk with instant recognition, I don’t know what this world is coming to. Sure, I enjoy the game with my buddies every here and there, but I sure as hell don’t have my wife dressing in skirts up to her hoo-ha presenting the boys with beer. I asked my buddy Jimbo – he works there at that bank and loan place – and he told me them armored guards don’t even carry that kind of loot, and it’s a BANK! All that glamour I see on TV is one of them fantasies that just don’t occur in these parts.

Who do you admire in the game of poker?

I sure like that Doyle guy. He’s got that ten-gallon hat and he never forgot where he came from. Granted, he chose a wimpy profession, but ya gotta admire the way he whoops them little kids’ asses at the poker table. He’s got that boy Todd, now he’s a tool, but papa is about the classiest act going on TV. I heard he’s from Texas too. I reckon he made that up for the heartland appeal, but it’s real endearing to see someone play for the love of the game and not the lust of those cash-carrying hookers. I also like that Daniel kid. Everyone says he’s just about the prettiest thing on earth, but I try to ignore all them smoke and mirrors and take a good look at the awesome mentality he brings to the game. This is real important to me because when I become old and can’t move around no more, I’m gonna tell the news station I’m his grampa, but he’ll probably just say he’s one of them Canucks from them outer lands.

You seem to rail against the scantily clad lady element. What’s so wrong with that?

It just goes to show you that anybody can be on TV. Before you know it, there will be all kinds of leagues and associations – I used to be a harlot but now I can play world-class poker – now I ain’t against none of that women’s lib business, they sure enough have their right to choose, eh, I don’t know. Granted, I don’t like to turn away from a pretty lady, unless the ol’ ball-and-chain is around of course, but I think dressing down to your panties in front of the studio audience is just plain cheap. Those poor girls can’t possibly have a mama who’s watching and saying “Look Ethel, there goes my Kimberly – who KNEW that I could have a little baby girl who could grow up to be a high-class call girl?”

What do you think the future of poker is going to be?

We’ve gone from cow chips to poker chips, who knows what will happen in the next 10 years? The way things are going, I’m going to have to either get that dirty channel or try to see through them squiggly lines just to watch some fellas play cards. The future sure as hell ain’t gonna feature anyone herding cattle. Them days are long past gone. It’s all gonna be smut and sex and strippers and cards ain’t even gonna be part of the game no more.

You're probably an asshole, too

The great Samantha Jones from Sex and the City once uttered my favourite line ever, “Kids are assholes.” This line was given more credence than ever when we heard about the recent news item involving a 2-year-old boy playing with matches and subsequently killing his mother and injuring many others when their Brooklyn apartment burned into a heap of shit. This fracas could easily have been avoided if the now deceased mother just told her idiot child, “Only toddlers who are assholes play with matches.” The crappy newspaper that ran this item also reported that this dumbass kid had matches as a much loved plaything. Whilst an excellently cheap gift alternative for friends with children, matches doth not a play date make. Only those 3 years of age and above should have the right to use these fire-making sticks in a recreational way. Of course, there will be absolutely no federal legislation introduced to curb the potential for disaster, but this does outline the need, more than ever, for corner store owners to ID children who randomly come in off the street requesting matches.

The above anecdote is only one of many illustrations of what makes an asshole an asshole. You might be wondering at this point, “Fag, what else is there?” We witness assholery in many forms every day. It is not an exact science, but rather a flourishing art form. The fact that it is artistic is by no means a compliment to the art form, only artistic in the way that it takes many shapes that are open to our own interpretation.

People who hold up the commuting process are often labeled assholes, and for good reason. We need to work, and bosses don’t want to hear “well, there was this asshole sick passenger 4 trains ahead of me and that held me up for 30 minutes.” Bar owners do not tolerate “sorry if you’re not going to make your sales quota tonight if I’m not here, but a cop was arresting a murderer on my bus.” It is seemingly acceptable for those in positions above us to dismiss the assholery that affects our daily lives, but when do WE draw the line? A good place to do this is at the yet to open doors of a Metro North train. Normally, passengers file onto the train once the doors open. Call me crazy, but I happen to know that in the real world, this really happens. The fantasy of reality turned into depressing delusion as the doors indeed opened on one such afternoon, but people were still standing in place. What the hell? Come to find out, this waspy white dick of a father was encouraging his little boy to jump over the gap between the platform and the train rather than walk onto the locomotive like a normal homosapien. It’s no shock at all that those held up by this display of assholery were frustrated. Finally, pissed off passengers would tolerate no more and started pushing by this asshole. Isn’t it a sad day when there is a generational breakdown? The assholery of the father’s youth and continued adulthood would not successfully be passed down to his spawn. To further the assholery, the waspy white dick of a father looked dumbstruck as he wondered WHY his assholery was not endured. Once again, no congressional session will take place to combat this, but I encourage each and every one of us who sees this assholery to write to the government and forcefully recommend that these offenders wear t-shirts with their address on them so we may pen missives that state, “Dear asshole, YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE! Signed, someone who is not an asshole (at least not for the reason you’re an asshole.”).

In the great city of New York, tourism is a necessary evil to the economy. Whilst cash registers welcome tourists’ converted Euros with open drawers, those of us who were here first are not always so accepting. Let’s face facts – we think these vacationers are stupid. They have their oversized subway map and still have no idea where they’re going. They waste valuable standing space by being spread out all over the train. These tourists finally gather up the gumption to ask someone with experience if they’re anywhere near Times Square, meanwhile they’re a stone’s throw from the Staten Island Ferry – on the Staten Island side. Tourists are also world-famous for walking slow as shit going uphill in January on crowded midtown streets where people with actual jobs and lives don’t have time for this bullshit. Even worse, 9.5 times out of 10, they’re wearing sensible comfortable flats from Payless Europa, so there is absolutely no feasible excuse for the lack of pep in the step. One might wonder at this point, is it really acceptable to poke fun at these groups of people who boost the city’s financial system week after week and year after year? Should we really look down on people who are willing to pay obscene prices for the city’s services because we’re too broke to? The answer is yes, and simply because tourists are wack. If overseas postage was more affordable, there would be a flood of letters to European governing bodies asking, “Dear European government, how do you say asshole in your resident language? Because I just read Fag’s Mental Mailbox, and I agree that’s exactly what your people are. A bunch of ASSHOLES! Singed, a native New Yorker non-tourist-non-asshole.”

