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Sunday, October 30, 2005

The Body

It was after my first year of college when I became serious about exercise. Maybe it was the freshman fifteen. Er, twenty. Whatever. But I remember I was sitting in my room and feeling out of shape. I weighed around 190lbs., at the most. So, I got up and I put on some shoes and went outside and started running. Then I started going to the gym. And three years later, I'm still doing it.

Right now, I'm at 160lbs. I was talking with a friend about it recently. It made me wonder why I was doing it. Was it to be healthy? To impress girls? Both of those are probably logical answers. But I don't think they're the reasons I do it.

You may be aware that I have a slight superhero fascination. And that, one day, I hope to be one. And I think when the time comes, and I am suddenly bombarded with large amounts of gamma radiation, or struck by lightning after mistakenly drinking some mysterious beaker of fluid, or bitten by some cursed animal who's bitten me on the exact night when biting will transfer mystical powers to me, I will have the physique all ready to go. I'm in good shape right now. Almost good enough for a superhero occupation.

So, that's the reason. I work out because, when I am somehow given supernatural powers, I will already look like a superhero. It makes sense. It's solid logic. Don't poop on it.

One thing that has always amused me though is guys shaving their bodies. I don't understand it, and, as far ahead as I can predict, I won't ever be doing it. I will not be shaving my chest. It makes me laugh.

Why? That’s my question. I suppose some women like a hairless guy, probably in the same way that some people prefer hairless dogs or cats. But think about the reaction you have when you see a hairless dog or cat. Like, Gah! Or Oh, sweet Jesus! Or Oh, beard of Zeus!

That’s the reaction I have when I see guys who shave their bodies. Women, do you think they just wake up like that? They don’t. And somewhere in the world there’s a drain that isn’t working up to its full potential. I’m not sure what is more disturbing to me. That these guys have no hair, intentionally, or that at some point during the course of a day, they step into the bathroom, lather themselves from neck to ankle and say, “Okay, let’s shave this body.” Bizarre.

Now, is it a double standard that women are considered less attractive for having more body hair? Yeah, it is. But like Seinfeld’s Elaine points out, the female form is a work of art, and the male body is just for getting around. Like a Jeep. When males walk around believing that their body is a work of art, they have issues. Deep issues. These issues won’t be reached by a Schick Quattro. Not by the first blade. Not by the second. Not by the third. And, no, not even by blade quattro.

I have more of a Wolverine body, or an Indiana Jones body.

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You won't find body shaving gel anywhere in Dr. Jones' bathroom, that much is certain. And if you do, you should also check his bed, because I’m sure you’ll find the actual owner of said body shaving gel. The smooth, sexy, female archeologist owner.

Indiana Jones is the archetype I guess I aim for. He's the kind of man who will read you a paper concerning the proper excavation techniques of ancient Egyptian burial sites, and then stuff the paper down your throat before kicking the shit out of you. Possibly with some long-lost ancient Egyptian artifact. Which he excavated himself. Using the proper techniques and guidelines. All while fighting a group of no less than thirty Nazi soldiers.

Wow. I really am a lot like Indiana Jones.

Thursday, October 27, 2005

Me Finishing An Overheard Conversation

Original Conversation in BLACK
Me Finishing the Original Conversation in RED

Woman 1

I gotta go to this funeral tonight.

Woman 2

Woman 1
37 year old guy.

Woman 2
He died?

Woman 1
What, no, I just felt like saying the
words "37 year old guy" for no
reason at all. Actually the funeral
is for me. I died. Right, 37 year
old guy's corpse?

37 Year Old Guy's Corpse
That's right!

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

You Know What's Awesome?

I haven't posted in a bit, but you know what's really awesome? When your computer is infected with a virus. And then when you boot your computer, it just hangs at the desktop screen. Sure, you can move the mouse, but you can't click on anything. That fucking rocks. So you have to wipe the hard drive clean and start from scratch again. There's not much better than that. Food tastes better.

You know what's awesome? When people want you to do something for them, but instead of saying "you," they use the word we. And they're asking you, but really, it's a suppressed order. You can hear the annoyance and frustration in their voice. It's really awesome when people do that. I feel. "Why don't we go ahead and take this out to the dumpster." And by we, he really means you. He's not going to help you. He's not including himself in that we. It's a universal we. But you're the only one in that universe.

