Falcons' QB Michael Vick raises suspicion at Miami airport

This has so many different shades of stupidity and hubris, I don't even know where to begin. Of all the "vessels" to hide his weed in, he chose the most obviously prohibited container - a bottle of water. And he was carrying it. And it was somehow specially designed to hide the weed. So at some point, someone said, "hey, I know, let's make a James Bond weed hider - from a water bottle – and just make sure you're carrying it so security can see you when you're trying to get on the plane." You'd be better off with your weed in a bong duct taped to your face.

Here's another question. Why is one of America's most highly overpaid/overrated athletes taking AirTran from Miami to Atlanta? These are massive airports. There are plenty of options besides the former-SunAir, which changed names after one of their planes flew into Everglades like a dart. When you have a $130-million contract over 10 years, what the fuck are you doing with your money? You sure as fuck aren’t spending it on an airline that’s guaranteed to not make you feel like an annoying piece of human freight with no where to go soon before you lift off the tarmac.

Take a look at the history of certain football players, who 1) enjoyed large amounts of fame when they played, 2) were paid very well, and 3) eventually got busted for stupid behavior and probably are now broke from blowing their wad on hookers, drugs and legal fees. There are trends here, folks, and if Michael Vick is getting busted for being this stupid while flying AirTran, I promise this won’t be the last time we see Vick.

And the stupid gets stupider. No where did the police or security actually do anything. They recognized he's Michael Vick. That's like fucking diplomatic immunity in Miami. The have video of him throwing it away, after he pissed and moaned about getting rid of it. So, they called the NFL, which can test him, maybe before the preseason starts in August.

I'm walking away from my desk now.

Why are all the flags still at half-mast? Is this for Gerald Ford? Didn’t he die in December? Not to be a killjoy, but if that’s the case, um, why are they still half-mast? Don’t get me wrong – I don’t have an issue keeping them at half for like a week or so. Sure, president, big deal, drop the flag. But this is like weeks? Wasn’t the whole point of the founding of the nation and the creation of a term-limited presidency to remove the semi-deification of national leaders? How long to we have to mourn a dead president? And really, short of family and friends, is anyone actually mourning any more? Do we really need a national decree that a symbol must be erected for god knows how long to tell people that they should be mourning? This is morose and stupid.



Fuck the iPhone. I’m sick of it already, and no one even has one yet. It’s a phone with a big fat hard drive. Move along. It’s not going to revolutionize jack shit except a bunch of jobs for tech and marketing execs who now have a shinier benchmark for their plastic candy. And for everyone who used the word “revolutionize” or some derivative when it came out: fuck you double. Alexander Graham Bell’s first phone was revolutionary. Cellphones made on a mass-market level was revolutionary. A cell phone with a bigger screen, more bells and whistles, and more storage to hold your pictures of Paris Hilton’s indented, bony chest do not a revolution make.



True story. Sunday morning, I’m in the car, jamming to Shed 7’s “Chasing Rainbows,” sitting at the light to get on the highway, and a van pulls up to me. The driver asks, “Is Hillsborough back that way?” He just got off the highway and suspected he missed his exit.

“Yeah,” I said. “Just make a left back onto the on-ramp. Hillsborough’s your next exit.”

“Thanks,” he said laughing. “That’s what I get for daydreaming.”

I was on my way to scout locations for a photo shoot for The March of the Kitefliers.

Post-script: when I got off the highway into Downtown, Petula Clark’s “Dans le Temps” (her French version of “Downtown”) started playing.
I don’t know what it is about this show, but it’s always brought a surprising kind of serendipity whenever it nears the surface of things.



So, Obama announced he is authorizing an announcement investigation consulting team to investigate whether he should announce his consideration to announce his candidacy for president.

We can’t wait two months after the last election until some alleged fever whips up for the next election? Want to know why the political process is so fucked up? (This is for you Obama, so listen up.) Because politicians apparently spend all their time either running for office or gearing up for the next campaign. If the media didn’t publish this crap until it started to matter (oh, say 6 months before the election) then the politicians wouldn’t have a venue to pitch themselves. That’s why it costs a billion dollars (you laugh, but you just wait until the next campaign and see how much it costs) to run for anything. They’re not spending it all in the last month; it’s constant advertising for two years.

And apparently the big issue is whether Obama is experienced (he isn’t.) Because that was the ginormous issue du jour when George W. Bush ran in 2000, let me tell you.

I’m not getting into this because it’s totally irrelevant. You may as well start polling for 2050, because it just doesn’t matter right now.

But I’ll say this. About two years ago, I was having a political conversation with the kind of people I never get into political conversations with, and I opened my fat mouth and said that this country would elect a black man before it elects a white woman. That is not my personal choice – I’d be happy to see either in office. That’s just my analysis/speculation on how this great nation will vote. So there it is again. My gaping maw has widened again, and I’m sticking to that.

The Dentistry Industry is not a medical profession. It is a fucking racket, a scheme of highly overpaid sadists and thugs who have engineered a legalized way to inflict unfathomable amounts of pain in never-ending cycles of alleged “cures,” and to force its “patients” (what a hypocritical euphemism that is) to expend absurd amounts of money for their alleged services. These immoral, godless, soulless shiteyes are the only people on the planet who could make a CIA interrogator understand the value of mercy.

