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Saturday, August 29, 2009

First Name: Jeremy

Hey fuckin' you. Yeah, you. I'm sick of your stupid MySpace surveys. They were cool, like, ten years ago when MySpace was new and I gave a shit about you. But now we don't even talk anymore. I should probably just unfriend you, but I can't because maybe you'll notice and tell everyone what a dick I am for unfriending you. I'm so glad I can have a Top 452216 now, because don't even ask me about how much goddamn drama arose with only being able to pick EIGHT of my favorite people on the internet. I never even fucking talked to you anymore, how in the hell was it a big deal that I replaced you with some guy from Fresno that pretended to be Jared Leto?

Why the fuck am I still on MySpace anyway? Everyone's moved to Facebook now, and that's only got a half-life of about two more years. I got on fucking Twitter to appease the internet gods, but they'll just invent something dumber and more poorly coded in the next month that I'll have to join too or fall under the crashing tidal wave of pro(re?)gressing social networking. I'll tell you why I'm still on MySpace: because I don't have enough to do during the day. I already can check my all my email accounts, messageboards, networking sites, and even walk out to my mailbox and back in ten minutes, and the rest of my day just involves repeating that cycle with snacks in between. If I get rid of MySpace, it'll only take nine minutes. Then what? Do the math! I'm awake for about 18 hours a day, so that's 1080 minutes. Divided by the ten minutes for each cycle of pointless refreshing, that's already 108 times I've checked if anyone wanted to talk to me (they didn't). If it only takes me nine minutes, it follows that I'd have 108 extra minutes in the day to kill, which I would spend either snacking more or checking my email another 12 times. So either I'll become exponentially more fat, or exponentially more bored. To those of you that say, "Why don't you get a job?" I can only respond by saying, "Why don't you go suck an egg?"

But that's not the point. I'm not the one at fault here. It's you and your stupid fucking surveys. Guess what? Shut the fuck up. I don't give a shit about who the last boy you kissed was, because I don't give a shit about you. I don't care if you're my cousin. If I wanted to know who the last boy you kissed was, I'd ask your high school's entire rugby team, because I hear you're kind of a slut.

Editor's Note: I chose rugby right there because I don't think any of my real life cousins go to high schools that have rugby teams. That is to say that I don't know if any of them are sluts, no matter what I may have heard about them. I don't even know if any of my cousins read this blog, but I'll guess that they probably don't. A thought, however: if you, reader, are in fact a cousin of mine, and find yourself offended by such sentiments, it is likely that you actually are a slut. You should consider getting tested. Safety first!

But here's the thing about you, survey-writer extraordinaire, who constantly fills my bulletin update box with your stupid fucking surveys, and has, incessantly, ever since I made the mistake of accepting your friend request: you don't even answer the questions! It's bad enough I don't give a shit about you already, but you aren't even giving me anything to not give a shit about at all!! Really, what's the point of filling out a fucking survey if you're just going to skirt around the questions?

Q: "Who's the last person that you let finger you?"
A: NONE OF THE ONES THAT YOU GAVE

Your answers are things like "Not telling," or "That's not very nice," or "I absolutely have no idea, what with all the fingers I've had in me recently." What the fuck is that? YOU MADE THE COMMITMENT TO FILL OUT THIS SURVEY, SO FILL IT THE HELL OUT. Some of your stupid surveys even have a first question that flat out asks you, "Will you fill out this whole survey no matter how embarassing it is/obviously creepy the author happened to be?" And you answered YES! With a winky little smiley face! So don't go skimpin' on the juicy details just because you can't remember if it was Ridge or Tanner or your bio teacher behind the bleachers after detention. Just own up to it. We all already know anyway, because it got around school faster than you do. Who cares if it's embarassing, it's just the internet. No one reads this shit anyway. Let's try again, shall we?

Q: "Who's the last person that you let finger you?"
A: "Technically, my father. But I didn't LET him."

That's more like it. You've got to be honest with yourself. You also might as well pack your bags, because you're off to a foster home. I was kidding when I said no one reads this shit. Everyone reads it. Even your dad. So if Child Services doesn't make it to you first, get ready for the ass-whoopin' of a life time. Plus, you're gonna get grounded. Maybe even lose your cellphone. And then how are you going to be able to text Tanner that you missed your period? By the time you're allowed to go back to the mall and see him, you'll already be showing! Boy oh boy, the proverbial shit's gonna metaphorically hit the allegorical fan!

