Stopped on the Street

Yesterday I was walking in town in Towson and a man came up to me. He was a white man, his arms and neck covered in tattoos. He looked young and old at the same time. He urgently walked over to me and I stopped. He recited his first words to me, "I just got out of jail. My friend over there did too." He pointed to a large black man- who appeared to be smuggling several children underneath his shirt- sitting on a nearby bench.

The man I was conversing with stood about ten inches away from me. He was tilted slightly to his left, his back to the street. He swayed as he talked. The small towel in his back pocket created the only wind in the area on that stifling steamy day. Sweat dripped on his forehead down to his inked neck. I tried to grab his eyes as he spoke, but it was as if mine were in a bad neighborhood that his wanted to avoid at all cost. He tapped my chest with the back of his right hand as he spoke.

"He's trying to get the fuck home. He could use any help you can give. He's trying to get on the fucking bus and get home," the recently released man told me of his friend. "Sorry, I can't help," I replied. The man wasn't sure how to react as he teetered between disappointment and anger.

"Sorry," I repeated two more times. His faced turned towards acceptance. I shifted and continued on my way. In the background I heard the man on the bench say, "I don't need your help, man. I appreciate it but I don't need it." He was scolding his friend.

I went to 7-11 and spent my last two dollars on a Slurpee.

The Real Glenn Beck

I attended one of Glenn Beck's weird shows where he sits on a stage with a guest or two and there's a small studio audience. Beck was blabbering about some fucking thing, but at least I could say I was there, in the lion’s den.

The show ended and anyone who knows me knows I have the world's smallest bladder so I had to pee. The men's bathroom in the studio was a lovely marble ensemble with several urinals across from a few stalls. I unzipped and began peeing with my head down, paying close attention so that I wouldn't lose control and go all over myself.

Thirty seconds in to my urination expedition, I felt a hand slide into the back of my jeans. Before I recovered from the shock, the hand had moved down and was ferociously massaging my prostate. My back was as stiff as a pole. I was already very conscious that I was out of place in the conservative lair and anxious not to ruffle any feathers. I slowly turned to my right, where the offending hand had originated and was blinded by a tall pasty light.

As my eyes focused and I began to realize the situation, it occurred to me the blaring light was coming from none other than Glenn Beck. He must've taken those few moments of my being star struck as an invitation to explore my body. He turned towards me and I noticed his extremely erect penis was hanging out like a fat guy taking a break from walking. I was scared he would pee all over me a la Lyndon Johnson, but nothing came out. I started to doubt if he had to pee in the first place.

Looking at his penis in terror of being doused in his pee was a bad move as he took it as a come-on. His right hand worked my balls as his left began penetrating my anus. I thought of all the powerful people he must know, closed my eyes and finished peeing. Glenn Beck shook out the last few sprinkles, got on his knees and inserted my penis into his mouth. A finger on his left hand then began to go back and forth inside my anus like a yo-yo.

My eyes were squeezed shut. Glenn Beck slowly backed me up into a stall, closing the door behind him, sucking me all the way. There was a moment when I stopped wishing I was somewhere, anywhere, else that I noticed Glenn Beck possessed the softest lips as he worked my shaft. I also noticed I was hard, more out of a reflex than owing to enjoyment. He skillfully moved his mouth from my penis to my balls and began swirling his tongue.

Just then, someone walked into the bathroom. I screamed for help, but the words never left my mouth. I had been frozen petrified due to fear and shock. The man finished and left without washing his hands. My chance had passed.

Glenn Beck became so adept at shifting between my penis and balls with his mouth that he used his right hand to pleasure himself, his left all the while implanted in my rear. Tears began to run from my cheeks. At that point, I felt myself ejaculate... into Glenn Beck's mouth. He gobbled up all of my semen he could manage. And began licking his lips in delight.

Just then, two large bald men busted into the stall. Then they grabbed me, lifting me off of the ground, and yanked me out of the stall. They wrestled me to the bathroom floor, my pants and underwear still around my ankles. They had me pinned face up. Glenn Beck was masturbating over me. He quickly reached climax and came all over my face, the ooze dripping uncontrollably all over my face. When he stopped moaning, he said, "If you tell anyone about this, you'll die." The large man to my left then punched me hard in the stomach.

I rolled around, half naked, on the bathroom floor in agony. Both physical and emotional. Every time I've had an erection since, I see Glenn Beck's face with my dick in his mouth, the utter ecstasy in his eyes as if my pain fed his fantasies.

