Cookout etiquette for Savages

I can't lie to you, the summer months are always tough for a brother. The favorable weather conditions always put an unwanted spotlight on my reclusive nature, forcing me to make impromptu guest appearances like a major motion picture star during sweeps week. The oppressive heat turns pedestrian chores like cutting the grass into weekly altercations with my toughest nemesis. Routine courting rituals in search of the vaginal promised land, like romantic walks or catching an outdoor concert - become necessary evils during the summer months. Also, not for nothing, the season when I'm most likely to show off my Popeye sized calves and a tattoo that I thoroughly regret makes it extremely challenging for me to pull off my patented "Bill Belichick" sexual maneuver.(Clumsily fucking a woman while wearing a sweatshirt) But what I really hate about summer, from the precise moment that inept tong wielders everywhere break out their barbecue grills and throw on cliched "kiss the cook" aprons, is that it reminds me of my deceased father.

My old man, for all the shit I've posthumously given him on this blog, had a bevy of talents. Cooking barbecue was one of them. I still remember how he'd start grilling super early, systematically bringing the finished product into the house, and how that beautiful smell would wake you out of the deepest slumber. The incessant snacking on his culinary works of art all day were a foregone conclusion, so much so that my mother stopped giving her "you'll ruin your dinner" diatribes sometime in the late 70's. I've never flirted with Islam, but if I ever did I'm sure spiritual enlightenment and one day pilgrimages to Mecca would have been forcefully trumped by the blissful mastication of my father's grilled swine drenched in barbecue sauce. Some of our brave veterans have vivid flashbacks of some precarious firefight they once found themselves in. Many of us daydream about that one love we carelessly let slip through our fingers. Not for nothing, but when I'm not thinking of sex that involves receipts and inept rappers who I want to mercilessly curb-stomp, most of my day is spent thinking about my father's barbecue and my Keystone Cops-like inability to recreate it.

Unfortunately, not only has the sub par cook-outs that I've attended every summer since my father death(2001) reminded me of the best barbecue that I've ever eaten - it has also brings to mind some of the more unsavory traits these sort of shindigs expose in folks. Here is some etiquette advice for all you motherfucking savages out there.

Bring a friend, not a fucking entourage: What was weird about my old man was that for as much of a hard ass he was, he'd routinely let his friends get away with triple homicides in his presence. I can understand being invited to a cookout and bringing a person or two, but it always seemed like these uncouth knuckle-draggers rented a church van, crammed it to the hilt with as many like-minded people with an an agenda of greed that they could find, and headed straight to our place to happily eat us out of house and home. I attended a friend's cookout recently where someone had no problem violating the aforementioned hell-worthy trespass, with reckless abandon I may add. So I took it upon myself to put those crumb-snatchers to work, making them go on beer runs and such, then helping clean up afterwords. They were going to earn their meal that day. Again, bringing a person or two is fine - but any more than that is unacceptable. At least call the host first to see if its alright.

What you bring becomes community property: How many times have you seen a person bring something to a cookout, lets say a 24 pack of beer, and then try to take the remaining cans of beer home with them when the shindig comes to a close? Sorry, but that is straight up savagery my friend. Once you bring anything to a cookout, unless its something in a fancy schmancy dish that you understandably aren't trying to part with, it is no longer yours you fucking savage. (Unless the host insist that you take what's left back to your place of residence) I really don't see why this is so difficult for some folks to understand.

For Christs sake, cover that shit up: The worst feeling in the world is going to a friend's cook-out completely famished, ready to take a bite out of a live horse if its seasoned right, only to find every dish fly infested because the neanderthal of a host failed to simply cover it up. I can't tell you how many times I've seen this, feeling the need to put on a fucking bee keeper suit just to walk by the plates of neglect simply because most people didn't grow up in the same sort of germ conscious family that I did. Desperately hoping that the contents of the nearby keg will successfully subdue my appetite. Cover the food up you fucking caveman, it isn't that difficult.

