Palin and Me: Why blow up a moose when you can blow up 3 meese? Episode 10

Did you know that if you were to walk up to a moose with a bass-drum, and inside the bass-drum were explosives, and you set the bass-drum beside the moose--and the explosives were not detonated--, the moose would not know there weren't detonated explosives in that drum?

[ Allow me to clarify what I mean by explosives since the Vice Presidential Candidate's name is included in this. I mean flowers. "Blow up" is a colloquial term we Alaskans use when talking about brain-washing a woman into falling in Love by using flowers, "attentive listening", and agreeing with everything they say. No matter what. Ever. ]

In that respect, can we really consider meese human beings? The more I've been hunting, gutting and stuffing them, the more these sun-flower picking, long-haired hippies keep talking to me about animal rights. Which I don't get.

Habeas Corpus said nothing about a duck's right to fair trial, therefore, how could I give the duck a fair trial, if the duck is not a human to be trialing but hunting from a half mile away.

As far as I'm concerned, if the animal is a quadruped, it has 2 rights: a front leg and a back leg. And both taste delicious.

So in that respect, seeing that these pot-smoking anti-Freedom Fighters called the Democrats and every one else that's on their side of the stick have been making some good arguments against the senseless killing of innocent animals ... I was telling Todd that we better wrestle as many bore as we can before they criminalize it like they criminalized marijuana in the 20's for being a "mexican drug".


Full collection of my Non-non-fiction documentation with Sarah Palin and the family here.

Now you should write.

I encourage every one I know to write. And never anything vague, and never the kinds of thoughts we all know we feel.

We all feel alone sometimes, mismatched, like we're lacking direction, like we need to take life by the reigns, like her boyfriend doesn't treat her right and I could treat her better, like is this the right school for me, like is this the right subject for me, like is he the right man for me, like where is this marriage going, like am I getting through to my kids, like should I really buy this, like my parents don't understand me, like this is America not your home country so understand what things are like here.

Venting is good because it gets all the bad stuff off of your chest. But if someone were to pick up your notebook, would how unhappy you are with a relationship be the thing you want the world to remember you by?

If you're writing things down any way, you know you have that secret hope that someone will pick it up and read it, even if you write the fact that you cried during The Notebook.  And no one knows.  And you're sort of embarrassed by it. ... not that I know ...

But it's okay to journal about beautiful things too; what makes you smile, laugh, cry a happy tear like Life is Beautiful (an Italian film. Amazing.). It's also okay to contemplate things other people might not. And it's okay to get a little deeper than things are, because you're writing. And your exploring your mind, not what other people think you should.

Palin and Me: End Women's Suffrage. Haven't they suffered enough? Episode 9.

Sarita has been asking me for less and less advice on my political stances lately, saying things like "You don't understand," or "You're crazy," or "It's sort of like being a community organizer, except with actual responsibility."

I understood though. What could a black negro born in South Central, Los Angeles and raised in South San Diego in the middle of inter-racial volatility at his high school know about anything that wasn't dunks, quality vodka, or non-sensical non-sense called intergalactic mathematics? What?

But you know, being one of the most known and respected political advisers our world has seen today, I had to say enough is enough. Sarah, you have to set your pride aside and listen to the things I'm saying. Of course I'm not your adviser, but, you know, I'm sort of a big deal and that's pretty much the gist of it.

Recently, I told Sarita that a great way to gain some space on the polls would be to start a campaign wanting to end women's suffrage, since they've already been through so much. But of course, as it is with women sometimes, she was set in her ways and being "right" about the meaning of "suffrage" when it's obviously taken from the English root word "suffer" which has come to connote "marriage" in some circles, actually denotes the feeling you feel when reading this.

In either case, I let it go, since even if I was right it would turn into an argument about "not understanding her," and being willing to "listen to her perspective," and the last thing I need is this Ice Queen to be brain-washed by the Liberal agenda.

I think it's about time we start taking care of our women.

Full collection of my Non-non-fiction documentation with Sarah Palin and the family here.

Be careful what you wish for because it just might come true has nothing to do with this.

Does every one have a bad back? Or knee? Or shoulder? And if so, is it really bad? I hit my back against the corner of a dresser when I was 5, and my back has never been the same since.

