tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-316630292024-03-05T18:12:32.822-08:00The House of KnodA blog by Will FrankenWill Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comBlogger171125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-83310454547904261432017-04-11T14:05:00.000-07:002017-04-11T14:05:07.241-07:00Missive to Geert<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Dear Mr.
Wilders, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">My name is
William Franken, a UK-based comedian of some minor renown both here in Britain
and in my native America, known in equal measure for my surrealist form of
satire as well as my outspoken vehemence against political correctness. Let it be said up front that I
strongly supported your bid to become prime minister of the Netherlands and was
gutted to see it was not, for the moment, to be realised. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I became
aware of your political presence back in 2005 through the work of a
greatly-admired former colleague of yours in The Hague, the formidable Aayan
Hirsi Ali, whom I had the privilege of meeting following a speaking engagement at
the Commonwealth Club in San Francisco as part of the promotional tour for her
book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Caged Virgin.</i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Five years
ago, I relocated to the United Kingdom and, along with yourself and all
freedom-loving peoples the world over, spent this last year heralding, with
revolutionary optimism, both the election of Donald Trump as US President as well as Great Britain’s monumentally historic decision to exit the European Union.
Given the nationalistic fervour of 2016, it was not strange that I should look
to 2017 as the year of Wilders and Le Pen. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">As a
cultural Christian, I’m sure you can appreciate my decision to abstain from
social media throughout these days of Lent. Largely, this abstention has been a
welcome breeze of fresh air -- less a punishment of self-denial and more of an
intellectual and spiritual reward that comes from having the space and time to
look at things too oft overlooked. Still, there have been the periodic moments
of frustration at having to remain silent at the unfolding of world affairs, particularly
as regards my upset at learning of your party’s defeat. How I had hoped the
trend of pollsters to predict anything but their own inaccuracy would have
continued in Holland!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I had also made the decision a few weeks prior to the start of Lent
that I would abstain from offering my opinions about the results of the Dutch
elections, no matter what they happened to be, until I had at least performed my first shows in
the Netherlands, which happened to take place in Utrecht only this past weekend. This had been
my third trip to Holland, but my first for purposes of work. I have now been to Eindhoven,
Amsterdam, and Utrecht. And, let me say, sir -- in the idiomatic language of
my small-town Missouri ancestry -- Utrecht is a “darn sight pertier” than either
of the other two. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">My reasons for withholding electoral commentary until after these shows were chiefly based in the
need for myself to experience first-hand a Dutch audience in order to accurately determine
what sort of Holland I had entered. To be sure, election results might have
provided vague indicators as to whether it would be a Holland that had
demonstrated, by their votes, either a hunger for searing anti-Islamist satire -- or
a Holland that was sanctimoniously patting itself on the back for averting the rise of an imagined Fourth Reich. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">However, in my profession, sir, I can tell
you for a fact that <i>what </i>audiences laugh at and <i>how loudly</i> they laugh at it are
considerably more concrete predictors of, if not <i>where</i> a culture is heading, then
where a culture <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wants </i>to be heading. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Having now given those performances, let me say, Mr. Wilders, that I foresee your
Freedom Party movement continuing to grow in numbers and influence. I
say this almost solely based on the unexpected yet welcome laughter that
greeted the more subtle touches to my elaborate character
pieces. From gambit to gambit, the audiences were receptive throughout. However,
as a means of illustrating their particular appreciation for
politically-incorrect satire, I shall now provide an isolated example. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">One of my
favourite current bits is one in which I play an Australian counter-terrorism
expert who is debriefing a press gathering on the recent thwarting of a terror plot in Melbourne.
The initial joke to the piece takes place once the expert has followed up his opening
statement. . . </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Islam is a religion of peace and
Australia is a multicultural and diverse nation with a strong interfaith
tradition.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">. . .with
the punchline:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">So those are all the facts we have on
the terror plot at this moment.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">After
being pressed by an insistent reporter for more details, the expert then offers,
by way of clarification: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I forgot to mention, there are 1.6
billion Muslims in the world and the majority of those are law-abiding, peaceful
citizens. Oh -- and diversity, diversity, multiculturalism, diversity, interfaith
dialogue and diversity. Does that clear it up for you?</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">The
raucous laughter and subsequent applause evoked by this satirical litany
demonstrated, I believe, how in tune Dutch audiences are becoming to the
culturally-crippling effects of political correctness. More specifically, I
felt it showed that, though the Freedom Party may have to wait a bit longer to grasp the reins of government power, their time will surely come, sooner rather than
later. Have faith, good sir. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Before
closing, I would like, if I may, to offer another brief anecdote upon my
first weekend of performances in your country. Immediately after checking into my 6<sup>th </sup>floor hotel room that Friday afternoon, I parted the curtains to partake of the view of Utrecht
city centre. There, straight ahead to my line of sight was a massive -- to put it
bluntly -- mosque, flanked by two rather obtrusive minarets that permeated the
Dutch skyline in an brutal upwards and tandem thrust. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Later that evening, upon
witnessing the unease of my fellow performers at hearing me disparagingly use the words “massive”
and “obtrusive” to describe a mosque, I felt it necessary to add that we were
in the Netherlands and -- whilst it might not be possible to witness windmills and tulips
at every turn -- I was rather hoping for the next forty-eight hours to at least maintain a sense of being in Holland as
opposed to the Middle East. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">A few hours before this, having checked in at the venue, I struck up a brief chat with the
staff, composed solely of Utrecht locals. I was particularly interested to see if any of
them made use of the coffeeshops in the area and was quickly informed, by and large, that
locals tended not to indulge in the "magic herb". Noting the time, I decided to head back to my room to prepare
before showtime. I then asked if someone on the staff might point me in the right
direction to my hotel. Funnily enough, no less than five Utrecht citizens -- the very ones responsible for my bookings at both the venue and the room, no less -- were unable to tell me simply, upon the leaving the building, whether to turn right or left for my hotel. Of course, such unexpected confusion eventually prompted me to inquire, “Are you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sure </i>you
don’t do the coffeeshops?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Mildly
frustrated, I left the venue, preparing to beseech the help of passers-by. And
yet no sooner did I turn left along the street when I once again saw the
mosque. By now, the sun had set and the minarets were dramatically lit up in
electric beams of royal blue. In the colourful playground of my imagination, I thereupon
heard a gruff, Arab-accented voice call unto to me: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Follow the mosque. Follow the
mosque. It is just a building like any Western building. Why should one form of
architecture be celebrated and the other ignored? Follow the mosque. Follow the
mosque. Let the mosque be the North Star that guides you infidels back to your
hotel rooms. Follow the mosque. Follow the mosque. . .</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I wish you
all future success, Mr. Wilders, and that the time be not long before once
again we see you on the international stage. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Godspeed for now, good sir</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Wm.
Franken </span></div>
Will Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-85122149188719111522016-11-04T05:26:00.000-07:002016-11-04T05:26:30.748-07:00THE REVOLUTION THAT WILL SAVE AMERICA <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="35" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I had
always been led to believe that the word “revolutionary” was a complimentary
term. To be revolutionary was to break through – and above – into something heretofore
untapped, eminently substantial, and oftentimes brutally honest. Most can agree
that Beethoven was a revolutionary composer, Van Gogh a revolutionary painter,
and Joyce a revolutionary author. Each of these artists ambitiously transcended
the staid complacency of their contemporaries with the effect of not only
enshrining their names in the annals of Western culture, but also lighting the
way for those not content to live within the narrow parameters of their
respective milieus. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">There have
been political revolutions as well. Some have failed where others have
succeeded. The French Revolution died when the radicals filled the power vacuum
only to exhibit a bloodlust greater than those they had recently overthrown.
The Soviet Revolution failed simply because it was built upon a faulty premise
– namely, that the collective was superior to the individual and, to that
effect, government, though comprised of humans, was,<i> ipso facto</i>, infallible. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">By being
infallible, it was also, to its own citizenry, perpetually unaccountable. A
characteristic that the architects of the American Revolution sought to avoid
in the drafting of the <i>US Constitution</i> and its <i>Bill of Rights</i>. For years, these
documents served as the effective one-two political punch of limited government
– self-restrained thanks to the mechanism of checks and balances – coupled with
the codification of inalienable individual rights. A combination, it could
easily be argued, that made the American Revolution one of only a very few that
have ever succeeded. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">But for
decades now in America, the federal government has continued to swell and the
autonomy of individual states has diminished. Tyrannical establishment
executives, from Richard Nixon to Hillary Clinton, have made tactical use of
pitting one governmental agency against another to whitewash their crimes. All
the while, a cadre of globalist elites consolidate wealth and power through the
erosion of borders, the denigration of national and cultural pride, and the sanctimonious
and empty platitudes of “togetherness”. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Today,
there is a grassroots movement of ordinary Americans whose historical
counterparts can be found in their 18<sup>th</sup> Century colonial ancestors. Yet
instead of defying a monarchical authority from across the Atlantic, this
current generation of rebels rightly sees the enemy in their own federal
government, aided and abetted by the dispassionate globalist oligarchy it
serves. Thus far, they have been kept in place through slanderous accusations
of xenophobia and bigotry. They have been mischaracterised by their political
leaders, in collusion with a compliant media, as uneducated rubes unfit to
think and act for themselves. Where they have exhibited national pride, they
have been rhetorically shrunk into backwoods and backwards ingrates. Patronised
by self-appointed experts and mocked relentlessly by overpaid celebrities, many
of them have, until recently, surrendered to the seemingly monolithic and
unconquerable falsehoods about their characters. Most importantly, they have been
systematically stripped of their voices and, until now, no one has stepped
forward on the political stage to speak on their behalf. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Therefore,
it should not be surprising that when an outsider candidate emerges from the
shadows to openly break the very chains of political correctness that have kept
this demographic fearful of their own honesty and ashamed of their own
potential, the revolution that candidate promises will be incorrectly hyperbolised
into “blood in the streets” instead of “liberty and justice for all”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">We have
now an establishment opposition that is not only understandably afraid of
revolution, but strategically contemptuous of it. Of course, this is not to
imply there is no political profit to be had in sporadic pseudo-revolutions such
as the riots in Charlotte, Baltimore, and Ferguson, predicated as they were upon
racist lies and divisive rhetoric -- replete with middle-class white university
girls sporting keffiyahs and shouting through megaphones “pigs in a blanket,
fry ‘em up!” There is no significant threat to a New World Order from dusting
off the racial schisms of the 1960s – especially if a renewal of Cold War with
Russia comes as part of the same nostalgic package. Such pseudo-revolutions are
mostly self-contained and, if not, can easily be quelled and incorporated under
the jurisdiction of federalised and globalist control. And thus, government
keeps growing. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">No, here we
are talking about an establishment counter-revolution whose sole propagandistic purpose is to
neuter the justifiable anger of a betrayed citizenry. It does this by asking, <i>why
be angry? This is the way things are and have always been, so accept it. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">But are they
talking about such things as the natural world, governed by unalterable
instinct? Or the endless rotation of the planets? No, they are talking about
the fallibly human institution of government. This is what revolutionaries are being
told to accept as unchangeable. Such reluctance to acknowledge any need for
change is so ossified in the psyches of some that they are openly willing to cast
their bet on a leader with no allegiance to her own nation and a thirty-year
track record of criminality -- all made possible by her entrenchment within the
very establishment now in need of overthrow. <i>Expect less and demand nothing</i>,
seems to be the mantra. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">“Hillary
Clinton,” for example, “is no different than anybody else in politics.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">“But don’t
vote for Donald Trump. That would be a childish revolution.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Too late. The revolution has already begun. And it's been going strong ever since Trump threw his hat into the ring last year. </span></div>
Will Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-35303113144564018412016-10-27T07:10:00.002-07:002016-11-02T09:42:57.071-07:00Declaration on Donald<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Message Header"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Salutation"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Date"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Block Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="FollowedHyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Document Map"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Bottom of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Definition"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Sample"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Variable"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="No List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Contemporary"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Professional"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Balloon Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Theme"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="List Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="List Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="List Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">DECLARATION
ON DONALD</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">WHY I VOTED FOR TRUMP</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">I.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">PREAMBLE</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">My name is
William Brian Franken. I hold a Master’s degree in Restoration and 18th Century
British Literature with summa cum laude honours from Southwest Missouri State
University. I've had academic papers on Jonathan Swift, James Joyce, William
Blake, as well as editorial commentaries on the farces of 18<sup>th</sup>
Century playwrights David Garrick and Colley Cibber published in such literary
journals as the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Huntington Library
Quarterly</i>. Additionally, I’ve written political and cultural essays for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Spiked</i>, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Independent</i>, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Federalist </i>and
sundry others publications. After leaving academia in my mid-twenties, I became
a satirical, character-based comedian whose unique style, heavily
British-influenced, has been <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">celebrated</span> on both sides of the Atlantic from the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New York Times</i> to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Guardian</i>. Despite this colourful intellectual
and artistic pedigree, however, I am also one of Hillary Clinton’s
“deplorables”. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">II.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">ECONOMIC POLICY: WALKING AWAY FROM NAFTA
</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I was born
into a working-class background in a small town in the Midwest of America. As a
young man, I saw first-hand the negative effects of the NAFTA-style economic
policies Hillary Clinton currently espouses – just as her husband did before
her – in which vital industries were gutted and farming and manufacturing jobs
outsourced. Consequently, I approve of any plan to penalise companies who wish
to relocate outside the United States for the purposes of cheaper labour and
tax-dodges, such as the tariff-based system proposed by Donald Trump. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">III.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">ENDING VA CORRUPTION AND CARING FOR
THE NATION’S VETERANS</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">My father,
William Dale Franken, was not only an independent builder and mechanic, he was
also a Vietnam veteran. Early on in life, I was disgusted to hear how he and
his fellow servicemen had been labelled "baby-killers" upon their
return from combat. My grandfather before him, William George Franken, had also
seen combat as part of General Patton’s tank corps in World War II, a time when
gratitude for the nation’s military was more widely expressed. I have always
felt a deep admiration for military veterans and the sacrifices they were
called upon to make. And I have been disgusted with the treatment of veterans
in the United States for many years now, particularly in regards to the ongoing
Veterans Administration scandals. Therefore, I am very much in favour of Donald
Trump’s promise to clean out the corruption there and offer veterans the care
and support that are owed them. Without their protection, the West is nothing –
ungrateful though the West may be for the very freedoms these men and women
were called upon to protect. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">IV.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">REBUILDING THE US MILITARY: ENDING SEQUESTRATION</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">My support
for veterans also extends to an overall support for the US military. I believe
America needs a strong national defence and, to that effect, the defence sequestration
that began under Obama must be overturned by Trump. The nation’s armed forces
need to be better equipped and modernised under the aegis of Ronald Reagan’s
model of “Peace Through Strength”; a motto which Trump has echoed often on the
campaign trail. America does not need a military more concerned with diversity
training than combat training – an Orwellian prospect guaranteed to continue
under a new Clinton administration.</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">V.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">RUGGED INDIVIDUALISM: NO MORE
DIVERSITY BOX-TICKERS</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Later in
life, when I attended university – on my own dime, I should mention – I
witnessed the encroaching split between traditional academia and the snobbery
of reverse-racism multiculturalism which relegated feelings over facts. Not
only did I feel it demeaned the very education I was paying for, I also justly resented
the broad-brush painting of my demographic as inherently racist and oppressive,
especially given my modest upbringing. I regarded such rhetoric as blatant
lies and self-serving ivory tower propaganda and fought against it every chance
I had. I am not interested in a presidential candidate who will serve as diversity
box-ticker and regard their voters as nothing more than their skin colours,
their sexual preferences, or their genders. I want a candidate to whom race,
gender, and sexual preference is incidental and not integral to the character
of their voters. I believe this candidate is Donald Trump. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">VI.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">EDUCATION: ENDING COMMON CORE </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">In my
early twenties, I moved to New York City and became an inner-city school
teacher. Any remaining vestiges of sympathy I may have had for liberal
progressivism died during my employment there. As a middle-school teacher in
Harlem at what was described by the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">NY
Post</i> as the 2<sup>nd</sup> worst school in New York City, I witnessed an
utter degradation of the educational system made possible through liberal
policies that had stripped standards from the curriculum and essentially turned
teachers into babysitters instead of educators. There, I was also privy to the
crookedness of a teacher's union that consistently took extortionate dues and
never made any attempt to instigate meaningful change that would serve the
teachers, their students, and the principles of education more generally. At
the close of the school year, when two-thirds of the students failed the
government-issued standardised test by receiving a "1" or a "2"
instead of a "3" or a "4", all faculty members received a
letter from the superintendent stating that – for the purposes of the school’s
"social promotion" policy – a "2" was now to be considered a
"3". <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">(2 + 2 = 5, anyone?)</b>
Therefore, I am strongly in favour of Donald Trump's plan to reinstitute
freedom of choice in education by eliminating Common Core.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">VII.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">THE AFRICAN-AMERICAN CANDIDATE:
REBUILDING THE INNER CITIES</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">When I
moved to New York City for the first time, I had little disposable income and
thus rented a cheap place in Harlem, near to the school at which I taught. I
was the only white guy in my building as well as my neighbourhood. There, I was
welcomed by the residents, ribbed gently about my skin colour, and invited to
many a homecooked meal. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meanwhile, I
found a great disconnect growing between myself and liberal friends, who would
pay up to 2,000 dollars extra a month to live away</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">from blacks and would never
cross north of 110<sup>th</sup> Street to visit me. On both coasts, from Harlem
to West Oakland, I have worked in deprived ghettos and I have lived in deprived
ghettos. I have seen first-hand how – just as globalist policies like NAFTA
have gutted the working-class communities of small-town America – the lowered
expectations for inner-city minorities promulgated by modern liberalism – in
terms of education, prosperity, and government welfare-dependency – are not
only economically damaging but culturally racist. It is audacious for liberals
to demand any longer, based upon decades of empirical evidence, that minorities
should act as one single-minded voting bloc. When Donald Trump says to the
African-American communities to vote for him because, “what do you have to
lose?”, I believe he makes a more than compelling argument.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">VIII.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">LAW ENFORCEMENT: ENDING THE NEW
BLACK PANTHERS</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Throughout
my years in Harlem, I was also privy to the race-baiting agitation of Al
Sharpton who, along with Tawana Brawley, concocted a fictitious rape and
battery to besmirch the entire New York City Police Department as “systemically
racist”. Over the past eight years of the Obama administration, Al Sharpton has
visited the White House countless times in an advisory capacity on “race relations”.
I am for any candidate who will deprive such violence-promoting hucksters of
access to the upper echelons of the US government. America does not need a
Black Panthers-cum-Black Lives Matter divisive mentality anymore. And the
country can certainly do without a political rhetoric implying all the nation’s
police officers are racists and potential murderers. There was a fork in the
road for the civil rights movement in the 1960s. Martin Luther King had it
right and Malcolm X had it wrong. We need a leader who will not live in the
shadow of the separatist Malcolm X, but the integrationist Martin Luther King.
I believe Donald Trump will steer America away from the deceptive dogma of doctrinal
diversity. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">IX.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">GROWING SMALLER BUSINESS AND ENDING
LARGER CORRUPTION</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">In the
last year of my first stint in New York City, I earned money doing occasional voiceovers
and televised commercial spots. During that time, I ran afoul of the Screen
Actors Guild, who were upset that a non-union actor was being cast in these
roles. I was summoned to what amounted to a McCarthy-esque hearing in front of an
austere panel of Guild representatives. On the table in front of me was a large
manila envelope with the word “Franken” written across it. As things turned
out, the casting directors had sold their lists of auditioning actors to the
union, following the resolution of a strike that none of the non-union actors
had been aware of – since we were, after all, not in the union. The panel
demanded I give them information on other non-union actors who had auditioned with
me and I refused. Consequently, a ban was placed on my ability to ever join the
union. Given my experiences there, the inefficacy of the teachers’ union before
that, and my father’s ongoing struggles as an independent contractor against
the monolith of the larger labour unions, I have always held a healthy scepticism
in regards to collectivisation. I believe that although there was a time when
unions were not only effective but necessary, greed and corruption have led
many of them to neglect their initial principles. I support the growth of
smaller independent businesses and the dissolution of larger monopolies, no
matter how appealing their platitudes of “togetherness” may seem. More
importantly, I believe in justice. To that effect, I would gladly welcome a
candidate intent on exposing, prosecuting, and eradicating corruption in such
entities, be they governmental or non-governmental organisations. I feel Donald
Trump is such a candidate. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">X.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">UNITING THE NATION: RACE DIVIDES,
ECONOMICS UNITE</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Depressed
and discouraged after my blacklisting, I relocated for a year to the southern
hospitality of North Carolina where I found, incidentally, race relations to be
much better down in the conservative south than they had ever been up in the
liberal north. There is a great misconception that there is no class struggle
in the United States. This is because it is easier for American politicians to
make everything about race, which cannot be changed. Whereas class – in the
American sense of succeeding from humble beginnings – ostensibly can. When
economic conditions are the same for everyone, such as amongst the poor in
Missouri or North Carolina, there is considerably less racial tension – unless
it’s being fanned by propagandists and politicians, as it currently is under
Obama. Donald Trump is a billionaire who has gathered a strong tide of support
from the struggling working classes of America and, in that sense alone, has
already bridged a great divide. Midwesterners and Southerners who would
normally be suspicious, if not outright contemptuous, of a rich New Yorker,
have warmed to him because they believe he has their best interests at heart. And
I am one of them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">XI.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">WHO BETTER THAN A BUSINESSMAN? </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I am not a
communist and therefore I do not judge all wealthy people as inherently evil.
It matters not to me that Donald Trump was given a financial start from his father.
If my father had been in the same position to do so, I certainly would not have
refused the help – and neither would anyone who says otherwise. Just as no one
in his position would have neglected to take advantage of the tax code that
Hillary Clinton herself approved as US senator. Moreover, I believe a
billionaire businessman who has rebounded back from bankruptcy more than once
is better equipped to deal with a broken economy and create beneficial trade
agreements than a career politician who trades in empty promises and campaign
slogans. He has made products. She has made problems. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">XII.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">HERE COMES ISLAM: PROTECTING THE 1<sup>st</sup>
AMENDMENT </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Following
the worst terror attack in US history on 11<sup>th</sup> September, 2001, I,
along with many others, found myself having to suddenly pay attention to a
religion I had always regarded as uninteresting and inconsequential. In the
fifteen years that have elapsed since that attack, I have been told by academics,
entertainers, and politicians – i.e., the establishment – that Islam is a
“religion of peace” and that the 28,135 terrorist attacks which have been
carried out by jihadists across the globe in that span of time have “nothing to
do with Islam”. Sensing an obvious disconnect, I have devoted a considerable
amount of time throughout these ensuing years reading sources from the right,
left, and centre of the political spectrum on this topic – as well as primary works
on Islamic jurisprudential thought, the hadiths, and the Koran itself. Consequently,
I have reached the conclusion that the Islamic religion needs a reformation, renaissance,
and enlightenment in order to successfully coexist with the Western world, else
the Western world will be forced to abandon many of its own core principles. I
am grateful to have been born, raised, and educated in Western values and I
believe in the promotion of those values and not their denigration. Hillary
Clinton has accepted untold sums of money from Middle Eastern countries with
horrible track records on human rights through the nefarious workings of her
Clinton Foundation. Even more troubling, however, her associations with groups
like the Muslim Brotherhood and the Organisation of Islamic Cooperation – the
latter to whom she promised, as Secretary of State, to employ “peer pressure
and shaming” in preventing criticism of Islam from Americans –<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>indicate clearly to me that she is not only disinterested
in human rights, but specifically holds the 1<sup>st</sup> Amendment in
contempt. As a Western satirist appreciative of the freedom to criticise who
and what I choose, I need a leader who supports the 1<sup>st</sup> Amendment.
Donald Trump is that leader. He is a constitutionalist and therefore holds <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Bill of Rights</i> as supreme. She is a
globalist and views the same document as culturally relative. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">XIII.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">THE UNIQUELY AMERICAN RIGHT TO BEAR
ARMS</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Along with
Donald Trump, I also support the 2<sup>nd</sup> Amendment and agree with the
drafters of the Constitution that its inclusion in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Bill of Rights</i> would provide American citizens the means by
which to defend themselves not only against an invading foreign enemy but an
encroaching tyrannical government as well. On a purely philosophical level, it
should also be self-evident that a gun cannot load and shoot itself in
perpetration of a crime. Such an act requires a human agent imbued with motive,
as was the case, for example, with the jihadist that massacred forty-nine
people in Orlando – a body count that would have been significantly lower had
the patrons of the club themselves been armed. By definition, criminals do not
obey laws. Therefore, any restrictions on guns will be ignored by criminals to
the detriment of law-abiding citizens. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">XIV.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">DISPENSING WITH POLITICAL
CORRECTNESS: NAMING THE PROBLEM </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">To that
effect, I also believe it necessary to refer to Islamic terrorism as “Islamic
terrorism” and not as any of the vague and inane substitutes put forward by the
Obama administration, such as “violent extremism”, “man-made disasters”, -- or,
in the case of Nidal Hasan’s 2009 Ft. Hood Massacre – “workplace violence”. Even
if such obfuscation conveys tolerance, it conveys an even greater stupidity.
This practice insults not only the intelligence of the voting public, but also
the reformers within Islam who realise a problem cannot be solved unless people
are willing to discuss it openly and honestly. Currently, Islam stands no
chance of being reformed from the inside because of the interference of
political pundits from the outside. Meanwhile, as Christianity secularises
itself out of existence, Islam has politicised itself into a very real arm of Western
governmental policy-making. This imbalance needs to be redressed, which will
likely happen under Donald Trump and will certainly never happen under Hillary
Clinton. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">XV.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">DESTROYING ISIS </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Although I
recognise that Islamic State is only the latest manifestation of an ideology
that propels jihadist movements such as al-Qaeda, Boko Haram, Hezbollah, Hamas,
and the Taliban, I strongly support Donald Trump’s promise to “bomb the shit”
out of ISIS as well as seize their oil, thus depriving them of the wealth
needed to fund their theocratic fascism. Such a strike would be a great rhetorical
boost for Western morale, for nothing has been more culturally embarrassing
than witnessing the world’s largest superpower sit idly by as a movement more
grotesque and barbarous than Nazism has been allowed to metastasise. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Donald Trump, of course, is correct in saying
that Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama, through their failed “Arab Spring”
policy, are responsible for the proliferation of ISIS. Therefore, I say, let
Donald Trump be responsible for their destruction. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">XVI.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">SPECIAL PROSECUTOR: CARNALITY DOES
NOT TRUMP CRIMINALITY</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Hillary Clinton
has done much to destroy the Middle East and discredit American foreign policy
in that region, most apparently in her dereliction of duty and subsequent
cover-up of the 11<sup>th</sup> September, 2011 Benghazi massacre. In fact, I
had initially assumed that the majority of her 33,000 deleted and bleached
emails were related to this particular issue, although I now believe the subterfuge
of the numerous Clinton Foundation deals may have figured more prominently. Unless
Donald Trump is able to get into office and appoint a special prosecutor, the
public may never know what it has a constitutional right to know. I consider a
career marked by decades of political corruption and criminality of eminently
greater concern than one’s sexual attitudes towards women. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">XVII.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">PEACE
WITH RUSSIA</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">The Obama
administration and Clinton’s ongoing neglect to deal with the ISIS situation
they themselves have created – in addition to the resultant European migration
crisis – have left a power vacuum which is now being filled by Russia.
Consequently, Obama’s loose and unverified accusations that Russia is rigging
the political system, besides being a hypocritical negation of his own
criticism of Donald Trump’s easily verifiable accusations of electoral fraud – coupled
with Clinton’s slanderous equation of Putin with Hitler – <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>have amounted to the rattling of war sabres.
It is a regrettable truth that sometimes in world affairs, military conflict is
necessary when dealing with certain enemies. Russia is not – and should not –
be considered such an enemy. We no longer live in the 1960s of the Black
Panthers and the Cold War. We live in an age of global jihadism. Donald Trump
realises this, whereas Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama evidently do not. Moreover,
Donald Trump has promised, if elected, to reach out before his inauguration to strike
a deal for peace with Putin and join forces to destroy ISIS. A position I
strongly encourage. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">XVIII.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">SCRAPPING
THE SHAMEFUL IRAN DEAL </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Most
importantly, however, Donald Trump will either renegotiate or consign to the
rubbish bin. the greatest national embarrassment – out of many – committed by
the Obama administration: the Iranian nuclear deal. This was nothing more than
a cynical attempt at solidifying Obama’s legacy; one which provided the
terrorist-sponsoring state of Iran billions of dollars in unfrozen assets and
an even clearer pathway towards obtaining nuclear weapons. A partnership with
Russia and the shredding of this agreement will be an instant two-pronged
attack against the sort of instability Obama has created and Clinton intends to
exacerbate. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">XIX.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">THE ECONOMIC TRUTH ABOUT ILLEGAL
IMMIGRATION</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">After
leaving North Carolina, I relocated to San Francisco and managed to carve
a name for myself as a satirical comedian, often attacking the leftist
hypocrisies I was constantly being deluged with in that municipal bastion of
Maoist progressivism. When my son, William Dustin Franken, came out to live
with me during his teens, he attempted to find menial work as a busboy for some
extra cash. I had to explain, and he soon found out for himself, that the
liberal business owners in “sanctuary cities” like San Francisco would never hire
him as a busboy because he was a legal citizen, had a social security number,
and therefore would have to be paid a decent living wage. Such jobs instead went
to undocumented Mexican migrants in order that the exploitative owners could
cut financial corners. I was subjected to many political untruths during my
time in San Francisco – cop killers like Mumia Abu Jamal were saintly peace
activists, the state of Israel was the new Third Reich – but perhaps the most
deceptive of these was the reductive sophistry that any argument against
illegal immigration reflected contempt for brown-skinned people. Greedy
businesses are perfectly content to let this narrative thrive. But illegal
immigration has always been at its core an economic and security issue and not
a racial one. When both the establishment Republican and Democratic parties are
“confused” about what border security means – as they have been for decades – such
confusion invariably has something to do with money or votes or both. Donald
Trump bears the hatred of the Democrats and the mistrust of many Republicans on
this issue, which puts him in good stead with myself and a number of other
independent-minded nationalists. Therefore, I agree with Donald Trump’s plan to
close off the border, cut off the supply of cheap labour, and in so doing, create
a legal path towards citizenship. All this, of course, is anathema to the globalist
Clinton’s plans for creating a “hemispheric common market” – or NAFTA 2.0. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">XX.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">REINVESTING IN AMERICAN ENERGY:
DEFUNDING THE UN </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">In 2006,
the Al Gore-backed film <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Inconvenient Truth</i>
gave left-leaning politicians a new cause to add to their collection: Global
Warming (which, given the various fluctuations in temperatures since its
release, has since been rebranded Climate Change). At the time, the cynic in me
regarded this as a shady attempt for Mr. Gore to stay politically relevant,
still smarting as he was from the highly contested election of 2000. (In fact, Donald
Trump’s recently criticised reluctance to honour the results of this current
election has an earlier precedent in Gore’s 2000 defeat by Bush.) I believe
there is much compelling evidence that shows the science on climate change (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nee</i> global warming) is far from settled
and any claim to the contrary, from UN bodies or otherwise, completely flies in
the face of the scientific method itself. Currently, as things stand, this a
problem that may not even be a problem and one that may not even have a
solution. Despite the uncertainty, this cause has been forcibly used to raise
taxes, put coal miners out of business, and provide a stream of endless funding
for one-sided, politically-biased research. Donald Trump’s recent promise to
divert billions of dollars from UN climate change programmes to put back into
domestic American energy is one that is not only economically sound but – given
years of Republican kowtowing to this initially Democratic issue – nothing
short of revolutionary as well. And I believe it is in this regard that Donald
Trump’s independence from mainstream politics is perhaps most clearly evident. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">XXI.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">INDEPENDENCE FROM THE ELITES:
AMERICA’S BREXIT </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Following nearly
fifteen years of performing comedy in the United States, I relocated to Great
Britain, a country whose history, culture, and traditions I value just as
highly as those of my native land. I did not move to Great Britain because I
sought some nebulous “better” economic life or because I was simply “looking
for a change” and felt this country was as good as any other. And I most
certainly did not move here because I am enamoured of globalist super-states
such as the EU. I have loved Britain from afar for as long as I can remember
and, now that I live here, consider myself as much a nationalist for Great
Britain as I am for the United States. Nationalism is not synonymous with
racism, no matter what the elites would have the voters believe. It is gratitude
for the principles and traditions that make Western nations such as Great
Britain and the United States entities to be admired and emulated throughout
the world. This is why I was very much in favour of Britain’s decision to exit
the European Union and begin the process of restoring sovereignty and democracy
back to itself. Brexit was a referendum on many things, but it was also a
revolution inasmuch as the working classes of this nation – <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>sneered at for many years by so-called experts
as uneducated and racist – elected to transfer power away from the corporate
elites in Brussels and bring it back home to Britain – such as any proper,
functioning Western democracy can and should. Symbolically, it represented the
people’s chance to pause and collect their breath before trudging headlong into
a progressive globalist dystopia from which the odds of returning were slim if
not absolutely nil. Donald Trump represents the same patriotic desire to
stop and reflect with gratitude on the inherent goodness of the United States, instead
of handing it over to disinterested, third party elites such as would comprise
the oligarchic rule of the hemispheric common market Hillary Clinton advocates.
