Temptations (Sexual and Asian) And Why I'm A Bad Jew

A new restaurant opened up around the corner from office, with the dubious moniker “Asian Temptations.” At least, I think it’s a restaurant. They have tables and a bar. Seriously though, with that name, would anyone be shocked if they turned out to be a massage-parlor/mail-order bride center/whorehouse?

Today I decided that, whorehouse or no, I was going to spend my lunch break there. Just to be safe, I took a coworker with me. Hey, who knows if they were on the look-out for U.S. identities to steal as part of their slave-trafficking/prostitution ring?

Now, while I certainly have no moral objections to the sex industry, I must admit that it’s not really my thing. I generally only go as far as downloading the videos. I’ve been to exactly two strip clubs in my life. Neither experience was so thrilling that I found myself eager to return. Maybe it was the cheap perfume, the nearly impossible to remove glitter and stench of fear that clung to me the next day, or the bored swaying of countless pairs of dead eyes and fake breasts. Or maybe I’m just an asshole missing the true beauty of titty-bars.

I’ve never had sex with a prostitute…that I know of…though I do harbor some suspicions about one of my shadier ex-girlfriends. Maybe it was the ownership of clear, plastic pumps, the fact she never kissed me on the lips, or the time she charged my friends money for sex. But deep down, something never seemed right about her. Something I couldn’t put my finger on.

I’m kidding. I never dated a girl who charged my friends money for sex. I did, however, have a girlfriend whom I later found out fucked a guy for drugs. But that’s totally different. And much classier.

One of the deciding things (other than my over-powering paranoia of V.D.) that no doubt factors into my hesitancy to purchase sex is that I am, perhaps, the worst negotiator known to man. I know. I know. It’s shocking, given my Jewish heritage. One of my friends said it’s because I never got bar Mitzvahed. Apparently, that’s where they program you with all the tricks on how to control the world’s media, suck at sports, and steal the White Man’s money. Fuck! I knew I should have sucked it up and attended Hebrew School.

How bad do I suck at negotiating? I paid full-price for my cell-phone. And I went in there with a corporate discount rate. That’s right. I some-how managed to increase the amount of money I spent from the sticker price.

Come to think of it, my inability to strike a fair trade probably explains the bulk of my relationships.

“What’s that, honey? You say if I promise never to drink, see my friends, or show any signs of independence, you’ll completely walk all-over me for the rest of my life and eventually suck me down into a joyless marriage? Where do I sign up?”

Now as bad as my haggling skills are, one can only imagine what they would be when bantered over a pair of naked breasts, fake or not. Basically, I’m smart enough to know that only one walking away from that transaction being thoroughly and properly fucked would be me.

Fortunately, Asian Temptations showed no signs of being a whorehouse. Which is good for my bank-account, self-esteem, and truly awe-inspiring lack of gonorrhea, but bad for my near-fatal thirst to get laid. Oh well, I guess I’ll just have to suck it up and go back to being charming.

Fuck! I’m never getting laid again.

Robot House

In the Futurama episode “Mars University” Bender, the alcoholic, kleptomaniac robot, joins up with a branch of his fraternity, Epsilon Rho Rho, at a their headquarters: Robot House. Much of the episode is dedicated to Animal House paradies. A number of my friends have recently rented, conquered, infected or are squatting in (the distinction was never really explained to me and I shudder to ask) a house that we've officially dubbed, in honor of that cartoon, “Robot House.” Considering the amount of quasi-legal substances, activities, and sexual exploits that go on between those walls, it’s somehow only fitting that the name, too, was illegally used and obtained.

Robot House has anywhere between 6 and 15 residents. It’s really anyone’s guess. It’s the kind of place where one never knows who one will discover sleeping amidst the wreckage of last night’s carnage.

I was asked if I’d like to rent a room there, once. I politely declined. See, while I love my friends, I’m simply not ready for the level of psychological warfare that existing at Robot House entails. Allow me to explain.

