By O.C. Newby

History

In 1776 a committee of our forefathers, two men wearing wigs - Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, one balding with long hair on the side - Benjamin Franklin and two men that names don’t really need to be mentioned drafted the Declaration of Independence.  Actually Thomas Jefferson wrote up the draft and the only thing John Adams and Benjamin Franklin did was make a few minor changes and deleted several sections including one condemning slavery before it was submitted to the Continental Congress.  It was probably fat ass Benjamin Franklin that decided to delete that section and his rationalization behind it, who else would hold his kite with the key attached to the end in the middle of a thunderstorm - not like he wasn’t crazy enough to do it himself, but I guess this would be more fun to watch.

But with all that said about the Declaration of Independence, America still didn’t have its freedom completely - well some “Americans” wouldn’t get their freedom for years, but that’s not what this story is about.  This is where I leave out some truths and some facts, because I’m trying to paint a good picture of America and fill your hearts with pride so you can get out there this Fourth of July, down a couple of beers and hopefully get pulled over at a sobriety check point.  So, from 1775 to 1783 America was at war with Britain.  It was called the American Revolution.  Obviously we won because we don’t have to listen to anything the British say.  We fixed out teeth, we changed our accent but some places still get taxed without representation like Washington, D.C. and then we have places like California where we continue to get taxed by stupid representation.

So let’s recap.  The Declaration of Independence was a document that declared our Independence from Britain.  But Britain wasn’t buying that bullsh*t and said we’ll fight you for it.  So a long war ensued with the Patriots (us) led by a Great General missing teeth with powdered hair leading us to victory, which made July 4^th an official holiday.

Celebration

The Fourth of July is like Thanksgiving and New Years Eve wrapped into one.  It’s like Thanksgiving because you get a group of people together and eat how much you want.  You can throw a barbeque, surround yourself with people you love and hate (family) and pig out in the name of the Fourth.  And it’s similar to New Years Eve because you can get as drunk as you want although kissing strangers at midnight is not necessary and if you own a gun you can shoot it up in the air.  You can also put a hundred dollars into fireworks that you’re just going to light on fire or you can do what I do and just light the hundred dollars on fire.

Some people even like to buy firecrackers like cherry bombs or half stick of dynamites, which are illegal in some States.  But who are we to try  and stop these Americans from  trying to get a real sense of what the American Revolution was really like; therefore, by blowing off their limbs or blinding themselves they get to see what that war was really like.  These are the true Americans willing to go the extra mile.

Where I’m from - the hood, some of my neighbors like to start celebrating an entire month in advance — nothing like throwing firecrackers at children, people in cars or at unsuspecting Senior citizens to get you in the mood to celebrate.  But the celebration doesn’t end on the Fourth; it can last until August, September, and October, until those firecrackers are gone.  I guess this is their way of saying, “Free At Last, Free At Last, Thank God Almighty, I’m Free At Last,” until they get caught later that night for lighting illegal fireworks.

If you’re lucky enough to live in a state that has a Firework show you won’t have to worry about burning up your money or blowing off your limbs.  The only thing you’ll have to do that may be uncomfortable is sing patriotic songs with other off-key Americans.

“The Star-Spangled Banner” - a slap in the British face.  First we defeated them, gained our freedom then we ripped them off for our National Anthem.  It was once a popular British drinking song and now it’s a popular American drinking song.

And here Roseanne appears to be drunk although she’s not as she butchers “The Star-Spangled Banner.”  Although she is very off-key, at least she knew the words unlike this police officer.

Cop Kills National Anthem Only watch this video if your ears are ready for some really bad singing! A police officer does one of the worst jobs of singing the national anthem that I have ever heard.

He should definitely stick to his day job.

“My Country, ‘Tis of Thee” - another stolen British melody.  It wasn’t just the melody to any song it came from their national anthem.  When we won our independence we also won the right to take any melody we wanted from them.

“God Bless America” - who better to sing about America than an immigrant?  A patriotic song by an immigrant today would take lots of hard work especially while running from the Minutemen - armed Americans that learned that being a minute man in bed isn’t as good as patrolling the borders and using their racism to keep future underpaid maids and gardeners out of the U.S.

