"BRANDING"

Today I'm opening up the floor to my readers.

Hey, readers! What do y'all think about the rising Tea Party? Is it "good?" Is it "bad?"

Here's what I think. (And by the way, the floor's now closed.)

I think the Tea Party's got all the answers. I think the Tea Party's my party.

Cuz I read somewhere that our country's in a mountain of debt, and in order to fix things, we've got to first protest everything that's ever happened in the history of our country. EVER.

It would seem, though, that my (and by the converting powers of my writing, your) party is losing "steam" thanks to cheap rhetorical gags.

...That the title "Tea Party" is somehow setting the movement back - making it seem more like a little girls club where we sit around giggling about scrotums, and less like a legitimate government threat.

CONFUSING? I'll say.

Because to me, "Tea Party" shouts, "don't you DARE fuck with me, Democrats, Republicans, and especially YOU, Polly FUCKING Pocket!"

And so I ask: Was going with the name "Tea Party" a boon to American freedom-makers, or a blip in personal branding? Can we rise above the White House's proverbial scrotum, or is America just too freaking immature?

Do yOOLONG for a more mature America?

"INSPIRATION"

Disclaimer: I began this post over two weeks ago, when things like bed bugs and Barack Obama were still relevant topics.

Is it me, or is life bleaker than ever?

I mean, I just can't understand how we are still expected to wake up every morning and say, "Gee, I sure am proud to be/wish I were an American" when the president of the United States is funneling all of our country's educational stimulus money into the smut industry.

How we are still expected to reconcile the opportunity cost of marriage when Tiger Woods' ex-womanthing is only getting away with $100 million.

How we are still expected to find joy in sex when we know that the beds we, ourselves, are fucking in are being shared with tiny, little creatures who are getting fucked - and to climax, as the ever-growing population would indicate - at 54,832,984,527,089,703,419,837,981 times the rate.

I find all these things increasingly difficult, and then...

There's that wrought iron wall hanging of mine, reminding me to "Dream" even when the president seems a little gay and I've got bugs squirming through my panties.

There's that inspiring message printed on my 100-calorie snack pack, reminding me to "light a scented candle and relax" when I'm not too busy reading other inspiring messages on bottle caps, or thinking about how fat I am.

There's that "Eat, Pray, Love" movie/dynasty, reminding me that all I need to do to start my quest for self-discovery is turn on the Home Shopping Network and order an embroidered tapestry/power bead bracelet/dream journal/spice blend collection/silk tunic/floor pillow/wooden elephant figurine. ( I own them all!)

And so I say.

Life really is beautiful, and if it takes a little reminding here and there - "NO TURN ON RED (Relax, you are a woman! Smell the flowers!)" - so be it.

"LOOPHOLE"

A 7-year-old girl selling lemonade at an Oregon craft fair was recently forced to close shop after failing to show a county inspector her restaurant license.

The inspector threatened the crying girl and her mother with a $500 fine, insisting that their business violated several health codes and that he wanted to "secure [his] position as the least fuckable man on the planet."

Well put, and well played.

EXCEPT.

In walked the chairman of Somewhere, OR, who was all like,

"Poisoning the masses through lemonade stands is a classic, iconic American kid thing to do, and I don't want to be in the business of shutting that down."

So, the health inspector had to lift the embargo, and now children are once again allowed to sell things without risking exorbitant fines and/or lifetime imprisonment.

Uh... Am I the only one who sees this as problematic!? A loophole, if you will?

Because here's the thing.

When I was around 7 years old, my best friend A____ and I went around her neighborhood selling all sorts of miscellanea. You know, shit we found around her house - packets of fruit snacks, a single Puppy Surprise puppy (that I actually pocketed for myself as soon as I ripped it out of its mommy's Velcro uterus), and all of her siblings' belongings - that we deemed to have great value.

And you know what? People bought it. ALL of it.

Maybe it was because we were rich kids selling to a neighborhood of rich McMansioners who didn't know any better ... or maybe [and probably] it was because A____ had really thick glasses and braces at a young age, and people probably thought she was a 'lil slow.'

But whatever the case, we made bank ... and for all the wrong reasons.

Children CAN'T be the answer to a failing formal economy. Just because they're CUTE, doesn't mean they should get paid for spiking your lemonade with iodine and Justin Beiber's pube trimmings.

And so where do we draw the line? If children can sell us all tainted lemonade just because they're cute, then why shouldn't they go ahead and maximize their profits with handguns, illegal drugs, and slaves!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

Cuz at the end of the day, I'm not sure I could resist a bump of coke if it came from the hands of a young, innocent entrepreneur. And I'm not sure you could, either.

"PROTECTION"

Good evening.

Does anybody here read the news?

I usually only have enough time to read my Facebook news-feed, but sometimes - and particularly when I remember that I'm living among conscientious people in a city of universities and other institutions that think gays, immigrants in Arizona + some other states, and other societal refugees should have rights - I get around to looking at front-page pictures, so that I may quickly, though accurately, conclude what the condition of the world must be.

(THAT WAS THE LONGEST SENTENCE I'VE EVER WRITTEN.)

Today, The New York Times [50% of the Mein Times media cocktail] featured a story on the Appleseed Project, a group of boot camps dedicated to training Americans to pick up the big guns and shoot their governments.

Finally!

People, and particularly Americans, need to be prepared for the worst. And when it comes down to it, the "worst" means allowing people who contradict our own personal beliefs and ideals to remain alive.

Props to you, Appleseed Project! You really hit - or should I say, "shot" - the nail/bullet/musket ball on the head with this one.

