Why We Suck (3 page)

        d. Dr. Phil/Full and his holier-than-thou visit to the hospital to "help" Britney after she snapped and his claim immediately afterward that he was hosting an hour-long episode of his talk show where he and Britney would have a sit-down and he would help her turn the whole messy thing around and get her back on the right track. Which would've been nice. But she changed her mind. And he was still going to use her name to sell the episode until an uproar arose and everyone started calling him a media whore/ambulance chaser etc. Which gives you some hope for the American people. Until you stop to realize if Britney HAD appeared on the program it would more than likely have been the highest-rated show on TV all year.

    Believe me when I tell you-it's not just the Muslims who look at such information and immediately begin building bombs.

    Anyone talked to China lately?

    By the way-get Billy Ray Cyrus on the phone and tell him to start stock-piling that rehab money right now. You wanna talk about bipolar? Billy Ray's daughter performs LIVE IN CONCERT as Hannah Montana AND Miley Cyrus. And she's only fifteen years old. You don't need a calculator to figure out the math on this one. Christ-you could do it on an abacus.

    By the way-if you don't know what an abacus is-throw this book into the trash can right now.

    

    

    I don't mean you personally.

    Unless you are fat, loud and wear low-slung hip-hugging jeans with your fuchsia thong underwear and two inches of backfat, a half inch of side-slop and what looks like white jelly but is in fact a whole extra ass hanging off your stomach and over the front of those jeans. Which are six sizes too small.

    Or you insist on eating at McDonald's even though you're in Paris, France-not Texas.

    Or you think black socks and sandals are the zenith of summer style.

    Or you refuse to have your back waxed before the family trip to Europe.

    Or you're over the age of thirteen but still just LOVE Adam Sandler movies.

    Or you spend your entire tour of the British Museum going "Ewww-I just saw some dead dinosaur bones-can you believe I'm in London'n yer still in Cincinnati but we're both still talkin' live to each other?" into your cell phone.

    Or you spent four months bitching about Janet Jackson's tit and how it ruined your children when she exposed the nipple during the halftime show at Super Bowl XXXVIII but didn't blink an eye during the five hundred and sixteen erectile dysfunction/"get a hard-on for a whole weekend" pill commercials.

    Okay.

    I take it back.

    I do mean you.

    

    

    If you haven't seen or heard of this particular program you either spend far too much time sitting alone reading or suffer from a severe case of autism. If the first case applies-wake the fuck up. If your condition includes the second case-congratulations. You've been spared.

    Not only does this program make a fine, upstanding and fairly normal red-blooded American like myself want to gather up every teenage girl with raging hormones and absolutely no sense of real-life limits, stick 'em in a pair of standard-issue fatigues and drop them chuteless into the middle of the Iraqi desert, but what's a day at a warm and breezy beach compared to what would lie in store for their parents.

    Ya plant carrots ya get carrots.

    In between bouts of whining and texting and whining WHILE texting and soporific party-planning and stomping their Jimmy Choo-clad feet because their dads didn't book 50 Cent for their party these denizens of designer clothes and high-end vodka, these future mental vacuums harangue their moms about seven-thousand-dollar place settings and gold-engraved invitations.

    No jobs. No discernible talent. Not even one good blow job available from the entire batch.

    They are living breathing Bermuda triangles.

    Loaded with cash but not one iota of interest in anything other than the mundane.

    Problem is-the terrorists get basic cable too.

    

    

    The Donald doesn't drink.

    At all.

    Ever.

    But some brilliant business guy came up with the idea for Grey Goose vodka-a smooth, sensational drink that would be distilled in its best form and become the best vodka in the world and be delivered into your hands in the most gorgeous bottle you could imagine.

    Years later he sold the brand for over one billion dollars.

    The Donald couldn't keep himself away.

    He came up with an okay vodka that is distilled in an okay form but comes in a gold-plated bottle that is worth far more than the drink itself.