“This Land Is Your Land” - Woody Guthrie got tired of hearing “God Bless America,” so he wrote this song.  He could’ve named it, “What the Hell You Know about America, You’re Just an Immigrant,” but that was too long.  Although his original response to the song was “God Blessed America for Me.”

“America the Beautiful” - was written by a professor as she traveled by train through Colorado Springs.  It’s a good thing she was traveling through Colorado and not New York City on a subway because then this would definitely be an entirely different song as she saw rats scurry through the dark dirty tunnel.  It would be “America the Wretched.”

“Yankee Doodle” AKA Yankee Fools sung in the Northeastern states because the South prefers to sing a song (Dixie) that came out of the ignorant a** Black face minstrel shows.  Somehow the name of this song should be changed to Dixie Doodles.

“Yes,” she replies. “You’re checking for any abrasions or abnormalities.”

“That’s right,” says the doctor. Emboldened, he then begins to fondle her breasts. “Do you know what I’m doing now?”

“You’re checking for any lumps or breast cancer,” she replies.

“Correct,” says the doctor.

Deciding to go for broke, he mounts her and begins having sex with her.

“Do you know what I’m doing now?”

“Yes,” she says. “You’re getting herpes—which is what I came here about in the first place.”

It starts as soon as I get out of my car and walk by the smokers.  Every ten minutes, they’re filing in and out of the office for what they like to call a “smoke break.”  The only consolation:  they probably have lung cancer.

I sit down at my cubicle and look around.  I’m like a rat trapped in some kind of experiment.  Why three walls?  I’m not an actor in a play!  I look up.  Oh, God.  It’s the Happy-Go-Lucky Morning Guy.  He is ALWAYS in a good mood.  “How was your weekend?  Are you working hard or hardly working?”  he says, laughing at his own joke.  Well, I just walked in the door and sat down so what do you think?  I can’t wait until Happy-Go-Lucky Morning Guy becomes a victim of this competitive environment.  We’ll see how happy he is then.

The Young Gun struts by and hands me three memos.  “This proposal is red hot.  Let’s hit a home run and expand the pie.”  Punk brat.  He thinks he knows everything because he went to some fancy school that ends in University.  I start typing up a report - Is this project pigs or chickens? - only to be interrupted by Forward Guy.  He’s going to “shoot” me an email.  Please read string below.  This guy has more communication with me than my Domestic Dependent Plus One.  Chain letters, page-and-a-half-long jokes, wildly inappropriate pictures.  Today, it’s a video of Spencer Pratt getting f*cked by an emu which he thinks is hilarious!

The Random Intern roller skates in with a huge smile on his face.  Forward Guy shouts at him, “You’re rockin’ and rollin today!”  I guess it must be the third Wednesday of the month again.  Apparently, he’s got flexible hours.  He looks high.  He always looks high.  I wish I was high.

I go back to working on my report.  I’m interrupted by Fantasy Sports Guy.  He tries to talk me into joining his hockey league.  “It’s going to be awesome, dude!  You don’t even have to know anything about hockey.”  Yeah, clearly you and I are not on the same page.  Like I’m going to sign my life away for the next eight months to follow a bunch of Russians and Slovakians I’ve never heard of.  Besides, I already have way too much on my plate.

Meanwhile, an idiotic cross cube phone conversation has broken out nearby.  Let’s Get Personal Girl is in crisis mode.  She uses her problem solving skills to yack about her current boyfriend’s erectile dysfunction (clearly, someone dropped the ball) to The Flirt who is sitting a mere three feet away from her.   The Flirt is over forty, career-minded and self-motivated.  She is the HR department.  She’d be the first person to file a sexual harassment complaint to herself when she tries to rub her tits up against every guy in the office.  Talk about putting the cart before the horse.  She drones on and on about her kids.  She always drones on and on about her kids.  “Oh, you’re not going to believe what my little Adam did this morning.  He made himself his very own bowl of cereal and then ate it with a knife because we didn’t have any clean spoons in the house.”  I wish she’d take it offline already because I really don’t give a f*ck!