Let’s say that you’re a resident of Robot House and you notice that you’re out of soap. Do you:

A) Go down to the store and buy a new bar.
B) Call your parents and ask them to mail you soap.
C) Put off bathing altogether, guessing that someone else will crack to the overpowering stench of countless unwashed men living in close proximity.

If you said "C," welcome to Flavor Country!

Simply existing in Robot House is a practice in Darwinism. Did you notice that your roommate has come down with the Hanta Virus due to the pestilent surroundings? This is the perfect time to skip out on the Gas Bill! Because you know damn well that when it comes to living in subzero temperatures, his weakened immune system makes him a far more likely candidate to crack and pay your share.

This is what it’s like with everything in the house: dishes, garbage, groceries, cleaning, maintenance, utilities, EVERYTHING. The cable bill usually gets paid on time. After that, it becomes a game of eyeing your housemates like jackals, waiting for someone to show a sign of weakness.

"Give me your gas-can fire!"
"Fuck you! Pay the gas bill, mother fucker!"
"If you won't share the fire, we have no choice but to take it by force!"
"You don't have the grapes."
"I smell fear on you!"

It’s sort of like Lord of the Flies. Only with more porn.

Frankly I don’t have the energy for it on a 24-7 level. But I do enjoy visiting. In fact, I have officially been given a title:

Robot House President of Public Relations

I think that it’s mostly due to this blog. That should probably make the public at large very nervous. Why? Given that it’s my job to portray Robot House in a generous light, take another look at this page and imagine if I HADN’T been spinning my coverage. Decent townsfolk, bolt your windows, lock your doors, and cower in your cellars. For no one is safe from the carnage that is

ROBOT HOOOOOOOOOOOOUSE

Boogies On Your Six: The Art Of The Wingman

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Northern Exposure

There is no quicker way to bond with locals than through the sex industry. What can I say? Something about it just brings people together.

I didn’t actually get the chance to visit a Canadian strip club last weekend. Which is unfortunate. Not because I’m into glitter and the smell of fear, but because I was really looking forward to figuring out the logistics of putting coins in a girl’s G-String. Obviously, Canada did not take the titty bar industry into account when settling on non-paper dollars.

My friends said that the matter was easily negotiated through the “Lick it and stick it” method. One of them put a dollar in his palm, ran his tongue over the coin and slapped my friend across the face to prove his point. Call me old fashioned, but something about that seems so wrong. Maybe it’s the fact that you'd have to be bat-shit insane to allow any object from a strip club into any of your orifices. I hope strippers douche with bleach.

My friends and I didn’t visit any gentlemen’s clubs. Maybe because they were too busy soliciting prostitutes. This is where the trip got interesting.

The six of us wandered the streets of Montreal in freezing winds, ankle-deep slush, and patches of ice in search of a bar. I was having a difficult time staying vertical in my Harley Davidson boots. The pavement seemed to shift beneath the slush, snow and ice at exactly the right time to catch me off-balance. Or maybe it was just the Vodka and Red Bulls.

At any rate, I was shocked when I saw a girl briskly marching down the street in what was perhaps the most idiotic winter-wear ever. An obscenely low red spaghetti-string belly shirt desperately fought to cover the top third of her stomach. A black pleather skirt was waging an equally pointless war with her thighs, but what really brought the ensemble together was the boots.

Imagine the biggest whore in creation walking into a shoe maker and, just before she allows him, his entire family, his neighbors, and all of the animals in the local zoo to penetrate her with their own shit, she says, “I’m afraid my clientele is starting to think I’m too good for them. Can you make me boots to make me seem like a bigger whore?” That’s what this footwear accomplished.

In retrospect, I’m glad they were pleather. Because they would have had to wipe out half the cows in the Midwest to make them.



Basically, there was no more than 2 square inches of boot touching the pavement at any given time. Then again, given the amount of time she probably spent on her back anyway, I doubt this was a substantial inconvenience.

My friends, being the jackals that they are, decided this was the perfect opportunity to get to know real Canadians in the up-close and personal way that only cheap, purchased sex from an underage street whore with the same dental hygienist as Michael Strahan could provide.



