Tricia Walsh-Smith sucks

Tricia Walsh -Smith has no class what so ever. If you don’t know who she is she's the Tramp who decides to flaunt her failed marriage on you tube (You tube has replaced the Jerry Springer Show in allowing Classless inbreed people a voice)
There's a place for this type of name-calling and humiliation and it begins right here in the Columns of BMC that’s right I said it. I mean C'mon clearly this Chick is looking to boost her sagging Breast and Career here’s to the sucker that's going to give her an acting job, Here’s to the Ass wipe that will defend her, and here’s to You Tube for becoming the Window to the trash of America!!
I'm not running for President anymore so I can say what I please !
Killer Smurf
oh before I Forget Special Thanks to Balddee for his assistance with the Foul Language

On an Idle Wednesday

Remo came back from Mad Jacks with frosty brew in stomach, and an enlightened mind in the skull. He posed an interested question, "Given the opportunity to have sex with one woman, celebrity or otherwise, but only one woman how long would you do it for-- the caveat: after your time is up you no longer get to have sex for the rest of your life."

I thought about this with a much furrowed brow. "You mean at the end that would be it? I don't know, five years, maybe?"

Remo watched the television for a second, then offered a follow-up question, "What if you were given the option of having sex with any woman that you wanted, but at the end of the time you couldn't have sex for the rest of your life? So, for instance, you're thinking of a good looking woman and, 'BOOM' there she is waiting for you."

"Wow, the TV would take on a new version of the Home Shopping Network; live television would change as we know it."

"What's the minimum amount of days that you would do that?"

"I dunno, six months?"

"I think I would go even as low as thirty days, hell, probably a day. Think about the opportunities. And it's not like there isn't legal precedence behind this, it's not like we've actually done anything with ourselves for the past couple of years anyway."

"Oh I'd have to kill myself when it was all over. A) I would never be able to accomplish anything so great in the rest of my life, and B) What else would I try to do? Or, snap, best way to do it, bring Salma Hayek over to Balddee's house, and have your way with her."

Remo shot whiskey out of his nose and down the front of his shirt, "Balddee wants to be my dick, Balddee wants to be my dick, Balddee wants to be my dick."

"Just calling him, and asking for the name of various Brazilian girls would be worth it. Hell, for the comedic value alone I would probably be able to go for like 30 days."

Remo and I both slurped silently on our brimful of whiskys, each amassing a list in his head for how we would spend our 30 days.

Saturday Night Live -Hillary Clinton

I am very disheartened to see Saturday Night Live plunge their hat into the Political Ring and endorse a Candidate. I am fairly new to the Code of Conduct for any Television Show but I thought that neutrality was the unspoken word.

This is what the Writers Strike hath rot upon the viewing public? We go months without Writers only to so see them come back and throw their Political point of view down our throats. And SNL is so scared to stand up to them cause there just happy too not Air anymore reruns. The Tina Fey Clinton stomping was cute the Counterpoint from Tracy Morgan was funny as well but enough is enough.

I want jokes not this constant feeble attempt to sway the audience with calculated Acting and commentary in Support of Senator Clinton.

As you will recall I recently put an end to my Campaign for President I had sent a wonderful 30 page get to know Killer Smurf Campaign package to SNL and you know what those Hemorrhoids Did.

THEY SENT IT BACK TO ME SAYING THEY DONT ENDORSE CANDIDATES.
Well then what the HELL ARE YOU PUTTING ME THRU EVERY FUCKING SATURDAY YOU PUNCHERED DILDOS!! BY MAKING EXCUSES FOR LITTLE OLD RAP MASTER HILLARY!!!

Sorry I'm Bitter about dropping out of the Presidential Race

Spitzer was Hung out to Dry

That got your attention .
If you are new to the haloed halls of the BMC let me introduce myself.
My name is Balddee and I am the Love Guru.
In the next few days we are going to discuss Sex and America's fear of it. Why?
Because someone has to Challenge the status quote on this Subject and who better then me the Love Guru.

Compared to the rest of the World America has the most Conservative Attitude toward Sex we watch Porn in all it's various Form yet if someone is open about their desires they are Shot down faster then anybody telling Bush not to invade Iraq
(yeah I said it!!)

