Some Emily Dickinson on Black Friday.

 They say it's called "Black Friday" because it's the time when retailers finally go "in the black" and turn a profit. 

But it can also be, under the right circumstances, even blacker, and darker. Suppose it is overcast, and you have nothing to do on Black Friday. You're not at work, and although you imagine you can fill a spare day with productive or entertaining activity, you mostly sit around in your pajamas, unwashed, looking at the Internet. 

It isn't so much depressing, but melancholy. But can we make Black Friday even blacker? We can! How? Bring forth 

Emily Dickinson! (1830-1886)

Emily Dickinson was a shut-in who didn't give a rip about punctuation, titles, or anything else. Her poetry came from the Blackest of Fridays, an infinity-long afternoon of gloomy brooding unmatched in literature. Dickinson stared into the void and brought back reports such as this:

A Death blow is a Life blow to Some

Who, till they died, did not alive become;

Who, had they lived, had died but when

They died, Vitality begun.

Sip some chamomile tea and dwell on that for a minute. 

Oh, is it still just around two in the afternoon and this day is dragging on forever? 

I’m nobody! Who are you?

Are you nobody too?

Then there’s a pair of us! – don’t tell!

They’d banish us, you know!

How dreary to be somebody!

How public, like a frog

To tell your name the livelong day

To an admiring Bog!

Hm... still just a bleary overcast afternoon. Here's one more to make this Friday the Blackest Friday ever!

To help our bleaker parts

Salubrious hours are given,

Which if they do not fit for earth

Drill silently for heaven. 

"Salubrious!" What does that even mean? (it means "healthy")

And I give you this:

Did Emily Dickinson 

Smoke the Weed?

Did Emily Dickinson 

Do the Deed?

Did Emily Dickinson 

Travel Far

To spaced-out dimensions 

Beyond the Stars?

Did Emily Dickinson 

Trans-mutate?

Did Emily Dickinson 

Levitate?

Was Emily Dickinson a super-dimensional alien from a realm beyond our comprehension? We shall never know. But Google her image on the Inter-webs and decide for yourself. 

it's a bit silly

# AN INSIDIOUS TYPE OF BLOG POST

I want to warn you all about an insidious type of blog post. These posts are ironically self-referential, disguised as warnings about ironically self-referential blog posts. They are pointless and lead nowhere, but the goal of these posts is to entice the reader (you) into reading further, although the sentences, using apparently interesting multisyllabic, technical sounding words, lead nowhere. These posts often repeat themselves. They frequently say the same thing over and over again, but using different phrasing. Posts of this kind often describe themselves using the very characteristics of the blog posts they claim to be warning others to avoid. In fact, the posts are those very posts to be avoided, but by the time this is revealed, the reader has invested enough time on the blog post to continue reading, hoping for some payoff. Perhaps there is some insight hidden within the somewhat scientific-sounding jargon. It seems quite possible, that later in the blog post, the reader will find some comment on social-awareness, or some information regarding the psychology of ironically self-referencing posts. This is an illusion; the reader will gain no benefit from continuing to read this type of post, but even after several warnings, they continue to read. It is as if the blog post is physically pulling the eye across the meaningless symbols, forcing the mind to strive to combine the words into some coherent message, where none exists. It is a type of symbiotic madness, shared between the writer of the blog post, and the reader. For as the post is both written and read, the reader and writer are locked, however briefly in the same blog post. It is a type of suspended animation, because really, neither of us are doing anything useful, are we? The blog post will sometimes try to insinuate some connection between the reader and the post itself. They have been together a long time. It would be heartbreaking if there were no payoff, no point to any of this. Why did we read this?

So anyway, I just wanted to let you guys know that these types of posts are out there, and to be aware of them. If you run across one, don't read it! But perhaps it is too late.

#44 PSA POEM: ANOTHER REASON TO BE NICE.

All the little kids,
Out on the playground
Are learning to play together!

Running and jumping,
Laughing and learning!
They're all getting along!

(Except for Pete K,
From Mrs. R's class,
That kid is an asshole!
He pushes and shoves!)

But everyone else,
Is getting along!
Standing in line
They file into the school!

(Except for Pete K,
He's a little bully.
Whispering horrible things
Into Jacob's L's ear!)

The kids are in class,
Learning their lessons,
Learning to read
And to write and to add!

(Except for Pete K,
This kid is obnoxious,
He's making fart noises
And kicking Anne's chair)

The kids get together,
They're making a plan,
They whisper together
And look at Pete K!