The only thing worse than the people who talk about their kids all day are the people who talk about their pets.  Crazy Cat Lady, for example, doesn’t need a man in her life because she has as she says “eighteen little furry babies to keep her company.”  She needs to internalize that sh*t about her best of breed before I push back and throw her under the bus.  Crazy Cat Lady SLAMS down on her keyboard.  She thinks she is moving forward in a productive manner but to me it’s just a big dog and pony show!

On the way home in the car, the husband turned to his wife and asked, “So, I saw the doctor talking to you, and he sure seemed serious. What did he tell you?”

“You’re going to die,” she replied.

“She Went To Neverland”
- Johnny Depp, Finding Neverland

Michael Jackson, sadly passed away on June 25, 2009.  Tours were cancelled, celebrities mourned, British housewives shrieked and the music world lost a genius.

For the man who entertained so many, it is time for us to give back.  Is it too soon to make jokes? No, we’re National Lampoon.

These are the best Michael Jackson jokes of all time; we’ll just call it the Michael Jackson’s Greatest Hits: Jokes Edition.

A: Get out of my son.
Q: What did the lady say to Michael Jackson at the beach?

Q: What do Michael Jackson and K-Mart have in common?
A: They both have boys’ pants half off.
Q: Why does Michael Jackson like twenty eight year olds?
A: Because there are twenty of them.

Q: How does Michael Jackson pick his nose?
A: From a catalog.

Q: What is the difference between Michael Jackson and a grocery bag?
A: One is white, made out of plastic, and dangerous for kids to play with. And the other is a grocery bag.

Q: How did police know that Michael Jackson is guilty?
A: Many children had fingered him.

Q: What’s sex like for Michael Jackson?
A: Child’s play.

“Nurse,” he mumbles, from behind the mask. “Are my testicles black?”

Embarrassed, the young nurse replies, “I don’t know, sir. I’m only here to wash your upper body and feet.”

He struggles to ask again, “Nurse, are my testicles black?” Concerned that he may elevate his vitals from worry about his testicles, she overcomes her embarrassment and sheepishly pulls back the covers.

She raises his gown, holds his penis in one hand and his testicles in the other, lifting and moving them around. Then, she takes a close look and says, “There’s nothing wrong with them, sir!”

The man pulls off his oxygen mask, smiles at her and says very slowly, “Thank you very much. That was wonderful, but, listen very, very closely. A r e - m y - t e s t - r e s u l t s - b a c k?”

Excerpts from Edith Wilson’s An Accidental Idol

CHAPTER 86: “Lovely Burgers and Burgeoning Love”

It was an hour before show time, but Susan Boyle was already nervous and unsightly. Her stomach churned with angst, and also from the Mini Sirloin Burgers she ate earlier that day. The penetrating smell of competition overwhelmed her elfin nostrils like bad wasabi, but that was nothing compared to the pressure she felt from deep within her heart, past all the layers of fatty tissue and everything, to find the perfect man-one that would appreciate Susan for Susan. “If only I could find a man that is desperately seeking Susan,” she pondered ever-so-cleverly, recalling the last movie she’d seen in theaters. “I would marry him in a heartbeat, provided my heart is still beating after so many trips to Jack in the Box.”

No sooner had Susan burst into song-nothing makes a wish come true like singing it out loud to the tune of “Jellicle Cats”-than Simon Cowell rounded the corner, faster than Nicolas Cage as Ghostrider. “It’s like God from the King James Version of the Bible is playing another one of His wonky pub games,” thought Susan. After weeks of repressed longing, like the kind usually felt by repulsive-looking people, Susan could no longer hide her homely feelings, which only intensified when she noticed Simon’s petite chest-curls peeking out from the top of his twinset V-neck sweater.