You know what else is awesome? Having to remember every user name and password for the hundreds of websites you used to visit before wiping your hard drive clean. I love that. It's like a day off of school, or winning the lottery. Whatever the analogy, you feel like God is looking down at you, specifically, and winking and pointing and giving you a thumbs up. Like Buddy Christ. Remembering all those passwords is like a hearty handshake from Buddy Christ.

Here's something even more awesomer. Not only using your children as a vessel to further the tradition of your ignorant and racist views, but also pushing them to be in the spotlight so as to vicariously fulfill your failed dreams and ambitions in life. I think that is just fantastic. I mean, just listen to these doe-eyed cutees.

"We're proud of being white, we want to keep being white," said Lynx. "We want our people to stay white … we don't want to just be, you know, a big muddle. We just want to preserve our race."
Yeah, they just want to preserve the white race. They don't want to be a big muddle. They just want to keep being white. Most women (the smart ones anyhow) know that when you have sexual intercourse with a man, you are injected (for lack of a better word) with his skin color.

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Race mixing will only get you a dirty gene pool. And when the gene pool is murky, you'll find it's tougher to swim through. And tougher to find the answers to those difficult algerbra problems. "How do I fix this leaky faucet? I don't know, I can't see. The gene pool is too dirty." How are you going to find the answers in such a dirty, dirty gene pool. These girls raise a good point.

Now imagine a gene pool that is sparkling clean. You can see the answers to the algerbra test. You feel smarter knowing that you aced that algerbra exam. And as you exit the school building in your custom built transportation device -- see, when you're born as just a head with an arm sticking out, getting around is difficult. But you're thinking clearly, thanks to genetic purity!

And when you get home, you'll fix that leaky faucet, because the problem-solving portion of your brain seems more open and energized. All thanks to your mom, who didn't have sex with a Black man. Instead, she mated with a distant cousin of hers. Sure, he's Irish, but that's okay. You've got brown hair and a pasty white complexion. No one will mistake you for being Black, no sir!

Anyway, I think that's all totally awesome!

Thursday, October 20, 2005

Scientor Is On His/Her Way

We all knew this day would come. For those of you who read my intern blog, you remember the topic. I'm of course talking about Scientology. Then I was simply letting the world know what the Scientologists were doing in Grand Central Station. Enslaving commuters, in honor of their god Scientor, who, until now, had been safely up in the sky, where all deities naturally reside.

We've recently been hit with some new developments. It seems that Tom Cruise, Scientologist, has impregnated Earth-woman Katie Holmes. This is grave news, ladies and gentlemen.

Scientor has been granted a human body and will soon crawl and then later walk among us. He'll be living here in America. And you want to know something else? He's going to be the cutest baby in the history of baby-making. And do you know why? That's part of their plan!

Hear me out. No, wait, let me paint the picture...

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Seems like a stretch, but, come on, Tom Cruise -- and I say this as a comfortably heterosexual male -- is pretty damn good looking. With a cute baby, he'll be unstoppable! And now, with Katie Holmes too, they've cornered both sexes of the species! No one will be able to resist! All they need now is a puppy, and they will become the supreme rulers of our planet. You just watch.

For centuries the physical appearance of Scientor has been a mystery. Some people have hypothesized, such as on this masterfully written blog.

What does Scientor look like? Does he have horns? Mandibles? Is it a he at all? We always just assume that when a name is as aggressive-sounding as Scientor (or Skeletor for that matter), it's automatically a male. I’d like to think Scientor is female. With mandibles. Possibly horns. And a suit. Why can't gods wear suits?

Why, indeed, Master of the Written Word. Why, indeed. I guess only time will tell.

Monday, October 17, 2005

Kids Love Boxes

Last week I was walking through Andrea's with a small box in my hand. As a business that receives a lot of deliveries every day, we deal with large amounts of cardboard. Sometimes I'm just walking around carrying cardboard for no reason. We do our part though; we recycle. But its presence in the store is felt by everyone. Some have even suggested that the cardboard has its own personality. Like it's alive.

