RESURRECT DEAD ON PLANET JUPiTER

The buzz around crack has been around since the mid-80’s, but missed opportunities and bad timing have kept me from reviewing this popular drug. I know that I’m late to the party, but I thought it was still worth a try.

Unlike its big brother cocaine, crack is an equal opportunity high: cheap, common and accessible. On most of my crack runs, I was able to purchase a couple of small rocks for anywhere from $5-15. Crack is easy to find in most major cities. A good rule of thumb is to look for raggedy, jittery men pushing shopping carts down the street a little too fast.

I bought my crack right on the street from a high school kid. I thought of smoking my “blue tops” in an abandoned house, but the gentleman out front told me that the cover was $8. And that $8 was just the door fee. Once you’re actually inside, house crack-whores engage you in high pressure sales tactics, pawing at you with bony hands and licking their lips like desperate crack addled drug addicts. Also dissuading me was the lack of basic amenities like electricity, plumbing, air conditioning and valet parking. Authentic experience aside, I decided to take my crack home.

Not eschewing authenticity entirely, I stole a car antennae/pipe from an old Toyota Corolla and decided to smoke my crack in the small alley behind my house. On first impression, I thought it was fucking awesome. What a rush! Like the fast food version of cocaine, crack hits you fast and hard.

Each step becomes determined. Everything is forward and everything has purpose. No one can stop you. Then like 15 minutes later that shit wears off and you’re looking around your house for shit you can sell. How much can I get for that air conditioner? That TV? The bedding on my mattress? And where can I find a shopping cart to haul this around in? Damn, my lips are dry.

As you soon learn, everything in crack culture is about earning crack money. In the end, I found crack culture unappealing. While the pursuit of crack gave purpose to my increasingly pathetic life, I was left unfulfilled. I missed my job and a steady paycheck. I missed not having intestinal parasites and foot rot. Most of all I missed not coughing up blood.

My stint with crack may have been short lived, but I understand its appeal. While it wasn’t for me, crack dovetails nicely with the lifestyle of many Americans. And while I haven’t smoked rock for more than a year, I’ll always have a soft spot in my heart for that harsh chemical taste and crazy bug eyed rush.

The following is an excerpt from my yet-to-be-finished Romance Novel: Atlantic City Sunrise. Actually… no. I was down the shore this weekend and picked up a romance novel from a free book table. It was really, really bad, but I thought it might be fun to write. Enjoy:

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Atlantic City Sunrise: selections from Chapter 62, pgs 111-112

“Where are you going?” Cherry pleaded.

“You know where.” Said Ricardo. “To be with your sister.” He said with a sinister smile.

“But why?” She cried. “What does Linetta have that I don’t?” Cherry asked seductively as she began untying her Wal Mart smock. One breast fell gracefully from the side of her partially unfurled employee apron. It hung in the air like a small bag of water, inviting Ricardo’s icy blue stare.

Using his hand as a comb, Ricardo rubbed Vaseline Cocoa Butter through the hair on his chest, but the sight of Cherry’s long and supple breast made him pause, if only for a moment. The coldness again overtook his tan, chiseled face. Placing the Vaseline on the motel nightstand, he picked up a bottle of Axe Body Spray with one hand and a pack of Kool cigarettes with the other.

“Because she knows how to treat a man.” Said Ricardo as he lit a Kool. Smoke curled through the 3-day stubble on his face.

In disgust and sorrow, Cherry let out a sob and spit her Dentene Ice in Ricardo’s face. “Go then!” She shouted unconvincingly.

The gum bounced off Ricardo’s forehead like a .22 caliber bullet bouncing off a tank. But Ricardo wasn’t a tank, he was a human being. The gum packed an emotional sting, piercing the wall that he built between himself and Cherry. Confused and angered by the sudden loss of control, he lashed out, flinging his bottle of Axe Body spray at Cherry’s now naked body.

Catching the Axe like a cat catching a fly, Cherry lay back, her artificially tanned body reflecting an orange light in the afternoon sun. Behind her, the sounds of ocean and of the Atlantic City boardwalk whispered through the room. Now with Ricardo’s full animal attention, she inserted the bottle of Axe into her turgid vagina.

Like a stallion, he was on her…

—

OK, I have to stop writing this. It’s starting to disturb me. More tomorrow?

You read that right Philadelphia. Your beloved mayor is jihadist scum. Last Wednesday, I captured these images of Mayor Nutter doling out terrorist fist jabs at a public event. As a further insult, this was a Sunoco sponsored fun day commemorating our nation’s birth. Why is he corrupting our youth with this kind of behavior? I can only assume that his red shirt covered in “targets” is some kind of Blood gang symbol/uniform. I demand immediate impeachment.

