*Warning: the following may contain biased opinions written by a sleep-deprived prick under the influence of alcohol and may offend some readers.
Viewer discrech... discreshun... diskretion..................... just don't read it.*

I fucking hate this country.

Not like normal hate. It's so much more black.

If this country were a street gang, I'd fucking go to war with it with bottles and chains.

Before you flip your desk over in a fit of blind rage and storm out of your house to form a posse bent on finding me to string me up on the lowest branch of the nearest tree by my blasphemous, unpatriotic, half-negro head stump let me explain my reason for so boldly expressing my revulsion in public forum.

America has become a land of utter disillusionment. The small freedoms we as a people used to enjoy are slowly being replaced by the agenda of neo-conservative pussies and their propensity for telling others how to live their lives. Case in point: it is now illegal to smoke in a bar.

What is this, Nazi Germany?

The day this legislation was passed into law I nearly stormed the capital building of my state with the intention of killing every living being within and setting fire to the structure to cremate the corpses of the victims of my horrendous, bare-handed murder spree thusly denying their loved ones the dignity of giving them a proper burial. If I hadn't overslept that day the evening news would definately have been something to set the VCR for, but luckily for my potential prey it was nickel shot day at Hooters the night before and my hangover was Malthusian in scope.

Holy fuck do I love their wings.

In my humble opinion, every person who lobbied for the anti-smoking law deserves to be dragged by the hair from their bed in the middle of the night, knelt down in the street like a $4 hooker and shot in the face point blank execution style before the eyes of their closest friends and family members. I ask you, what divine power gave anyone the right to take away my ability to choose when and where I want to continue to lose the fight to lung cancer? I could see banning it in certain places perhaps, like at the gas pump or in a classroom of any grade lower than 5th, that's just good cricket, but not being able to light up in a bar is the equivalent of going to Tijuana and not staying for the donkey show. The two just go hand-in-hand.

That show was the best twelve bucks I ever spent. I'll never forget THAT Christmas.

Twenty or thirty years ago you could smoke anywhere you wanted to in this country;
on the bus, in a hotel, a police station squad room while you're handcuffed to a detective's desk as you calmly explain that the coke isn't yours and you were just giving that underage prostitute a ride home, where ever. You could even smoke in a hospital maternity ward waiting room. The expecting fathers would be smoking, the security guard would be smoking, even the doctor would be smoking a thick Cuban cigar, sometimes even during delivery. I'd bet the first thing I heard after popping out of the womb was, "Congratulations, it's a boy. Nurse, hand me that ashtray."

My baby blanket still smells like a Cohiba Robusto.

It's now becoming colder here in New England as winter draws near. The temperature dips more and more into testicle shrinking levels of bitter freezing in the evening. Having to step outside the bar for a cigarette starts to feel like a race against hypothermia, especially when I've been drinking since 10a.m. in a vein attempt to relieve the pain of my wretched hell-bound existence. Contrary to popular belief, alcohol does not warm you up, rather it constricts the blood vessels reducing circulation to the extremities, thus making the frosty autumn breeze feel like a stinging wind of icy death blowing across the tundra of Siberia on a moonless night in February. Though the one benefit of the sub zero temperatures around here would have to be the total lack of homeless people come spring. I don't know if they migrate to warmer climates like birds or simply freeze to death under the first blanketing of snow, nor do I care. All I know is there are no beggars on every corner looking for a handout so the change holder in the dashboard of my car is full enough to buy me a pack of Marlboro lights and the new May issue of "Black and Juicy."

Big ebony tits and cancer sticks, my favorite combination besides rum and coke.

Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against the homeless and I do believe in helping those less fortunate than I. Aside from selflessly giving them solicitous advice on how to climb the proverbial sociological ladder and get their lives back on track by screaming, "Get a job, you worthless cunt!" as I drive by in my BMW 328i while throwing 2 litter Sprite bottles filled with piss at them, I have other ways of assisting those in need of a helping hand. Once a year I take it upon myself to do something just a little extra special; I travel down to the city park and hide fifty 40-ouncers of malt liquor in the bushes. Think of it as an Easter-egg hunt for bums. If only I could see the look of excitement on their un-bathed, weathered faces as they fervently crack open the screw top, gingerly guzzle that first crisp swallow of stupid sauce and praise a God who gave up on them long ago for this one moment of random good fortune. But I believe charity should be anonymous and simply enjoy reveling in having done a good deed without needing the superfluous, ego-inflating gratitude in return.

That and the park is located in a black neighborhood and I don't want to leave my car unattended for too long.

Keep those banana peelin' fingers off my whip.

It feels good to give back to the community.

-J.