So, I just got back from the dentist. Round 3 of 3 in my biweekly festival of pain to install a bridge for a tooth that’s been missing for about five years. I thought this was going to be a 20-minute trip. I’ve had crowns before. That’s a quick fix. A little jabbing. A little fitting. Done. They replace the temporary with the permanent and you leave. Right?

Evidently not. The fun starts when they remove the temporary. At this point, whenever the bridge is out the cold air from the office entering my mouth causes the exposed gums to hurt. A lot. Like a nerve pain, but all the nerves at once.

Then the guy jams the permanent in, which at first was literally like fitting a square peg in a round hole. I mean he really had to jam it in with force. Guess what? It was pretty fucking tight. Like too big to fit.

Pull it out (insert pain from aforementioned cold air here), shave it down and shove it in again. Oh yeah, I should mention that every time he pulls it out to shave it down, he cleans it with blasting cold air, so it’s a really cold piece of whatever being shoved on my gums. Imagine shoving a rod full of blasting freon into a bullet wound.

I bite down on it, and I see stars. Pull it out. Shave it down. Shove it in. Stars. Repeat about 15 times. I’m not exaggerating. Every time is a little better, about as much as missing the first minute of a Barbara Streisand movie is better than watching the whole thing.

Then he says he’s going to get the Dentist. He comes in. Nice guy. Seems to have a better grasp on the painlessness thing is, God forbid, so he makes me bite down on a fucking stick, and I just about clocked him.

Jerks the thing out, puts some kind of unfathomable pain inflicting adhesive on it, and shoves it back in for good, I assume in the hopes that this will cause permanent pain, because that’s what it feels like.

His duty done, I’m stuck again with his assistant, who I assume is named Igor. Igor shows me some thick blue floss and asks me if I’ve ever flossed with it before. I haven’t, so he hands me a mirror and shows me how to do it. He sticks the floss point end in at the bottom corner of my teeth. That doesn’t seem so bad. He threads it through and pulls it. Piece of cake. Until I realize the blue floss is attached to a fucking rope. When he yanks the rope halfway through, he then pulls back on both sides underneath the tooth. Now it’s bleeding. But he apparently doesn’t think this is working. So he threads the other side of the tooth and pulls on it until the rope goes completely underneath the tooth from one side to the other. This is when I realize that the bridge is called a bridge because there ain’t nothin' underneath it, except a fucking piñata of pain.

When I regain consciousness, I ask, “How many times do I have to do that?”

“Twice a day,” Igor says.

“FOR HOW LONG?!”

“A week. Have you been rinsing with warm salt water?”

“Uh… no, not since no one told me to.”

“If you did, that would heal faster and it wouldn’t hurt as much. Rinse with warm salt water twice a day for a couple weeks.”

“Thanks for the scoop.”

I get sent out to the front desk, where the ex-cafeteria lady makes me take a seat so she can do my paper work, which I think is odd. Despite all the other fun I need to do to my mouth, this chapter is done as far as I’m concerned. There’s no paper work. This was paid for a month ago, I’m ready to leave, and I really don’t feel like coming back for more torture if I can put it off for a couple months.

The ex-cafeteria lady tells me she’s ready, then tells me to wait in a different spot, then tells me to come around the other side of the desk again, so she can explain that some twunt at my “insurance” company – no doubt a mastermind of this con – has just now realized there is a little known “clause” that any tooth that was extracted under a different “insurance” company isn’t covered. So on top of the $900+ I’ve already paid, my “insurance” company thinks I should pay the other $700 they originally said they were going to pay.

It’s turned into a bad joke. I’m still throbbing sore at this point, the Dentist won’t so much as give me an aspirin, and now my “insurance” company doesn’t want to pay for any of this. Because in this day and age, I’m apparently a fool for having the tooth extracted under a different “insurance” company. That’s quite a handy little clause, especially considering that the odds of your employer keeping the same “insurance” carrier year-to-year are comparable to winning the Powerball lottery.

Ex-cafeteria lady writes down the “insurance” carrier’s name, etc. on an envelope. You’d think for the thousands of dollars I’d given them over the years, they could buy a notepad, but I digress.

Thanks to red tape, the twunt hasn’t actually processed the claim yet, so ex-cafeteria lady doesn’t expect $700 on the spot. Ex-cafeteria lady asks when I’d like to come in next. I explain that I’d like to talk to the twunt first before I make any commitments. Fortunately, she doesn’t give me a hard time and lets me walk, though that’s probably more fortunate for her sake than mine.

I wish I had some witty punch line, or moral, or even a finale to this. But I don’t. That’s it. That was my trip to the Dentist, Meister of Sadism.

Tomorrow: prs calls the twunt to discuss clauses.

Prior to the 2000 election, I used to tell people that all I wanted was a two-party system. More often than not, they’d look at me and say, “But there’s the Republicans and the Democrats.”

And I would respond, “Exactly.”