MORAL OF THE STORY??

SHUT THE FUCK UP!

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Hypermagicism International

It's been almost exactly a year to the day that I left for New Zealand to film for a month for Roadtrip Nation. A lot has happened since then, and even more hasn't. I'm still living in Lancaster, after being sure I'd be out of here within months of returning. The economy tanked and kept me stationary and without job. We got a new president, and one I actually voted for. I was even an election correspondent for the radio host in New Zealand that I met during my trip. I got a job at a grocery store for awhile, became the manager of the store's cafe, then was fired. But on Tuesday morning, 368 days since I last got on a plane to head elsewhere in the world, I'm doing it again. To Buenos Aires.

Not for a documentary this time, more for pleasure. I'll be living for a month with my friends Jen and Curtis, who live on and off down in Argentina. In an apartment, not a swampy van on the side of the road, or hopping from bed to bed in the houses of kind-hearted people who I barely know. The apartment is actually pretty damn sweet too. Needless to say, it should be quite a different trip. Beyond all that, of course, there is the complete language barrier. The extent of my Spanish is "Hello" at three different times of day and the word for "toilet" (not even the entire phrase to ask where one is).

I've debated adopting a Kiwi accent for the duration of the trip, or speaking primarily German and then "finding a common ground" among English, to make myself appear like less of a moronic American tourist. I hear most people just pretend to be Canadian, but where's the fun in that? If I pretend to be a German I could totally get away with wearing a fanny pack, but I guess I'll have to leave my college sweatshirts, stretch-fit visors and white New Balance running sneakers at home. In a country of inhumanly suave, beautiful people, I don't need to attract anymore attention to myself than need be.

But, like my excursion to the Land Just Southeast of the Land Down Under, I have decided to keep a Tumblr photoblog--my second iteration of what I suppose I'm calling "Hypermagicism International," this time the Tangophase instead of the Kiwiphase. Get it? See what I'm going for here? I don't know if I'll be updating my main blog here much for the upcoming month (I guess it all depends on how much Argentine cops piss me off, the way this thing has been carrying on), but I will do my best to keep you updated through pictures and anecdotes. Maybe I'll even get it done in real time, instead of trying to catch up for a month after I get home. That would be a change of pace. There's nothing on the blog yet, but as soon as I start snapping pictures in the airport (I've got five hours to kill during a layover in Miami anyway), I'll make sure they hit the webternets. At least that way, if I go missing as a nubile young sex slave like my parents inevitably fear, someone will realize I haven't blogged in a few weeks and send out a search party.

I hope you'll follow me along on my journey. I won't be touring the countryside like I did last time, but I assume I'll have interesting things to share in one of the biggest and craziest cities in the world. For convenience's sake, I'm adding a link to my navigational bar above, so that you can more easily access my Hypermagicism International blogs. Hopefully they'll grow in years to come. At least that'll mean I'm out of the racist fucking shithole where I live now, even if it is only for a few weeks at a time. Hopefully the next time I'll be able to bring Jess along. I'm really going to miss her for these next thirty-odd days. Plus, she's good at keeping things organized. This whole flying by myself for the first time thing is kind of intimidating, what with how I constantly lose/forget everything that isn't attached to my body. I guess I'll manage. My biggest concern right now is what awesome perks LAN Argentina is going to include on my flight. Qantas is going to be pretty hard to beat.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

A lil' bit country

The last couple of days I've been around the house more than usual, which means I've been subjected to my mom's radio more than I can bear. It's one of those weird little radios that no one has anymore, mounted into the bottom of our kitchen cupboards. I remember being a little kid with one of those little microphones that would "broadcast" over the radio, and I would run around the kitchen singing (yelling) into it. Back then we listened to FM97, especially Brother Weems in the morning. So much so, in fact, that when Weems got booted for being too wild, we moved with him to a local country station, WIOV, and suddenly my childhood went from Billy Idol and Right Said Fred to Billy Ray Cyrus and Garth Brooks.