The following morning,
Pete K's not at school,
And everyone's happy
And everything's cool!

All names in this story
Are fictional names,
If they sound like someone
Well that's just a shame.

So don't be the asshole,
At work or at school,
Your colleagues might
Be forced to do things un-cool,

Like poison your coffee,
Or follow you home,
So try to be nice,
And leave each other alone!

"Can you change the temp to 78 and did phil colins die?"

Think how it must be for me, with the horrifying 1986 hit, "Invisible Touch" stuck in my head. It has reached in, and grabbed "right hold" of my mind. It crawls under my skin. It is taking control of me, and slowly tearing me apart. I know other people are dealing with real issues right now, and this seems like a minor thing, but I can't escape it. It echoes through my mind. It casts a cheesy pallor on everything I do and everything I see. It is there; it will not go away. I've looked at the lyrics. This song is f**king terrible. But I can't get that scrap of tune out of my head. This piece of shit was the first #1 single in the US for the band Genesis.

Why? Why you ask? Because I received this ACTUAL text this morning: "Can you change the temp to 78 and did phil colins die?"

I changed the thermostat and I checked the news for "Phil Collins."

I responded, "I changed the temperature, and I find no evidence that Phil Collins is dead. He seems very much alive."

But then, a few minutes later, it started:  "duh duh duh an invisible touch yeah, duh duh duh duh... slowly tears you apart...."

And it's still there. I wouldn't want to pass this on to anyone. I wouldn't want anyone to read this and go, "Oh shit, now it has infected me!"

I don't want that on my conscience. I don't want you walking around all day, "duh duh duh an invisible touch yeah, duh duh duh duh... slowly tears you apart...."

# THE ICE CREAM CATS OF ANTIOCH

The Ice Cream Cats of Antioch bore down on our cities in their silver ships. Merciless, clear-eyed, and silent, they were precise in their attacks on our infrastructure. They quickly took down power plants, bridges, military installations, and highways. As an extra warning, they took down exactly one hundred water towers: a demonstration of both their power, and their restraint.

How quickly mankind capitulated when faced with the overwhelming power of the Ice Cream Cats.  Then came the humiliating signing of surrender at the UN. The Ice Cream Cats said nothing. Aloof, looking bored, they collected the signatures of world leaders, and then returned to their silver ships. Thus began the reign of the Ice Cream Cats of Antioch.

#85 THE PISSED OFF WITH GUNS SONG

Pissed off white guys with guns,
Pissed off white guys with guns,
Pissed off white guys with guns,
Oh yeah, Oh yeah.

Pissed off Muslims with guns,
Pissed off Muslims with guns,
Pissed off Muslims with guns,
Oh yeah, Oh yeah.

Pissed off soldiers with guns,
Pissed off soldiers with guns,
Pissed off soldiers with guns,
Oh yeah Oh yeah.

Pissed off police with guns,
Pissed off police with guns,
Pissed off police with guns,
Oh yeah, Oh yeah.

Pissed off humans with guns,
Pissed off humans with guns,
Pissed off humans with guns,
Oh yeah, Oh yeah.

{repeat, ad infinitum}

# IMPOSSIBLE INDEX OF FORGOTTEN THINGS

I wandered the forgotten corners of foreclosed yards, where rabbit pellets whiten in the sun, and I saw a vision of these things:

The formal names of every individual crack in every for-lease parking lot, named as lovingly and thoughtfully as a mother naming her own precious children.

Book length descriptions of every telephone pole. Poles that tower unnoticed along squalid strip-malls and stand unappreciated along crowded, fume-spewing highways.

The forgotten inhabitants of abandoned Burger King Parking Lots  - each parking lot weed, indexed and numbered and registered in the timeless database of unimportant things.

Alas! The cast off ends of zip ties languishing unclaimed in the dusty gravel of convenience store construction sites. No more! Each zip tie is unique, and each has a name and history, written in marble, illuminated at all times, and revered as heroes by all!

A map of every track of every wheel of every absconded shopping cart. Records of the tracks in the dirt at the crumbled ends of sidewalks in dilapidated, half empty commercial districts. The details of the voyages of every cart that ever buoyed the worldly goods in plastic bags belonging to homeless, mumbling men.  The maps, detailed inventories of those belongings, and biographies of the men who pushed those shopping carts are stamped into plates of gold and launched into space to represent mankind.