Then the Great Uniter got elected, and George W. “Mr. Bipartisan” Bush led a team of… we’ll call them people, who generated a divide that rivaled the Marianas Trench. At first, it looked like the typical divide between the Grand Old Party and the Democrats. Then it was a divide between the GOP and “them” – specifically anyone who disagreed with them, publicly branded as unpatriotic on a good day to a motherfucking terrorist with a vial of nuclear anthrax wedged up their ass at a gay orgy on a bad day.

It was “my way or the highway,” as the guy who swore to bring everyone in government back together drove a wedge between the White House and every disagreeable government, then every agreeable government, then it’s own government, and through it all – the American people.

I predicted – and history backed me up – that this hubris, blatant strong-arming and division can’t endure more than six years without a backlash.

So, the Democrats got back into the game.

However, the Democrats didn’t win by virtue of uniting under one banner against the other team. They did, but not so much. They didn’t win so much as the other team lost.

While the president of the Evangelical whathaveyou was outed as a meth-addicted purveyor of male prostitutes, it was announced weeks before the election that W. (he’s the Great Uniter, by the way) used the Christian Right – his “base” – for their money and their vote and didn’t care what they wanted from the White House.

After the fallout, the Republicans turned on each other. John McCain, previously seen as the next natural Republican Presidential candidate, can’t get support from the staunch right wing of his own party, because he’s not a staunch right wing kinda guy, but he can’t get a grip on the general moderate of any party, because (among other things) he gives speeches to Christian fundamentalist right-wing groups.

But here’s where it turns weird.

Yesterday, the House Democrats broke with their incoming Speaker, Nancy Pelosi, and elected Rep. Steny H. Hoyer to be House majority leader. Hoyer got 63 more votes than Pelosi’s choice Murtha.

It gets better. Everyone, especially Pelosi and Murtha, thought it would be a real horse race. Pelosi was making the hard calls, and they were pledging their votes for Murtha. But, somewhere in the mix, about 60 Democrats lied to their new, vaunted Speaker. It was the first real political action the first female House leader made. And she tanked.

All week, Democrats have been pointing fingers at each other, like they lost the election (again). I won’t even get into who’s blaming who, but it’s a bunch of crap about who takes credit for winning, and who gets blamed for not winning enough. From the average American Joe’s perspective, this looks like high school locker drama bullshit. And to an extent it is. It’s the kind of behavior that makes you shake your head and silently whisper to yourself, “Can’t you fucking assholes get along and actually accomplish something, like balance the goddamn checkbook or something?”

However, I don’t see it that way. I want this division. I want this angst and disagreement, and I’ll tell you what turned the table for me:

According to today’s Slate:

[T]his whole conflict "sent a clear signal of what kind of leader [Pelosi] is: an old-style politician who puts a premium on personal loyalty, even at the risk of high-profile defeat."

James Moran of Virginia, didn't seem to get over his bitterness and said "there are a number of members who can't be trusted," as a reference to those who had pledged to elect Murtha but changed their vote. Apparently he didn't receive the reconciliation memo, because he went on to say those who voted against Murtha "will be damaged by this," reports the Washington Post.

Hrm. A premium on personal loyalty. A join us or perish philosophy. Obvious overtures of deception, backstabbing and division whose only pronounced solution is punishing “them”. Okay, sure it sounds like an episode of the Sopranos. But it also reminds me of the Republican party for the last six years, except the Republican party folded into this philosophy. They bought into the bullying, and the reward was six years of strong-arming their policies into effect.

And look what it got us:

War. Torture. An astronomical amount of financial debt. Warrantless spying. Prison with no trial. No accountability. No responsibility. No planning. No oversight. Ruthless neglect. And the conversion of the US Government into an even greater bureaucracy. This is the closest our government has ever come to the term “Orwellian.”

And this is from the party that wants to reduce government and spend less money. Imagine what a party like the Democrats would do if they had free reign and could bully everyone they wanted to for a change.

It’d be a disaster. And we’d have a one party system. Again.

But instead, there is open disagreement on both fronts. Hell, there’s more than two fronts. You could probably divide each Party into three factions. That’s six little groups of disagreeing bastards. The black and white is turning into shades of gray. And this, folks – this is how third parties get invented. When enough people, perhaps like Leiberman or McCain – set themselves apart and push away from both tables. And whether that third party forms a party, or just forms a coalition of issues, that’s historically when things get done. Things don’t happen in one party, because, when one group dominates, all they have to do is stay in power. They don’t have to actually accomplish anything. But when no one can dominate, then everyone has to perform.

Traditionally, third parties dissolve quickly in American history. But their causes, their issues, and their people carry on and alter the course of government. We’ve seen what six years of a single party government can accomplish. I hope the Democrats take the gloves off and start killing each other. And the Republicans should too – they got nothing to lose. Then, maybe, we’ll actually get a government of people that have to work for a living.

It’s been a slow week on the internets. Or maybe I wasn’t wasting as much time on it. At any rate, here’s a bunch of links:

Who Needs Cable, when you have YouTube?
Too early for Steve Irwin jokes? Fuck that. Look, it’s Norm McDonald being funny. Honest.

Holy crap, I want one of these. Imagine attaching a small, remote video camera to it.