Friend: Hey baby, how much?
Whore: You guys cops?
Friend: Nope.
Whore: How much are you looking to spend?
Friend: What can I get?
Whore: One date is $80

Just to reiterate, WE WERE IN CANADA. How big a skank are to you charge $80 Canadian for a fuck? That’s about $68 American. Or less than a George Foreman oven. Thank God they have free health care up there. Because she’d never be able to turn a profit and cover the cost of Chlamydia medication otherwise.

Friend: Is that $80 per person, or for the six of us?
Whore (long pause to eye our little posse): You ALL want dates?
Friend: Hell yeah!
Whore: That’s $80 per person.
Friend: Can’t we get a group discount?

This is when she decided that we weren’t for real. She quickly began walking away. Well, as quickly as one can manage on 6” pleather stiletto fuck-me boots.

Friend: Wait! WAIT!!!

She turned her head briefly, pulled by the allure of easy money. With an emphasis on the word “easy.”

Friend: How much to just shit on your chest?

The way I see it, we’ll be fortunate if they even let us back into the country next time.

Ehren Ruins A Potentially Tender Moment

Perhaps the most amusing moment in existence is when a guy makes his first pass at physical contact. I’m a firm believer that over-thinking, especially on a date, is death. Despite that, I still sometimes get caught up in that split-second moment of panic where my brain screams, “Touch her, you tool! No, you missed your window! Uh-oh, now she’s looking at you. Better say something smooth, quick!”

Ehren: So…what kind of…floss…do you use?
Girl: Umm…
Ehren: Cool…Want to…make out?

I always thought that the old subterfuge move of “pretending to yawn and putting your arm around her” was completely lame. First of all, no one ever believes that it’s an accident or unintentional. Second, the whole point is to let her know you want to touch her. And lastly, there’s no way to pull it off without looking like a complete tool.

In my book, you get extra points for just going straight out and announcing your intentions. Which is why I use the line, “OK, you’ve successfully wooed me with your wily female charms. I’m putting my arm around you.”

Of course, I don’t always remember that. Sometimes I’m actually quick-witted enough to do something smoother and less transparent. Then again, there are times that I lack even the mental where-with-all to remember that simple, fail-proof line. Here’s the story of one such occasion.

I was on a date with an attractive girl I met through a mutual friend. Seeing as how said friend was probably the worst hook-up proprietor in history, I was forced to take matters into my own hands. It was the dreaded “First Date” situation, where both of us pretended to laugh at each others’ jokes and tried to hide our obvious discomfort about being locked in a car with a total stranger.

The night went moderately well. I’m not really a “date guy.” I don’t like to talk all the time…unless I’m drunk, and then God knows what the fuck will coming shooting out of my mouth. On the other hand, I also try to cover-up uncomfortable silences. But having nothing to say, I wind up with the lamest conversations. Like, “So…You ever eat…things” or “Hey…remember that show…‘Family Ties’?” or “have you ever…seen...those pink shirts? What’s the deal with that?”

Look, some women find it charming and adorable. Not most women. But my target women do: the ones who drool and wear helmets. I need a shirt that says, “Irresistible to Retards.”

On a scale of 1-10, the evening had been a 4. I was occasionally amusing, generally sweet and pretty good at preventing my eyes from rolling up into my skull when she spoke. To me, that's a solid win.

At the end of the night, there was an awkward moment as the car rolled to a stop outside the door.

“So” she said, after a moment of nervous silence. “I had a really great time.”
“Yeah, me too.” I replied, flashing her what I hoped was a cool smile. “We should do this again.”

There was another second of silence and then a couple things happened at once.

1. She decided that one way or another she was going to get a goodnight kiss. Closing her eyes, she leaned forward to plant one on me
2. I decided to put an arm around her and kiss her.