Time to revert to our very own home-grown assholes. What do we think of 12-year-old sluts who dress like 25-year-old sluts? The obvious answer here is they’re assholes. We can easily point fingers at these young ladies who will soon have a news caption under their name saying “Teenage Baby Mama,” rationalizing that they’re “looking for it” or they’re “asking to be treated in a certain way.” Certainly, they deserve to have their assholery pointed out to them in an embarrassing fashion; however, it goes beyond their modes of undress. It’s no secret that these girls of questionable intent draw attention to themselves by donning horrific tube-tops that expose their training bra straps. What is more reviling than their 2 for 99 sense of style is the way they overload our sense of smell with their Parfum du Crap, free with their purchase of dollar-store douche. Picture this as the perfect romantic New York City evening – riding a train over the Manhattan Bridge, viewing the brilliant skyline, and catching a whiff of a ridiculous concoction of plasma, poop, and patchouli. The olfactory and the visual do not quite come together when the realization is made that this is not the stench of the homeless. Surely, these girls have many great talents to offer society, but they would smell better if they worked out 3 times a day and not showered for a month. Frankly, they are one step below the homeless in the fragrance department, but they are one step above in the assholery department.

We now turn to assholes in the news. Believe it or not, even though criminals who are caught and spotlighted on TV are assholes for being stupid enough to get caught, it’s the “friends and neighbors” who rush to their defense who are the real assholes. Such friends and neighbors announce, “Mr. Jones was such a family man. I thought those 36 pictures of little boys he showed me were of his grandchildren.” No asshole, Mr. Jones molested children. Now, back to you, Dick, in the studio. Someone else would decry, “It’s only crack. I can’t believe she’s going to the can for 20 years for some harmless recreation.” Yea, well, I can’t believe an asshole like you expressed an opinion like that on television and you still have rights. No one ever says, “Well, yes, he really was an asshole, I’m surprised he wasn’t caught earlier,” or “It’s about time someone arrested that douchebag.” Even better is what has become a cliché in friend-and-neighbor interviewing, “He had such a bright future. He was an aspiring rapper” Really? A 17-year-old scumbag with 4 children, no job, no education, and no sense of responsibility has a bright future? Guess what asshole…I want to be a fucking ballerina, but that doesn’t mean I can skirt the law, poo poo on my obligations as a citizen in the real world, and inject baby-making sperm into stupid young women who think “it won’t happen to me.”

As we can clearly tell, it doesn’t take much to be a balloon knot. In fact, the potential is endless. Countless people doubtless have their own stories to express. I highly encourage all of you, my readership of 4, to expose assholery when you see it, whether it’s at work, during your commute, or in your very home. Our elected assholes are too busy voting themselves pay raises and railing against the Asian Longhorn Beetle to care. It is up to us to take the fight to the asshole. Make t-shirts. Write letters. Vote assholes out of office.

Cc: President George W. Bush

Success according to failure

There is a new trend taking us by surprise – and this very trend holds the formula to success. It’s called “hitting rock bottom.” In the 80s, fads that we now laugh at [or consider vintage] took us to new highs. There was actually lovemaking in movies instead of rampant gratuitous sex, and such cinema spoke to the culture of the day. In the 90s, meaningless sex in movies became the norm, but in the new millennium, we are a culture desensitized by such douchebaggery. I’m so glad you’re thinking at this point, “What the hell?” The aforementioned touched on what made success stories – fashionable trends, fecund nudity, famous people who related to us commoners. These formulae, whilst moneymakers even today in their own right, are not the automatic jackpots they once were. Today, tragic figures who overcome adversity are tugging at the heartstrings of the buying public. Tragedy is the new sex.

Take for example, your favourite and mine, Mariah Carey. When she first started her career, she was instantly world famous and spewed an eleven-year-long streak of top-charting singles and multi-platinum albums. Her youth before fame was even seemingly picture perfect. Then came the memorable 2001 bomb Glitter, along with subsequent mental breakdown and crappy album. Sadly, her motor skills deteriorated to the point where she couldn’t even wipe her own ass! All of her past successes came to a very unlucky halt. Suddenly, what was the most successful streak in musical history was rendered bunk as all attention turned to her lack of ability to keep up with her past perfection. We laughed and chortled, but certainly we didn’t care much as this tragedy was exciting and comical. Someone who was automatically a multi-million seller became the subject of media ridicule and scrutiny. Even her 2002 follow-up, Charmbracelet, was barely accepted as a piece of music worth having. Downtrodden, she had to know a new formula was needed to recapture the glory-hole of yore. Album after album would only make us more and more tired of her [just ask Janet Jackson after the boob fracas]. So she replicated the “Madonna-of-the-90s” formula – fuck up royally, fade into obscurity for a few years, let society forget about you, come back better than ever. Basically, that’s what she did when she released 2005’s…um…shit...I’m not really remembering….The Emancipation of Mimi Rogers…or something. The point being, she took her place right atop the musical world once more; however, she suffered immense failure before reclaiming that special circle in the bathroom stall next to the slimy truck driver with fromunda.