Only if the Host says its OK: Similar to the "community property" example, the only time its acceptable to take a plate of goodies home with you is when the host insists. That's it folks. Every time I see some unsavory bottom feeder cavalierly stacking their plate like a carnivore's version of "Jenga", I want to walk over and punch the offender dead in the throat. You'd think that people had better sense than that, but unfortunately they don't - my otherwise faulty memory bank is filled with 30 years of vivid instances of people proverbially wiping their ass with someone's hospitality. If the host doesn't suggest that you take some food home with you, keep your grubby little hands to yourself. You goddamn savage.

Some hippies deserve to be punched.

Two months ago I went to a friend's dinner party. For an uncultured, masturbation machine like myself it was good to mingle amongst people with such varying political opinions, while hypertension inducing delicacies and liver enlarging spirits served as the backdrop. I have to say, as much as I usually take the scorched earth, bring a motherfucking missile launcher to a knife-fight approach to debating republicans - the right leaning guests at my friend's dinner party came equipped with an arsenal of substantive arguments. No birtherism. No 14th Amendment talk. I don't even think the word "socialism" was uttered once. Usually, as a republican is making his/her arguments, I'm openly wondering whether or not slashing my wrists and bleeding out all over the place in an act of utter disgust is theatrical overkill. But that night, refreshingly, I fully embraced those fleeting moments of political civility that are few and far between these days. What really threw me for a loop that night was the heated back and forth that I got into with someone I believed to be my liberal, dope smoking brethren - my friend's older brother, a hippie named Miles. It wasn't as if some of his arguments weren't substantive mind you, the snails pace it is taking to close GITMO and end DADT are legitimate criticisms, it was the unwarranted vitriol towards Obama that they were laced with that gave me such pause. At first the rhetorical sparing we did that night felt like Déjà vu, any honest person with a computer will admit that segments of the liberal blogisphere are littered with garden variety defenses of Obama being carelessly characterized as lockstep sycophancy and accusations that the President is George W. Bush's personal surrogate(a Bruce Willis movie reference) are as plentiful as the bumps on Lawrence Fishburne's daughter's ass. So the ease in which I proverbially parried and counter-punched his firebagging nonsense made me feel like Donnie Yen in "Ip Man". When it came to legislation he felt wasn't strong enough, I smiled and quietly sat through all the incendiary rhetoric about Obama grabbing his ankles around bankers and giving the health insurance companies unprompted reach-arounds - mainly because my patience was rooted in the silence I knew I'd bask in after asking him what he would have legislatively done differently. But things took a turn for the worst as soon an Miles ended his rather arduous "Obama is just like Bush" rant with what I still believe to be a vague assassination fantasy.

Since it was around 2 AM at that point I abandoned the conversation by standing up and telling the debate rubberneckers, "Ok, that is my cue to go", then I proceeded to distribute both pounds and hugs to the extremely interesting folks I had met that night. Of course giving Miles the time honored snub. The next thing I know, while I'm digging in my pockets for my car keys outside, I see Miles running up on me in my periphery - waiving his arms wildly, eventually getting in my face, screaming rather incoherently. Right when I'm about to do a Savion Glover inspired softshoe routine on his motherfucking forehead, my friend runs out the house screaming "Please, don't beat up my brother, he's high!!" I immediately say, "Shit, I'm high too, but marijuana is what kept me from making you an only child!" He then says, "No, he's smoking a lot more than weed these days" - as my friend said that Miles was grabbing my shirt so I immediately quipped "Well, you and your brother must be smoking dust if you think I'm going to let any continued act of aggression go unanswered." And that's when he sucker punched me. *POW* So I proceeded to lace him with a 5 punch combination to the face, a throat chop, a couple of kidney punches, and a kick in the gut for good measure before throwing him head first into a gigantic shrubbery of some sort.