Only now have I managed the courage to say any of this publicly. I'm ready for the consequences.

The Glenn Beck Speech

My brother and I got on the metro yesterday when a woman donning an African accent asked, "What organization are you guys from?"

Like a boxer punched in the nose and stunned into motionlessness, I didn't have the capabilities to answer that question. I asked her to repeat the question just to buy some time. She asked again and I paused again.

Finally, breaking the awkward silence, I answered, "We're just going to the baseball game," I pointed to my shirt. I continued, "But I think the large crowd is because of the Glenn Beck speech." She didn't know who that was so I explained, "He's some conservative TV show host who gave a speech today." She nodded and turned to mind her own business.

Staring out of the window at the Beckian masses, each of whom appeared to be caricatures of themselves- old white people decked out in red, white and blue, and 100 or so pounds overweight- I commented to my brother, "There's real America." My tongue pressed against my left cheek.

My brother, still harboring the memories of spending four years in western Ohio, decided this wasn't the moment to let insinuations go unspoken. He added, "And it's terrible."

Conservatives will look at that comment and accuse us of a sense of superiority. Nothing could be further from the truth. It's a Christian urge to try to convert everyone to their own point of view. We Jews tend to prefer to mind our own business when it comes to talk of conversion. They can have their "Real" America, whatever that means. It's a faux contest I'm not interested in playing. I just want to be one little piece of humanity.

Yuri Foreman's Cousin

Last Tuesday, I was at the Seminole Hard Rock Casino in Hollywood, Florida for a boxing card. After the rather uneventful series of matches (All I learned was that a guy named Timur from Uzbekistan will always beat anyone from India [zing! Historical joke]), I went into the casino.

A man playfully asked if I wanted him to move away from the slot machine where he was sitting because "Some people prefer a particular machine" and I said no. I turned and sat down a couple of slots away from him.

He then asked, "Are you Yuri Foreman's cousin or something?" I realized I was wearing my Yuri Foreman shirt. I retorted, "No, just a fan."

My first thought was #1 Wow, someone actually recognized that it was Yuri Foreman shirt. I've had the shirt for two years and that's the first time anyone has even mentioned anything to me. The second thought that came to me was #2 Why would he assume I'm related to Yuri Foreman just because I got the shirt. What, he doesn't have any fans?

Yuri Foreman, even after fighting two rounds on a torn ACL, still gets no respect.

Why I'm Alone

I'm heartbreakingly good-looking, an adonis physically, funnier than Woody Allen, and absolutely brilliant. So why are the ladies not falling all over me? It's a question that has dogged me for a number of years.

On my recent trip to Florida, it finally occurred to me. The secret was unlocked. I smell terrible. From greasy head to crusty toe.

I only have one pair of shoes that I wear constantly, even when I'm doing something athletic, which makes them stink like moldy cheese. I suffer from constantly sweaty ass and the spot underneath my balls is always funky save the first five minutes I walk out of the shower. My armpits smell like I perpetually have two unkempt hippies in a headlock. My beard's hobby is collecting and storing yesterday's meal. And my hair saps up any unpleasant smell I happen to pass by.

I think the ladies tend not to like any of that.

Hidden Fees

I absolutely hate that airlines charge you for checking a bag on principle. It's so unfair. It would be like a restaurant charging a utensil use fee. It would be like a public school charging for use of its textbooks. It would be like a barber charging a chair rental tax. It would be like Ticketmaster charging two different service fees, one of which you don't find out about until the after you make the purchase. That infuriates me beyond belief.

Listen, services have a price. I understand. All I ask is for fairness. Give the entire price upfront; that would be fine with me. I wouldn't feel like I'm getting screwed by a horny elephant. And that's really all I want out of life.

Preseason Becomes More Popular and More Useless

You hear stories of Jim Brown playing every minute of a preseason game. But even as little as 10 or 15 years ago, the question was whether stars would start the second half or not. In recent years, the NFL's best either sit out the entire game or post some ridiculous stats. The leading rusher in the league might have 2 carries 7 yards by his name in the box score of a preseason game.

It has affected the regular season. The first week has always produced great material for the Football Follies. But the level of play at the outset of the season has decreased noticeably. The first weeks have less to do with talent now and more to do with continuity. If you have the same system as last season, you have even more of a leg up, because the amount of game experience new players have to get adjusted to a new system before the regular season has decreased sharply.

Yet the preseason is as popular as ever. It's have people are too dumb to notice the miserable product being put in front of them. Preseason games sellout. People skip parties to watch the 5th string running back break off a long one. It's absurdity.

