Kings of th' Whole Ding Busted World!!

Why all the time does it have to be the country w/ the most artillery gets to run all the fuckin' crap? Jesus! Have you ever thought about how god damn dangerous that is? Somebody's going to get their eye out fucksake. you know who I bet thinks that's stupid beyond doubt? My mom! Did your mom let you run around playing with Tek 9's and flippin' hollowtips? My mom would have tanned my hide within an inch of my life! Jesus! My mom? My mom would be livid if she ever found out I was appointing myself cop o' the world because I had guns. I mean, don't get me wrong- there's a couple things I could've done more to Mom's liking. Hey! Fuck! We're good, though, you know? But, yeah. She'd be pretty bent. It would be like that time I got hammered in 11th grade but thirty times worse.

The best way I have to gauge how my Mom must think about some of my choices is if I picture Sal The Feist making choices like that. That puts it into perspective for me, you know? Because she's a tough little customer but she's just a little feist. I want her to always have good teeth and a warm place to sleep.

I wouldn't want her to sleep in a van in Hillywood. Wouldn't want her to go around bodychecking program directors at commercial radio stations and watching payola switch hands in her name. To have to be in a band with some idiot like Frank Dolan. Guh. Jesus, you see what Triumph the Comic Insult Dog went through. It's tough on a dog, man. I want Sal th' Feist always thinking the world is a huge plaything put there for her to enjoy and pounce at. And to watch her get psyched when spring comes because of the runoff and she can fish for bubbles in the stream.


Let's think about maybe letting th' country with the most POT run things. Just a thought, you know? I remember in Burrough's superlative Junky he talks about dealing all different kind of drugs and how selling weed to the tea-heads is the biggest pain in the ass. Because they always want to hang around and yap.

So whaddya reckon the country with the most POT is? Mexico, maybe? Somewhere in Latin America? Burma or some shit? Who knows? Maybe I'll look it up on the internets?

Jesus, the way everybody is calling it the internets is the funniest god damn christing thing. Oh, that is a guffaw an' a chortle. Un chortelle.

allright- google- "the country with the most marijuana". copy. paste. 16,000,439 results.

Hmmmm. My concentration ain't what it used to be.

Rufus Wainwright's "Grey Gardens" from Poses. Goodness. Playing with that theme like a god damn hackey sack. Like a ping pong ball on a waterbed. And the bass. And there's that modulation that's sere and astringent for an instant but goes completely lush. This is the kind of song that for me is beyond the usual jealousy; it puts the bar so high that for once I don't feel disgusted with the cruddy quality of popular music. And that it has no use for me.

Rufus. Calvin Theatre Northampton. Early November. Me and Lori. Front of the balcony. Liftoff, motherfuckers. LIFTOFF.

yeah, so maybe the country with the most smoke. It'll be like high school. Fuckin' America will be the football star dude and England will be like the cheerleader with the most talent. And fucking Bolivia and Mexico and Laos will be hanging out behind the gym running the fucking world. They'll be late to class 'n the teacher will be pissed but they'll be like, "hey, we're trying to run the world here, vato."

And when crap goes down somewheres and they have to make the scene and administer some of their healing fumes to some pissed off tinpot shit head tryin' to move some god damn army into some backwater or another they'll get hall passes.

Hall passes.

To run the world. With the most reefer. Kings of the world!

Kings of th' Whole Ding Busted World!


Bobby Lightfoot's Greatest Hits #3: Neocon Polesmoking Felcheteers #'s 1 to like a zillion or something.

Yeah, so, I did this back 'round May or so. Took a lot of research, anal ysis and dial ysis. It's funny enough but a little puffy in retrospect. Since then about 8 brazillion innocents have died slowly and in great pain at the hands of these cockknockers so keep that in mind when you make note of how easy I was on 'em.