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Since I’ve got nothing to say today, I’m digging through the archives of my phony product reviews. In days past, I had a bad habit of writing fake product reviews for odd items I found on epinions.com. Here’s one I wrote for something called the “Rectal Fever Thermometer.”

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I am constantly probing my anus for any signs of rectal fever. Rectal fever is most easily distinguished by an abnormally hot rectum. There is only one truly accurate way to diagnose rectal fever and that is with products like the Rectal Fever Thermometer. Sometimes people will walk up to you, grab the fatty tissue of your left buttock and exclaim:

“Feels like you’ve got a case of rectal fever.”

This method of diagnosis is highly inaccurate. The feel method may distinguish a hot ass from a normal one, but full-blown rectal fever is a condition entirely different. The feel method is wholly unscientific for a number of reasons.

First of all, unless you’re butt naked or you are Prince, the feel method is obstructed by the layers of clothing covering the ass. In my case the feel method is usually impeded by the presence of tight stone washed jeans or Lycra booty shorts. Even with full-blown rectal fever, you can’t feel the heat through denim. Sometimes also, my pants conduct their own heat thus promoting mixed results. Secondly, the feel diagnosis of rectal fever can be skewed by bias of the feeler. Remember personal bias can lead to misdiagnosis of rectal fever. I thought one girl that I know had rectal fever for years, although later I found that I was just hot for her. Her rectum was warm, even hot, but not feverish. My bias led to misdiagnosis.

To diagnose true rectal fever, you’ve gotta get in there with some technology. The Greeks often diagnosed rectal fever in their young servants with the single finger method. If you’ve ever seen the movie Caligula, you know that techniques varied between the Greeks and the Romans. These days our instruments are far more accurate.

The Rectal Fever Thermometer is the cutting edge of rectal fever probes. Soft, gentle and easy to assemble, the Rectal Fever Thermometer is a must buy. At less than 5 dollars, you’d be cheating yourself if you didn’t purchase this product and stick it deep into your anus. Everyone should know if they’ve got the rectal fever. The readout is quick and accurate. You’ll know in minutes just how hot your rectum truly is.

This is also the thermometer advertised as the one that doctors use most. I know my doctor diagnosed his own case of rectal fever with this very thermometer. I was there the night he did it. But that’s a separate story.

I am proud to say that I’ve got the fever. In fact, I’ve got a wicked fierce case of it. Sometimes it is a burden, but usually the benefits outweigh the detriments. My doctor tells me it will go away by the time I’m 40, so for now I’m living it up. Buy this thermometer and see if you’ve got the fever too.

Here’s a product review I once wrote for: Body Shop Glycerin & Oat Facial Lather.

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The internet is a wonderful tool for research. But this story is a word of warning to all you web surfers out there. Before you start, it’s imperative that you know at least a little bit about the subject that you’re looking into. My total ignorance of one topic nearly cost me my relationship.

It all started when Abby - my girlfriend of 3 years - mentioned that her skin was dry and unhealthy. We were sitting around finishing off a nice bottle of Chilean red wine when she told me she was thinking of buying a creamy facial treatment for her face.

Unless you’re as clueless as I was, you can probably already see where this is going. The next day I typed “creamy facial” into my favorite search engine and got some startling results. I viewed some pictures and downloaded some informative videos, entirely captivated by the subject and the research in general.

Then I asked myself, how much was she paying for this? It didn’t look like there was too much to the whole procedure. I doubted I was missing anything important and technique appeared sloppy at best. After a brief deliberation, I decided to perform the facial myself. We are both frugal people and I was sure she’d love the savings.

Assuming she hadn’t asked me out of consideration to the slight embarrassment the subject might have caused, I decided to surprise her. I was sure that she’d be happy about my willingness to help out.

The next Saturday morning I surprised her with breakfast in bed. I cooked up pancakes and topped them with fresh fruit and maple syrup. She was very pleased and certainly surprised. I thought that following one surprise with another would kick off the day in true form. As she finished breakfast, I reviewed my creamy facial videos and prepared for execution. Before long, I was ready to go.

When I came at her ready for the big moment, her reaction was most definitely surprise. Then shock, then something that can only be described as horror. In those precious few seconds I yelled that I just wanted to give her a cheap facial, but this just made things worse. At that last critical moment, I felt the cold smack of her breakfast tray on the side of my head. Knocked backwards to the floor I lay there helpless, my solution spilling uselessly to the floor.