I was sitting in the driver’s seat, and with my right arm swinging up, I wasn’t prepared for my target to move closer. There was no time adjust my trajectory. With her eyes closed, she had no chance at spotting my arm swinging up in a tight, quick arc. There was an audible CRACK as the front of my hand landed squarely across her mouth.

Basically, I pimp-slapped her.

“OW!!!” she yelped, grabbing her mouth and leaping backwards. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I don’t know.” I answered, trying my best not to dissolve in laughter. “It worked for Bobby Brown.”

New Year's Resolutions

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Go North, Young Man

This coming weekend I’ll be in Montreal to celebrate New Year’s. I know that I have a bunch of Canadian readers, so if anyone has suggestions about what I should do, let me know. Also, if any of them live in the area and want to come watch me and my rowdy posse of friends get drunk, shoot me an email. Extra points will be given if you happen to be female, attractive, and willing to sleep with me. Or at least steer hot, unsuspecting friends into my evil clutches.

I love road trips. And not just because authorities and women don’t know me by face. Well, ok, that’s partly it. Your friends are never more your friends than when you’re in a strange environment. Suddenly, your rag-tag assortment of drinking buddies are transformed into a team of fellow-conspirators, body-guards, and pimps. Amusing, because as soon as the doors close for the ride back, we’ll resume ruthlessly ball-busting, mooning, and undermining each other.

I like love the new sights, the new streets, the new experiences lurking behind every turn; like a woman revealing herself garment by garment. But I guess what I enjoy most is the unpredictability.

There are no preconceptions about what will happen. Saturday night has as much a chance of finding me clad in a suit and tie at a jazz club as it does of discovering me in jeans and a hoody at a seedy strip-club. Maybe I’ll be sipping Scotch on the rocks. Maybe I’ll be pounding Miller lite from the can.

No one will know until we arrive there. Honestly, would anyone be surprised if I got deported before Monday? I might start calling everyone Dudley Do-Right, asking how they like living in America Junior, and adding “eh” after every sentence. However, I do keep having this vision of tearing down the streets of Montreal, a hollering mob in fast pursuit, up to the American Embassy, screaming, “Sanctuary! SANCTUARY!!!” at the top of my lungs.

Whatever happens, three things are certain:

1. Alcohol will be had, though I will consume less than on my birthday. How sad is it that I have to promise to be more sober for New Year’s than I was for Christmas?
2. Cuban cigars will be purchased and enjoyed. Fuck you, American embargo.
3. The five-star hotel I’m staying at will have no idea what it bargained for. 4 AM calls to the concierge-desk for rope, a latex mask, and four gallons of astroglide are probably among the more printable things that will take place in those over-priced walls.

So again, should anyone decide to offer themselves as a guide, groupie, or pimp, we'll do shots in the Notre-Dame Basilica. The rest of you Cannucks: lock your doors, warn your daughters, and alert the Mounties. See you soon.

My Birthday Celebration

While there are a few qualities I enjoy about sharing my birthday with a major holiday, all in all it overwhelmingly sucks. Ever since I can remember, my friends have always had other plans when it comes to celebrating my birth. Turns out they feel as if they owe their loyalty Jesus. Traitors.

I spent most of Saturday afternoon alone in my room, reading Tucker Max’s book cover to cover, fully expecting to see no one but my family for the next three days. So when my phone rang that evening and I heard that my friends were assembling to drink, I was ecstatic. Finally, people would be around to celebrate my birthday and, more importantly, buy me alcohol.

What I had that night was a perfect storm of drinking mayhem. And I proceeded to annihilate all traces of decency, dignity, and vomit control in a hurricane of Vodka-sodas.

I might very well have been drunker on Saturday night than I have ever been in my life. The results were either hilarious or depressing, depending on which side you were on. But below is what I recall of the night. Keep in mind that most of the second half of the evening had to be traced together through eye-witness accounts, here-say, call-logs, and the allegations of a few thoroughly harassed bouncers.