Anyway, I think this was some sober and important work; I might almost characterize it as a turning point for me. This is when it began to dawn on me that the political blogging that I had here 2 4 (that's me doing Prince) eschewed in favor of deep culturial matters might be a bailiwink of sorts for my ass. Without further adon't, I slowly pull back the curtain on:

Bobby Lightfoot's Profiles in NeoCon polesmoking felcheteers number 1: George W. Bush

Hail to the chief! Arguably the most bloodthirsty, assmongering psychopath in the history of the universe. This little Terrier of Satan has more blood on his hands than Krom IV of the Zekron system, who tortured and murdered one hundred billion innocents as the galaxy watched.
Y'know how Al Gore invented the internet? This fucking specimen invented every instrument of torture from 1000 B.C. on as he knelt in his bloodspattered cave, plotting and scheming for a time when people would actually be stupid enough to allow him to lie and connive his way into power. He hunkered down, absently tugging at his diseased protuberance and cackling as he invented human suffering and bloodshed. One must never speak his name three times into a mirror lest he appear and snuff any unsuspecting person with a single noisome fart from his lying, corrupt vocal flap.

George Bush- man of the people. The SHIT people.

Bobby Lightfoot's Profiles in NeoCon polesmoking felcheteers number 2: Dick Chaney

holy mary mother of god, would you look at that study in Kthuluesque evil? I'd hold a cross up to his likeness but they're banned in our house because all Christian people will cheat and deceive you with no compunction to achieve their nefarious, though nonexistent, ends.
Flowers literally wilt in this man's path. Anyone coming within 5 yards of him will curdle on the inside like bad bleu cheese and die a slow, fetid death as he cackles and touches himself through his piss-stiffened fly. Everything Nostradamus ever wrote was about this abomination. God coughed up his spleen and moved to Calcutta when this psycho shitstain clawed and chewed his way out of his mother's skull. Dick Cheney could do what 45 years of nucular fuckery couldn't achieve just by opening his mouth and letting the Winds Of Hell suck everything into his polyp-festooned belly. If I saw Dick Cheney on the street I would take a very long pole, tie a wooden stake to it and send him off to Vampire Heaven as he screeched and burped out the blood of a million lambs.

Bobby Lightfoot's Profiles in NeoCon polesmoking felcheteers number 3: Condoleeza Rice

Condoleeza Rice is one deranged lady. She goes around doing more crazy shit that is bad for America than anyone else in history. This woman is so unflinchingly, so remorselessly evil it's amazing we're not all already dead, knocked down by the sheer tidal wave of hate that she emits like a sick, infested ocean of putrid sinus drainage. It's a habit of hers daily to put down in her planner one hundred people that will be slowly garroted by her storm troopers. She goes to blogs to find those brave and true enough to speak of her deadly arts and they are cut down in their beds and she makes their children watch as she eats their still-beating hearts. And then she makes them watch as she turns into a huge, sickly sore ridden bat creature and shits out a perfect crapsculpture of The Smithsonian Institute. Christ, I have to go puke a turletfull of little wriggling, unspeakable things just thinking of this repulsive, putrescent harridan.

By the way, you might be interested to know that when she does this she emits a shrieking sound akin to that made by a once-powerful, righteous nation snapping the dicks off its own boychildren and feeding them by the barrel load to nightmarish, Hieronymus Bosch-like dolphins with human faces and twisted hands that shit out their blowholes because Old Scratch got them.

Condoleeza Rice- Woman of the People. The Lets Make Everything Suck People!

Bobby Lightfoot's Profiles in NeoCon polesmoking felcheteers number 4: John Ashcroft

Jesus H. Fucking Christ in Drag. Let me tell you about THIS little bilge rodent of a wartfarm. When they were handing out brains this fuckin' little fistula of a man thought they were gnocci and ate his. No joke- this is a dangerous little broken record of a polesmoking dickburn. Ashcroft's name and picture should be up in the post office so that any Amurrrican can exercise their second ammendment rights and find him and run him down like the craphandling, cheating, poodlebuggering shithose that he is. 'Nuff said!

John Ashcroft! Man of the People- the STINKY people.