After a few minutes of intense confusion and anger, emotional levels returned to normal and a proper dialogue was established. I told her the story from the start and she explained to me what facial creams actually were. When I grasped the concept of facial cream, my heart sank. I realized that my research was misguided by an alternate definition of the term. My embarrassment was devastating. Later we both went out to the Body Shop to buy some “Body Shop Glycerin & Oat Facial Lather.” We went home to test the foaming cream. It was great. Cool to the skin, this stuff feels great from the start. It doesn’t leave your skin too oily or too dry like other facial treatments.

The Body Shop Glycerin & Oat Facial Lather has a pleasant aroma as well. Within a few days I noticed an improvement in my skin as well as Abby’s. No more dryness and no more flaking. Our skin was also softer then it had been and it felt quite a bit healthier as well. Now I am a regular at the Body Shop too. I’m hooked on facial cream. I can’t get enough of it. I recommend it to anyone who may have dry, flaky or otherwise unhealthy skin.

Dear Alix,

While I can’t say that I’m glad that you’ve found happiness – because you haven’t – I can say honestly and without malice that I’m happy that you’re finally getting the help that you need. As I’m sure you’re aware, admitting your addictions, dysfunctions and fears is the first step towards recovery.

With a little hard work, focused determination, a change in diet, plenty of exercise, weekly therapy, a few plants, a cat, the support of friends, a temporary leave of absence, a hobby or two, installation of Chromalux lights, a conservative regimen of pharmaceuticals and a little luck, you might pull yourself out of this depression.

You might want to consider volunteering your time at a homeless shelter. There’s nothing wrong with finding your center this way. You’re not a starving child in Africa, so don’t feel bad about throwing away your leftovers! Go see a movie. There’s no shame in going alone. Spring is right around the corner. Get out and enjoy life.

On a personal note, I’m deeply sorry that your book hasn’t been published. To be completely honest – and this is something you need to hear – the editors are right. You’re not a good writer. Your characters fail to develop in any meaningful or interesting way, the writing is clumsy beyond repair and it’s clear that you’re reaching far beyond your base of experience. I don’t mean to completely discourage you because it’s not all bad. The plot is structured well and obviously has a lot of thought invested in it. In capable hands, who knows how effectively it could be developed?

But anyway, I hope this note finds you well. Things with me are busy, but good. To be honest, sometimes I envy you. Travel is tiring and the tedium of 80-hour weeks is excruciating. You know how I hate the bullshit and small talk that goes along with stroking every dick attached to a name. If you never have to swallow the crap of some asshole with your life in his hands, you’re better off. My life is like a political campaign, except that I’m always running and there’s never an election. It can be an exhilarating ride, but I’m not sure you’re cut out for it. Sometimes I don’t even know if I am. Just believe me that you’re better off.

It’s getting late and I should wrap this up. I hope you’re glad to hear from me, I’d just been thinking that I should reconnect. Deb told me about your brother and about the rehab and I realized how long it’s been. I can’t believe that Terminal Unrest was 6 months ago. What an awful night. I’m sorry I never called.

May success never find you.

Quinn

I’m pushing on with week of the unexplained here with one of my favorite topics: UFO’s. I believe that the alien visitation stories found on the internet represent the source texts of a future class of religions.

Already, people have started to hammer together Christian creation stories, Buddhist and Hindu ideas on pantheism and reincarnation and mix it up with a little quantum theory pop-science and a dash of psychotropic inspired pattern recognition and present it is an ideological belief system. In a century or so, I guarantee that there will be open churches. (and not just cults like the Raelians and the Scientologists)

But anyway, my favorite UFO story has nothing to do with any of this. My favorite story is about the poor dumb alien that had the misfortune of landing in New Jersey. Every new religion needs a little absurdity. Here’s a dramatic retelling of the actual events.

It was the blackest dead of night in January, 1978 and the New Jersey State Police were in hot pursuit of a UFO. Sirens blazing, they ordered the alien craft to land, but the vehicle refused to comply.

The UFO was first spotted hovering near Fort Dix and the adjacent McGuire Air Force base. Having lost track of the target somewhere near McGuire, the pursuit was handed over to United States Armed Forces.

A Military Policeman cornered the object at the end of an airstrip. Stepping out of his car, he squinted into the pre-dawn NJ darkness. It was January 18th, the dead of winter, and the height of the Cold War. The air was still and except for the idle of the MP’s jeep, perfectly silent. Stepping carefully forward, he unclipped his holster, and placed his hand on his .45 semiautomatic. Suddenly, through his frozen breath he spotted a child-size form just a few meters in front of him. Apparently assuming it wasn’t a wayward toddler, he opened fire, hitting the being 5 times.