Sucky Situation

It sucks when you have an ex-roommate, who rented out his part, thinks he still lives there and demands to come and go when he pleases and gets frustrated when he isn't allowed to. It's not that hard of a concept. If you sublet your half, don't hang around. Ugh.

An Ordered Society

A successful society is an ordered society. To have order, there must be rules. Those rules must be followed or punishments must be handed out... funny and absurd punishments.

Today's decrees
If you call someone at 4 or 5 AM and they have work in the morning and it's not an emergency, Red Bull will be pumped into your veins nonstop as you are forced to watch tapes of the 2003 NBA Finals featuring the San Antonio Spurs and the New Jersey Nets (the lowest scoring, worst played finals of all time) on a continuous loop as a Swedish guy wet willies you until you die... unless you're into that kind of thing.

If you build up your record with a lot of easy fights in the Midwest, you will be forced to fight a talented New Yorker with a losing record, who will probably beat your brains in and give you a venereal disease in the process.

For each time you don't alternate appropriately in a merge area, you will lose every other finger.

If you don't flush your poop after dropping a load in a public toilet, you will be swirlied in an unflushed public toilet.

The Nats Starters are Babied

Nats Manager Jim Riggleman consistently and continuously takes out his starters way too early. At the first sign of trouble, he runs to the bullpen. The bullpen has been run into the ground. But that's not the only downside of Riggleman's policy.

The Nats young pitchers have never figured out how to pitch when the going gets tough. Also, they get tired quickly. I contend that it's important to pitch deep into games because doing so builds up muscle memory for next time. Pitching deep into games is a skill that can be acquired through repetition. A similar theory holds true for Stephen Strasburg. He should pitch as much as possible this year. If he can throw 150 innings when the team isn't in a pennant race, it will be that much easier when it is in a race. But if he can't pitch that much when it doesn't really matter, how will he be able to when it does? The stress on his arm will be enormous.

It's a theory that marathon runners know well. You don't train 10 miles at a time and expect to run a crisp 26.2 on race day. The theory that pitchers will throw out their arms is nonsense and illogical. The ability to throw many pitches in a game and many innings during a season must be slowly built up.

In addition, Riggleman's babying has created a staff of mentally soft pitchers. They have no confidence in themselves past the 5th inning. Their desire to be saved from the game once one runner reaches base in the 6th is often tangible. Riggleman needs to go with these guys longer. A pennant is not in the cards this year. Why not build some fortitude in the staff.

The Roommate

Back when I was younger, I had a roommate named Kim. He was Korean guy who seemed nice at first, but one night changed everything. I want to tell you about what happened.

Kim couldn't afford the next month's rent, so he rented out his half of the apartment. He gave my new roommate a discount because Kim was a motivated seller. Everything went well with the new roommate for two weeks. Then, I get a call from Kim, who wanted to come up to show a prospective buyer his unwanted couch. I said sure.

In those days I was working hard. I taught summer school in the mornings and tutored in the afternoons and Saturday mornings. Every time I came home from work, I was exhausted and drained, but it felt noble, so I figured it was worth it. When I came home from a tutoring session at 8pm that night, a Friday, I found Kim still there. I had thought he would leave after showing the couch.

Kim was there smoking weed and drinking with some crack head white girl. I was surprised to see him there since he had rented the room away. I later learned that Kim had been planning on sleeping in my room for the weekend. I went home most weekends, but usually after my Saturday morning tutoring sessions. Kim later left to party with the crack head girl but his stuff remained in the apartment. Seeing as he didn't have a key because he no longer lived there, I sensed this could be an issue.

I reached him in order to let him know I had work early in the morning and I was going to keep the door locked. He said he would return immediately. It was 1am by the time he left with his stuff. I had to wake up at 8am and wasn't happy. But Kim's self-absorption was just beginning to magnify. He called me at 4 and 5 am, calls that I ignored, but which woke me up. For the next two hours, I stewed in a pot of anger. I soon began to hear knocking on the door. I flew into a frenzy.