Anyway, I was walking through an aisle when this little girl, maybe five or six years old, asked me what I was carrying. I told her it was just a box. She asked me if she could have it. She had such a look of awe and amazement on her face that I couldn't very well say no. So, I gave it to her. Gee wiz, by her reaction, you would have thought I had just given her a dream house made of magic, rainbows, and chocolate.

Her mother smiled, and I was happy to bring a little joy into that young girl's life.

Today, I saw that same girl and her mother in the store again. As they were leaving, I said hello to the two of them and ask the little girl how the box was doing. "Oh, it's great," said the girl. "It's my friend, and we do everything together! I love my cardboard box, and I'll never let him go!"

It was pretty adorable. Her mother smiled, gave a chuckle, and shrugged her shoulders. I opened and held the door for them on their way out. The mother said thank you, and the little girl waived excitedly and said bye. I watched them get into their car. They were both smiling. They seemed like a happy family. And then I saw the box in the back window. I laughed to myself.

But suddenly, two hands sprouted from the sides of the box. And a mouth formed on the front. Then two big eyes. But these weren't happy eyes. They were terror-stricken. And as the car left the parking lot, the box mouthed some words in my direction. I'm not certain, but I think it said, "Help me."

Saturday, October 15, 2005

Sweetest Day

Ah, the third Saturday of October. Also known as Sweetest Day.

The popular origin story of Sweetest Day involves a man named Herbert Birch Kingston, a philanthropist and candy company employee. In 1922, he created it to bring happiness into the lives of orphans, shut-ins and others who were forgotten. So sweet.

And now, that tradition has evolved into a day where lovers and couples buy each other flowers and candy and cards. Which is good, because we have no other day during the year where that happens. None at all.

However, the true origins are much less known to the common Sweetest Day celebrator.

In the early 19th century, a man named Alfred Sweetest traveled America, tracking down escaped criminals. He was a man dedicated to bringing justice to the wicked. When he located criminals' hideouts, he would leave them cards. Sarcastic cards that said, "Somebody 'loves' you." The truth is, nobody loved them. But that's what Sweetest was getting at.

And just as the criminals picked up and read these cards—and swore if they were smart enough to understand the sarcasm—Sweetest leapt from the shadows and beat them to death. But not without first whispering to them, "Happy Sweetest Day." Again, sarcastic.

Seems like an asshole thing to do, but I guess dispensing justice puts sort of a big head on your shoulders. So you name days after yourself. And use your own name for a battle cry. I guess if I was going to fight criminals, I would also say something like...

"Welcome To Andy Town. Population: Pain. And You're Pain's Next Door Neighbor. Which Means You'll Be Seeing Pain On A Regular Basis. Maybe He'll Borrow Your Hose And Never Give It Back. Or Maybe His Punk Son Will Date Your Daughter. And They'll Grow Up And Get Married. And Then Every Time There's A Family Party Or Get-Together, Pain Will Be There. What I'm Trying To Say Is, Pain Will Be A Ongoing Problem For You In The Near-To-Distant Future."

I'm just riffing here, I'm just riffing. I'll trim it down a bit, maybe.

After beating the criminals, Sweetest would remove their heart and eat it before leaving the scene. I suppose that's where the love aspect of Sweetest Day comes in. You know, hearts are equated with love or something, right? So, I guess you could say that he loved these criminals so much that he just had to kill them, open up their chest, and eat their hearts. Makes sense.

Now at least you know the truth behind this holiday. It's not just a half-assed reason Hallmark and other companies use to sell more crap. They're honoring the name of Alfred Sweetest. Why would you think otherwise? Do you not have a soul? What, do you hate freedom or something?

Oh yeah, I'm starting a new holiday myself. It takes place on the fourth Saturday of every October. It's called, Hey, Remember The Orphans And Shut-Ins We Forgot About Last Week? Day.

I'm sorry, but if you celebrate Sweetest Day, then I am at least one notch above you on the Big Board of Life.

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How badly does it suck to be an orphan or a shut-in? A guy creates a day for you, the forgotten. The day transforms into Valentines Day 2. And then you're forgotten all over again. And don't get me started on the zombies who celebrate this misguided holiday. They have problems.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

The War On Small Talk

I've slowly been waging a secret war. But this is a war of only words. Well, and possibly a bat if I have to hear these words for too long.