It goes to show you just how commodified pop music really is, for my parents to move seamlessly from their Mötley Crüe cassettes to a Neil McCoy concert. But Weems was pretty legit. The morning he ran was no Howard Stern, but at my age I probably wouldn't have understood Stern anyway. Though, within a few years, we would be hanging out at my friend Ryan's house, listening to the re-broadcasts late at night between Cake's "Frank Sinatra" and the Presidents of the United States of America. But that was it for my parents, they were into country suddenly, and now fifteen years later, WIOV is still the station my mom's radio is tuned to.

It's the reason why I can sing the words to every single country song from 1991 until about 2001 without even knowing them (I need to get on that CMT show, "Singing Bee"--I'm a total ringer), and really, that I don't mind. Some of those songs are pretty damn good. I love Johnny Cash and Hank Williams and George Jones. I've got a place in my heart for David Allan Coe and Reba McEntire (so many songs about murder!), and of course Garth Brooks is one of the biggest acts in the history of music for a reason. But tuning into WIOV (or now as they call it, "The Big I-105") these days is a far cry from a decade ago.

I hate the music that they call "country" any more. Johnny and Hank would be disgusted to hear it. Johnny no doubt was when he was still alive--you didn't see him singing duets with Faith Hill or touring with Rascal Flatts (whoever the fuck that even is). He worked with Rick Rubin and Tom Petty and sang songs by Glenn Danzig and Trent Reznor. I played in a country band for almost a year, and though we've sadly now disbanded from the distance between us, I miss The Bad Faith Compromise quite a bit. But when I'd try to explain who we were, what we did, I'd always balk at calling it country though I knew it plainly was. "Folk rock" we said most of the time, "or Americanacore, if you can imagine such a thing. You know, a little like Slim Cessna's Auto Club. Or Waylon Jennings fronting Minor Threat."

It's not because I wanted to lie, it's because country music, at this point, absolutely mis-represents country music. It's the farthest cry from what it was, in production, in spirit, in sound, even in theme. If it was popular at one time to make fun of country songs for being all about rusty pick-up trucks and old hound dogs and the memories of lovers lost, then what the hell do we have today? At least those were stories, and from the heart. I dare you to listen to "Beaches of Cheyenne" without it painting a heartbreaking tale for you. Hell, think about the title. That's deep stuff! Today we get three main kinds of songs. Female singers get the one of the categories, the Tough-Ass Beer-Swillin' Babe Gonna Show You She Ain't Dealin' With Your Shit No More (Gretchen Wilson's "Redneck Woman" and Carrie Underwood's "Before He Cheats"), along with their occasional sappy love songs here and there. Male vocalists also get their whiny little love songs (that are usually more about Jesus than women, it seems), but they've got two main categories as well: the Let's Hit The Bar & Partake In Some Questionably Homoerotic Bro-Bonding (Big & Rich's "Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy" and Kenny Chesney's "No Shirt, No Shoes, No Problems"); and of course the I Am So Goddamn American You Wouldn't Even Believe (Toby Keith's "Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue" and... well, okay Toby Keith kinda has the market cornered on this one).

Actually, as I took a few minutes from writing just now to look up these song titles (since all I ever hear in these songs is "America! Beer, beer beer! America! Horses!" and that's not much to go on for identification), I am truly blown away by some of the shit I have found. First of all, Kenny Chesney's gay, right? First that song about not wearing clothes up there, but he's also got songs entitled, "Keg in the Closet," "All I Want for Christmas is a Real Good Tan," "Flip Flop Summer," and his ostensible ode to the many and beautiful schlongs he's seen in his life, "Someone Else's Hog." Apparently there's some crossover in the Shit Yeah You Know I'm A Fucking American camp as well, with Chely Wright's "Bumper of My SUV," in which she sings somberly about the U.S. Marine Corps ribbon magnet on the bumper of her SUV, and the woman in a minivan that flips her off as she drives by. Because of her bumper sticker, right? Not because she's probably holding up traffic as she cruises down the street at 10 mph below the speed limit in her gas-guzzling Hummer H2, taking out small pets and kids on bikes without even noticing because she's on her cellphone and listening to Toby Keith's "Let's Talk About Me" at volumes loud enough to drop birds from the sky.

Yeah, I'm sure it was your USMC bumper sticker.