America, too, deserves a Brexit and it will assuredly find one in Donald Trump. With the success of Brexit, there was a chance that Western culture and civilisation would survive. With the election of Donald Trump, it will be almost a guarantee. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">XXII.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">DOING
IT HIS WAY: THE REALITY CANDIDATE </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Throughout
my entire adult life, I have been the proverbial odd man out in my chosen
fields of academia and entertainment, institutions in which diversity of political
opinion is discouraged whilst a herd mentality sycophantically applauds itself.
What little success I have earned in my present occupation I owe not to the
comedy industry, but in spite of it. Where diversity quotas and liberal
groupthink are rewarded and uniqueness and merit are denigrated, I have been
forced to carve out my own singular path, for better or for worse. Likewise, I
see in Donald Trump a man who has gotten as far as he has in this election
almost exclusively by doing everything “wrong”. He has not qualified his
statements on terrorism with mealy-mouthed platitudes such as “Islam is a
religion of peace”. He has not given lip-service to the ongoing and expensive
fraud of climate change. He has been brusque and discourteous to criminal politicians
who audaciously demand that political discourse be kept “civil”. He has angered
social conservatives by not caring which bathroom a transgender uses and he has
angered social progressives for almost everything else. He has given the
American public and the world at large the ugly independent truth instead of
the sugar-coated sanctimony of the status quo. He has pushed back fiercely and
relentlessly against a biased and brainwashing mainstream media.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And to those who disagree with his assessment
of modern journalism, simply consider the headline Reuters used to describe a
thwarted jihadi suicide bombing earlier this year: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Syrian Man, Denied Asylum, Killed in German Blast.</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">XXIII.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">FREEDOM
FROM POLITICS AS USUAL </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I am tired,
as are millions of others, of establishment politicians. I want Donald Trump in
office for many reasons, but mostly because I want to return to thinking and
writing about other things and working on other creative projects, of which
there are many in the pipeline. And I believe if Donald Trump becomes
president, I can open the paper every morning, scan the headlines and, more
often than not, pump my fist in the air and say “Right on!” instead of “You
sneaky cunt. . .”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">XXIV.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">OPTIMISM
IN DEFIANCE OF FAITHLESSNESS</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Donald
Trump has continuously deflected the ad hominem attacks against his sexual
character and, as of this writing, the latest narrative from the opposition
seems to be that he never took this election seriously; that he was merely “pretending”
to love the people who love him. But this assessment overlooks the fact that,
in elections past, he has perennially been put forward as a potential candidate
and, barring this current one, has always declined. Perhaps this is just another
weak attempt from the opposition to neuter what is actually a genuine
revolution: to claim that it’s all been for show. The same cynicism that would
hand the nation to Hillary Clinton is the very one that now assumes Trump is
simply playing P. T. Barnum. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">XXV.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">CONCLUSION</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I was born
the son of a hardworking labourer. From kindergarten to eighth grade, I attended
a small country school. I was raised in a community against whose traditions I
often rebelled as a child, but have long ago come to appreciate as a man. I
have been fortunate enough to see many places and do many things in my life and
those small-town values have been largely responsible for making me the unique
individual I am today – not the groupthink progressive consensus of my
pedigreed peers; which would have me unquestioning, watered-down, and
ineffective. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I live in Britain, but I am
from Missouri, affectionately nicknamed the “Show-Me State”. Throughout the
course of this election, Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton have both shown me much.
And I choose Donald Trump. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
Will Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-40710810179362505052016-10-20T17:47:00.000-07:002016-10-20T17:47:42.991-07:00Globalist Dystopia: A Suicide Note From Culture <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Even amongst
her supporters, if that epithet be not too strong a word, the chief qualification
for Hillary Clinton to become President of the United States appears to be an
apathetic sense of inevitability; her very campaign the antithesis of the frothing
mantra of unspecified “change” from eight years ago. As Donald Trump’s
bombastic delivery and uncertain attitudes towards the fairer sex are fervently
and self-righteously denounced by the ruling elite, the decades of corruption
and illegality shadowing his rival are impassively dismissed as nothing more
than “business as usual” in the governmental sphere. Thus, with a collective
sigh from the Left, the bar is lowered, standards are ignored, and nothing
unique, let alone better, is demanded of the political class. In the midst of
such a demeaning malaise, one cannot help recalling T.S. Eliot’s prognostication
as to how the world will end “not with a bang, but a whimper.” And yet perhaps
there is a more cogent and populist means than modernist poetry to analyse this
current political wasteland. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">There is a
scene in the film adaptation of Ray Bradbury’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fahrenheit 451</i>, the science fiction classic that sees a fire
brigade called upon to incinerate books<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">,</i>
in which the fire chief finds a copy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Ethics of Aristotle</i> and sneers contemptuously to his second-in-command: “The
person who reads this must think they’re a cut above the rest.” Before setting
fire to the book, the chief then proceeds to echo the refrain commonly heard
from power structure representatives in dystopian fiction about a “new and
better society” in which everyone is “made equal”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">The
dwarfing of individual achievement by the blindness of an unthinking larger
community was also made particularly manifest in the late 60s television masterpiece
“The Prisoner”, wherein the opening credits to each episode featured a defiant
Patrick McGoohan as “Number 6” thrusting his fist into the air and shouting “I
am not a number! I am a free man!” But of course, the seminal work on the political
nightmare of a government presuming best how to rule a cowed citizenry, one
that gave to the sci-fi lexicon such eerily prophetic terms as “goodthink”, “thoughtcrime”,
and the logic-defying equation “2 + 2 = 5”, remains George Orwell’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">1984.</i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Such presumed
dystopian futures have now commingled into an actual dystopian present. One in
which the most vocally liberal activists join in ignorant (or not-so-ignorant)
collusion with the most power-mad globalist oligarchs the world has ever known.
Artists and writers blindly accept the arbitrary filtering of accepted speech
from hate speech, atheists and other secularists wilfully gloss over the theocratic
endgame of fundamentalist Islam, and institutions of higher learning have
waived their status as bastions of intellectual discourse to allow for the
proliferation of “safe spaces”. Most recently, moreover, the champions of
sexual liberation have joined forces with the ostensibly free press in shrill
tones of Victorian prudishness to disgrace an independent nationalist,
personally-flawed though he may be, and roll out the red carpet for his corrupted,
compromised, and criminal trans-nationalist rival. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">On the
positive side, this dystopian present, like its fictitious counterparts, comes
replete with its own protagonists, either quietly (or not-so-quietly) bucking
the system. For every Guy Montag having second thoughts about his career as a
government book-burner, there is a disgruntled university student skirting past
trigger warnings to read Douglas Murray’s critiques of radical Islam in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Spectator.</i> For every Number 6
looking to escape a village populated by grinning idiots of the political
establishment, there’s a middle-class English woman at a dinner party
whispering conspiratorially to a confidant about why she voted for Brexit. And
for every Winston Smith hoping to preserve and cherish his individual memories
against the grim backdrop of a communist bureaucracy, there is an artist of
integrity content to sacrifice work, recognition, and the fellowship of his or
her milieu if that’s the price to be paid for consistency, conviction, and
truth. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">The
downside, however, is that, rarely, if at all, do these protagonists ever come
away as the victors. Winston Smith is forced through psychological and physical
torture to betray not only his lover, but what remains of his inner life as
well. Number 6, though occasionally upturning the hierarchy, never succeeds
with any permanency and only “escapes” the village once it becomes clear that
it’s all been a construct of his mind. And Guy Montag, though reaching relative
safety amongst the “book people” at the end of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fahrenheit 451</i>, is nonetheless thwarted in his idealistic desire to
demolish the anti-intellectual system from within. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Similarly,
the freethinking university student is denounced by his peers as an
“Islamophobe”, the woman at the dinner party speaks in hushed tones about the
Brexit vote lest she be inflicted to a similar backlash, and the principled
artist, aside from facing alienation and poverty, is branded by colleagues a “reactionary”
or “contrarian” whenever astute accusations of hypocrisy hit a little too close
to the bone. Each of these instances, of course, are mere samplings of the
collective din that rises up, as if instinctually, to shout power down to truth
whenever a globalist ideology is significantly called into question. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Boosted by
both mainstream and social media, the resultant hyperbolic clamour against such
rebels is akin to an onslaught of the humanoids in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Invasion of the Body Snatchers</i> or the brain-eating reanimated
corpses of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Night of the Living Dead</i>. In
an age of such rabidly emotional defence of the status quo, it’s nothing short
of audacious to a rational-minded logician when these unthinking zombies
vacillate between foaming at the mouth and demanding that political discourse
be kept “civil”. Though such is the cognitive dissonance that earmarks this
postmodern dystopia. Consider, for example, the episode of “The Prisoner” in
which the ever-defiant Number 6 is forced to undergo corrective psychology
after being labelled by the community as “unmutual”. Yet in lieu of the word
“unmutual”, apply some of today’s ever-proliferating progressive alternatives:
“racist”, “sexist”, “bigot”, “xenophobe”, “Islamophobe”, “homophobe”, or
“transphobe”. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">The
success of this particular political strategy of progressive Newspeak is
contingent on three important factors: Numbers, Timing, and Stupidity. Firstly,
a brainwashed collective shouts the accusation, say, of sexism, which in turn
is given amplification by a complicit media, all with the aim of creating a
unidirectional cacophony so deafening that nothing of nuance – such as decades
of intricate, Watergate-like scandal – can hope to be heard. As party members
scream “traitor” at the telescreen images of Emmanuel Goldstein in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">1984</i>, so, too, can today’s progressives
be counted on to parrot the epithets of “racist”, “sexist” or “Islamophobe” at
the mere visage of Donald Trump. The result being that, just as Big Brother is
never questioned, the hidden depths of Hillary Clinton remain safely unplumbed.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Secondly,
the accusation must be presented before the opponent has a chance to do likewise.
For example, it matters not if an accuser has a track record of defending a
philanderer, much less a rapist, by threatening, bribing, slandering, or
otherwise silencing the victims. As long as the accuser takes advantage of the
constraints of linear time to present the accusation of sexism first, the
opponent remains on the back foot and any defence by the accused conveniently becomes
a media smokescreen benefiting the accuser. All of this, of course, is evocative
of the coerced televised confessions in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">1984</i>,
which were themselves redolent of the show trials of the late Soviet Union. It
should be noted in this regard that no one on the progressive Left actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wanted</i> an apology from Donald Trump for
his remarks in a private conversation from eleven years ago. Being on the
unfashionable side of the political spectrum means never having to say “sorry” since
progressivism is a religion conveniently void of the doctrine of forgiveness. An
apology, such as the one that Trump proffered, is nothing more than an excuse
to more deeply brand him with the scarlet “S” for “Sexist”. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Lastly,
and most importantly, none of the above would be possible were it not for the
paradoxical stupidity of today’s intelligentsia, the ideological bedrock upon
which this modern dystopia is constructed. Pseudo-academics, entertainers, artists,
and their unquestioning acolytes both indulge in and promote a distinctive
idiocy comprised of a stealth triad of political correctness, moral
equivalence, and cultural relativism. Each of these aspects, it should be mentioned,
of separate concern from merely lacking intelligence or even the aspiration
towards intelligence – characteristics, it is smugly implied, indicative of the
white working classes in America, devoid of the leisure time and financial resources
to attend university, constituting a healthy majority of Trump’s political base,
and grossly smeared by Clinton as a “basket of deplorables.” Along with the working
classes of the Welsh valleys and the north of England – who recently voted to
hand the United Kingdom back to itself – they remain perhaps the last demographic
for which open contempt from the globalist elites is not only permitted, but
encouraged. They are, in essence, the “proles” of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">1984</i> on whom Winston pins his fading hopes of revolution. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">No, here
the focus is on a more furtive type of stupidity – a stupidity that thinks
itself clever. As the fire chief of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fahrenheit
451</i> diligently rids the world of literature to prevent anyone conceiving of
themselves as intellectually superior, as the villagers in “The Prisoner” are
shed of their birth names to prevent anyone conceiving of themselves as unique,
or as the party members in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">1984 </i>are
cautioned to avoid thoughtcrime to prevent anyone conceiving of themselves as
independent, the endgame of every dystopia, real or imagined, is to strip culture
of all remnants of verticality. In place of the natural hierarchies of intelligent
over stupid, moral over immoral, better over worse, there remains only a bland
horizontality, appropriately suggestive of a once-beating pulse which has now become
flat-lined. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Such a
deadened landscape provides a progressive globalist the perfect springboard by
which to rewrite the standards. As the communists did with private wealth,
progressives envision conventional intelligence as inherently suspect.
Therefore, intelligence in the sense of knowing more than others in a unique
and independent way – i.e., thinking for oneself – is rendered obsolete. In
place of what are jeered at as antiquated and oppressive Western standards lies
a malleable, one-sided doctrine of politically-correct fairness. Therefore, in
order to be “intelligent” in today’s academic climate, one need only refrain
from saying or thinking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">these </i>or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">those</i> types of
people. In so doing, progressives pride themselves on having an open mind, which
they therefore equate with having an enriched mind. In this schemata,
intelligence and morality are rendered synonymous. To be intelligent, one must
simply be moral. And to be moral, one must simply have an open mind. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Until very
recently, these attributes of morality and intelligence, though often evident
within the same individual, were generally regarded as separate and distinct
qualities. That is, it was not inconceivable for an intelligent person to be
immoral or a moral person to be unintelligent. Yet here, these attributes are
the convex and concave of the same bowl. One can be both intelligent <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and </i>moral simply by echoing the party
line. There is a parallel here, of course, to the enthusiasm Winston Smith’s
co-workers share in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">1984</i> for the
latest edition of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Newspeak Dictionary</i> which will make even fewer words necessary to convey ideas in the near-future. Similarly, in this example, the ideas behind intelligence and
morality are collapsed into one catch-all term: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">political correctness.</i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Thus, political
correctness is the first leg of the stealth triad propping up this postmodern
academic backwardness. The second leg, meanwhile, is implied in the
double-meaning of the term and is one that its disciples are not as unabashed
about embracing, which is, of course, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">moral
equivalence</i>. Many practitioners of political correctness, though perfectly
content, if not outright proud, at being labelled as such, often shirk at accusations of moral
equivalence precisely because this term has not yet been rendered palatable to
the extent that political correctness has. However, given that the progenitors
of political correctness have succeeded in making fashionable a manner of
speaking, thinking, and acting that is, by definition, overt obedience to a
political diktat, such rhetorical transformation is only a matter of time. Regardless,
as political correctness seeks to encompass both intelligence and morality,
moral equivalence is an integral component which cannot be overlooked, since it
speaks to the heart of how ethical hypocrisies are justified through the dissonance
of this blinkered worldview. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Political
correctness is a veritable geyser of unresolved and unresolvable hypocrisies.
In order to justify the invariable disconnects and, in so doing, prolong the
existence of itself as an ideology, various leaps in logic must needs take
place, most of these affecting the realm of ethics. The Islamic terrorism of
today, for example, is excused thanks to the Christian Crusades of a thousand
years ago; a leap which makes use of the most cursory understanding of history
as well as both a convenient ignorance of the passage of linear time and any
subsequent enlightenments achieved by Western Civilisation along the way. The
past is always present when the narrative is to be maintained. Or, as Orwell succinctly puts it in <i>1984</i>, "He who controls the past controls the future. He who controls the present controls the past."</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Not only time, but
space as well, is flexible to such hindered minds. For instance, it has
recently been evidenced that, when all police officers in the United States are
conflated into one giant killer of black people, any killings of police
officers by black people in the United States are deemed understandable at best
and acts of revolution at worst. More relevant to the present political
situation, though, is the selective discarding of ostensibly core progressive principles
whenever political circumstances necessitate. Simply observe how easily the same promiscuousness
that glossed over the transgressions of one womaniser morphs into the
prudishness that nails another to the cross. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">So the
first two legs of this dystopian triad, political correctness and moral
equivalence, are erected and maintained via ontological manipulations of time,
space, and even principles, portending a progressive movement that is neither
intellectual nor moral, despite professing to be both. To be clear in this
regard, it is just as immoral in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">1984</i>
for O’Brien to force Winston to give the answer “5” to “2 + 2 =” as it is
anti-intellectual. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Finally,
as political correctness necessitates moral equivalence, the third leg of the
triad is made manifest from the interplay of the two. In the wake of an
ideological movement that coalesces intelligence and morality into one unit
and, in so doing, negates the efficacy of both, it is no small effort to
imagine a Guy Montag or a Number 6 or a Winston Smith asking, at least
inwardly, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what, therefore, is to become
of culture? </i>For the answer to this, one need only turn to their respective antagonists,
the figureheads of these coming dystopias, who speak cryptically of a “new and
better society” in which everyone is “made equal”. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">To this
effect, the goal of any equalising party, fortified by the stupidity of
political correctness and the immorality of moral equivalence, is to erode all
distinction between varying cultures by engaging in the nihilistic ideology of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cultural relativism.</i> As with
conventional intelligence and morality, the cultural relativist regards conventional
notions of cultures, imbued with inherent traditions and values, as suspect – most
especially if such cultures have any track record of success on the global
stage. The relativist, it must be understood, can only envision a culture as
that culture stands in relation to others. If a successful one, the cynical presumption
is that it must have achieved its wealth and status solely through surreptitious
means, primarily by exploiting and pillaging the resources of other, less-successful
cultures. In this understanding, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Magna
Carta</i> and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bill of Rights</i> play
no role in the shaping, respectively, of British and American exceptionalism,
for the focus here is myopically and lopsidedly trained only on imperialism
and conquest of indigenous populations. Conversely, if a culture is
unsuccessful, it is presumed to be a helpless victim, any pre-existing poverty
or degradation patently no fault of its own. The best example of this in
present times is the ease with which theocratic totalitarianism is discarded as
the reason for deprivation across the Islamic world. To rectify any perceived
global transgressions, therefore, national characteristics pertaining to the
more successful culture, such as traditions, history, or, in some cases, even borders,
are misrepresented, ridiculed, and, ultimately, demonised. Such is the
eschatology of the religion of progressivism, a mental endgame given corporeal
effect through the governmental apparatus of globalism. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">By way of
stark contrast, consider in this regard that the natural world, in its most
primal sense, is a tableau of unalterable inequality despite its status
as a borderless entity. Furthermore, let it be argued that this very inequality
accounts for the incontrovertible aesthetic pleasure of nature. One tree is taller than another, one river flows faster than the next, one mountain towers
above all. The birds have domain of the skies and the fish of the seas, whilst
the lion is the undisputed king of the jungle and the lamb the living symbol of
unexcitable tranquillity. In theory, the natural universe bespeaks an unstable
chaos, and yet, as anyone with eyes can see, adheres to an inexplicably perfect
order in practice. It is only the unfortunate lot of postmodern humans,
however, to be subjected by their fellow species to the stupefying and
demoralising process of an unnatural and enforced equalisation wherein
legitimate intellect, morality, and culture are seen as barriers to a
sanctimonious and smug New World Order in which the synthetic desires of the
community take precedence over the natural rights of the individual. Perhaps it
was to highlight this discrepancy of the self-enslavement of the human world in
relation to its natural counterpart that compelled Orwell to envision another chilling
dystopian allegory in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Animal Farm. </i>But
even in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">1984</i>, it is no literary
accident that the freedom of Winston’s dream-world, his radiant antidote to a grey
bureaucracy, is symbolised by what the beleaguered protagonist lyrically terms “The
Golden Country”. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">As in the “new
societies” of dystopian fiction, the task of the relativist is to denigrate and
therefore eliminate all meaningful distinctions that give colour to life in
general and human nature in specific. The fire brigade of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fahrenheit 451</i> obliterates literature to shield mankind from intellectual
advancement, the villagers in “The Prisoner” are given numbers instead of names
to prevent uniqueness, and the childhood memories of Winston Smith – his last
vestiges of inner individual freedom after resolving himself to outer communal slavery
– are irredeemably quashed at the close of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">1984.</i>
Similarly, political correctness degrades education and the arts, moral
equivalence makes a mockery of human ethics, and cultural relativism demolishes
the very concept of nationhood, all to pave the way for the globalist monoculture, the political
manifestation of a backwards academic ideology. In so doing, they
elevate the bad whilst demoting the good, for any equalising dystopia can only be
envisioned as utopia by the stupid, immoral, and culturally clueless. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Moreover, it
can only be sold to them by a globalist oligarchy that, in terms of
intelligence, morality, and patriotism, expects as little from the citizenry
they rule as their citizenry expects of them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this </i>is the way the world ends. Not with
Trump’s bang, but a whimper of Clinton’s voters. </span></div>
Will Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-32524458667633467822016-09-25T15:50:00.001-07:002016-09-25T15:50:26.196-07:00Freedom: The Reason to See Little Joe (With A Postscript on the Defining the Norm Awards) <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">A few
years ago, following a performance in Edinburgh, someone said of my shows that
they were about freedom. Only on rare occasions throughout my nearly
twenty-year career (if you can call it that) did I ever flirt with the
possibility that any of my shows had a theme. During one run in San Francisco,
I told the press that my intent with that particular piece (2007’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Grandpa, It’s Not Fitting</i>) was to
systematically slaughter every politically-correct sacred cow, in increasing
order of social relevance, from the shallowness of Hollywood to the repression
of the Koran in little over an hour. Usually, though, when queried about a theme
by an interviewer or a prospective punter, I opt for the convenient catch-all
terms of “dreamlike” or “nightmare-esque” or even “LSD trip”. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">All monikers which could be applied
to my latest opus: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Little Joe.</i>
(playing 30 September and 1-2 October at the Museum of Comedy in Holborn) </span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7uQgWfx6-NfQSpz02lmGzwxb0tlfcx4aW_jo1uQPY-_Jy2qVKj-QduaWtBY9DuBlKoGaUomwcYLqmg4en55pEkMA4YtV3a6yLMbv3MkSuDblXdUukrriKtP6ASbVkq8VSXqxT3A/s1600/image1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7uQgWfx6-NfQSpz02lmGzwxb0tlfcx4aW_jo1uQPY-_Jy2qVKj-QduaWtBY9DuBlKoGaUomwcYLqmg4en55pEkMA4YtV3a6yLMbv3MkSuDblXdUukrriKtP6ASbVkq8VSXqxT3A/s1600/image1.JPG" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">But yet,
when this woman revealed to me her analysis of my work, I instantaneously and
appreciatively agreed with her. Freedom is exactly what my shows are about.
Freedom from political correctness, freedom from industry approval. Freedom to
say what I want, think what I want, and be what I want. Freedom to embrace and
expose the subconscious in all its truthful beauty and not-so-beautiful truth.
And perhaps I have likewise been hoping, all these years, to impart that liberating
freedom to others who may suffer from groupthink, peer pressure, political
correctness, and fear of cultural stigmatisation and social banishment. To
simultaneously reap the rewards and suffer the blows that are part and parcel
of steadfastly remaining an individual in the midst of an ever-expanding and
increasingly authoritarian larger community. To live the life authentic. Yes, indeed
-- my shows, my work, my life, are all <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">precisely
</i>about freedom. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Little Joe</i> may be the freest show I’ve ever written. (playing 30
September and 1-2 October at the Museum of Comedy in Holborn) </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp7C9KA8IlOe6wrmFFu6kGgxFvN8kiCz4nNC7DMai4ugbjQ364yG7L9fZLxvfJ7oTSioZXc6q6wG1RVx8QroWZ33S_4KLKbeXW51aEHWvdpLeanzuTVTyd_sEA00OFIgs9yK3Lnw/s1600/image2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp7C9KA8IlOe6wrmFFu6kGgxFvN8kiCz4nNC7DMai4ugbjQ364yG7L9fZLxvfJ7oTSioZXc6q6wG1RVx8QroWZ33S_4KLKbeXW51aEHWvdpLeanzuTVTyd_sEA00OFIgs9yK3Lnw/s1600/image2.JPG" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><b> THE DEFINING THE NORM AWARDS: WHY, WILL FRANKEN? WHY? </b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Many
theories were circulating on social media and throughout Fringe pop-up bars in
the wake of my publication of the nominees for the Defining the Norm Awards.
Chief among them, undoubtedly, was that I had conceived of the awards as a way
to get attention. This theory is promptly debunked if one takes into account two
very obvious factors: 1) The nominees were published, in synch with the
Lastminute.com Awards, at the end of the festival -- a time precluding any
effective public relations coup. But more importantly, 2) <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Everything</i> about the Fringe is an attempt to get attention. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hypocrisy? Yes, it just follows me around
like a lost puppy dog. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Another
theory was sugar-coated in the sort of faux compassion that is the hallmark of
today’s aesthetic wasteland. There was concern expressed over my mental
well-being and even armchair diagnoses that perhaps I was having a bi-polar
breakdown of some sort, the awards being a manifestation of psychological
illness. The implication here is that the glut of mundane, boring, predictable,
overly safe, non-challenging, political-correct comedy must be an hallucination.
If we don’t talk it about, it must not exist, right? See no evil, hear no evil,
and – most definitely – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">speak</i> no
evil. And besides, with all the sycophantic fawning this year about shows
dealing “bravely” with mental health issues, how come I didn’t receive more
applause and acclaim for what some were characterising as an act of sheer madness?
Or, more to the point, as Craig Campbell graciously reminded me backstage one
night at The Stand, artists are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">supposed</i>
to be insane. Yes, indeed, Craig, once upon a time before business sense
prevailed over artistic inspiration. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Good
dog, Hypocrisy, have another bone.</i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Within a
mere ten minutes of the nominees being published, the issue of me being Sarah
last year was raised, with a few outraged comedians desperately asserting –
despite never having been to one of my shows – that my 2015 performance would
itself have been a nominee for various Defining the Norm categories. But it’s
near impossible for regular practitioners of hypocrisy to accuse another of the
same, for they were, unsurprisingly, wrong – as is anyone who assumes that a comedian
wearing a dress will spend an hour talking about wearing a dress, or a black
comedian will spend an hour talking about being black, or a female comedian
will spend an hour talking about being female. And to think that once, way back in the day, surprise was considered the most important element to comedy writing. Unquestionably,
these are the very bigots the real anti-bigots need to confront. They’ve got all
their boxes ready and waiting, so either hop inside of your own volition or
feel their communal wrath. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">In fact,
it’s sometimes difficult to determine what flummoxed the comedy community more –
this year’s awards or last year’s decision to live as Sarah and then become
Will again. To this day, I see and hear comics I’ve never met speak
authoritatively about both topics after first cautiously prefacing their
diatribes with wishy-washy wording like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My
suspicion is. .</i> .or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’ve not met the
man, but my feeling is</i>. . . “Feeling”, of course, being the vital linchpin
term that can transform novice into expert, for anyone may speak in terms of
feelings when so few converse in facts. How symptomatic of our diseased culture
that people barely clever enough to be comedians deign to fashion themselves
psychologists as well. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Attaboy,
Hypocrisy, come here and let me scratch yer head!</i> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Other knee-jerk
assessments of the DTN Awards were a bit more naked with their vitriol. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Who is this foreigner to come here and tell
us how to do comedy? </i>screamed a self-righteous few. Well, allow me to
introduce myself. This foreigner grew up worshipping – and was consequently
heavily-influenced by -- what the best of British comedy once offered:
Surrealism, absurdism, and satire. Little did I realise those art forms would
be shoved aside to accommodate the now-prevalent pattern of comics sucking up
to obtuse club owners and media fixtures, month after month, until that one
magical time of the year when they’re allowed to go north of the border for
three weeks and play at being Oprah Winfrey. We had confessional performances
in the States as well and I didn’t like them out there either. Which is, of
course, why I moved to Great Britain, my historical comedic home, birthplace of
satire and the Sex Pistols. </span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Right on
cue, there were also the inevitable lamentations that I was “punching down”. To
this I say, has not our relativistic culture shown us that there are no longer
such things as “up” or “down”? That anybody who wants to do comedy should be
encouraged to do so? For we are all one happy comedy community and if we
absolutely must complain about other comedians, we should either do it late
night in a car, with one to three others, returning from a gig, or united as a
massive front against a single individual – such as myself – who dares transgress
the unwritten law that the illusion of the “happy comedy community” – for an
illusion it truly is – must always prevail against the persistent tug of
empirical reality. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, Hypocrisy, man’s best
friend you are. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">And
besides, these awards were nothing if not egalitarian. I’d be hard-pressed to think
of many other show business nomination lists that would unite eager young
open-mikers with established mainstream television stars the way the DTN Awards
did. Everybody and everything about the Fringe was covered honestly and fairly in
one broad, all-encompassing sweep. Not to mention, any accusations of punching
down are, by necessity, entirely contingent upon where I happen to be placed
within the comedy hierarchy at any given moment. I know all too well how
malleable a performer’s position can be when it comes to serving another’s
argument. Last year, when I made the statement to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The List</i> that I thought Jon Stewart was “one of the least funny
people on the planet”, the cries from the comedy community rose up as one: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Who is this nobody going after an
established guy like Jon Stewart</i>? One year later, and the cry has suddenly
transformed into: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Who is this established
guy going after these nobodies?</i> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I have to admit
here relishing at times the sweet irony that the highest levels of hatred for
the Defining the Norm Awards emanated from bookers who never dared to put me one
of their shows because -- dig this -- I’m not normal enough. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">So
standing apart from, or, dare I say, above it all, one thing remains crystal
clear. The reason for the proliferation of the disparate and incorrect theories
about why I went through with the DTN Awards is because, to the average
contemporary comedian whose limited outlook can only think in terms of
careerist advantage or disadvantage, the actual explanation, simple though it
may be, is one that such business-minded sorts would never (and could never) consider:
I did it because I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wanted</i> to do it.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Now, that being
said, there did appear one accusation that was quite tellingly accurate.
Somebody had written in the first few hours following the nominee announcements:
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Will Franken seems to have a pretty high
opinion of himself.</i> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Why yes, I
do. And I likewise have pretty high opinions of – in no particular order – The
Beatles, Beethoven, James Joyce, Jonathan Swift, Lenny Bruce, William Blake,
Peter Cook, and so many more. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Like all of the
above, I am a free individual, slave to no community. I use intellect where
stupidity is presumed, I use originality where formulaic is expected, I use merit where quotas are dangled, and I use
rebellion where correctness is demanded. And it was a busy August indeed for
this rebel. With the awards, I said “fuck you” to the comedic status quo. With
my show, I said “fuck you” to the nature of reality itself. And I’m doing the
latter again for three nights, right here in London town. </span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Little Joe</span></i></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">.