I ran track in high school, and when I stopped, I started getting back spasms. Every one lifted a fridge once, and pulled a muscle. Everybody played soccer, and didn't hurt themselves during a play, they rolled their ankle walking off the field.

How bad are the minor injuries we have, and are they really minor injuries? Or are they just steps of life? Why have I been asking so many questions lately? I don't know? That should've been a statement? Imagine that I'm from the O.C.? Do the question marks make sense now?

You know how those people talk.

Those people.

Palin and Me: Shooting wolves from helicopters is actually pretty sporty. Episode 8.

So I had no problem with calling Sarita out on her avian excursions, sitting in a helicopter with the rumble and tumble of the helicopters over head, piercing the flesh and hearts of unsuspecting snow lupus with rifles equipped with silver-bullets in case they were werewolves.

But Mrs. Palin brought up an important point. If I never tried it, how could I judge it.

I started thinking about other things I judged unfairly, like slavery and driving drunk. I take that back. Driving drunk IS crazy. But it feels so good to speed down the interstate 5, headed south-bound on my way out of the Liberal hub towards San Diego, watching happy cows eat grass and pollute our air with their ass ... not knowing in three weeks they might be my next burger.

So I decided to take Sarita up on the challenge.

"Fine," I didn't say, since this didn't happen. "Let's go. Give me a rifle and take me up there, lady. I want to get high."

And there we were, slicing through the air in this machine, throwing ice cubes at the sea-otters as they barked at us. And wow. I can't explain the feeling of shooting an animal from the air for the sake of the sport.

It's kind of like killing an animal to eat it, except way more Backwater.

Full collection of my Non-non-fiction documentation with Sarah Palin and the family here.

Have you ever felt like ... you were sprinting for 5 minutes but you weren't? You were sitting in a car and your heart started beating abnormally?

I don't know if panic attacks can cause heart attacks, but I know that panic attacks make the heart feel like it's having a heart attack. And I know that panic attack sounds like you're panicking, and anxiety attack is more accurate.

I also know it doesn't feel like an attack, it just feels like you're going to die. So for simplicity's sake, let's just say, sometimes we feel like everything is falling apart. Or. Like we're going to die.

But I don't think any one has ever died from feeling like they're going to die. Of course we can't ask the people that do, but it's something we should note. Every one who ever felt like they were going to die, said they felt like they were going to die while they were alive, so they didn't die.

-- And I don't mean the premonition kind of dying one day. I mean sitting in a car coming back from the movie theatre and saying to your cousin "Dogg ... pull over," and him responding "Why, what's wrong?" "I don't know, I feel like I'm gonna faint, and my heart is going crazy."

He didn't believe me because I always fake heart attacks. Oh wait. NO I DON'T. THANK YOU SPACE-DERT MAKE YOUR FACE HURT SHANK YOU IN THE FACE WITH A RAZOR AND SLICE THE UPPER LAYER OF YOUR EPIDERMIS WITH A LASER.

So feeling like you're going to die. If no one has died from it ... why are we medicating it?

Palin and Me: Ice Skating Naked. Moonshine. And Alaskan Police Folk. Episode 7.

Dinner with the Palins this past week was a slight-jog down memory ski-slope with a rifle slung over my shoulder and Wasibilly moonshine in my flask.

Todd and I got to talking about the last time I had the home-made juice from a rotten orange. It feels good to sit around with old friends, and reminisce, you know? I couldn't stop laughing as he told the story of when I started figure skating with nothing but a Gymnastics ribbon to cover my nipples to make sure my male breasts weren't suddenly sexualized by Western Culture. But it was Summer.

And what I thought was ice was really just an elementary school playground, so when the cops tried to apprehend me, I hot-wired a Zamboni and drove across the Arctic circle for a good seven weeks before they finally caught up.

LOL. LMAO. ROFLMAO. ROFL. GAHAHAHAHA. HEHEHEHEHE. TEEHEHEHEHEEHEEHEHE. OHOHOHOHOHOHO. HO HO HO. Every other city we go.

I can't even control myself as I write this! What better way to communicate unrestricted laughter than to type out a string of acronyms and consonant-vowel combinations.

Full collection of my Non-non-fiction documentation with Sarah Palin and the family here.

We hurt each other a lot and it makes very little sense to my mind ... if that's okay with me saying ... because I don't want to offend you.