Part of why Mariah’s success eventually ran out in 2001 was because she struck gold at EVERY turn…um…GEIGH!!!! That does NOT make for good TV…we do not care to see someone who always had it good then makes it even better. We are more likely to respect the Average Joe or the tragic figure who comes from shit and makes it big. In order to be successful in the eyes of commoners, you must, at some time, be a failure.

Another glittering example of life lived happily-unhappily-happily is Carnie Wilson. It wasn’t too long after chart-topping singles with early 90s supergroup Wilson Phillips that many lenses turned to her uncanny girth. Scrutiny once more led to ridicule, and ultimately the undoing of the group in 1992 after Shadows and Light was met with limited success. Once again, a brilliant star plunged into the dark recesses of poopybutt. Carnie’s “I’ll show you, motherfuckers” moment came when she decided to have gastric bypass surgery – and show it online. Right before three internet viewers, Carnie underwent the procedure that would cost her millions of pounds. Even though the tragedy of fat was conquered, she never quite reclaimed her musical stature; however, she did meet success on the magazine circuit as the cover girl for successful surgical weight loss and was met with a certain respect in society again. But she’s getting fat once more so the above story was really just a load.

Madonna certainly milked this formula for all its worth after she stopped being an automatic hit maker in the early 90s. Whilst her albums during that time remained commercial bonanzas, they were critically panned time and again. In 1992, we were graced with Erotica, and somewhere in a very short time frame came the coffee-table book Sex and the god-awful flick Body of Evidence. Basically, Madonna unleashed a multimedia sexual assault that eventually turned away even the most die-hard of her fans. It was widely believed that this backlash was the end of her career. She was in hiding for 2 years before she reappeared on the charts with “I’ll Remember,” a ballad-esque ditty from a movie called With Honors. Even with all that societal scorn under her belt, she always fared well with songs from movies, and this was no exception. Months later came the album Bedtime Stories. By Madonna standards, the album and singles performed tepidly on the charts. Seemingly, she overcame the horrific bruising of 1992 and re-emerged a force once again in the music world. There is a tragedy in this success however – Madonna beat the critics by coming out with a sexless album, BUT IT WAS MAD BORING!!!!! But this is the kind of thing that Madonna has always done to re-captivate her audience. Flop…succeed…bore…succeed…get laid all over the media…flop…bore…succeed. Madonna became the bobble-head doll for the tragedy-success modus operandi. Never mind the fact that she had to create the calamities herself in order to emerge victorious from them!

So…how does this apply to the real world? In many ways, as with most of my columns, it doesn’t, and you’ve wasted your time again. Another way this does not apply is that there is no glimmer of hope, most of you reading this [and certainly those of us writing this garbage] are sentenced to a life of mediocrity.

The implied meaning, however, is that overcoming adversity is the key to success, not some lavish childhood replete with education and inbreeding. We need the trials of douchebaggery to live something worthwhile…we thrive off those drug and alcohol problems and we are reviled by the Ivy Leaguer who was born the CEO of the family sewage plant. Got blow?

Waking up in make-up

A shocked collective populace screams in wonder, “HOW CAN THAT HAPPEN???” Media outlets nationwide decry, “Far beyond our wildest beliefs!” Maybelline has done the unthinkable: hit a demographic of abused babymamas previously untapped by Revlon or Botox.

Estee Lauder-Maybelline, a distant in-law of the original make-up maven, stated as such: “These dregs of society…these mockeries of taxpayer dollars…we had no idea of their retarded spending power.” Since Maybelline started seventy-one thousand years ago, the target audience has been the same boring crap: ugly white middle class women looking for miracle skin spackle.

In the mid-90’s, when modeling took a depressing turn toward the ugly duckling, Maybelline saw a brief period of profit as this cluster thought, “Those models are homely like me, some 99 cent blush will make me a STAR!” However, thanks to Tyra Banks and America’s Next Top Model, some beauty, albeit sans weight, was brought back to the mainstream. The painting giant already suffered from a boring demographic, and their “dot com” sales went sagging when millions of equally saggy white boring middle aged women were caught ordering “Pretty Plaster of Paris” from their work computers. Eventually, the only thing synonymous with Maybelline was a shitty TV show that brought justice to unmarried mothers.

Then it clicked: Maybelline – harbinger of the law – in a beauty fortified society. Judge and Estee Lauder-Maybelline formed a formidable tag team. Singly, some judge show blew and people were either too far into Botox or too young to remember the once-household name.

Then came borne the acquiescence of a generation – appeal to a brand new group of shoppers that are newly garnering as much popularity as Beyonce: some beat-up, broke-down nappy looking ho with four kids, a sufferable income, and scaly skin. All class strata in this fascist society agree on one thing: nobody REALISTICALLY spends their gumment checks on food, clothing, or the lottery.

The commercial of comical pregnancy was delivered – the jurist of a questionable name played a beaten down hooker with far too many offspring (makeup provided by Avon) – opposite Taye Diggs (makeup provided by the health and beauty counter in Rite-Aid). No real network would pick up the commercial because Taye Diggs is gay (sorry girls, Idina Mendez is a male Annie Lennox). Eventually, WB and UPN reluctantly aired the media ad alongside Cher infomercials.

“GODDAMMIT!!!” bellowed Lauder-Maybelline in that really gay queeny manner. “Don’t nobody watch these bullshit channels!! Nobody follows Cher or Jack Cafferty anymore!! Son of a bitch, just pay me in gumment cheese!”

Soon the miracle occurred – the kind of miracle only Culture Club can sing about. Whitney Watkins of the White Trash section in obscure upstate New York just south of Albany happened to be watching the WB at 3am, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fourth farewell DVD done by either Cher or Jack Cafferty. She drunkenly paid attention to a commercial with her sleeping aunt and three children, all in the same bed. There are the judge…Taye Diggs…reviling makeup, and Whitney just HAD to hit the twenty-four-hour Wal*Mart before it closed. A few dabs of crap later, Whitney really looked like somebody who didn’t share a bed with her mother’s sister (though, nobody is sure of the exact relation). When the Marketing Maybellines caught wind of their first sales, the judge went batshit: “Fuck this!! We get our first sales from the most irrelevant corner of the world. Is upstate New York even IN this world?”