So what are we going to discuss the Topics will be.

· Should Elliot Spitzer have resigned for paying for Prostitution?
· Legalizing Anal Sex
· Why can’t I find a Good Brothel in Connecticut?
There will be more topics as this Dialogue continues so stay tuned .

Presidential Campaign

Before I begin.
I want to thank all the Volunteers, for all the hard work, and their tireless efforts in supporting this brief but honorable Campaign .

Short lived as it was.

I believe we showed the Nation and the World what a handful of spirited individuals could achieve in such a short space and Time.

With a humble heart I step down and make way for the true candidate who will earn the Place as President of the United States.

With that said let me share with you some things

What I have learned thus Far from the 2008 Race to The White House and the Media

· Nobody takes you seriously if Hare Krishna’s endorse you.
· Mc Cain Still can’t raise his Arms.
· There are Repercussions for dry humping Furniture.
· Smoking while walking down the streets of Berkley gives one a brief glimpse into Nazi Politics (Lighten Up Guys Seriously.)
· Hillary Clinton really is a Gangster! She has her Donors Send the Heads of Horses to Nancy Pelosi to ensure her vote. Gangster
· If you play an Accordion nobody wants you in there Rock n Roll Band.
· Balddee makes a horrible Hot Dish.
· Rev James David Manning needs a Hug
· According to Fox News Obama has to apologize for any and every Single Comment that any and every single African American has to say.
· Why is nobody talking about McCain’s endorsement from Gay hating Preacher John Hagee or more important why isn’t Fox News?
· Obama.. Still sounds like a Starship Commander from Star Trek .


I dropped out of the Race but not the war.

Lucious Evil Smurf

Isaac Biachu

I was thinking about that I.N.S Agent you know the one in New York who was just Busted for abusing his Authority. Don't Know what I'm talking about ?

Short Story An Immigration agent would get sex in-exchange for Green Cards . Yes. oh the horror! oh the humanity !!

But Because I have absolutely NO Class what so ever lets look at the Upside to this shall we ??

Seriously you know he had to be happy as hell to wake up in the morning and get to work he couldn't wait .

Could you imagine while brushing your teeth you spin the Globe and stop it with you finger and where your Finger Lands that's the piece of Ass your tapping ? Imagine his works Schedule
Monday : Brazil
Tuesday : China
Wed : Colombia

Say what ya want there is a bright spot this go ahead tell me I'm wrong.

Which leads me to this was he really wrong ?

Isn't there a time during your work day that you don't wish you could Meet Debbie by the water cooler for a little BJ and all you had to do is make an Office run to Staples ?
Isaac Biachu is my new hero he put's the Sle in Sleaze the best part is he got Punished with Pay talk about getting away with it all .

Conversations ~ four of nine

where was I?

in the past.

how long?

as long as you needed. your childhood.

it was limited and free.

you're being poetic.

yes?

people don't talk like that.

no.

the great tragedy of modern man may be the loss of poetry in everyday language and the absence of suits and hats.

if only that were the only great tragedy.

what else is there?

war

you are not one of those people.

none of us are. until the day we are.

why?

the anger has to go somewhere.

what anger?

it's in my mind when i wake up.

don't we all have that?

whether you have it or not doesn't matter. i do.

what do you have to be angry about?

no one knows who i am.

so show them.

i can't.

why?

i don't want to surround myself with confused and angry people.

have you hidden yourself that well?

yes. dammit.

I want u !!!!

Evil Smurf wants your VOTE !!

I want to toss my hat in the Political arena! Tired of the Political Right ? Tired of the Political Left ?

Tired of the fake politicians saying whatever they can to win you vote, and then once in office your needs are forgotten .

I have an exit strategy for any situation in any War torn Country that includes Iraq , I have a plan for Health Care , I have a plan to stop Cat Juggling ( Just want to see if your Paying attention. )

I have a plan that consists of a plan that includes a Solid Plan . I am the most qualified to represent this great Nation look at my competition .