(playing 30 September and 1-2 October at the Museum of Comedy in Holborn) </span></b></div>
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Will Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-62225434550812562442016-07-24T05:14:00.001-07:002016-07-24T05:15:52.701-07:002016 DEFINING THE NORM AWARDS <div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">WELCOME TO THE OFFICIAL SITE FOR THE 2016 INAUGURAL <i> </i></span></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><i>DEFINING THE NORM AWARDS.</i></span></b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2jqJhmLssq5DTwlCjHESkroeul6vymawLXUr_oEBHM8nmEt-eA_j3VoCTUwcbILQO6agI6Oje098bKa8EY6wY3DjHbLrkZBNq_NNoRFBFistREvs3_gOGMIkgSR4TPVzEvOOUdg/s1600/daniel-sloss-44.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2jqJhmLssq5DTwlCjHESkroeul6vymawLXUr_oEBHM8nmEt-eA_j3VoCTUwcbILQO6agI6Oje098bKa8EY6wY3DjHbLrkZBNq_NNoRFBFistREvs3_gOGMIkgSR4TPVzEvOOUdg/s1600/daniel-sloss-44.jpg" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> </i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>Discovering Comedy Normality. </b></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Here you will find important information about the <b>Defining the Norm Awards </b>being presented at this year's Fringe Festival for the very first time by ordinary, non-challening, industry-friendly comedian Will Franken (www.willfranken.com) NEWS AND UPDATES UNDERNEATH THE "WHO WE ARE" SECTION BELOW</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>KEY DATES</b></span><i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">24 AUGUST -- NOMINATIONS ANNOUNCED</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">27 AUGUST -- WINNERS ANNOUNCED</span></i></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>28 AUGUST -- AWARDS SHOW </b></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>WHO WE ARE </b></span><i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Will Franken ("Mock The Week", "Have I Got News For You") is pleased to announce this year he will officially
present, along with special guests, the inaugural <b>Defining The Norm Awards </b>at this year's Fringe
Festival. Shows will be judged on conformity to industry standards,
marketable status, adherence to shared political opinion, and audience
pandering. Special categories for shows consisting of safe targets,
stifled free speech, and lack of original or perceptive messages will
also be recognised, in addition to most marketably correct and expensive
flyer and poster combination. If you feel you have a show that is
uniform, systematic, and average, you could be a winner<b>. </b></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b><span style="color: red;">UPDATES: 24/7/16 </span>JUDGING PANEL CURRENTLY BEING ASSEMBLED. IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO BE PART OF OUR JUDGING PANEL, PLEASE SEND AN EMAIL TO SARAHBECOMESHER@GMAIL.COM WITH YOUR CREDENTIALS </b></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b><span style="color: red;">UPDATES: 24/7/16</span> NEW CATEGORIES ANNOUNCED TO HONOUR THOSE BEHIND THE SCENES. "MOST SYCOPHANTIC REVIEWER", "MOST PREDATORY PROMOTION COMPANY", "MOST EXPENSIVE PR LADY", AND "MOST KOWTOWING AND INEFFECTIVE AGENCY" </b></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b><span style="color: red;">UPDATES: 24/7/16 </span>POLITICAL COMEDIANS EXCITED ABOUT THE </b></span></i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>DEFINING THE NORM AWARDS </b></span></span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">ARE DUSTING OFF THEIR UKIP AND NIGEL FARAGE JOKES TO SAFELY PERFORM IN A SETTING OF LIKE MINDS. </span></b></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLavp8ZSXo9wt41TsMRvWQaCkQq0z-115G3OoD99UbiFC1aufIaIb5dgbsMvz-_iGaW_q5TAxOy_R2Ba7R6VIzZTAxZFm0HpUjKif0Pp-tPnjOwJfc95_henccmVZpC-4jCO4mSQ/s1600/22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLavp8ZSXo9wt41TsMRvWQaCkQq0z-115G3OoD99UbiFC1aufIaIb5dgbsMvz-_iGaW_q5TAxOy_R2Ba7R6VIzZTAxZFm0HpUjKif0Pp-tPnjOwJfc95_henccmVZpC-4jCO4mSQ/s200/22.jpg" width="200" /></a></b></span></i></div>
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b> </b></span></i><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: red;">UPDATES: 24/7/16</span> DONALD TRUMP IS COMING TO SCOTLAND AGAIN? WELL, SORT OF. HE'S HOPPING THE POND IN THE FORM OF SAFE JOKES TOLD BY COMEDIANS FROM AROUND THE WORLD IN ADVANCE OF THE 2016 AMERICAN ELECTION. CONVENTIONAL COMEDIANS SHOULD BE HAPPY HE'S RUNNING FOR OFFICE. </span></b></span></span></i><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b><span style="color: red;">UPDATES: 24/7/16 </span>FEMINIST COMEDIANS ARE HARD AT WORK TRYING TO SOLVE THE AGE-OLD RIDDLE OF HOW TO AVOID DISCUSSING RADICAL ISLAM'S TREATMENT OF WOMEN IN THEIR SHOWS AND STILL BE LAUDED AS BRAVE. CAN THEY DO IT? IF SO, ONE LUCKY FEMINIST MAY BE THE RECIPIENT OF OUR </b></span></i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>"SIDE-STEPPING THE UNPLEASANT TRUTH AWARD"</b></span></span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>STAY TUNED FOR MORE NEWS AND INFO. </b></span></span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b></b></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>c) 2016 DTN AWARDS</b></span></span></i></div>
Will Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-80049207240603153652016-07-06T16:40:00.000-07:002016-07-07T16:42:33.954-07:00BREXIT: THE FRONT OF THE QUEUE<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">BREXIT: THE FRONT OF
THE QUEUE</span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">By Wm. Franken</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I say the
following as an expatriate Yank who has a deep love for both his native
homeland and his adopted one of Great Britain: there is great reason to foresee
positive consequences for American and British relations as a result of the
Brexit referendum. I say this based upon the principles of choice and merit
that are the philosophical underpinnings of a shared history and culture. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I did not
move to Great Britain because I have a burning passion for globalist
super-states led by a centralised group of unelected officials. I did not move
to Great Britain because I believe all cultures are equal and the flight out here
was simply shorter and cheaper than the one to Turkey. I did not move to Great
Britain to whinge about the perceived evils of the St. George’s Cross, the
Union Jack, or the concept of nationalism more generally. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I moved
here because, ever since the age of fourteen, after seeing my first episode of
“Monty Python’s Flying Circus” on our local PBS affiliate in Missouri, a
lifelong fascination for British culture was set in motion – <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>for its history, music, literature, and most
especially, its comedy. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">There are
times I recall an interview John Lennon gave to Tom Snyder during Lennon’s
final years in New York. At one point, Snyder asks Lennon why he wants to
remain in the US. To which Lennon answers, “Because this is where the music
came from. This is what influenced my whole life and got me where I am today.”
Well, that’s what I feel about Britain. It’s where the comedy came from. (Not
to mention The Beatles) It’s where so many things came from that influenced my life
and made me the person I am today. Britain is not just another place for me to live
and work. It is the realisation of a childhood dream. And I thank my stars
every day that dream has come true.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">In my
earliest months out here, I would often respond to strangers who inquired about
my desire to relocate, that my love for British culture is akin to my love for
women. There’s a beautiful congruence at something being very similar to me in
many ways, yet still possessing a delightful plethora of intriguing differences
to maintain my fancy. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">To be
sure, not all of those differences are necessarily attractive. During one of
the referendum debates, I voiced to a friend my persistent surprise at how
nakedly some pundits express their contempt of the working classes and proceeded
to compare this with how everyone in America at least <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pretend</i> they come from humble beginnings. Which is why Hillary
Clinton will always inject a bit more down-home soul in her speeches when she’s
lobbying for votes in poorer communities. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And which is why, having been born and raised
in a small Midwestern town, I have such identification and affinity for those regions
that voted to leave the EU, such as rural Yorkshire and the Welsh Valleys. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">The United
Kingdom I fell in love with at such a young age, the United Kingdom from which
I learned irreverence, surrealism, and satire, the United Kingdom of the Magna
Carta, John Locke, and Winston Churchill, the United Kingdom that was ever in
my thoughts as I pursued a master’s degree in Restoration and 18<sup>th</sup>
Century British Literature – whilst others in my graduate class were beginning
to murmur about “white privilege”, “Western bias”, and other academic
forerunners to the modern university “safe spaces” – that United Kingdom awoke with
a mighty lion’s roar on Thursday, 23<sup>rd</sup> June, 2016 following what
seemed an irreversible sheep-like trudge into globalist rule. In the waning
hours of that night and well into the following morning, I, along with many
others the world over, witnessed something unfold and claim its rightful place
in history; something I had previously thought could only exist within the
dusky confines of Biblical lore: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">David had beaten
Goliath. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">If this
ancient metaphor seems a tad hyperbolic, one simply has to consider the tidal
wave of propaganda the Leave supporters had to successfully weather in order to
bring the long-forgotten principle of national sovereignty to bear. Bucking not
only against the raging waters of the EU transnationalists, but the overpaid
and undertalented celebrity elite, the monolithic pull of the mainstream media,
the clearly misguided yet unfortunately energetic youth, the ivory tower
academics and their penchant for elevating fear above hope, the self-interested
pleas from major corporations like Virgin and Ryanair, the meaningless mantras
of uncertainty and anxiety repeatedly hammered into the public psyche by
establishment figures in both the Tory and Labour parties, and even the veiled
threat from the Obama administration about heading to the “back of the queue” –
the Leave voters, with the quiet reserve so characteristic of this nation’s
people, maintained their course with firm conviction to the result so many
desired, yet dared not expect. In fact, it would not be amiss here to compare
the calm steadfastness of subdued principle in the face of such rabid opposition
to the exploits of this nation’s most beloved naval hero, Lord Nelson. For a
battered ship had survived a tumultuous storm in the hopes of bringing to these
shores once more the promised bounty of national sovereignty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Of course,
if the Biblical and military metaphors are still a bit too grandiose, there are
numerous variations one could choose from to characterise the referendum
result. In my more light-hearted moments, I can also liken the success of the
Leave campaign to the triumph of the Delta Fraternity over Dean Wormer in the
70s American screwball comedy <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">National
Lampoon’s Animal House</i>; (Dean Wormer being alternately represented by
Jean-Claude Juncker, Angela Merkel, Barack Obama, or George Soros.) The
hardworking underdog citizenry of this nation, once esteemed for their sacrifice
and selflessness, had made themselves heard, much to the chagrin of the
establishment. The dispassionate globalists, the one-worlders with allegiance
to neither flag nor country, bureaucrats and self-appointed experts who had for
decades deviously – and to their own recent detriment – conflated nationalism
with racism, could only stand by fuming, egg dripping down their disappointed
faces, as history changed direction in the course of a single night. The
spectacle was pure comedy at its anti-authoritarian best. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">The theme
song for the referendum could very well have been David Bowie’s anthemic
“Changes”, although some reworking of the lyrics would have had to have been
undertaken. Given the demographic breakdown of the results, it wouldn’t have
made sense to sing about “these<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> children </i>that
you spit on as they try to change their worlds”<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>For it was not only the working classes but the older generations,
those who could remember a time before the EU super-state undertook to over-regulate
and gut their vital industries whilst the Labour Party simultaneously insulted
their intelligence and social status – all the while incredulously and
patronisingly expecting them to vote in their favour! –<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that ushered in what we can only hope at this
stage to be another glorious revolution. Whilst the children, the millennials
too often looked at to lead the way – a continuation of the inverted hierarchy established
during the 1960s of youth over experience – were stodgily resisting any change
whatsoever.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">With
notable exceptions worthy of recognition for standing outside the pack and
resisting the full thrust of political peer pressure, the younger generation,
by and large, were calling for nothing more dramatic than the prolongation of a
dismal and destructive status quo. And given the naked ageism and classism that
has permeated both mainstream and social media in the wake of this referendum, it
has become clear the “children” are now the ones doing the spitting. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Over a
week has now passed and I still occasionally see Remainers sporting their glittery
“I’m In” T-shirts and find myself wondering how passionate one can truly be
about an institution so patently glum, sedentary, and corrupt as the European
Union. I deign to envision another corollary besides rooting for a
multinational bank by which one isn’t even employed, but invariably come up
short. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguWTUvr85c1o63yzsTnIJKHpPcn4VkTuktmJOvrdihvCuBN02jFImGh1jwxJh5TH4romcqT0RHypuyfsqbzXVL-zJTbkM0GvSNL_VeIVEpLiCpQg30AAQ1TrwRf5uSAGZrdXq5Og/s1600/low_rank_334019_UK-flag-map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguWTUvr85c1o63yzsTnIJKHpPcn4VkTuktmJOvrdihvCuBN02jFImGh1jwxJh5TH4romcqT0RHypuyfsqbzXVL-zJTbkM0GvSNL_VeIVEpLiCpQg30AAQ1TrwRf5uSAGZrdXq5Og/s320/low_rank_334019_UK-flag-map.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> I can,
however, always understand passion for one’s own nation. It’s unfortunate that a
good portion of the Remain camp cannot. To a multinational, populist passion is
always suspect. And to nullify any potential threat to the establishment,
mistruths about motives are invariably ascribed to nationalist sentiment – <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>xenophobia and racism being the chief rhetorical
weapons. For in the EU schemata, as in the larger globalist world view, there
are no nations, there are no sides, there is no better and there is no worse. The
jihadist hotbed of Belgium, the failed economy of Greece, the non-integrated
asylum state of modern Germany, were all, until recently, placed on an equal
footing with Great Britain at the table of collective and crippling compromise. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">No. Remaining
in the EU was not a passionate position, but rather the manifestation of mass gullibility
in blindly accepting a series of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ad hoc</i>
rhetorical equations. For every conflation of nationalism with bigotry, there
was a converse conflation of multinationalism with enlightenment. The EU, for
example, being conveniently equated with Europe and Europe being conveniently
equated with culture – wine, cheese and arts funding, if you will. Whereas a
cursory glance across the political landscape of the continent, with its
struggling unified currency project and the abject failures of its undemocratic
centralised powers, empirically demonstrates the EU is diametrically opposed to
the very European culture it purports to foster. I myself adore European
culture. One could in fact say I’m passionate about it. Which is exactly why I have
always decried the erosion of national identities that is part and parcel of an
EU vision. Great Britain may have been the first to leave, but let us hope, for
the prolongation of broader European history and culture, she will not be the
last. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">But the EU
is merely a symptom of the wider ideological pathology of globalism. A
pathology that, like its smaller counterpart in the European Union, comes equipped
with its own reductive inferences: Individual nationhood is distasteful,
whereas the global community is, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ipso
facto</i>, a virtuous thing. Can anyone actually mouth these sentiments with a
straight face given that the global community today contains a theocratic Iran,
totalitarian North Korea, and an increasingly militarising China -- all the
while as the Islamic State continues to slash and burn their way across the
hemisphere and beyond? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Finding
themselves flailing in the face of reasoned polemics, there were moments during
the televised debates when the Remain camp desperately reached for the Nazi
card, sanctimoniously emphasising that that, too, was a nationalist movement.
Unsurprisingly, they had little to say for the fact that Nazism was also a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">socialist</i> movement. A socialism predicated
on the flawed presumption that certain successes are ill-gotten and therefore
invalid – the same premise that served as lifelong justification for Hitler’s unabated
hatred and genocidal practices towards the Jewish people. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Of course,
no one should argue that the European Union is the second coming of the Nazi
party, just as, conversely, no one should draw similar comparisons to the nationalist
policies of the Brexit campaign. What can be said with any certainty, though,
is that continued adherence to the multinational socialist outlook of the EU would
only lead to the further diminishment of British exceptionalism. The fact that
Britain is now poised to reverse a decades-long slide into this quagmire, thanks
to the outcome of a single referendum, should be encouragement to patriots across
the Atlantic that the deleterious effects brought about by eight years of
Barack Obama’s denigration of America’s own exceptionalism can be just as
easily undone. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">It is
telling that, during the final debate, self-proclaimed “citizen of the world” Barack
Obama’s name was bandied about numerous times as a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fait accompli</i> case for remaining in the EU. That is, until one MP courageously
pointed out that Obama, thankfully, was not going to be president forever. Why
it took so long for the Leave side to respond to the invoking of the
president’s name testifies both to how deeply affixed Obama’s cult of personality
is on the global stage as well as to the underlying fear that going against his
endorsements would lead to false accusations of xenophobia. For what
differentiates a xenophobe from a nationalist is that where the former would incorrectly
blame immigrants for stealing their culture, the latter would accurately blame
their leaders for giving their culture away. And though, undoubtedly, the Obama
administration has given much away, Brexit is now a signpost revealing how to
get it back. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Perhaps
Great Britain in particular and Western Civilisation in general may be slowly
awakening to the reality that there is no virtue to be had in
self-flagellation. I myself wouldn’t want to live in a United Kingdom that
endlessly apologises for its world status in the manipulative tones of guilt
and shame. I want to live in a United Kingdom that, whilst not glossing over its
historical transgressions, nonetheless endeavours to highlight and capitalise
on its many successes – a Britain that loves itself as much as I love Britain. We
often hear, for example, of disenfranchised minority youths in Western
societies becoming radicalised. Far too many leaders have sought an answer to
this problem with more apologies and more accommodations. But the question must
be raised, are these youths disenfranchised because the West has not apologised
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">enough</i> or are they disenfranchised
because the West has apologised <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">too much</i>?
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, why be loyal to a nation
whose rhetoric and actions are steeped in self-hatred? It’s virtually impossible
to love a doormat. Moreover, if the leadership of Britain and the US were to
widen their lenses and truly act upon the principle of “thinking globally”, it
becomes readily apparent that many enemies see apologies as opportunities. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Great
Britain is by no means out of the proverbial woods just yet. They have
acknowledged the futility of a doomed relationship and have expressed a sincere
desire to move on to other opportunities. In reaction, the EU leadership,
sobbing like a jilted lover, has screamed “Fine! Pack your bags and get out!”
And that is exactly what Britain needs to do, lest it backslide over the course
of two years into the same political morass from which it has only recently
voted to extricate itself. Yet the machinations within the Tory party following
David Cameron’s resignation portend grim challenges for the future of Brexit;
most particularly with the ascendency of Theresa May as the major contender for
the premiership, herself a Remain candidate from the exact same government.
“Meet the new boss, same as the old boss” the electorate might have hummed as
they heard her make the astounding assertion that “voters want more than a
Brexit PM” – belying, of course, the fact that Britain needs a new prime
minister precisely <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">because</i> of Brexit.
Furthermore, the two chief architects of the referendum and the ones who made
the most prodigious use on the campaign trail of Americanisms like
“Independence Day” – Nigel Farage and Boris Johnson – have both exited the
political stage, the latter having been betrayed by his fellow Leave-ally, the
Machiavellian upstart Michael Gove. Meanwhile, north of the border, Nicola
Sturgeon and her contingency are clamouring on again about independence for
Scotland in order that they can continue being dependent on the European Union.
As an expat watching all this infighting, backstabbing and manoeuvring unfold,
I can only sit back and paraphrase Ray Liotta’s narration in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Goodfellas</i> after Joe Pesci gets whacked:
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And we had to sit still and take it. It
was among the British. It was real greaseball shit.”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Despite
all this political negativity, however, optimism must and will prevail. For it
was optimism that defeated the scaremongering of the Remain camp at the polls
and it will be optimism that goes forth to guarantee the people’s wish that
Britain once more claim its rightful place in the world, this time on its own
terms. Brexit is about many things – sovereignty, trade, and immigration, to
name but a few – and yet all these could easily be distilled into two distinct
principles: Choice and Merit. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">From its
very conception in the aftermath of World War Two, the European Union was based
on no grander principle than geographical proximity. This is not to discount
the altruistic motives certain European leaders had in reviving war-torn
regions of Western Europe, but when considering American initiatives at the
time geared towards the same goal of post-war revivification, most notably the
Marshall Plan, the idea of proximity alone justifying a political and economic
union – especially in this postmodern age of internet commerce – is utterly
absurd. Imagine how disgruntled, to put it mildly, Palestine would be if it
were finally granted statehood only to be told, because of proximity, it had to
immediately enter into a political and economic union with its arch-nemesis,
Israel. The unpleasant historical fact is, with Britain’s exit from the EU
imminent, the only Allied nation has left the European picture, leaving a map
composed of areas that were either neutral, occupied, or Axis powers during
World War Two. Whereas in order to account for historical merit in the context
of the global conflict often cited to justify the creation of the EU, one must
zoom outwards to incorporate allies such as the Commonwealth nations, Russia,
and, most revealingly, the United States. Nations with which a post-Brexit Britain
now has the freedom to choose to foster improved relations.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">How ironic
it is that by abandoning globalism, the world suddenly gets much bigger.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">It has been
posited by some in the Eurosceptic movement that the EU is, to some extent, a protracted
attempt to assuage German guilt. If that indeed be the case and Germany wishes
to continue making the culturally suicidal mistake of shaming itself out of its
Leibnizes, Beethovens and Einsteins, let them. But not at the expense of requiring
Britain to do the same with its Shakespeares, Elgars and Darwins – or, by
extension, America to do so with its Jeffersons, Gershwins and Twains.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Brexit has
the clear potential to represent a victory of merit over quotas and informed
choice over convenient proximity. And perhaps it will also prove the
long-desired harbinger that the flat-lined pulse of Western culture will beat
once more. Most importantly, however, it can be the opportunity for Britain not
only to inspire other nation-states within the EU to reclaim their own national
sovereignty, but to reverse and consequently invalidate Barack Obama’s
meddlesome naysaying when this determined nation finds itself at the front –
not the back – of the queue. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">“Let us go forward together.” –
Winston Churchill. </span></i></div>
Will Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comUnited Kingdom55.378051 -3.4359729999999912.188319499999999 -86.05316049999999 90 79.18121450000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-18586403367301681382010-09-24T10:26:00.001-07:002010-09-24T10:35:13.845-07:00DO YOU LIKE WILL FRANKEN COMEDY? THEN SEE WILL FRANKEN<div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">HEY DO YOU LIKE COMEDY? FUNNY COMEDY? FUNNY COMEDY THAT MAKES YOU LAUGH?<br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style=""></span></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">DO YOU OR NOT? ANSWER ME? </span></span></div><div><br /></div></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTJVMKoa9GrLQsTUF3fw83r2Af1_FNczlRoM56GM5WDm9A_1graIuqjKF6F1-uFsox7y3K4c4lpS4ebULqFF-MsWCDae-qND_JMZccTUn3q_xusUqYSmsNybhyphenhyphenL5d4NdFfQvrEzw/s1600/will_dog.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 249px; height: 333px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTJVMKoa9GrLQsTUF3fw83r2Af1_FNczlRoM56GM5WDm9A_1graIuqjKF6F1-uFsox7y3K4c4lpS4ebULqFF-MsWCDae-qND_JMZccTUn3q_xusUqYSmsNybhyphenhyphenL5d4NdFfQvrEzw/s400/will_dog.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520534621670861378" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Or do you like comedy that makes you think. . .and reflect. . .</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">WELL YOU CAN HAVE both. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">SEE THE SHOW THAT everybody is TALKING ABOUT! EVEN DOGS!</span></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Will Franken Rises From The Ashes </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">The Purple Onion Comedy Club</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">140 Columbus Avenue, San Francisco </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Friday, October 1st and Saturday, October 2nd, </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">8pm both nights</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">$20 at the door</span></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.willfranken.com/">www.willfranken.com</a></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.rants.org/2010/09/23/will-franken-sf-purple-onion-oct-1-and-2/">LOOK AT THIS! </a></div>Will Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-74695495161677273632009-12-07T21:53:00.000-08:002009-12-07T21:56:36.582-08:00You're Excused<br>When I think of all my sins in their magnitude, it embarrasses me to admit. . .<br /><br />. . .sometimes I don't like to say "excuse me" when people are in my way.<br /><br />You see, I believe if I can improvise a trajectory around them without having to actually touch them--no matter how physically-convoluted that trajectory may be--there's nothing to be excused.<br /><br />First off, saying "excuse me" can be quite socially draining when all I really want to do is just get past the person and continue on with the rest of my life. Why should I have to start a new relationship with a total stranger just to imply that I don't want to be near them? I'd rather not open that can of worms. It's much more convenient to circumvent their bodies awkwardly, come really close to falling into them, and then surprise them (and myself!) by remaining upright.<br /><br />For instance, consider this large black lady on her cell phone at the pizzeria today. There couldn't have been more than a single foot of room on either side of her between the counter and a large vinyl booth near the exit. Once I was handed my slice of Canadian bacon, Italian sausage, and anchovies, the only two ways out of the restaurant, as I saw it, were to either say "excuse me" or squish myself together as tightly as I could and hold my pizza box far above my head, sliding ten to fifteen baby steps in the narrow strip of floor left over by her enormous posterior.<br /><br />I opted for the latter.<br /><br />Twice I stumbled and almost fell into her. Once, after banging my knee against the Formica table and then again, when I attempted to turn myself around prematurely in the erroneous assumption that I'd already traversed the width of her waistline. Sadly, there were still a few more inches to go before I could safely say to myself: "Olly-Olly-Oxen Free!"<br /><br />Eventually, I extricated myself from this daredevil position. Yet I only had a brief second or two in which to congratulate myself on the completion of yet another physically difficult, almost Chaplinesque, circumlocution of a human form without having to say "excuse me"--when suddenly I noticed a look on the black woman's face that could have killed a white boy.<br /><br />"Don't you say excuse me?" she huffed.<br /><br />"I didn't want to hurt your feelings," I returned.<br /><br />That was a glib response, to be sure. However, by the time I arrived home with my warm slice of pizza--who knows how cold it might have been if I had taken precious time to stop and say "excuse me"--I realized that I had been right after all.<br /><br />That is to say: what is the purpose of saying "excuse <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span>" to somebody that's in <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> way? I'm the one that has to perform the over-the-top acrobatics if I don't take the time to say it.<br /><br />Aren't I the one that's doing <span style="font-style: italic;">them </span>a great favor--a <span style="font-style: italic;">social good</span>, if you will--by not calling undue attention to the fact that <span style="font-style: italic;">they're </span>preventing <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> egress?<br /><br />This afternoon, as I stuffed myself with salty bits of anchovy on tomato paste, I realized once and for all what a truly kind person I am. Not many people in today's fast-paced and computerized society would take the time, as I do, to both not touch someone <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> not make manifest the painful truth that they're placing limitations on my Constitutional guarantee of free travel.<br /><br />Say what you will, but at least I care enough about my fellow human being to consciously and courteously refrain from uttering two of the most hateful and hurtful words that the diabolical lexicon of modern man has ever contained:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Excuse me</span>Will Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-70487747452410893312009-12-01T21:47:00.000-08:002009-12-01T21:52:42.788-08:00Why Can't Women Think Of Me As A Brain In A Jar of Formaldehyde?<br>It's so disappointing to me that every time I meet a woman, she's always raving about how cool it is that I'm a man with a male mind and a male body complete with male genitalia.<br /><br />Why can't women look beyond my physical appearance and treat me like an asexual, disembodied brain doused in a jar of formaldehyde?<br /><br />Do you have any idea how boring I find it when women express a desire to have sex with me? As if I were a human male?<br /><br />Puh-lease.<br /><br />Is it too much to ask to be treated like lumpy gray matter in a petri dish? Why can't I find a nice lady to poke me with a stick and ask me to form a theory about her ongoing relationships with men of lesser intelligence?<br /><br />Why must I always be sought out by the fairer sex for <span style="font-style: italic;">orgasms</span> instead of <span style="font-style: italic;">advice</span>?<br /><br />Just for once, I would like to be treated with the same dignity and respect as a magic eight-ball. I, too, am perfectly capable of being shaken up by women to generate random predictions on romantic and vocational aspirations that don't concern me in the slightest.<br /><br />How can it be, night after night, that every sexual contact I have with a woman is always <span style="font-style: italic;">direct </span>and never <span style="font-style: italic;">vicarious</span>?<br /><br />Isn't there one single woman in this godforsaken world of casual encounters who's willing to look beyond my male physique and accompanying heterosexual appetite to see the electrodes attached to my cerebellum?<br /><br />I suppose I wouldn't mind sating my carnal desires as much if women would only return the favor every now and then by using me as a convenient social mirror to help alleviate any uncertainty they might have about their <span style="font-style: italic;">own</span> intelligence.<br /><br />Oh, what I wouldn't give to be the guy who finishes every polysyllabic word they start but can only remember the first syllable to--instead of the pathetic schmuck in their beds the following morning, eating scrambled eggs and drinking black coffee!<br /><br />I want to be the guy they <span style="font-style: italic;">should </span>go to bed with, but <span style="font-style: italic;">don't</span>. I want to be a genderless idealization instead of a male actuality.<br /><br />I swear, if I see another hot young lady this week sitting on my lap in her bra and panties, I'm going to throw up. I'm still young -- I have yet to experience all the wondrous adventures of being a neutered Facebook acquaintance to an uploaded photo of a good-looking girl nestled in the arms of her hipster boyfriend!