Apparently it isn’t, but someone HAD to find out who this person was, and they had traced the sale to Ms. Watkins’ EBT card.

“Shit on THAT shit, girl!!! We have to get her for another commercial!” exclaimed Lauder-Maybelline. So bla bla bla the commercial was done bla bla bla and they finally got rid of that fucking Taye Diggs and replaced him with Elton John.

The sales came rolling in, babymamas looked human and started landing jobs, the welfare rolls decreased significantly, and the turnaround of an economy was attributed to two crazy chicks who thought Taye Diggs could lure a buying public.

Get beat. Buy liquid and plastic goo. Become a national sensation.

Celebrity interviews deux

Welcome to a “Current Affair” [and it is PERFECTLY acceptable that I name it such, because the ‘a’ is neither capitalized nor within the quotes, therefore I am not ripping off the name of a certain newsmagazine]. In this segment, there will be contrived discussion concerning affairs that are current. Let’s cut the crap and get started.

President Cheney decided earlier in the year that he is not seeking the Vice-Presidency in 2008, alleviating fears in the GOP camp that the voting public would be subject to the campaign slogan of “I am my boss’ daughter.” An interested interviewer caught up with the President in an undisclosed location:

Fag: What prompted this decision to decline office in 2008?

President Cheney: Motherfucka please! My daughter’s still pissed that I support the Vice-President’s anti-gay agenda. My wife hasn’t seen me since 2001. I just really need some time to drink, smoke, gamble, and fuck, all of which are illegal in my administration.

Fag: If you were to have a successful campaign run for the Vice-Presidency, what would you implement during your term?

Cheney: In order to keep support for the current Vice-President’s tension in Iraq at its all time high, [as you know, we are not allowed to call it a war because the war was rendered finished 2 years ago], I would order a halt on all air usage so that it may all be confined to Iraq. This move would be necessary to ensure democracy in the war torn nation. I would predict that the world’s breathable air quantity would be diminished by 2012, just in time for a second term. Our administration would warn the voting public in plenty of advance so they may move to another planet with ample air.

Fag: Would you continue the “Homos Left Behind” act put into effect by Vice-President Bush?

Cheney: I have a bill with strong support floating in Congress that would allow me to enact this on whichever planet our current residents move to. I have a good feeling about this one, it should go over better than our response to Terri Schiavo.

Fag: Do you have any messages for your critics?

Cheney: What are you talking about? I have no critics – our administration is a scandal-less, well–oiled machine. There are no critics, and if there are, I will drop ‘em like it’s hot.

Fag: What are your plans to cut back on the federal budget deficit?

Cheney: You are delusional – there are no budget issues whatsoever. But IF there were, I would have no alternative than to raise the air taxes. On top of that, I have another bill with strong support in Congress that taxes gays. Allegedly, gays have over 3 billion dollars in spending power annually. It’s time they give to their nation after all we’ve done to protect them.

Fag: Thank you for your time, Mr. President. I wish you much success in getting the word “Cheney” in the dictionary so it will stop appearing as an error on spell check.

Cheney: I’ve already told the nation to vote for the new word’s inception, so it will be an easy pass.

After the break, we will explore the multifold explosion of ex-actress Kirstie Alley. She’s back and bigger than ever, enough said.

[Commercials supporting the air bill, teenage sex, and underage drug dealing]

We’re back, and according to the ratings, we are one step above the Discovery Channel’s documentary on ants with cirrhosis.

If you’ve been keeping up with celebrity news, you likely know that Kirstie Alley has been making headlines in a way that is a negative slap in the face to thin-stream media.

We had the occasion to catch up with the star of such critically acclaimed things as Fat Actress and the Jenny Craig commercials in between her meal breaks, and trust me, that’s not a large time window:

Fag: How did the idea of your own TV show come to surface?

Kirstie Alley: In an era of reality-TV duds, I decided to introduce Milk-Duds to the mix. Of course, no real TV show or movie will hire me, so I had to head to a network that would accept my sob story of an actress gone to blubber. Showtime will play just about any ol’ shit, so they bit without hesitation.

Fag: Tell us, what is your show trying to say?

KA: The premise, in a nutshell, is that I used to be someone, now I’m a heffer, and I’m trying to get back in the public eye. Kind of like Anna Nicole Smith without the Trimspa [*coughsurgerycough*]. It’s a very important socio-comical critique on how the fats are treated in this day and age. I need to show the nation and the world that fat is evil and can be overcome. I gained 200 pounds for the role.

Fag: So, you became a moo-moo cow to…play yourself?

KA: Unbelievable, isn’t it? Renee [Zellweger] gained about 453 pounds to play Bridget Jones, that was the inspiration for me to wake my ass up. Only I don’t play an underpriced hooker, I play an underrated actress.

Fag: If Jenny Craig works for you, what will happen to Fat Actress?

KA: Simple, I’ll just call it Actress. I have to go now, my mid-after-morning snack calls, and it’s “diet cake.” Peace and big ups to the fats.

Fag: I won’t even ask for a piece. See you on the tube.

Since that took a mere moment, we can go immediately into the next vignette. Celebrity gossip hounds are reeling over the sudden decision by Jennifer Aniston to divorce Brad Pitt. As if no one has seen this coming for the last six months, mouths are agape and a nation is divided over this Hollywood tragedy. After this special exclusive interview with Jennifer Aniston, we will get commentary from the streets:

Fag: How does it feel to be replaced by Angelina Jolie?