“Ah, Susan!” he said Britishly. “I’ve come to see if you might like the rest of my Mini Sirloin Burgers.” Susan’s heart quivered, because it was infused with the adrenaline of love, and because it was still working overtime from having to pump around that last batch of burgers. “Alas! Love hurts, love scars, love wounds, and marks, any heart not tough or strong enough take a lot of pain,” she pondered ever-so-cleverly, recalling lyrics from the last band she’d seen in concert.  Keeping this in mind, she turned to align herself with the middle of Simon’s face-which is clearly marked by an imaginary line running from the middle part to the cleft chin, known as the “Prime Meridian”-so as to observe him in a more stalkerly fashion.  “Indeed, there is no pleasanter gift in all the world, than these tiny and delicious patties,” she said. “If I had not just come from Jack in the Box myself, I should have devoured them directly.”

Not sure what she considered comfortable, I asked, “How will I know which ones to pick?”

“Hold them up and imagine them on me, “ she answered. “If you smile, put them back.”

Douchebag  (Duh-ce’ bag) noun/- commonly referred to as the gym or club rat.

Examining the creature known to many as the modern-day douchebag, it is imperative to understand the animal that populates many of our cities and nightclubs. The douchebag is a tricky creature mainly due to its slimy hair follicles and budging physique. However, anybody that doesn’t shop at Abercrombie & Finch, mainly minorities who aren’t allowed inside, knows how to spot this elusive animal.  From the popped collar to the leased BMW, douchbags have flourished in the healthy economy of yesteryear.  Growing at an alarming rate, they have expanded from the West and East coasts to infiltrate the larger portion of America; leaving a trail of women filled with regret behind them.

However, as the recent US economic downturn has forced Americans to spend less and save more, what will happen to the endangered animal we as a culture have dubbed the douchebag? Will they be forced to spend less on their coveted hair products or their weekly tanning bed trips? Will they return to their original place of spawning to hibernate until the recession is over? No one is certain for sure, but the important fact remains that average citizen must protect themselves from the unwanted cologne-ridden advance of the douchebag.

Here are some key tips to better guide you:

First, know your environment.  People in such cities as Denver and Philadelphia don’t need to be as wary as people who inhabit Los Angeles or Miami. Keep your eyes open to signs of the douchebag. Newly purchased BMWs or Miatas are a clear and present sign that you might have an infestation of douche.

Second, the nose knows.  Keep your senses at the ready while you are out mingling in that late night bar.  At the first whiff of a strong scented designer cologne, let your fight or flight response kick in.  The douchebag uses this pheromone in order to smother the surrounding oxygen in the vicinity of their prey; making the victim lightheaded and more likely to make poor decisions.

Third, the eyes are the windows to the soul.  If you are unlucky enough to get up close and personal with the douchebag, a simple glance into their soulless eyes should give you all the reason to get a move on to higher ground.  The average douchebag’s eyes contain benzodiazepine and nonbenzodiazepine. This hypnotic chemical leaves its victims with fatigue and cognitive impairment so be careful not to stare too long. (sidenote: the douchebag cannot approach you if you have the high ground)

Fourth, keep your friends close. All too often it seems to be the common mistake for someone to bring the wrong kind of guest to a house party. Know your close friends and know their close friends. The last scenario you need to be stuck in is a closed environment with a douchebag. At close range, a douche can lay out all of his best lines (memorized from The Mystery Method) while he goes in for the kill. Avoid a close encounter at all costs by keeping aware of your friends’ extended relationships.

And fifth, always have an escape plan. The biggest mistake most people make when entering their favorite club or hot spot is not recognizing the exits. It’s a simple task that only requires a few moments of your time. Knowing the escape routes will give you the upper hand you need incase you find yourself confronted by a douchebag. Head for the nearest EXIT sign will save your life, because the free-range douchebag cannot read.

Now whether it be popped collar, spiked haircut, pucca-shell necklace, or sideways hat; you should have all of the tools you need to protect yourself. The douchebag is a clever animal of relentless pursuit and stalks its prey carefully. If you set a plan in motion and remember these life lessons, you will never find yourself in the sticky and overly-gelled situation that is douche.