In the News – the news is fake. Lewis Black provides some investigative journalism on investigative journalism (and the lack thereof.) Highly recommended.

Politics
Here’s some three-year-old news that I just found out: George Bush’s brother, Marvin P. (yes, that’s really his name), was a head honcho for a security firm that, among other things, ran security for the World Trade Center until 9/11. I reckon the firm has since lost that account. Now, I’m really not drawing any conspiracy theories, because frankly, I don’t know of any security forces – especially our military – that can prevent Boeings from flying into buildings, but doesn’t that little tidbit strike you as a little weird? Is it just me? Seriously, what kind of a fucking coincidence is that?

I’m gonna whip somebody’s ass
After zefrank’s conversation with the light post, check out the remix of “I’m gonna whip somebody’s ass.”

Hey, look at that. I’m already bored off my tits and don’t want to be here. Who am I kidding? I was bored in the car on my way over here.

Speaking of the car, when I got out of it this morning, I suddenly remembered all the shit I wanted to accomplish last night. How’s that for a pisser?

Speaking of pisser, that’s sort of where my mood’s been in the past 18 hours, and I don’t really know why. I technically shouldn’t be in a bad mood about anything, but I keep stumbling into waves of other people’s stupid, negative, inconsiderate and generally annoying behavior just about every corner I turn. Compound that with things I’m already frustrated with, and hey lookie there – shitty mood.

I almost wrote the word “modo” back there. I don’t know what it means, but I like it. I think it’s what happens when Scandinavian designers redesign your dojo. “Ya, velcome to your new den of zen awareness and physical destruction. This is not a dojo. It is a modo!” You look in the corner, and that sparring totem pole thing has been replaced by a giant blue plastic figure with no descript features or sharp edges, but it’s pleasing to look at. The rounded blue androgynous being makes you want to listen to Tosca, and you think that you really could live in South Beach, but only in a place with a lot of bamboo and the lighting adjusted so it always looks like the last minute of dusk, while you sip on dark rum and ginger infused cocktails and think of new ways to use the word “infused.”

Speaking of words that have no meaning, it’s official: people who use the word “infused” in cooking references – they’re full of shit. It’s just extra syllables. It sounds like there’s some kind of chemical process involving goggles, precision tools and blue flame. It means “in”. “I had the encrusted scallops infused with Cointreau and braised with a carmelized reduction.” That means you threw Cointreau into the pan with the scallops. Or you marinated them. Either way, there’s Cointreau in the fucking scallops. And reduction? That means you let the pan sit on the burner, but the art is apparently riding the line of laziness that determines how long you can sip you’re glass of wine and stare at the pan before you finally have to move it (and consequently yourself) so you’re not eating briquettes. It’s like a game of chicken for people handicapped by their own ego.

I think about writing in my journal all the time. But I never do. Is it the climate, myself or both? No one’s around anymore, except three people and a bunch of lurkers. Everyone’s lost interest in the interaction. Which is fine, and I can’t complain. I’m one of them. Waiting for one of you fuckers to entertain me. It used to be quite the clubhouse, but like all things, the novelty wore off. And people got busy. Or something came up. I was out of work and at home for a year and a half. I had better things to do than stare at everyone’s diaries and links to weird shit. Not that I don’t like you all, but let’s face it, would you rather do something constructive or read crap by people bored and stuck at work?

Exactly.

Well, now I’m bored and stuck at work. And while I could post an actual journal, I just feel like that kind of self-exploration is both boring and, well, rather personal. And believe me, there’s nothing worse than boring personal melodrama whose drama relies in the fact that it’s trying to be more interesting than it really is. Because it’s not. Interesting that is. In other words, it is not infused with interest. And you don’t care anyway. Well, maybe you do care, but I don’t care if you care, because I don’t care. And if I don’t, why should you? That’s kinda creepy.

New theory: the Internet is turning people into flagrant assholes.

It enables people to exhibit and practice shitty behavior from the comfort of their own home without fear of repercussion or being smacked in the mouth like they should have been a long time ago.

Here’s an example, so you can see where I’m coming from on this. Go to digg.com and poke around on a bunch of posts with a lot of comments (look for high diggs.) Soon, you’ll find a comment lambasting another, calling them a name maybe and telling them why they’re an idiot. Strangely, many idiot comments are because of a typo that someone made.

Typos happen. They’re going to happen a lot when you hand out keyboards to the general public who hated the two English classes they had in high school. However, I missed the memo that said one person’s typo was another’s free license to criticize the living bejesus out of them. It’s not hard to see that the critic criticizes because it empowers a false sense of intelligent superiority, and more importantly, because they can get away with it.

And it’s not just a grammar police thing. People sling their opinions against the wall like they own the place, and then treat those who disagree with the same care and empathy as the White House does for anyone who “dissents” against the War on Terror.

It’s easy to look at these people and say, “it’s just one guy.” Sure, some nut job finds a way to angle something to empower his white supremacist philosophy. That’s one guy. But if it’s just one guy, how does that asshole show up in more places than Isaac on the Love Boat. It’s a lot of people. The behavior encourages others to do it to. It’s behavior by example playground rules.