I'm talking about the war on small talk.

Who's with me on this? I addressed this a bit before, but I think our world—our small talk inundated world—has reached a fever pitch. We all experience small talk in our everyday lives. But nowhere is this plague more apparent then, say, a local business. A local business called Andrea's.

As some of you may remember, I work at Andrea's. I handle shipping and receiving. Which means I deal with delivery guys all day long. UPS, Fed-Ex, and even their red headed step child DHL.

Seriously. The UPS guy brings about 15 boxes usually. The Fed-Ex guy about 6. And when the DHL guy brings his 2, I have to squeeze his cheeks and say, "God, aren't you just ADORABLE!" He doesn't really appreciate it, but, gosh, with his teeny wittle truck, and his red and yellow theme... just precious.

Anyway, back to small talk. When I talk with these delivery guys, the small talk is a significant portion of our interaction. Let me paint the scene. The sound of a large truck can be heard outside. Truck door sliding up with its metallic clatter. Three knocks on the big orange back door, which mean, "You're packages are here. I'm not carrying them to you."

"Hey there," says UPS guy.

"Hey, dude," says I.

"How's it going?"

"Oh, not too bad, you?"

"Pretty good. This weather, though."

"Yeah, pretty crazy."

"Hope you got room in there. Got quite a few boxes for you today."

"Heh-heh, oh, geez."

Conversation seems harmless enough. Except that it occurs roughly the same way every day. Every. Single. Day. Do. You. Like. These. Punchy. Drawn. Out. Sentences. I. Find. Them. Slightly. Hypnotic. It's. Like. Those. Movie. Trailers. Where. They. Take. Three. Words. Spaced. Out. And. Throw. Them. In. Your. Face.

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It's funny, but I know for a fact that as each set of three words popped up, you were imagining the film that would be made, or had been made, in relation to them. But, that's okay. I mean, "BUT. THAT'S. OKAY."

My relationship with the UPS driver is always a friendly one, even if our only topics of conversation are...

  • the weather
  • how crazy said weather currently is
  • how the craziness is only expected to increase in the future
  • how this crazy weather is indeed incomparable to recent years

That will go on for a good—oh I don't know—twenty minutes. It's thrilling, let me tell you. But even though it's a rather empty conversation, it's friendly, and the delivery guys are usually pretty cool.

Well, except the DHL guy. He's an asshole. I don't like him. The other day, he was complaining that his (wittle) truck was so full, and that everyone's been getting five sometimes even 6 boxes! Insane. SIX. WHOLE. BOXES.

I looked him dead in the eyes. I said, "Wow, six?! Is that anything like, say, 40?? It isn't??" Then I dropped the overly sarcastic tone and told him to get the hell out of my fucking warehouse. Well, no, I didn't use the F word. Actually, I didn't say anything. I just pushed him out the door. But forcibly. No, no, that's not true, either.

Okay, okay, it was more like a handshake and I said, "Have a good one!" But the way I shook his hand? He knew I wanted him dead. I stabbed him again and again. With my eyes.

Worse is when you interact with customers. I respect the ladies who work on the floor. I don't know how they have the stamina and patience and sheer will to continue on after being asked for the one millionth time how their family is doing, or if they had their hair done, or what they think about this weather.

When I meet people who I know, and they ask me how my family is doing, even though I saw them quite recently, I wish I had the ability to detach my head from the rest of my body. When people you know come and ask you about your family, it will usually be followed by a story or anecdote, which has been told/heard no less than one thousand times. Think about it. You're just sitting there, listening half interested. And then your head falls off. Think about the possibilities.

You'd probably only be able to do it once. Because after it happens once, and you somehow miraculously recover from a detached head, everyone will think you're a zombie or something, when they see you walking around later on. Which is fine. Except nobody likes talking to zombies. Something to do with them being so chatty; you can never get a word in. Plus they'll eat your brain. Then they're eating your brain and talking with their mouth full. It's pretty rude.


From this point forward, you're a soldier. A verbal killing machine. You're going to fight this war. But I'm going to guide you. Below are some phrases that we all hear everyday. Below those are the corresponding answers, which you will give in a calm voice with your face completely dead-panned. Practice in the mirror if you have to. I'm counting on you. Don't let me down.