Jennifer Aniston: Who the EFF is she? She was not on Friends, she is nobody. Besides, I initiated the divorce, being replaced by that air-tittied ho is purely circumstantial.

Fag: After five years, an almost-record among Hollywood marriages, what was the breaking point?

JA: He’s gay. GAY GAY GAY GAY GAY!!!!!! How else does one explain his fascination with [Angelina’s] big breastststs? I’m sure you’re familiar with that maxim.

Fag: Indeed I am. What took you so long to figure out that his sexual preference was incorrect?

JA: I started questioning after he didn’t give me kids after 5 years. Then I watched Fight Club, which may as well have been called Gay Club, it was so homoerotic. It all came together after that.

Fag: Why didn’t you try to work it out?

JA: Because I cannot be married to a gay. Do you know what that’s like?

Fag: Ugh, all that Britney Spears and constant trips to the salon, it takes its toll.

What are your plans during and after the divorce?

JA: I just finished shooting a film called The Breakup. This happened before the divorce announcement obviously, but I am going to claim the film is autobiographical so I might finally be taken as a serious actress. Once that falls into place, I’ll be Hollywood glitterati. Hopefully, this will all occur before I have to move to Mars because of that air-depleting bill takes effect. I thought President Cheney knew his laws do not apply to Hollywood…but until all that, I’ll go wreck Courtney [Cox’s] marriage, just for shits.

Fag: Hope that provides seconds of endless entertainment. I say we put an end to this because those cirrhosis-having ants are crawling on me in the ratings, thanks so much.

JA: Please, those ants have your number. Well, until my next divorce, take care and nice talking to you.

Fag: The pleasure is all yours.

And now, the public weighs in on the issues that matter:

Hooker: I’m gonna bring her ass here to Hunts Point, THEN she’ll realize that you ARE glitterati if you can last five years.

Bum: Yo I just watchded all that news and shit, and I want to let her know I am still single and waiting for her to call.

Angelina Jolie: Yes, Brad is gay, poor girl. [Aside: BRAD GET OUT FROM UNDER THAT DESK!!!!!!!]

President Cheney: Tell that ho-bag that I am going to make Hollywood the new Iraq if she doesn’t shut her Democratic trap.

David Schwimmer: Rachel should have just stayed with me, this should not have happened.

We’ll close after these breaks.

[Commercials touting the WMD farce, Kirstie Alley plugs jennycraigslist.com, the pope’s plans to pen a book after his death in languages that do not exist yet]

In tonight’s “Current Affair,” you’ve seen our President, our fattest resident, and our most famous recent divorcee. To ensure we keep with the most updated stories for the next episode, we have no idea what we’re covering yet. Stay tuned, we guarantee you will be bored shitless…

[Cheesy newsmagazine music with fade out]

What REALLY happened in the '04 elections?

With the presidency on the line in November, voters and leaders alike are deliberating their stances on major issues such as gay marriage, war on terrorism, the Iraqi prisoner scandal, and rising gas prices. What Washington is NOT telling us, however, is that there are plans to rearrange the election process. One high ranking Republican insider was quoted as saying, “We simply cannot utilize the traditional election regimen as we know it today and have known it for centuries. If we do, there’s no chance in hell Bush can win re-election.” With that, the White House is intricately devising a scheme in which there is an equal chance for both candidates to win office.

Republicans have tapped into Jessica Simpson to be the celebrity chair for “Operation Election,” a panel sponsored by MTV and created to ensure the fairness of the great political contest. “We thought Ms. Simpson was the obvious choice. She epitomizes morality by waiting until marriage. This is what America is all about – waiting until marriage. All this talk of Iraq, the Church, is all a load of bunk,” said one congressional janitor who was elected to the commission.

We caught up to Jessica Simpson at a store of questionable intent, where she was having a boob mold done to create a candy dish. “I am honored to be assisting my nation by being part of this diverse group,” her first cue card said. “The pitch is perfect. First, I scream to America, ‘I’m the Baby Jessica who fell in the well.’ That catches the public eye. Then, I try to find [husband] Nick [Lachey] so we can make a baby by November. This baby will be placed in wells nationwide to continue my legacy. But, this baby will serve a major purpose by counting the coins tossed in by voters. Oops, did I leak the secret change to the voting plan?” Plainly, Ms. Simpson was exhausted of trying to read, so we dared to ask her to think on her own.

The most evident query was how she planned on giving birth by November. “That’s a no-brainer. There are actually two ways to do this. First, there’s the Jesus way, and all that requires is a simple look at the calendar. On December 8^th is the Immaculate Conception, so that’s the day Jesus was conceived. December 25^th is Christmas, when He was born. Obviously, that’s a digestive period of 22 days. If I start now, I can have four kids by November. The other option is just to will myself to give birth on Labor Day, when everybody else goes into labor.”

When Democrats caught wind of this information, there was fury and head scratching all over the place. “I cannot believe this. Jessica Simpson? In the well? We all know that was Jessica Hahn,” was one of the numerous comments flying across Pennsylvania Avenue. Another observation was caught by many an ear, “I cannot believe this. Jessica Simpson? In the well? We all know that was Jessica Rabbitt.”

An almost intellectual opinion graced the streets, “If we allow this travesty of democracy, the consequences can be catastrophic. But, at least tallying tossed coins will take less time than the Florida recount, so I guess it’s not that bad.”

In New York City, concern was growing at an extremely fast pace. One New Yorker told us, “We don’t have wells, how are we supposed to vote? And what happens to the millions of people who registered on mtv.com? Are they now given clearance to throw a coin into a dark abyss? Thanks MTV for ruining EVERYTHING!” Another native New Yorker weighed in as well, “These commissions, television networks, and celebrities are clearly missing the point. Why is nobody making mention of the ridiculous price of sand? By July, the peak sand season, vendors will be charging upwards of $3 per pound. Is anyone paying attention to the real issues here? I don’t care if I have to go upstate to toss my coin, but I will go, and I will toss it, provided I can afford the sand I need to get there.”