The alien, shocked and mortally wounded, mustered enough strength to turn from the gunfire and stagger towards the perimeter fence, before collapsing – dead.

A smell of ammonia hung in the air… which to me says that aliens either bleed ammonia or are physically capable of pissing themselves.

Apparently after this all happened, the alien body was whisked away to somewhere secret and examined by government doctors. Fortunately the aliens did not respond by coming down hard on New Jersey. Apparently when push comes to shove, aliens are just a bunch of bitches that piss themselves.

That’s all for now.

It was a beautiful 70 degree February day, but Rittenhouse Square was deserted. Why? A cold blooded heartless killer has been stalking the park for months. Next time you’re there, take note of the eerie absence of so many familiar faces.

They have good reason to be on edge. Since the autumn, many park regulars have been attacked in broad daylight, pinned to the ground with bone crushing force and brutally disemboweled. The twisted killer then finishes his brutal ritual by eating the warm, raw flesh of his victim.

Why has this gone unreported? Put simply, no one is talking and no one cares. The victims don’t live in any of the swank apartments around the park. They feed on the scraps of others and go largely unnoticed by all but a few eccentrics. When approached for comment they simply scuttle away.

It also doesn’t help that they’re pigeons and squirrels. But seriously… since the autumn I’ve spotted a hawk in the trees of Rittenhouse, or soaring around on the currents above the park nearly every time I’ve passed through it. As a result the pigeon population has been displaced. The Rittenhouse pigeon Diaspora generally congregates on the roof ledge of the Barnes and Noble building across the street until the raptor threat abates. Unfortunately for them, the threat is nearly constant.

I believe the killer to be a Cooper’s Hawk, quite possibly the same Cooper’s Hawk I witnessed eating a squirrel in my back yard. A Red Tailed Hawk has also been spotted, (and best of all heard) but much less frequently. While it’s nice to see wildlife reassert itself on the urban landscape, it’s a shame to watch as the predatory gentrifiers force out old, established residents.

That’s all for now.

Work demands my time, so once again it’s time to dig deep into the archives and pull out something sweet. Here is a short list of helpful driving tips I originally put together in September 2000.

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Driving in the city teaches you a lot about human nature. Just a few hours on the road can turn an introverted, geeky little bookworm into a snarling, profanity spewing madman. To keep your calm on the big city streets, there are a few helpful hints to remember:

1. If you find yourself stuck in traffic, honk your horn repeatedly. This will encourage the gridlock to break up and traffic to begin flowing again.

2. If someone cuts you off, pull up next to them and flash a gun. This will make them think twice before cutting you off again. If you don’t have a gun, tousle your hair and gesture like you do have one, and mouth the word “pow” several times. This usually works just about as well.

3. If you’re caught in traffic on a large, multi lane road make use of the shoulder. No one ever uses the shoulder. Usually you can stream right by all those other saps at about 60 mph.

4. Similarly, if you miss a yellow light and are forced to drive through a red one, turn on your high beams and honk your horn to alert other drivers.

5. If you are pulled over, do not be polite to the officer. Police don’t like being sucked up to and would usually prefer a physical confrontation. Their jobs are mostly paperwork; every cop likes getting the blood going a little bit. If you are pulled over, leap from the car before it comes to a complete stop and start running for the cruiser screaming like lunatic. You’ll both appreciate the excitement.

6. If someone on the road really gets under your skin, put on a pair of sunglasses and follow them around for a while.

7. If you are male and you encounter someone you think is hot do all of the above, but exchange all violent and/or lude gestures with sexual innuendo. Romantic pursuits via car to car flirtation, are often successful. Using all of the listed techniques will prove to the female that you are a masculine creature capable of pleasing her in every way. Shout sweet nothings into her window at red lights to increase probability of copulation.

Well, you get the idea. These are just a few helpful hints that will aid you in your travels. I hope they work for you as they have worked for me.

Joel Osteen preaches at the largest, fastest growing “church” in the United States. It’s in Texas and it holds more than 30,000 people. Here, look:

I put church in quotes because it’s one of those weird new churches that doesn’t get hung up on denomination or religious symbolism. From the outside it looks like a Target, or a suburban office park. Although Christian, they don’t prominently display the cross or Jesus or any of that mess.

All in all though, the most frightening thing about Osteen and his church is this:

In the mid 20’s Pole-Sitting swept the nation. Much as the name suggests, Pole-Sitting was the popular pastime of sitting on top of a pole for extended periods of time. What I’m saying is, fads come and go.

The start of 2008 has seen the emergence of 2 such crazes. I’m of course talking about Neti Pots and ball waxing.