I love country music, but every time I say it, I have to follow it with a big, fat asterisk. I love the stories county music tells like no other genre can, and I love the storytellers telling them. I love the imagery and metaphor, like John Updike with a harmonica. I love a simple guitar, a haunting lap steel and a fiddle. Man, if the good ol' boys of country could see it now, I know exactly what they'd do. They'd beat the snot out of these Keith Urbans and Brad Paisleys and call them queers. Because, frankly, they were racists and homophobes. But they did make some fine ass music. And that's what counts. I think.

Friday, August 14, 2009

Douglas Coupland - Girlfriend in a Coma ***

After finishing what was apparently Coupland's masterwork, Microserfs (though I haven't read Generation-X yet) which I adored and reviewed here a little while ago, I immediately hit the bookstore again in search of the other book of his that I'd been kicking around buying for awhile as well: Girlfriend in a Coma.

Unlike Microserfs, the plotline of this 1998 release is not such a simple one. It's set in and around Vancouver, Coupland's home, and has to do with the end of the world mostly. And, like the first book I read of his, Hey Nostradamus!, it begins with narration from a character who is already dead. Which consequently also makes me want to buy Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones, but I'm trying to save my money, dammit. Oh, also, there's a girlfriend in a coma. It's not just a Smith's reference.

What made Microserfs such a perfect book was its simplicity and its characters--just how real and full of emotion they were while doing the most banal things. The characters in Girlfriend in a Coma are certainly full of emotion, but the entire book is ramped up into the realm of science fiction. Not a bad thing, but it's harder to gauge just how "real" the entire thing feels when the entire plot is predicated on something unrealistic. It's not that I couldn't suspend my disbelief, it's just that the plot really drives this novel forward, not every day the interactions of the characters that shone so brightly in Microserfs.

Still, Girlfriend in a Coma is a damn fine and affecting book, but comparing it as I inevitably did with the book I finished just days before reading it was like comparing apples to slightly less wonderfully amazing apples. As wacky and unbelievable as it can get, humanity still does ring out clearly. So it goes with all good speculative fiction, or there would be nothing to speculate on at all. It would just be explosions and high-speed chases through the galaxy. Like a Michael Bay movie. Ugh.

I suggest the book highly, though not as high as I might some of his others. It's a little bit Vonnegut and a little bit Heller, with dark visions of the future and an inescapable fear of the unknown. Good all around, and a solid entry from an author who is quickly becoming one of my favorites.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Licensed to ill

I swore to myself I wouldn't do it. No, not make a second Beastie Boys reference in two days--that I'm glad to do. Even in my last blogpost when I started getting close, I purposely shut that shit down, because for me to weigh in on the healthcare issue would just be a mess. It's not just about the healthcare bill or its details, it would have to be about everything: about the Republicans that are fighting tooth-and-nail against it despite their supposed Christian values of compassion; about these fucking "Blue Dog Democrats," these moderate conservatives in disguise, eating up Dixiecrat votes in the south and spitting out blatant Republican ideals when they hit the Senate floor; but most of all, it would have to be about the town hall meetings that have been getting completely out of hand.

But I swore not to. Rachel Maddow was doing enough, along with Keith Olbermann and even Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert. What would be the point of me re-hashing their points? Anyone can turn on MSNBC or just about any other news channel to hear what has been going on. The organized protestors made to look like organic dissenters, and how those protests were organized by medical and insurance lobby groups. The fake letters sent out by by Bonner & Associates to Rep. Tom Perriello (D-VA), with stolen NAACP letterhead, asking that he vote against Cap & Trade Bill. Why do that? Well, because they were hired by the American Coalition for Clean Coal Electricity to do exactly that. Hell, they even invented a new word for it all: "astroturfing," as a nod to just how fake these concocted grassroots efforts really are.

And yet, here I am, reneging on my word. What could possibly drive me to do such a thing? Because this week, Pennsylvania Senator Arlen Specter (who I have proudly twice voted for--and while he was listed Republican, no less) held one of these now-infamous town hall meetings in Lebanon, PA, only a half hour or so north of where I live. And, as expected, it went swimmingly. For the lobbyists. It's not even a Right/Left thing at this point, and that's the most mind-boggling thing of it all. The conservative right might be aligned with these beliefs, but the people getting the uneducated and under-informed citizens of this great nation all riled up at these meetings aren't from one side of the political division or the other--THEY'RE JUST COMPANIES THAT WANT TO STOP THIS LEGISLATION BECAUSE IT WILL COST THEM MILLIONS UPON MILLIONS OF DOLLARS IF IT GOES THROUGH. And somehow they've scared us enough, with their chain emails and news stories that Fox News is just dying to pick up, that they can get people to go DISRUPT TOWN HALL MEETINGS AND DO THEIR GODDAMN CORPORATE DIRTY WORK FOR THEM.

