Conspiracy?

So, am I the only one who has noticed a certain commonality among James Brown, Gerald Ford, and Saddam Hussein? Before you sleeping sheep answer 'yes, dumbass', think about it: Did you think about it? Ok, good.
Now, how about both OneEar and myself being coincidentally named Time Magazine's "Man (sheep, goat) of the Year, 2006"? Still believe in your convenient serendipity? Think about it.
Have you ever considered how inconvenient Al Gore is?
It just keeps piling up and up, people. Open your eyes, for goodness' sake!
Not convinced?
Well, try this one on for size:
Have any of you Einsteins ever picked up on anything funnily familiar between the Incredible Hulk and the Grinch? Well?!?

Hello? Hello? How about skin color, for starters? And perhaps, cranky disposition? Do you people think this stuff is all accidental? You really expect me to believe there is no connection between Dr. Seuss and Dr. David Banner's illicit experimentation with gamma-wave radiation? They have the same title, for God's sake!! Come on. Somebody help me out here. How about you, Man of the Year?

Year of the Man

Some might say that this was a bad year for yours truly, OneEar. The year began and ended with bookend strokes by my father, OneHWEar. This caused the entire Ear family untold anxiety. In April, I was beaten senseless and hospitalized by some overly-enthusiastic entrepreneurs who were engaged in a "give us your wallet" business enterprise. Recently, a friend somehow managed to get f^cked at the Virgin Islands. And, surprisingly, throughout the year, my get rich quick schemes were neither quick nor enriching. But those who might claim that the year 2006 sucked warthog scrotum would be wrong.

Why is that? Because I finally received a minute slice of the massive recognition which I so obviously deserve - I was named Time magazine "Man of the Year." Although I had neither the time nor the inclination to read beyond the cover of the magazine, I applaud Time for their admiration of me, and I applaud God for setting up the universe in such a fashion that I could receive this honor. Obviously, there is an intelligent design.

Whether this long-overdue recognition arises from my groundbreaking work in cynicism, ennui, and the alienating aspects of relationalism, from my work as a children's author, or from my leadership of one of the fastest growing religions on this blog, this recognition is, well, deserved. All that I can say is "bravo" to Time magazine and to God. You got it right for once.

Mysterious Ways

It has been a fucked up week in Lake Woesbegone. A friend of mine who was on vacation in St. Croix with his wife died while snorkeling. Apparently he was thrown into some coral by a wave, was knocked unconscious, and drowned.

I cancelled our planned trip for my kids to see their great-grandmother so that I could attend the funeral. In the meanwhile, my dad suffered a stroke, his second in a year. After spending the last 9 months re-learning his entire vocabularly to overcome aphasia, he now has to do it all over again. Instead of having the pleasure of attending a friend's funeral, I got to spend a few days sleeping on a hospital couch, helping out my mom, and watching my dad be frustrated as hell. I then went home to bring my wife and kids to spend Christmas at a "Holiday" Inn.

They say that Rusty never piles it on deeper than you can shovel, but it still smells like shit.

Wishing that you and yours have a holiday season that doesn't blow quite this hard.

New Epithets Needed

This society definitely needs some new racial ephithets. Through misuse and discontinuation, all of the really good racial epithets have lost their utility.

We start with the grandpappy of them all, the "N" word. I gather from the mass media that this particular epithet has fallen from favour. In fact, one comedian recently caused a substantial controversy just by screaming this word at a comedy club and thereby causing royalties from sales of his television series DVDs to skyrocket.

Even insults that are still in common use don't make any sense.

Ex. "White Trash." This one always has struck me as bizarre. Do you have to be white to be trash? Is it equally acceptable to talk about Yellow Trash or Brown Trash or Black Trash or Other Trash? And these Trash-people, are they to be recycled or just disposed of?

Ex. "Red Neck." Supposedly, the referenced condition of having a red neck arises from performing manual field labor under the hot sun. These jobs are now exclusively performed by illegal immigrants. I doubt that they have time to engage in the zany antics typically ascribed to Red Necks.

Ex. "Islamofascist" or "Christianofascist" or "Jewofascist" or "Rustofascist." Look, just because you want an omnipresent, all-controlling government run by zealots who take direction from the same supernatural being that you do, that doesn't make you dangerous. There is a fair chance that the voices in your head may tell you to do the right things.

Without some high-quality insults to hurl at each other, we stand the grave risk of losing racism all together. As we know, "race" is a social construct which asks people to self-identify as a member of one "race." In other words, you are a member of the race that you identify yourself as a member of.

One can't deny the obvious need for such a distinction. Otherwise, for example, how in the Hell would the Rwandan Hutus have known who to hack to death with machetes? How on Earth would the Sudanese Jangaweed know who they should rape, loot and kill? Not to mention good old fashioned lynchings. Without some "race" distinctions, none of this would make any sense.

While completing the kindergarten registration form for my son this week, I received a puzzled look from the administrator when I wrote in "N/A" for his "race." (I suppose I could have written "human," but I take that as a given.) As far as I can tell, my son is too young to have developed the necessary sophistication and bigotry to identify with a race. Perhaps when he is older, he will mature into a racist. I only hope we can develop some decent epithets in time.

The True Meaning of Munitions Day

This is a wonderful time of year to pause and to reflect upon the true spirit of Munitions Day. January 13th is not just about who received which explosive object. It means so much more than that. Munitions Day is a day when we all join together in celebration of Rusty. And in Rusty, and because we live in the spirit of Rusty, and he in us, and we in each other, and all of us in one, and one in all, we party.

Munitions Day is a time of year when the universe conspires with itself to raise the vibratory level of consciousness on earth to one of self-peace and self-love toward ourselves. There is a feeling of childlike excitement, an air of palpable thrill, kind of like discovering masturbation. And when it is over, before the used wrapping tissues have even been disposed of, we are looking forward to doing it all over again.