• 
  Nader is Running as an Independent but he's on the Republican Payroll ( nuff said )
• 
  McCain, if someone walks up behind him he will have a heart attack. He cant fully raise his arms can you really trust someone who cant raise there arms fully ?
• 
  Barack Obama sounds like a Star Wars Character not a Predsident .
• 
  Hillary Clinton she should be running a Hip Hop Label.
• 
  Huckabee I just hear the Dueling Banjoes whenever someone says his name

My name is Lucious Evil Smurf and I want your vote

Birth of a Prophet

After the blithe romance ended, we mixed Scotch and American whiskey to see the effects. A rookie, with the right intentions, threw in a pinch of Minnesota's finest shwag and we all ashed an American Spirit just to see the effect-- then we waited.

The waiting is, as always, the hardest part. What, dear reader, was the wait of mighty Zeus in observing his Athenian headache before asking the cuckolded Hephaestus for hammer and chisel to relieve the pain? Or was it even the pain that lead him to render his skull asunder? Was it the curiosity?

An area witch doctor, Hecate, who had been observing the entire proceedings with a keen interest and wary eye, finally stepped into the proceedings. Grabbing hold of the concoction, she gave it three turns, shook it, then decanted a slight bit of bile while queuing up track eight from the Screamin' Cheetah Wheelies seminal album Big Wheel.

A partial, guttural question was induced over the acrid potion- "Why is their no handicap parking at the special Olympics?" -before a glorious mist of smoke was given forth.

The office of the BMC sat in awe and mixed wonder. Not so much for the magic at hand, but with deep respect for the smoke and mirrors that causes our simplistic minds to stop for traffic accidents and the self-inflicted pain brought upon by others.

And up from the depths, 30 stories high with his head in the sky was birthed the Rehab Prophet. Critics of the BMC were skeptical at first siting the BMC's inability to accept rehab in the past (we say nooooooo, nooooooo, noooooooo). But critics agreed, an ombudsman and fellow faithless compatriot is a good idea amongst the savagry of our ranks.

Hailing from the North Country, it has been mentioned in some socialite circles that he is the illegitimate son of Ignatius J. Reilly though this has only been proved by a mutual love of Boethius. A steppenwolfe, a scholar, a creation to bring an end to to the phony hipster movement that currently blights our fair country.

The Rehab Prophet.

Mojo Rising part 1

It's been a while since I graced the BMC office to be honest, I have been ashamed to show my face, once my fellow comrades read of my failed exploits in Europe the mockery was too much my trip to Europe had left me a broken man.

I did finish my trip however, I went to Paris and stayed there for the remainder of my time .

There I was walking around one the most lovely cities in the world sulking like a jilted lover my Mojo had been broken no getting around it .

But fear not your hero will prevail I am now inspired, how you may ask what shook me out of my funk ?

You can thank the Kim Kardashian Sex Tape for that there I sat, watching a dismal performance from her then Lover and then I had an epiphany .

I need to record my exploits for all the world to see .

Stay tuned kids

Sweden Pants Enjoys War, Remains Neutral

War? A war! I wasn't aware of a war! I've read the postings of the first two days though, and find myself conscious. Perhaps if I were in the metro area with all you lads I could join the allies. The fight of a sedentary unsummer lifestyle is testing my belt and you gentlemen have the right idea. Bully! As it is, maybe I'll up the defenses in the Lakes Area?

Let me introduce myself; I'm a friend of H.'s from Duluth. I think that I know other contributorz too, but I'm not 100% sure. I've been reading this blog for a while and enjoying it. I'll check back frequently throughout this war and maybe write an outsider's perspective based on the bloggy dispatches from the front. "The Red Sweatpants of Courage". Forgive me a double pun upon the idea of sweat pants, but I really think that humor can be sustained here. Be good.

Into the future. . .

Day 2 of the 100 Day War

It is another cruel day in Minnesota. After a warm-up granted a simple reprieve, Winter has re-emerged from its' bivouac to re-declare the battle. There is something mildly depressing towards the thought that 27 degrees is warm, but right now it is this side of paradise.

With the temperature dropping back down to a balmy seven, and the wind chill assisting with spiraling negative delirium, any sojourns into the hinterland for purposes of the 100 Day War were left to the treadmill in the basement.