Footage from this town hall in Lebanon hit the internet like all the others, but this time it was picked up by Hardball co-host, Lawrence O'Donnell and he actually invited the psychotic cunt from the video on his show. And proceeded to completely (and politely) dismantle her. Of course, actions speak louder than words, so just watch it. If you can make it all the way through. I know it's tough, but when he starts completely nailing her on the fact that Medicare is a socialized medicine plan, it all becomes worth the agony.


I, for one, would now like to take a little road trip. First to New York, so that I can give O'Donnell some kind of award or at least a handjob of appreciation. Then on my way home, maybe I'll stop in the Lebanon area, at the Jigger Shop in Mt. Gretna for a delicious Sundae. Oh, and then swing by this bitch's house to smack her in the fucking jaw.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Ill communication

I haven't really been feeling all that well lately. It's been a few days now of just a small, stomachache kind of nausea that comes and goes. It's not the crippling, vomit-heralding kind of pain I had after spending a day in Atlantic City, burned to a fire engine red crisp, but it's more than enough to keep me from doing the things that I want to do. Like, say, going with Jess and Tanya to Hersheypark today. That sucks.

I'm not sure where the feeling is coming from either. I don't think it's any remnant from the sun-poisoning episode I had at the beach, but I don't know what it could possibly be otherwise. Maybe one of the bike rides I took with my dad last week? Both times I had to stop and just chill out at the side of the road because I felt like I was going to throw up. But to my defense, it was a good 80 degrees with major humidity both of those times. And that sort of thing shouldn't hang around like this.

Is it possible that in my advancing age (I'm over 23 and a half now, don't you know) my susceptibility to motion sickness is increasing? I thought I was getting better while I was in New Zealand, able to fly and boat and drive over a thousand miles around some pretty winding mountain roads. But I did have my trusty bottle of ginger pills at my side at all times. My mom can't do car trips without some kind of diazepam, and my dad can't even look at a carousel without his stomach turning. Am I already so old? Must I put my love of roller coasters and driving like a maniac by the wayside so soon?

I certainly hope not. Imagine it's just a stomach flu, influenced by the heat, humidity and the fact that I probably just plain don't eat right. However, I'd love to go to the doctor and get it checked out--and with my newly acquired health insurance, I'm good to go, right? Of course not. What I've got is health insurance at its most basic concept, not health care. What that means is I've got a $1200 deductible, so if I want to visit the doctor to figure out what the hell is up with my tummy, I've got to pay out for everything until I rack up twelve-hundred bucks. Then the insurance company will cover 90% of costs after that.

I don't have a problem with that really, it's the only way I could afford health insurance at all, at $79 a month. I could have had a zero dollar deductible for $123 or so a month, but that's just not realistic what with my lack of job and/or prospects. What my coverage is for is getting hit by a car and not dying. Nothing more. Which I guess is nice enough, but the statistics just aren't in favor of that kind of a thing happening. So Highmark just gets to swallow eighty bucks out of my wallet each month from here 'til infinity. Awesome. And I still have no idea why I feel like ass.

Huntington has a theory. We started talking about chemical warfare, and he suggested that possibly the most damaging thing that a bio-terrorist could do to the United States is not release anthrax or monkey pox on us, but just give 304,059,724 Americans a belly-ache. Not enough to bring us to our knees, not enough to have us crouched over a toilet, just enough for us all to sorta not want to move and maybe groan a little. How brutalizing would an attack like that be? It would show the vast power of such an attack, while also making us look like a bunch of lazy, weak slobs. Not that the latter would take much effort.

Saturday, August 8, 2009

My brand new 'do

Oh, hello there. I didn't see you come in. Why yes, I did change something about myself. No, not my hair, tee hee. That's right boys, it's a whole new world here. Welcome to the brand new face of The Hypermagic Headphase.

I figured it was about time to gussy this bitch up, so I'm trying to look a little more professional here. I also managed to get some pseudo-static pages to organize and keep track of all of my blogs, as well as an about page and some other useful links up there across the top. Designed the background all myself. The only thing I haven't been able to figure out yet is how to single space that sidebar over there. But I'm working on it.