Nothing ignites the passion of the presidential election like topics that matter. In the next few months, America will be given very much to think about. Will Baby Jessica II’s be gracing wells across the land? How heavy will the coins be? Will the price of sand rise commensurate with the price of gas? And ultimately, who will win office? All this and more will be answered in November as MTV’s “Choose and Lose No Matter What” campaign draws to its close.

What are YOU doing tonight?

In the minds of most moping mammals mingles the imperative interrogative discharge, “What am I going to do tonight?” The responses one can come up with are far reaching, diverse, and sometimes scandalous. Similarly, the self-imposed reply could be a hair twirl and a facial distortion seen only at funerals. We at the Mailbox understand and embrace all kinds of individual thinking, and this is why we will do the thinking for you. Here’s a list of what we’re doing tonight:

Identity Theft

Normally, this illegal activity can land one behind bars for an extensive period of time, a brand on the ass of eternal shame that cannot be removed with laser surgery. However, with a great amount of profitability to be realized, just turn the ass-branding into a cool tattoo.

Rummaging for information is the easiest part. Simply trek to the Upper East Side of Manhattan where there are a lot of rich and famous people. Obtain secret documents from the trash or dumpster, but make sure you dress reputably so you’re not mistaken for a scoundrel. City law dictates that it is acceptable to search through trash without being laughed at or arrested provided you accessorize. Once the documents containing highly personal information are in your possession, call and apply for a credit card in their name with a very high limit, and make sure to use their address. Seven to ten business days later, be at the address in question and jump the mailman repeatedly until the anticipated card is in your hands. This way, your address is not involved in the investigation that will invariably follow within days. However, since you have some time, why not enjoy it? Disguise yourself as the person you “are,” and strut a la Sheena Easton down 5^th Avenue to such hot spots as Bulgari and Cartier. Spend extravagantly and have a blast, but be prepared for a declination in approval eventually. Should that happen in a high scale store, be prepared to act famous, using the cliché retort, “BUT DON’T YOU KNOW WHO I AM?!?!?!?!?!?!” That should land you the items with an apology from store management, but that should also be your final purchase until you can land yourself another set of highly sensitive tidbits on someone else and another clever disguise. Once the process is repeated successfully, use the credit card to book a short but expensive trip, so you’re not in the same locale twice. If you overspend, simply call the credit card company for an emergency increase, screaming the following: “WE’RE IN A HURRICANE AND WE’RE GONNA DIE AND I NEED TO GET HOME!!!!!!!!!” Since you’re [not really] going to die anyhow, the extra money is easily nabbed, another successful outcome. At this point, we would recommend you curtail your lavish ways and go back to work and keep any purchased items as mementos of your prowess.

Create a language

New and exciting words are being introduced to the English language with each current release of the dictionary. Society is clearly going to hell when a phrase such as “bling-bling” is considered actual vocabulary in a reputable publication. This more legal means of entertainment will bowl audiences over worldwide, from a wine and cheese soirée to a group of derelicts playing Ghettopoly. The yet unnamed tongue consists of palindromes [a word spelled the same backwards and forwards, i.e. mom, dad, racecar, such and such (Editor’s Note: “such and such,” is not a palindrome, it is an expression merely placed in the example to denote continuity)] based on already existing words in the English language. The following are some examples:

Blunderednulb [blUNder-nulb, the second “d” is silent] – The act of fucking up someone’s name

Bossob [BOSS-ahb] – Your pissy moany supervisor [think Office Space]

Boozezoob [boo-ZOOb] – A fake breast filled with alcohol

Catac [ca-TACK] – A blind feline

Catacatac [ca-TACK-a-tack] – An attack by a blind feline

Decadedaced [DE-ca-DAY-sd] – Things that were cool ten years ago that are now passé i.e. “Omigawd, Cece Peniston is so decacedaced.”

Drugurd [drUG-ird] – a drug user; one who uses properly, NOT abuses

Firederif [FI-er-der-iff] – To lose one’s job via idiocy

Fizzyzzif [fizz-IZZ-iff] – A VERY caustic substance

Manam [MAHN-am] – A gender without preference

Moneyenom [MUH-knee-nahm] – The phenomenon of making a decent paycheck

Realaer [reel-AIR] The combination of real time and real air, such as when Michael Jordan used to be good at basketball

Songnos [SAHN-yos] People who lip-sync to entertain i.e Milli Vanilli, drag queens, Britney Spears

Make an emo band

Bands like Jimmy Eat World, Joan of Arc, and Compound Red make music that reveals the more troubled side of life via a means less chaotic yet more mellow and emotional [hence “emo,” brilliant, isn’t it?] than the hardcore of the early 80’s. The origin is the mid 80’s, if I recall correctly, which I likely do not, as a vulnerable antidote to the crazed mosh pit scenes of NYC’s East Village and DC. However, recently, “emo” is becoming more trendy and being viewed as less wimpy, however whiny it really is. Coming up with a name is rather simple – just take a few words that have absolutely no continuity, lump them together, and you have your band moniker i.e. Fan Alarm. Ok, so Fan Alarm wants to come up with a hit single, and that too is simple, provided there are the elements of sentiment and sensation i.e. “My life resembles a sausage link/I need my heart to make me think/His little dick so rinky-dink/His nether-regions might as well be pink.” Make sure the delivery is all but sobbed into the microphone to give it essence.

Another possibility for a word combination [band name] that contains zero sensibility is Poster Laundry. Using the above formulae, yet another smash song can be created, perhaps using passionate lyrics as “Someone please come show me the way/I’m through with being a useless lay/Day by day by day by day/Such is the life in the world of gay.” We could go on and on, but frankly, you don’t want to.