Very little. Very, very little. And it concerns me greatly, because often times we're asking for it, and other times we slinging it like Saturn rocks to Earthling cops. You don't know what that means. The verb is what's important. Slinging.

Pain and suffering to each other. Sike. That's too deep and too far. I'm more concerned with the things we're doing on the surface though, the knicks and scratches. Any one who has a new car will tell you ... crashing into a light pole is painful, but you're happy to be alive.

A scratch though. A little slit in a new coat of paint. Oh. Heavens no. Not that. That hurts. So do the next 45. Think about the ways we keep scratching each other.

I apologize if I've scratched you.
This is not a suicide note.

Just thought I'd mention because I wrote an apology in an essay once and the professor was concerned because she thought I was going to kill myself. No. Just scratch my liver. With this bottle of Jagermeister. Just kidding.

Palin and Me: Polar bear problems? Sarita's the quicker fixer. Episode 6

Now, you might think it was dumb of me to sit in baked honey mustard garlic marinade for six hours before attaching the meat and drumettes I marinaded with to hooks along my body before walking the out-doors with two open jars of honey and a freshly killed rabbit attached to a leash smearing blood along my path, but this isn't about you.

It's not about you imposing your beliefs on me, or passing judgment like some silk-robed scribe who wipes the outside of a chalice but leaves the inside full of dust and dirt. Out of my sight heathen! Let he who has never walked through bear-land with fresh-meat attached to his body cast the first javelin, otherwise ... silence yourself. This is America, we're about democracy, not your pseudo-fascism.

Needless to say, I'm not sure what happened because the next thing I knew I was waking up three months later with severe animal bites all across my sexy body, but thankfully the Palinites were trained in the ways of the Paladin, and I was able to share another beautiful day on this Earth. With a bear coat.

Thank you Sarita and Co.

Full collection of my Non-non-fiction documentation with Sarah Palin and the family here.

"You're an idiot for not believing what I believe," often gets teeth scattered like unbuttered popcorn.

In the spirit of getting one's respective ass respectively beaten, it is important to remember that when engaging in philosophical treatises and argumentation that condescension and your glass jaw do not mix ...

Because if contact with your jaw is made, then you lose consciousness, and this occurrence is often referred to as getting knocked ... the ... sexual intercourse (or fornication under consent of king) out.

Which is why I'm glad the internet exists, because people can get as brave as they want and say things that under normal social circumstances would be absolutely unacceptable.

Which is why I also Love white people not from urban areas. Because the way they communicate some times trips me out ... but it's so dope ... because it does not resort to violence.

Therefore, I would like to take this time to not make fun of European history, and instead compliment the fact that their Western concept of shit talking argument has enabled them, and me, and us, and we, to say things in ways that don't get their, mine and our jaws tapped.

But if I were a bigger country I would still take your natural resources.

Palin and Me: Too much hot-stuff? Palin's got the remedy. Episode 5.

So Todd, Sarita, the kids and my Inuit cousins and I decided to head out and catch a glimpse of the Northern Lights.

Being a city kid myself, I had no idea what these Canadian-Accented White Americans were trying to drag me into--for a split second I thought it'd be like the LSD influenced conferences of The Burning Man Project, not to be confused with the man-eating ways of the Wickerman which, might I add, seems like what this country would come to if we let the Northern Californians have their way with our government.

'Cause it starts with the weed-clubs, and ends at radical feminism. What could possibly be the next sensical step? A bunch of radical feminists high off the ganja with the munchies, no more caribou to slap into other dimensions, and so they decide to trap men in log-pyramids and cook them alive. Sounds like a liberal conspiracy to me.

In either case, we slapped the huskies onto the sled and traveled Northerly until the sky started changing colors. I thought one of my cousins slipped the Amanita muscaria mushroom into my salted snow-cone.

What I thought to be a product of the collision of charged particles from Earth's magnetosphere, mostly electrons but also protons and heavier particles, colliding with the troposphere was just my mind hallucinating craziness. It was actually charged particles from the magnetosphere colliding with the ionosphere. Ooooooooh, I said aloud.

Not in understanding, but in pain, the hot sauce from the deep fried caribou was catching up, I could feel my intestines disintegrating, which meant my anus was soon to follow. Luckily, Palin and Co. had the perfect remedy: a tea of blackberry roots and the boiled inner-bark of dog wood.