Bobby Lightfoot's Profiles in NeoCon polesmoking felcheteers number 5: Paul Wolfowitz

Holy shit! What a pus-slurping dungbather THIS fucking guy is! LOOK at that psycho neocon lymphdrinker!
This guy, butter wouldn't melt his mouth if you shoved a blowtorch up his ass- at least it doesn't in my recurring dream for a better Amurrrrica. This fucking guy is such a licelike card carrying member of the Fuckup Club that it actually can delay cabinet meetings. But since cabinet meetings now are all about which Middle Eastern nation we're going to shove our best and bravest up the ass of so they can get coke and Special K so W and Condi can get all plowed and make a pinata out of some drifter while they're naked, what the fuck, right?
Paul Wolfowitz: Man Of The People- the STOOPY people.


My, that is amusing.

Bobby Lightfoot's Profiles in NeoCon polesmoking felcheteers number 6: John Bolton

Holy Smokes, peace loving people of America! We've got to stop John Bolton from being elected Ambassador to th' U.N.!!!

Oh, wait- that's Michael Bolton. Sorry.

Actually, as long as I'm here, let's deal with this fellow and then we'll move on to the Red Menace.

I know attacking Michael Bolton is up there with making fun of Heart's "Dog And Butterfly", so I will strictly present the facts. Here's the deal:

Couple years back I was doing Frunt of House production for some corporate shindig or another at some palacial hotel on the coast between San Diego and LA. Next door at the Waldork Hysteria there was another corporate shindig, probably R.J. Reynolds or some equally hellbound entity. So who's the entertainment for that one, huh? You guested it- Michael Bolton. Actually, Michael Bolton AND that king of 80's ultra-average sunglasses-mean-you're-cool-registered-trademark boring saxophone, oh, fuck what's his name....hmmm...ummm...oh, christ.

DAVID SANBORN. That's who the other boring prick was who was entertaining The Stormtroopers Of Exxon or whoever it was.

So, a couple of the production people were taking a break from their setup (make sure Michael's teleprompter is up and running, make sure Sanborn's tape of something decent actually playing for him to mime to is free of dropouts etc. etc.) and they came over and hung out with me. They were decent folk, as they rarely are. These sound techs and union roadies are ALWAYS FUCKING ASSHOLES. ALWAYS. No sense of humor, no personality, nothing but "the K2-9008 has a better signal to noise ratio than the XTC-333...blah blah blah...I suck....blah blah....R-556666....I'm a boring ASSHOLE..."

I take it back, these guys were ASSHOLES too. I forgot myself. I've been on antidepressants and feeling magnanimous. So much for THAT.

Anyway, they figured I'd be really, really excited to see Bolton and Sanborn close up. Yeah, I was all rigid and veiny over THAT. My fucking HEROES of SHITTY CRAP. Possibly the most EXECRABLE people to ever succeed in music and THAT's SAYING SOMETHING, DAWG.

'Course, I had to go along. Maybe I could get a clear shot at one of them. With my WEINER.

So we go over to the other crappy palacial hotel and there's the stage and all the tents and trailers backstage for these IDIOTS and their MINIONS. Who I would sign up to be in about 3 seconds.
So we go to Bolton's tent and look in and he and Sanborn are in there sitting at a table with their heads in a pile of blow the size of a Berkshire foothill. yapping a mile a minute, all magnanimous. Blah blah blah. Do i wanna drink? yes, please. Do I want some booger sugar? Only if it's to go, gentlemen. Only if you solemnly swear to each ingest a fatal amount and leave your wallets in clear sight. Anyway, I threw back my Sea Breeze and hightailed it out of there before my sensibilities could be permanently damaged. Also, with the rock stars on blow, you gotta realize the niceness lasts about as long as the last line. Then they go back to being PSYCHOTIC BITCHES.

Except for STP. They were nice. Maybe they were on something that lasts longer than 3 minutes and doesn't leave you a wrinkled, whingeing shell. Maybe something healthier like PINESOL.

Bobby Lightfoot's Profiles in NeoCon polesmoking felcheteers number 6: John Bolton

I'm going to make this as simple as I can. There's nothing wrong with having the courage of your convictions. AS LONG AS YOUR CONVICTIONS DON'T FUCKING SUCK.

It's the same problem we're having with most of these strong silent IDIOTS. Hey, America, will you admire me if I'm really, really resolute in my stance that all the bunnies should be skinned alive???

