Wednesday, May 4, 2011


I love stirring up trouble, but you knew that. Facebook provides the ideal avenue for my shenanigans where I can drop a casual comment and stir up a shit-storm. It’s as we used to do back in my office days. After a lunch of spicy Mexican food, some gassy fellow would cruise into a colleague’s office, drop off a piece of junk mail, and release noxious fumes before departing. Juvenile.

Religion has always been the most devastating bomb for me to drop. Any public comment I make about mythological beings brings an avalanche of emotional responses. I just sit back and let the wizards cast spells upon each other by quoting their ancient texts.

Political comments are caustic agents as well. We each must choose a team and defend its players. I chose Obama’s team because the other option seemed so … um … stupid. So, any comment I make endorsing President BO or criticizing Trump, Palin, and any of the others from the idiot parade ignites angry banter. I love America!

I find people to be possessive of their favorite genres and musicians. I know not to poke fun at country music around a straw chewing inbred with a shotgun rack in his pickup. I also know not to tell the large, dark-skinned fellow collecting my cover charge that David Gilmore’s sphincter has more talent than Jay-Z. I will not pick on P!nk because I’m confident she can kick my ass, even during her third trimester. Safe bets for me are Taylor (Oh, look at the clever heart I can make with my fingers!) Swift and Myley (heading down Crack Addict Lane) Cyrus. Their fans are harmless.

It’s easy to drop bombs around sports teams, especially ones from Boston because most of their fans have never even been to Boston. They root for Boston teams because they are Irish (what a stupid fucking reason) or because Boston’s teams seem to win often. I have more respect for women who root for the Yankees because A-Rod is cute or the Miami Dolphins because their jersey designs are exquisite.

I’ve recently realized how emotionally attached people are to American Idol. Ew. I made a comment that Scott McCreepy (and I don’t give a shit if he’s under 18) needs the King of Smirk— Billy Idol—to smash a guitar over his goofy head. The woman I said that to had a reaction similar to catching me scrubbing my balls with her loofah facial wash pad. I don’t care. I don’t like that crooning hayseed. Long live Justin Guarini!

There are numerous other easy targets for me to strafe and then admire the ensuing comment carnage. Yet, I cannot bring myself to join the herd and pick on Lindsay Lohan. She’s hot and somewhere in my deluded 86-proof mind is the hope that she’ll one day mount me. “Not likely,” you say? How dare you! Lay off my LiLo, you … you … you mean person. I heart her and I will not sit idly by while people take potshots at my princess. *swoon*

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