Crazy Alaskans and their ancient wisdom.

Full collection of my Non-non-fiction documentation with Sarah Palin and the family here.

The problem with wanting to beat the sHx&*#&!T out of someone's inner self ...

I mean outer self. Smash a face flat with a bat and wrap them up in a black bag to be stashed in the back of a black van with the gash then crash ... is that it accomplishes not a lot except for beating their ass.

At a party was I with a drink in my hand, a negr0, with a demographic that was primarily not of my own. So there was some tension by way of race because our respective peoples have had some issues in certain cities and what not ... and understably, it has trickled down into the social fabric of certain cities.

So I got bumped into. So. I tapped the young man on the shoulder and said "Excuse me, you bumped into me." This is a true story. There were four of them too, but kn'amsaying, as all men that are larger than other men, I figured my two hundred some odd pounds could easily smash some faces in.

I grabbed two beer bottles, put them in my back pocket and followed them towards the door, trying to get their attention, but no one responded.

Then it hit me. There's still more drink, and more Love to be spread. Why should I get jumped and stab two of them in the name of my honor when I can meet my future wife in the name of humanity?

Eff. But I got a better understanding of why countries bomb the shit out of each other. Because if I were a big country, and you were a little country, and I said "give me your oil for this price," and you said "... nigga you trippin'," ... I would just take it. Or I wouldn't. But that's what countries are doing.

Instead of saying, why don't we just make children in the name of humanity?

Palin and Me: You don't know meat 'till you've had Deep Fried Caribou. Episode 4.

Now, as much as I am for catching your own chicken and taking it by the head while you whip it around to break it's neck after having had your youngest child raise the chicken as a pet, not realizing that soon it'd be eaten, and thereby traumatizing the poor lad for the rest of his life.

There is nothing quite like having yourself some good old fashioned Caribou.

Sarita and the kids taught me an important lesson in it's preparation. While you could hop down from a silent helicopter in snow-flavored camouflage, the bullet from a rifle would contaminate the blood-stream and limit its tastiness.

So in the spirit of walking the walk instead of talking the biting, good-natured, humorous talk--

Line of the night between seconds :50-1:07.

--We slipped into our sheep skin ugg boots (because it was actually needed, family-value hating, liberal Southern California. They're made for cold, not for mini-skirts), trekked across the tundra with a knapsack full of hope, marched up to the first caribou we saw, and Miss Palin backhanded that thing into forever.

It arched across the sky for a good two miles before skidding to a stop. For a second the U.S. military thought it might be a missile shot from a certain little country in a certain little direction relative to Alaska. Thankfully it wasn't. It was just dinner and left-overs for the next 2 fiscal years.

Full collection of my Non-non-fiction documentation with Sarah Palin and the family here.

P***************************

Hydrothermally. Water warmth? Warm water. Like a secretion. From a place. "Poems" people write to induce these. Eff. I feel like a hater, I am a hater, but it must be known, it must be put out.

When a woman dresses like she's from a different era--80's and below ... she is assumed deep. That's not my question. Nor my concern. Thy scurvy knave. Hath thou insulted thy Negrolus Cucurumbous? I am before before. Lo.

Therefore. What I was getting at. Is the fact. That when we try to be deep, people can tell. The problem I have with all these schinanigans. Is when these foos try to be deep. People can tell. BUT IT STILL WORKS.

EFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF.

I'M SENSITIVE TOO!!
I CRIED ONCE.

Kn'amsaying. I'm a hater. Not a hater. Envious. Envy sounds much nicer than jealous. They're both still wrong words to use. Ah. Yes. Pass me my tea, Yolanda. Thank you.

I admire that. Shallow depth. Because at least. At the end of the 24 hour period I'm operating by. They're more honest about being shallow with their depth, than we are with everything.

"Perception is reality" is no longer something you can say and impress someone with. Blue is not green for me and blue for you and yellow for her because even if the colors were different, what we identify them as is the same.

This is getting too long. And the original point I wanted to make was as abandoned as a tree in a forest, who looks like all the other trees, except this tree is different, because this tree wonders when he's looking up at the sky, if there's some tree looking at that exact same sky, at that exact same moment. Maybe someone on a star, looking at a star, but both stars are planets, respectively.

I'm deep. Woman who dress like 80's and below. We deep together.