I arrived at the bar at just about 10:15. After a few pre game drinks and a day of Tucker Max exposure, I was amped up like a ferret on Crystal Meth. My friends’ insistence on buying rounds, coupled with my inability to turn down drinks turned me from an aggressive drinker to a combative one. I downed about five pints of Vodka and Soda inside the first twenty minutes. I was full of holiday spirits. Provided they were vodka.

To prove this point, I launched myself into a group of drinkers. “What the fuck are you all drinking?” I bellowed by way of a greeting. “It's Christmas! If you pansies don’t do a shot with me right now, you’ll make baby Jesus cry!”

“Huh?” they managed. Given the sheer volume and intensity of my verbal assault, they did well to manage even that. I was lucky not to have been maced on the spot.

One of my friends tugged on my arm. “Dude, you have to chill out. You’re going to get tossed out before your birthday.”

I considered the possibility, acknowledged the likelihood and decided to ignore this sound logic anyway.

“Bar keep!” I barked. The entire bar turned. Maybe I was talking louder than I thought. “It’s a Yuletide celebration. What would Jesus drink?”

“Wine?” said the bartender after a pause.

“Vodka and Soda it is!” I responded. “And make it a man-sized drink, this time. What do you have that’s larger than a pint?”

I arrived back at my table just as one of my friends announced he was heading to the bar. “Who needs a drink?” he inquired.

“I do!” I proclaimed, waving my full glass as proof. I promptly downed the entire double of vodka and soda. This is my last clear memory of the evening.

Around 11:15 (or three doubles later), I decided that this establishment was incapable of picking any decent music without my supervision. I also became aware, briefly, that I was talking way too loudly, as people four tables over tried to shush me each time I opened my mouth.

Marching over to the jukebox I saw a table of four girls, only one of them even marginally attractive. They were engaged in some quiet, deeply emotional debate about their feelings. They held each other’s hands and smiled reassuringly at one another. What they weren’t doing, however, was paying any attention to me. A costly error.

“Listen,” I demanded at full volume, flinging myself into their midst. “It’s obvious that none of you will ever meet a man. Make yourselves useful and watch my drink.”

This witty remark somehow failed to win their undying love. I didn’t care. I deposited my drink in their midst and headed over to the jukebox, where I was appalled to find that the cost was a dollar a tune. In my alcohol soaked mind, this was tantamount to highway robbery. And if I was unhappy, others were going to share my discomfort. Unfortuntaley for them, the flab four were the people closest to me. Guns blazing, I threw myself back into their midst.

“A dollar a song!!!” I yelled at them before they could open their mouths and prepare for my second pass. “That’s like, 10 dollars a song. And I’m going to need every cent of that money to make any of you seem even slightly attractive.”

“Leave us alone, asshole.” Exclaimed the marginally fuckable one. I assumed she was the leader. Maybe because she was the only one able to stop eating cheeseburgers long enough to talk. Dimly, I recalled some militant group saying that respect was given to those who demanded it. Backing down was not an option.

“Honey, honey.” I said in a soothing voice. “It’s obvious you’re aroused and frightened because I’m way more attractive than you. Don’t worry. Maybe our kids will look like me.”

“I’m calling the bouncer.” She announced, leaving the table.

“Scrooge!” I shouted after her. “It's the season of giving! How can you be so stingy with your vagina? It’s not like you’ve been using it.”

Sensing I’d worn out my welcome (really, where did I go wrong?), I decided it was time to make a get-away lest the bouncer decide to take Shamu and the rest of her Sea World menagerie seriously. After all, I had been shouting non-stop for about an hour and a half. I downed my drink and sent my friend to get me another one. I remember nothing else of the night.

What you have to keep in mind was that it was still only 11:30 or so. I DIDN’T EVEN MAKE IT TO MIDNIGHT AND MY BRITHDAY. Among the more amusing actions that followed over the course of the next 30 minutes, and my subsequent inability to stay vertical, were (as recounted by my friends):

• Yelling sexually harassing comments at two women on my cell phone through use of the call-waiting feature. Fortunately, I did stop eventually: to vomit—WHILE THE GIRLS WERE STILL ON THE LINE.
• Inviting everyone in the bar to come on vacation with me the following weekend.
• Head-butting my sister in the stomach when she insisted we leave before midnight.
• Making up fake names and identities for strangers and introducing them to my friends.
• Getting kicked out of an Irish bar for being drunk.