I've been thinking about that incident ever since Robert Gibbs gave his now infamous "Professional Left" interview. As much as I questioned the strategy of him broaching the subject at all, and I did feel the term "Professional Left" would allow too many liberal commentators to conveniently play the victim - I immediately knew what Gibbs was talking about and co-signed his sentiments immediately. Two more things that also instantly came to mind: 1)I knew I'd be one in a small handful of liberals who actually had Gibbs' back on this one. and 2)That you wouldn't be able to throw a rock without hitting some liberal commentator having a rather telegraphed hissyfit over what Gibbs had to say. Even though the unpopularity of my Robert Gibbs co-signing has only shown itself to be anecdotal via twitter, the evidence of all the liberal commentators who got their delicate little feelings hurt in a rather scripted fashion was empirical like a motherfucker. The common denominators in all those videos: The using of Robert Gibbs' interview to re-litigate liberal grievances, and a convenient morphing of the Press Secretary's words into a frontal attack on the liberal base as a whole. I don't have a problem with the former, but the latter is intellectual dishonesty bordering on journalistic malpractice. Even Rachel Maddow, who I thought felt the issue was justifiably silly by her not dedicating a breathy diatribe to it on last Tuesday night's show, a person who strikes me as more of a straight shooter than most - took it upon herself to take an Obama criticism that I feel is above reproach(ending DADT) and clumsily wrapped it in what Robert Gibbs didn't say. I guess she was just following the liberal rulebook: "When it doubt, give Glenn Greenwald masturbatory material."



Robert Gibbs made it clear that he wasn't talking about garden variety liberals, just some of the chattering cable class and other influential progressives who desperately tried to convince me last week that the Press Secretary took a healthy shit in my Cheerios. More pointedly, the incessant liberal nihilism that has been masquerading as constructive criticism for the last 17 months - those are the real folks who I wholeheartedly believe Gibbs was talking about. You know, like the guy whose health care frustration prompted him to very casually float the idea of a Primary challenge to the President. Or his petulantly scripted outrage over President Obama's oil spill speech. Or the chick who thought it was a good idea to blow up a bill that improved on our health care system simply because she didn't get her precious way - then proceeding to clumsily team up with Grover Norquist. And support Erick Erickson. Then there's the guy, when he's not waxing poetic about the President's lack of genitalia and calling him a sell-out - is telling his viewers how he plans to sit on his hands come mid-term election time. Hell, just this past weekend we had certain progressives clumsily tripping over themselves like Barney Fife on mescaline in their rush to blast the President on a supposed walk-back that he never made - thus making Robert Gibbs look like a goddamned prophet.

Look, holding the President accountable is a must, no one is arguing that. But what I haven't seen from influential circles of the left if what Bob Cesca likes to call "smart accountability" - it just seems to be nothing but whining malcontents taking every opportunity imaginable to poo-poo the President's impressive string of accomplishments. They like to lecture all of us on how much of what he's gotten done lacks teeth, but then proceed to tightly cup their ears and scream like petulant 5 year olds whenever you point out what exactly the legislative realities are.(See Cenk Uygur) The funny thing is, these same people will wax poetic about the President's depressed base as if they themselves didn't have something to do with that. The same way the President shouldn't be above reproach, neither should any of his liberal critics. Sorry Keith Olbermann. Sorry Adam Green. People have regrettably noted that what Robert Gibbs participated in last week was something that folks call "Punching Hippies", the art of a Democratic administration attacking its liberal critics. Well, as I found out at the dinner party I attended a couple months back, some hippies deserved to be punched. And just like that night, many need to be drug tested.