Crazy weather, huh?
That's not what Colonel Sanders told me.

I heard the weather is supposed to be worse tomorrow.
I understand you want to sell me a large portion of the Congo.

What's your sister been up to?
No deal, Goldfinger!

Ooh, little chilly outside, huh?
I have glasswork in the back! Hurry, bring your nipples, at once!

How's work?
My skull chair is coming together nicely. Running low on baby skulls though.

We should get together sometime, catch up!
Yes, I would enjoy you in some ketchup.

Time sure does go by fast!
Actually, time is always at a constant. Your interpretation, therefore, is skewed, based only on outside factors such as the repetition of a daily regimen, which would in turn make the time span of one day seem quicker than normal. The familiarity of your surroundings and day-to-day life only increase your awareness of the passing time. Looking back on your life will reveal long stretches of uninterrupted, mundane and well-rehearsed activity. The absence of change or diversion from the norm only blurs the memory that you refer to as "your life".

Make me proud, soldiers.

Sunday, October 09, 2005

Barnes & Noble: A Poem

I went to Barnes & Noble the other day
Or B&N as I call it for short
There's no place quite like a book store
It's a literary safe house, it's an academic fort.

You go there thinking of a certain book
But the search, it will be distracted
It's nice to think you'll take just "a look"
But that assessment will soon be retracted.

I head for the Science Fiction
It is my love and genre of choice
AI and clones and space exploration
Philip K. Dick and Asimov the tools and the voice.

Next I peruse the Baseball section
A sport I've loved since being just a Little Andy
I find a book on my favorite pitcher
His last name was Koufax, his first name was Sandy.

He threw four no-hitters as a Dodger
Including a perfect game in '65
When asked what his best pitch was
"Strike one," is how the lefty replied.

Next I move to the political aisle
But, alas, I can never stay for too long
Bullshit, pundits, more bullshit, and guile
With the same ugly dance, and the same tired song.

First, Bill O'Reilly, with The Factor for kids
It's amazing that his books sell more than two skids
Sean Hannity, your covers, your titles—sweet Jesus, please
Each book should be sold with a large wheel of cheese.

I move over to Science and Einstein and Hawking
The girl with the torn jeans probably thinks that I'm stalking
Yet I just want to read about String Theory and Pi
But I'm getting a weird vibe so I'll go back to Sci-Fi.

Eventually I'm onto humor
With The Onion, Franken, Sedaris, and Vowell
Maybe a second run through the store
Then I should probably throw in the towel.

I find a book in the New Releases
I pick it up and read to page ten
I put it down and I circle the table
Then, retardedly, I pick up the same book again.

You and I will never buy that book
But how optimistic are we?
We linger around an interesting title
Hoping the store will just hand it to us for free.

And there's that girl in the torn jeans again
I swear this time she's in pursuit
She couldn't really be that into IT Management
Then again, I'm not really into the history of the flute.

Lastly, it's the magazines
Where the elite and common see eye-to-eye
Blender, Rolling Stone, Maxim and Cosmo
None of which anyone will actually buy.

We all walk to the exit a little disappointed
So many that we almost want to buy
If we had a million to spend on just books
We'd still need a week to look and decide.

Silently we walk away from the store
With no purchase (or phone number) to bring back
We all return home from B&N and realize
That unread books is not something we lack.

The End.

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

Run, Forrest, Run...

Previously, on People Who Shout Things At You While You Run Should Be Systematically Killed Off

Honestly. I swear people are coming out of sewers to yell this at me as I'm running. Manhole covers popping up, "Run, Forrest, Run!" Poking out of bushes, "Run, Forrest, Run!" Parachuting out of planes, "Run, Forrest, Run!"

It could be the apocalypse...

I'm running, and I suddenly notice a crowd of people behind me, scurrying away from the four horseman, as well as a mile-high wall of pure blood. Their screams are stomach-turning. My body begins to shake now that I'm being faced by my own demise. People are passing me on all sides and I slow down as I begin to feel sick. I stop by a park bench where a man who was running behind me collapses to the ground. He doesn't look well.

"Are you okay?" I ask, asking if he's okay.

"This looks like the end for me," he says.

"Don't talk like that," I say. "I'll find a doctor."