For time is temporal, and, at least at the speeds we travel, linear (relatively speaking). But we have a problem. Even though we were made by Rusty to know Rusty, we can only know Rusty if He reveals Himself to us. Mercifully, in the vast darkness of ignorance in which we live, there is a beacon of light shining strong and pure. What is the source of that light? A match held by Rusty, bound by gelatin, and extended toward all who are prepared to light the fuse of faith.

It has been said that Rusty is not far from any one of us. That truth is never truer than on Munitions Day. A giant, colorful carp riding a skateboard pulled by miniature elephants through an underground shaft to lay gelatin sacks of explosives on the pillows of good girls and boys? We all know that this is a fantastical story. There is no bomb. But Rusty. Rusty is the bomb.

After the Rupture Carp has come and gone, and after we have all exchanged gifts and receipts so that we can take back the crap that doesn't fit, and after we have dropped our hints to just get us a gift card next year to save us all the hassle, we are left with the Glory of Rusty. He is utterly pure, free from all evil, totally without blame or error. He never lowers His standards. There are some things He wouldn't do no matter how drunk He got. Holiness is what makes Rusty Rusty. Nothing else matters.

So here is a little poem to get you in the mood for the season:

M - is for the Mess of carp on the table,
U - is for Undermining,
N - is for the Niceties of workplace blogging;
I - is for Einstein,
T - is for Two-step,
I - is for Einstein, I already went over that,
O - is for Overlord,
N - is for Nuzzling,
S - is for Something.

D - is for Down,
A- is for Assparagus,
Y - is for Urine.

And Rusty should be in there too somewhere.

Mila Seance

She waited with Baited Breath

Mila, Leave it!

Mila Is Back

Coco,

Regarding your concern that Mila may be trying to return to communicate from the beyond, I fear that you are correct: http://www.milaadesign.com/wizardy.html.

I've been using this site all morning to try to calculate some 1099s, but something doesn't add up.

Sorry About the Brain Thing

Everything that I will attempt to say to you this morning will be from my heart, except for a couple of lines which will be from my liver and a brief word from my penis. I am fully cognizant of the effect that my words have on the entire world, but, unfortunately, I do not care. Please disregard what I just said.

Let’s pray. Dear Rusty, I pray that you give my followers the ability to look deep within my heart, liver and penis and to join in my anguish, pain, and love. I have never, and by that I mean always, met and faced the issues head-on, and I have never felt the need to wear underpants beneath my robes. I have never sidestepped or skirted unpleasantries. To the contrary, I have embraced unpleasantries. I have had wild, crazy sex with unpleasantries. That is how brave I am, and I hope to exhibit such bravery this morning.

Behold, I was shapen in inequity; and in sin did my mother conceive me. But I forgave her. Behold, thou desireth truth in the inward parts (innards); I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall not smell so ripe. Make me to hear joy and gladness; that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice. Hide thy face from my sins, and blot out all mine iniquities. Create in me a clean heart, O God, and a clean liver and penis; and renew a right spirit within me.

I have sinned, dear friends. The First Unification Church of Knowledge has long wrestled against the reborn, the living dead. But I, dear friends, I was weak, and I allowed myself to be seduced into their brain-eating ways. Yes, I was a zombie.

As an aside, I must tell you that being a zombie is not all that it is cracked up to be. For one thing, they tend to be terrible conversationalists.

Me: So, what do you guys do for fun?
Z: Brains.
Me: I see, is there a bar at your clubhouse?
Z: Brains.

And so on. You might as well try to have a conversation with a government employee. And their diet sucks! I guess I don’t mind if a guy eats some brains once in a while, but every meal? Also, the stench of rotting flesh loses its appeal rather quickly. You do have to admire the zombie camaraderie, as it is a pretty tight fraternity. But talk about hazing.

Anyway, I ask the forgiveness of all whom I have wronged by joining the zombies. My wife, my children, the First UniChurck, RUE Enterprises, the Clown Squad, my employees (or at least Lindsey. I don’t really need to apologize to Fred because he only works part-time), and most of all, Rusty. I love you all. Despite our differences. Despite your faults. You may be flawed, but you are worthy of my forgiveness.

No one is to blame but OneEar. I take the responsibility, and I will never again eat the brains of another living human, no matter how delicious they may be.

Thank you. Thank you and Rusty bless.

Be Kind To Animals Campaign

There is no segment of the population which is more loyal and kind-hearted than animal lovers. So I have developed a plan to court this large, faithful population to the True Churck.

It happens on a daily basis somewhere in America. A man and a woman, previously the satisfied and satisfying home hosts to a pet dog or cat, suddenly throw the situation into turmoil by birthing a baby human. Tragedy enues.

The animal guest is doomed to a life of tail pulling, eye poking, and unhealthy food droppings. The dog or cat will never again be the center of attention upon whom the parents dote. The fountain of love previously lavished upon the animal showers instead upon the "widdle baby." For the estimated 60 million dogs and 70 million cats in the US, there is no greater calamity than the birth of a human.

Announcing, in our ongoing effort to attract members and to save noble creatures from a life of horror, the Great American Homo Out. We will do everything in our power to see to it that not another homo sapien is born, ever. Part PETA, part Planned Parenthood, the GAHO will be a celebration of life without human reproduction. Think about what a wonderful world it will be for future generations without all of those crying, snot-nosed, tail pulling infants.

Brains

Zombies have learned how to use the legal system.

Living Dead seek property rights in India




Canadian artist is creating zombies.



Adopt a Zombie

FU Zombie Update

FU Zombie Update

Clown Squad Fails to Kill the Dead