<br /><br />The repetition is killing me. Every night it's the same thing. Meet a good-looking girl (yawn) make out with her (yawn) get an erection (yawn) go back to her place and get undressed (yawn) and then fuck her so brutally that every framed family photo and Japanese lithograph in her apartment falls to the floor and shatters, while the unrelenting and hellish banging of the headboard against the wall continues unabated for upwards of three hours until an earth-shattering, cosmos-dividing, mutual orgasm at last provides the concupiscent punctuation mark that concludes the run-on sentence of our sexual satisfaction and enables us to finally disengage our glistening bodies one from the other in order that we may roll over and light up some well-deserved Marlboro Reds--despite an earlier admonition by her that "smoking is not allowed in the house."<br /><br />(<span style="font-style: italic;">huge</span> yawn. . .)<br /><br />I'm sorry, ladies, but I was not given a penis for the sole purpose of sticking it inside hungry vaginas night after bleeding night. As pleasing as these casual insertions have been for many of you over the years, I'm afraid this cock of mine is endowed with far more nobler functions. For example, if you had taken the time to ask before rudely demanding that I tear off your underwear and "shove it in as deep as it can go", I might have drawn your attention to the sheer biological brilliance which allows my "it"--as you say--to serve me diligently both in the arenas of micturition <span style="font-style: italic;">and </span>onanism.<br /><br />(That is, of course, during those extremely rare moments when I'm actually in a position to either urinate or masturbate--seeing as how my penis is almost invariably lost inside some tightly-clenched vagina!)<br /><br />Far exceeding in importance these aforementioned additional qualities of my cock, however, is a function both necessary to my growth as a polite and unassuming Ken doll and one that I hope will be encouraged through the kindness of a very special lady with the courage and insight to see in me not a mere mortal man with common carnal desires, but an ethereal entity existing outside of space and time--namely, its ability to lie limp and unused while she prattles on about what a "brain" I am.<br /><br />I suppose I shouldn't complain, though. After all, none of the above is true.<br /><br />I <span style="font-style: italic;">am</span> the guy who wrote the essay at the end of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Breakfast Club</span>. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcx08-OKMIGx0z8Xejxdg5yJZp3zjX6G1MYd8hhL338GQ_X6Cd12RrMB-yPWEpYzJT9hJrSFrsyFs-ff5W9clvO6DYB_4nbjl88yPbgCmKXzz3lHKzpLnQw9hucGHIvS4DhNby8A/s1600-h/anthony-michael-hall.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 229px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcx08-OKMIGx0z8Xejxdg5yJZp3zjX6G1MYd8hhL338GQ_X6Cd12RrMB-yPWEpYzJT9hJrSFrsyFs-ff5W9clvO6DYB_4nbjl88yPbgCmKXzz3lHKzpLnQw9hucGHIvS4DhNby8A/s400/anthony-michael-hall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410512617649468962" border="0" /></a>Will Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-38656726436479832252009-11-14T14:24:00.000-08:002009-11-14T16:13:01.158-08:00Where Judas Priest Went Wrong<br><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyLK_nvt5aUEdHIO5byGyTEIr-iD18maby0xzz54Rq-YBaSYGSMOrRRih8gva2EUL3NbZAIHXbOiio2uoB3kQa0XLeB53aIGHahKR_SbVbvMq8X5YcqIZElJNt1PPkmo7cgYG71Q/s1600-h/priest79.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 308px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyLK_nvt5aUEdHIO5byGyTEIr-iD18maby0xzz54Rq-YBaSYGSMOrRRih8gva2EUL3NbZAIHXbOiio2uoB3kQa0XLeB53aIGHahKR_SbVbvMq8X5YcqIZElJNt1PPkmo7cgYG71Q/s400/priest79.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404089619629950146" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">--ed. These are just some random thoughts on Judas Priest as I wait for someone to finally call my phone so I can test out my new "You've Got Another Thing Coming" ringtone.<br /><br /></span> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">1. DID JUDAS PRIEST REALLY “GO WRONG”?</span><br /></div><br />The assertion that Judas Priest somehow “went wrong” is less controversial of a statement than at first it may appear. I am willing to wager, in fact, that most experts in the field of 1970s-1980s heavy metal would agree that, through certain avoidable errors in composition, editing, and promotion, Judas Priest sacrificed their chance to attain equal footing alongside such luminaries as AC/DC and Black Sabbath in the lexicon of metal greats. Though their status today is still a far cry from one of complete obscurity, it is nonetheless one of a secondary nature. This is because Judas Priest -- much like the original Judas -- did indeed "go wrong".<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">2. DOES THE FAULT LIE WITH JUDAS PRIEST ALONE OR WERE THERE EXTERNAL FORCES AT PLAY?</span><br /></div><br />Here is where the real controversy begins. In the fast-paced and ever-changing world of 1970s-1980s heavy metal, even those who uphold the notion that Judas Priest “went wrong” are still hesitant to ascribe the blame solely to Judas Priest themselves. Yet unlike the late 1960s/early 1970s pop group Badfinger, for example, Judas Priest was <span style="font-style: italic;">not </span>the hapless victim of shady entertainment lawyers or obtuse management.<br /><br />Hard rockers are no strangers to pills. Nevertheless, this one still remains difficult to swallow: <span style="font-style: italic;">Judas Priest had the metal world in the palm of their hand and they let it all slip away</span>. In fact, William Shakespeare might have said it even better:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The fault, dear Judas, lies not in the stars, but in ourselves.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">3. SO WHERE DID JUDAS PRIEST “GO WRONG”?</span><br /></div><br />In the following sections, I will adumbrate two major areas of fault in which I believe Judas Priest went wrong. The first deals with errors in composition and editing; or, more simply, the musical aspects of the band. The second deals with promotion.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">ed.--There might be some confusion as regards this second area of fault. That is to say, does not promotion, being a managerial task, lie outside the scope of band culpability? And if so, wouldn’t Judas Priest have been a victim of an external force after all?</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">In a regular entertainment and promotional sense, the answer to this question would be yes. However, as we shall see later, lead vocalist Rob Halford, it turns out, had been sitting on a major promotional opportunity throughout the entirety of Judas Priest’s career and had failed to act in time to capitalize on it sufficiently. No management company or record label could have forced him to undertake such a promotional opportunity. The decision was his and his alone. His failure to act cost the band dearly. And by the time he <span style="font-weight: bold;">did </span>act, Judas Priest, as we knew and loved it, was no more. (more on this in due course)</span><br /><br />So let us proceed with with the musical error.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">A) The Negative Implication Of Poorly Constructed Metal Prologues.</span><br /></div><br />As we examine the first area of fault (musical), let us do a little role-playing. Close your eyes and take a trip back to your childhood. You’re in your best friend’s older brother’s bedroom rifling through a stack of LPs. Suddenly, you come across one from a band with a rather sinister sounding name: Black Sabbath. On the cover is a blurry figure waving a sword. The title is <span style="font-style: italic;">Paranoid</span>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPyGl0MeScU6hUlWkjEwmpm1kRFprgCN72V4N-zReau26XL9BF7BAAiv7wva8etew-UYdgOK8EJvy70V4LC2guI2SzANxi5NZZ0XUZwNrwiRVfksKiFYnVhwePmh3OJdM_5x2TXw/s1600-h/Black_Sabbath_Paranoid_Frontal.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPyGl0MeScU6hUlWkjEwmpm1kRFprgCN72V4N-zReau26XL9BF7BAAiv7wva8etew-UYdgOK8EJvy70V4LC2guI2SzANxi5NZZ0XUZwNrwiRVfksKiFYnVhwePmh3OJdM_5x2TXw/s400/Black_Sabbath_Paranoid_Frontal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404091957503548098" border="0" /></a><br />Even though you’re young, you already know that your Uncle Steve has recently been diagnosed with <span style="font-style: italic;">paranoid </span>schizophrenia. Your curiosity gets the better of you and so you urge your friend to play the title track on his brother’s hi-fi.<br /><br />A mercilessly driving guitar riff sharpens your brain cells as you prepare to undergo an auditory crash course in abnormal psychology. Yet instead of learning about the etymology of the word “schizophrenia” (<span style="font-style: italic;">split mind; of Greek origin</span>) or what demographics are most often affected with your uncle’s recently diagnosed disorder, you hear a young Ozzy Osbourne complain that he’s “finished with his woman” and that he’s “frowning all the time” and that “nothing seems to satisfy”. But none of this matters. The intended effect has been achieved. At this point, you’re ready to break into your friend’s father’s liquor cabinet.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3nK4uGhbev6xwZnySU7llUpsyGkgKklmkv9smlY9IsDAhzP6SSfLnIXzqTPcvWRw3oubWFdx1r7FqfbX1V0T4wFLhpVOIoTrbvkFFpUOD-Eq1QHmG-2lCt7WywX5EvjbqoAtRmg/s1600-h/ozzy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3nK4uGhbev6xwZnySU7llUpsyGkgKklmkv9smlY9IsDAhzP6SSfLnIXzqTPcvWRw3oubWFdx1r7FqfbX1V0T4wFLhpVOIoTrbvkFFpUOD-Eq1QHmG-2lCt7WywX5EvjbqoAtRmg/s400/ozzy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404093819197151154" border="0" /></a>Later in the afternoon, slightly aglow from a gin and whiskey and kahlua cocktail, you come across a different album from a band with an equally--if not more so--sinister-sounding name: Judas Priest. The album is called <span style="font-style: italic;">Screaming For Vengeance</span>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJZCfPSziOmqTl72FrXyRbIDfytC3v7b3xp0b5qCU6xnFX95XvOK0L9_EnWO8R6kR563XIBulvOiCp2NS9-3TAbmreZxVCa_3e2-xDo-Rm7mSTJOH1nDHCBqaRX5rIxl-V6-CHrg/s1600-h/07b60a3308450e982b0f4af849e3a83f_full.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 310px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJZCfPSziOmqTl72FrXyRbIDfytC3v7b3xp0b5qCU6xnFX95XvOK0L9_EnWO8R6kR563XIBulvOiCp2NS9-3TAbmreZxVCa_3e2-xDo-Rm7mSTJOH1nDHCBqaRX5rIxl-V6-CHrg/s400/07b60a3308450e982b0f4af849e3a83f_full.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404094050246237794" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Even though you’re young, you already know that “vengeance” is what your Uncle Steve was screaming for when the ghosts had taken over your grandmother's attic the night he was removed in handcuffs and placed in a white van.<br /><br />One title in particular leaps out at you: “You’ve Got Another Thing Coming”. The title sounds mean. The title sounds tough. The title makes you think, in your 9-year old inebriated brain, that one listen alone would do for you what Popeye's spinach did for <span style="font-style: italic;">him</span>. “Put it on,” you tell your friend with a snarl. And he obliges.<br /><br />The first thing you hear is a steady sludge of drums, bass, and rhythm guitar, chugging out an easily comprehensible pedestrian beat. Over the top, a lead guitar blankets this rhythmic mattress with three descending power chords. Following a few quick and simplistic downstrokes of the final chord, the descending pattern is repeated a second time. There’s nothing <span style="font-style: italic;">incorrect</span> with it musically. Everything sounds in tune. Nonetheless, you’re feeling an impatience that you hadn’t felt during the opening bars of “Paranoid”. Twenty seconds of your young life have already passed with nary a cry of vengeance from lead vocalist Rob Halford. You’re about to give up and return to warm embrace of Black Sabbath, but your friend urges you to hang in there. He’s heard it already. And he knows for certain the promise of vocal vengeance will soon be fulfilled.<br /><br />Finally, you hear a voice that rivals even Osbourne’s in viciousness and disregard for public decency. A beautiful, diabolical warbling emerging straight from the depths of hell makes you shudder at the prospect that one day you might be called upon to murder your parents!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtFLmVynySsrLtLO_TTs-_Bcs-pqMzZykshUBBfYIDlq_DoOPHUMzJXh4GS5hXg6YwyrL5YzlbTIUGos39LWNUkKhXajklaju_tF1B1hKmOdojhwJGlKunLTNse67gcvPh4HrMTQ/s1600-h/priest_rob79.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 324px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtFLmVynySsrLtLO_TTs-_Bcs-pqMzZykshUBBfYIDlq_DoOPHUMzJXh4GS5hXg6YwyrL5YzlbTIUGos39LWNUkKhXajklaju_tF1B1hKmOdojhwJGlKunLTNse67gcvPh4HrMTQ/s400/priest_rob79.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404100794040612226" border="0" /></a><br />Rob Halford starts out his anthem of vindicating selfishness with relative slowness. You have no idea what he’s saying, but whatever it is, you know it <span style="font-style: italic;">can’t</span> be good for you. One wicked line wraps effortlessly around the next, until--like a linguistic waterfall gushing forth with frothy Satanic pride--Halford’s syllables start to out-pace the instruments. It is at this precise moment--as the freefall begins from verse to inevitable chorus, like a helpless grain of sand passing through the unforgiving vortex of the hourglass--that you know, unequivocally, the music is there to serve <span style="font-style: italic;">Halford </span>and NOT the other way round! Fasten your seat belts, motherfuckers. Here we go!!!!!!!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">If you think I’ll sit around as the world goes by</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />You’re thinking like a fool, cause it’s a case of do or die!</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Out there is a fortune, waiting to be had</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />If you think I’ll let it go, you’re mad!</span><br /></div><br />You don’t need to follow a lyrics sheet to know where this is going to end up. . .<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">You got another thing coming!</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />You got another thing coming!</span><br /></div><br />Pure. Metal. Ecstasy.<br /><br />But how long did it take you to reach this musical satisfaction? Or, more to the point, were the means themselves by which you arrived at this anthemic resolution as engaging as what was to follow when Halford’s vocals finally appeared? Qualitatively speaking, how does the Judas Priest prologue to "You've Got Another Thing Coming" compare to the prologue of Sabbath’s “Paranoid”?<br /><br />And so here it is--the major musical mistake that ultimately helped to prevent Judas Priest from not just obtaining equal footing with the likes of Black Sabbath, but of possibly even <span style="font-style: italic;">surpassing </span>them in the Pantheon of Metallic Victory.<br /><br />Judas Priest was deficient in the establishment of memorable metal openings.<br /><br />Black Sabbath, meanwhile, was abundant in the structural gifts that Judas Priest lacked. That’s why the length between a song’s first chord and Osbourne’s appearance so often varied from track to track in Sabbath's discography. Indeed, the one constant between the brief opening of “Paranoid” and the grandiose prologue of “Luke's Wall/War Pigs” is the obvious level of comfort the band feels about its ability to be engaging, with or without the presence of Osbourne’s vocals.<br /><br />The same can be said for other bands whose strength was not solely contingent on the dynamism of the lead singer; whether one is referring here to the crude, even childish, guitar riffs and drunken chants of "Oy!" that introduce Bon Scott's passionate ode to unprovoked violence and pre-teen molestation in AC/DC’s “T.N.T." Or, even better, the elaborately-syncopated instrumental onslaught that parts the curtains for Ian Gillan's maniacally screaming entrance to Deep Purple’s “Highway Star”.<br /><br />In fairness, none of the above is to suggest in any way that the <span style="font-style: italic;">band </span>Judas Priest (<span style="font-style: italic;">sans</span> Rob Halford) was without musical talent. It is, however, to suggest that a necessary hierarchy was sadly overlooked; one which should have rendered the band consistently subservient to Halford’s vocals (with, of course, the exception of the obligatory lead guitar solo).<br /><br />This deficiency could have been remedied in one of two manners. During composition or rehearsal, the introductory riffs could have been significantly shortened to decrease the wait for Halford’s heavily-anticipated appearances. To be sure, some creative egos may have been bruised--but it was Halford's duty, as leader of Judas Priest, to crack the proverbial whip if the integrity of the band was to survive intact atop the scrap heap of memorable metal.<br /><br />Remember, too, that in the fine art of 1970s-1980s heavy metal, a bad prologue to a song is not just <span style="font-style: italic;">bad,</span> it’s also <span style="font-style: italic;">pretentious.</span> Metal should come from the spirit naturally and not through brute force.<br /><br />And, speaking of brute force, it is with a brutally honest condemnation that we conclude our discussion tonight with the second, and greater, misfortune of the Judas Priest legacy:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">B) Halford Came Out And No One Was There. . .<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJJM3qGOKjxtrmwa2wMkBzlCgqFW9u4w_kcNq4tQWvTypSW_nFWdVAOVX2vVHTx_LlNDYRYq4R3OspVr9MrDMQuyXWBn07UXgdkgIKjHqSM7Z9LCkAU34MzPFsdg3JJhj-OwUBWw/s1600-h/rob_halford78.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 288px; height: 325px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJJM3qGOKjxtrmwa2wMkBzlCgqFW9u4w_kcNq4tQWvTypSW_nFWdVAOVX2vVHTx_LlNDYRYq4R3OspVr9MrDMQuyXWBn07UXgdkgIKjHqSM7Z9LCkAU34MzPFsdg3JJhj-OwUBWw/s400/rob_halford78.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404109583693129650" border="0" /></a><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">Now, no one would blatantly suggest that one’s homosexuality be exploited for promotional purposes.Yet it is an undeniable fact that in the field of 1970s-1980s heavy metal, a lead singerof a prominent metal group coming out of the closet would not only have created a fresh idol for the gay community, but would also have enshrined his band at the very vanguard of postmodern counter-culturalism for years thereafter.<br /></div></div><br />It is true that quite some time before the advent of Judas Priest, Lou Reed had already opened up about <span style="font-style: italic;">his</span> particular homosexual experiences--both in his music and in his lifestyle. However, Lou Reed, it should be noted, wasn’t wed to any particular musical genre--unlike Halford. Rob Halford was a visible entityin the world of heavy metal; a world replete with images of bulging cocks in tight pants and big-tittied backstage whores.<br /><br />Open homosexuality in 1970s-1980s heavy metal had never been attempted before. And thanks to Halford’s shoddy decision to remain in the closet until after leaving the band in the 1990s, it never would be. The reader will understand now why it was stated earlier that this was a promotional opportunity only Halford could have elected to undertake. Just as the band Judas Priest neglected to shorten their introductions to serve Halford, Halford neglected to come out of the closet to serve Judas Priest. By failing to act in a timely manner, he not only did a disservice to the gay community, but to the heavy metal community as well.<br /><br />Though not a homosexual, I still hold a certain sadness for the LGBT community when it comes to Halford’s puzzling silence. Coming out of the closet in the 1990s was less than auspicious timing. Queen had already entered the twilight of <span style="font-style: italic;">their </span>career--with, I should add, no small amount of well-deserved fanfare and glory. So who could the gays, therefore, call upon as a musical representative for their cause other than the campy douchebag from the B-52s who yapped about a “Chrysler as big as a whale”?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV56dN7RXIE5TcgPu1TrGdfiejMWhBmlX7gpMku62i1KhI02Z7JSjtOzmZrmiJf16KYSAhsXj2CFuwopmWbGLkoQ32nJbaaT3sbG9Z8WDQY7N6I5ksgJYfhY601Oz5f-UPdXmx6w/s1600-h/0201_fred_schneider_launch.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 381px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV56dN7RXIE5TcgPu1TrGdfiejMWhBmlX7gpMku62i1KhI02Z7JSjtOzmZrmiJf16KYSAhsXj2CFuwopmWbGLkoQ32nJbaaT3sbG9Z8WDQY7N6I5ksgJYfhY601Oz5f-UPdXmx6w/s400/0201_fred_schneider_launch.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404114386097197410" border="0" /></a><br />In summation, to all you aspiring 1970s-1980s heavy metal rockers, wherever you end up in your respective careers, don’t ever forget the sad ballad of Judas Priest--the <span style="font-style: italic;">metal band</span> that “went wrong”.<br /><br />And to all those aspiring betrayers of Our Lord Jesus Christ, wherever you end up in your respective careers, don’t ever forget the sad ballad of Judas--the <span style="font-style: italic;">disciple </span>that “went wrong”.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguuKFGkoJMa2dp0IDYBYzhHOwbl5P98EwwhOqaGLp4dQYjmB00maqUQVzhpAwXyP_uSMiRv7x2Od2mjJBIbhmjx9MIighI4ofwLZspFtidRtWqld5iGevVVHbvy7_SJjBNMs8SZw/s1600-h/Judas-Iscariot_wa.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 391px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguuKFGkoJMa2dp0IDYBYzhHOwbl5P98EwwhOqaGLp4dQYjmB00maqUQVzhpAwXyP_uSMiRv7x2Od2mjJBIbhmjx9MIighI4ofwLZspFtidRtWqld5iGevVVHbvy7_SJjBNMs8SZw/s400/Judas-Iscariot_wa.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404116073270152658" border="0" /></a>Will Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-29191060383034133432009-07-14T14:37:00.000-07:002009-07-14T18:43:33.860-07:00The Crowe Has Landed<br><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">PROLOGUE:</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">AN INAUSPICIOUS LANDING PLACE FOR A CROWE</span><br /></div><br /><br />If you’ve been keeping up with my recent posts, you’ll know that I’ve been spending the past few weeks in a small town in upstate New York. I came to Round Lake partly for a refreshing reminder of the simple country life and partly for its proximity to Montreal, where I’ll soon be enjoying a series of gigs at the prestigious Just For Laughs Comedy Festival, July 23rd through the 25th.<br /><br />In truth, I thought I’d be able to handle the distinctive shift in cultural tempo better than I have up to this point. After all, I was raised in a small town in central Missouri and somehow managed to survive all those years with relatively few emotional scars. But how easily did I forget the moral to <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> particular story! The fact is, I couldn’t <span style="font-style: italic;">wait</span> to leave Missouri and once I did, there was no looking back. As a child, I remember watching “Saturday Night Live” reruns on the local NBC affiliate. When the credits rolled over the still photos of nighttime Manhattan, I grew nostalgic for a place I had never even visited. The way I saw it, there was a life happening somewhere in America--and it sure wasn’t in central Missouri.<br /><br />At this stage, I’ve now lived in cities for so long that I fear I can only efficaciously love the rural life from a comfortable distance. I thought surely that my books would help me pass the time up here and, if not my books, then certainly my ability to have entire conversations with myself as multiple characters should count for some form of entertainment. But that line of thinking was soon exposed as mere folly. When the chapters are finished or the voices have simmered down for the evening, there’s an unshakable and disturbing silence that seems to almost smother the landscape up here with a panoramic stranglehold.<br /><br />Don’t get me wrong. My heart will always be one with the Salt of the Earth. They are the community from which my personality was hewn. And, as father once said, (in a rare burst of sober parenting): “Son, don’t forget where you came from.” No dad. I won’t. Perhaps that’s why I’m here now. To remind myself of that authenticating lesson. And maybe to allow myself to accept some personal limitations when it comes to geography. I am not a country boy anymore. And it may even be said that I never was.<br /><br />So on that note of acceptance, following Montreal, I’ll definitely be returning to a city. Which city? It depends on what happens in Montreal. If I get the sense that the entertainment industry is actually willing to work with me, I’ll most likely return to Jersey City and continue to slug it out in the East. If not, I will follow the clarion call of my heart and return to the city that gave me everything when I came to it with absolutely nothing--San Francisco.<br /><br />But now, for the immediate future, I must continue to bide my time in Round Lake where there is little more to do than. . .well. . .bide time. Perhaps that’s unfair of me. After all, it <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> possible to own and shoot a gun here without having to be a member of an ethnic gang. That’s a definite plus. And when it rains, the slugs come out and put on a little show in the gravel.<br /><br />There’s also a local library about half the size of a duplex apartment that seems to contain more books-on-tape than books themselves. Upstairs there’s a single table off in the corner with a folded up piece of Xerox paper taped to it which bears the words: “Laptop Friendly Table”. I spend quite a lot of time at that table. In fact, I’m here right now, polishing up this little story.<br /><br />I never see anybody else at this table. In fact, most of the time, I never see anybody in this library at all except for the staff. For example, in a room around the corner there’s a fat woman in an elephant print dress (I don’t get it--if you’re fat, why would you wear elephants on your body?). I think she’s the library director or something. She spends a lot of her time on the phone, talking about upcoming board meetings and giggling like an impaled munchkin. I can handle her okay when she’s not making phone calls--which is extremely rare. Seriously, can you imagine being in a library and having to shush the staff?<br /><br />Nevertheless, I can usually get quite a lot of writing done up here. Except for one day last week when the aforementioned woman in the elephant print dress timidly approached me to say, “You’re welcome to stay up here. . .”<br /><br />“Thank you,” I responded as I continued updating my Facebook status.<br /><br />“. . .but we’re going to have about twelve children and their parents up here at three for a face-painting class!”<br /><br />I turned my head to offer her a blank stare, “What are you talking about?”<br /><br />“It’s part of our summer activities program for the children!” she giggled, as if she had just uttered a Swiftian witticism, “So you’re welcome to stay, but it might get a little loud!”<br /><br />I cleared my throat and thought of the scene in <span style="font-style: italic;">The Shining</span> where Shelly Duvall interrupts Jack Nicholson at his typewriter to talk about the weather. “You gotta be kidding me. Isn’t there a children’s section downstairs?”<br /><br />“Well, there’s one up here, too!” she giggled again. “That whole section over there is a children’s section!”<br /><br />“So basically, seventy-five percent of this library is devoted to children?”<br /><br />“Pretty much!” she squealed once more with another inexplicable giggle. <span style="font-style: italic;">Is she laughing at herself? Or me? What the fuck is so funny?</span> “Again, you’re welcome to stay. It just may get a little loud!”<br /><br />“Well, I’m going to stay,” I said adamantly, turning back to my computer.<br /><br />Ten minutes later the entire top floor was crawling with screaming children playing fast and loose with open containers of tempera paint as their pedestrian mothers looked on approvingly. I closed my laptop, sheathed it in my shoulder bag, and with a quiet dignity, descended the stairs and left the library with little fanfare.<br /><br />It was an honorable surrender.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">CHAPTER ONE:</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">THE CROWE HAS LANDED</span><br /></div><br /><br />Out of commission, I retired on a bench in front of the library and lit a cigarette, watching with disgust as minivans continued to pull up in front of the roundabout, side doors opening to dispense even more children to take part in the upstairs siege. Incredulously, the mothers would then park, get out, and walk up to the library to join their children inside-each of them saying “hello” to me with a banal grin as they passed. Why couldn’t the whole family get out at once? There’s ample parking at the Round Lake Library. Is it really worth letting the kids off at the roundabout if you’re only saving them fifteen seconds of face-painting time?<br /><br />And why were they saying hello to me anyway? I’m creepy-looking. I’ve got long hair and I’m not from around these parts. Didn’t they notice I was smoking? <span style="font-style: italic;">I’m a bad egg. Now fuck off and let me enjoy my cigarette.</span><br /><br />Presently, a teenage boy, probably seventeen, rode up on a maroon dirtbike. He looked a bit old for a face-painting class. Maybe he failed it in the spring semester and needed to take a summer course in order to pass. He put his bike in the rack and smiled at me before bounding up the concrete steps to fling open the screen door.<br /><br />And with that, I was awarded a very brief reprieve from the unwanted salutations so I could focus on the fading resentment I was nursing over my recent ouster. “Fucking kids. Face painting bullshit.”<br /><br />Soon I heard the slam of the screen door. The teenage boy from earlier bounded back down the concrete steps, removed his bike from the rack and began walking it towards the roundabout. Again, he smiled at me. In return, I offered him an expressionless nod.<br /><br />He started to get on his bike and then stopped. “Did anybody ever tell you that you look like Russell Crowe?”<br /><br />I burst into laughter, “Are you fucking kidding me?” My burning resentment was suddenly extinguished like the cigarette I had just flicked into a nearby puddle.<br /><br />“Seriously,” he grinned, “You really do.”<br /><br />“Well, that’s a new one. No, nobody’s ever told me that before. Are you talking about the same Russell Crowe that was in <span style="font-style: italic;">L.A. Confidential</span>?”<br /><br />“No.”<br /><br />“Oh, okay,” I said, trying to mask my disappointment. <span style="font-style: italic;">I guess there’s more than one Russell Crowe.</span><br /><br />“He was the guy that was in <span style="font-style: italic;">Gladiator</span>,” beamed the kid.<br /><br />I laughed again. “Yeah. That’s the same guy. Wow. Not only do I look like Russell Crowe, but I look like the <span style="font-style: italic;">Gladiator</span> Russell Crowe? I gotta tell you, I don’t believe you, but I appreciate it, man.”<br /><br />“Seriously,” he said, “Especially with the pony tail. And when you were looking in that direction.”<br /><br />“Well”, I smiled, “I’ll be sure to always wear a pony tail and only look in this direction. Thanks for the tip, man.”<br /><br />“No problem!” he said as he hopped on his bike and rode away.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">What a nice young man</span>, I mused.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">CHAPTER TWO:</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">A NECESSARY RUMINATION ON THE INDIVIDUAL MALE AND THE COMMUNAL FEMALE AS REGARDS THE ECONOMY OF CELEBRITY COMPARISONS</span><br /></div><br /><br />It is socially permissible for either a man <span style="font-style: italic;">or</span> a woman to tell a man that he looks like somebody famous. But by and large, nobody can tell a woman that she looks like anybody at all. Obviously this is true if the famous person the woman is being compared to is ugly--as in, “Did anybody ever tell you that you look like Rosie O’Donnell?” or “Did anybody ever tell you that you look like Momma from <span style="font-style: italic;">Throw Momma From the Train</span>?”. And especially if the famous person is a man--as in “Did anybody ever tell you that you look like Mr. Hooper from the old ‘Sesame Street’?” or “Did anybody ever tell you that you look like the British neighbor on ‘The Jeffersons’”?<br /><br />But the same holds true even if the female celebrity is an attractive one. For seemingly inexplicable reasons, it just doesn’t seem appropriate to go up to a woman--no matter how much she may look like Scarlett Johansson, and ask her, “Did anybody every tell you that you look like Scarlett Johansson?“<br /><br />I can imagine the indignant response to what most males would consider a hearty compliment. “I beg your pardon? Excuse me, but I am <span style="font-style: italic;">my own woman</span>!”<br /><br />The results could be even more disastrous if you’re a movie buff like myself and are attempting to tell a postmodern woman that she looks like a famous Hollywood starlet from the 30s and 40s--as, for example, the irreplaceable Myrna Loy.<br /><br />“Who’s Myrna Loy?”<br />“Trust me, she was really attractive.”<br />“<span style="font-style: italic;">Was</span>?”<br />“Yeah, she died.”<br />“Oh, thanks, I look like a dead person. That’s nice to know.”<br />“She was good-looking when she was alive!”<br />“Whatever, creep.”<br /><br />Perhaps the reason for this is because women actually <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> spend their entire lives perusing periodicals peddling products promising to make them look like Hollywood starlets. Therefore, when you tell a woman that she looks like somebody famous--even if that famous person is unquestionably conventionally attractive--it’s as if you’ve caught her in the middle of some secret game that only she and the rest of the double-X chromosome brigade know the rules to. “I don’t look <span style="font-style: italic;">anything at all</span> like Natalie Portman!” she’ll protest self-righteously just before surreptitiously closing the cover to a magazine that was only previously open to a two-page perfumed spread on Natalie Portman’s favorite places to shop.<br /><br />This explains why, when starry-eyed men in the initial stages of a relationship refer to their new girlfriend’s looks, the complete truth is always embedded within the vague wording of a “unique beauty”, an “indescribable attractiveness”. Indeed, there’s “something about her” that’s “so special”. She’s “gorgeous”, she’s “hot”, and she may even look “like a supermodel!” It’s only when (and if) they get to the personality that they dish out any specific qualities--”She even likes Lou Reed! And she’s a member of the NRA with her own .44 magnum!”<br /><br />Meanwhile, any idiot could tell you that the overriding charm is that the girl looks a little bit like Kate Moss if you’re standing a few feet away and not listening to her talk.<br /><br />Men, however, don’t care and, in many cases, gladly welcome comparisons. Unless, again, the comparison is unattractive. As in, “Did anybody ever tell you that you look like M. Emmett Walsh? Or Ned Beatty? Or the guy in the <span style="font-style: italic;">Elephant Man</span>--not the doctor, but the other guy?”<br /><br />All of this reminds me of a bit that I was working on the other day wherein the Elephant Man is the star of an 80s teen romance and his well-intentioned (but slightly devious) best friend is James Spader--doling out a slue of unhelpful romantic advice that sounds a lot like the mundane claptrap people still offer me.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">CHAPTER THREE:</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">THE ELEPHANT MAN FACTOR (A TRAGICOMIC DIGRESSION)</span><br /></div><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">JAMES SPADER:</span> Elephant Man, listen. The main thing that chicks are attracted to is confidence. They’re actually <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> really that into looks. So if you want to get laid--and who doesn’t right?--it’s all in the way you carry yourself. You got to present yourself to the ladies in a way that says, “I’m the fuckin' Elephant Man and I’m the motherfuckin’ shit!” Trim up the hairs around that big tumor, splash on some of my Nivea aftershave, and just go right up to the best-looking chick you can find and say, “Hello there. I’m the Elephant Man. What’s your name, honey?” Remember, chicks can sense fear. So above all, be confident.