Wait, don't answer.


I always wanted to say that. Jesus, just LOOK at this ASSHOLE. The ANGER drips off him like sick fever sweat. What an ASSHOLE. He's one of those people who starts talking all quiet and then gets SHRILLER and SHRILLER until he's all RED and SCREAAAAAAMING from the RIGHTEOUSNESS of his CONVICTIONS.

Yeah, I'll sign the petition to not have him elected. I'll sign it on his FOREHEAD with a FLAT HEAD SCREWDRIVER. "Bobby Aloysius Barnhard McGillicuddy Robinson Manson Lightfoot the XXXXXIIIIIIIIII".

Goddammit, when can I SLEEP??????????

Dangerous Neocon Polesmoking Felcheteer Number Like a Zillion or something: Tom Fucking DeLay

God, I feel unequal to this task. I don't know where to start. You know, if I can topple an evil as ancient and powerful as fucking Santa Claus, you'd think I wouldn't tremble at taking on this little nipplehair.

Truth is, I'm scared. I'm a little scared. I'm going to take a deep breath and do this, but I hope it's not my last. Christ knows I might start feeling little pinpricks out of the blue in my ass and then the life will be snatched out of me by evil spirits. Lots of people who cross Tom DeLays path speak of pinpricks in the ass.

Whenever I feel like the children are getting the better of me and I feel bested and defeated and resentful, I just remind myself of the fact that the world of tomorrow is being constructed by people like Tom DeLay. That'll be their punishment, ultimately. Poor little bastards. This might, in fact, be a useful exercise in expanding my compassion for Them.

Shit. I just don't know if I can do this.

All right. Here goes nothing.


Where on earth do we start with this fucking monster?

Fuck. I felt like I was getting somewhere and then I lowercased it and I lost my mojo.

Jesus, gang. I'm going to have to come back to Tom.

God, I feel small.

I don't know why large text all runs together like that but it's funnier that way.


Oh Happy Fucking Day

HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!!!!!!!

HA HA HA!!!!!! HA HA!! HA!!!

You will no doubt have access to far more incisive and probing commentary on Tom Fucking Delay's INDICTMENT for being a craven criminal in the blogosphere in the coming days.

Allow me to use my unique platform as a cursin' rageoholic to express the simpler delights of saying




Now we just have to ride that god damn Jim Reverb and Frank Flange outta town on a rail and then we can celebrate with Joan Baez songs and bad sixties reefer.

I was at a reshmertzall tonight and someone mentioned a "pre-chorus". Someone else asked what that is and I said it was this thing that came earlier and lubed things up a little so the chorus could just shoot right out. I guess that's how I get this rep. you see why rehearsal is a bad idea?

Anway, did I mention that





O.K. So You Have To Go Down to ????????? ????? right under the Glurb I Have Untreated Banditis Post

to read "Ladies And Gentlemen The Fabulous Fucking Del Rays" post. I had to work on it for a while so it was one of them "drafts".

But yeah, so, check it out.

Bobby Lightfoot's Greatest Hits #2: "Are You Experienced?"

This is coming from last June. I don't usually catalog my drug experiences because I don't want to tip off FEMA.

This one, however, is simply too sugarfree to ignore.

Holy Mary Mother of God I played this outdoor thing yesterday and it was hotter than Croissus. I opted for this particular beverage of champions to get buzzed up but still burn away some pounds.

After the first set I'd had like three and I was motormouthin' pretty bad. Childhood, music, the whole nine. Drummer looked at me kind of funny. I was sitting with a cup on my knee and I looked down and my fucking leg was pumping and I had delicious cancerwater all over my pants. It rocked.

So, around delicious can number five I started to get a little slurry and kind of disoriented. We hit the stage and every song seemed really SLLLLOOOOOOWWWWW and I just wanted to ROCK ROCK. ROCK. ROCK. GLLLSHPPPPSHHHGGGGGGLLLL like Beavis with the Crappucino.