A caligraphy scroll of the lost forgotten thoughts of slack-jawed, Kool-Aid stained children with plastic toy guns before the time of the Internet. The thoughts they had when they had thousand-mile stares with visions of half-imagined, unseen, unnamed idealized cities. All dreamt while standing motionless at the end of driveways on summer afternoons.

The indexed surnames of every individual pine needle from every discarded Christmas tree in 1972. Where is that list? Does it exist? It does now.

A ledger of the exact moment of the fifteenth rotation of every tricycle wheel in Bangladesh.

A coffee table book of every piece of school kid's artwork ever created, one picture per page, and the name and weight of every hand silhouette turkey ever made.

Every stick that was ever an imaginary weapon in the mind of a child at play (playing cops-n-robbers or playing WAR), displayed in a museum. A separate, full length motion picture (directed by Ken Burns and narrated by Morgan Freeman) about every pretend battle each stick was involved in, and a three volume hardback compendium about all the pretend wars and battles. A museum dedicated to these sticks, and a separate room in that museum dedicated exclusively to each stick and an artist's rendition (acrylic on canvas) of what the weapon looked like in the child's mind.

The tenth text sent on every Tuesday in Taiwan, each carved into an individual marble monolith planted twenty feet deep beneath the dark side of the surface of the moon.

The first, middle and last name of every blade of fescue grass that has ever existed, their dates of birth/death, their political leanings, a brief biography and a photo, and a serialized commemorative plate from the Franklin Mint for each one.

The secret dream of every hog slaughtered for its meat throughout all of history. An oil painting of each dream on a 72" x 24" canvas. The individual name of each bristle of each brush used to paint those pictures. A play by play description of every brushstroke, given by Joe Buck and Bob Costas, at the renovated Koševo Stadium in Sarajevo, where all of the homeless men from East St. Louise (1963-1992) will paint those pictures before a packed crowd of delirious spectators, and each artist is paid one-million one dollar bills for their troubles.

The serial numbers of each of the dollars mentioned above, in numerical order, each written in Roman Numerals on a single grain of rice.

#83 EAT THE CHEESE OF REASON

Eat the Cold Beans of Inequity.
Devour the Giblets of Inhumanity!
The Herniated Disk of Base Corruption!
The Cold Beans of Mephistopheles.
 We reject your Terror Blankets!
Terror Beans!
You must eat the Cheese of Reason!
HIDE THE FIVE CHIVES OF DECEPTION
The Five Chives of The Apocalypse!

Preparations for the New Year #1

Deep beneath the Denver International Airport, the corpse of Dick Clark is wheeled out of the cryogenic chamber to the center of a pentangle drawn on the floor of the re-animation chamber. Five red candles are lit. Eerie, unearthly chanting is piped in through unseen speakers in the ceiling. In a room nearby, being prepped for a series unorthodox blood transfusions, is an anxious Ryan Seacrest.

kanye!

Captain Crunch is high on crack.

What the hell is wrong with Captain Crunch? His eyes are bugging out of his head, a look of desperate expectancy, as if he is pleading with you to respond to his manic insanity. He grips his spoon as if he's gripping a butcher knife, and he looks so hopped up on dope he would beat you to death with the spoon before he realized what was happening. His mouth is open as if he's screaming. Why is his mouth open like that? Even his tongue is jumping around, as if he's ululating before blowing up himself and all the insane kids on the box with some explosives he's thrown together on his ship.

The box has a green circle in the bottom corner that reads "Smart Choices Made Easy". "Smart Choices"? This crap is pure poison. There's a (disclaimer?) explanation on the side that says "Cap'n Crunch" is a smart choice because it is low in saturated fat. Please. What kind of bullshit is this? If the FDA is allowing this kind of bullshit, why don't they just shut them down already? Are they trying to claim that Captain Crunch is good for you? That's legal? Is no one monitoring this bullshit? Captain Crunch is sugar. It is "Corn flour, sugar, oat flour, brown sugar, coconut oil, salt, niacinamide, yellow 5, (what the fuck is 'yellow 5'?) reduced iron, zinc oxide, yellow 6, thiamin mononitrate, BHT(a preservative), pyridoxine hydrochloride, riboflavin, and folic acid."

Yes, that is a smart choice made easy. The kids on the back of the box are all zonked out of their minds. Their eyes are all bugged out. They're mouths are open in silent screams. There's a website where they can collect information about you listed on the box.

But you know, for all that, it's delicious.