Digg is just one example. Any public Internet forum has it. Remember livejournal’s heyday, back when all y’all posted treatises on personal philosophy and other things that might make people think? On the other side were fanatics pounding their foreheads into monitors, threatening death if you didn’t love your neighbor, unless your neighbor was a homo. Good times, good times.

Of course there’s also the theory that people were assholes anyway, and the Internet has just enabled them to come out of their little world, or hole, or closet or where ever they come from.

Maybe. But there’s a big difference between talking smack to someone’s face and anonymously posting it on a giant electronic bulletin board for the whole world to see. Sure, they were assholes anyway. But now they’re encouraged.

And none of this is anything you don’t already know. In fact you probably know it so well, you already came to that conclusion cognizantly or indirectly a while ago and said fuck it. Maybe you realized it was just easier to not post, to not delve into the land of typo-infused risk, and to just keep walking and watching. The journal more or less became an offseason spectator sport.

Or perhaps you have succumb to the zen warmth of your modo and can’t be bothered with that whole journaling thing. If that’s true, be warned – eventually, the blue guy will creep you out. I promise.

Okay, so maybe it’s just been a long, slow, dull, rusty dentist’s drill of a news week. That still doesn’t mean I need it proven for yet another week that Murphy’s Law applies to world affairs. Is being a dickhead contagious in the international community?

Several rants here, mostly because it's a bunch of stuff that no one is saying. I haven't been hated publicly in awhile, so I guess I'm due. Here we go:

( Cuba )

( Israel )

( Mel Gibson )

( Iraq )

250pm - Call Dentist. See if they got the fax. Put me on hold.

255pm - They got the fax.
Person at Dentist Office I talked to on Friday when I cancelled my first appt.: Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I don’t see anything here about a waiting period.
Me Yeah? That might explain why every person I’ve talked to said I don’t have one.
DO There’s a number here to contact them. Want me to call them?
Me Sure. Why not?
DO Okay, I’ll call you back.

310 pm
DO You don’t have a waiting period.
Me Is that right?
DO Did you want to come in?
Me …
Me …
Me Sure.
DO Did you have an appointment?
Me Um. No. I’ve been kind of waiting to resolve this first.
DO Were you just coming in for a routine checkup?
Me No. I have a broken molar.
DO Do you want to come in tomorrow at 9?
Me Love to.
DO Okay, I’ll put you down at 9 for Dr. [some person I’ve never heard of]
Me Should I come in earlier to fill out any paperwork?
DO Oh. Yes.
Me How early? 8:30?
DO Yes. 8:30.
Me These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.
DO These aren’t the droids we’re looking for.

So I'm allegedly going to have a stranger drill into my head tomorrow morning. If I'm lucky.

I’m going to make a very broad, sweeping stereotypical inference and ask: when the fuck did everyone become so unanimously lazy, stupid, prone to passing the buck, and simply too retarded to do even the simplest of tasks when it comes to basic fucking customer service? For those who can relate, please chime in. For those who think I’m oversimplifying or just overreacting, your day is coming, I promise.
For those just joining the conversation, start here.

Today
930 am Call rep at insurance co to scream at her or give me the number of the claims supervisor she passed the buck to last week so I can scream at him/her personally. Get rep’s voicemail. Recover from shock. (The voicemail is different… so she’s accessed her voicemail since I left her a message Friday.) The voicemail says she’s on vacation until July 17. Vacation from what? I don’t know.

940 am E-mail HR person to fill her in on the progress (sic) and to ask if she has contact info for someone who actually works at the insurance co.

950 am HR person responds. Recommends I go to dentist now and “we” can take care of everything when rep returns next week.

1015 am Find phone number for insuran– fuck it. The company is AIG. So I call AIG’s customer service rep, and do the dance of 1000 menu options. Get a hold of a person. She verifies my insurance coverage and asks for a fax number (sadly – though fortunately, as it turns out) I don’t have the dentist’s fax on hand, so I giver her mine, which is located 3 floors above me.

11 am Tell HR rep that I’d rather get this all cleared up now, because if AIG can’t make a 5-min phone call, I sure as hell don’t expect them to cut me a check after I get unauthorized work done, not to mention, I don’t have a house to mortgage for the allegedly temporary out-of-pocket it would cost to repair the molar in the first place. Then tell her I got a hold of someone else, thanks very much for all the effort, and please, don’t get up for my sake, continue resourcing humans.

11:55 am 90 min after speaking with AIG, receive 2-page fax that will hopefully resolve all of this.

1205 pm send fax to dentist office.

1210 pm (after receiving confirmation that it sent) Call dentist. They still haven’t gotten the allegedly expected call from AIG. Good thing I started going down this separate, fax road. Oh yeah, and they haven’t received the fax either. I might want to try again, after they, uh, y’know put paper in the fax machine.

1220 pm fax dentist again. Decide to not call them and try to get some work done, hoping they’ll call me.

1250 pm call dentist. They haven’t received the fax, probably because there’s a paper jam and someone will have to fix it when they get back from lunch because she’s the only one working the desk and if I don’t hear back when they get back from lunch to maybe send it again, but there’s no one who can fix the jam because she’s the only one there.