I did "Slow Down" and it was like fuckin' PANTERA. That scratched a pretty bad itch I had by then. In my shoulders. Behind my knees. On my neck. Elbow. Then I rocked another can and we did my song "Leaving California" and it was over in like 40 seconds. Ha. Then it was "Long Tall Sally", "Next To You", "Baba O'Reilly", "You Really Got Me", "Sweet Little Sixteen" and "Day Tripper".

After the show I helped myself to another wholesome Diet Pepsi. I noticed a profusion of thin saliva building up in my mouth which unfortunately began to fall out upon my shirt and this was problematic because I was driving. Really fast. In circles. Laying some rubber in my '94 Saturn. I got out because my eyes were sort of zipping around in my head and I looked in the side mirror and my pupils were like fucking molecule-sized and I had like six veins pulsing in my temples. I had been singing along to "Live At Leeds" and there was spit all over the windshield and I was talking to myself in an unknown dialect. I scratched my cheek until it started to bleed and it tasted of cola. I also bit my lip really bad at the same time and then couldn't stop worrying it. With the brush for cleaning the car battery terminals. F-felt goooood.

Luckily I was at a convenience store so I ripped on in and got a Diet Pepsi. It took the edge off for a few minutes until I was almost home and then my foot started to spasm on the gas pedal and my car was jumping all over the place and then I threw up. Tried to turn around the right way again on the two lane and i went into reverse and backed into a ditch but was able to pick the car up and put it back on the road.

I blew chunks again at the effort but felt pretty good and had some cigarettes. When I got home and went to the bathroom I felt like a soda fountain filled with acid. My teeth feel all weird and sensitive and loose and there's a weird lump right on my stomach today.

I can't wait for the next gig.


Oh, "BTW"- ha ha. "BTW"-

Y'know why Dick Cheney's knee veins are fucked up?

Because Baby Jeekers made them bad because he thinks he's a COCK.

I saw it on T.V.

At A Crossroads

Oh, we're at a crisscrossity roadz in this here country, oh fuck yes we are. Which way to turn? Which way to go? Should we be more like, say,


Or maybe a little more like, oh, I dunno, Sweden?

Let me run that again if you need another poke:





Oops. I mean




Anyway, I say we go Sweden.

P.S. Sorry I couldn't find another picture that had naked women AND men. I tried. Pretend the one on top is a dude.

P.P.S. I just realized the person in th' first picture sitting on the floor is a kid. oh, fuck it. Just go with it alright?

God damn it, this post is all fucked up now. It should've been really funny. God fucking damn it.

Screw it. Publish Post.

Ads On Your Blog


Bobby Lightfoot's Greatest Hits #1: On The Rich

O.K., O.K, A-squick-diggity-ding-dong. What the screaming fuck is the problem with me dropping th' blog ball like white rice on a cheap suit, eh? Eh? Happens every dang month, doesn't it now? It's not right is it? No, no sirree it's wronger than shit. One minute I'm there, coffee mug in hand, coffee down my lapels, next thing it's sorry wrong number! That's no way to run a god damn blog reg. TM.

Problem is, time's tight. Tight. Tighter than Dick Cheney's knee veins. Oh, and what the fuck is with that? You hear about that? Fucking pussy. Knee vein surgery. What a god damn faggot that god damn Cheney is. And I don't mean homosexual. No, sirree. I know some homos'd come up my front and down my back and move on to the next victim and not break a god damn sweat. I wouldn't insult any of my dear homosexual friends by comparing Dick fucking Cheney to them.

What I said is "faggot". As in a nancy boy who can't hang. Like Dickless Cheney. What is it with these rich maggot pussy idiot cloacas? I guarantee pussies like Cheney get like full MRI's like 3 times a month so when, god forbid, the tinyest anomaly is detected they're on th' slab at the best hospital in the world in MINUTES.


a) They're pussies of the hightest motherfucking order

b) they're rich so they count more than you and I.

Me? yeah, got a physical in '02. Doc sez no lumps on me bigger'n a golf ball and nothing scary up my ass so we'll see you again in '06. BECAUSE I'M A MAN. YES I AM AND I CAN'T HELP ETC. ETC.