And the tree was chopped down to build a Wal-Mart. Wal-Marts aren't that bad. You're just a hater.

Palin and Me: She is NOT like a pitbull with lipstick. She's like a homosapien with feelings. Episode 3.

I don't want people getting the wrong impression of Sarah. When she brought up the difference between Hockey Moms and pitbulls being the fact that one wears lipstick, and the other poses for Vogue Magazine and has trouble not smiling--

A lot of people took the comparison as a sly way of saying "pregnant female dog," or, more commonly known as, in today's society, when describing a certain behavior, that sometimes is or is not a fair assessment, depending on its propensity to be the by-product of a double standard, where if a man were to act in the same way he would be considered assertive, while a woman with children, a full time job and the ability to make it to every one of her daughter's soccer games might receive a different noun with a different connotation simply because her chromosomes are XX as opposed to XY and are therefore considered less rational chromosomes, and therefore, are called certain word that some people might take offense to, while others might not, while others might only take offense to it when it's said in front of someone who would take offense to it on any given day.

But she wasn't. She was just appealing to our cultural stereo-type of pitbulls, which is they're aggressive and have strong necks because their owners make them walk around with tires around their heads.

Whatever she meant though, is not what I'm addressing. I just feel like this is a horrible analogy because the last time we were walking across a frozen lake with her daughters and husband, she paused, looked down at the 18 inch thick ice, stabbed her hand through it like her left arm suddenly became the spawn of Hulk, and she snatched a fresh-water trout out so fast, that the heat from the friction against the ice walls brought it out sizzling, cooked, and with a hint of lime.

Pitbulls don't have opposable thumbs. Clearly they couldn't pull a fish out with their bare-hands.

Full collection of my Non-non-fiction documentation with Sarah Palin and the family here.

I never thought fur coats were dope.

Then I saw this picture ... and suddenly I thought ... wow. I have to get myself a mink. "You mean I can get all that cuteness and cudliness on my body? And be fashionable? And use it as a marker of my status? I'm d'."

Sike. And I don't think those are minks. Flickr is amazing, especially when you make an account and you operate under the Creative Commons license. But then I don't have any pictures up so people can't use them. But I have a blog, and I put up ideas, and maybe people will use them.

If I could charge people for every idea I put on this page, I wouldn't. Ideas don't make you money. Money makes you money. What. The eff. Am I talking about.

PETA is a trip. I think they need an image consultant, some brand building marketing, and a lot less abrasive in your face, throat cutting, gurgle throated, Scandinavian, Beowulf slaying, Viking tactics in trying to convince us to not slaughter animals for comfortable pillows.

Because I don't wear fur. A) I can't afford it. B) I like cotton. C) That was not meant to be a racial joke but I understand if you take it that way. But if I did wear fur and some freckle faced hippie came at me with posters and screaming, and I could even AFFORD the fur. I don't think I'd care. Or listen.

No offense ... but as a mediator of conflicts in the world--I worked on peace treaties in case you did not know, thank you very much, that is not true--I think conversations do a lot more for getting ideas across than ... throwing berries.

I Love you.

Palin and Me: When we get a little husky. Episode 2.

As many of you who know me know, if I'm not out running Alaskan steppes with a pack of rabid arctic wolves, I'm jumping back and forth across the Iberian strait with Siberian Husky pups to give them a taste of Democracy our way, then jumping them back to Russia.

Sarita and I never really discussed our views on immigration and what not, but one thing she didn't approve of was me stealing the children of these ice dogs to bring them to America, then taking them back afterwards.

Above all else, she was scared about what it might do to the dog's psyche, since once they got here, they ate less, smoked more cigarettes, and became these radical individualists who were obviously unhappy in their selfishness, but thought people with real connections--and folks that measure themselves not by how much money they have but the relationships they build with the people around them--were unhappier, just better at hiding it.

We both agreed that this was no way to be raising the youth--with so much bitterness about your own failures you can't believe someone else being successful at it--so to keep me from tempting myself with more Canis familiarisal kidnapping, I called my cousins of the Indo-African populations along the Caribbean coast of Mexico, whose ancestors were of Japanese descent, living in Arizona and proud members of the Minute Men--NOT to be confused with the red-coat shooting, tea in Boston Harbor dumping, snuff sniffing Minute Men of the American Revolution, and had them help protect our North-Western border from these ice-water crossing, job-stealing canine.