    He went on CNN and told Larry King that even though he hadn't tasted the stuff himself, the people who worked for him guaranteed it was the best-tasting vodka ever made. And oh, yeah, boss-by the way-no one ever makes fun of your hair.

    See, no matter what you might think about extreme Islam and its fevered believers, one thing you can take as a guarantee is this: they have a really truly madly deeply held passion for the things they love/hate. In other words, if they do not drink beer the last possible idea they would come up with is Muslim ale. Unless every bottle contained a secret hidden explosive device that was ignited by the opening of each individual cap.

    And how many times could that work.

    Maybe once.

    Except in my family at Xmastime.

    Then-maybe-somewhere between the second six-pack and the fourth dead uncle-we'd be bound to figure it out.

    

    

    One of the big downsides of the Monica Lewinsky scandal as far as men were concerned was this-the highly acclaimed and heavily leaned upon "blow jobs don't count" rule that so many men had loved and lived by as a way of not really cheating on their wives/girlfriends was not only on full public display but became everyday fodder for discussion with almost every woman you knew-cousin, friend, spouse, sister, daughter, mother.

    It's the one thing men will never forgive him for.

    But had he not gotten caught-most men, including myself-along with a large bevy of women-would have agreed with the basic idea: balance the budget, orchestrate a healthy and robust economy, keep our country away from war? Free blow jobs.

    Talk about an incentive. If every president knew-if he had it in writing-that a balanced budget meant a free blow job? Take my word for it-there would no longer be a federal deficit.

    I'd even take it a step further. JFK slept with Marilyn Monroe and Angie Dickinson-the two hottest chicks on the face of Planet Hollywood during the early sixties.

    Let's run with it, baby. Lower taxes? Tag Tyra Banks. Unemployment goes down? So does Sienna Miller. You win a war while in the Oval Office? You get to bang Halle Berry. And if Halle or Sienna or Tyra or whoever has a problem with the whole idea-hey, it's for the good of all mankind.

    Let me tell you something. George Bush Junior looks like he hasn't gotten laid-never mind a blow job-since he quit drinking and snorting coke. If you guaranteed him that Sharon Stone would suck his testicles on Tuesday afternoon the war in Iraq would be over on Monday morning. He'd be sitting at his desk with his pants down watching a director's cut DVD of Basic Instinct Three-the widescreen edition.

    The point I'm trying to make here is this: most of the world never understood the anger and unrest over the Monica Lewinsky deal because the idea that a world leader would receive oral satisfaction from a surrogate in a historically significant location made perfect sense to them. The conquering hero, the triumphant tribal chief blah blah blah. In France, Greece, Italy, Ireland, Turkey, Turkistan-everywhere else on this green globe-no one gives a crap who their leaders end up in bed with. All they care about is results-food, family, shelter. That's all anyone should care about.

    We finally get a leader who not only solves most of our financial problems but is intelligent and compassionate and is not only interested in foreign policy but seems to have a pretty good sense of how to go about dealing with it and what do we do? Fry him up over a late-night snogfest.

    Even terrorists like blow jobs.

    And I'll go one step further: I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired of right-wing, clean-living, religious fundamentalists trying to run this country. It seems to me that the less fun the president has the more trouble our country gets into.

    JFK? Womanizing, cigar-smoking, beer-drinking, boat-loving guy who scared the shit out of the Russians and Castro and started the Peace Corps. Nixon? Staid, isolated, intellectual monogamist who hated half the people who were breathing and the limits of the Constitution. LBJ? Lunatic pussyhound with a penchant for bourbon who gave us welfare and signed the civil rights bill and when he screwed up in Vietnam decided to get the hell out of the way. Bush Jr? You get the idea.