"Another Pete Rock Remix"

Moments into reading this blog a few things become abundantly clear: 1)I have an insatiable appetite for unprovoked violence that would lead therapists the world over to openly wonder if I tortured puppies as a child. 2) I have more daddy issues than your local stripper turned escort 3) I can't go three paragraphs without referencing my penis in some sort of unseemly manner and 4)I have no problem whatsoever expressing my firm belief that DJ Premier is indeed a deity. As troubling to you as the first three examples may be, let me briefly address my penchant for proverbially building a shrine to the surviving member of Gangstarr. For the past couple of years I've come to the conclusion that the Texas born producer's music can cure any possible ill that one could ever imagine. The same way Chris Rock famously waxed poetic about his father's belief that Robitussin could magically reverse the affects of everything from asthma to broken tibias - "DJ Premier" is commonly my answer to every music question posed to me. Regardless of the genre, I believe that he could save any artist's career from sliding into the doldrums. I think he could score any motion picture, ranging from Victorian period pieces to German Shiza porn. Preemo could produce toe-tapping jingles that would make companies billions, create theme-songs to sitcoms that would leave an actor's pockets bulging with phat syndication dough. Catch me on the right day and I will tell you with a straight face that the man's music can save marriages and possibly broker peace deals. But what gets lost on this blog with all my incessant DJ Premier hero worship is another beat maker that I have tremendous respect for, Mr. Pete Rock.

The man's catalog speaks for itself, I've exhibited the same mangled snarl while simultaneously bobbing my head to his production ever since puberty first introduced itself to me. Hell, Pete Rock is the main reason why I know that I'd be a piss poor producer - because of his influential sound I'd be tempted to put horns in just about everything. But instead of citing his legendary catalog chapter and verse here, which would surely take up valuable space, I wanted to go into what I think is his particular field of expertise: The Remix. As much as DJ Premier is my favorite producer, a man who absolutely lays waste to any assignment where production re-imagining is needed - I've always admired the way Pete Rock seems to view the remix as an entirely separate entity. Its as if he purposely wipes his mental hardrive clean of any trace of the original production, completely overhauling the song to the point that it would be unrecognizable if it weren't for the lyrical content. Just the way a remix should be. Here are 4 of my favorite Pete Rock remixes.

Daf Efx: "Jussumen"(Pete Rock Remix)



Unlike the last example, the remix far outweighs the album version of this song by miles. Pete Rock turned a pretty milquetoast, shrug-worthy track into something that forces my body to do severely outdated Hip Hop dances wherever I hear it, regardless of the location. (Shoutout to my cousin Brendan. My nonstop playing of this song left him with a nervous twitch that never went away. Sorry cuz.)

Jeru tha Damaja: "You Cant Stop the Prophet"(Pete Rock Remix)



Ok, this is equivalent to Marty McFly challenging the space/time continuum. Something feels inherently wrong about anyone, Pete Rock or otherwise, remixing a DJ Premier produced song. That said, Pete Rock somehow managed to masterfully improve on a song that I already thought was pretty damn great already.

House of Pain: "Jump Around"(Pete Rock remix)



Not so much now, but when I was younger I had a habit of hating songs because I felt people solely flocked to them because of their novelty, not because the song was actually a good one. I wish I could say with confidence that my hate for this song was due to that rather faulty rationale, but it wasn't. I really hated this song, and at the time openly questioned people's intelligence and manhood if they even slightly suggested that they liked it. But Pete Rock's interpretation of "Jump Around" briefly gave religion to this cantankerous nonbeliever. Let me testify, the man works miracles.

Public Enemy: "Shut em down"(Pete Rock Remix)



By far my favorite Pete Rock remix of all time. I'm well aware that Public Enemy has a catalog filled with classics, but outside of Chuck D railing against John Wayne and Elvis Presley in "Fight the Power" - my second favorite PE moment is every time I hear the blaring horns on the "Shut em down" remix. The original track still stands up, perfectly highlighting the point they were trying to get across. But the Pete Rock remix not only makes me want to boycott companies who don't give back to the neighborhood, it makes me want to rally the troops and infiltrate their corporate headquarters while wearing Chewbacca's ammunition belt.