Full collection of my Non-non-fiction documentation with Sarah Palin and the family here.

This started as ... we don't know what's going on in each other's heads, so why act. No question mark.

The best way to read a person is to understand that unless you've got that Ultra, you're probably wrong. Just kidding. Kind of.

But at the end of the day -- and what does that even mean? End of the day? Why at the end of the day? Why not the middle of the day, or some time during the day, and which days are we going by--beginning at what time zone?

I think "At the end of the 24-hour period I'm operating by," is more accurate. But is it even about accuracy any more? There are too many similes in the world today. Too many likes. I'm a metaphor man myself. That things are. Just kidding.

At the end of the day, I'm just a person. Like you.

Palin and Me: Together Again. Episode 1.

It's been a long time since me and Sarita have talked--that's what I used to call her when we were young, cooking sunny side-ups in igloo huts--she was upset that I got turned into a vampire for 30 days of night and viciously consumed her neighbor's dogs, beginning with their esophagus and ending in their colons.

But she gave me a call the other day after hearing I'd been hanging on the outskirts of Inuit circles, doing hallucinatory drugs and feeling like the back of my head was melting into the snow behind me.

The snow, consequently, became what I thought were falling stars. And let me be clear when I say that I know an Armageddon when I see one. A lady with a crown of stars stepping on the head of a serpent? The seven headed dragon trying to eat the little baby but can't so it decided to go for her other children instead?

I'm not stupid. Just drug addicted.

Either way, 13 tabs of acid and 76 peyote trips later--where the moon was my bed and the sun was my pillow, and starlight was nothing more than holes I poked into the canvas of the night with the pointed ends of pine-trees--Sarita called me and told me I need to get my act together before they deport my mommy.

And I don't want them to deport my mommy. She's a citizen.

Full collection of my Non-non-fiction documentation with Sarah Palin and the family here.

Catholics don't worship Mary.

That is all.

And the other thing you were talking about is called transubstantiation.

I love you.

THE GREATEST COMMANDMENT OF ALL! KN'AMSIZZZZZLEEE!!!

What do we really want to know about each other when we want to know about each other?

Favorite Color: Forest Green
Favorite Movie: Good Will Hunting
Favorite Snack: Oranges
Hobbies: Writing, Music, Love
Job: Writing, Music, Love
Passion: ... kn'amsaying.
Political party: Madd vodka, dirty martinis, women in ball gowns (heels optional), not a lot of make-up, DJ S-One DJing.

But I mean. What does that really say about me? The last answer might hint at something. Maybe I don't believe in bi-partisanship? Maybe I'm uncomfortable talking about my political affiliations out of fear of who I might offend? Maybe I can never be serious because I'm over compensating for something? Maybe my sarcasm is a defense mechanism? Maybe I believe the world's problems can be solved if we all danced together and tossed a few drinks back instead of shooting at each other?

So here's something in the vein of the things I like to know about other homosapiens:

Opening up isn't just talking about the shit that hurt us through the years. I get why we feel that, but ... a failed relationship just reminds us that we're all in the same boat kind of. I Love the sky.

Because it's not just a bunch of sparkling lights at night. Space is crazy. Immense heat, immense cold, a vacuum sound doesn't exist in, stars hotter than anything we can imagine, clouds and storms, ices made of gases in formations we've never seen. Some of those lights in the sky aren't even stars. They're whole galaxies.

And that's just considering it at night. But in the day. Atmospheric pressures, cloud formations, sunlight and the fact that all the stuff that's so visible at night is there, we just can't see it. NO TRACE OF IT, whatsoever. But it's there. And we know it's there, and we're reminded every night. Eff. I'm d'.

Even if you're unpatriotic and hate McCain. He might still win. Bitch. Sike. I didn't mean that. I Love you.

So I had a suspicion, but this isn't about that, but of course I'm going to say it any way before going on to say what I was going to say.

The suspicion:
McCain decided he didn't want to run for president any more, but can't quit because of what that would mean for his party, but more importantly, how that would make the country's political process a laughing stock on the global landscape.

.......... any way.

So he went for Palin. Calculated? Alaskan? Not even connected to the continental U.S. And she calls herself an American? I don't mean that. But who else is from a place that isn't connected to the continental U.S.? And who else has been accused of not having enough experience? And why am I asking so many questions?