You got menfolk and you got rich Halibortions. You get a man, say Neddie Jingo. Gets his ass flayed halfway up his back and a week later he's taking to the streets of D.C. to deliver the sweet sting of justice to the sick, sick bastards that run this "country". Guy like that? Huh? Takes you back, doesn't it? Takes you back to when giants walked the earth. Guy like Cheney? What an asshole. A total asshole.

So, yo- here's what's up. Time's tight, man. You're tryin' to live a life? Trying to have a good year and clear 23 G's? Sometimes I have to make a choice. Sometimes I have to appease the Song God. So if I disappear for a while it's because I'm off Changing Music. Saving Music.

So in the time-honored tradition of busy songwriters, I'm introducing Bobby Lightfoot's Greatest Hits.

Today I give you this succulent tidbit from last spring. It's funny. It's angry. You probably read it. But you'll still laugh. That's right. I know you.

Rich people, huh? Holy shit; what a bunch of unmitigated assholes they are. I'm not talking comfortable people here, gentle folk. I'm not even talking people in the lower six figures. I'm not a fucking communist or anything. I'm talking about RICH people. What a bunch of COCKSUCKERS this gang is! Actually, I'm going to take that back; I made a vow to never again use the word cocksucker vindictively. Calling someone a cocksucker is stupid because it disparages what is really an extremely high calling. It's kind of like calling someone a "gourmet cook" or a "mechanic". And then your mechanic hears you going around calling people you hate "mechanics" and next thing you know he won't work on your car anymore.

And well, I really like my car being worked on, you know? I love having the mechanic work on my car.

Can we all pledge to use "cocksucker" disparagingly a little less? I really like cocksuckers. I think they are wonderful, giving people


Jesus, my disdain for the rich is well-nigh boundless. And don't give me this jealousy shit. That's some kneejerk shit right there, cocksucker. I can't decide if I hate fucking rich people more than fundamentalists. It's like trying to choose between puke and shit for lunch. "Hmmm...maybe some nice shit...noooo....puke looks good today..."

I sure as hell ain't jealous of the rich. You know who I'm jealous of? I'll tell you, so I can go on writing about the rich without having to listen to this jealousy shit 'cause I've already copped to it. Here's who I'm jealous of:

1. People who are happy with less.
2. People who set realistic goals in life and met them.
3. People who make a good, honest living doing what they love.
4. Better songwriters than me. Boy, that smarts.
5. Guys with great hair. I went from bad hair to no hair. I've had a bad hair life. I never got to look like any of my bitchin' 1979 heroes except for maybe a week. And that was Adam fucking Clayton. Don't get me wrong- I'm hot. Ooohhh, I'm hot. I'm just no-hair hot. You know how they have those Mohair suits? I've got the Nohair suit.
6. People with IQs under 143. 143 is the cutoff point, good folk. You get over 143 and life is a nightmare of SEEING THROUGH ALL THE SHIT. IT'S NOT RELAXING. And it hasn't done jack for me. Fucked me up pretty good, in fact. Being 8 and reading dictionaries. Being 8 and having read all of Poe. Being 8 and already knowing what a fucking hoax it all is. Yay. 60-odd years of knowing the fucking score. I think I'll start smoking young.

So, that's who I'm jealous of.

I am most certainly NOT jealous of scheming, penny pinching, selfish, arrogant suckoff rich people who eat steaks made of third worlders. Hell, I'd be rich too if I'd never given anyone anything. Let's say you have 10 people that you spend 25 bucks on each for Christmas. So, that's 250 bucks a year. So, since we know the truly rich have struck Mephistophelian deals and get to live for hundreds of years, you gotta figure they got 5-6 hundred Christmases under their belts. My math puts that at 150,000 dollars, just for being a selfish, sniffling, tooth sucking rich fuck. What's the interest going to be on 150 large in 600 years? I don't know, you tell me, rich wank. I've got rock to play. I've got people to give things to. I've got dogs to cuddle with. So I'm a little too busy for your faggy little triangle schemes.

You keep making all that money, the rest of us will keep having souls.