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Later that night, the Elephant Man--wearing a new pair of Dockers, a pink Izod and a cashmere sweater tied casually around his neck, strolls up to a pretty young brunette at a Los Angeles bar.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">ELEPHANT MAN: </span>Hey baby. I’m the Elephant Man. I’m not a human. . .I’m an <span style="font-style: italic;">ANIMAL</span>!<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The girl screams for help at the top of her lungs before fainting, splitting her skull open in three places after hitting the floor For added comedic effect, she dies in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Later, back at the dorm room, James Spader is snorting lines off of Jamie Gertz’s stomach.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">JAMES SPADER: </span>Hey Elephant Man. How’d it go tonight?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">ELEPHANT MAN: </span>I made a girl scream. Then she fainted, hit her head on the floor and died. I think she was going to major in business affairs at UCLA.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">JAMES SPADER:</span> What did I tell you, Dumbo? Chicks can sense fear!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">ELEPHANT MAN:</span> Whatever. I’m going to go jack off now.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">CHAPTER FOUR:</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">BATS IN THE BELFRY, TOYS IN THE ATTIC, AND CROWES IN THE CLOSET</span><br /></div><br /><br />Well here we are. We’ve barely gotten started and we’re already lights years off-topic. How is it possible to go from Russell Crowe to the Elephant Man in one minor digression? To be sure, it’s quite a massive leap, because as we all know--and if you need official verification, there are any number of women’s magazines that can readily attest to this --Russell Crowe is a C.A.M. (Conventionally Attractive Male).<br /><br />So if that’s the case, why was I being compared to him? It goes without saying that the comparison would have carried significantly more emotional weight had it come from a woman who looked like, say, Uma Thurman. Unfortunately, life is never that kind. It had to come from a 17-year old small-town teenage boy on a bicycle.<br /><br />Though I could detect no trace of campiness in his accent, I nevertheless later suspected homosexuality as the chief culprit in this crime of careless comparison. Again, Round Lake, New York, is a very small town. In fact, “town” may not even be the appropriate word--seeing as how the residents (of which there are probably no more than two hundred) lovingly (and without sarcasm) refer to this quaint little hamlet as “The Village”. Though the moniker seems to bring an affectionate smile to their faces, it chillingly recalls to my mind one of the most brilliant TV shows ever produced: “The Prisoner” (a late 1960s series detailing the episodic adventures of one man’s struggle to retain his individuality amidst the idyllic setting of an island prison community; which the brainwashed inmates, as well their jailers, <span style="font-style: italic;">also</span> lovingly refer to as “The Village”).<br /><br />After the boy had left, I was still in literary exile, thanks to the influx of the face-painting tykes and their guardians. So I lit another cigarette and devoted my efforts to assembling a rudimentary theory as to why my countenance had elicited a favorable comparison to that of Russell Crowe's. And here, in basic syllogistic form, is what I came up with:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Premises:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A)</span> Round Lake is a small town.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">B) </span>The kid was a teenager.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Conclusion:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">C) </span>Given the geographical milieu and his current age, combined with a theoretical homosexual orientation, he most likely wouldn’t be able (either for personal or societal reasons) to come completely roaring out of the closet--as a teenager might be able to in the gay-friendly hubs of San Francisco or New York City.<br /><br />Like an airborne disease, word spreads mighty quickly in a small town. Aside from residencies, Round Lake consists essentially of one (1) convenience store, one (1) post office with a rustic exterior reminiscent of a Norman Rockwell background, and one (1) aforementioned two-floored library that specializes in children’s books, books for children, face-painting classes for children, and John Grisham thrillers on audiocassette.<br /><br />Conversely, there is not to be found any LGBT centers or bookstores that promote “understanding” or “tolerance” of “those types”. And there most assuredly aren’t any late-night clubs on the other side of the forest with names like “Daddy’s Tongue”, “Deep Butts”, or “Spelunkin’”.<br /><br />Therefore, I submit the possibility that the kid was simply “practicing” by performing a series of smaller gay-themed actions that would incrementally build in intensity, over a period of two to three years, until the arrival of that momentous day when he would announce before the village PTA meeting what would, at that point, have morphed into something unavoidably and flamingly evident: He was homosexual.<br /><br />Stated differently, one could say that he was cautiously dipping his big toe into the kiddie pool of gayness, instead of doing a cannonball off the diving board--to avoid splashing the local environment with his scandalously queer wetness.<br /><br />And as for me? What was my purpose? Elementary! I was merely playing a supporting role as the guinea pig for his latest brainchild: go up to a strange man who’s obviously not from around here and tell him that he looks like the hottest male celebrity you can think of.<br /><br />Because, seriously, Russell fucking Crowe?<br /><br />He could just as easily have said that I looked like Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise. After all, why necessarily settle on Russell Crowe? Just go down the list of <span style="font-style: italic;">People Magazine’s</span> “Hottest Hollywood Hunks of All Time” and take your pick. And who knows? Perhaps that’s <span style="font-style: italic;">exactly</span> how he approached this little exercise. I admit, I’m not entirely sure how <span style="font-style: italic;">People</span> arranges those shameless lists, but if it’s done alphabetically, there would be strong enough evidence to support this notion given the fact that, going by surnames, “Crowe” would appear before “Cruise” or “Pitt”. Yet any supposition on my part is superfluous. For, in the end, it really doesn’t matter <span style="font-style: italic;">how</span> he settled on Russell Crowe--as the only thing that I <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> have in common with every name on the list of “Hottest Hollywood Hunks” is that I don’t look like any of them!<br /><br />The message was clear and it was queer: <span style="font-style: italic;">I don’t know you, drifter man. But I’m gay. Therefore, I’m going to tell you that you look like Russell Crowe, even though you don’t. And since we all know that Russell Crowe is cute, you can go ahead and infer from my comparison that I’m essentially saying that <span style="font-weight: bold;">you’re</span> cute. And with that, I’ve done my gay deed for the day. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to scoot my little hiney home in time to beat off before daddy calls me out to the garage to help him fix the catalytic converter on the Pontiac.</span><br /><br />Poor kid. No outreach opportunities for a misunderstood youth in a mundane Mayberry like this.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">CHAPTER FIVE:</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">ROUGHLY 200 MILES SOUTH AS THE CROWE FLIES</span><br /></div><br /><br />However, on the heels of the homosexual hypothesis, I had a series of troubling thoughts: What if he <span style="font-style: italic;">isn’t</span> gay? What if he’s actually straight and he’s decided to amuse himself by having a few laughs at the drifter man? What if instead of being an innocent budding homosexual waiting to blossom, he’s one of these no-good, small-town, juvenile delinquent thugs who get their kicks from egging houses, conning suckers into whitewashing fences, and telling long-haired strangers that they look like Russell Crowe?<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Why, the little whippersnapper! Of all the nerve!</span><br /><br />I flashed on an image of myself as a stern headmaster at a school for troubled boys, rising up and grabbing his ear, dragging him down a hall, past an auditorium, out the front door and straight onto the 87 freeway, going south for about 200 miles--all the way back down to lower Manhattan.<br /><br />“Ouch! My ear!” he would moan, “Where are you taking me, mister?”<br /><br />“You’ll see, young man. You’ll see soon enough where your thoughtless shenanigans have led you!”<br /><br />Once we arrived in New York City, I’d march him straight into the trendiest club in Soho, approach a table filled with the most gorgeously shallow women I could find, and thrust him angrily into a chair.<br /><br />“Now, buster brown,” I’d pedantically huff, “Tell <span style="font-style: italic;">them</span> what you just told me!”<br /><br />“I. . .I. . .I. . .” he’d stammer.<br /><br />“Go on. . .”<br /><br />After a few more seconds of relentless browbeating from me, he’d shrug his shoulders and sigh. “I told him that he looked like Russell Crowe.”<br /><br />The gaggle of gorgeous girls would giggle. “<span style="font-style: italic;">Russell Crowe</span>? Silly little boy! News flash! Boys don’t know what boys look like. Only girls do. And, as girls, we can tell you that he does not looking <span style="font-style: italic;">anything</span> like Russell Crowe. At all. Not in the slightest. In any way, shape or form. Period. Full stop. End of story.”<br /><br />“Thank you very much, ladies,” I would say, stifling my tears of disappointment for the higher purposes of elucidating an ethical axiom. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson, young man.”<br /><br />“I have, sir,” he would say, “Never tell people who don’t look like Russell Crowe that they look like Russell Crowe.”<br /><br />The learning moment would conclude, of course, with the girls admonishing us to leave the table before their boyfriends returned.<br /><br />And yet, no sooner did this hypothesis dissolve than it was replaced by a very different one. It was an idea that wasn’t so much troubling as it was utterly bizarre. Yes, it was a very strange thought, indeed. I might even go so far as to say that it was the strangest thought that I have ever had in my entire life. . .and it was this:<br /><br />What if he’s right?<br /><br />What if I really <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> look like Russell Crowe?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">CHAPTER SIX:</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">NOW HERE’S SOMETHING TO CROWE ABOUT!</span><br /></div><br /><br />By now, it has become an anthropological truism in our technological age that the first time most people hear their recorded voices being played back on a cassette, they often wonder out loud if they “really sound like that”. Bearing that tendency in mind, what if the same holds true for seeing one’s image in a mirror? What if the first thought we have when we see our reflection in the morning is not, “Oh, there I am again”, but: “Do I really look like that?”<br /><br />Excluding anorexics, in most cases the answer is yes.<br /><br />But what if, for me, the answer is no?<br /><br />What if during all these years, while I’ve been painfully laboring under the misapprehension that I look like Will Franken, I’ve actually looked like Russell Crowe?<br /><br />Unquestionably, were this true, it would provide some much-needed answers as to why I suffer such difficulty in the romantic arena. You see, I have often surmised in the still and silent hours before the dawn (when the rest of the world is sleeping and oblivious to my pain) that women are simply intimidated by my intense personality, my dazzling array of talents, or even my--if you’ll pardon the unavoidable reference--”brilliant mind”.<br /><br />But how much more intimidated would they be if that brilliant mind was owned by someone who looks like Russell Crowe?<br /><br />Yes! It all makes so much sense now!<br /><br />The dainty and delicate does. . .the frightened and fearful fawns. . .those poor petite and precious pixies in my pristine presence! How scared they all must be of me!<br /><br />No wonder I’m not getting any!<br /><br />I have a brilliant mind <span style="font-style: italic;">AND</span> I look like Russell Crowe!<br /><br />I’m too good to be true!<br /><br />Hmm. . .there’s something wrong with this picture. . .<br /><br />. . .wait a second. . .<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">CHAPTER SEVEN:</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">A PRAGMATIC CAVEAT</span><br /></div><br /><br />If the aforementioned were actually the case, how would that explain all the dates that I’ve been on that haven’t led to anything sexual? That is to say, if I really <span style="font-style: italic;">did</span> look like Russell Crowe, wouldn’t the benefits be immediate and numerous? Especially if I’m sitting right across from the young lady at a candelight table for two at Taco Bell, simultaneously regaling her with my brilliance and beauty--personality and looks harmoniously working together in a two-pronged attack to yield a dampening effect on her grateful genitalia?<br /><br />“You know, my darling, it really is quite fascinating how those Benedictine monks could have carved all those miniature diptychs armed with nothing but a crude stylus and the flickering light of a beeswax candle,” I might say, summarizing the magical memories of our moonlit moments in the parlance of the typically well-read Hollywood erudite, “I trust you had an enjoyable time at the traveling exhibit of the Ruins of Monte Cassino?”<br /><br />“Yes. I certainly did,” she’d smile faintly, “Oh, look at the time. Ho-hum. Well, I better get home now so I can call you in the middle of the night and complain about this date and how I’ll never find the right man and how wonderful it is to have such a fascinating friend as you. By the way, thanks for the chicken burrito.”<br /><br />“What?” I’d laugh nonchalantly in my sexiest Australian accent, “I don’t get a kiss?”<br /><br />“I’m sorry. I never kiss on the fifteenth date.”<br /><br />“One small thing before you leave, then.” At that precise moment, as I casually swirl the ice in my 44-ounce Mountain Dew, I'd unleash my ultra-powerful hidden weapon: “I’ll have you know, little missy, that I’ve recently been told by a very reliable small-town teenage boy on a bicycle, who may or may not be a closeted homosexual, that I happen to look like Russell Crowe.”<br /><br />“Great. Maye you can get <span style="font-style: italic;">him</span> to kiss you.”<br /><br />Yes. Something is definitely wrong with this picture.<br /><br />. . .wait a second. . .maybe I can get some better reception here. . .<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">CHAPTER EIGHT:</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">CROWES TO THE LEFT OF ME, JOKERS TO THE RIGHT</span><br /></div><br /><br />Of course! It was all a simple question of positioning. If I’m aiming for success, I can’t be sitting <span style="font-style: italic;">across </span>from the girl. How easily I allowed myself to overlook the words of the bicycle boy! True, he had emphatically told me that I looked like Russell Crowe. But when pressed on the issue, he had also added a very important detail; one that if forgotten might easily spell a romantic disaster of exactly the sort enumerated above. To wit:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Especially with the pony tail. . .looking in <span style="font-weight: bold;">that</span> direction. . .</span><br /><br />Yes! The double keys to romantic fulfillment had already been revealed in their entirety! Pulled-back hair and a right-side profile! At all times I would have to be wearing a pony tail and either be walking or sitting at the girl’s left-hand side. Difficult, to be sure, but by no means impossible. For if I want it bad enough--and I definitely do--I must be willing to pursue it, regardless of any physical challenges such a pursuit may entail. You may call me mad, dear reader, but is there any amongst you who would deny that, if preventing a woman from seeing me from the front, from behind, or from <span style="font-style: italic;">her</span> right-hand side is the admission price into her boudoir, that there couldn’t be an easier chore one might undertake in the hopes of cultivating such a promising harvest?<br /><br />Not to mention that sitting across the table from a girl might render us symbolic combatants; almost as if we were . . .<br /><br />(!). . .gladiators. . .(!)<br /><br />Ugh. Not my idea of romantic, either.<br /><br />But if I could just manage to reveal only my right-hand side and never, under any circumstances, remove my pony tail holder, then and only then, might a young lady finally ascertain the deepest layer of the Will Franken story: that I look like Russell Crowe when I wear a ponytail and am facing left!<br /><br />How sweet a vision! She and I sharing a booth seat at Denny’s, absentmindedly tracing patterns with a fork in our shared half-eaten plate of biscuits and gravy--my playful banter simultaneously calling to mind the didgeridoo drones of Down Under coupled with the heroic humility of a handsome hunk on hiatus from the Hollywood hoopla.<br /><br />“You know, my darling, it certainly is fascinating how those precursors to the pinball machines of the 1970s didn’t have any flippers and were actually used for gambling,” I would say, evoking her estrogen-laced emotion with an encapsulation of the evening’s events, “I trust you had an enjoyable time at the Museum of Vintage Arcade Games?”<br /><br />“Oh, yes!” I can hear her excitedly exclaim, “How culturally stimulating it was to finally see, first-hand, the framed black-and-white publicity stills of NYC Mayor Fiorello La Guardia destroying a shipment of the machines with a fire ax under the pretense of preventing vice and immorality!”<br /><br />“Old Fiorello,” I would say, somehow managing to apply an Australian accent to the Italian name, “What a character that one!”<br /><br />“I’ve always been an Ed Koch girl myself,” she’d say.<br /><br />“Old Eddie?” I’d grin, “Well if that ain’t the koala’s pajamas! If me mates back home knew I was on a date with a Kochette, I’d receive a right Mad-Maxxing. We’re in a group called Dinkin’s Dingos. Sort of an unofficial Down Under fan club for all of Guiliani’s predecessors.”<br /><br />At this point, her eyes would light up like a pinball machine, “You <span style="font-style: italic;">are </span>Australian! I knew it!”<br /><br />“Aw, boomerang! Me accent must be showin’,” I’d say, casually popping a sprig of parsley in my mouth and pretending that it was intentional, “Mmm. You know, me mum used to always say it was the parsley that really gives the biscuits their gravy.”<br /><br />Switching the mood ever so subtly, she’d whisper in my right ear, “Can I ask you something?”<br /><br />“We used to be a penal colony.”<br /><br />“No, it’s not about Australia. Look,” she’d say, placing a lily-white hand on my forearm, “I’m having a wonderful time tonight. I like you. I <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> do. I feel very drawn to you and I don’t exactly know why. But. . .the thing is. . .well. . .you haven’t made eye contact with me once this whole evening. Don’t you like me?”<br /><br />I’d provide her a reassuring laugh, “Oh, I like you fine. You’re a right pretty Sheila, you are. I suppose my mind is just thinking about being back home with <span style="font-style: italic;">Breaker Morant</span> and AC/DC and Men At Work and The Easybeats and kangaroos and Olivia Newton-John and Midnight Oil and <span style="font-style: italic;">Crocodile Dundee</span> and. . .”<br /><br />“Well, I’m relieved you don’t think I’m ugly. But can I ask you something else?”<br /><br />“We fought alongside the British in the Boer Wars.”<br /><br />“No, it’s not about Australian military history. Look,” she’d say, placing her other lily-white hand on my other forearm, “I really enjoy your company. I’m very attracted to you. But. . .the thing is. . .well. . .all night long, I’ve only seen the right side of your face. It’s almost like you don’t <span style="font-style: italic;">want</span> me to see you from the front or from behind or from <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> right-hand side. Remember when you held the door open for me earlier? That was so sweet. But then you muscled up next to me so we could walk in together at the same time and we didn’t really fit and I tore up my dress and I scraped up my side and I got all bloody. What was that about? Don’t you <span style="font-style: italic;">want</span> me to see the left side of your face?”<br /><br />I’d giver her one-half of a broad, comforting smile, “Now there, Sheila, don’t you worry your pretty little head about the left side of my face. There’s nothing on that side that you can’t see on this one. Half a nose, half a mouth, and one eye.”<br /><br />“Well. . .I don’t know. . .what if I wanted to. . .kiss you?”<br /><br />“Let’s take it slow , Sheila,” I’d say, placing both of my forearms on top of both of her lily-white hands, “Why don’t you just kiss me on the right cheek for now until we get to know each other a little better?”<br /><br />“Okay,” she’d say with a hint of sadness in her voice before zeroing in and planting a smacker on my right cheek that, despite its seeming innocence, nevertheless almost causes me to shoot a hot denim-smothered load, “You’re such a fascinating man. I can’t help feeling like you’re not telling me something.”<br /><br />“All right, Sheila,” I’d sigh, squirming in my seat while consciously thinking about America’s obesity problem in the hopes of subduing my outrageous erection, “I didn’t want to tell you on our first date, but I suppose I better level with you. I was recently told by a very reliable small-town teenage bloke on a bicycle, who may or may not be a closeted poofter, that I happen to look like Russell Crowe. Especially when I’m wearing a pony tail and my head is turned to the left.”<br /><br />At this point, the scales would fall from her eyes, the floodgates would open, and she’d squeal with girlish delight “That’s it! Yes! Of course! Why didn’t I see it until now? No wonder I’m ready to leave everything behind, start a family with you in the desert, and even <span style="font-style: italic;">kill</span> for you!”<br /><br />Not willing to leave good enough alone, here is where I’d shoot myself in the foot by providing some additional embellishment: “Actually, I work for Russell Crowe. I’m his double.”<br /><br />“His stunt-double?”<br /><br />“I do a few stunts. But mostly I raise his children when he’s off galavanting around the world, making movies and accepting awards. Just to make them think that their father still loves them.“<br /><br />“You raise his children? What else do you do?”<br /><br />“That’s about it. Well. . .I also. . .uh. . .er. . .I also. . .uh. . .<span style="font-style: italic;">pleasure</span> his wife.”<br /><br />“You <span style="font-style: italic;">pleasure </span>his wife? You mean you fuck her?”<br /><br />“I do a few fucks. But 'pleasure' is a pretty broad term. My job duties include anything from cunnilingus to light spanking to filming her in the process of attaching a strap-on dildo to a UNICEF volunteer.”<br /><br />At this point in the fantasy, I can imagine my date shedding her delighted countenance. “I’m sorry. Raising another man’s children is one thing. But what kind of sicko <span style="font-style: italic;">pleasures</span> another man’s wife?”<br /><br />“Wait, wait, wait!” I’d shout in her direction as she flees the table with a persnickety huff, “You got it all wrong! It’s only to make her think that her husband still loves her! I’m helping people! I’m making a difference! I’m spreading love, you fucking cunt!”<br /><br />No. Something is wrong with <span style="font-style: italic;">this</span> picture as well.<br /><br />. . .wait a second. . .damnit, I should have sprung for one of those converter boxes. . .<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">CHAPTER NINE:</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">I AM CROWE! HEAR ME SQUAWK!</span><br /></div><br /><br />Yes! I see it all so clearly now! How could I have been so stupid?<br /><br />Chicks absolutely <span style="font-style: italic;">hate</span> when they find out a man is fucking somebody else’s wife!<br /><br />On the other hand, they absolutely <span style="font-style: italic;">love</span> when a man fucks around on his own wife. . .<br /><br />Especially if it’s with them.<br /><br />Therefore, to actualize my stated purpose of employing my uncanny resemblance to Russell Crowe in order to achieve global female domination, all that remains is to make one minor modification and I’m off to the races!<br /><br />I’ll simply get rid of all the comparative language in reference to my appearance. No more watering down the message in the wishy-washy language of similes. It’s time to throw caution to the wind and--along with caution--the inessential phrase: “look like”.<br /><br />No longer shall I say “I <span style="font-style: italic;">look like</span> Russell Crowe.”<br /><br />From this day forward, “I <span style="font-style: italic;">am</span> Russell Crowe!”<br /><br />(Of course, for the time being, just to play it safe, I’ll still continue wearing a ponytail and never let anybody see anything other than my right side)<br /><br />The setting would have to be perfect. After a long night of painting the town red from the comfort of a cigarette-burned and coffee-stained couch, I’d take her by the hand and romantically drag her over to the other end of the couch that isn’t as dirty.<br /><br />“You know, my darling, I find it fascinating that the bonus features were so thoroughly informative, speaking not only in reference to the filmmakers’ judicious use of CGI effects, but also as regards their armchair historical understanding of the scope of the Roman Empire,” I would say, speaking out of my ass in the hopes of getting a piece of hers, “I trust you had an enjoyable evening watching the DVD of <span style="font-style: italic;">Gladiator</span>, including all of the special features, and then immediately re-watching the entire thing with accompanying audio commentary.”<br /><br />Silence.<br /><br />“My dear?”<br /><br />Snoring.<br /><br />“Darling?”<br /><br />A twitching of the eyelids, followed by an annoyed frown. “Huh? What do you want?”<br /><br />Perhaps a light chuckle from me would both awaken her fully as well as belie my evident disgust at such contemptuous unconsciousness in the midst of my presumably overstimulating presence, “Why my dear, it appears that the sandman has made quick work of you this evening.”<br /><br />“What are you talking about? Why are you so weird?”<br /><br />”I trust you had an enjoyable evening watching the DVD of <span style="font-style: italic;">Gladiator</span>, including all of the--”<br /><br />“Not really. I came here to use your phone because I had a car accident, remember? Then you chloroformed me.”<br /><br />“Ah yes,” I would smile toothily, “I can hear the pealing of the proverbial bell of remembrance, taking me back to those carefree days of six hours ago when life was young and your limbs were fully operational. By the way, I beg your forgiveness for the chloroform. But you see, my dear, I had no other means at my disposal of rendering you unconscious. Had I a mickey, I would gladly have slipped you one. But let us not pitch our tents in the sedentary soil of the past, for a far more resplendent castle now lowers its mighty drawbridge to us at this moment in time. So again I ask you, my darling--I trust you had an enjoyable evening watching the DVD of <span style="font-style: italic;">Gladiator</span>, including all of the special features, and then immediately re-watching the entire thing with accompanying audio commentary?”<br /><br />“Uh. . .yeah. . .sure, whatever. I had a very wonderful time. I can’t wait to do it again. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to walk three miles back down the road so I can say goodbye to my dead boyfriend.”<br /><br />“Yes,” I’d sigh deeply, “Perhaps it’s best that you <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> go, my sweet one. After all, I fear that Mrs. Crowe shall return before the hour’s end. Here, let me find your Hello Kitty purse--”<br /><br />“Wait a second,” she’d say, “<span style="font-style: italic;">Mrs. Crowe</span>? What do you mean?”<br /><br />“Oh my,” I’d cast my eyes to the floor wistfully, all the while keeping my head resolutely turned to the left, “Have I allowed my tongue to become a large earthworm with epilepsy again? How it twitches and spews without regard for its owner’s privacy those things I would rather leave unsaid. You’ll forgive an old babbling fool like me, my angel. Now be off with you. I have kept you far too long from the daunting task of removing shards of windshield from your boyfriend’s carcass. Not to mention the additional burden I’ve now added to your already heavy workload of locating a neighbor’s telephone in order to report my diabolical activities to the local constabulary.”<br /><br />“No,” she would insist, “I want to know. Please tell me. Who’s Mrs. Crowe?”<br /><br />“Very well,” I’d say, taking her by the left hand and walking us sideways back to the couch. “You and I have known each other for six hours now, my little snapdragon--five hours and forty-five minutes of which you’ve been out like a light. So I suppose it’s time that you know the truth.”<br /><br />“Go on. . .” I can hear her whispering in a steamy hiss, “. . .<span style="font-style: italic;">tell me</span>. . .”<br /><br />Using just the right dosage of faux inner turmoil, I’d clear my throat and begin, “You see, my little oyster, quite recently I was informed by a most knowledgeable yet countrified adolescent in the transport of a two-wheeled unmotorized motorcar--a likely lad who may or may not have been partial to certain sexual proclivities along the vast homosexual nexus--that. . .well. . .er. . .oh, pith and bother! How can I say this?”<br /><br />“<span style="font-style: italic;">Go on</span>. . .” she’d nod encouragingly while stroking my right thigh with her left hand.<br /><br />“The lad told me that. . .he told me. . . oh, cobnabit and darnyall! I simply can’t find the words!”<br /><br />“<span style="font-style: italic;">Tell me</span>. . .”<br /><br />“Let’s see. . .well. . .oh, dignation and forth-humbit! I’ve just got to come right out and say it!”<br /><br />“<span style="font-style: italic;">Then say it</span>. . .”<br /><br />“Mrs. Crowe is my wife.”<br /><br />She would lick her already moistened lips, “So that would mean you’re. . .?”<br /><br />“Yes. I am Russell Crowe. I’m afraid I’ve misled you into thinking I was just some unimportant creep. Please don’t look at me. I’m so ashamed. You must utterly hate me.”<br /><br />At this moment of revelation, she’d lean back on the couch and remove her jeans quicker than a wet snake on a Slip-n-Slide greased with Pennzoil. “Well, why didn’t you <span style="font-style: italic;">say</span> you were Russell Crowe in the first place? Being Russell Crowe is nothing to be ashamed of. It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Crowe. Could I trouble you to reach into my Hello Kitty purse and hand me my intrauterine device while I remove my bra and panties?”<br /><br />“Certainly,” I’d say, passing from my hand to hers a contraceptive contraption vaguely resembling a Jew’s harp, “Didn’t Snoopy play one of these in the Charlie Brown cartoons?”<br /><br />“It does look a little bit like that thing, doesn’t it, Mr. Crowe? This won’t take a second, Mr. Crowe. Please forgive me for not being prepared, Mr. Crowe. If I had known I was going to meet Russell Crowe, I would have had this in months beforehand. Oh, this darn thing has gotten so rusty. Please be patient, Mr. Crowe. I shouldn’t be long.”<br /><br />“Oh, please,” I’d smile with a courteous, though anticipatory, chivalry, “Take your time. And don’t feel that you have to call me Mr. Crowe. You can just call me. . .I don’t know. . .Will.”<br /><br />“Will?”<br /><br />“What?”<br /><br />”You want me to call you Will?”<br /><br />“Oh, yes, yes. I thought that you were saying. . .something else. Yes, that’s right. Call me Will. Yes. If you wouldn’t mind, that would be great.”<br /><br />“Why, Mr. Crowe, that’s the name of my recently deceased boyfriend. Oh, why do they have to put so many pointy prongs on these things? I shouldn’t be too much longer, Mr. Crowe. I know this is extremely rude.”<br /><br />"So Will is the name of your dead boyfriend?" I think twice about my recent suggestion, “Well, perhaps you should go back to calling me Mr. Crowe.”<br /><br />“Certainly,” she smiles, while continuing to fidget with her grotesque anti-procreation device, “After all, Mr. Crowe is such a lovely name. Oh, this darn I.U.D. is driving me up a wall! What is wrong with this thing? Oh, I see. I always forget to release the safety catch. There. It shouldn’t be too much longer now, Mr. Crowe. I’m almost ready to receive you, Mr. Crowe. You’ve been so kind to put up with me so far, Mr. Crowe. So tell me, Mr. Crowe, what brings you to our little village of Round Lake?”<br /><br />“Well,” I’d say, reciting an oft-rehearsed answer, “I’m actually filming a movie up here about this comedian who comes out to the country from the big city thinking he can adapt to the rural life for a couple of weeks until he heads to Montreal to do some gigs.”<br /><br />“That sounds fascinating, Mr. Crowe! Wait a second. . .<span style="font-style: italic;">what the fuck am I doing wrong here? Oh, that’s right. The lever is supposed to fold out and go over the hinge.</span> Okay. I’m sorry, Mr. Crowe. Please go on. it sounds like a very interesting film.”<br /><br />“It will be. The guy’s very brilliant. So it’s a little bit like <span style="font-style: italic;">A Brilliant Mind</span>.”<br /><br />“Oh, Mr. Crowe I <span style="font-style: italic;">loved </span>that movie! The character you played was so <span style="font-style: italic;">brilliant</span>! Mr. Crowe, I hate to bother you again, but would you mind reaching in my purse once more and handing me the fold-out instructions for this thing? I am <span style="font-style: italic;">sooooo</span> sorry, Mr. Crowe. I used to have the procedure memorized. Please go on describing your movie, Mr. Crowe. It sounds <span style="font-style: italic;">soooooo brilliant</span>.”<br /><br />As I hand her the directions, I continue describing a film that sounds new to her but all too familiar to me, “So the guy is brilliant, just like the <span style="font-style: italic;">Brilliant Mind </span>guy. And he’s also a little bit crazy, just like the <span style="font-style: italic;">Brilliant Mind</span> guy. But he’s also really lonely, cause every time he tries to meet a girl, they’re only interested in his brain, and how brilliant and crazy he is. Cause the guy actually doesn’t look <span style="font-style: italic;">anything</span> like Russell Crowe. He looks more like people in the opening credits of a spaghetti western before the advent of wide-screen technology-- you know what I mean? All stretched out and lanky? Or maybe a little bit like Ichabod Crane; or maybe like the crescent moon with the sunglasses in those McDonald’s commercials from the 80s.”<br /><br />“Mr. Crowe, that sounds like an amazing movie. I can’t wait to see it!” She writhes and kicks, knocking over a nearby lamp, “This fucking goddamn motherfucking intra-fucking-uterine device! I could have solved a Rubik’s cube and three Sudoku puzzles by now! You should be grateful you’re not a woman, Mr. Crowe. Please forgive me, Mr. Crowe, I know I can figure this out! So, Mr. Crowe, it sounds like you’ll be playing a physically unattractive man. Won’t that be a bit of a challenge for you, Mr. Crowe?”<br /><br />“Yes. Well, we’ll be using lots of CGI special effects to make myself not as attractive as myself. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but I’ll probably win another award for being so brave. This role requires a lot of bravery. You see, I was brave enough when I played a brilliant mind in <span style="font-style: italic;">A Brilliant Mind</span>, but I’m using twice the amount of bravery I normally bring to a role by playing a brilliant mind with an unattractive appearance in <span style="font-style: italic;">A Brilliant Mind With An Unattractive Appearance</span>.”<br /><br />“Wow, Mr. Crowe, I really love that title. Excuse me for a second, Mr. Crowe.” She starts walloping her vagina with both fists, “<span style="font-style: italic;">Fucking piece of shit asshole I.U.D. motherfucker! Get the fuck in there you Jew-harp looking hunk of Japanese contraception! Made in the USA, my ass! Get. . .in. . .my. . .pussy. . .you. . .fucking. . .intra. . .fucking. . .uterine. . .device. . .!</span>”<br /><br />Suddenly, she stops flagellating herself long enough to wipe the sweat from her brow and take a series of deep, calming breaths. After a few seconds of meditative silence, I can spy her from the corner of my right eye as she turns around to face me with the cutest little apologetic half-smile.<br /><br />“I can’t believe how silly I am,” she giggles, “Where are my manners? You’re <span style="font-style: italic;">Russell Crowe</span>. You can just pull out at the last minute and cum all over my face!”<br /><br />Now <span style="font-style: italic;">there’s</span> a pretty picture!<br /><br />Hold it right there!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">EPILOGUE:</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">TAKING THE MICK OUT OF THE CROWE</span><br /></div><br /><br />Well, it was a nice fantasy while it lasted. But I’m nobody’s fool. I know I don’t look like anything like Russell Crowe.<br /><br />As regards the bizarre comparison, there was one other short-lived hypothesis I failed to mention earlier. Perhaps this town is so small that nobody here has ever <span style="font-style: italic;">seen</span> a Russell Crowe movie. It’s remotely possible, for example, that the teenage boy on the bike might have gotten word from a distant cousin in the "new world" of a movie called <span style="font-style: italic;">Gladiator</span> that starred somebody by the name of Russell Crowe--but having no direct visual evidence to verify that, he decided that if there <span style="font-style: italic;">was</span> such a thing as a Russell Crowe, since he’s never seen <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span> either, I might as well be it.<br /><br />If had some extra cash, just for the hell of it, I’d like to buy a tunic and a sword and a pair of gladiator sandals and hang out in front of the library again. So the next time the kid pulls up on his bike, he’d ask:<br /><br />“Did anybody ever tell you that you look like Kirk Douglas?”<br /><br />“Wow,” I’d say, “You mean the same Kirk Douglas that was in <span style="font-style: italic;">20,000 Leagues Under the Sea</span>?”<br /><br />“No. This was the Kirk Douglas that was in <span style="font-style: italic;">Spartacus</span>.”<br /><br />Obviously, this wasn’t the only time I’ve been likened to a celebrity. But it definitely is the most far-fetched. The first time I moved to New York, I was compared on three separate occasions, in three completely different neighborhoods, all within the same week--to Jimmy Stewart. I’m sure this had less to do with my looks and more to do with the fact that I was tall and suffering from an overly-polite hayseed naivete when it came to life in the big city. Still, at least that comparison had been <span style="font-style: italic;">somewhat</span> in the ballpark. I would likewise accept the assertion that, at certain times, I also resemble Eric Idle.<br /><br />There’s only been one physical comparison, however, that I ever thought was one hundred percent bona fide valid. And it was made by an old friend of mine back in Missouri named Daniel Whanger. It’s a comparison I haven’t thought about in awhile, but given that I’ve spent so much time fantasizing about how one might go about capitalizing on an <span style="font-style: italic;">invalid</span> comparison, it might prove worthwhile to see if I can get any mileage of out of a celebrity that I actually <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> look like.<br /><br />The next time I’m alone with an attractive young lady, I’ll start off by innocently asking, “Do you know who the most handsome male celebrity of all time is?”<br /><br />“Sure,” she’ll say, “Russell Crowe.”<br /><br />“No, no, no. I’m talking about a musician.”<br /><br />“Oh, a musician? Let’s see. . .probably Eminem.”<br /><br />“I said a <span style="font-style: italic;">musician</span>.”<br /><br />“Oh, a <span style="font-style: italic;">musician</span>. I’m sorry, I thought you said a fuckfaced retard. Let’s see. Most handsome male celebrity of all time who’s a musician. . .hmm. . .Paul McCartney?”<br /><br />“No, don’t be silly. Come on, think. It’s really obvious.”<br /><br />“Conway Twitty?”<br /><br />“You’re not even trying. Think punk rock.”<br /><br />“Oh, of course! Joey Ramone!”<br /><br />“<span style="font-style: italic;">British </span>punk rock.”<br /><br />“Oh, <span style="font-style: italic;">British</span> punk rock? Well, I would probably have to say Johnny Rotten.”<br /><br />“Are you fucking crazy? Come on. The guy I’m talking about is a real dreamboat.”<br /><br />“All right, then, Paul Cook!”<br /><br />“Paul Cook? What kind of methadone program are you on, woman? Do you need a hint? He was in The Clash.”<br /><br />“Oh, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Clash</span>. That’s easy. Joe Strummer.”<br /><br />“You’re just doing this to piss me off, aren’t you? Joe fucking Strummer?”<br /><br />“What? He’s really cute.”<br /><br />“Yeah, well, he’s fucking dead. Try again. I’m talking about a real hunk of a punk here. Total punk hunk.”<br /><br />“What do you want me to say?”<br /><br />“I don’t <span style="font-style: italic;">want</span> you to say anything. You should already know the answer. The guy’s a total looker. Real handsome devil. Drives the ladies wild.”<br /><br />“Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t know the answer!”<br /><br />“Who else was in The Clash, dumbass?”<br /><br />“Why is this so important to you?”<br /><br />“<span style="font-style: italic;">Answer the fucking question!!!</span>”<br /><br />“I don’t remember! Leave me alone!! Let go of my hair!!!”<br /><br />“<span style="font-style: italic;">Think!! Use your fucking head before I put it through these cinder blocks!!! He went on to play in Big Audio Dynamite!!! The guy’s a total stud!!! Any girl would be a fucking moron not to think he’s the hottest male celebrity of all time!! Come on!!! Do I have to spell it out for you?</span>”<br /><br />“I <span style="font-style: italic;">know </span>who you’re talking about, but I don’t know the name!! Please don’t hurt me!!”<br /><br />“<span style="font-style: italic;">For fuck’s sake! His name is Mick. . .come on, think, woman! His name is Mick. . .</span>”<br /><br />“Mick James?”<br /><br />“<span style="font-style: italic;">Mick Jones!! JONES! JONES! JONES! Is it sinking into your thick skull now? Mick fucking Jones!!</span>”<br /><br />”Okay. All right. Mick Jones. Woo-hoo. Big deal. What about him?”<br /><br />“He’s the most attractive male celebrity of all time,” I say with a smirk.<br /><br />She winces, “Ugh. You think so?”<br /><br />“Yes I do. What’s the matter? You don’t?”<br /><br />“I don’t know. . .I guess. . .well. . .I guess, he’s <span style="font-style: italic;">okay</span>.”<br /><br />“What did you say?”<br /><br />“I said I guess he’s okay.”<br /><br />“Say it one more time.”<br /><br />“I said he’s okay.”<br /><br />“<span style="font-style: italic;">I can’t hear you!</span>”<br /><br />“He’s okay!”<br /><br />“<span style="font-style: italic;">LOUDER!</span>”<br /><br />“HE’S OKAY!!!!”<br /><br />“That’s what I thought you said,” At that precise moment, as I carefully fashion her a mini-carnation from the inside of a used cigarette filter, I'd unleash my ultra-powerful hidden weapon: “In that case, I think it's fair that you should know, little missy, that this Mick Jones that you’re so obviously in love with and can’t stop thinking about is none other than. . .<br /><br />. . .yours truly!”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUy5Qv58WY9dhbyHA5x5zYO5QUgYVZsKtDIkfg5Rwrsq4m90vfraF3REVS8knVz0-pipW1b70FeAYOV4BgakcRc6m1jnPs1dTq_uvEW6zxDdx7aFeYXGeE0G4a0uTn86tRvM2tyg/s1600-h/mickandwill2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 182px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUy5Qv58WY9dhbyHA5x5zYO5QUgYVZsKtDIkfg5Rwrsq4m90vfraF3REVS8knVz0-pipW1b70FeAYOV4BgakcRc6m1jnPs1dTq_uvEW6zxDdx7aFeYXGeE0G4a0uTn86tRvM2tyg/s400/mickandwill2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358496458189304594" border="0" /></a>Will Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-59592299659739271502009-07-14T14:24:00.000-07:002009-07-14T14:35:46.214-07:00Believe In A Self! Preferably Yours!<br><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><b>INTRO</b></span><br /></div><br /><i>A self is like a shelf without an "h" </i><br /><br />-- Moon Tzu (4th Century)<br /><br />How many times have you heard people exclaim "Jesus H. Christ!" only to be left wondering where the "H" came from?<br /><br />It came from our very own alphabet--along with 25 other delectable letters; including, but not limited to "S", "E", "L", and "F". (You see where I'm going with this don't you?)<br /><br />That's right! The very alphabet that gave us the "H" in "Jesus H. Christ" over two thousand years ago, is the same one that gives us the "H" in the word "shelf". So what the philosopher Moon Tzu is saying in the above quotation is that everything comes from the same thing-- whether it's a "self" or a "shelf".<br /><br />But Moon Tzu doesn't stop there.<br /><br />Oh, no. He can go on all night long. (Little Chinaman penis notwithstanding).<br /><br />Though Moon-Tzu uses the word "like" in relation to a "self" and a "shelf", he nevertheless draws a very important distinction when he observes that a "self", unlike the "shelf" does <i>not</i> have an "h". And that's where the similarities between "selfhood" and "s(H)elfhood" end abruptly.<br /><br />But let's not go there yet. Later, when we start to deal with Advanced Self-Belief, we'll be better prepared to deal with differences. For now, let's proceed with caution. Remember:<br /><br /><i>Self-Belief is a road that is slippery unless you don't drive on it and just walk on it wearing shoes with good traction</i>--Oprah Jemima on "Good Morning, Afro-America!" 1/20/09<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><b>CHAPTER ONE:</b><br /><b>SHELF-LIFE OF THE SELF?</b></span><br /></div><br />Let's consider the ways that a "self" is like a "shelf". Here are just a few submitted from The People Foundation:<br /><br /><b>a)</b> Shelves (plural of "shelf") and selves (plural of "self") both look the same, either in singular or plural form, with the exception of. . .you guessed it! The "H"!<br /><br /><b>b)</b>Both shelves (read "shelf") and selves (read "self") are nouns.<br /><br /><i>Alhough "shelf" or "shelve", unlike "self" or "selves", could be used as verbs, as in "Bitch, you better <b>shelf</b> your backtalk before I beat yo ass!", remember, for now, we're dealing with the <big style="font-weight: bold;">similarities</big><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>and not the <big style="font-weight: bold;">differences.</big></i><br /><br />and finally:<br /><br /><b>c)</b> Both shelves (read "a shelf") and selves (read "a self") can have things <i>put on top of them</i>.<br /><br />Let's consider this last one for a second. We know that a spice rack or a copy of Moon-Tzu's <i>Ching Te Chong</i> can look nice on top of a shelf. So bearing that in mind, what could you put on top of <big><b>yourself</b></big> that would make you feel better about you? Why don't we look at some real-life stories for ideas?<br /><br /><i>[Tommy] was depressed because he could only grow hair in splotchy patches. Coming from a dirty broken home where his only companion was a dog corpse, [Tommy] also suffered from ringworm, particularly evident in the areas where no hair covered his scalp. Then a local man gave [Tommy] a sombrero and now he is [feeling very happy about himself more than ever before in his life]</i><br /><br />Here is another:<br /><br /><i>[A man I do not know] was feeling sad because there was nothing on top of him. [The man] was depressed and felt like giving up in the game of life. Then a teenage Russian prostitute got on top of [the man] and [the man] felt good about [himself] for 15-17 minutes!</i><br /><br />Stories like these are happening every day! All because people are learning to believe in themselves! (or them"shelves"!)<br /><br />Remember lesson 1 of self-belief:<br /><br /><i>. . .If you don't believe in yourself, you might start to become like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster. There will be a few hazy photos of you, but that's about it. People who <b>really</b> don't believe in themselves also run the risk of becoming like the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy where no empirical evidence whatsoever can be found of their supposed existence. Believe in yourself if only that you can have a visible presence in the spatiotemporal world as a solid, corporeal being. . .</i>Bill Gates and Warren Buffet: Live in Concert, San Ysidro Colisseum, 1993<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><b>CHAPTER ONE:</b></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><b>APPLICATION OF THE SELF-BELIEF PRINCIPLE TO THE BELIEF IN SELF</b></span><br /></div><br />Well, you may say, this is all fine and dandy. It's wonderful and marvelous. It's perfect and dandy and fine. It's fine and wonderful and dandy-fine.<br /><br />Thank you! Those are some very nice things that you are saying. But I would be a fool to just let those compliments stay here on the page, drying up like so many dead armadillos in the burning desert sun. So I will gather them all together and put them in my "Compliment Bank".<br /><br />Compliment Bank???? What is a Compliment Bank????<br /><br />The term "Compliment Bank" comes from an Old Norse expression for "Jew". Just like a real bank, a "compliment bank" is a savings and lending institution. Yet instead of being run by limp-dicked CEOs and raghead oil money, a "compliment bank" is entirely staffed, served, and patronized by <i>you!</i><br /><br />Here is a how a typical transaction at <i>my</i> personal "Compliment Bank" might go:<br /><br /><b>ME: Good morning, sir, how are you today?</b><br /><b>ME: Oh, I can't complain.</b><br /><b>ME: That's good to hear. </b><br /><b>ME: Looks like we're finally going to get some rain. </b><br /><b>ME: Yes it does. Well, we could sure use it. </b><br /><b>ME: Ain't that the truth. </b><br /><b>ME: What can I do for you today, sir? </b><br /><b>ME: I have some compliments I'd like to deposit into my account.</b><br /><b>ME: Okay. Just give me one second, sir. </b><br /><br /><b><i>Enter ME from stage right</i></b><br /><br /><b>ME: Excuse me?</b><br /><b>ME: I'll be right with you, sir. I'm just helping this gentlemen.</b><br /><b>ME: Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't even see you.</b><br /><b>ME: That's okay. Oh, wait! I know you! How have you been?</b><br /><b>ME: Wow! I can't believe it! It's you! I've been great!</b><br /><b>ME: Okay, sir, what compliments do you have to deposit today?</b><br /><b>ME: (to ME) Hold on one second, okay? (to ME) That's an old friend of mine. I'm sorry, what did you ask me?</b><br /><b>ME: What compliments will you be depositing today?</b><br /><b>ME: Oh, let's see. I've got three "fines", two "dandys", two "wonderfuls", one "perfect", one "marvelous" and one "dandy-fine."</b><br /><b>ME: Okay. Let me just write out a slip here and--oh, wait. A "dandy-fine"? I'm going to have call corporate to see if we can accept these.</b><br /><br /><b><i>ME calls corporate headquarters and HINDU ME answers</i></b><br /><br /><b>HINDU ME: Wishinishi Pishi-Pashi Chichi-Chutney Tooki-Wooki?</b><br /><b>ME: Hi, it's me. Do we accept "dandy-fines"?</b><br /><b>HINDU ME: Samaa-Tikthick Yishiwishi Woojug!</b><br /><b>ME: Great! Thanks! (to ME) I guess we do.</b><br /><b>ME: Cool. I guess you don't see a lot of those anymore.</b><br /><b>ME: They're pretty rare. Okay. Here's your deposit slip. And if you ever feel bad and need quick access to your compliments, we're online now. And of course, our feel good ATMs are always available anytime a girl you blew money on won't blow you in return.</b><br /><b>ME: Oh, dandy-fine!</b><br /><br /><b><i>Curtain</i></b><br /><br />It's that easy! You can have as many characters as you like, just as long as you're sure to include at least 1 teller and 1 customer!<br /><br />Remember, lesson 1 of self-belief:<br /><br /><i>Though based in the Creative Writing Program, Morrison did not regularly offer writing workshops to students after the late 1990s. . .</i>From wikipedia's entry on African-American authoress, Toni Morrison<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><b>CHAPTER ONE:</b></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><b>REGULAR DEPOSITS IN COMPLIMENT BANK YIELD INTEREST IN SELF-BELIEF</b></span><br /></div><br />You don't have to be an economist to know how to skin a cat. But don't take my word for it. Just ask professional cat-skinner Jeff Myzak:<br /><br /><i>I don't no shit 'bout no ecomony. But you want me ta skin a cat, i kin do that. What i like to do is git 'em when they's sleepin. And i take a old bowie knife and then i slit they throte. always start with the mamma kus when she's dead, them little ones can't do nuthin.</i><br /><br />Every one of us living today possesses certain talents and abilities. For Jeff Myzak, that talent is cat-skinning. For Milton Friedman, that talent is economic libertarianism. (Well, it was until he died). For Heath Ledger, that talent is acting. (Well, it was until he died). For Michael Jackson, that talent is working with children (Well, it was until he got caught).<br /><br />What is <i>your</i> talent? Can you do something interesting with your clitoris? Can you pay electric bills with your mind? There are as many different talents as there are snowflakes in the ocean!<br /><br />When it comes to self-belief, there's almost nothing more important than realizing what <i>your</i> talent is and how to use that talent to the best of your ability.<br /><br />Consider this graph:<br /><br /><b>FIGURE 1.1</b><br /><br /><big style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span>XXXX ((((((((><><><><><><><><><</span><wbr><span class="word_break"></span>><><><><>DDDD<br />. . <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">()()()(()( ............. IIIIIIIIOOOOOO </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"> ............ 1-115</span><br />/////<br /> /////YOO /////&)&<br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"> ///// --1-116</span><br /> 2-420 <><<br /></big><div style="text-align: center;"><big style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"> <><><><><><><><><><><><><></span><wbr style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);" class="word_break"></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><><><><><><></span></big><br /></div><big style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span> < >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>></span><wbr><span class="word_break"></span>>>>>>>>>>W</big><br /><br /><br />Now, I admit, this is not a very good graph. In fact, most experts in the field of graphs would probably argue that this isn't even a graph at all. That's because I have never been very talented at making graphs.<br /><br />But I don't let that bother me. Why? Because I have other talents! For example, I have always been very good at digging ditches. Remember, the best way to find out what <i>you're</i> good at is to do everything else in the world besides what you're good at first and fail each time. That way, there will be no doubt in your mind whatsoever about your singular role in the shaping of the new Soviet America.<br /><br />Don't forget the 1st lesson of self-belief:<br /><br /><i>Yes We Can!</i>--Nameless and Faceless Blob, 2008<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><b>CHAPTER ONE:</b></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><b>HAVE A DREAM AND THEN WAKE UP LIVING IT</b></span><br /></div><br />How many of you reading this have ever wanted to leap through a cosmic vortex?<br /><br />If you're anything like me, you probably dreamed of the day when you would be able to leap through a cosmic vortex, impressing parents who never believed in you, or showing off for all the pretty girls in the sixth grade (just like the ones who call you "child molester" today).<br /><br />While other kids were off playing "Hungry Hungry Hippos" or "Shoot-The-Drifter", I was spending countless hours in my dad's garage laboratory designing a demolecularizing plywood ramp. During those summer months, I would drive mother crazy with my boast that I was going to be the next Lancelot Aldrin--five time Vortex Leaping Champion!<br /><br />"You're crazy!" mother would say, "You need medication!! I don't know what you're talking about anymore!! What in God's name <i>is</i> a vortex anyway? Why can't you be <i>normal</i>? I'm scared of my own son!!"<br /><br />Then, two days before the big leap, I received bad news. Because of a hamstring where my leg should have been, doctors told me that I would never be able to leap through a cosmic vortex.<br /><br />I could have let that news depress me. And it did. I was in many hospitals and charitable institutions over the years.<br /><br />But now that I'm out, I can count my blessings. I may not be able to leap through a cosmic vortex. But, thanks to the power of Self-Belief, I can make all sorts of crazy leaps through <i>logic</i> and straight into <i>utter nonsense</i>!<br /><br />All sorts of Oklahoma then. When it gets better I get Texas. And then no dolphin will it be evverr bee confused mo nore!!! AHO! Voo-voo! SO MANY. Her mommy's stretchmarks. Import/expert the girl with bones. Find out instantly.<br /><br />Dont foghat the 1st lessin of BASIC SELFBELIEF:<br /><br /><i>Sam Meant down the money but it was tie in with the star's plan. All because of a hiking problem</i>The U-Dayway-Way of SIVO, CHPATER 5Will Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-24100104936498423342009-07-01T14:03:00.000-07:002009-07-01T14:08:00.731-07:00Birthday Bash at the Barrel<br><br><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">(note: there's still time to sign up to be a donor/sponsor for Will Franken Team Montreal '09 ((see blog entry after this one)))</span><br /></span><br />Well, yesterday has come and gone, but the memories shall remain etched in my memory forever!<br /><br />As Chuck E. Cheese's is to children’s and pedophiles’ birthdays, Cracker Barrel is to single adult male birthdays! (If there isn't a Hooters nearby)<br /><br />Knowing in advance that I would turn 36 yesterday, I scheduled an appointment nearly seven months ago with the voluptuous vixens at Cracker Barrel for the full-on birthday treatment. A sultry-voiced madam on the other end penciled in the reservation (in what I can only imagine was a cum-stained, leather-bound roster of clientele including such New York political luminaries as Eliot Gould-Spitzer and Screamin' J. Austen).<br /><br />At last, the big day was finally here!<br /><br />Upon arrival, I was led through the sleazy aisles of a New Orleans cathouse-themed gift shop which peddled sexual wares under such innocuous-sounding names as <span style="font-style: italic;">Precious Moments Angel Figurine #872</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">The Best of LeAnn Rimes</span>. By the time I arrived at the hostess station, I had an erection the size of my penis!<br /><br />"How many?" asked the hostess, licking her lip gloss from her lips and then back on with an invisible hands-free applicator. She did this seven, maybe eight times. But no more than nine. That would have been too slutty--even for Cracker Barrel.<br /><br />"T-t-t-two!" said my friend and I in unison, stuttering the T's at exactly the three same moments in an auditory symbiosis which might lead some cynics to conjecture that we were really only one person after all. Not so. After all, what good is a birthday without at least one friend who isn’t oneself to celebrate it with oneself?<br /><br />“Come this way,” sizzled our hot hostess in the dark brown apron bearing the insignia of the old man sitting next to a butter churn.<br /><br />My friend and I turned to high-five each other. “This is going to be the greatest 13th Tuesday in Ordinary Time and optional memorial of the First Holy Martyrs of the Holy Roman Church of our lives!” whispered my friend.<br /><br />“Yes,” I agreed, “and it’s also my birthday.”<br /><br />“Oh, I forgot.” he said before accusing me of heresy.<br /><br />As a formality, we were handed menus. But nobody goes to Cracker Barrel for the menu. Cracker Barrel is all about the happy ending (if you know what I mean).<br /><br />But before you can have an ending, you’ve gotta have a beginning. MEOW!<br /><br />And, boy, did things really begin when Bernadette arrived!<br /><br />“Hi,” I’m Bernadette, “said Bernadette.”<br /><br />Er. . .I mean. . .quotation marks suck. . .<br /><br />. . .so do points of ellipses. . .<br /><br />“Hi. I’m Bernadette,” said Bernadette. “I’ll be your waitress this evening.”<br /><br />“Don’t you mean. . .our <span style="font-style: italic;">mistress</span>?” I said, squirming in my seat.<br /><br />“What are you talking about, you creep?” she huffed, making a beeline for the manager’s office.<br /><br />“It’s okay!!! It’s my birthday!!!”<br /><br />She stopped in her tracks and returned to the table with a knowing smile. “Oh. . .so <span style="font-style: italic;">you’re</span> the birthday boy? Yes, I’m your mistress. I’ll be your mistress all night, birthday boy.” She set down her serving tray, hiked up her coffee-brown slacks and pushed aside her apron, making as if she were going to straddle me like the well-hung pony I play on Broadway. Suddenly, she spied my friend and shot him a sour look. “Who’s he?”<br /><br />“That’s Steve. He’s my friend. He just wants to watch.”<br /><br />She sighed. “Whatever. It’s your birthday.”<br /><br />After a few more small-talk pleasantries, Bernadette bound and gagged me and went to great lengths humiliating me in front of the numerous grandparents who, either out of senility or perversity, get their wrinkled kicks by exposing their grandchildren to such houses of ill-repute as Cracker Barrel. Why can't these freaks find a family restaurant?<br /><br />I was sizzling like a steak, bubbling like a fondue, marinating in juices that were anything but orange. Once she determined I was ripe and ready, Bernadette left, only to return minutes later with a chicken and dumplings platter, complete with breaded fried okra, hashbrown casserole, and macaroni and cheese!<br /><br />She removed my gag and loosened my bonds. Then she promised me that if I was a good little slut and ate all of my food, she'd give me a birthday surprise.<br /><br />And what a surprise it was!<br /><br />When the double-swinging doors swung open again, there was Bernadette with three of her hot little friends, all wearing the same kinky outfit consisting of a brown apron, blue button-up shirt, and brown slacks!<br /><br />They were singing the sexiest little ditty I had ever heard. Something about having a happy something or other. I don't really remember. I was too flushed at the time to even remember my name!<br /><br />After the song, Mistress Bernadette set a bowl of strawberry shortcake in front of me.<br /><br />"Ooh," I sighed, "Is this strawberry shortcake?"<br /><br />"Sure is, you little bitch," said Mistress Bernadette. Then Bernadette and her three friends; Laura, Leah, and Christine, forced me to sing the jingle from the Strawberry Shortcake doll TV commercial before they would allow me to take a bite. I couldn't remember all the lyrics, so I faked it as best as I could:<br /><br />"Strawberry shortcake, apple-berry, too!<br />Happy happy doll in a land of fairy goo!<br />Strawberry Shortcake, nine ninety-five!<br />Kiss her on the lips and she will be alive!"<br /><br />The girls smiled and said that my rendition was good enough.<br /><br />When I had finished my shortcake, Bernadette demanded payment or she was going to stick a fork in my balls. My friend and I left some cash on the table and then slipped out the back door, trying to avoid the paparazzi.<br /><br />I know some people think it's creepy to pay money for a meal. But until last night, I had never done it before. I always prided myself on being attractive enough to eat for free.<br /><br />I guess I just wanted to talk a walk on the wild side. And besides, I'm 36 now!<br /><br />Finally, a man!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5yPlJ9BCjC4wSZqObQtA4JRwUKDoHsWJQ4biMgCqVtSa3hDMd9MnsyjPRJ5yyLCxEfid69Nb3ejLg_CvUugjnIEx98IwQfF2o6puOzqoH8K8BHK2_kOxAWWjsfW65__6a5BcmDg/s1600-h/mime-attachment.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5yPlJ9BCjC4wSZqObQtA4JRwUKDoHsWJQ4biMgCqVtSa3hDMd9MnsyjPRJ5yyLCxEfid69Nb3ejLg_CvUugjnIEx98IwQfF2o6puOzqoH8K8BHK2_kOxAWWjsfW65__6a5BcmDg/s400/mime-attachment.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353600972761333186" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br />Hot night at the Barrel: From left to right; Laura, Leah, Christine, and Mistress Bernadette!</span>Will Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-62426321236610852282009-06-30T14:22:00.000-07:002009-07-21T14:09:18.355-07:00Honor Roll of Donors (Updated 7/21/09)<br>Here is a list so far of people who have donated to become sponsors of Will Franken's metaphorical NASCAR Car to Montreal (Please see entry below for more details!). Bless you each and every one. And if you haven't signed on to be a sponsor yet, there's still time!(PS - list will be updated as new sponsors donate)(Also, if you would like your donation to remain anonymous, please let Will know via winstonchurchill.will@gmail.com)<br /><br />UPDATE 7/01/09 Joe Reifer Berkeley, CA signs on to sponsor Will Franken Team Montreal '09)<br /><br />UPDATE 7/02/09 Arthur Culang; El Sobrante, CA and Jeff Gardner; San Jose, CA sign on to sponsor Will Franken Team Montreal '09)!<br /><br />UPDATE 7/06/09 Michael Barrows; Pacifica, CA, Catherine Pateman; San Luis Obispo, CA, Daniel Levitin; Montreal, QC, Gevin Shaw; San Francisco, CA, Jessica Chen; San Francisco, CA, and David Silverman; Los Angeles, CA sign on to sponsor Will Franken Team Montreal '09!<br /><br />UPDATE 7/08/09 Larry-Bob Roberts; San Francisco, CA; and Dan Barrett; New York City, NY join Will Franken Team Montreal '09!<br /><br />UPDATE 7/15/09 Cinnamon Stillwell; Castro Valley, CA joins Will Franken Team Montreal '09!<br /><br />UPDATE 7/16/09 Joe Rut; Oakland, CA joins Will Franken Team Montreal '09<br /><br />UPDATE 7/17/09 Jill Bourque; San Francisco, CA joins Will Franken Team Montreal '09<br /><br />UPDATE 7/20/09 Simon Agree; San Francisco, CA joins Will Franken Team Montreal '09<br /><br />UPDATE 7/21/09 Neil Leiberman; San Francisco, CA joins Will Franken Team Montreal '09<br /><br />Simon Agree (San Francisco, CA)<br />Dan Barrett (New York City, NY)<br />Michael Barrows (Pacifica, CA)<br />Eric Bone (Alexandria, VA)<br />Jill Bourque (San Francisco, CA)<br />Steven Capozzola (Washington, D.C.)<br />Peigi Chace (Brookline, NH)<br />Jessica Chen (San Francisco, CA)<br />Miles Comer (Phoenix, AZ)<br />Sean Crespo (New York City, NY)<br />Arthur Culang (El Sobrante, CA)<br />Jen Dziura (New York City, NY)<br />Edward Ehrbar (Los Angeles, CA)<br />Shoshannah Flach (San Francisco, CA)<br />Karl Fogel (New York City, NY)<br />Jeff Gardner (San Jose, CA)<br />Dawn Glenn (San Francisco, CA)<br />Emily Gordon (Brooklyn, NY)<br />Mark Grochowski (New York City, NY)<br />Carol Hartsell (New York City, NY)<br />Neil Howard (New York City, NY)<br />Richard Hubbard (Berkeley, CA)<br />Neil Leiberman (San Francisco, CA)<br />Daniel Levitin (Montreal, QC)<br />Randy Lowery (Savannah, GA)<br />Carlo Mastrogiacomo (San Francisco, CA)<br />Perrin Meyer (Albany, CA)<br />Lev Osherovich (San Francisco, CA)<br />Catherine Pateman (San Luis Obispo, CA)<br />Jim Pritchett (San Francisco, CA)<br />Joe Reifer (Berkeley, CA)<br />Vanessa Rentschler (Seattle, WA)<br />Larry-Bob Roberts (San Francisco, CA)<br />Joe Rut (Oakland, CA)<br />Gevin Shaw (San Francisco, CA)<br />David Silverman (Los Angeles, CA)<br />Cinnamon Stillwell (Castro Valley, CA)<br />Nathan ______ (Jersey City, NJ) (LAST NAME PENDING)Will Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-37602734966609662042009-06-29T15:17:00.000-07:002009-06-29T18:52:01.744-07:00The Sad Ballad of Will Franken and His Birthday and His Gigs in Montreal and How You Can HelpHello, my dear friends again. My lord, it certainly has been too long.<br />Too long indeed.<br /><br />Anyway, tonight is the eve of my birthday. Tomorrow morning, June<br />30th, at approximately 7 a.m., I will officially turn 36 years old.<br /><br />Birthday present? Why, thank you. Actually, there’s only one thing I<br />need this year. I recently received word that, after five years of<br />trying to get in and failing with each attempt, I have finally been<br />accepted to perform at this year’s Just For Laughs Festival in<br />Montreal, Quebec. However, since I’m not a “big name” in comedy (still), I am required to pay for my own transportation up north. So I am soliciting all good fans out there to<br />donate to become sponsors of the “Will Franken Has At Least Two More<br />Shows Left In Him” Montreal Tour. No amount is too small or too large.<br />By going to <a href="http://willfranken.libsyn.com/">willfranken.libsyn.com</a> and clicking on any of the Paypal<br />buttons, you can contribute to defray the cost of Will Franken making<br />his Canadian debut.<br /><br />What? Why doesn’t Will Franken have any money to pay for his own trip?<br />Well, I’ll tell you.<br /><br />Since I last wrote to you back in late March of this year, I have had<br />numerous ups and downs. More numerous are the downs than the ups it<br />seems like sometimes. But life wouldn’t be a roller coaster if the<br />only direction was down. That would be death. I’m not dead yet. So,<br />for the foreseeable future, I am not officially retiring. Although,<br />over the past six weeks, I have come frightfully close.<br /><br />I don’t know where to start exactly. Let’s go back to December of ‘08<br />for a second. To tell the story will require an honesty from me which<br />will humble me and erase any misconceptions any of you may still<br />harbor about the rock-n-roll lifestyle that a comedian of my means<br />most assuredly does not lead. (I tend to omit a good deal of truth<br />about my life, particularly the economic inefficiency of my vocation,<br />in the hopes that the lie will eventually become the truth)<br /><br />But right now, I cannot afford dishonesty.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">CHAPTER ONE: THE CATS OF JERSEY CITY</span><br /><br />In December of last year, I was living a miserable existence in a<br />dismal room of an attic apartment I shared with a 57-year old<br />substitute teacher in the unfashionable neighborhood of Woodhaven,<br />Queens just off of the relatively unknown J train subway line.<br /><br />I thought I had hit bedrock when a few years before I arrived in<br />Berkeley, California to live out of my car at the Marina. Compared to<br />last winter, that was paradise. So when a friend of a friend of a<br />friend offered to sublet me his studio apartment in Jersey City for<br />$700 a month last December, I leaped at the opportunity. For the first<br />time since the Great Divorce of '07, I was going to be a man! At last!<br />My own place to create great works of art! And. . .who knows. . .maybe<br />a little hubba-hubba!<br /><br />There was one catch, however. The friend of a friend of a friend (no<br />longer a friend) mentioned that his cats would have to come with the<br />apartment. He was moving in with a girlfriend in Hoboken who had a dog<br />and feared the two would not mix. He would be responsible for<br />purchasing litter and food and cleaning up after the cats when I was<br />away on comedy-related ventures, but I would have to take care of the<br />daily chores of feeding and box-cleaning when I was home. No worries,<br />I cheerfully thought. I have house-sat for cats before and expected no<br />significant problems. Boy, was I wrong.