Before I go on about these things I have to say in no uncertain terms:

1. The Neti Pot is a good idea. I’ve considered using one for years, but have never actually gotten one. I – like many Americans – suffer from sinus problems. Each morning I use a sterol saline spray and recommend that you do the same. Although I don’t use a Neti Pot, I hold no ill will towards anyone who does.

2. Ball shaving/waxing is wrong. Just wrong.

But anyway, what do these fads say about us collectively?

Neti Pots have that air of nonwestern medicine to them. Why spray a physically addictive chemical steroid into your head when an ancient little pot from some place full of aged and wise nonwhites does a better, cheaper and healthier job? Sounds like a good idea, no? It does… but not $25 Neti Pot from Whole Foods good. How can you not feel like an asshole buying that?

Ball Shaving: At my office Christmas party a non-colleague who happened to be hanging out in the same bar tried to pick up my co-worker. Along with his refusal to share his name and his casual acknowledgment of the girlfriend he was trying to cheat on, part of his game was slipping in how he shaves his balls to make his penis look bigger. It’s a line few men can pull off and smooth sack went home alone that night.

Since I was caught in the crossfire of his unique pick-up attempt, I pressed him a little on the ball shaving. Apparently it’s quite popular among the 20-something condo set. Who knew?

Since that night, I haven’t gone 3 days without hearing about ball waxing in the popular media. After a little research I discovered that (as I suspected) the whole fucking thing started in LA. The ungodly nexus of porn culture, mass media and David Beckham’s waxed nutsack just couldn’t be stopped. Now engineers down at Comcast and “accountants, stockbrokers, teachers, boxers, models” in London are getting “Boyzillians.”

I kind of miss Pole-Sitting.

I usually don’t perpetuate email forwards, but this one is actually funny. That and I have nothing else to write today:

Everyone knows that Philadelphia suffers from an inferiority complex. We look to New York and Washington and see what we once were and what we could have been. For a few fleeting decades, Philadelphia was the capital of the world. We were the Athens of the 18th century. We were the largest and most exciting city in the most radical corner of human civilization. The world’s greatest political minds gathered here to change the course of human history. Since then, not so much.

By the early 1800’s New York’s population passed Philadelphia’s. The federal government packed up shop around the same time, heading up to NY and eventually settling down in D.C.

How do we get over this loss? So far we haven’t. For more than 2 centuries, Philly has both prided and derided itself as a grungy little backwater. But I think we’re looking at this in entirely the wrong way. We compare ourselves to New York. That’s just stupid, and here’s my suggestion. Ask yourself this:

What’s worse than being the city between New York and Washington?

Being Baltimore.

click image for source

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Remember them? Neither does anyone else. Baltimore was never anything to anybody. From a skyline that you might mistake for Wilmington Delaware to a murder rate that makes Philly look like Toronto, Baltimore is a place that we can proudly look down on.

If New York is the stud and Philadelphia is it’s scrappy, punch drunk uncle, then Baltimore is the neighborhood crack whore. Think about it. What does Baltimore have? Crabs.

Now while Baltimore does have a waterfront and an aquarium, Philadelphia has all those things that Baltimore doesn’t have beyond the waterfront and aquarium. We kick that shitown’s ass up and down I-95.

Nothing boosts the civic ego like looking down on someplace else. The problem is, when we look down on New York, we just look stupid. It’s time we picked on someone smaller and weaker. If Rocky fought Woody Allen instead of Apollo Creed, what do you think would have happened?

That’s all for now.

Every once in a while I resurrect one of my phony product reviews from the website epinions.com. From 1999-2001 during slow time at my job in an animal ER, I used to write things like this review for a strap on catheter:

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How my life has changed since I discovered the Netti One-Leg Stocking. This nifty little device makes conventional toilets obsolete. I’m not incontinent, but what’s it matter with convenience like this? The Netti One-leg Stocking is the bathroom you strap to your leg. Anytime, anywhere, there it is.

I know you’re skeptical. You’re probably reading this and thinking, is this guy for real? I must admit that when I first came across this product, I had the same objections to the whole concept of peeing into your leg that you’re probably having right now. But you need only to cross a small mental barrier in order to see the light.

The beauty of it is that you aren’t really peeing on yourself. In fact, the urine never touches you. The product is clean, easy to assemble and cheap. The practice of using only a conventional restroom is an entirely culturally based construct, and if I might add, just a little bit snobbish. If you break the hegemonic relationship between yourself and your bathroom like I have with the Netti One-leg Stocking, imagine the quality of life you will gain.