Solving world issues

Most normal people have great aspirations in life. In this case, I too am normal and going to save the planet from issues of obesity. As Americans, we tend to idolize such cultural icons as pie-eating and hot-dog-eating contests, and Roseanne Barr. As idiots, some mock those behaviors, hoping for a fast ride to glamour and fortune. All this really induces is an unhealthy mode of living. One great way to continue to lionize the thrill of competition in a healthier format is to host a sautéed spinach eating contest. The vitaminimal benefits are quite apparent, and it is a lot less awkward than sticking your face in a vat full of broccoli. Clearly in this case, everyone is a winner – crowds of lifeless drones will still cheer, and the participants will live to see more eating contests than Madame Chaing Kai Shek.

Protecting the environment is another hot-button issue. Many humans enjoy the aesthetics of a serene forest, a wheat field, or 7^th Avenue South on a Saturday night. But what happens when these aesthetics are compromised? Groups of Earth-lovers cry and moan whilst not accomplishing squat. The first and foremost place that needs to be taken care of is the golf course. These champions of the greens and back-nines are ruining turf nationwide. Of course, no attention gets paid to the environmental implications because we are too busy following who gets to wear that dreadful green coat next year. Nonetheless, putters are ripping grass from their very roots, leaving holes for ground crews to languish over. Granted, the earth is restored until the next yawn of a golf tournament, but it is a vicious cycle that will eventually deplete the earth of natural resources, much like what happens to Joan Rivers every times she gets a new facelift. Actually, by doing away with golf altogether, we rid the threat of dying grass [that cannot even defend itself and has no voting power in the matter], and the crews can find impressive jobs as custodial artists.

The above has presented endless possibilities should you ever be stuck in a quandary concerning plan-making. So which will you choose? Likely, drinking……but even so, you can make a difference, and as always, KEEP ON TRUCKIN!!!!!!

A war within

Pandemonium has erupted on street corners everywhere. In the post-tax-return-post-office-rush, various elements of the populace are flooding discount stores the nation over for the hot item of the season.

“I cannot understand how these places of business are not prepared for this charge,” says marketing analyst Bunny Hunt. “Unlike the Christmas shopping season, where trends vary from year to year, the article of choice for this shopping brigade never changes.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do for my babies. We look forward to this special dinner every year. WHY must Valu-Ark be vacant of Cadbury Easter Eggs?!?!?!” muses a hefty mother of seven, who would only give her name as Shawna.

Incidents of manipulation, violence, and heinousness have transpired across the nation. Here’s a chocolaty taste of what’s been going on:

The Bronx – Parents across the densely populated borough arrived early at supermarkets and discounters heavily armed with pipes and coupons, ready to use either in a threatening manner in a flash. We caught up with one babydaddy who was found hiding hollow chocolate rabbits behind stacks of ramen noodles. “Yo, I ain’t got my food stamps yet. But when they arrive in the mail today, I know exactly where to find m’shit.”

Beverly Hills – “Here, the scene is a little different,” chants fitness maniac Charlene Stretch. “Godiva is still heaped with candy from floor to ceiling. I mean, let’s face it, my four-year-old daughter would have to spend five weeks on the treadmill just to cancel out the effects of these delicacies. And I cannot find a facial scrub effective enough to wipe away these dark, oily stains.”

Compton – Eight innocent shoppers carrying nothing more than their local mart’s circular were victims of a vicious drive-by, led by an Easter fundamentalist. “We clearly cannot tolerate this ignorance. These simple buying tasks should have been completed long ago. Also, it’s not hard to use leftovers from Valentine’s Day to provide for those you love. They had to be eliminated, there was no other choice.”

Wall Street has been reaping in the benefits this month, with sugar highs in this rabbit market. “The bear and the bull are at bay. There’s a different character in town, and I’m rich,” said expert investor Jimmy Bond. “After this, I will be back on welfare until the next commercial holiday, but when it comes around, I know where I’m placing my chips.”

As we embark on another episode of empty churches and brimming, low-fashion wicker baskets, remember this: the candy is always cheaper the day after.

For once, it isn't me...

Transference...from the actual to the metaphysical...from the everyday to the unreal...previous chapters of life burned and forgotten, replaced with a renewal of intention. Inside, the box's contents are yearning for release. The mundane is begging for other-worldly recognition. Starting here, and starting now, the not-so-great gets noticed.

What is the big deal in taking friends out to dinner for a birthday, subsequently going to a club, dancing the night away, and going home? None at all. Very often, the real entertainment evolves from the observations of others. Somewhere in the smoke cachet is fun to be had at the expense of others. Whether or not the subjects know, their actions are screaming for credit, regardless of the price to their ego.

Evidently, some such patron's was at an all time low...most normal people can find someone to dance with, even if it a rather distant acquaintance. However, this strapping young man's object of affection was a wall. Yes, a WALL...as in brick wall, Wall Street, ad nauseum. Was this a homo-political statement? Would the wall take a human shape and start swaying with song? Stay tuned for seconds of endless entertainment...

Where exactly would the politics be in dancing with a concrete barrier? Is it an anti-man proclamation? It simply cannot be, for we have enough angst-ridden, cabinet building lesbian feminists to take care of that. Certainly any mental patient who would sooner dance with a stone blockade than a man is not winning any votes...just witness the Mark Green campaign fracas. Very luckily, the ants who are synonymous with hard-hitting cutting-edge journalism were on the case:

Fag: What in the bleeding HELL are you doing?!?!!?!?

Patient: Dancing with the wall...it's very therapeutic...cathartic...invigorating.

Fag: And what exactly does this do for you? Are there secret jollies to be realized? I've heard of "getting your rock off," but never have I heard "getting off on a rock." Please explain.