A little back-story: I hate the dentist. I mean with a fear. I really have a serious problem with people sticking pointy metal things into my gums and teeth. I can’t even watch it on TV. Even conversations about teeth make me really nervous, and I usually change the subject quickly. Couple that with the fact that I’ve always had one thing or the other screwed up with my teeth – always, which has actually led to my fear/hatred of all things dental. I even get minor anxiety attacks just calling the office, which leads to my story.

Yesterday
1030 am – call the dentist, get put on hold, get disconnected.

1032 am – call back, the woman has to take my info down and call me because they’re uber busy.

1 pm – call the dentist that never called me back. Get stupid long voicemail about how the office is out to lunch. Wait for a beep, and get a Spanish version of the really long voicemail. Conclude it’s just a recording, there is no option to leave a message and hang up.

3 pm – call the dentist. Their computers were down, hence the hold up. Tell them I need an appointment. Yes, it is a really long time since I’ve been there. Yes, I have different insurance now (yes, I have insurance for the first time in two years). What’s my appointment for? A broken molar. Does it hurt? Not yet. When would I like to come in? How about as soon as fucking possible. 2 pm tomorrow? Super.

3:30 pm get a call from the dentist. My new insurance isn’t a PPO, it’s indemnity, and it only covers preventative for the first 6 months, then it covers additional stuff, and any major stuff, like, say, a broken molar, is covered after April 2007. The person at the insurance co has brainwashed them that this is fact. It isn’t, and I know it.

3:35 pm frantically call my HR person to find out 1) if there’s some mysterious hitherto unknown waiting period on my coverage and 2) what my level of insurance is. It doesn’t say anywhere on my card what I’m paying for, and I’m wondering if there was a clerical error when I signed up. (I signed up for the best dental I could get because I know better. I’d kind of like to get what I’m paying for and not insurance that only covers a lecture to brush between meals.)

3:45 pm Finally get a hold of said HR person. She doesn’t know what the hell the dentist’s office is talking about and will call the insurance company.

3:50 pm Turns out the insurance rep doesn’t know what the hell the dentist’s office is talking about either. For what it’s worth, this dentist’s office has always had their shit together, so they’re relying on info from an idiot at the insurance co. I also find out I do indeed have the insurance plan I’m paying for.

4 pm Through a pass the buck e-mail communication, I send the rep my dentist’s contact info (which I copied and pasted from their website of network dentists), so she can call them and straighten this out. I am happy.

4:50 pm Call the dentist office. They haven’t gotten a call yet. I am not happy.

Today
9 am Get an e-mail from the rep. (Yay.) She forwarded the dentist info to a claims supervisor who will call the dentist office. (Boo.)

10 am E-mail the rep and ask if this is like, a y’know, priority, because I’d kind of like this fucking handled before I, like, go to my 2 pm appt of pain.

11 am Call dentist office. They haven’t gotten a call, and I haven't gotten a response from the rep.

11:05 Call rep directly. Get voicemail. I ask if they can step it up or put me in touch with the claims supervisor directly.

12:50 pm Still haven’t gotten a response from the insurance company. Call the dentist office. They haven’t gotten a call yet. Tell them I’m going to have to reschedule. She tells me she’ll call me when they hear from the insurance company, and to call them if I don’t hear from them by Tuesday.

1 pm Thoroughly ready for a drink.

To alleviate a fraction of frustration from driving on I-275 in what has pretty much become a guaranteed experience - and not something to just be enjoyed during rush hour - I find it helps to pretend that each trip is a little historical reenactment of the Bataan Death March. Except everyone gets his or her own little car!

Isn't that terrific?

This isn’t a subject that I exactly broach with excitement, but something has to be said. Since I haven’t seen anyone really mention this, I’ll break the ice, because someone has to goddammit.

Can someone tell me please what is it that possesses men to do some of the utterly bizarre things they do when they’re at a urinal?

Oh, by the way, for any ladies that may be reading this, I should probably tell you now: the following may be highly disturbing, educational, disenchanting, or just information you do not want to know. Or all of the above. You’ve been warned.

By and large, this isn’t a comprehensive study. I don’t hang out in men’s rooms and compile statistical research on this. But being the kind of guy who leaves the house and drinks a lot of coffee, I use public restrooms. And, by and large, the vast majority of men typically do what I do in men’s rooms – namely, pee. And by pee, I mean pee with no zeal, aplomb, zest, verve, fanfare or any other kind of attention-seeking style. You get in, you get out. There is no presentation.

The minority, however, do some strange things. To give you an idea of what the hell I’m talking about, below is a (potentially growing) list of the types of eccentric urinators.

The Talker – This is a guy you know who decides to liven up the peeing experience with a little conversation. It’s a little odd. Not completely strange, but a little odd. I’ll admit I’ve talked to the guy at the next urinal. It’s a locker room thing. You get used to it. However, there are those who insist on talking about anything, usually something intensively work related, and he’s going to talk to whoever is at the urinal next to him. Every time. Now, if you just got out of a meeting, I can see going to the can en masse, and you or the next guy says, “Jesus, I didn’t think the VP would ever shut up,” or something brief and relevant to the what brought everyone into the can. It’s a comment. That doesn’t mean I want to chair an action committee to redevelop the project management flowchart while I’m taking a leak. Does it look like I’m taking notes? It’s just not a good place to have a real conversation. Just talk to me at the coffee maker.