In the car, at the movies, everyplace you have wished you could urinate at will, you can! And I won’t lie, there’s a certain satisfaction gained in peeing comfortably while interacting in otherwise normal circumstances. Just the other day, I was urinating while I asked out an attractive young woman. You can’t even come close to imagining the added sense ease and comfort brought on by the relief of a good urination in such a situation. The same holds true for job interviews, uncomfortable holiday get togethers and pretty much any other high stress situation. The Netti One-Leg Stocking is a therapeutic device as much as anything.

The other day my boss was coming down on me hard for not getting a proposal in on time. Instead of fumbling for words, like I used to do, I smiled narrowly, initiated a steady flow of urine and calmly explained exactly why I was unable to meet the deadline. He appreciated my frank demeanor so much, he gave me a promotion! When I heard about the promotion, I peed ecstatically.

(And by the way, the date with that attractive young woman went so well that I had to exchange the urinary condom that I regularly wear, for… well, you know.)

Think of it.

The Netti One-Leg Stocking has given me comfort, time and increased my productivity. It saved my job and even granted me a promotion. Because of it, I have a steady girlfriend and am on the whole a much calmer person. The Netti One-Leg Stocking has paid for itself in more ways than I can list. This thing is just great. I can’t say that enough. In fact I love it so much… I’m peeing right now. Aah, sweet satisfaction.

For years I’ve waited for the day when I can pronounce the revelation of a miracle. This morning in the shower, I knew that day had arrived.

It started like any other shower, with the washing and the scrubbing and the standing there trying to wake up. I was in there for 10 minutes, thinking of coffee and trying to force that horrible Jennifer Lopez song from the Rhapsody commercial out of my head, when I spotted it.

There on my shower curtain was the apparition of Edgar Allen Poe. He was clear as the morning itself.

Poe is one of my favorite writers and I’m honored by his appearance. I don’t know why he chose today for his return to Philadelphia, or why he wants to watch me shower, but I’m grateful that he’s there.

*postscript: After a period of deep consultation, I’ve decided that Edgar Allen Poe has appeared to me in order to bear a message of great import: It’s time to clean my shower curtain. I plan to heed his warning on Sunday afternoon.

In my own defense, but for a thin band of Poe birthing mold, my shower curtain is clean and sanitary.

I was recently brought a tasty snack food directly from Mumbai. With over a billion people, India is a crazy place. I guess it’s some sort of cultural standard that seems foreign to me as a U.S. American, but I still think they’re soylent green style snack foods are a little weird. Strange or not, I cracked the bag during the Eagles game, just to see what people tasted like. It turns out they taste like spicy peanuts, pecans and little crunchy things. All in all, people are pretty good and I could see human based products doing well here in the states.

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PHILADELPHIA - Coupled with his contentious stop-and-frisk policy, Michael Nutter’s appointment of controversial Police Commissioner Charles Ramsey has already raised alarm bells among local Civil Rights groups. Organizations such as the ACLU have questioned the constitutionality of Nutter’s anti-crime tactics and have also raised concerns about Ramsey’s record as Police Commissioner in Washington D.C. This morning’s press conference - in which Nutter endorsed reclassification of street crime as urban terrorism - has turned the hot button issue into a three alarm fire.

“These people are terrorizing our communities and should be treated as such. They are terrorists.” Nutter stated.

The new wording will have significant implications for the legal rights of accused criminals. “The reclassification goes far deeper than semantics,” noted Temple University criminologist Harriet Cole. “The accused will no longer enjoy the legal rights guaranteed by the Constitution of the United States.”

“Water Boarding? Next person that takes a shot at a cop, I’ll water board them myself.” Nutter responded angrily to a flustered Rene Chenault-Fattah. “Tell your husband to repeal the Patriot Act and then I’ll talk to you about this.”

In addition to the verbal assaults from the next mayor, local news stations have accused Nutter of trying to shut them down.

“We must declare a state of emergency in Philadelphia. I said that in my campaign and I meant it. Now this isn’t Pakistan and I can’t force local news to stop broadcasting. I can however give Comcast an additional 10-year tax abatement on that new tower if they agree to stop running local news.” Nutter said with a smile and a wink.

Late yesterday Comcast announced that ABC, NBC, CBS and FOX will begin airing the City Hall channel during time slots previously reserved for local news. “There is absolutely no connection to the Mayor’s office,” stated a press release from Comcast Corp.

The Mayor-elect is also reportedly working with Greyhound on a rendition program for accused terrorists. “He’s had conversations with Greyhound executives” reported political watchdog Chuck at the popular blog Phillyistheshit.org. “He’s planning on bussing these people to states where torture is already legal, like New Jersey and Delaware. He knows full well what will happen to them in a Wilmington prison.”