I was well beyond shit-housed. The kicker of the story, however, was waking up the next morning, and deciding to attempt to drive home. Obviously, I was out of my mind, as I didn’t even know where I was…and still drunk. I always keep my keys in my right pocket, so instinctively, my hand shot down to retrieve them. However, I had supremely underestimated my level of inebriation. I struggled with my pants for about two minutes, before giving up and holding the pillow over my throbbing head in defeat. That’s right, folks. I WOKE UP TOO DRUNK TO WORK MY POCKETS.

Now that’s a fucking birthday celebration. Next year, I'm asking for a new liver and Motrin.

Rape Me: A True Friendship Story

Sometimes, you come across a situation where you just have to do something for a friend’s own good. They might protest, argue and curse you out, but deep down, they’ll respect you the more for it—especially once they sober up. Below is such a tale.

When Jack Saddle, my close personal friend, turned 21, I took it on myself to make sure that a truly epic night of debauchery was realized. The way I saw it, four things were needed to ensure an evening equal to this epic event:

1. Copious amounts of alcohol
2. A designated driver
3. Easily available women
4. An adversary

Number one was readily available at any bar. Just to be sure, however, we visited five different establishments. I was happy to take over the role of item number two. Number three was available—but only on the condition that I was ready take on the duties of number four, as well.

Allow me to explain. Jack dated a girl his senior year of high school who I periodically kept in touch with. After a falling-out that included Jack calling all of her college friends “dumb, white, rich brats,” the two had parted ways. Through my contact with the Ex, whom we’ll call Leanne, I knew that she was ready, willing, and drooling for the opportunity to jump Jack once more. Jack, on the other hand, was more or less completely repulsed by her personality. However, I was counting on two things:

1. Leanne’s truly spectacular breasts
2. Jack’s repeated inability to refuse spectacular breasts when drunk.

However, Jack could never know precisely what I was plotting in advance. The second he thought I was trying to get him to sleep with his ex, I knew he’d put up his guard and protest. So instead, I got Leanne to bring friends with her and we met up with them under the pretense that we were trying to set him up with one of the friends.

Around 1 AM, I surveyed my progress: Jack, after a truly heroic number of vodka-cranberries and Hennessey was chatting with the girls, while staring down Leanne’s blouse with an intensity that was bordering on creepy. Said curvy female was sending “fuck me” vibes across the table so loudly, I became seriously concerned that she was going to dive over the table and rape him. It was time to move to Phase 2.

Herding everyone into my car, I began to drive back to the friends’ house. Leanne asked if I’d drop her off first.

“Wait,” said Jack as we pulled to a stop. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

He got out of the car. I began to think that my plot would go off without a hitch.

“Ehren,” he said, coming up to the driver’s side window as Leanne beckoned him from her front porch. “Don’t leave me here.”

“I won’t.”

“I’m serious, Ehren. Don’t fucking leave me here. I don’t want to fuck her. Swear that you won’t leave me.”

“I swear.”

“You PROMISE?”

“I promise.”

“Ehren, I’ll seriously be pissed if you leave.”

“I won’t leave.”

I waited about 15 seconds after the door closed and pealed out like a stunt driver in The Fast and the Furious. I must have left two inches of rubber outside her driveway.

Three hours later I returned, threw rocks at their window, and started walking back to the car to wait for Jack to reappear.

"Three hours ought to be enough." I thought to myself. Obviously, I underestimated my friend's endurance.