Let me break it down for you very, very simply so that everyone can understand, even stupid, arrogant, bought-their-college-diploma-anyway fucking rich people. Here is what you need in life (and I'm going to be extremely generous here. I'll never have 3/4 of these things):

1. Food, shelter and transportation. Preferably public, but hey, 99.5 percent of us don't live in Manhattan.
2. Enough money to take care of our children. This includes the money to send them to college.
3. Enough money to retire comfortably.
4. Enough money to cover our ass in case of some emergency.
5. A decent home is always a plus. A lot of people care about that, so we'll slap that in.
6. Enough money to take a fucking vacation and have a little fun. Go to the movies. Have some drinks. Share a drifter or two. Normal shit.
7. Enough money to indulge a creative whim or two. The universe encourages creativity. A darkroom, a li'l studio for art or music, some digital camera shit, computer stuff, Batik, y'know? Remember Batik? Hey- great stuff. If you make some stuff that's cool out of some raw materials like yarn or tape or whatever, you go to heaven. Did you know that? Straight to fucking heaven. Straight to Baby Jeezis' right side. You'll be sitting there with Baby Jeezis and Karen Carpenter talking about Batik. Jeezis'll be all like, "yeah, I did some tie-dye shit back in Galilee to take a break from all that carpentry." And Karen Carpenter'll be like, "you're not getting a break from THIS Carpenter, Magic Fingers!" And she'll wrap her bony arms around him and they'll be all making out and stuff and Jeezis will ask you for a rubber. One of those Magnums. It's JEEZIS after all. You know he's packin' heat right there yeah bra. Mary didn't raise no weenie winkie boys no sirrah. He got it from his Dad. You should see what God's packing. Fuck, if you invented the fucking thing you're gonna give yourself the best one, right? Henry Ford didn't drive a goddam Buick Skylark, right?

So anyway, that's about what you need, right? O.K.- I don't want to be judgemental. That's one thing I don't want in my blog. Harsh judgements. EXCEPT FOR RICH FUCKING SCUMBAG SATAN WORSHIPPERS. So, anyway- let's take all those things and times them by two so we're not being judgmental.

Fuck it- let's say you can sock away 5 million in your life. That's fucking generous, right? You're not feeling judged for making software or crunching numbers or having a good business, right? You're all good, down-to-earth folk, right?


When you have more than you can possibly spend in your lifetime and you don't give it ALL to poor people, well, sorry. You're a fucking asshole. You god damned corporateers, if you had a soul you'd give it all away and wear a barrel like one of those old cartoons. ALL OF IT. And DO NOT I repeat DO NOT give me this Bill and Melinda Gates BULLSHIT and expect me to swallow it. If Bill and Melinda want to be really generous they can GIVE IT ALL AWAY and keep a stipend of 50K each a year. That's fucking PLENTY.

Oh, I just CHOKE ON MY FUCKING TONGUE when I think of people buying your Humanitarian shit. Fuck you and shame on you. If you had a soul you'd drive into Appalachia and give every fucking person a million dollars. You'd go to Africa and give them ALL YOUR FUCKING ZILLIONS except enough to keep Microsoft plugging away breaking the fucking law EVERY DAY. You assholes (I was going to call them cocksuckers- oops).

Trump? Branson? Every fucking penny. Pony up, you fucking pigs. You keep 75k, no let's make that 50k a year. Your children are through school. That's plenty, unless you ABSOLUTELY just HAVE to have FRESH INFANT FLESH at every meal. You fuckers. You rotters. Every penny to Tsunamiland. Every penny to Darfour and Zimbabwe. The unemployment rate there is 70%. Every fourth person has AIDS. Pony up you fucking vampires. God damn you. How dare you draw breath, you vampires?

I don't care if you give 100 zillion a year in aid to poor people or what the fuck ever. If YOU still have 666 quintillion what the fuck good is it? What good is it? You fucking leeches. What are you going to do with it? Buy your place in history? Sock some away for when we finally grow balls and roll out the guillotine like the forward-thinking French did 300-odd years ago? It's not going to help, you fucking robber barons.

Do you know how every night when you slide between your luxurious human-skin sheets and blow the flame out on your human fat candle how you wonder if anyone likes you for yourself or just for your money?

It's the money, yo.