At 7 am, after hearing knocking, I yelled, "Who the fuck is it?" "It's Kim." "Go home, Kim." "I'm trying to. I just need to get my stuff." I opened the door and lost it. "Why did you fucking call me at 4 in the fucking morning?" Silence, "You better fucking answer me!" I screamed, shirtless, following him as he collected his stuff, my mouth still motoring louder than a 1983 Mercedes Benz. I yelled exactly what I felt about the situation and what I thought of Kim on the whole. He had relinquished his right to the place when he rented the room; it didn't matter that he still paid for some of it. I continuously let him hear about the early morning call when he knew I had work.
Kim didn't have much to say back. He left and went home to his mother with his tail between his legs. He was an unemployed pothead kid without much going on. He had a ton of time to relive the tongue-lashing I gave him. It never left him. He soon decided to take over his father's business and run it with a ruthless ironfist and total lack of sensitivity or compassion. His motivation was to avoid being cut down to size as he had been that morning and it fueled him into a maniacal state with hellish consequences for anyone who had to deal with him.

I never spoke to my roommate of that summer again. Probably because it's very difficult to reach Kim Jong-Il these days.

The Boondocks Season 4

The Boondocks is the best show on televsion. There were about 5 episodes that first season that were absolute masterpieces. The rest was pretty great too. The second season was a little less ambitious, but there were some gems. This past season has been great, too. There has to be a fourth season. Hell, I'll wait another three years for 12 episodes. I don't care. It's that good.

The Soap Plot

My random roommate is renting his spot in the apartment to some other random guy for the month. I suspect that this random guy is using my soap, which is fucking nasty. I don't care if he uses my mustard, but soap is personal.

It would be easy for me to confront him about it. "Hey buddy, don't use my soap." If he said he wasn't, I'd say, "Ok." But merely asking him would be too simple and nice. For certain things, a lesson must be taught. He should know that you don't share a bar of soap with a random stranger. If he doesn't I will teach him.

While finishing up my shower, I plucked out a plethora of pubes and placed them on the soap. This serves two purposes. If the pubes remain, he's obviously not using my soap. If not, he's learned a valuable lesson: if you want to share my soap, you gotta peel off my pubes. And if I find additional pubes, I'm gonna jam that soap so far up his ass, he'll be sweating out soap for a long time and won't have to use mine.

A Weird Day

I was recovering from a pretty bad flu. I can't remember the last time I was so cold and it was 95 degrees when I drove home from work. Even then I had to turn the heat on and still couldn't shake the chills.

By this point, I was recuperating. I stared out of my window and saw a cop talking to a lifeguard on the other side of the fence of the community's pool. I only caught sight of this discussion because it took place near enough to some sunbathing ladies, who I imagined were quite hot as my room is kind of far away and my eyesight is beginning to wane.

I took a moment to push my eyes left when I saw another cop. And another cop. And several more cop cars. I also noticed a police helicopter repeatedly circling the community at a low altitude. I recalled that there is a detention center down the block and wondered if something had happened there. Maybe someone escaped. I didn't give it much thought, but did think of a place to hide should the need arise.

The smoke detector in my room had been periodically screeching for attention at all hours for the past couple of days, constantly waking me up. A flier warned us that the fire alarms would be tested the next day. At 11pm, the alarm went off in the hallway, but not in my room. I ignored it, but only because Cheap Seats was on TV, a rare occurrence. The alarm persisted for ten minutes, until a fire truck pulled up outside the building. Cops and firemen in one day and I hadn't even left the apartment.

The smoke detector's screeching kept nudging me out of sleep, but I was jolted when a stroke of lightning nearly hit the building, which shook violently. I managed to calm down and fall back asleep when it happened again. I finally went back to sleep when the smoke detector called me up again.

It was at that point that I decided to massacre the people of Darfur.


An excerpt from Sudan's President Omar al-Bashir's forthcoming autobiography Sudanese Shlemiel (pages 187-188).

Mosques, America, and You

All over America people are protesting the proposed building of mosques. It's the newest wave of anti-Islamic bigotry sweeping the country. There's really no adequate justification for this hatred. Contentions of a clash of civilizations are exaggerated and nothing more than a self-fulfilling prophesy.

The fact is that Islam is not a more violent religion than any other. Christianity likely takes that crown. I should know, much of family was killed in Holocaust. Now, many Christians will resent linking the tragedy of the Holocaust to Christianity, but that is what these protestors are doing with Islam. Sure, fanatics have killed in the name of Islam, just as fanatics have killed in the name of Christianity (and Judaism). It doesn't mean that churches and synagogues should be banned. That's ridiculous.

Most studies have determined that American Muslims are far less radical than their European co-religionists. The reason this is believed to be true is because of America's guaranteed freedom of religion. People become more radical when things that they hold close are threatened. Up until this point, there has been little threat, so American Muslims have generally stayed within the American mainstream. Muslims have the right to have their own place of worship. Mosques are not an affront to America; their existence is at the core of American values.