Wax On, Fuck Off with Ralph Macchio

Wax On, F*ck Off with Ralph Macchio from Ralph Macchio

Helping America become post racial, one brutal beating at a time: Episode Four

The one unintended consequence of my sobriety, I'm finding out, is an obnoxiously sunny disposition. Usually when I'm paying for my gas or buying some miscellaneous item, my main goal is to avoid small talk at all costs and get my black ass out of dodge as fast as humanly possible. But now that there are no more daily assassination attempts on my liver, more often than not I find myself actually engaging people - even smiling while doing so. Yes, my new found niceness utterly sickens me. If I saw an acquaintance at a store that I wanted to avoid having small talk with, the extraordinary stealth that I exhibited just to stay clear of their harmless minutiae would impress most ninjas. Now not only will I seek them out, I'll engage them with the same small talk that I once loathed and even inquire about their family. Ugh. Sobriety has made being an unrepentant douchebag less of a priority, and that starts to scare me. Not looking for every opportunity to say the most reprehensible things imaginable to people without even flinching is definitely a cause for concern. Did you know that I have new found habit of sexual reciprocity? I used to take so much pride in my pre-ejaculation and the love I have for penetrating women to Public Enemy's "Welcome to the Terrordome". What is happening to me? I mean, even mercilessly assaulting people for minor offenses is starting to lose its luster. For the past few months I seriously thought my asshole world was crashing down around me, that was until I met a self loathing black man with an Obama assassination fetish that is.

I had to give the drummer some: An old friend of mine is the guitarist in a jazz band. For the longest time I had promised him that I would go to one of his performances, but I was really dragging my feet for the fear that his band would sound like a constipated turkey - a judgment that a seasoned asshole like myself would only feel compelled to share with him. But despite the possibility of ruining a friendship with my blunt honesty, I finally made it to one of his performances - and suffice it to say his band was absolutely amazing. So amazing in fact that I found myself making it to three of their performances a week, they were that good. I mean, sure there was a lot of eye candy in attendance that I wanted to be proverbial notches in my Chewbacca sized sexual exploit belt - but my friend's music was a great backdrop as I whispered sweet "You haven't lived until you've been fucked in a confessional" sentiments in some young lady's ear.

Seeing a band as much as I did you get acquainted with the other band members, and I must say that they were all pretty stand up guys. Well, all of them except the drummer, Derrick. I knew going in that Derrick was a black conservative, but that didn't bother me, our post set conversations about politics actually started out rather civil. He had legitimate beefs with Obama that I couldn't argue with, principled stances that forced a insufferable prick like myself to show the gentleman nothing but respect. But then, as if someone flipped a switch, he went from civil discourse to questioning Obama's birthplace and making Michelle Obama jokes that you'd expect a militia member to make. At this point I was actively avoiding him, doing things like striking up conversations with strangers or simply leaving the room whenever I saw him approaching. Unfortunately he would occasionally find me and unload some wing nut craziness about Obama being in bed with al qaeda, straight lunacy that Glenn Beck would distance himself from. When he would go on these rants laughter seemed to be my only option, because I quickly saw an attempt at methodical debunking his nonsense devolving into me snapping his fucking neck in front of 50 jazz aficionados. Besides, beating my homey's bandmate wouldn't be the best thing for our friendship - so I told myself that if it got too bad that I simply wouldn't come back any more.

Then it happened. Right after one of their sets Derrick sat beside me, angrily reading a newspaper and said: "This motherfucker won't survive his first term, and thank god for that!" Yeah, that was enough for me. So minutes later, as he smoked a cigarette behind the club, I snuck behind him and put him in one hell of a sleeper hold. After a few moments, right before he fell asleep, I released the hold and delivered two rather disgruntled punches to his kidney right before throwing him head first into the side of a dumpster. Yes, I gave him a couple kicks for good measure as well. Then I promptly went home. The next day I got a call from my friend informing me of the ass whipping Derrick was on the business end of. Damn, no one knew it was me. I guess being an asshole is sort of like riding a bike, you never forget.