The Stranger – This is the Talker that you don’t know. The guy who wants to talk about the big nuclear explosion in the movie you just saw. Or the chick with the big tits at the bar. Or the chicken fucker they caught in Belize. If I don’t know you, and you are a man standing next to me, do not talk to me while my johnson is hanging out of my pants. The world is strange enough, thanks. I don’t need to wonder if you’re playing with yourself, or if you fit a psych profile that conjures the term “postal” or want to sell me something (perhaps yourself) while I’m going to the bathroom. Just… just don’t.

The Matador – Also known as the Leaking Super Hero. This person (and there are many) stands at the urinal, feet at least at shoulder width apart, with one fist fixed to his hip, elbow pointed out at a 90-degree angle during the entire peeing experience. It’s the kind of stance that might otherwise be fitting for declaring a land in the name of your country. Or for looking down on the thousands of dead that you and your army have just slaughtered. Or I suppose it could be apropos for standing on a hill crest and gazing down at the baseball diamond you just successfully built on a razed cornfield. It behooves a cape, hence the title(s). I don’t know why or what possesses this person to stand so proud. Perhaps it’s some sort of therapeutic affirmation of penis size, self-assurance or they’re just pretentious. I haven’t proven this, but I stand to wager they are the same type who really, really thinks his car is better than yours. Like you care.

The Whistler – Fairly self-explanatory. He whistles while he pees. It’s a little weirder than the Talker, because it assumes you can’t hear him. Like you’re not standing there, too. Or maybe he does acknowledge he isn’t alone, so he’s providing a public service: music to pee by. I don’t need a soundtrack when I’m in the can. And if I did, something resembling the opening credits to the Andy Griffith show would not be it.

The Slimer – I’ve never seen this guy. I like to think that there’s only one, because I don’t want to realize that there are this many uncouth motherfuckers inhabiting the planet. Or maybe they’re like the Gideons or Muzak musicians, and they’re likewise on some inexplicable mission to secretly torture people with any sense of dignity. I don’t know. But they leave their little trail wherever they go. Literally, in the form of giant boogers on the wall. I thought this ended in high school. Why, WHY must I stare at your fucking snot? Don't fucking pretend you don't know who you are, philistine! Why? What’s wrong with a kleenex? Or even eating them for fuck sake? You’re not doing this when other people can see you. So what kind of twisted territorial instinct possesses you to scrape your mucus at eye level on the wall? There is no better place for your boogers? The wall at the urinal is an unspoken, official bulletin board for your heinous behavior? Do you think your boogers need to leave the nest and mate with other boogers? What the fuck is your problem?

The Fireman – Another ninja, like the Slimer. This guy apparently stands about fifteen feet back and takes a sprinkler approach, I guess in the hopes that by going for the greatest area of effect, some of it will land in some appropriate receptacle merely by odds. This is all speculative. Like the Slimer, I’ve never seen this; just the evidence of the large puddles on the floor.

The Petrie Dish – It’s called flushing, fuckface.

The Singer – Granted this is a miniscule contingent, like maybe .00001%. In fact, I think I’ve only encountered it twice, but the last time was half an hour ago and he inspired me to finally write this, so it gets counted. This is the Whistler who thinks he’s center stage at Radio City Music Hall. This freak is singing Bésame Mucho while he’s peeing. In a public restroom. Never mind the guy in the stall trying to concentrate on his constipation problem. Or the guy in the other stall who ate way too much Taco Bell the night before and is already concerned about his prostate launching out of his rectum. Forget the people walking through the hallway near the door to a giant echo chamber with toilets in it. Never mind that I’m just washing my hands while this is happening, and I now have to go out there and endure the looks of fear and confusion, like I’m somehow an accessory to this. Sing away, fruitcake. You’re in key. Embrace it, and make damn sure we enjoy it too. Celebrate! In fact, this is a notoriously famous and standard scene seen in all great Broadway Musicals. Gershwin practically made it a convention – y’know where the lead is pissing and breaks into song so stupendous that it transforms into a full ensemble number. It’s a good opening for Act 2 actually. Schmuck.

I would like to apologize for everyone who has read this and has had to somehow vicariously suffer the behaviors of others through this journal. But it’s a small sacrifice if one of the dipshits above reads this and realizes the harm they are causing to the collective psyche as a whole.

Beatles mashups and a seething hatred for George Bush? You betcha! Check these out:
Imagine This (thanks maladr1n)
I'm the Decider (Koo Koo ka Choo)(thanks gonzonia)

To anyone reading this who may be a buyer working at The Gap,

Heard you were having a bit of a problem keeping your stock up. Have you considered another 10 years of fruity pastels and neo-retro stripes that will make people look like obnoxious fuckwits? Just a thought, but I have a feeling that business plan would really take off.

To anyone reading this who may be a buyer for any other mall-vending male clothing store,

I live in Florida. There are plenty of thriftstores here. If I want to look like I raided someone’s dead grandpa’s closet, believe me, I can replace my whole wardrobe for what you’re charging for a pair of boxers.