D+ Scenario

Rent was due. I had the money. I just didn't have a way to get it to my roommate immediately. If he didn't get my half of the rent, his check would bounce.

I grabbed my checkbook, prepared to write the monthly amount. I tore off a check that read VOID. When putting the gas bill in my name, the company had needed a security deposit. They suggested the cash by phone method, which I had never heard of. Behind the voided check was the back of the checkbook. I didn't realize I had run out of checks.

I googled my bank to see where the closest location was. It was already 4:15 and I knew that most of my bank's locations close at 5. I could only take out $300 from the ATM and apparently, that wouldn't have been enough to keep my roommate's check from bouncing.

I drove up and down the road looking for the address. The pressure of the moment and the near 100-degree heat were getting to me. I had thrown on a paid of jeans in the rush, which wasn't helping the situation. Finally, I parked, luckily finding the one spot in the area that I didn't have to pay for (I have a moral aversion to paying for parking).

I parked and ran to a Starbucks I had seen to try and find the address to determine which direction I needed to walk. I had no idea what time it was as I forgot my phone at home and don't wear a watch (they make me feel uneven and plus I'd be checking it every 20 seconds). The Starbucks didn't have a number. I asked a couple of girls enjoying their lattes out in the sweltering heat. "I've never heard of that bank," was one response." "I have! Their logo is blue," was the other. I saw a Marriott and figured they must know.

A receptionist with a flag of the Philippines on his pin, although he was obviously born and raised in America, checked the location of my bank on the computer. I realized he was just googling it. He gave me some vague instructions. Back into the heat I ran.

A police officer was checking the doors of the local university when I called out to him. I told him that I was looking for the bank. Out of breath and covered in sweat, I added that I needed to pay rent, hoping that would ease any suspicion. He offered a mocking yet sympathetic smile and then proceeded to give me the most specific directions of my life.

I flew to the bank and found it open in the university's student center, nowhere near the road. Looking like I had just walked out of the shower, the woman at the bank reluctantly greeted me. She took down my information, checked my driver license twice as I twiddled my thumbs. Finally, she told me the checks had been ordered. She mentioned I could have done this over the phone. It was at the moment that my dumb ass realized it takes a few weeks to get checks. I guess I'd have to withdraw money and give my random roommate cash.

But wait! The bank has something called temporary checks! I bought one for a dollar. But before you think I'm out of the woods, I still had to find my car. I was in a one-hour parking spot. Who knows how long I had been running around. My shirt, underwear, jeans, socks, and shoes had been soaked through. I couldn't afford to get my car towed and I had been turned around so many times I had no clue where my car was parked. After going back and forth a few times, I triumphantly unlocked the keys to my car.

When I got back home, my roommate, who spends most of his time near where I work, told me that he had lost his job and had all the time in the world. Seeing me drenched, he remarked, "We could have done this tomorrow." I immediately shot him in the head.

Wyclef Jean's Prospects as President of Haiti

It appears that Hip Hop star Wyclef Jean, who recently announced his candidacy for the president of Haiti in the country's forthcoming election, has a tremendous groundswell of popularity, particularly among the poor. He is saying all the right things to inspire hope in his embattled co-nationalists. But the question remains- should he win the presidency- how effective would he be?

The tenures of two popular presidents, who genuinely attempted to enact reforms for the benefit of the Haitian poor, might give an indication as to Jean's prospects. Dumarsais Estimé (1946-1950) and Jean-Bertrand Aristide (1st term, 1991) were both deposed by the military. That is one scenario Jean does not have to fret, because the military has since been disbanded. But, both Estimé and Aristide ran into an entrenched mulatto elite that felt their interests were being threatened by uplifting the poor. Jean's challenge is to convince the mulatto elite that programs for the poor are in their interest as well. Haiti has a 200-year history standing in Jean's way.

Aristide rode into power on the back of a mass movement. He had more experience than Jean has, leading the informal opposition movement that eventually swept him into power. Yet, he could not last in office beyond seven months. Estimé was a congressman before obtaining the presidency. Both Aristide and Estimé spent far more of their lives in Haiti before ascending the nation's highest office than Jean has. Jean, while evidently popular, does not have the political experience of either Aristide or Estimé. Will he be able to do a better job of fighting for the poor while placating the powerful? Does he have the diplomatic skills to pull off a feat no one has ever been able to achieve in the history of the country?