<br /><br />My first night in my new place (Christmas Eve, 2008), I awoke to<br />discover the cats had urinated all over the bed while I slept. The<br />next day, I asked for "wiggle room" on the rent and was rebuked. “No,<br />Will” he snapped, “you knew what you were getting into.” Yet I can<br />honestly say that these were the first cats I had ever watched that<br />had no idea where the litter box was. But what was I going to do? Move<br />again? How many times can a man relocate in his life? I needed to<br />catch my breath. Perhaps the cats would get used to me with time.<br /><br />No such luck. Though the cats did stop urinating, defecation and<br />vomiting were another story entirely. I told the landlord over and<br />over, but he wasn’t concerned in the least. As usual, I had blown the<br />first rule in business: never let the seller know you’re desperate. I<br />learned to live with it--constantly cleaning up messes and putting a<br />brave smile on the situation.<br /><br />In late April, after returning from a relatively successful San<br />Francisco/Portland, OR tour, I returned to Jersey City. The landlord<br />hadn’t been by in days to check up on the cats. The place was covered<br />in feces and vomit. I called him up and demanded a reduction in rent<br />and he responded by evicting me. (Which he could do, since he never<br />put anything down in writing. I asked him over and over to do so, but<br />he told me he didn’t want to. Lucky for me, it turns out, as now he<br />can’t sue me for any of the money that he incredulously thinks I owe<br />him.)<br /><br />I asked for a reasonable amount of time to look for another place.<br />During those few weeks, I scoured Jersey City for even just a room<br />that I could afford on my measly transcriptionist’s pay. (Yes, I had a<br />day job.) I couldn’t find any affordable lodgings that did not<br />contain the admonitions a) no smoking, b) no cooking, and c) no<br />visitors.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">CHAPTER TWO: ON TO ROUND LAKE</span><br /><br />There were no gigs on the horizon except for a May 16th callback in<br />Manhattan for the Just For Laughs showcase. I couched-surfed in the<br />days leading up to the show with the plan to stay with a friend in a<br />little town in Round Lake, NY (where I am writing this now). Round<br />Lake being only two and a half hours from Montreal, the plan was to do<br />the gig and retire to the countryside and await word on whether or not<br />I had gotten into the festival. Since I was responsible for paying for<br />my own transportation, I figured my positioning so close to Canada<br />would defray some of the cost.<br /><br />My friend here had warned me ahead of time that it might be difficult<br />staying in Round Lake as I don’t have a car. Boy, was he right. The<br />nearest sign of life from where I am residing is a convenience<br />store/gas station a mile and a half up the road. At first it didn’t<br />matter. I was told by the Montreal coordinators that I should receive<br />word on whether or not I made it into the festival within two to four<br />weeks. Until that time, I thought, I would just relax in the country<br />and eke out an existence on my meager savings.<br /><br />Well, four weeks soon elapsed and I started to worry that once again,<br />I would be denied a chance to perform in Montreal. I sunk into a great<br />depression. The plan as I had conceived it was a) if I got into<br />Montreal, I would take that as a sign to continue doing comedy and<br />slug it out on the East Coast for at least another year, most likely<br />in Jersey City. and b) if I did not get in, I would return to San<br />Francisco and most likely give up on comedy entirely, at least for a<br />year.<br /><br />Things got pretty bleak as of last Friday. I couldn’t get a “yes” or a<br />“no”. I was stuck in limbo and consequently, was prevented from making<br />plans for either eventuality. And my escape fund, should I have chosen<br />to return to San Francisco, was getting perilously low. Then, at the<br />close of the day last Friday, I received word that I had gotten into<br />the festival after all.<br /><br />As of the present, I am awaiting word on a typing job I can do from my<br />isolated country fortress which will pay me enough to survive these<br />next three weeks. But again, I come to you, my fans, pleading the<br />causes of my birthday and my recent less-than-comic misfortunes, to<br />help me succeed in Montreal. Plane tickets are too exorbitant, even<br />for such a short trip from Albany to Montreal. The only train that<br />goes there arrives too late in the day for me to perform. But with a<br />little bit of help from you guys, I can afford to rent a car and drive<br />the three hours north.<br /><br />So that is it, I have bared my soul to you. It is a less than<br />glamorous life, I warrant you. I have recently taken to calling myself<br />“The Drifter”. Will there be a future for me in comedy? I do not know.<br />I only know what is on the menu for the short term. And that is a gig<br />in Montreal. Please, I beg you, keep the dream alive. Help me get to<br />Montreal by sponsoring me. Go to <a href="http://willfranken.libsyn.com/">willfranken.libsyn.com</a> and click on<br />any of the Paypal buttons to donate today. As of this writing, we have<br />two sponsors already, Carlo Mastrogiacomo from San Francisco and Randy<br />Lowery of North Carolina. But we could use more.<br /><br />And for those San Francisco fans who have been urging me to return to<br />the Bay, let me just say that there is another tier to my plan. If I<br />go to Montreal and am somehow miraculously able to finally get an<br />agent or a manager who can advocate for me in the entertainment<br />industry, I will continue to slug it out here on the East Coast. If I<br />go to Montreal and still come up empty-handed, I will definitely<br />return to San Francisco and the Love I hope still remains in that city<br />for me and what I do.<br /><br />I love you all,<br /><br />Wm. FrankenWill Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-59612069708122394872009-06-08T10:22:00.001-07:002009-06-08T12:29:36.788-07:00A Patch of Gravel Alongside Route 19 A Quarter of a Mile from the 319 Junction in Stafford Is For Lovers!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2R0SbmJHWNUuSZeYbgqEjRFAHEEcPNAkCVfrHolhpld4zYD81-1j7htfEW66wJtViVSc43b36YJ35R8zvY_mP67BoaWqoLIPaiVTvefc5WncFoHnAUHAfHLT-9XPn9fgIWAbQwA/s1600-h/2008-07-15_3_GreatDepression-BlackFamily.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 230px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2R0SbmJHWNUuSZeYbgqEjRFAHEEcPNAkCVfrHolhpld4zYD81-1j7htfEW66wJtViVSc43b36YJ35R8zvY_mP67BoaWqoLIPaiVTvefc5WncFoHnAUHAfHLT-9XPn9fgIWAbQwA/s320/2008-07-15_3_GreatDepression-BlackFamily.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345017759494696690" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Summer doldrums got <span style="font-style: italic;">you</span> down? Tired of searching for the perfect family vacation spot? Not looking forward to spending those valuable weeks of free time in the same old boring way? Then why not put a smile on your family’s face this summer and take them to an earthly paradise that’s <span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >out of this world!</span><br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXPRA1M7rUtyG-34Rf37MFAypzbCrUA6TmZ8z2azAouxGk5zXr0SfchfzJgOrYQrkI28gO305fevHmIYLqNogpDTW1CVdhxv3sBsdnbdAOoFgbnl9IhOHeCudQTAHdOGJjtaTvfw/s1600-h/happy-family-apogen.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXPRA1M7rUtyG-34Rf37MFAypzbCrUA6TmZ8z2azAouxGk5zXr0SfchfzJgOrYQrkI28gO305fevHmIYLqNogpDTW1CVdhxv3sBsdnbdAOoFgbnl9IhOHeCudQTAHdOGJjtaTvfw/s320/happy-family-apogen.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345018217406490194" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">This summer, take a trip you and your family will never forget to. . .<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">A PATCH OF GRAVEL ALONGSIDE ROUTE 19 A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE 319 JUNCTION IN STAFFORD!!!!!</span></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2dnAVpLIuGXkUPcQXpfRsYP_iWVv5ycaMfTR2DxOmyndB-T6F09Lhdilyzu8RNts0z9FUj086k9n58CHqjVY84-5A7wjHby7v6QVHuULlHbp1nEMgcCfPkzHcMAgIX2UCOZ3k0A/s1600-h/photolog-19.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2dnAVpLIuGXkUPcQXpfRsYP_iWVv5ycaMfTR2DxOmyndB-T6F09Lhdilyzu8RNts0z9FUj086k9n58CHqjVY84-5A7wjHby7v6QVHuULlHbp1nEMgcCfPkzHcMAgIX2UCOZ3k0A/s400/photolog-19.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345012545911442658" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Commissioned in Connecticut in the summer of 1934, (at the same time a dashing young Adolph Hitler across the ocean was ordering the mass murder of his political opponents during the award-winning "Night of the Long Knives"), <span style="font-style: italic;">A PATCH OF GRAVEL ALONGSIDE ROUTE 19 A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE 319 JUNCTION IN STAFFORD</span> provides travelers with a touch of rustic New England charm <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> a poignant reminder of the Holocaust which befell the Jewish people in WWII!<br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVTO__WpJVtkEo3Eqin4QmXGMS366dsEhWp-PFql8Jwpvfvh2s8SMu_utWyKeBWgqjSF7CUomugQpzi_SjY10fHR7Pm4Pj7Fqc-S27Ftsy1HmhqSz86gvscHQ10eYVIzNED3dtbA/s1600-h/rainbow_swastika.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVTO__WpJVtkEo3Eqin4QmXGMS366dsEhWp-PFql8Jwpvfvh2s8SMu_utWyKeBWgqjSF7CUomugQpzi_SjY10fHR7Pm4Pj7Fqc-S27Ftsy1HmhqSz86gvscHQ10eYVIzNED3dtbA/s400/rainbow_swastika.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345014140431247154" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It's entertaining <span style="font-style: italic;">and </span>educational!<br /><br />Combine learning with leisure--all at your leisure! When it comes to work <span style="font-style: italic;">or</span> play, business <span style="font-style: italic;">or</span> pleasure, there’s <span style="font-style: italic;">no</span> mutual exclusivity at <span style="font-style: italic;">A PATCH OF GRAVEL ALONGSIDE ROUTE 19 A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE 319 JUNCTION IN STAFFORD!</span><br /><br />Come for the tire-changing and child-reprimanding, but stay for the thistles and gravel!<br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj_WzwYrtZ9oDM6p_qA85jLs9eO-LRzugOqPin3UDF1QnJsCEJlMmjF-XnQgpLYQHeQnhWQBXP2BquWGugAu0HG21t1W6rrvBuhqUU_IT8YYO8f5e7FrdPZci8SkgeKasxeTzbhQ/s1600-h/photolog-19.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj_WzwYrtZ9oDM6p_qA85jLs9eO-LRzugOqPin3UDF1QnJsCEJlMmjF-XnQgpLYQHeQnhWQBXP2BquWGugAu0HG21t1W6rrvBuhqUU_IT8YYO8f5e7FrdPZci8SkgeKasxeTzbhQ/s400/photolog-19.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345017195332650578" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvsEsHnl1D_fvFcp2Tsby90eWXogDymLFLCeDz6CzZS0divpUSGIA0mgIDn0Eu-d0D1vGB68ti8qHfeMvHdrkC5WuapBCl5H5PVoCkZk0kHHqPdBoJkuaHCvP3d_MHus3doKDXXA/s1600-h/e_faq_circle.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 50px; height: 50px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvsEsHnl1D_fvFcp2Tsby90eWXogDymLFLCeDz6CzZS0divpUSGIA0mgIDn0Eu-d0D1vGB68ti8qHfeMvHdrkC5WuapBCl5H5PVoCkZk0kHHqPdBoJkuaHCvP3d_MHus3doKDXXA/s400/e_faq_circle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345020020175271282" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:courier new;" > What is there to do at <span style="font-style: italic;">A PATCH OF GRAVEL ALONGSIDE ROUTE 19 A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE 319 JUNCTION IN STAFFORD?<br /><br /></span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVjybLkJnBUw4OKPiKbmhswJwY7KJEWv6eJT4Fucd64P8TYN5G580Zz3Q0tqxlm-CnzzWdAZbiyHAi1OgZS1Zwbsgd1pQlEs3YxeBl5jKJFtcR4yWp7m55U6kxi2j5jnKFDpPoMA/s1600-h/answers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 46px; height: 45px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVjybLkJnBUw4OKPiKbmhswJwY7KJEWv6eJT4Fucd64P8TYN5G580Zz3Q0tqxlm-CnzzWdAZbiyHAi1OgZS1Zwbsgd1pQlEs3YxeBl5jKJFtcR4yWp7m55U6kxi2j5jnKFDpPoMA/s400/answers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345021247395732546" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">A PATCH OF GRAVEL ALONGSIDE ROUTE 19 A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE 319 JUNCTION IN STAFFORD</span> is conveniently located a quarter of a mile from the 319 junction in Stafford!!!<br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMmTJJQUZpKN0f6xBsd3lR6scl2VfRlio5Yh9j3k9aNZ3ocWYhGuTi6QSPf50_DQEcV_EgSZyKWzFRn3JlchlbQQEwP5kjnYGP0J3SO-il9AHigt8tRsWRpQt7pYCr3O-syXfdUQ/s1600-h/319+copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 125px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMmTJJQUZpKN0f6xBsd3lR6scl2VfRlio5Yh9j3k9aNZ3ocWYhGuTi6QSPf50_DQEcV_EgSZyKWzFRn3JlchlbQQEwP5kjnYGP0J3SO-il9AHigt8tRsWRpQt7pYCr3O-syXfdUQ/s320/319+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345024294226364834" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-weight: bold;">And if you don’t feel like driving, the yellow diamond-shaped road sign is only ten to fifteen feet away!!!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjog59rB073hAOXif5vWufXPnScn-cv47_T-64cK-eS3tdgHJ-oZf2goaG72rowQBIKEjFNEfYQkRXCbmrRngJIvRmfS1S-GqPfRZzZHDIeVckpsp5R7KitR8rqrKbUwEurNjyRCw/s1600-h/sign+copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjog59rB073hAOXif5vWufXPnScn-cv47_T-64cK-eS3tdgHJ-oZf2goaG72rowQBIKEjFNEfYQkRXCbmrRngJIvRmfS1S-GqPfRZzZHDIeVckpsp5R7KitR8rqrKbUwEurNjyRCw/s320/sign+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345025305092659874" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQVp24apxdEZBJW16qHwaGmP9fx-xVBKNuvhkfScWg1CS9QI6MVw1LHf0MkawjzKY2lwiu9Ctx3Z6svMZMbsmNDIhvxjZwTcgzXxKm1aw6uBYHIVI0Gx8Qdkn6V_RZkh9ZgWo13Q/s1600-h/e_faq_circle.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 50px; height: 50px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQVp24apxdEZBJW16qHwaGmP9fx-xVBKNuvhkfScWg1CS9QI6MVw1LHf0MkawjzKY2lwiu9Ctx3Z6svMZMbsmNDIhvxjZwTcgzXxKm1aw6uBYHIVI0Gx8Qdkn6V_RZkh9ZgWo13Q/s320/e_faq_circle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345024662147618450" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:courier new;" >How far are you located from the man in the white coat fishing at the pond?<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiLlJ1TwODAwy6XFpenm_li3j33fsCq_sKY3Ec9M15Bebc9F234RtOqQI-5eC0WUxAXOxPOzI32ISyV_mFDPpui04zwwUkAkdCw48vPBL8cAHkMFC2z82mh4zz2ZPlCAR-InRJYw/s1600-h/fisher+copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiLlJ1TwODAwy6XFpenm_li3j33fsCq_sKY3Ec9M15Bebc9F234RtOqQI-5eC0WUxAXOxPOzI32ISyV_mFDPpui04zwwUkAkdCw48vPBL8cAHkMFC2z82mh4zz2ZPlCAR-InRJYw/s320/fisher+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345026438380167730" border="0" /></a><br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIjxH9SdgPOJVMkGyvpIEKRH8on5TdlC8vsrPohCmWi96AqP6k4MK20ZdKaj98A6PvNtuMSPnC8JLU4PgEush-1_s9ECb5bYKJsSghEVItq-CznpTkeYxNoxYEXMSJ1dXNe0nyNg/s1600-h/answers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 46px; height: 45px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIjxH9SdgPOJVMkGyvpIEKRH8on5TdlC8vsrPohCmWi96AqP6k4MK20ZdKaj98A6PvNtuMSPnC8JLU4PgEush-1_s9ECb5bYKJsSghEVItq-CznpTkeYxNoxYEXMSJ1dXNe0nyNg/s320/answers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345025981616086642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">A PATCH OF GRAVEL ALONGSIDE ROUTE 19 A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE 319 JUNCTION IN STAFFORD</span> is only a stone’s throw* away from the man in the white coat fishing at the pond. Please note during hours when the pond is frozen or his wife has called him to dinner, the man in the white coat may not be there. For the man in the white coat’s hours of availability, please visit <a href="http://apatchofgravelalongsideroute19aquarterofamilefromthe319junctioninstafford.org/">www.apatchofgravelalongsideroute19aquarterofamilefromthe319</a><br /><a href="http://apatchofgravelalongsideroute19aquarterofamilefromthe319junctioninstafford.org/">junctioninstafford//</a></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><a href="http://apatchofgravelalongsideroute19aquarterofamilefromthe319junctioninstafford.org/">maninthewhitecoatfishingavailability.html.org</a>. **</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">*Please do not throw actual stones at the man in the white coat</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />**website under construction<br /></span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhosfUjmfnOtxmdsujsiwyM3ZkJ22EJks1tbcrSVABzG9bRhhQhLHej4QLbErlHmHIXhxP9UdAVSbzU4C7qJEP1MxCPdN-q4Sh4TR0nn0jZe_reVIqNXpBSKuCwsBZF8HCX0Wx0Vg/s1600-h/e_faq_circle.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 50px; height: 50px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhosfUjmfnOtxmdsujsiwyM3ZkJ22EJks1tbcrSVABzG9bRhhQhLHej4QLbErlHmHIXhxP9UdAVSbzU4C7qJEP1MxCPdN-q4Sh4TR0nn0jZe_reVIqNXpBSKuCwsBZF8HCX0Wx0Vg/s320/e_faq_circle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345029354520611042" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:courier new;" >How late are the yellow lines open along route 19?</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhedxxeg4wswTk6dgx_-BBkdmoZpysGEYJIyj2S8oUvVXnXut0LVse-xaOoGAMarV8QMY_xUPOx8FGd3owkQafIby1AQWm8ObuEJP8HjtcaiSNCMxCCrmLp61kQ9I_XR4Xxs8SOlQ/s1600-h/roadlines+copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhedxxeg4wswTk6dgx_-BBkdmoZpysGEYJIyj2S8oUvVXnXut0LVse-xaOoGAMarV8QMY_xUPOx8FGd3owkQafIby1AQWm8ObuEJP8HjtcaiSNCMxCCrmLp61kQ9I_XR4Xxs8SOlQ/s320/roadlines+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345030118892984114" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTxvoSFK5JDIGc4TD_1ebDcS5TcXVa6V_MSTELk0L0xDxRbELgHXPxhOp7Ql6-Yn6mfHhtcIex9acYOUpK0r0cGprxsSRpFXgqnOau9afGE21gwfyfLTXErgzm1Ms06fDli1WPzA/s1600-h/answers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 46px; height: 45px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTxvoSFK5JDIGc4TD_1ebDcS5TcXVa6V_MSTELk0L0xDxRbELgHXPxhOp7Ql6-Yn6mfHhtcIex9acYOUpK0r0cGprxsSRpFXgqnOau9afGE21gwfyfLTXErgzm1Ms06fDli1WPzA/s320/answers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345030816402477410" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">If you’re looking for a little action to **spice up** the night-life, don’t worry: the yellow lines along Route 19 are open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week! We proudly offer a left yellow line </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">and</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> a right yellow line so you </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">and</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> your partner can paint the town <span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">red</span>!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >**asterisks, they don't mean anything. We just put them in there to spice up the words "spice up"<br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6W32A1LGNzeU23B3Bn00h_vMGaTbNm8LfyKLGUEUTEi5AhOhywIk-FlA_oV50_zfKHqAMfwFRzZxaKOIOGQZUebEkaNwBeXprQ88LFventLlP8pCs60NQZxWxScK7SW6vxJL_pg/s1600-h/e_faq_circle.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 50px; height: 50px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6W32A1LGNzeU23B3Bn00h_vMGaTbNm8LfyKLGUEUTEi5AhOhywIk-FlA_oV50_zfKHqAMfwFRzZxaKOIOGQZUebEkaNwBeXprQ88LFventLlP8pCs60NQZxWxScK7SW6vxJL_pg/s320/e_faq_circle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345035165587560066" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:courier new;" >Is it true you can get AIDS just by having unprotected sex or sharing a needle with someone who is infected with the AIDS virus?<br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg58NAuny-GpD_Vjohng4ePYGCZVCPF7lS6l9wEGAW-Xi87bct3MvfrqKyGu499nNEniJFTkG3_KAtC2nhe5GdaXf5T0kQnpaqIQ-zXa48HY9LxXaHPv3ZwCe__6zIVXwFrGU1ZPQ/s1600-h/answers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 46px; height: 45px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg58NAuny-GpD_Vjohng4ePYGCZVCPF7lS6l9wEGAW-Xi87bct3MvfrqKyGu499nNEniJFTkG3_KAtC2nhe5GdaXf5T0kQnpaqIQ-zXa48HY9LxXaHPv3ZwCe__6zIVXwFrGU1ZPQ/s320/answers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345035733017696850" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Anything’s possible at <span style="font-style: italic;">A PATCH OF GRAVEL ALONGSIDE ROUTE 19 A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE 319 JUNCTION IN STAFFORD!</span> What are you waiting for? Book your vacation today! </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQoCDMz5M3dShrHubdebbB31sezzqN07Ie8AuaZFC0qH9CcHUXafDiLRsvfb3fp7QCEKsM6Y8B-zolK7uFop2nVm95EenRkCKbRcaTFrXBaQr1SFo1Zvv3fO85O9GHckbFK8kCew/s1600-h/testimonials.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 57px; height: 44px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQoCDMz5M3dShrHubdebbB31sezzqN07Ie8AuaZFC0qH9CcHUXafDiLRsvfb3fp7QCEKsM6Y8B-zolK7uFop2nVm95EenRkCKbRcaTFrXBaQr1SFo1Zvv3fO85O9GHckbFK8kCew/s400/testimonials.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345036715383879954" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYGkBEjEtHYp0l05fWa31Ln3_0W5TQt-Ued3tnlH7Nmq1Q3JhcqKbcRVAtXOtNF43Lsxjut6zFqfsQdbQB0_YS22KwNlGGYu_Dg7H-c7UZ5bz1m771TTmVN6DyRXZ0-pvsQ6wLIQ/s1600-h/barbatus14.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 102px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYGkBEjEtHYp0l05fWa31Ln3_0W5TQt-Ued3tnlH7Nmq1Q3JhcqKbcRVAtXOtNF43Lsxjut6zFqfsQdbQB0_YS22KwNlGGYu_Dg7H-c7UZ5bz1m771TTmVN6DyRXZ0-pvsQ6wLIQ/s400/barbatus14.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345037736297990994" border="0" /></a>What a wonderful vacation! My nieces loved playing in the gravel!<br /><br />--Ant: Laramie, WY<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbbaK-pWX_-0XSm4SgVWBWCX8DG_i6pE49WGrhhRiXGiNHikVA_eFLI4Lc7uJZrFwWkEH4kFFDTAeD0oYuJaD_h866F8xMK_WWV1YUBaCNRsqhinquG-DkdjoPjoRlxKrJDukQPw/s1600-h/My+litter+free+showcase+016.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 136px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbbaK-pWX_-0XSm4SgVWBWCX8DG_i6pE49WGrhhRiXGiNHikVA_eFLI4Lc7uJZrFwWkEH4kFFDTAeD0oYuJaD_h866F8xMK_WWV1YUBaCNRsqhinquG-DkdjoPjoRlxKrJDukQPw/s400/My+litter+free+showcase+016.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345038306087939090" border="0" /></a>The staff was very accomodating at A PATCH OF GRAVEL ALONGSIDE ROUTE 19 A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE 319 JUNCTION IN STAFFORD! Even though we were a large group and arrived unannounced, we felt just like part of the family!<br /><br />--A Pile of Trash: Chicago, IL<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5hk97pZMSyDB0Legd52q53uTr3jXqNoXESr2UDMBZEuIZDaJpDOgriCPseiUJssC-XE763U98zQT7kPm-45d0ay1G4hJh0dHWH-yXW1ah3EpuaM2dp6oZ-y_8vZnwtCg9_CTV-w/s1600-h/roadkill_pictures_04.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5hk97pZMSyDB0Legd52q53uTr3jXqNoXESr2UDMBZEuIZDaJpDOgriCPseiUJssC-XE763U98zQT7kPm-45d0ay1G4hJh0dHWH-yXW1ah3EpuaM2dp6oZ-y_8vZnwtCg9_CTV-w/s400/roadkill_pictures_04.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345039370217140482" border="0" /></a>My wife and I had an amazing time at your yellow lines! The food was out of this world!<br /><br />Joseph and Mary Scavenger: Aerie, PA </span><br /><br /><a href="http://apatchofgravelalongsideroute19aquarterofamilefromthe319junctioninstafford.org/">www.apatchofgravelalongsideroute19aquarterofamilefromthe319junctioninstafford.org</a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">twitter us!</span></span>Will Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-21992650129336695282009-05-27T12:51:00.000-07:002009-05-27T13:05:07.560-07:00About The Author<br><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiftxoM6ijY1714jthxZNZ48CIGc1WxwKFYoK15CVuXfr32xGgldpHlJ0sV3YNyuHGgyh69Z13bXtGdeBT7lFEqG1Temxuck-DFJgVeXeURNC871KAk5YtvJTq0Zzfc9zq852qGYg/s1600-h/chichi5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiftxoM6ijY1714jthxZNZ48CIGc1WxwKFYoK15CVuXfr32xGgldpHlJ0sV3YNyuHGgyh69Z13bXtGdeBT7lFEqG1Temxuck-DFJgVeXeURNC871KAk5YtvJTq0Zzfc9zq852qGYg/s400/chichi5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340596399606013602" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Lofretta Blipboom is the first African-American woman. Despite her Hispanic/Latina heritage, she is proud to be a lesbian working hard for the equality of Filipinos. Last year, she was awarded the Asian-American Medal of The Pink Ribbon in honor of her achievements in the Islamic community of Northern Ireland. In addition to her efforts at removing guns from the hands of inner-city streets, she continues to work within the homosexually-gay Native American population of Pakistan through such programs as T.H.R.U.S.T. and P.E.E. in order to further the knowledge of abortions and the education of condoms.</span><br><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Lofretta lives alone in Femur, OK with her three children: Dot, Feather, and Scalp. She divides her time between sleeping and waking, often confusing the two in a literary lucidity which she uses to great advantage in works such as </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Morgan's Wheel: How Freeman Redeemed Shawshank (1995)</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> and the </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Brown Escalator: Civil Rights in the Age of Multi-Floored Malls (1987)</span><br><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Affirmative Hope</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> is Lofretta's nineteenth book on the Inauguration of President Barack Obama. Her relentlessness in chronicling the minute-by-minute activities which led up to to the capturing, by a third camera, a few seconds before 10:17 a.m., on the morning of January 20th, 2009, of our 44th president's famous half-smile and head-tilt have earned her the moniker "The Chocolate James Joyce".</span><br><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Lofretta is also a trustee of The Leni Riefenstahl Girls, a non-profit, female-run, racially-empowered, diversity-driven, multiculturally-fueled, rainbow-generated Fortune 500 company--dedicated to the conversion of black-and-white movies to black. Between books, she volunteers at the Po' Center, silkscreening Che Guevara images on camouflage T-shirts for disenfranchised rich white girls. On Tuesday afternoons, she hosts the popular NPR radio programme, </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sanctimony Live</span><span style="font-style: italic;">.</span><br><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">In her spare time, Lofretta is a black nationalist, a black panther, an illegal immigrant, an employer of illegal immigrants, a highly-paid diversity seminar leader, a tenured race and gender-obsessed literature professor, a college girl in a keffiyeh, an exploding Palestinian, a Marxist, a death-row inmate, a militant dyke couple, and a writer and performer of numerous poems she's written about her pussy and her dick.</span><br><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >Bio written by Lofretta Blipboom</span>Will Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-40298462662012838562009-05-21T18:50:00.000-07:002009-05-21T18:52:18.266-07:00Hey Ladies, Who Wants To Make Love To A Drifter?<br><br><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">Hey ladies, </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">I'm just drifting through town. Checking out all the ladies. Ladies like you. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">Oh me? I'm just a drifter. A long-haired drifter. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">Thank you. I grew it myself. That's what happens when you drift. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">Town after town, convenience store washroom after convenience store washroom, until that one day when you look in the dirty mirror and see how long your dirty hair has grown since you started drifting. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">Mind if I smoke? What's that? Oh, it's a state law that you can't smoke under the awning even if you're outside? </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">No problem. I'll just step over to the side here. Hell, I've drifted all the way from California to New York, I suppose it wouldn't hurt me to drift a few more inches. There. How's that? Ooh, I like that. A much nicer view over here. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">What's that? Why am I drifter? </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">Er. . .uh. . .nobody's really asked me that before. . .I, uh. . .</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">I drift because. . .</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">Because I'm a failure. It takes a success to put down roots. I've never been too successful at being a success. But I've never failed at being a failure. And when I feel that old feeling of failure crop up, no matter what city or town I may be in, all of a sudden the pretty girls and the big money starts to make my eyes hurt--the eyes of my heart, you understand--and I just have to get away and be alone in my traveling. Cause a man don't need to be crying in the presence of the pretty girls and the big money. Gives 'em both too much power. More than they already have. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">So I guess you gotta get going? That's your boyfriend ringing on that skinny phone there? I completely understand. I guess I'll drift on over to the other side of the street. Maybe I'll drift on out of this town before the sun goes down. Sure was nice talking to you and all. . .</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">What's that? Oh, thank you. No, I'm glad you find me funny. That's what. . .well, I was going to say that's what I do. But really, it's not what I do--it's who I am. I'm just funny. I know I'm funny cause I'm so sad inside. I guess I already told you that I was a drifter and. . .</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">Anyway. . .So I understand if you gotta get to your boyfriend and all. . .oh, by the way, which way are you going to be walking? I'm asking cause I'm going to start drifting again here pretty soon and I don't want to drift in the same direction as you, cause you might think that I'm trying to drift with you. . .but I'm not. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">I'm a drifter. I drift alone. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">I hate to ask. . .but could you please stop laughing? Please? Don't you need to answer your skinny phone?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">Okay, I'm drifting now. . .please stop laughing. . .please. . .</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">What's my name? I don't have a name. . .I'm a drifter. I can't be pinned down with a name. . .</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">It's Will. . .or Willy. . .or William. . .now would you please let me go away before I have to face my inferiorities? </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">Listen, you don't need me. . .you have to trust me on this. . .I'm atoning for my sins, I'm living out my karma, I'm making restitution. . .whatever you want to call it, that's what I'm doing. . .now, please let me drift. . .let me drift away. . .</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">Goddamnit! Stop laughing! DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND? I THOUGHT I HAD IT FIGURED OUT AND I DIDN'T! LIFE WASN'T SUPPOSED TO BE THIS DIFFICULT! I THOUGHT I DESERVED THE BRASS RING, BUT THE BRASS RING HURTS TO LOOK AT! IT'S LIKE STARING AT THE SUN! </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">THERE IT IS! SPEAK OF THE DEVIL! THE SUN'S GOING DOWN! AND I'M STILL HERE! </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">YOU GOTTA LET ME DRIFT. . .LET ME DRIFT. . .THE SUN'S GOING DOWN AND I'M STILL IN THIS TOWN. . .</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">NOW GET AWAY FROM ME! </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">You're just a fiction. . .I know that. . .</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">I know what fiction is. . .I live it. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">But it sure felt good to write you. . .</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">. . .I'm going to drift on now. . .</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">. . .away. . .</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">. . .alone. . .</span>Will Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-21685324218005916182009-04-29T12:56:00.001-07:002009-04-29T13:12:59.503-07:00Why I Believe VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein is the Best Shampoo<br><span style="font-weight: bold;">INTRODUCTION (ROUGH DRAFT):</span><br /><br />In our society today, there are many different shampoo brands. There are even more shampoo bottles. Sometimes you will see many bottles of the same brand. This happens a lot in the store when you buy a bottle of shampoo. For example, when you take a bottle of shampoo off the shelf--surprise!--there is another bottle right behind it that is exactly the same. Well, not exactly. The one in your hand is in your hand and the one on the shelf is on the shelf. That is to say, there is a spatial division between not only the various brands of shampoo, but also between the various bottles of shampoo. It would not be fair to the rest of the people who use that brand of shampoo if you bought all of one brand of a shampoo that a store stocked for the price of one bottle. That is one of the many reasons that God invented the spatio-temporal universe: to allow many different people to buy different bottles of the same brand of shampoo.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">INTRODUCTION (REWRITE #1)</span><br /><br />In our society today, there are many different shampoo brands. Different types of hair require different shampoos. A person cannot will their hair to conform to the needs of a single universal shampoo. That is to say, a person with dry hair cannot make their hair moist without the aid of a moisturizing shampoo. Humans are not self-sufficient in that regard. Therefore, if the only brand of a shampoo in our universe was a shampoo for dry hair, it would not be fair to the millions of people who have moist hair and vice/versa. This is one of the many reasons why God endowed mankind with the ability and the desire to create multiple brands of shampoos to conform to the manifold idiosyncracies of individual human hair.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">INTRODUCTION (REWRITE #2)</span><br /><br />In our society today, hen. I have always liked the word "hen". But I cannot for the life of me figure out a way to use it in this paper on shampoo. Hen. Hen.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">INTRODUCTION (REWRITE #3)</span><br /><br />In our society today, shampoo plays an integral part in the cleaning of hair. Teachers, firefighters, railway workers, jingoists, and even bakers are among the many occupations held by people who wash their hair using shampoo. Though some occupations require head coverings (like a firefighter's helmet or a baker's tall hat) many of these individuals still clean their hair in the event that they might remove their head covering later in the evening (or in the morning, if they are working a graveyard shift) so people can see their hair (including themselves if they are in or around a mirror). This is one of the many reasons why God invented headwear: so that man could notice the difference between a covered head and an uncovered head and realize that he came into this world without a hat and will leave this world without a hat. When we go to meet our Maker, we should have clean hair because we won't get a chance to wash our hair in Heaven where there is no need for water because our deepest thirst for glory will have been sated and all our sins washed away.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">INTRODUCTION (REWRITE #4)</span><br /><br />In our society today, writing instructors often admonish students to keep their religion out of their term papers. This is endemic of a rapid secularization of our institutions of learning and God will not hold guiltless those who defame His glory by keeping Him out of the classroom.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">INTRODUCTION (REWRITE #5)</span><br /><br />In our society today, students must recognize that teachers hold the key to their future in the form of a grade book. To not do so is to run the risk of dropping out of school and engaging in free thought, living a righteous individualistic life in accordance with the whims and eccentricities of one's own hairstyle, and dying a martyr's death at the unclean hands of the Dirty-Haired.