I’m proud to live in a country where an unemployment level near ten-percent and spending a quarter-million to blow up the sky can co-exist, all in the name of a good birthday party. God Bless America!
Category Archives: Rants, &c.
Roberto Alomar. How is this not a bigger story? Roberto Alomar has full-blown AIDS and has been banging his girlfriend for three years—without telling her! Now she wants $15MM. You’re goddamn right she does. He wasn’t screwing around with HIV or sort-of AIDS, full-on AIDS!
The New York Post was kind enough to post the details of the suit on its website, complete with Mr. Alomar and Ms. Dall’s addresses. From the looks of things Dall’s attorneys are quite confident—she’s already started redecorating. But seriously, for $15MM can’t you do better than Crate & Barrel? Roberto isn’t exactly feeling the recession from his marina either. He should have no trouble scraping up the money to pay Ilya, or selling the story rights for some made for TV movie. I can see the title now: Posion Dart: The Roberto Alomar Story
We’re proud to introduce our new feature, Puddle of Suck, which is the list of all things at least one half of Sweet Merciful Crap’s editorial board considers really, really lame right now. –PM
Burberry– Really, it’s time to let this pattern go. Where did it come from? Why did unisex plaid ever become popular anyway? It’s become impossible for me to take anyone wearing any amount of Burberry very seriously. “I know, I’ll get the same pretentious and overpriced scarf that everyone else in the world has right now. Why not?”
Bruce Springsteen– Look, his music sucks to my ears, but I would never question people who like him just because I don’t happen to. You can listen to whatever you want for all I care. I booed him loudly in a bar at the end of his Superbowl performance for no real reason other than that I felt like doing it. People looked at me like I had just spat on the Pope; the disgust that I would brazenly jeer at an American Icon was very visible on their faces. I even had someone try to physically silence me with a hand to prevent this blasphamy. Bruce Springsteen can get the hell out of my hot tub right now.
Those brown Louis Vuitton handbags- Unfortunately for all you ladies with these things, they don’t come in sizes large enough to hold all the insecurities you clearly have to be carrying around. Remember the old 1930s photos when everyone was wearing a black tophat. You guys are that for the new millenium.
Volvo Doors- It’s one thing to have a loose suspension or a rattling transmission now and then, it’s entirely another to have to scamper into your automobile from the rear passenger side like some kind of deranged hobo car thief each time you want to run to the liquor store because some geeky Swedish assembly line worker fucked up three different door hinges in the course of an afternoon.
Obama Worshipping- Now that the election is over it’s time to tone down the Obama fellatio a bit and see if this son of a bitch can actually fix anything. That Shepard Fairly print in the window of your studio apartment and the “We Did It” sticker on your Subaru are going to look pretty stupid in two years when he has dissolved the Congress and we are all scavangeing the bones of dead friends for scraps of meat after the world socio-economic order has completely collapsed. Hell, it’s already starting to look dumb with all these tax deadbeats he is trying to cram down our throat.
Patriots Fans- I have listened to their whining nonsense for way too long thi season. They have entire blogs and writers devoted to moaning and bitching about their horrible fortune. If you even try to bring up the subject of football in their presence, the fucking winghing like a silly gang of whores: “Jake Delhomme is just killing my fantasy team right now-” “I can’t believe what happened to Tom Brady. It was so unfair.” For a franchise that was so moribund as to be on the verge of leaving town with hardly a whisper of protest from a disaffected fan base nary a decade ago, they sure are pretty enthusiastic these days.
Exercise- Fuck Exercise.
I don’t really like writing or talking about how awful George Bush is, because it is a line of discussion a lot of very self-righteous enjoy engaging in and I hate self-righteous people. Nonetheless, I am not going to let that crummy bastard slink off to Texas without getting in a last word for posterity’s sake, just a quick little rant to remind myself of how awful he was 30 years from now…
It is and has been very fashionable for a while now for people to call George Bush the worst president ever. I have heard and read this claim made in lots of places, but I find it a difficult one to swallow. I doubt whether many of the people making it had to suffer through the Harding years or were sitting around the kitchen table in 1861 cursing James Buchanan’s domestic policy. So I won’t call George Bush the worst president ever, I’ll just call him a disgraceful dumb fuckup who did more damage to human civilization than three Mount Vesuviuses. It was a terrible thing to have to enter adulthood under his reign. I have spent a full 30 percent of my life living under this man’s rule and I know I am worse for it on a personal level in ways that I cannot quite explain or understand. He has left a horrible scar on my psyche.
I doubt George will ever recognize his own shittiness, or, if he does, care much about it. Idiots rarely make time for self-reflection. I really like to think in my own head, that one day, while he is clearing brush on his ranch under a hot Texas sun, he pauses, looks out over the prairie and have the realization of his own disgracefully terrible performance whack him on the cerebellum. Maybe he will catch a glimpse of this in his own head, but I doubt that will ever happen. He is a mean, petty, inept criminal, and if there were any justice in the world, his last trip out of the White House would be in the bed of a garbage truck.