Experience is important because Wyclef Jean wouldn't merely be replacing current president René Préval. The Haitian presidency is fluid and flexible. In practice, it has not been a position with clearly defined roles. Préval was an ineffectual and relatively powerless president. Jean will have to form the role himself. Jean doesn't only need to build schools and hospitals. He needs to build education and health care systems. This is a challenge even for someone with government experience. Jean also has to contend with the prospect that the presidency is a position that has been known to change its occupants. There is debate as to whether Aristide always contained an authoritarian edge or if his first tenure corrupted him. Francois Duvalier used the throne to exact terror on his populace. Most have use it to add to their wealth.

Hope is an essential aspect of life. Wyclef Jean might be the man to infuse the feeling into Haiti's beleaguered population. But Haitians also need practical programs designed to give them an opportunity to thrive. Whether Jean has the technical expertise or the specific ideas to fulfill his dream of improving the lives of his people remains to be seen.
(HQT-IE)

Hello Sun

Hello sun. - Hello fun.

Hello giraffe. - Hello mean laugh.

Hello butterfly. - Hello nut in your eye.

Hello fruits today. - Hello tooth decay.

Hello clouds in the sky. - Hello poison in your pie.

Hello magic potion. - Hello moral erosion.

Hello morning's first breath. - Hello inevitable death.



Hello Sun is a series designed to strip children of their innocence and introduce them to the cruelty of the world so they won't be such big pussies when they grow up. It has been described as "similar to a punch in the stomach from your favorite grandma."

Dibble Drivel

Putting aside for the moment Rob Dibble's infrequent on-air mental breakdowns, he is an awful baseball analyst. He expects every pitcher to exclusively throw fastballs and chastises those who have more than one pitch. Listen Dibble, not every pitcher is an 8th inning guy with a 90+ mph fastball. I've tried to like him. I really have. I just can't do it. He's gradually tearing down Bob Carpenter's reputation and sanity. I guess it could be worse. But I know it could be a whole lot better.

Chelsea Clinton's Husband

I'm so farklempt... or verklempt... or whatever phony transliterated spelling you want to give for that word. I just found out that Chelsea Clinton married a Jewish guy... and it wasn't me!

What the hell?! Doesn't Chelsea Clinton know how much marrying her would change my life. I'd be rich and famous and powerful. I could probably get a Slurpee whenever I wanted it. Better yet, I could probably have some get it for me. Although, they probably wouldn't mix the flavors right and they might sneak in some banana, so never mind, I'll do that myself.

But I'm sure being the son-in-law of the former president and current secretary of state, I could afford NBA league pass. That way I could watch more Knicks games. Maybe I can get the NFL version of that too, so I can watch the Bills. But I don't want to be greedy or anything.

Terrorist Bloopers

In a recent terrorist attack against an Israel resort, terrorists also managed to hit Jordan. Whoops, I guess they forgot who the Zionist devils were.

That Benny Hill-like mishap brings to mind other hilarious terrorist bloopers:

• In his trial to determine whether or not he was the 20th hijacker on 9/11/2001, Zacarias Moussaoui blurted out that he was the 20th hijacker, a major faux pas. However, al Qaeda denied this claiming that Moussaoui was too crazy to kill himself as part of the terrorist organization's plot. Both Moussaoui and al Qaeda walked away from the episode with egg on their faces.
• Al Qaeda's violence in Iraq actually moved moderate Sunnis and Shiites closer together in the short term as both sides rejected the targeting of innocent Muslim civilians. Al Qaeda in Iraq had to admit that their indiscriminate terror campaign made them "look like a bunch of dicks."
• Osama bin Laden got his left nut caught in the zipper of some designer jeans when he was 13 years old. His first attempt at wearing western clothes in order to impress a girl would be his last. He became radically anti-Western as a result of the fiasco. The worst part was, in Islam, the left nut is considered the unclean nut, adding to bin Laden's humiliation.
• Tim McVeigh turns himself over to authorities after the Oklahoma City bombing because of his outrage that "Muslims were getting credit for the work of a white man."
• Earnest Byner fumbled on the Denver three-yard line with a minute to go in the 1988 AFC Championship game. Byner would play a few more years in the NFL. He then moved to Bilbao and joined the ETA.

Shirley Sherrod, A Racist or Not?

What people don't realize about Shirley Sherrod is even though her speech turned out not to be racist, that doesn't mean that Shirley Sherrod isn't a racist. So, we can't conclusively say that Shirley Sherrod is not a racist. Since she could be a racist, forcing her resignation was appropriate.

This has been a commentary from: Guy who adamantly says things that are technically true, but easily refuted after only a modicum of thought. A.k.a. a conservative.