Ah, the sweet bliss of the treadmill! Walking in one place for forty minutes on end, and not moving anywhere; that swayful sea-sickness of leaving it, that feeling as though you are moving at a million miles per hour yet still standing still. But first there is the epic battle to correctly adjust the height, a battle I lost yesterday, and thus was unable to work-out. In retrospect, it might have been one of the finer ab workouts my body has ever has had as the derivative of curse words that were hurled towards the treadmill were both numerous, loud and not prone to let this person breathe.

Instead Sully and I went and grabbed a beer at the new hangout, then went grocery shopping.

Grocery shopping after a beer is a fine thing. Between the exposure to the elements, the lack of dinner and the soothing elevator music there is the manic need to get in and get out with as little time involved as possible. Booze is not like other, more illicit drugs that give a man time and pause to wonder over the certain merits of the word "rutabaga", nor wanton dropping to one's knees to give thanks at the snack food isle before turning into a complete savage and purchasing the entire stock. No booze dresses you up, gets you in and gets you out.

Other Items:

Sully did want to add to his work out regimen the following announcement: That along with only doing weight lifting he will NOT be doing any cardio workouts nor stretching prior to.

The official first weigh in:

Greggy's weighed in at 261, and has added a new caveat to his 100 Day War goal: Being able to dunk a basketball.

Sully came in at 196. His side goals are: run 3 miles in 25 minutes.

Jord is 206 though most of that is probably his jerk weight. He has no side goal, but he could improve his attitude.

Consumed yesterday:

Peanut Butter and Jelly toast (with Vegetable Juice)
Rice and cheese tossed in a barbecue sauce
Bean, cheese, broccoli and tomato Burrito in a spinach wrap (beer)

Day 1 of the 100 Day War

Past Diet:
Salt Bagel with plain cream cheese from St. Paul Bagelry (Cup of Coffee, Gatorade)
1/3 pound pepper jack cheese burger from Champps (consumed over two sittings) with, of course, fries and the seasoned sour cream (bloody mary, several Guinnesses)

There is nothing that makes a person cringe more than discussions and blogs about losing weight. Somewhere down the road, when our lives are put into perspective there will be ill feelings of contempt and subtle hatred for those that have polluted the net with the trials and tribulations of their slim down programs.

And with that in mind, BMC is proud to announce the first ever Slim Down Program! A 100 Day War of epic proportions pitting friend against friend, cunning against guile, and sheer sweat and determination against the laziness that plagues our everyday lives.

This is a statement borne out of the sheer inactivity of four former high-school Jerks (not quite Jock, not quite Nerd but somewhere in between = Jerk) who seek to find themselves in better condition, and not the slobs that make up the lowest denominators of society. Years from now (well, probably not) scholars will ponder how this conflict began, but even as we stand on Day One of this savage conflict there is no one to blame... but ourselves.

While watching the finale last night, Greg, Sully and I exchanged texts to see how much of a head start Greggy would need to keep American Gladiator's Eliminator competitive between him and his wife; the panel roundly agreed upon 30 seconds, and even then he would need to have the run of his life. Not that anybody else in our little quartet would have a shot at beating her, but... Greg's goal is to drop about 15 pounds.

Greg's tactics: A hybrid of jogging and weight lifting.

Being in relatively good shape with none of the vices supported by the rest of the group, Jordan is, more or less, along for the ride. He brings a competitive spirit and severe acts of spite. A father to be, his motivation seem stringent upon personal betterment and being a complete asshole. Jordan's goal is drop about 10 pounds.

Jordan's tactics: Being a complete asshole and playing more World of Warcraft to displace need for food. (Actually, I can't back any of this up. He's being very closed doored, and strictly hush hush on his work out and self improvement regimen. Therefore being a complete asshole is only being surmised by this writer despite the more or likeliness of it being true.)

Sully, is the only one trying to put weight on. Having the sort of body where it looks like a hot shower would cause him to lose weight, Sully has been in the position of trying to add muscle to himself for the past ever. Prone to wearing girlie shirts that are a size too small in an attempt to give him a more robust size, Sully's reward for completing the 100 Day War is to buy new clothes. Sully's goal add 6 pounds.