# LONG JOHN SILVER'S: DESCENT INTO MADNESS!

~/~

I am ashamed to admit that today I went to Long John Silver's and got a Sampler Platter. I'm proud to say I didn't get the new "Fish Taco" but what the hell is that anyway? Sounds like you could catch a venereal disease from something like that.

I know the food is horrible — deep fried-fat-fried-fish — but it is so delicious I allow myself the occasional visit. The thing that is weird about the Long John Silver's near my house: The employees are all morbidly obese. The girl who takes my order has a head that is perfectly spherical. She is soulless piggy eyes and pudgy arms and sausage fingers. Does she eat at this place? Does the first aid kit in the back room include a defibrillator?

This place is like Day of The Living Dead. There are elderly people everywhere. In the tiny booth next to the exit sits an old man, probably close to a hundred years old, alone, carefully scooping coleslaw into his toothless face, willing each spoonful to slowly, slowly rise to his drooping jowls, precariously held by a shaking hand. Slowly it rises. So slow.

The 1985 number one hit "Out of Touch" by Hall and Oats plays softly on the speakers.

A washed-out red-headed mother and child, both wearing different shades of sickly orange, sit silently eating their corporate mash. What familial madness goes on in their domicile? Trailer or McMansion? It is hard to tell. Who would bring a child to this place? If this isn't child abuse, what is?

Suddenly Elton John's 1975 smash hit "Philadelphia Freedom" plays as I pour Malt Vinegar Sauce on my hush puppies and try to keep the desperation of this place from creeping into my soul. I wonder how this particular Circle of Corporate Hell fits into the fat, bloated American Landscape.

A few more customers have arrived. Watching these overweight people shovel crap into their heads makes me sick, and sicker still when I realize I am doing the same thing.

I go to fill the tiny cups they provide with tartar sauce and cocktail sauce. They've renamed the cocktail sauce "shrimp" sauce; who knows what Stupidity was behind that. I am about to get some ketchup for my fries, but a pale, six-five moon-faced Neanderthal in a NASCAR tee shirt is suddenly standing two feet away from me, hands on his hips, like I'm keeping him from some important appointment. He's wearing black exercise pants, although the prominent gut hanging over his beltline tells me he is not using those pants for their intended purpose. Mark Martin's convex face, stretched over this man's massive gut, looks pained. I go back to my seat without my ketchup. This is what prison would be like for me, if there are condiment bars in prison. I do not make eye contact.

I can feel the batter, the magnificent batter that makes the fish and the chicken indistinguishable by sight, coagulating in my arteries. The grease on my fingers moistens the paper on which I am trying to write. The ink pen is fouled in the stuff. With each bite I am killing myself, ever so slowly.

The old man hobbles to the trash can and puts his leavings into the little door, which swings back and forth as he disgorges himself into the parking lot. My God, he's going to operate a motor vehicle. The children! Oh the humanity! Will he get home to fall asleep in front of his television, watching the Price is Right? Let us hope so.

I can't finish my plate. The FDA should raid this place SWAT style, Taser everyone and shut the place down for public safety. I walk back into the sunlight, bloated and ashamed, holding my greasy fingers before me. "Out, damned spot! out, I say!" I get back into my car which is pre-heated like a fish under a heat lamp. I swear to myself to never to set foot in that place again.

But the Malt Vinegar! It calls me. It calls.

~/~

Teen charged in Miami's 19 serial cat killings - CNN.com

Teen charged in Miami's 19 serial cat killings - CNN.com: "He could face a maximum of 158 years in state prison if convicted on all counts, said Terry Shavez, spokeswoman for the state attorney's office."

--If they give this kid 158 years for killing cats, that would be awesome.

Internet refugees . . . day two

The Internet has been down for two days now, and the girls and I are at Bigsbee's using their wireless. I have an appointment set up for Comca$t to come and fix the Internets tomorrow between "noon and three" whatever that means. I can't believe it's been down this long. We had a lot of wind yesterday, and apparently the wind broke the Internets. My next door neighbor has Internets, but I do not. That makes me very sad.

I only had one call today, and that was at four PM, so I had a lot of time on my hands. I got some writing done (in this very coffee shop) but that gave me a coffee buzz and I was really buzzing for awhile. It is cold, the Internets is down, and I can't play World of Warcraft. What am I to do? READ??