    I think every presidential candidate-man or woman-from here on in should have to prove that they not only drank but smoked weed and tried blow and had casual sex while in college and maybe even beyond. In other words-they were fairly normal, just like the rest of us. No blow, no booze, no weed, no sex? Guess what? No federal matching funds. You want my vote? Show me some pictures of you in a rum punch-stained bedsheet at a college toga party. Forget some bullshit behind-the-scenes-developed middle-of-the-road policy on stem cell research or the future of the Middle East-I want to hear how many Twinkies you ate after the Halloween bong hit competition during your sophomore fall term.

    Now Bush Junior apparently performed many of these actual tasks but decided to cover all of them up. No dice, folks. You gotta be proud of them. Cut to the chase and avoid all the bullshit. Like Obama. Did he do blow. Yup. How do we know. He told us. Weed too. Now that's the kind of candidate I like. Made mistakes. Owns up. Probably also wore ridiculous pants and had shitty haircuts too. Get the point?

    Forget your grade point average and your congressional voting record-I want Polaroids of your ass etc. on display during some drug-and-sex-fueled youthful indiscretion. And we wanna see them in People magazine. DURING the campaign. Released by your own staff. Make it personal-not presidential. One of the great things about JFK was the fact that he was funny. As was Reagan. As was Clinton. And if the leader of this country doesn't find his job funny-believe me, we're fucked.

    

    

    The day of her debut as a network news anchor her third story from the lead was about Tom Cruise's baby.

    She led with a report about the war in Iraq.

    The second story dealt with the skyrocketing price of gas at pumps across the country.

    And then-Tom Cruise's baby.

    Poverty? Nope.

    Genocide in Darfur? Not yet.

    A possible cure for cervical cancer in preteen American girls?

    Nope.

    Tom Cruise's baby.

    That's what the news has come down to in this country-with minor variations on any given night:

    

    

    Wildfires continue to rage in Southern California.

    President Bush to visit the Middle East.

    Gwyneth Paltrow chokes on a raisin.

    

    

    Hurricane Carole set to hit the Florida coast.

    Mitt Romney wins Republican primary in Michigan.

    Nicole Kidman's face doesn't move.

    That's all I'm asking for-throw in a curveball. I know that no one in America is really reporting vital facts and true information anymore. It's all showbiz. Anderson Cooper only looks forward to being live on location in New Orleans or Malibu so he can climb out of a monkey suit and wear a tight-fitting T-shirt that shows off his pecs-so let's have some fun with it all. Make some shit up that catches us off guard or-even better-makes us laugh.

    And you wonder why half of the audience gets their news from The Daily Show with Jon Stewart?

    

    

    Most of the people on this planet have massive problems finding enough food to eat, yet we not only throw away more food in the course of a single day than they might see in their entire life spans-we also have obese pets. And books about obese pets. And sidebar segments on national news programs about how to put your obese pets on a weight-loss/ workout regimen. Meanwhile-most of these pets that are eating too much dog and cat food actually ARE food in other parts of the world-so while we are desperately trying to slim them down there are families of eight in Africa who are dreaming of roasting them on a rusty spit over an open flame. They hate us and our pets. We make no sense to them.

    Not to mention The Food Channel.

    

    

    A lot of people on planet Earth spend every waking hour of each and every day "working out"-walking twelve miles with ceramic jugs on their heads to get clean drinking water and another twelve miles back. Hunting and searching for scraps of rice. Or killing and skinning and deboning what we would call pets for dinner. Or chopping branches and wild brush in order to rethatch the rooftops on their meager huts after the most recent monsoon/hurricane/tsunami left them sleeping under the stars. This is when they aren't working for slave wages under the scrutiny of whatever dictator/communist regime currently runs their country while they work seventeen hours a day to make Nike sneakers that cost pennies to produce and sell at your local Foot Locker for slightly less than five hundred bucks. Meanwhile-we buy aluminum- or titanium-tubed gizmos they made for Suzanne Somers to sell to us so that we can tone and firm up our oversized thighs and ass cheeks. Then we wonder why the ones who can't get here to live just wanna watch someone-anyone-blow us up. Hmmm.