Because at that moment, Leanne was bent over the couch in her front room, with Jack balls-deep inside her. Meaning both of them had a full view of me throwing rocks and my subsequent walk towards my car. Leanne probably assumed that I'd head home and meet up with them in the morning. However, she failed to take Jack's fear of abondonment and loathing of her personality into account. In his drunk, post-rape trauma paranoia (fueled by the fact I’d ditched once already this evening), Jack saw his one chance at escape and pounced on it. Leaving Leanne mid-thrust, still bent over the couch, he went tearing out of the house, pants around his ankles, screaming hysterically, “DON’T LEAVE ME, YOU BASTARD!!! DAMN YOU EHREN!!!NOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

Hastily arranging her skirt Leanne came pounding out of the house three steps behind, yelling after him, “Jack, it’s fine if you want to stay the night. Why don’t you come back inside and get your shirt?”

It’s hard to prepare for a Dukes of Hazard type get-away, while incapacitated by laughter. I did my best.

Jack hastily yelled, “No thank you” over his shoulder as he threw himself headlong into the backseat. For the second time that night, I pealed out of Leanne’s driveway, leaving her alone in the middle of her front lawn, with a very bewildered look on her face—not surprising considering a scant 20 seconds before she had been mid-coitus.

He climbed into the passenger seat and we drove in silence for about two minutes. I stole a glance over at him. The bleary, drained, relaxed and confused expression on his face spoke volumes. It looked as if he’d been molested by some 100-women harem, certain they'd never see another man again.

“Thanks” he finally said.

Hey, what are friends for?

***After speaking with Jack, I realized that the first version of this post, in which he came running out while peeing, was incorrect. Above is the true chronicle of the night.

Ehren Argues (Fruitlessly) With A Fanatic

For years and years I harbored the illusion that you could change someone’s mind simply by proving they were wrong. I guess it’s because I always tried to figure shit out for myself. So when I ran into ideas that challenged my beliefs, I’d try to look at them as analytically as possible and if they made sense, I’d adopt them.

I’ve since discovered that this is not a trait shared by everyone.

This country, I’ve decided, is no longer run by people of different political views. It’s run (and over-run) with people so far beyond hope, common sense, and compromise, that they’ve become religious fanatics. On both sides.

Ordinarily, I let politics lie because I end up getting so incensed at the candidates, that I almost induce a stroke. But every once in a while, I stumble across someone with a crazy viewpoint who otherwise seems so sane and articulate that I can’t help but stick my nose in. Because I keep thinking that maybe I can convince him if I keep showing him the other side in an intelligent, respectful, and humorous way.

Needless to say, I’m always disappointed. For example, a few months back I stumbled across the blog of a religious conservative. Every day he picks a new target, tears them a new asshole because they have an alternative opinion and ends with some statement like “John Stewart, why do you hate America?” Completely missing the point (in my opinion) that the whole point of the U.S. is that we’re supposed to have dissenting points of view. Because otherwise we’re a dictatorship.

Anyway, I couldn’t help but comment on one of his posts where he called someone anti-American because they didn’t agree with the reasons for the War in Iraq. We went back and forth over the place of civil disobedience and the market-place of ideas before he finally said, “After September 11th it is the duty of every true American to support our Divinely-Appointed President.”

That’s when I realized that no matter how much this guy read, at heart he would never be anything more than a crazy, bible-toting nut. The point of a debate is to prove your argument using logic and facts. And while you might believe Bush is divinely appointed, there’s no way to prove it. Personally, I think the fact that he’s possibly the worst public speaker since Dan Quayle is a shot to the whole “Divinely appointed” title, but that’s just me.

I check back at the blog every once in a while, just to see what the lunatic is ranting against this month. Today, it just happened to be the whole “Xmas” uproar about how using a contraction causes the land to whither, babies to die, and men to commit bestiality. Even though I KNEW there was no shot in Hell I would get him to change his mind, I couldn’t help myself. My favorite part about this blog is the more rationally I tear apart his ideas, the more he blindly gropes for wild religious statements he can’t actually defend.

Enjoy, and feel free to try to convince him of the error in his ways. Or else just say, “Fuck it” and come back tomorrow when I talk about Jack Saddle’s favorite birthday ever. Hint: involves nudity.