(P.S Yes, beating a black conservative counts. Don't judge me.)

My Very First Tea Party Rally..

Ever since I witnessed disgruntled octogenarians everywhere protesting the "socialist" heath care bill while their pockets swelled with social security cash, whiny bigots literally breaking down in tears while saying the words "I want my country back", and scores of people who would fail a High School Civics class holding misspelled signs with pride - I just knew that one day I would attend a Tea Party Rally. Some people hope to one day pilgrimage to Mecca, I had dreams of being surrounded by thousands of minor league Klansmen who want people to think that taxes are the real reason they have such a distaste for our 44th President. I mean, we can finally drop the "its just a bunch of concerned citizens" pretense, can't we? A couple of weeks ago shitloads of people around the country gathered to scream bloody murder about taxes despite the fact that federal income taxes on middle class families are at historic lows and Obama gave 95% of those ungrateful sons of bitches tax cuts. Not for nothing, but if it walks like a racist and talks like a racist, chances are they are holding a sign calling the President a "communist".

I know, broad generalizing is wrong, and I'm sure there are folks in the Tea Party who do indeed have legitimate concerns. I just contend that that number is relatively small, about the same minuscule percentage of strippers who are thrusting their glitter encrusted pelvises to actually pay for college courses. But hey, I've been wrong before. So after a year of fearing that attending a Tea Party rally would result in me going all Nat Turner on a motherfucker, I finally trusted myself enough to mingle with what I believe to be the most disgruntled people in America. Here is what happened when yours truly decided to enter the lions den.(Town Point Park, Norfolk Virginia)

I arrived on the premises around 5:30 or so, about an hour and a half late. Sure, I know that my penchant for tardiness has "subpar journalist" written all over it - but after I learned that I had just missed a speech delivered by Bishop E.W. Jackson Sr, I couldn't have been happier. See, nothing is wrong with black opposition of Obama, but the good Bishop is one of those self loathing black folks who incessantly shields republicans from the racism charge by claiming the ones making said charge are playing the "race card". Because him and black folks of his ilk are too stupid to know that Tea Party folks are just using them in a "I have a black friend, I can't be racist" sort way, I'm glad I missed him - the mere sight of him giving a rhetorical softshoe routine would have forced me to become rather indignant and break whatever cover I attempted to maintain.




The first thing I saw as soon as I entered the premises were these kids holding signs. Because I didn't want to bring any undue attention on to myself(I have a thick beard and long dreadlocks mind you) I refrained from yelling "Your parents really need their asses kicked you little shits!"(It was extremely difficult to hold that back) Using kids to peddle your flimsy political philosophy is rather unseemly. Then again, I'm the same guy who has every intention of using my niece this summer to meet rather flexible, low self esteem having women. Anyway, remember that scene in "Malcolm X" when Malcolm went to Mecca and he was being shadowed by those CIA agents with video cameras? As much as I tried to blend in, I always felt like the CIA agent in the aforementioned scenario.




This is Karen Hurd, the founder of the Hampton Roads Tea Party who was the person speaking as I walked up. The rampant misinformation that came out of this woman's mouth would have been laughable if the people in attendance weren't willfully eating it up like hungry pigs at a trough. As I stood there listening to an unrepentant liar whose main agenda was to scare the living shit out of every unenlightened bigot within the sound of her voice, you could tell that she was doing her best Michelle Bachmann impression. That said, this woman's rhetoric was so exceedingly clumsy that she made Michelle Bachmann look like Maya Angelou.




Um, Yeah. Whatever gets you through the night lady.




Here are a few crowd shots. I'd say there were roughly 300 people there, nowhere near Town Point Park's capacity.