We got what we deserved with W, and so did the Republican Party who enabled his Jesus-fueled policy for all those years and rode his coattails to victory in 2004. The pricetag for that was high for the GOP, and the check came due on a Tuesday last November, when the electorate decided it was downright giddy over a black man with a Muslim name compared to anybody with a R next to their name tag.
My grievance list is long: A shattered economy, a never-ending meat grinder war in the Middle East against a bunch of sandaled Muslims, a 10-trillion dollar deficit, a systematic dismantling of consumer and environmental protections, the fear of having a government that is not only listening to and watching you but might well yank you off the street and ship you to Jordan to have your bones beaten into jelly with copper piping in the name of fighting terror. He named some horse groomer as FEMA director and then said he was doing a “heckuva job” as a major American city drowned and the survivors ate each other. He denied global warming, made it easier to dump poison into the skies and water, raze national forests, and dump coal sludge into rivers.
It would be unfair to blame the man for the ruination of freemarket capitalism that is underway, but it is a much more shameful reality that George’s economic policy was purely formed for the benefit of a permanent aristocracy, the people sitting on the tippy top of one of the largest disparities of wealth in the history of mankind. He bent the machinery of government to provide the most help to those who need it the least. This was apparently not a source of any embarrassment for him, nor for his backers. If he ever once mentioned the poor or the homeless, or did anything at all to benefit them, it was purely by accident.
In the end, everything he touched turned to poison. He couldn’t even come to his own party’s convention in his last year, no one wanted to see his hideous visage. He plunged from a 90% approval rating to the point where not even a GOP candidate running for city clerk in Branson, Missouri wanted to be seen with him.
It is hard to squander that much goodwill. Even if he ran around the front steps of the White House naked with but a dashiki on burning an American flag, his approval rating would be higher than it is now. He made America hated, more hated than it has ever been in its history. Everyone who voted for him in 2004 ought to have to walk around with a big red “W” emblazoned on their breast for ten years.
He is a national failure, a stain on our collective soul that will never be erased. We had a fine chance to send him back to clearing brush in Texas in 2004, and if only we had realized that this was a task he was much more suited to in both temperment and intelligence, a lot of the hideousness of the last four years could’ve been averted. We could’ve closed the book on him and we didn’t. It would be a great thing had we learned our lesson then: that perhaps electing the man who claims to be closest to Jesus solely for that reason alone may not be the best public policy, and that perhaps it is not shrewd to elect a low-rent pampered dunce for the highest office in the land. Let alone twice.
The consequences for massive failures in jobs like Investment Bank CEO and American President are not so harsh as they are in the rest of the world. George will retreat down to Crawford with Laura, his dogs, and a permanent Secret Service detail. He will sit on his $6,700 leather sofa in the afternoons and watch football and drink near beer and think about his time in office, when he was the Most Powerful Man in the World, when he was whisked around the world in a 500 million dollar jet and up-armored V-12 limousines capable of stopping a .50 caliber shell at close range. His per-hour speaking rate will be about 1/8th of Bill Clinton’s and he will grow old, waiting for the screws of history to turn him in a favorable light.
Again, I think he is too stupid to really truly grasp what a scar he has left on the arc of human history… but maybe that doesn’t matter. He is gone now and no one is jumping to answer his phone calls. It took me eight years, but in the final 20 minutes of the Bush presidency I got to boo him. I booed and booed and booed. Friends said I was nuts, that there was no way he could here me, but so what? They missed the point. I wanted to throw my shoe at his helicopter as it pulled away over my head, but it was too cold out and I shook my fist and watched it fly down the mall towards the airport instead.
I am Adlai Plebeian and I support two things: big oil money paying Detroit’s bailout and airlines weighing passengers. Both chafe me in ways only ostrich racers and camel jockeys appreciate. Why should I pay for years of horrible mismanagement and inferior product offerings? Am I more responsible to bail them out than oil companies who propped them up in the first place? And where do Airlines get off charging me an extra $30 to check a bag at the same time allowing some person twice my weight the same cabin baggage allowance at the same fare? End the madness!
ExxonMobil earned $40B in 2007 and continues to break quarterly profit records for U.S. companies ($14.83B for last quarter). Government loans of $17B to GM and Chrysler came from you and me, while oil companies continue enjoying their record profits and continue to do business as usual. What good is a $17B loan to GM going to do decrease energy usage and oil dependence when oil companies continue earning profits. Cheap gasoline and unheard of oil profits dragged Detriot into this mess. It’s only fair these profits, enjoyed on the wings of Detroit’s crash and burn, finance cleaning up the wreckage. Oil company profits were spent to maintain the supremacy of inefficient gasoline powered automobiles, now they should pay to save the industry they have helped bring close to destruction. Nobody whined when big tobacco had to fund efforts to prevent tobacco addiction; few will whine when big-oil funds programs to end oil addiction.