Sully's tactics: Russian Bear, lifting and ogling Arnold Schwartzawhatever.

My participation is the next logical step towards becoming some sort of sainthood. With quitting accoutrements, cutting back on the booze and resolving not to talk to women for a year, the only other logical thing to further cut out of my life is food. My goal is to drop about 10-12 pounds.

My tactics: Jogging and eating correctly. May turn bulemic if necessary to beat Jordan.

The results from the initial weigh in should be coming through this evening, then the game shall be completely under way.

Strange Tidings from the Woman's Bathroom

It is not often bizarre for me to have the trust and confidence of women over their bathroom escapades. Perhaps this is my non-threatening, asexual nature, or my love of good/bawdy humor, or maybe it's just the fact that I have a propensity to wander around, and these are stories that need be told.

Stories that have been told to me in the past:

• The hygenical means and non-dietary uses of baking soda
  
• What really happens with soiled feminine napkins
  
• Women's secret fears of others knowing that they are pooping, and how they will go so far as to catch stools in attempts to avoid a splash

While walking back into the office this afternoon I bumped into Katie, the new BMC intern, that quickly sped by me with her arms folded.

"Are you cold?" I asked, more out of politeness and as a rhetorical question-- the temperature here continues to hover around negative ten with a windchill approaching death.

She unfolded her arms and came back to me, speaking in a hushed whisper loud enough for everybody to hear. She spoke, "No, I didn't want you to shake my hand. I just went to the bathroom, and -- I don't know who it is -- but that was the worst smell I've ever come across."

"Like farting?"

"Yes!"

"Hangover or Fast Food?"

"It was like something that I've never come across before. It was a combination of both of those along with a third element. Maybe a condom fart?"

My Adam's apple bobbed to force the vomit back down. I attempted to lighten up/end the conversation, "Maybe you should go grab one of the respirators, go back in there so you can, you know, finish tidying up?"

She looked around her before commencing, "I think some of it seeped into my clothes."

I edged away.

Now there are strange things we come across in the human experience, the Freak Show complex being one of the most subtle and hardest to ignore. It's a simple thought process that bores into the brain where nasty, disgusting and often embarrassing things enamel themselves to the core of our being and makes it so that we need to blow somebody else's candle out so ours shines that much brighter.

And so, as I wandered into a break room to buy her a can of V8 (honestly, this was not for the potential humor that was involved with it, it's because I couldn't get my hands on the gasoline that we keep locked up here, and the fact she needed to douse herself in something.) I heard the door to the woman's bathroom open, and I paused.

I knew that I could go into the break room, hide myself there so that I wouldn't be able to see the shame of the person that emerged from their den of filth. I could even, maybe, crack the door open or stand there long enough so a sideways glance could be thrown, and I could see who the perpetrator of the nastiness was.

Or I could just turn around, jaw agape and let my basic, stupid instincts take over.

Which I did.

There are several happy poop dances. As alluded to in previous articles, I grew up raised by and large by dogs. Having said that I consider myself to be a bit of an officianado when it comes to the delicate footwork that comes with such glee.

And there, dancing in front of me was Ellen, my employer. Strutting her stuff while careening through the air. She caught sight of me mid pirouette and came to a stop, adjusted her pantsuit (which in a disgusting moment I found myself contemplating: had touched the bathroom floor) and walked back down the hall to her large office.

In this day and age it is difficult to come across such joy as the poop dance, or the reward of having accomplished or made something with you day. It is high time that we all cut the poop dancers some slack and let them have fun they so richly deserved.

To White Castle and then the Bar!!

At the Caucus

There is magic in the air, and the notion that what we are doing is right is palpable at every instant. The crowd waits in line with the crackle of sheer electricity flying through us. After three long years -- seven if you want to be technical about it -- we are making a difference; change is finally at the forefront.

The throng of people, semi-confused by where they are supposed to be, smush together. Neighbors exchange nervous chatter as we wait to see how the caucus works. At last papers are signed; volunteers have run out of the official form so people are putting their name and address on blank sheets of paper.

Tonight it is Mom, Dad and I making the trip back to my old high school. Despite the fact that I have lived at six or seven different addresses (plus a couple of states) over the past two years, I still have yet to change my legal address. So tonight I go home and vote with my parents.