What is up with the complete lack of user-friendliness of Blogspot anyway? On an extremely simple level it's great, no complicated dealings to get your first blog up and running. But as soon as you want to customize something more than the background color, you have to jump through flaming hoops with this wacky half-assed html they have hidden inside this thing. And no real static pages? I had to fake my way through those things and I'm not exactly pumped about how they turned out (if I could at least get rid of the timestamp on them, I'd be exponentially more satisfied), but at least they do the job. And they're free. I was planning on converting to Wordpress or Moveable Type but both those motherfuckers charge you to edit your CSS. Ridiculous. Maybe when I get around to hosting my own site I'll upgrade to something more legit. But probably not.

The coolest new feature of this re-vamped thang is definitely the comments. You used to have to have a Google account to comment on my blog--but no more! I found the comment properties by accident while I was making my other changes, and I now made it so that anyone can have their say. So please do! It at least gives me the illusion that people other than my friend Rob are reading my blog, which is always a nice feeling. You can also subscribe to my RSS feed or follow me on Twitter if you like. Yeah, I totally gave in. Sue me.

So to those who have read thus far, thank you. To those just finding me now, welcome. I look forward to a long and bountiful life together, full of lots of love, sorrow and curse words. It's been a great two years, and there's plenty more where this shit came from. Strap in.

Thursday, August 6, 2009

My issues with police, Vol. 46,241,346

Here's to hoping that you're not sick of my endless ranting about police in any and all forms, because I've still got more venom to spit. Yesterday I spent with my friend Huntington as I do most Wednesdays. We went out to lunch with Jess, then later stopped by one of our favorite game stores, Six Feet Under in New Holland, and picked up some things for the little Magic club that we run.

Upon pulling into the parking lot, we saw a cop car parked and empty, initiating distaste from both of us for no good reason, because that's just who we are. However, when we got out of Huntington's car, we found good reason for our disgust. The car was running with the air-conditioner blasting, condensation leaking onto the ground into a huge puddle. The car had obviously been parked like this for a while. Six Feet is in a little strip mall, along with a Blockbuster, an H&R Block, a Subway and a coffeehouse, among other things. We went to our store to pick things up, then screwed around awhile, waiting for our friend and clubmate Amanda to arrive at her job at Blockbuster to give her the cards we'd picked up for her. After about fifteen minutes or so, we wandered into New Holland Coffee to hang out somewhere a little cooler than Huntington's Jetta and who did we finally see? That's right, this little piggy went to get a mocha.

He was sitting at the window, watching his car to make sure no one tried to cruise away in it (in which case he would have no doubt sprung out the door and tased them within an inch of a heart attack), just sippin' away on his refreshing beverage. I wish I'd thought to look at his badge, or at least his license plate, so that I could call and ask the department if this is the sort of thing that they condone. Because not only was it pointless, wasteful and bad for the environment, it was a waste of fucking tax money. Congrats, taxpayers of New Holland Borough, you just pissed away a tank of gasoline's worth of cash because your patrolman wanted to keep his car cool while he took a little half hour break. It's a small number, no doubt. But is he the only officer doing this? And how often does he do so? This seemed like a pretty routine thing, him lounging in his chair at the window. It all adds up. And you shouldn't be expected to spend even a fraction of a cent on such wasteful behavior.

So what is there to do? I could call the department and bitch and they wouldn't care. Scratch that. I could write a blog about it for nobody in particular. Done. I guess I could write a letter to the local newspaper. Done and done. Of course, this means that I can no longer drive in New Holland, for fear that the officer (who is definitely going to know exactly who I'm talking about) will look up my license plate number and harass the shit out of me if he ever gets a chance. But it's worth the trouble. Especially because Huntington usually drives when we go there since he doesn't like being in my car. Whatever that's supposed to mean.

The letter is a bit nicer than this--too nice, I think, but otherwise they probably won't print it--but I think it gets my point across. That I hate fucking cops. Well, more that I think valuable tax money is being wasted on stupidity, and that police in general need to have a little more respect for the people they lord over, since they demand so much respect of us--a point that I feel we can all agree upon. Other than the police, but by now you know how I feel about them.

(Fuck 'em.)