Of course there were an abundance of signs referencing the Constitution and how the President is apparently wiping his ass with it. But Obama was a Constitutional Professor for Christs sake, lecturing him on that document is like holding a sign in front of Karinne Steffans' house that reads "Remember the Blowjob!". Or holding a sign in front of R Kelly's house that reads "Remember the Pre-teen". I asked one of these folks about the Constitution and it turns out that I know more about the mating habits of the Fossa than any of them know about the Constitution. If people like Andrew Breitbart are so concerned with people smearing the Tea Party, he should be more concerned with them making it so easy for assholes like me.




This is purely anecdotal, but the staff there seemed to hand out Tea Party materials to everyone except me. I smiled, said "hello!", I even distributed nods of approval. Nothing. To be quite honest, they seemed like they were actively avoiding me. Maybe my agenda was obvious, I dunno - its not like I was wearing a Public Enemy shirt with Che Guevara wristbands. Either way, what better way to silence the folks who think that you are movement motivated by racism than to embrace everything within a square mile radius with a pulse. It was just rather telling to me.




Yes, there was black people. Two things on that. 1.) I saw that there was a nationally coordinated effort to have more and more black people at Tea Party rallies that day. Which is nice optics, I'm sure, but it doesn't mean a goddamn thing. Like I always say, there are self loathing black people who would join the Klu Klux Klan if they were allowed to. 2.)The black people pictured above were brought in by a local candidate running for office, I found this out when I saw someone come by and relieve them of their sign holding duties. Not only is their whole movement astroturfed, so is their black support. To my brother and sisters, with the economy in the shape that it is, there is money in part-time conservatism. Get that paper homey, I won't judge you.




What's a Tea Party Rally without the "Obama as the Joker" sign? It's sort of like going to a Stevie Wonder concert, you know you're going to hear "Superstition" before the night is done.




This pair of tits is Bob Marshall. Not for nothing, but thank god for Wikipedia pages because otherwise I'd be spending an inordinate amount of time detailing the many varieties of shit that makes up this rather lackluster human being. He kept bragging about being the architect of Ken Cuccinelli's Health Care Lawsuit against the Federal Government, which is obviously frivolous, but that didn't stop him from lathering up the dopes with the pipe dream of Health Care repeal. The contempt that a lot of elected republican officials have for their constituents is amazing. The one thing that I noticed as I listened to Mr. Marshall attempt to stick the proverbial landing on what has become standard Teabagger boilerplate, is that these events are nothing more than third rate comedy roasts of President Obama by bigots - with each speaker desperately trying to outdo the other with their insults of the President. Coming from a guy who feels the need to get an STD test every time I even think about some of my past dalliances, the mere fact that I felt like taking a shower after Bob Marshall spoke is really saying something.




As I prepared to leave, I noticed a guy holding this utterly despicable sign. When he was saw me taking a picture of it he quickly dropped the sign to his side and folded it up. When he past me I just smirked, shook my head slowly and told him "Too late motherfucker!". At that point I could care less about maintaining any sort of cover.

But as I left the Tea Party Rally that day, I realized that the man holding the "Barry Soetoro Is our Terrorist" sign is a microcosm of the entire Tea Party Movement. When their tax arguments are proven to be fraudulent, when they don't seem to have the same critiques of "Big Government" when Arizona does it, their silence in the populism department when it comes to Wall Street - why don't they just admit that its all about racism already. Like the guy with the sign, own your racism for Christs sake - I'd at least applaud you for being honest for once.

Ahh, I love the smell of racism in the morning..

Chase Whiteside is absolutely killing it. For the last year he has been routinely exposing these Tea Party folks with a surgical precision that's quite unparalleled, his patient and non-combative nature allows his interview subjects to reveal their ignorance with reckless abandon. It's quite a thing of beauty. To me, especially considering how the folks in the video above flatly rejected factual information, its pretty obvious that they have more of a problem with the color of our President's skin than anything else. Its just a shame that no matter how painfully transparent their dogwhistle rhetoric is, how many clearly racist signs that many of them carry, or how utterly fraudulent a lot of their claims turn out to be - the media will still continue to say that these folks have "legitimate concerns". Liberal media my ass.



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