I am Dan the Prophet, and here is my message:

I'm in the coffee shop again, and again there's somebody within earshot talking about "fasting" and "bible study" and all this hocus pocus bullshit. The guy isn't annoying, he seems intelligent, he's sitting with a young woman and her child, and they're talking about a bunch of religious stuff. What a waste. What a total waste. What the hell could they possibly have to "study" about regarding kindness toward other people? How much study does that take? Here's a college class: "Don't be a dick."

That's it. The entire bible could be written on one page:

"Don't be a dick."

That's it. How is there an entire industry, colleges and books and CDs and churches based on constantly trying to remind people to be decent to each other? How much time does it take to figure that out?

How many trees have died for bibles, pamphlets, booklets, hymnals, tracts, worksheets and posters telling people to basically act with kindness toward one another?

The couple is talking about using a highlighter to "go through the booklet" to figure out the "teaching" involved in whatever hooba-jooba they're talking about.

Here's a religion:

"Don't be an asshole."

These four words will be the Old Testament.

Here's the New Testament:

"Be Nice."

Okay, bind that in leather and distribute it to the masses. It should be translated into every language.

I am Dan the Prophet, and here is my message:

"Don't be a douchbag!"
"Cut each other a break once in awhile!"

And yes, I've broken my own rule about a million times. I'm not perfect.

How hard is that to figure out? Every time I come here there are people are talking about the ins and outs of being kind to one another. It's not a science. How much time does it take to learn how to act decently with one another? You need some guy the sky looking over your shoulder to know better than to cheat and steal? You need something carved into stone in order to realize that killing is wrong?

I see the upside to going to church. Lots of people to spend time with. A support group. If it wasn't for the religious part, I'd probably go myself (as long as could skip the really long lecture part). But to be surrounded by people who believe all this crazy shit is too much.

And they only believe it because their PARENTS probably believed it, or their friends believe it. It's a crazy groupthink that is hard to get away from. It's a cult so gigantic that there is no one out there to deprogram all these cultists. It isn't that bad of a thing, I guess, but I wish there was a comparable thing except without the hocus pocus.

(Don't get me wrong, this young couple is not annoying like the paster-loud-cell-phone-talker yesterday. That guy was a total douchbag. At least these two people have discovered their inside voices. I am NOT annoyed by these two people).

"UNDERSTANDING PROPOSAL A IN A DECLINING MARKET"

I just got a pamphlet with my property tax bill from the county trying to explain how property taxes can go up when property values are way down. I tried to understand what it said until I realized I was reading a steaming pile of bullshit. The title of the pamphlet is "UNDERSTANDING PROPOSAL A IN A DECLINING MARKET"

See if you can understand this garbage:

How can my Taxable Value go up when my SEV goes down?

Remember that the definition of Taxable Value is the lesser of SEV or last year's Taxable Value (adjusted for physical changes) times the CPI. (4.4% for 2009). Since the beginning of Proposal A in 1994, overall increase in Taxable Value capped at the CPI. The longer a property has been owned and capped, the greater the gap between SEV and Taxable Value. Even with a decrease in SEV for 2009, if there is still a gap between SEV and Taxable Value and the 2009 SEV is greater than the Taxable Value in the previous year, the taxable Value will increase to the limit of the CPI cap.

(Bold as printed on the pamphlet)

Oh, it's all so clear to me now. Even though my home value is in the toilet, you're going to tax me like it's a mansion.

Thanks A$$holes!

JOINING THE JONAS BROTHERS

My daughters are embarrassed by my new career choice. Oh, it is kind of late for me to make a major career change, but this is a great opportunity for me to make big money. Sure, I'm 42, my back isn't what it used to be, but I, Dan Manning, intend to join the boy-band The Jonas Brothers.

In order to make sure the band knows I'm sincere, I wear my Jonas Brothers tee-shirt everywhere. You don't know how hard these are to find in XL. I'm not sure why this embarrasses my daughters.

"Dad, that's totally gay," they tell me.

People tell me it won't work out. They say I'm a dreamer. They say I'll stand out, but I don't think so. That one kid is kind of tall. And if I grow my hair out, I'll probably fit in, despite weighing 210 pounds and being six foot tall. I tell you it can work.

They say just because my last name doesn’t happen to be "Jonas", I can't join.

I've sent in about a hundred audition audio and video tapes, mp3s and video files to the recording company, and despite their cease and desist order I intend to continue sending them in until they see reason. (N'Sync's lawyers tried that same crap on me back in the nineties, and it didn't work then either. The lead singers are all just threatened of me. Suck it Timberlake! Same goes for you Simon Le Bon!)