Throw a federal fuel tax on top and there is a plan that might just save U.S. auto makers. Fluctuations in the price of commodity so necessary to general commerce are absurd. A federal-tax to stablize the price of gas near $3.00/gallon makes automakers rethink some basic elements of their offerings, and makes oil companies look to alternate revenue sources than hawking cheap gasoline to people with big cars. And if people want to drive, revenue from the tax supports road maintenance, infrastructure upgrades to support re-fueling stations to deliver electricty, hydrogen or whatever powers the cars of tomorrow.
They’re quite sensible really, big oil paying for Detroit’s bailout and a gas tax, which is exactly why you’ll never see them in action.
…And while were at it, let airlines weigh passengers. Quite frankly I am furious that I have to pay to check a bag on the airline. A 250 pound individual to bring 2 carry-on bags and 100 pounds of superfluous body mass into a cabin. This is not fair. Why am I paying for the fuel costs to lug around your unhealthy lifestyle? An airline ticket should be good for 250 lbs. of carriage. Passengers and their bags will stand on a platform to weigh everything. If it’s more than 250 pounds, pay up. Airlines should charge more to passengers who cost more to transport. At FedEx/UPS/USPS when it weighs more you pay more to ship it—is this somehow different?
Earlier we brought you R. J. Reynolds’ latest effort from what is left of their (or any tobacco company’s) ad department. Gone are the days of giant KOOL billboards along the highway and Joe Camel in every issue of Sports Illustrated. Hell, they even took the Winston out of NASCAR (not to mention the Flintstones). Regulation of tobacco advertising leaves companies hamstrung in efforts to recruit new customers. It goes further, forcing them to scare the shit out of current customers, all with money they used to spend making glamorous their vice.
Altria, Philip Morris at the time, managed to get their message across to a young man in Hawaii before regulations got to their current state, and it’s paying out in spades. In a playing field where tobacco companies can’t spend their way into mass media, Altria is joining the Obama camp—Yes We Can! Who needs Joe Fucking Camel when you have Barack Obama? The brass at Altria, is betting that tobacco is back, and are preparing for a wave of young kids in leather jackets all wanting Marlboro Reds, just like The President. There is even talk of going back to the pre-corporate-facelift Philip Morris moniker.
Money can’t buy an ad that good, and the Obama seal of approval didn’t cost a dime. A commemorative buy 2 get 1 free bundle of Marlboro Reds, featuring a Presidential Warrant designed by Obama’s administration, kicks off the partnership between The President and Marlboro—and will hit select markets in time for inauguration weekend. Said an insider for the tobacco giant “R.J. Reynolds had Roosevelt, WWII, and even the secretary of the Treasury in the 40’s, but we learned our lesson and scored Reagan, and now the coup de gras. Things look good.”
Did you folks know the NFL holiday shop has customizable jerseys from every team available for delivery on the 24th? And free shipping on all orders over 75 dollars? They sure do. And while shopping for your loved ones, why not have some fun with the NFL’s content filters? Would they really let you make a Ron Mexico jersey? We here at Sweet Merciful Crap hereby offer our Holiday Jersey shopping guide:
For you holiday shoppers in the Carolinas, how about this handsome Rae Carruth #83 jersey for Jr. this Christmas? Nothing says, “I support pregnant mother murderers” like this one. The problem is that if you try to customize your Carruth jersey on NFLshop.com, you’ll get this message: “Your current entry cannot be processed. Some entries are prohibited due to guidelines for past and present player names. Please create a new entry.”
Fair Enough, how about “R Carruth”?
Next up, for the St. Louis fan in all of us, how about this Lawrence Phillips jersey? No guideline prohibitions on this one! In fact, NFLshop.com extols it as a “Great choice! To purchase your customized jersey, click on “ADD TO CART.”
And how about everybody’s favorite rascal, Ron Mexico? Will NFLshop allow us to purchase the Number 7 of the immortal Atlanta Falcons QB? Sadly, no: “Your current entry cannot be processed. Language deemed inappropriate, derogatory, or profane will not be accepted. Please create a new entry.” Okay then… how about… “R Mexico”? Nope, same thing. Other entries not allowed include “Bad Newz,” “Rape Stand,” and “The Big Dog.”In fact, if you try to put the name “Vick” on any customizable jersey from any team with any number in the NFL’s online store, you will be told that language is deemed inappropriate, your computer will seize up, and Roger Goodall’s jackbooted thugs will break down your door and truncheon you and your poor family right next to the Christmas tree. But if you’re determined enough to put your questionable taste on display for the world to see, may we suggest:
So Vick torturing animals draws the attention of the NFL cops, but where do the filters on the NFL’s super computers draw the line at censoring Christmas gifts of dubious taste? Apparently,no problems here for you Giants fans:
But what about…
Try putting a “Hung” on number 81 of the Vikings, and you’ll get this: “Your current entry cannot be processed. Language deemed inappropriate, derogatory, or profane will not be accepted. Please create a new entry.” This one is easily avoided with something much more offensive though (click here for reference):