The three of us are in agreement to vote for Barak. Mom has a more defensive stance as she feels he represents the best chance of winning; Dad likes him more for his charismatic nature, and the fact that he could unite the country. Over a dinner of overly done pot roast we have discussed his takes on Health Care, his values and his past voting record-- is there any time better to be a political junkie then now; it's basically on par with spring training being over, and going to the ball park for Opening Day.

The line of cars to reach the caucus started half a mile away. By the time we find parking spots people are walking out; knowing, friendly smiles are exchanged with these veterans. The ability to participate in our civil and democratic duty has never tasted so sweet.

Four years ago, Minnesota had 50,000 people, across the state, come out to vote. Tonight DFL'ers were hoping to have 100,000. In all actuality the total amount of people would more than double that. Crossing the threshold of my high school, which typically sees graduating classes around 500 kids, will be over 20,000 people. My Dad had wanted to be part of the actual caucus, but by the time we enter the classroom we see that the entire room is swamped, and we won't be able to sit down.

Despite the fact we are only forty-five minutes arriving after the caucus officially opened, an exasperated woman informs us that they have run out of the formal voting ballots. Instead we are given little squares of paper (Ma, was quick to notice that they at least had patriotic red, white and blue stars on them) to write in the name of our choice for the next President. A few quick strokes with a pen and the name is slipped into a cardboard shoe box with a slit cut into the top-- after thanking the woman behind the counter she told me it was my perogative whether I folded my ballot or not.

These past years, it has been easy to be discouraged over America, and the direction that we've been headed. Tonight, seeing this many people instills a sense of pride in our democracy. That there is still something good, that there are still people that believe, that what we're doing is worth fighting for.

A single vote may not seem like it matters much, but tonight we are an army.

Blue Balls from London Conclusion

Marcy again takes advantage of my situation and makes another swing at my Manhood .
" What the Fuck is wrong with you!" I yell out

"Oh your little friend told us everything " Marcy screams as Barry and Stacy keep her off of me.

With that Marcy lets me know that Barry in passing told them both my true reasons for visiting London .

I'm enraged, more importantly I am in Pain, Frantically I make my way for the door Once I'm free I fall to the Floor there I lay crying, my balls are on Fire I lay on the floor in the middle of there hallway with my pants down to my ankles and my Cock totally exposed I am ashamed, I just lay there still erect and sore it could get worse. Someone could walk into the Hallway see me, then call the cops then I would truly be Fucked I couldn't run it took all I had just to make it out the door well at least I'm free from Marcy Kung fu Kicks .

I pass out ..

Blue Balls From London part 7

I am caught unawares .
" Your going to try and have me be your little British Conquest I know what your game is you Fuck you think your on some Fucking sex tour! "

She says in a firm and mean tone .

I feel the blood leave my face I have to try and salvage the situation .
" I'm just visiting I didn't mean to offend you. " I replied

"You dirty little Fucker!" she gets up and without missing a beat punches me dead on in the Dick !!

I fall grasping for air "You Stupid Bitch !!"I yell out holding my head, then my Cock NOT KNOWING WHICH ONE TO COMFORT And within seconds she kicks at it again and grazes the shaft with her foot.
I scream in pain Barry and Stacy Rush out of the Bedroom naked " What the Fuck !! Stacey screams

Sarsaparilla Cowboys

Quitting smoking before his ten year reunion is something Miguel considers the biggest regret of his life. He began smoking in order to hang out with the cool kids in high school; what sort of holier than thou attitude does it take to stop four days prior to seeing them again? Also, there would be nothing finer than drowning this stress for arriving unadorned, unemployed and broken-up to the social event of the season, than the silky, sweet inhale of that cigarette.

Towards the door, a cloud of smokers stand, smoking gloriously, in the frozen sub zero temperature. He leaves the car running, warming his gloveless hands by cupping them and exhaling warm, humid air.

His motivation rapidly eroded forty minutes ago when Elisabeth called telling him she wouldn't make it-- "The sitter didn't show up; I'm so sorry. Max, went out with some friends and I can't get him home. Go, though. If I get a hold of Max I'll see if he'll come home, and I'm trying to find another sitter, it's just that it's late. I really want to be there with you."