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">INTRODUCTION (REWRITE #6)</span><br /><br />In our society today, many different people use many different brands of shampoos in many different bottles. Some people may even use two bottles of shampoo to wash their hair if they are in a hotel and they only have small bottles of shampoo and a lot of hair. Some people who are bald don't use any shampoo at all, unless they are pretending they still have hair in order to make themselves feel better. Maybe they put a little shampoo on their hand and wave it a few inches over their head in an attempt to recapture the glory of their youth. I feel bad for those people. They need blow jobs, too.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />INTRODUCTION (FINAL DRAFT)</span><br /><br />In our society today, there are many different brands of shampoo. One of the many brands of shampoo is VO5. One of the many brands of VO5 is Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo. One of the many brands of VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo is Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein. In my essay, I will show why I believe VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein is the best shampoo. <span style="font-weight: bold;">(SEE FIGURE 1A)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />FIRST BODY PARAGRAPH (ROUGH DRAFT)</span><br /><br />It has often been said that silk is sexy and sex is silky. Some people disagree and say that sex is sandpapery and rough and there's a lot of blood and coarse hair. Those people are male homosexuals. But whenever there is a woman involved, either in a heterosexual sexual relationship or in a lesbian relationship (the good kind without real dykey-looking lesbians, but sexy girls kissing each other on Youtube) there is at least some element of silkiness involved. Women are silky and smooth. For example, when you lick their stomachs, it tastes good. It feels natural and right to lick a woman's stomach. Her tits are nice, too. I like biting their thighs also. Sometimes I have left bruises.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />FIRST BODY PARAGRAPH (FINAL DRAFT)</span><br /><br />When we think of the word silk, we often think of nice things that won't terrorize us. There is a safety in silk. If a shampoo said "Islam" on the bottle that would mean "submit". One should never submit to a shampoo out of force, but come to it freely of their own volition. This is one of the many reasons why God invented Himself: so I would one day write this paragraph.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">SECOND BODY PARAGRAPH (ROUGH DRAFT)</span><br /><br />The first time I saw a bottle of VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein I was really high. I came to the store to buy a Reese's Crispy Crunchy Bar. But soon I found myself wandering around the store and pulling out those coupons in those little electronic dispensers just so I could watch another one come out. I was fascinated by the process. It seemed as if there were an infinite amount of coupons in this miniscule dispenser. Then a black woman<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />SECOND BODY PARAGRAPH (FINAL DRAFT)</span><br /><br />The first time I saw a bottle of VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein I was really high. I came to the store to buy a Reese's Crispy Crunchy Bar. But soon I found myself wandering around the store and pulling out those coupons in those little electronic dispensers just so I could watch another one come out. I was fascinated by the process. It seemed as if there were an infinite amount of coupons in this miniscule dispenser. Then an African-American woman in a blue Duane Reade smock approached me and said, "Child, is you gonna waste all my coupons? Them's is made out of paper, child. Don't you know today is Earth Day?" I told her I didn't believe in Earth Day since it was started by a man named Einhorn who killed a woman and that I always preferred the Cosmos to the Earth anyway. Then I tried to quote a line from Shakespeare but forgot how it went; something about "Earth will pass away. . ." but I might have been thinking about the line from <span style="font-style: italic;">Hamlet</span> which was "There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio" which didn't really do anything to advance my position. Or I might have been thinking about some line from the Bible which goes: "Heaven and Earth will pass away", but I didn't want to say "Heaven" if I just told her that I liked the Cosmos, because I consider the Cosmos Heaven and the Heaven Cosmos and if the Cosmos pass away along with the Earth then it wouldn't make sense to prefer the Cosmos to the Earth since both are finite entities of a limited duration. And since my argument for the preferential reverence of the Cosmos over the Earth relied heavily on a presumed infinitude to the Cosmos, I realized I was in a very scary position. What would happen to me if this African-American woman realized that I was about to engage in a philosophical fallacy in the middle of the store? Would she call security? But then I stopped myself and said to her, "Heaven cannot be finite. If it were, it would not be Heaven. Heaven cannot be constrained neither by space nor time. Therefore, if the Cosmos are Heaven and Heaven is the Cosmos, the Cosmos cannot be finite. So, yes, I DO prefer the Cosmos over the Earth."<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">THIRD BODY PARAGRAPH (ROUGH DRAFT)</span><br /><br />She looked at me as if I were crazy. Then she asked me if I was going to buy anything. I had forgotten what I had come into the store to buy. I should have told her I wanted to buy a Reese's Crispy Crunchy Bar, but even that would have been wrong. You see, my memory fails me even now. I know I didn't want a Reese's Crispy Crunchy Bar. That is, I don't remember the exact candy bar I wanted, but I have to put something specific in this narrative in order to give it context. If I just say "candy bar" the teacher's going to bust my balls for using non-descriptive language. Uptight cunt. How's that for desciptive language? You're an uptight cunt! I don't remember the name of the candy bar I wanted, you uptight cunt!<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">THIRD BODY PARAGRAPH (REWRITE #1)</span><br /><br />Now it's killing me--the name of the candy bar I actually wanted. It had peanut butter in it, but it wasn't crunchy. Oh, wait. It WAS crunchy--but it wasn't crispy. So it was something crunchy, but not crispy. That had peanut butter in it.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">THIRD BODY PARAGRAPH (REWRITE #2)</span><br /><br />You know what? I think I wanted a bag of pretzels and then a regular Reese's peanut butter cup. Two different things. One crunchy thing and one peanut butter thing. I guess my mind is colllapsing those two items together, because there's only so much specific memory the human mind can contain. You can have a million different memories and get by, but then let's say there's just that one little thing--like the memory of wanting two things at the Duane Reade--and now you're not just remembering one thing (the memory of wanting something at the store) but two things (the memories of wanting two things)--and your head explodes. It's like that story of the Princess and the Pea. She can't go to sleep cause there's that one pea under all the mattresses. The only difference here is, instead of a pea, it's two different thoughts about wanting two different things. And instead of not being able to sleep, your head explodes and your brains splatter the walls. No, that would probably require a gun. I'm worrying about nothing. It's fine. I can go ahead and remember that I wanted two different things: a bag of pretzels and a regular Reese's peanut butter cup.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />THIRD BODY PARAGRAPH (REWRITE #3)</span><br /><br />By the way, doesn't "crunchy" and "crispy" mean the same thing anyway? I think candy bars try too hard for alliteration sometimes.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />THIRD BODY PARAGRAPH (FINAL DRAFT)</span><br /><br />No! I remember now! I actually went into the store without any preconceived specifics about what type of snack I was going to get. Yes, it's all coming back to me now. I just wanted a snack. And the way I figured it, I would go into the store, see the selection, and then use my powers of decision making to make a decision. As a matter of fact, I remember calling my mother before I went into the store. She was shocked to hear from me. It had been nineteen years since she had heard from her only son. I remember she asked me, "Where have you been? We've missed you all these years! What are you doing with your life?" And I said, "Momma, I'm going into a store and I don't have any preconceived specifics about what type of snack I'm going to get." Then I hung up on her when she started to cry and asked me if I was still taking my medication.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />FOURTH BODY PARAGRAPH (ROUGH DRAFT)</span><br /><br />Meanwhile all these memories are taking place as the black woman<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">FOURTH BODY PARAGRAPH (FINAL DRAFT)</span><br /><br />Meanwhile all these memories are taking place as the African American woman in the blue Duane Reade smock is staring impatiently at me, waiting for me to tell her what I came into the store to buy. She left for a minute and returned with a frying pan from Aisle Five and told me if I didn't tell her forthwith, she was gonna hit me with it. I stammered I stutt-Istam-stumm--I stam-sttu--stammer-stut<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">FIFTH BODY PARAGRAPH (ROUGH DRAFT)</span><br /><br />She hit me with the pan!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">FIFTH BODY PARAGRAPH (REWRITE #1)</span><br /><br />Pan me with the hit she!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />FIFTH BODY PARAGRPAH (REWRITE #2)</span><br /><br />Me the hit pan she with!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">FIFTH BODY PARAGRPAH (FINAL DRAFT)</span><br /><br />She hit me with the pan!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">SIXTH BODY PARAGRAPH (ROUGH DRAFT)</span><br /><br />"Ouch! My hair!" I screamed. It always hurts my hair more than my head when my head hurts. My head is strong. It can take it. But my poor little hair! It got all bloody! "Look at my hair!" I said, "It's all bloody!"<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />SIXTH BODY PARAGRAPH (REWRITE #1)</span><br /><br />"Ouch! My head!" I screamed. "My hair is all bloody now." She told me that shampoo was on Aisle Five in the Rite Aid on the other side of town. I left the store and got on the cross-town bus with bloody hair. People stared at me and laughed. I felt like a black<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">SIXTH BODY PARAGRAPH (FINAL DRAFT)</span><br /><br />"Ouch! My head!" I screamed. "My hair is all bloody now." She told me that shampoo was on Aisle Five in the Rite Aid on the other side of town. I left the store and got on the cross-town bus with bloody hair. People stared at me. I felt like an African-American in the South before the Civil Rights Movement. Before Black People Were Called African-Americans. BEFORE EVERYTHING BECAME CAPITALIZED. WHEN I FINALLY GOT TO THE RITE-AID, I WAS NO LONGER HIGH. EVERYTHING BECAME CLEAR TO ME NOW. I NEEDED SHAMPOO TO WASH THE BLOOD OUT OF MY HAIR. THEN, AFTER GETTING SPRUCED UP, I WAS GOING TO VISIT THE EMERGENCY ROOM AND ASK POLITELY FOR A DOCTOR TO PREVENT MY DEATH WHICH WOULD HAVE BEEN A MOST UNFORTUNATE THING CONSIDERING THE FACT THAT I WAS STILL ALIVE AT THE TIME OF THE INCIDENT. WHEN I ARRIVED AT THE RITE-AID I WAS SHOWN TO THE SHAMPOO AISLE BY A WOMAN NAMED ARJANI (SHE MAY HAVE BEEN A MAN, IT'S HARD TO TELL SOMETIMES WITH SHORT-HAIRED INDIAN PEOPLE). THE FIRST BOTTLE THAT CAUGHT MY ATTENTION WAS VO5 SILKY EXPERIENCES MOISTURIZING SHAMPOO CHAMPAGNE KISS WITH SILK PROTEIN. IT WAS ONLY A DOLLAR FIFTEEN. WHICH IS EXACTLY THE AMOUNT THE TOOTH FAIRY LEFT UNDER MY PILLOW THIRTY YEARS AGO WHICH I HAD BEEN SAVING JUST IN CASE I EVER NEEDED TO BUY MY BABY TEETH BACK; YOU KNOW, IF I EVER HAD A BABY OF MY OWN I COULD SAVE MONEY BY GIVING HIM MY OLD BABY TEETH. HAND-ME-DOWNS AND WHAT-NOT AND DASH-DASH. SO I BOUGHT THE SHAMPOO AND TOOK IT HOME AND WASHED MY HAIR WITH IT AND EVERYTHING WAS FINE AND I LIVED TO TELL THE STORY.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">CONCLUSION (ROUGH DRAFT)</span><br /><br />Hen.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />CONCLUSION (FINAL DRAFT)</span><br /><br />In conclusion, after washing my hair with VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein, my hair felt silkier than ever. It felt like I had a woman in the shape of my hair on top of my head. I licked it and it felt right and proper to do so. I bit it gently. My cock throbbed as I thought of teacher and how silky smooth she is. Her tits, her long legs, how I want them wrapped around my back clenching me tighter and tighter in the warm comfort of her moist cunt. I will squirt in teacher like I squirted VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein from the bottle onto my head to make my hair as silky as teacher's thighs. I can't wait to bite your thighs teacher. I will leave bruises. You will come to me for more bruises, teacher. And I will gladly give them. That is why, in our society today, I believe VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein is the best shampoo.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUn1uMLlE1Wiex_QWZ7kKF_WZtP_umvYxU02XfJYZ4FlZGiz0VjubpNg9NASmQdktoVCZJXss97mYmBbj9H0BzUInTfk3blxPJlj2KP1UmfQ4JMZbv3T6x6YEt9Jp0pKG3oj2IXg/s1600-h/300.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUn1uMLlE1Wiex_QWZ7kKF_WZtP_umvYxU02XfJYZ4FlZGiz0VjubpNg9NASmQdktoVCZJXss97mYmBbj9H0BzUInTfk3blxPJlj2KP1UmfQ4JMZbv3T6x6YEt9Jp0pKG3oj2IXg/s400/300.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330206104617385954" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> figure 1A: VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein</span>Will Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-70339535198443685352009-04-06T19:12:00.000-07:002009-04-06T19:14:13.212-07:00A Rembrandt Now<br><span style="font-style: italic;">Time is a painting</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">of whatever I am seeing at the moment</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">My perception of time, however,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">is an outline of the painting of Time,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">drawn on cheap tracing paper.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">If my tracing paper outline</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">rests exactly over the painting of Time,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">the contours match up and</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">everything is okay.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">On a good day,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I can even convince myself that I am the artist!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Yet sometimes I think about mistakes I've made.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Or things I neglected to do.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Or people that are no longer around.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Or goals I failed to realize.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">And I move my tracing paper outline to the left.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Sometimes I doubt I'll ever matter much.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">And I become consumed with fear and self-hatred</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">at all these childish things I once believed</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">would come to pass and did not.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">And I see a pauper's grave</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">and no one there to cry.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">And I move my tracing paper outline to the right.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">And my outline looks ugly and artificial</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">the farther away I get from the original painting.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The painting is filled with such color and detail</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">whereas my measly man-made image</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">is nothing but a chicken-scratch approximation of the masterpiece</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">that was at one time directly in front of my eyes.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(The best place for a painting to hang!)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">And I hate myself so much</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">because I'm not as good an artist as <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Reality</span>.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Reality</span>, the prodigy.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Reality</span>, with its effortless strokes</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">that make every moment into</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">a Rembrandt Now</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">How prolific!</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Moment after moment</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Another masterpiece!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The Universe, <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Reality's </span>gallery,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">ever-expanding to contain the ever-expanding body of work</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">hatched from the ever-expanding Mind of the Invisible Genius!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">While I, with my Crayola</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">lash out at the canvas;</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">a baby jealous. . .</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">. . .not fit for apprenticeship. . .</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I am not worthy to hold the palette.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I am not worthy to clean the brushes.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I am not an original.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I am only a copy.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Throw me away.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Throw me away.</span>Will Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-34565100906759695342009-03-22T14:20:00.000-07:002009-03-22T14:22:42.780-07:00Course Syllabus: Philosophy of Relativism<br><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">PHILOSOPHY OF RELATIVISM</span></span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >MTW 11-11:50a.m.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Instructor: Wm. Franken; Office Hours: Saturdays, 3-3:27a.m.</span><br /></div><br />Welcome to the Philosophy of Relativism!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">OBJECTIVE:</span><br /><br />In this course, you will gain a deeper understanding of the philosophy of relativism. You will see how relativism throughout the ages has brought us to a point where we can't understand anything at all. You will discover that everything is just a series of subjective opinions. You will realize that nothing is either teachable or knowable. You will come to see that everything is pointless, even this class. In fact, you don't need to come here anymore. Class is over.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">WITHDRAWING:</span><br /><br />If you would like to withdraw from this class, it's too late. You already took it.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">SPECIAL NOTE ON TUITION REIMBURSEMENT:</span><br /><br />If you would like a refund for your tuition, please be advised that all requests for reimbursement need to be submitted before you read this sentence. Now go home and leave me alone. I've earned my tenure for today.Will Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-316335974644731082009-03-11T14:57:00.000-07:002009-03-11T14:58:52.454-07:00Never Eat Alone Again<br>I’ll never eat alone again.<br /><br />Thank you Christian Match Dot Com.<br /><br />Now that I have a partner, a love-mate, a female antithesis to my maleness, I’ll never eat alone again.<br /><br />I have finally found that special someone to pull the chicken bone out of my throat.<br /><br />I owe everything I have--even the very air that I breathe--to Christian Match Dot Com.<br /><br />God bless you,<br /><br />William and Mary of Orange<br /><br /><br />---------------------------------<br /><br />I’ll never sleep alone again.<br /><br />Thank you Christian Match Dot Com.<br /><br />Now that I have a wife-person, a help-lover, a breasts-and-vagina possessing entity, I’ll never sleep alone again.<br /><br />I have finally found that special someone to prevent me from falling out of my crib, strangling myself on my blankie, or perishing from other forms of Sudden Adult Infant Death Syndrome (SAIDS)<br /><br />I owe everything I have--even the dreary continuance of this never-ending nightmare we call life--to Christian Match Dot Com.<br /><br />Kill me now,<br /><br />John and Jackie Kennedy of Camelot<br /><br /><br />=============================<br /><br /><br />I’ll never fuck alone again<br /><br />Thank you Christian Match Dot Com.<br /><br />Now that one of my ribs has been plucked from me during my sleep and given its own profile on an internet dating site, I'll no longer have to pay a prostitute to dress up as a hand.<br /><br />I owe everything I have--including every ego-validating orgasm that I inflict upon my quaking and dripping better half--to Christian Match Dot Com.<br /><br />Oh GOD!! OH!! CHRIST!!! OH FUCK YEAH!!!<br /><br />Adam and Eve of Eden<br /><br /><br />+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++<br /><br /><br />I’ll never procreate alone again.<br /><br />Thank you Christian Match Dot Com.<br /><br />Now that I have been elevated from amoebic organism, given opposable thumbs and the capacity for rational thought, sexually compartmentalized into a separate and distinct male gender and provided with a compatible female life form for the purposes of biological reproduction, I’ll no longer have to rely on my previously asexual regenerative capacities to procreate.<br /><br />I owe everything I have--even the multitudinous progeny I have carelessly overpopulated the earth with throughout the entire course of human history--to Christian Match Dot Com.<br /><br />What have you done, you fools? God help us all,<br /><br />XY and XX of Birds of BeesWill Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-21396695357117788102009-03-11T14:44:00.000-07:002009-03-11T14:50:06.152-07:00Lesson Seven<br><span style="font-weight: bold;">YOU MAY NOW OPEN YOUR BOOKLETTES AND BEGIN</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"> 1. </span>She IS pregnant.<br /> They ARE pregnant.<br /> He _____ pregnant.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"> 2. </span>Nokia want Wombat. Wombat no want Nokia. How much miles Nokia walk for Wombat if Nokia know Wombat no want Nokia?<br /><br />a) Any<br />b) All<br />c) Some<br />d) None<br />e) None (but different kind)<br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"> 3. </span>The cost of syphilis is one 50 dollar crack whore. If Jeremy wants a triple dose of syphilis, how much will he spend?<br /><br />a) 25 dollars<br />b) 17 dollars<br />c) 150 dollars<br />d) The Gross National Product of Rosie O'Donnell<br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"> 4. </span>Lice is to scabies as pustules are to _____<br /><br />a) St. Thomas Aquinas<br />b) Rhyme and Reason<br />c) Boils<br />d) Meet Asian Women<br />e) Meet 1000s of Asian women in your area<br />f) Meet 1000s of Asian women in your area today at Asianpeoplemeet online dating.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"> 5. </span>Draw the shape of your doubt on a separate piece of computer. Remember to complain.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"> 6. </span>A train leaves the airport at half past seven. A quarter till eight, people point at the train and say, "Look! A flying train!" What time will it be when people realize everything they were taught about trains was wrong?<br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"> 7. </span>Josannah is a word problem writer. One day she writes seven word problems and then takes a break to have a cigarette with her friend Scratch. On the way to the lounge, she is stopped by her boss, Mister Cragmore. "Josannah," says Mr. Cragmore, "how many word problems have you written so far today?" "Seven, Mr. Cragmore," says Josannah timidly, like a five-foot tall mouse in cheap lipstick. "Only seven?!?" shouts Mr. Cragmore, "Hmm. Josannah, I'd like to talk to you in my office." "But, Mr. Cragmore--" begins Josannah. "No buts, Josannah. Your cigarette will just have to wait," says Mr. Cragmore. “If. . .and. . .Mr. Cragmore--” says Josannah. “No ifs or ands, either,” says Mr. Cragmore, “If your cigarette really loves you, I am sure he will wait for you. Right now we need to talk about your job.” “Okay, Mr. Cragmore,” says Josannah and then turns to Scratch, “Scratch, you will have to smoke a cigarette without me. I’m sorry.” Scratch looks upset, “But Josannah, I don’t know how to smoke and you promised you were going to teach me today.” “Excuse me, Scratch,” says Mr. Cragmore, “but I need to talk to Josannah right now. You’ll just have to learn how to smoke from old movies.” “Yes, Mr. Cragmore,” says Scratch. “Okay, Josannah, step into my office,” says Mr. Cragmore. Josannah and Mr. Cragmore step into Mr. Cragmore’s office; Mr. Cragmore first (because he is the boss) and then Josannah (because she is the employee) “Have a seat, Josannah,” says Mr. Cragmore. “Thank you, sir,” says Josannah as she crosses her legs like a girl. Mr. Cragmore goes to the liquor cabinet. “Would you care for a scotch and soda?” asks Mr. Cragmore. “No thank you, Mr. Cragmore,” says Josannah, “I don’t drink.” “I understand,” says Mr. Cragmore as he hands Josannah an empty glass, “Josannah, how long have you worked for us here at Word Problems Incorporated?” “Oh, let’s see,” says Josannah, “I lost my virginity when I was seventeen. That was the day that you hired me. So all in all, I would say seven years so far.” “Yes,” says Mr. Cragmore, “Seven years as of this half hour. Josannah, are you happy here at Word Problems Incorporated?” “Yes,” says Josannah, “I love my job. It has a great dental plan. I can get thirty-two teeth with the purchase of every mouth. Why do you ask, Mr. Cragmore? Is something the matter?” “Well, Josannah, as your employer, I am concerned. Lately your word problems have become very strange.” “Strange?” asks Josannah as she licks her empty glass, “How do you mean, Mr. Cragmore?” “Josannah,” says Mr. Cragmore, “when you first started working here at Word Problems Incorporated, you wrote word problems about trains leaving a station at a certain time at a certain speed. They were concise and to the point, usually focusing on a certain mathematical or scientific proposition. But now. . .well. . . like I say, I’m concerned. There seems to be a lot of needless exposition in some of your latest word problems. Last week, for example, you wrote a word problem with a twenty-five page preamble about the fall of man and the doctrine of original sin. The week after last week, you wrote a word problem with three appendices and a map of ancient Judea. The week after this week, I can’t really say what you will write as that is in the future, but if it is anything like what you have been writing lately, well, I am concerned that my concern will grow exponentially. And that concerns me.” “What are you saying, Mr. Cragmore?” “Well, Josannah,” says Mr. Cragmore as he takes Josannah’s empty glass and refills it with more emptiness, “I may have to fire you unless you start writing normal word problems again.” “Mr. Cragmore,” says Josannah, “I’m afraid I still do not understand what you’re talking about. My word problems may be a little off the beaten path at times, but I wouldn’t go so far as to call them strange.” “Josannah,” sighs Mr. Cragmore, “what about this word problem that you and I are in right now? Would you call this a normal world problem? I certainly wouldn’t. There’s no need for me to even be in it at all, yet here I am, peppering it with meaningless dialogue. And Scratch? What the hell was that all about? This is just damned weird. There’s no other way to put it.” “I’m sorry, Mr. Cragmore,” says Josannah, “that you object to my employing a little creative license. I was just trying to counteract the stultifying atmosphere of having to write for these standardized tests all the time.” “Goddamnit, Josannah!” shouts Mr. Cragmore, “That’s not your job! I’ve got the fucking board of education on my ass, day in and day out, complaining that these standardized tests are all bullshit anyway! The last thing I need as the CEO of a multi-million dollar word problem corporation is some rag-tag two-bit upstart trying to be James fucking Joyce! Now goddamn it, end this word problem right now before I fire your sorry ass!” “Yes, sir” says Josannah as she gets up and leaves the office and returns to her desk. The clock above her wall reads 12:30 p.m. Josannah sets a goal to write 40 normal word problems by the end of her working day at 5 p.m. Assuming that the current time on the clock is correct, if Josannah writes 4 normal world problems every half-hour, will she reach her goal?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> YOU MAY NOW CLOSE YOUR BOOKLETTES AND END</span>Will Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31663029.post-58406444279743094452009-03-09T19:16:00.000-07:002009-03-09T19:25:55.021-07:00Dear Erasmus<br><br><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">(ed.--the opinions of Erasmus do not reflect the opinions of Will Franken. Will Franken is not in any way responsible for anything Erasmus might say or do. There is a clear demarcation between Erasmus and Will Franken. The two are NOT one and the same. They are as distinct as snowflake to snowflake)</span><br /><br /></span>Dear Erasmus,<br /><br />I am so confused! I was walking today in the street and a car hit me! Now I am dead! I don't have any health care! Who is to blame? The government? The car? Me? Show me which way to hate!<br /><br />Signed,<br /><br />Jeremiah Lucille-Ball<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />DEAR LUCILLE-BALL,<br /><br />HATE COMES IN MANY LAYERS. THINK OF IT AS A SERIES OF CONCENTRIC CIRCLES.<br /><br />MY ADVICE IS TO HATE INWARDS BEGINNING WITH THE WIDEST CIRCLE. IN YOUR CASE, YOU SHOULD HATE THE GOVERNMENT FIRST FOR NOT MAKING IT EASIER TO OBTAIN AFFORDABLE HEALTH CARE. THEN YOU SHOULD HATE THE CAR FOR KILLING YOU. THEN YOU SHOULD HATE YOURSELF FOR BEING A FUCKING IDIOT AND WALKING IN THE STREET.<br /><br />YOU BROUGHT IT ALL ON YOURSELF. SEE YOU IN HELL.<br /><br />ERASMUS<br /><br /></span>Dear Erasmus,<br /><br />Today I went to the grocery store and bought an onion. When I got home, I realized I already had an onion. I took the onion back to the grocery store and exchanged it for an orange. Then I went home and found I already had an orange. I took the orange back to the grocery store and exchanged it for an apple. I took the apple home and saw that I already had an apple. I took the apple back to the grocery store, but the grocery store was closed.<br /><br />So I went to the Apple store which was open for another two hours. I exchanged my apple for an iPhone. I took my iPhone home and saw that I already had an iPhone at home.<br /><br />(I do not take my iPhone out in public. It is a home iPhone)<br /><br />I took my iPhone back to the Apple store, but the Apple store was closed. So I went to a heroin dealer and exchanged it for some smack. I took the smack home and realized that I already had some smack in the fridge.<br /><br />I sure felt stupid! I put the new smack in a mason jar and stored it in the cupboard with the green beans and preserved prostitute parts.<br /><br />By that time, I was exhausted and didn't feel like leaving the house any more for the rest of my life. So I pulled out the smack that was in the fridge, cooked it, and spiked up.<br /><br />Well, no sooner did that smack hit my brain and I began to nod off than I realized--I was already high on life!<br /><br />My question is: what does one do if one already has everything one could possibly want or need?<br /><br />Signed,<br /><br />Lucille Jeremiah-Ball<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />DEAR JEREMIAH-BALL<br /><br />CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE REACHED THE END OF THE CANDY LAND GAME OF LIFE. THERE IS NO MORE WANT. THERE IS NO MORE NEED.<br /><br />YOU ARE IN A COMA. TAKE A BOW. YOU'VE EARNED IT.<br /><br />ERASMUS<br /><br /></span>Dear Erasmus,<br /><br />Today I was walking down the sidewalk and driving down the street at the same time (I have been two people ever since my wife walked out on me last century)<br /><br />As I turned left and right simultaneously, I saw the strangest thing!<br /><br />Signed,<br /><br />Ball-Luc-Jere-Miahille<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />DEAR BALL-LUC<br /><br />COULD YOU BE A LITTLE MORE SPECIFIC?<br /><br />ERASMUS<br /><br /></span>Dear Erasmus,<br /><br />Oh, sorry about that! I always forget to end thi<br /><br />Anyway, as I say, I saw the strangest thing! I saw two people and they each had one hand of the other clasped within one of their own hands. Their fingers were meshed together in an interlocking fashion.<br /><br />That's not the weirdest part, though. They weren't yanking each other in separate directions! They were walking together in this strange manner. They were smiling. I saw no blood. No tears. There was no sign of a struggle, even though the female of the species towered over the male and could have easily devoured him in one cruel stroke! They actually seemed happy!<br /><br />Should I have called the police?<br /><br />Signed,<br /><br />Howstellagothergrooveback Whenharrymetsally<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />DEAR HOWSTELLAWHENHARRY<br /><br />WHAT YOU WITNESSED TODAY WAS PHYSICAL AFFECTION BETWEEN A MAN AND A WOMAN. AT THE PRESENT, IT IS ONLY ILLEGAL IN CERTAIN PARTS OF NORTHERN CALIFORNIA AND GREENWICH VILLAGE.<br /><br />IF YOU HAVE NEVER TRIED IT, YOU SHOULD. EXPRESSION OF THE SELF CAN BE THE HIGHEST EXPRESSION OF THE SELF. IF THERE'S ANOTHER SELF JUST LIKE YOU WITH DIFFERENT GENITALIA, THE RESULTS CAN BE EXCITING AND BABY-PRODUCING.<br /><br />ONCE UPON A TIME, THERE WERE PLAYS AND POETRY; THERE WAS MUSIC; THERE WAS ROMANCE; SUCH SIGHTS WERE NOT UNCOMMON IN THE CONTEXT OF THAT BYGONE ERA.<br /><br />GO ON, NOW, AND BECOME ONLY ONE PERSON AND LOVE ANOTHER SINGULAR PERSON IN THE MANNER YOU WITNESSED TODAY.<br /><br />LOVE, CHILD, LOVE. . .FORWARD IS ITS DIRECTION. IT IS WAITING FOR YOU.<br /><br />THE TIME OF DARKNESS IS GONE NOW. KISS THE SUNLIGHT ON THE LIPS OF YOUR BELOVED. SHE IS THERE. SHE IS THERE. BASKING IN THE GLOW OF YOUR RADIANT HEART.<br /><br />I TRUST THIS LETTER FINDS YOU IN FULL POSSESSION OF YOUR FACULTIES, FOR THERE IS NOTHING INSANE ABOUT LOVE. THE PRAGMATISM THAT ARGUES AGAINST IT, THAT IS WHAT YOU SHOULD FEAR. READ THE BOOKS, HEAR THE SONGS, THAT EVOKE THOSE TENDER PASSIONS.<br /><br />FORWARD IS THE DIRECTION OF LOVE. LOVE IS THE SHORTEST DISTANCE BETWEEN TWO POINTS. THE WAY BACK TO ONE'S YOUTH IS THE FORWARD MARCH OF LOVE.<br /><br />AGE IS THE MONOLITHIC CONSTRUCT WHICH LOVE DEMOLISHES. ITS STRENGTH IS ALL-CONSUMING. WHEN HARNESSED PROPERLY, IT IS A FORCE THAT MOVES MOUNTAINS, TURNS BACK TIME, PARTS THE SEAS, RAISES THE DEAD, STILLS THE WINDS, AND LAYS THE STARS AT OUR FEET.<br /><br />LOVE HAS NOT GONE AWAY.<br /><br />ERASMUS</span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"></span>Will Frankenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04674672963008977057noreply@blogger.com