One thing, though - why are you only teaching one kind of warfare?

All governments aren't created equal, and that means we certainly can't kill them all through the white-boy marksmanship you're teaching.

Did I say "white-boy?" Yeah, because I'm pretty sure Barack Obama is blackish.

You think when we rise up against the Obama administration, brother's gonna fight back with a rifle? Nahhhhhhh, boi.

Unlike the late Bush administration, which chose to fight back against its people with antiquated Civil War bayonets, the Obama administration fights dirtay.

Because, like I said, Barack Obama is blackish. And blackish in the "street way," not the "African bush people" way.

What I'm getting at is that if we want to be effective in our government takeovers, we need to fight fire with fire, and black administrations with black tactics.

So if you feel the way I feel, please join me in forming our own local/Internet chapter of the Appleseed Project.

Lesson one begins next Monday and will be live-streamed on Youtube. The topic is "drive-by shootings."

"SABOTAGE"

Hey, guys. Do you ever hate your friends? Because I do.

And not even in that girl way.

I mean, we all know that girls are supposed to hate their friends. It's just that they're extremely fickle, and can't help but be perpetually afflicted with PMS/menopause/post-menopause menopause.

But I'm pretty sure my current Friend Hatred defies all these prescribed gender norms and/or bodily functions ... even when the rest of society (a makeshift tampon) seems to be collapsing under the weight of so much unchecked reproductive blood.

I simply hate 'em!

For god's sake. Just the other day, a "friend" trolling about my Facebook dared to post something "funny" underneath something funny I had posted.

Oh really?

The bitch got more cyberspace thumbs-up than I did.

Alright, "friend." Is MY Facebook YOUR personal venue for egotistic, pseudo-funny expression? NO. MY Facebook is MY venue for egotistic, pseudo/fuck that, I'm hilariously funny expression.

As for you, "friend." You may only LOOK at my Facebook for inspirational and/or masturbational purposes.

Pull another one your pseudo-funnies, and I'm going to have to murder you.

Hockey-stick-to-the-throat style.

"GROUP MEMBERSHIP"

About a month ago I spoke about the value of groping coworkers' breasts. How nipple tweakings and genital brush-bys stimulate inter- and intra-personal communication, and work to smooth out the oftentimes crippling rigidities of first weeks on the job.

Communication, communication, communication!

Well, to stimulate even further communication, my boss recently set up a Google Group.

How wonderful! If there's one thing I wish to do after coming home from a day on the job - where I deal with eternal questions like "What do you do when a student comes plowing through the door with a Tupperware full of half-dead goldfish?" - it's to sit back, relax, and blog about my daily work experiences.

I've become so rapt in the Google discourse, that I've come terribly close to terminating MG several times now. So I can focus on higher-order concerns, like spearheading the movement for Twitter-operated school administrations.

But in the meantime, this Google Group is really making a world of difference in both students' and teachers' lives alike.

Cause it felt really good blogging about the kid who accidentally sawed off his own arm during lunch period the other day ... Like I'm finally doing something right.

Blogging about these kinds of things helps prevent them from happening ... tomorrow.

I hope this post doesn't get me fired. Kinda.

"PERSONALIZATION"

So I have to apologize once again for taking such a long time to update you all on what's going on in the world.

But just as before, my excuse here is both tasteful and genuine ... like the fundamental practices of Scientology.

The truth is, I've been really hung up on Lindsay Lohan's latest jail sentence. Specifically, my days and nights have been occupied by super intense - and cocainey - brainstorming sessions in which I've been thinking long and hard about just what heinous crime I need to commit to get thrown into that jail cell with her.

(So that we can mistakenly release a Behind-the-Bars sex tape that propels me out of this plebeian, FreakiLESS Friday lifestyle.)

But now I'm back and ready to talk about things. In fact, I'm going to start talking about something in the following sentence.

This summer I'm turning 23, and I'm trying to figure out a really unique and memorable way to celebrate me. Last year, I celebrated by successfully sueing MTV for being ageist, and starred in my own, one-of-a-kind episode of "My Super Sweet 22." (Did you see it? I looked really hot, and it was a lot of fun!)

But I think it'd be kinda cliche for me to do the same thing again, and MTV's kinda become waaayy to mainstream for my own personal brand, anyway.

So instead, I think I'm gonna get a really cute picture of my face printed on a cake and invite all of my friends to come over and eat it!

I think people are best able to appreciate the unique and subtle "flavors" of friendship when they're given the opportunity to literally eat their friends.

And since movies like Silence of the Lambs have so irreversibly stigmatized the relationship-building practice of cannibalism, cake face printing is the next-best thing.

But, as it goes with most things, cake prints are also fatally flawed.

Cake is just another victim of the hegemonic discourse characterizing most everything in this country. Because last time I checked, cake is a pretty fucking white thing.

Like ... I'm pretty sure Asian people don't celebrate birthdays with the flour, eggs, and sugar we're used to. And I'm pretty sure black people like cake, but they'd still much prefer that everything were battered and deep-fried.

What I'm getting at here is that birthdays were invented for white people, by white people. And it's time for this to change.

So if I don't post another thing for another month, it's probably because I'm working desperately hard to equalize the birthday playing field, and figure out how to print multicultural faces onto individual grains of rice and/or fried chicken.

Cake is tasty, but when you examine it closely, it looks less like a relic of celebration, and more like a threat of intensifying ethnocentrism and re-instated indentured servitude.

This is our time to turn things around. This is our time to figure out how to print black peoples' faces onto drumsticks.