Fucking Max. Fucking Fuck that Fucking Fucker.

Miguel eyeballed the highway again, looking North then South for a gas station that he could purchase a pack of cigarettes. His mind slipped from gear to gear, and he changed the radio station to sort himself out. A country song came on that solidified the moment.

Mindy O'Neal, of the more popular girls, walks by the car, peaking her head in and doing an awkward wave. Time has passed so that the stratification of popularity has been destroyed; still Miguel knows his place well enough not to do more than wave back. With a certain air of satisfaction he notices that Mindy has put on weight; with an air of loathing he figures it is probably from having children or doing something meaningful with her life.

Miguel drums his fingers against the steering wheel, before taking out the phone to stare at it again. He types out another message of guilt and grief, then folds it back up without sending it. He looks at the bar, and changes the song on the radio again.

You are Beautiful In the Morning

There are few finer things than those dewy first drops of morning. Waking up to that feeling of warmth and excitement, blue skies, possibilities and love all around. Sheer bliss, and that raw sensation that you are part of everything.

The opening aria to this beautiful life: a loved one sitting with you at the table, doing the daily crossword puzzle together over coffee while the rest of the house sleeps. The new dog coming up and nuzzling you under the arm for attention, temporarily breaking you away from the paper to look down and address her. The knowledge that there is good in the world, and that there are things that are worth fighting for.

Perhaps these are the delusions that go through the mind of Republicans, and what allows them their unique take on social and fiscal matters.

For the rest of us there are four degree below air temps and negative 25 windchill. Stale toast that you fought the mouse of the house over, and are still not convinced it was a fight worth winning. A check engine light merrily winking from the dash of your truck, and the eerie reality that your only reason to have left bed, and face the raw morning is to go to work.

These sorts of mornings beg for a hangover or something that would at least set the bar for a low point to to the day. Instead there are just morning people. They pop up out of nowhere, spewing their well wishes and morning inquiries to your previous night's engagements. These foul creatures will attempt humor and even use a thoroughly unnecessary high pitched voice-- they may well even laugh.

I'm not saying they should all die. I'm only saying that we should make broad new social policies that specifically dictate where and when they can talk. If this becomes too difficult perhaps we should move them all to one centralized location, like North Dakota. Because anybody that can be happy in the morning will surely be happy anywhere.

These Highschoolers Think I'm Homeless

The Starbucks on Fairview and 36 has become haunted by high schoolers. These are the high end models made self-important by mall-purchasable-only attire. These are not normal High schoolers who stay home from Prom, and leave gross messages detailing sexual positions that attendee's, of the dance, parents are doing whilst they are out. No, these are the fucking cool kids. And it is for this reason, dear Coitusers, that I believe they think I am a homeless person.

As you have read in the past, my general apparel is taken from a little known faction of fashion known as "Hangover Chic". The "Basic Look" requires jeans washed within the past month, hooded sweatshirt and a sensible t-shirt with little to medium stainagt; in essence, hipster before people began paying money to look like they weren't paying money, and the hipster look became immediately purchasable.

Studying has ensued to learn more about these pretty people. These common observations develop a hypothesis that everyday grooming and the monetary and time amount spent upon attire leads to a mate; a self evident point as all of the individuals here, on a Tuesday night no less, are ringed by a member of the opposite sex-- in fact one has had the audacity to bring in flowers. Flowers in the middle of winter!

Truly these are fucking high schooler 2.0. These aren't the kids that listened to the 'Mats or the Pixies, or still remember the time Abby Bleaker came over and squished onto a too crowded couch for the entire duration of Benny and June. No these are Frankenschoolers, built for only the operation of getting sex, living off their parents income and eventually having jobs where they will be my boss.

There is no comeback for these fools. There is no dark alley where a switch blade could be drawn, and a throat could be slashed. These are modern times where Jets and Sharks no longer exist, and a more modern caste system has been developed, by parents, to ensure nobody gets hell beat out of them. It probably is forward thinking, but looking out at all these damn fools sitting around me I envy them not-- or maybe I do.