Campaign Update

Both presidential candidates love attacking Wall Street and its many abusers-of-the-system while defending Main Street, which is a euphemism for us, the American people, the laborers, the masses, the many, citizens, you and me. But I don’t know anyone who lives on Main Street. In my experience, Main Streets across the nation are generally populated by businesses, usually banks and Subway sandwich shops and auto repair shops and sometimes hospitals, but rarely residences. If politicians wanted to use a euphemism for us, regular people, the hurting, average Americans, Yankees, gringos, they should use Maple Street or Second Street, which is actually the most common street name in these United States, or Martin Luther King Boulevard, which would imply that the candidate supports black people, or Cesar Chavez Avenue, which indicates his support of Latinos, or Broadway, which is a very long street, stretching from downtown Manhattan all the way to Albany and has the added benefit of voicing the candidate’s support for the arts, which I have heard very little about in this election.

McCain feels your pain, was a P.O.W.

John McCain’s acceptance speech this evening was stilted, his smiles forced, and his fresh ideas non-existant. One thing he said, however, struck me, and that was, “I fight for Americans. I fight for you. I fight for Bill and Sue Nebe from Farmington Hills, Michigan, who lost their real estate investments in the bad housing market. Bill got a temporary job after he was out of work for seven months. Sue works three jobs to help pay the bills.”

Wow. Heartbreaking, no? They lost their real estate investments in the bad housing market.

What about the millions of people whose homes were foreclosed on because of predatory lenders? McSame is so out of touch he thinks the victims of the subprime mortgage crisis were people who couldn’t make a profit on their investment properties. Those poor, poor house flippers. If I weren’t cleansing my colon right now [read: shitting out the legos I swallowed when I was six] I’d throw up.

Jesse Jackson Sweating in Obama’s Kitchen

My family, though never running on all cylinders, has always been there for me. Absent fathers never really made my radar, which tracks things I think this country needs to change before we collapse into anarchy – the environment, affordable housing, longer cell phone battery life, and whatnot.

I do, however, recognize that the problem of fatherlessness exists, especially in the black community, as brought to our attention by Sen. Barack Obama, close friend of T&S, in his Father’s Day speech.

By now you’ve heard the Rev. Jesse Jackson say on a hot mic that Obama be talkin’ down to black folk. I could not disagree more.

Obama highlighting the issue of deadbeat dads to blacks is the opposite of talking down to them. It’s treating them with enough respect to talk to them like adults, addressing the issue head-on, and applying it directly to the forehead.

Obama said yesterday he would not back down from the issue, a position T&S finds most laudable.

McCain: panderer or forgetful old coot?

Sen. John McCain, good friend of T&S, told a group in Pittsburgh that he gave the starting lineup of the Steelers to his captors in Vietnam when pressed for information. That’s funny; I was pretty sure it was the Green Bay Packers. Some great reporting from this douche.

Madonna seduced me

Her only weakness? Kabbalah

In 1997, at a Titanic-themed party in San Luis Obispo, Madonna tried to seduce me. She asked me what I would do if she put her hand down my pants. I said it depended on what she planned to do once inside my pants, then I asked her to stop fingering my asshole. She told me she wanted to make pasty, socially awkward, freakishly strong babies with me. That’s when I brought out the Zohar.

 

 

The Chase

Girls in movies say it all the time, I’m sure you’ve heard this one before: You just like the chase. The chase is like chemotherapy. Nobody likes chemotherapy; they like being cancer-free. Nobody likes the chase; they like fucking. Okay, maybe that’s a bad analogy.

Birth Week

Tell me you haven’t heard this line before (usually in a high-pitched whine): But you have to come out tonight, it’s my birthday on Saturday. Ladies, you are not eight years old, at least I hope you’re not, because that thing I said about your dress being revealing could be totally misconstrued if you are, but assuming you’re not, you can no longer have what we call a “birth week.” Yes, you are so clever for having the same idea as every other woman in her twenties (and too often thirties), to dedicate a week’s worth of debauchery to the celebration of your birth. Unfortunately your birth was not so significant, so world-altering, that it should merit the same level of celebration as Chanukah or MTV’s Spring Break. There’s good news, ladies. All those other girls who stole your brilliant idea of getting drunk every night for a week to celebrate their births – they are not worth a week-long extravaganza either. Grow up.

Shot from behind

What’s the last thing everybody does right after they’ve been literally stabbed in the back or shot from behind? They always turn around, like the last image they want in their brain is the face of their killer, and sometimes, if there’s doubt, the soon-departed will ask the killer, in a low decible, “Why?” Usually the answer is obvious, like, “Because you fucked my husband, cunt!” or “Because you tried to undercut my gang’s drug trafficking business, mother fucker,” and sometimes it is accidental, but none of it matters if you’re going to be dead in five seconds due to massive blood loss. If you have the time to say anything, a light bulb should really be going off in your head, telling you to come up with something memorable. I want my last words to be, “In the end the love you take is equal to the love you make,” or maybe, “Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on,” if I’m feeling ironic.