While Nutter’s tactics have been enormously popular among the majority of posters at the phillyblog messageboard, some voiced reservations. “This isn’t the mayor I thought I was voting for” posted BaltimoreAve48.

Nutter seemed unfazed by critics, ending his press conference with a reference to another controversial mayor, “I’m gonna make Frank Rizzo look like a faggot.”

I’ve decided that I should bring a more serious dialogue to this website. Today I’ll level damning accusations at Whole Foods, accusing them of being a racist organization that promotes a fierce white supremacist ideology. My evidence?

Yesterday after work I stopped by the Fairmount Whole Foods to pick up a few items for my high fat, dairy and fiber rich, evil liberal diet. Things like plain kefir, organic milk, French and British cheeses and dry black beans.* But with winter approaching, there was one other purchase I wanted to make: Cream of Wheat cereal.

I expected Whole Foods to offer some alternative brand of wheat cereal… something in a brown box made with organic wheat on some ecologically sustainable farm in Wisconsin, but to my surprise, they only offered that in Buckwheat. The only regular wheat option was Farina.

Farina is advertised with the image of a smiling Aryan child, while the Cream of Wheat model was Caribbean born immigrant of African descent: Frank White. Why wouldn’t Whole Foods offer wheat cereals with a diversity of offensive racial stereotypes? Why the smiling Hitler youth and not the benevolent servant? Shocked and outraged, I bought Farina.

I had some this morning. It was pretty good and tasted exactly like Cream of Wheat. That’s all for now.

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* Just in case you’re confused where the line between truth and satire begins, these were my actual purchases.

On October 25 of the year 2000 I wrote this product review for the “Ouija Board” for epinions.com:

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If the dead want to talk, let them come to YOU
Oct 25 ‘00

Pros
good for contacting the dead

Cons
the dead will bore you to death

It’s about time for my favorite holiday, Halloween. I figured I should review something a little freaky. What’s better than the good old fashioned Ouija board?

The first time I used the Ouija board, it was me, my girlfriend and my uncle Teddy. I was about 15 at the time. These days Teddy’s upstate for boinking kids on a Cambodian vacation, but back then he lived in Burlington County NJ. All in all, he was the creepiest part of the night. Dimming the lights and lighting some candles, Teddy broke out the Army of Darkness edition of the Necronomicon and asked to speak with some dead people. Sure enough, some spirit began moving around the little pointer thing. We were all pretty excited, talking to the dead and all. Uncle Teddy had gotten us pretty liquored up with some Southern Comfort. We asked the name of the dead person and he said “Todd.”

That’s when we knew it was going to be a boring night. “Todd” went on and on about how he used to be alive. It took him forever to write out anything. He couldn’t even spell worth a damn. Turns out Todd was a single, shoe salesman who hung himself at age of 32 right in my bedroom! That was sort of interesting, but the fascination soon faded. Todd went on to spell out the words “died a verjan.” We supposed he meant “virgin.” My girlfriend told him she wasn’t surprised and Todd got angry. He tried to blow out the candles, but they just sort of flickered. We laughed and taunted him a while and eventually he left. It was an all around disappointment.

A few years later, me and some friends were bored. I had since moved out of the “Todd” house. It was 3 in the morning and all the bars were closed. We’d been drinking Southern Comfort again, (weird) and smoking opium. After a confused conversation, my friends and I decided that we were sharing hallucinations. All of us kept seeing little men running around under the recliner. Curious as to the nature of these little people, we decided to initiate contact via the Ouija board. We had no luck. The little men weren’t interested in us. Either that or we were just imagining them. We decided to go another route. We got one of my cats and put him near the recliner. Since cats are mystical creatures, we thought he could guide us. But the cat just licked himself and wandered over to the water dish.

At that point we decided we were just imagining things. In a last ditch effort my friend Stephan picked up the Ouija board and folded it up. Creeping over to the recliner he smacked the board down, right on top of one of the little men. He was all squashed and bloody, but you could see his little man hat and his little man pants. He looked like a tiny garden gnome. His little man beard was all stained with blood. My friend felt so bad for killing the little man that he started to cry, asking the other little men for forgiveness. But the other little men had already fled in fear. The next day, the corpse of the little man had turned into a dead cockroach. I gave it to my cat and he ate it.