"No, no," he says grabbing my arm. "I need you to do something for me."

"Of course, anything." The four horsemen are picking up people around me and dropping them from high up in the air. Splat. Splat.

"I need you to... RUN, FORREST, RUN!" he yells with a big smile on his face. He laughs and giggles uncontrollably. He composes himself somewhat and says, "I'm just kidding you. You know, I think I'll be okay if we can find that doctor."

It's then that I stomp on his head and crush his skull all over the pavement. And the streets run red with his blood. Red like the words you are reading right now.

I would be killed only minutes later by a giant wall of blood. But at least I crushed that bastard's skull. That was awesome.

It will never die, you know that, right, ladies and gentlemen? Those words will exist long after we've left this Earth. Even in the apocalypse, folks. That phrase will play a role even in the coming apocalypse. You watch.

Whereever people are running, there will be other people to say "Run, Forrest, Run." Maybe they'll be running, too. But it won't matter because once someone has said "Run, Forrest, Run!" to you, you can't return "Run, Forrest, Run!" them, even if they are running beside you. That' s just the way it is.

I don' t know. It's part of the code or something.

Saturday, October 01, 2005

The REAL Reason Bill Bennett Wants Black Babies Aborted

Recently, former Education Secretary William Bennett made some questionable comments on his morning radio program, creatively and originally titled Morning in America. You know, it used to be called America Beforeth The Sun Reacheth Directly Overheadeth, but I think it just confused people.

He said this...
"But I do know that it's true that if you wanted to reduce crime, you could, if that were your sole purpose, you could abort every black baby in this country and your crime rate would go down."

Now, I have a scientific mind. Though his statement is rather racist, I wouldn't get completely bent out of shape if he was just hypothesizing. Freedom of speech is what it is. So, hearing that, assuming it's mere hypothesis, you would anticipate some sort of minor retraction. Which he provided.

And then stomped on.

"That would be an impossibly ridiculous and morally reprehensible thing to do, but your crime rate would go down."

If he had just stopped at "to do," I would have probably let it go. But he just kept going.

It's like saying, "You know, what if the Holocaust never DID happen?" A harmless hypothesis. And then following it with, "It wouldn't be a very nice thing to say, but seriously, it never did. Let's abort black babies!"

Or saying, "What if God destroyed New Orleans because it was home to vast amounts of sin?" Again, a hypothesis which harms no one. And then following it with, "I mean, we shouldn't say that, but we know it's a predominantly Black area and God hates Black people. Let's abort black babies! Who's with me!"

See where it goes awry? Well, not so much "awry" as fucking bat-shit insane.

Like I said, I have a very scientific mind. Curious. I wondered why Bill Bennett really wanted to abort all black babies. He says because of crime rates, but everyone knows that with any type of genocide, the crime rates automatically go down. Because there's simply less people to make them go up. Heh, it's common sense.

No, it wasn't crime rates he was after.

Little known fact: Bill Bennett likey the gambling. The thing is, he's not very good. In fact, he's lost millions. Now, let's hypothesize. What if — again, just throwing it out there — former Education Secretary William Bennett wanted to abort Black babies... to better his odds at the black jack table? Stay with me here.

1. He can't abort White babies, because he was once a White baby.
2. It would just seem weird.
3. But aborting all Black babies would still mean less people.
4. Which would mean less people who aren't Bill Bennett.
5. People who aren't Bill Bennett win more than people who are Bill Bennett.
6. Increasing the gambling success rate of humans named Bill Bennett.

Let's go to the graphics...

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See what Bill Bennett stands to gain? It's not much, but for a man with a pre-existing gambling problem, it's "Las Vegas, here I come!" Diabolical, Bill Bennett. "You know," says an intoxicated Bennett. "Sometimes I feel real bad about all those aborted black b— HERE COMES THE RIVER — FULL HOUSE! FUCKIN' CHRIST, YEAH!"

Well, I'm glad we can officially put that issue to rest. With a little investigative reporting, the truth will always come out.

Heh-heh, crime rates. You slay me, Bill Bennett! You slay us all! But especially those of us who are Black and eligible for abortion! You slay them particularly well, Bill Bennett!

I think this calls for a certain graphic to come out of retirement.

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(Thanks to Julie for implanting the idea.)