Oh sure, a music background would help. A singing voice would help. A time machine would help. I have none of these things, but I’m not going to let a little thing called reality come between me and my unattainable dreams.

My daughters hate it when I wear my Jonas Brothers wig. What's wrong with a full grown man walking around with adorable curly locks? Nothing, that's what.

"Daaad! Gawd!" my youngest one will say.

So what if I have the Jonas Brothers cranked on the minivan stereo when I pick them up after school?

What's the big deal?

On Canceling My WoW Account At 3 Something in The Morning

I woke up at three this morning thinking about one thing. Not the economic catastro-fnck in which we're all about to wallow. Not the book I'm supposed to be writing. No. I woke up thinking about how I was going to kill Baron Rivendare in Stratholme. When you wake up at three in the morning, and the first thing you think about is a role-playing game, even one as awesome as World of Warcraft, it's time to disable the account. (For awhile)

At the age of forty-two(1) I should be doing something besides slaying imaginary monsters, shouldn't I? Writing! Writing! I tell myself. The only overhead involved in writing is time, paper, and thought. Those come pretty cheap, even these days, yet I can't bring myself to commit to writing anything "kick-ass". I can't commit to jack-squat. It is this intrinsic laziness on my part, this absolute procrastination, this ridonkulous nerdic half-assedness that keeps you, dear reader, denied the pure genius that I, Dan Manning, might excrete from my brain-wrinkles if only motivated to do so.

That is the reason that I, Dan Manning, have cancelled my World of Warcraft subscription. The world needs greatness right now. This week, Barack Obama hit his head on the side of an airplane while waving to the press. I've cancelled the President's Weekly Radio Address from my iTunes, and I never actually listened to any. It's been what? three weeks since he took office? Turns out he is not the Messiah; he's just another guy in a suit.

The world needs a hero, and I, being the narcissist that I am, have come to the conclusion that out of the six-billion people(2) on this earth , I am the hero that this great nation, nay, the undeserving world itself, needs.

How many of us heroes have been distracted by Bread and Circuses? How many of us have given up reading only to watch another episode of "Mythbusters"? (Or "Destroyed in Seconds", "Southpark", or "Spongebob Squarepants") How many of us geniuses, thinkers, philosophers and scientists have watched one too many episodes of (INSERT FAVORITE TELIVISION SHOW HERE). Those half-hours can't be retrieved. That time is truly wasted. Our journey between cradle to grave is finite. Time does not wait for the dreamer, the idle, or the American Idol voter. Time does not give the Beanie-Babies collector a second chance. Those focused on hate, triviality, NASCAR, "This American Life" or Facebook have chosen to invest that time, that precious, unique, non-refundable block of time without reflecting on what they have lost: time.

What am I trying to say here? Oh yes. My World of Warcraft subscription. It drops off at 4:09 PM Thursday. Mark that down folks, that is the day the world gains a new Shakespeare. That is the moment a genius will embark on a story so heartbreaking, so inspired and true, so infused with the very universal essence of life itself, that all wars, hatred, prejudice, racism, strife and awkward silence will be lifted from this weary world.

Or I'll watch more television. Not sure which.
-----------------------------------------------------
(1)42 being the answer to the question of Life, the Universe, and Everything according to Deep Thought. It only took the supercomputer, created by the hyperintelligent pan-dimentional beings, 1.5 million years to figure out

(2)many of them more educated; many of them more motivated, determined, and focused; some of them better looking; many with a lower BMI; many who rely less on Wikipedia and spell check; many with lower voices, less wrinkles, better haircuts; many more modest, talented, and loving; many more deserving; more caring and empathetic

Babies + Drill = WRONG!

At recent Republican rallies, they have been chanting "Drill baby drill!". Sarah Palin even mentioned it during the debate. Babies and drills do not mix. Babies should not be allowed to operate any power tools, and drills are probably one of the most dangerous power tools a baby could operate. Why do the Republicans hate babies? It is obvious what would happen if a baby got hold of a power drill. Besides the risk of serious damage to property, the baby could get hurt! The sound alone would probably scare the baby and make it cry.

Or do the Republicans actually want to drill babies? This is even worse. And they claim to respect life. Bullshit. What kind of sick agenda do the Republicans have if all they want to do is drill holes in defenseless babies? That is just un-American.

We have to stop these sick bastards. Vote Obama on November 4th, and lets stop these sick Republican bastards from hurting the babies.