Patient: So much time and energy is wasted in combing the masses for a human to have sex with. More often than not, those seeking carnal gratification wind up the big losers of the evening, leaving this place depressed and void of self-worth. Person to person action is so overrated. This way, I can say I got some, come back to this very place to get some next week, and not have to deal with a voice or a pulse. It's like being on hold, only the holding is on my end and it's far more pleasurable.

Fag: What would you do if this barricade ever developed a set of balls and told you to seek fun elsewhere?

Patient: That only happens in the movies. I remember when I...

Ironically, emerging from the wall was the biggest scrotal mishap the world had ever seen. It had no voice, but its deeds left us all speechless. This box of rocks was not so dumb as it grew a great pair of beer nuts and thwapped Patient right upside his empty skull. We didn't get to see the Powerpuff Girls, but Townsville was indeed saved one more time...

Now, we move on the culturally insensitive portion of this harangue. The setting is a simple cab ride gone awry, but rest assured this is a far better taxi-cab confession than a silicone infested female lactating in the back seat and passing it off as talent. Punjab from Little Orphan Annie was the winner of this discourse. Three jolly kids out on the town for a night of boozing and whorring...three jolly kids seeking transportation to a pizza joint...sounds normal enough, but once again the real value [as opposed to True Value] comes from the outside source.

Drunken discussion is always best behind a minority. Sensitivity and tact took the back seat right long with the passengers. One dropped comment led to an orbit of controversy: "If I had Arab friends, I'd insult them." Very cordially, Punjab continued to take these three jolly kids without incident or a blow up replica of Gandhi to their destination; however, undoubtedly, a new beckoning of attacks were being planned on every gay bar and club within a 500 mile radius. Whoever said the gay white male is the new wave of terrorism should get a cookie.

At this juncture, one may wonder, "What is the fiber that holds this together? What is the point here?" Well nana, if you want fiber, get Metamucil. For the point, it's rather plain that if you miss a tile whilst cleaning the bathroom, it will remain dirty until it is noticed.

KEEP ON TRUCKIN!!!!!!!

What I REALLY want for XXXMAS

Once a year, a low-fashion fat fuck becomes the epitome of the Hallmark season. Per the media standard, there are weeks and weeks of buildup, right before the very moment where everything goes EXPLODEE!!!!!!! Immediately after the nova, we return to not caring about everything that went down the month before. No, this isn't a tasteless soap opera sex-with-the-ex scenario, but I slap my own personal guarantee [right along with my creamy thighs] that this is even less entertaining and relevant than the Rockefeller Center Tree.

Holiday enthusiasts and bah-humbug misfits alike never really wonder about the dynamics that make this special time so extraordinary. There's more "going through the motions" than anything else - shopping, standing in obscenely long lines, wrapping and bagging gifts [dreadfully, at that], presenting them to "loved ones" over dinner or a party or some such function, feigning excitement at yet another green bean casserole, cleaning up, and thanking gawd it's over. Now that it's "over," this is an excellent time to reflect on what makes that one day so vibrant and exciting.

Most people were raised to believe that Mass, gift exchange, and family gathering [usually in that order] are the staples of this annual celebration. This could not be further from the truth. Nobody pays attention to Mass because that's pre-gift, hence an unimportant time filler that fails to drive the media meaning home - the crystal clear line between orthodox and secular becomes fuzzy, and that is absolutely NOT allowed. Then it's time for the REAL merriment - young and old alike assemble around the big ol' pine tree, be it real or fake [I myself prefer all things fake], surrounded by the material speculations that are soon to become reality. Anxiety runs high as those in authority prolong the torture with horrid tunes, anecdotes of years past, and equally lame goings-on that only add unnecessary stress and heartache. "GODDAMMITT SHUT UP I WANT MY SHIT ALREADY" becomes the unspoken mantra of mindless drones ready to partake of the REAL joy of the holiday. At long last, people discover the horror of revelation - yet another red turtleneck matches a contrived smile for a photo opportunity. Anticlimactic as it is, the day wares on. The spirit is crushed with shitty gifts, we no longer care about anything else going on. When do we say "ENOUGH ALREADY" and have the balls to break free from the mundane occasions that have been the trepidation of our lives all these years?

Breaking from tradition has never been an easy task. Imagine the heartbreak to transpire when the announcement is made, "Ok, this bullshit has got to stop, may we PLEASE do SOMETHING aside from the same ol' shit year after year to make this at least somewhat meaningful?" Gasps of horror and shock permeate the studio audience, but the stand is made and initiative is taken. Surely, excommunication from future family gatherings is a potential consequence, but the gain is worth the "loss."

So again the age-old query arises, "How is this done?" That may be simpler than originally anticipated. Consider your blessings - friends and real loved ones that actually care and wish to share the thrill. Gather with them instead...at least you'll get gifts you actually want. Traditional dismay is replaced with heightened pleasure and decreased fakety. However, one jamboree need not be the be-all-and-end-all - multiple goings on increase the chances of having an actual good time.

Now comes the difficult part - when all is completed, how can the heart remain alive...how can the fortitude stay intact? This is easier said than done - not every day is a gift-giving occasion designed to excite the senses. But keeping those we've cared about for many calendars is hardly a thorny complexity - just make sure you don't forget their birthdays.

Presently, we are embarking on the ringing in of yet another set of twelve months. Life may not change much...excessive imbibing of alcohol at and around the midnight hour, manufactured air kisses a la Hollywood premier parties, totally unattainable resolutions. Still, a spiritual epiphany may be realized. Not that months, even years, of intense introspection is needed, but it is harmless to recognize the meaning of our everyday...it's not impossible to care just as much, if not more, about those of consequence in our lives on March 3rd than on December 25th. Surely the holiday season carries a special connotation, and it's been a societal mainstay that we express love and joy then, but no one is a heathen for articulating their sentiment at any other time.

Past be damned....present be bliss...future be blessed....