There are people in California that add an inquisitive inflection at the end of their statements? So it sounds like they're asking questions when they're declaring things? I just thought you should know. ?

Oh. So basically. The suspicion is that McCain was trying to throw the election away gracefully, but maybe increased his chances of winning. Now that I've got the part that doesn't matter out of the way, on to what I was going to say:

I don't know how many Hilary voter-for-ers McCain is going to sway his way, but I feel like it's not going to be a lot, because on one end Hilary is what we call a "liberal" sometimes, which is a polite way of saying bare-footed, tree hugging berry eater. And Palin, from what I have seen, has been painted as a conservative, which brings to mind the NRA ... and reminds some of us of this.

But Palin is catching a lot of heat for things that don't matter--she's getting attacked as a person instead of on her ideas, and while this does happen to a lot of folks, it feels a little extra for her. And what happens when you exert a force on an object? There is an opposite and equal reaction. Which might drive people to vote for her on the principle that she's getting bullied.

Photo courtesy of LOLPalin.com

... not that I'm calling Palin an object. But if I was, that would be the most eloquent objectification of a woman I've written in my life. Not that I'm condoning objectification of women. Or any homo sapiens.

So while there's a lot of people out there saying that McCain won't win, you can quote Matios as saying quote McCain doesn't want to win, but probably will enquote, or ... come to terms ... with the basic mathematic principle ... that says if there's a probability that he will lose ... there is also a probability that ...

A conversation with a porn actress

Not a Porn Star. I never heard of her. Not … that … I … would …

But. Calling her a star would be preposterous. How on Earth could a bubbling ball of nuclear fire partake in sexual intercourse? Stars don’t have sex, biologically or while married, because they don’t get married—they are super-heated forms of matter. So to call a woman who has sexual intercourse on camera for money an object that lights up the night sky is disrespectful. I don’t believe in objectifying women unless I’m calling them a rose.

Mutual friends, blah blah blah, white coke addicts from West Hollywood, connections, there. I am. I walk in and can immediately tell, I feel it in my gut, there was this strange gravity that took a hold of my body. I can’t explain it any other way. I fix myself a drink and make sure no one roofies me, say hello to my fellow homosapiens, talk about my music how it’s going, et cetera et cetera, they lie and talk about a guy they know whose in the music scene that they’ll get me in contact with and boom, her and I are conversing.

She tells me Rick (whose name has been changed for legal purposes) showed her a video of me freestyling, she said she liked it. I said thanks. I reply “Yeah, he showed me yours too,” and she bursts into laughter. I was joking, but I know my limits, kn’amsaying. It wasn’t that funny.

So she sees I’m confused and then she says “Oh, you don’t know?” I suspected, but I did not know. So she says what she says and I reply with an “Ooooh, werd,” and then I ask her where she’s from, how she got to L.A., if she liked Nebraska, told her how the weather has changed, it used to be 70 all year but now it gets crazy and snows in the desert.

She nudges my shoulder as she laughs, but in the process notices the scapular around my neck. She asks if I’m Catholic. I sip my drink and say yeah. She says she hasn’t been to church in a long time. I say it’s never too late to go back. She laughs a very vulnerable laugh and asks me how I can even talk to her.

I say: “No offense, but if Jesus could talk to a prostitute, I can talk to a porn star. You get paid more any way. And no, I don’t expect you to perfume my feet.”
The conversation went on, and it got deep! She was magnificent, such a wonderful mind, she was in love with Biology—particularly the way flowers pollinate. She knew the name of every flower, more importantly, what they were. She made it a point to tell me “There’s a difference between knowing a name and knowing something. I could tell you ten different types of wild flowers, but what good would that do? I could not know the name but know which to give you for burns, or stomach problems, which one is poison and how that same one can be used in a blend as an antidote.”

She asked if I’d be in town for the weekend and I said of course, then she asked if she could go with me to Church. I gave her my number but she never called.
I ended up forgetting about her, but every once and a while Rick would tell me she asked about me and sent a hello. I told him to tell her hello for me too, and God bless. =)

Then I got a text months later saying she’d gone to a Saturday night service, and that they had Amaryllis at the altar, also known as Belladonna Lillies. Or Naked Ladies. Crazy.