Recently I took out the Ouija board again. I figured it had to be good for some entertainment. Again I was with friends and again we were drinking Southern Comfort, (I swear to you all, I never drink the stuff. It’s just one of those weird coincidences.) One of my friends got up to vomit in the bathroom. He came back white as a ghost. I asked if he was all right and he said that he was. He told us that he saw a fat woman lying face down in the bathtub. When he walked in he said she turned to look at him. Just as she turned, the SoCo made it’s return to the world and he hunched over to vomit. By the time he finished, the woman was gone.

“Weird.” The rest of us said in unison.

Incited and intrigued, we decided to get to the bottom of it. We took the Ouija board into the bathroom, wiped up the spatterings of sweet peach vomit with some balled up toilet paper and sat in a circle by the tub. We asked to speak with the woman. I’ll spare you the details of this encounter, but the woman was even more boring than Todd. She spent her earthly days watching daytime television and collecting disability. Then she asked us for plot updates on the Young and the Restless. Eventually we discovered that she had drowned in the tub after slipping on a bar of soap. The drain – clogged with matted balls of hair – had pooled around her feet and she died in 3 inches of dirty, oily water. This had been right before I moved in. I remembered pulling clumps of hair from the drain and shuddered in disgust.

The Ouija board is a good tool to contact the dead. But do you really want to? The dead are rarely more fascinating than the living. And on top of that, they usually haven’t talked to anyone for a very long time. They go on and on, trapping you with their stupid, irrelevant stories. The novelty of talking to a dead person wears off real quick.

So this weekend I decided to kick back and relax out in Amish country. The whole trip was precipitated by a craving for sliced ham, pickled eggs and tapioca pudding. Sometimes there’s nothing better.

Once I was full though, my thoughts turned to sex.

I did the usual, cruising the streets of Paradise, PA, whistling at Amish girls and looking all flashy in my motorized vehicle, but for some reason I wasn’t having any luck. Cruising for Mennonites can be rough. Full on Amish girls are even harder. In a change in strategy, I drove down to Route 23. I’d had some success there in the past. One time I met this inbred dairy wench that could churn butter back to cream.

But anyway, after being struck down in Churchtown and neighboring Goodville I drove over to Blue Ball. I hadn’t run into Blue Ball since high school. I’d even forgotten the uncomfortable feeling I used to get from Blue Ball. But there I was. Even though it was a little unpleasant, it was the biggest town around. Getting through Blue Ball was my best chance at scoring so I stopped at the corner bar and ordered a drink. They had Bud, Bud Light and Miller High Life, so I ordered whiskey.

The Blue Ball bar was a desperate place full of desperate men. It didn’t take long to see that life in Blue Ball weighed these people down. The men shifted uncomfortably on their stools, looks of frustration on their faces, nursing their shitty beers in some horrible Blue Ball limbo.

By contrast, the women were surprisingly upbeat. Whatever caused the throbbing, gut wrenching anxiety in Blue Ball, it only affected the men. I chatted with a nice brunette named Cindy. We talked about her hopes, dreams and some other crap. Things were going great and when we hit the dance floor, I thought I’d be busting through that Blue Ball barrier in no time.

Cindy told me to meet her later that night at her house in Intercourse. She promised me apples from her garden and fresh baked corn muffins. She slipped her number and address into my back pocket and told me to meet her at 9PM.

And that’s when things went wrong.

After finishing my last whiskey, I slipped out to my car, ready to hit the road. I felt fine, but for some reason my court ordered breathalizer said that I was too “drunk” to drive. It was bullshit, but I couldn’t start my car without a clean readout. I slammed the dashboard with both fists and fell out of the car into the gravel parking lot.

That’s when I realized that it was 8:30PM and I was stuck in Blue Ball with no way to Intercourse. My map told me that the trip was an agonizing 9.5 miles. I decided to run it. The last time I’d been to Blue Ball was for a statewide track meet. I’d run my way out of Blue Ball before and I could do it again. Unfortunately for me, I was a decade out of condition. With the promise of Cindy’s farm grown apples and the assumption that I would have sex with her also, I didn’t care how out of shape I was.

I hit the pavement. With every step, I drew closer to Intercourse, leaving Blue Ball far behind. But unfortunately, with every dry, pounding motion the pain and cramping just got worse. I started to doubt myself. Could I really get from Blue Ball to Intercourse? As I ran, I called Cindy on my cell and told her the problem. It was so hard I said, and I really, really wanted to come. She gave me a deadline of 10PM. After that, she was feeding her muffin to the dog and going to bed.

At 9:40, just 2 miles from Intercourse I buckled over, a cramp freezing my groin. I couldn’t move. That was it and I knew it. I wouldn’t make it to Intercourse. I lay in the shoulder all night, frustration and pain holding me down. Eventually I masturbated and went home.