I know what some of you are thinking. I was thinking it for a minute, too, when I walked out of any number of stores at the mall: “spprs, this is the first step of getting old. You’re just not hip any more.” My response? First, I never was hip, so ditch that thought. Second, my desire to not look like a shmuck from a 1973 JC Penny catalogue is not remotely indicative of getting old. It’s indicative of my getting really tired of everyone thinking it’s cool to look like an Easter egg on the Love Boat.

And while I’m talking clothes, here’s a little tip for ANYONE still wearing a Napoleon Dynamite shirt:
You’re a putz.

And finally, I can’t stop watching this guy (thanks again gonzonia). Seriously. Righteously funny shit.

Good ol' Lyndon Johnson is credited with one of the most fundamental truisms in politics, specifically when it came to disseminating bad information about opponents:
It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. Make them deny it.

Johnson knew it was the confrontation of the issue that sank people, careers, institutions... you name it. While the justice system believes you are innocent until proven guilty, public opinion doesn’t work that way. Say the same thing over and over again, and people will eventually believe it. Just ask John Kerry what people think about his military record.

Here’s where I’m going with this. According to the AP: “Court papers filed by the prosecutor in the CIA leak case against I. Lewis "Scooter" Libby said Bush authorized Libby to disclose information from a classified prewar intelligence report. The court papers say Libby's boss, advised him that the president had authorized Libby to leak the information to the press in striking back at administration critic Joseph Wilson.”

That’s all fine and good, and I’m happy as hell that the prosecutor has become capable to officially file this. What’s more important, however, is if this White House can deny it and get away with it.

I’ve spent the last six years in shock and awe (that’s where all that went). I’ve watched an administration repeatedly, baldly, bluntly tell the world it was going to do whatever it wanted and get away with it. Not only has it done that, but it’s done it all really, really badly. Like redefining incompetence badly. Not only did you smoke in the non-smoking section, but you used the grease dumpster in the kitchen as an ashtray and burnt the restaurant down. And then you said you were going to go to another restaurant, because the service sucked. And everyone said, “Well, he seems so dosh-garn country-bumpkin charming that it must be bad service, because no one could be so stupid as to use a grease pit as an ashtray and blame a waiter.” But you did. And you went to another restaurant and you smoked there too. And you burnt the block down. And you just kept on accusing waiters. That’s how bad.

But no matter the arson, no matter the blatant corruption, lies, mismanagement and incompetence, he’s still there.

Anywho, my point isn’t really about the issue. My point is that in the last 12 hours, I’ve seen link after link headlining “Bush Authorized Leak.” Catch it on TV or radio, and pretty soon you’re hearing rather memorable quotes from the President in the last year or so saying how much he hates leaks and will use every power at hand to terminate anyone in his administration who does leak. It’s everywhere.

There’s a picture being painted in the collective conscious of a smoking gun in the hands of George W. Bush – a guy who will probably be the first to attest that facts are meaningless because perception defines reality.

My concern is will this administration just… keep getting away with shit at no consequence? Any other administration, any other time, it’d be the weenie shrinker of weenie shrinkers. But this isn’t any time. This is a time when record voter turnout gave a 0.000001% margin to a guy who shouldn’t have gotten the 0.000001% margin the first time. This is a time when approval ratings have hit the second lowest of all time – just above Richard Fucking Nixon – and Congress isn’t sure if he’s done anything wrong, much less done something so horrible that they would at least officially shake a finger and call him a bad boy. Besides getting a b.j. from a fat chick, what the fuck do you have to do to get fired in that city?

Have we – you, me, them, Congress, everybody – reached a point of blind apathy so complacent that it just keeps going? Will this be the test that this administration can’t pass, or will this be the test that proves Lyndon Johnson’s theory wrong?

Guards Say Homeland Security HQ Insecure

Once you get past the pure comic irony of all of this, can someone explain to me why the Dept. of Homeland Security is using rent-a-cops in the first place? Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t Homeland Security like second only to the DOD in managing muscle and… security? Why are rent-a-cops being used at any department? If the Secret Service is testing security at this (or any) dept., why aren’t they providing the security? Maybe this is a question of semantics, but doesn’t the National Guard, like, guard the nation? Is Wackenhut the best resource that can defend the HQ that defends the nation? Don't we have... like people that are specially trained for defense... y'know, like an army or something?

One more question: am I the only person who remembers the name of Homeland’s Secretary by thinking, “rhymes with jerkoff”?

To all of you who buy craploads of groceries and then pay by check,

Fuck you.

Sincerely,
prs

George W. Bush made monumental news this week; news that elevated him and his role above the quagmire of tragedy. The world was amazed when the papers showed George at a podium and the headlines read “I take responsibility.” It was a moment of true presidential grace. His supporters golf-clapped, nodding approvingly that the man is doing only what a true man should by taking the helm in this fiercest of storms. His opposition got what they wanted – or were at least so stunned by this whiplash change of course that they couldn’t complain. After all, how can you disagree with the sentiment, this great, noble action?

He took responsibility.

And everyone said, “Bra-vo.”

Bullshit.

It’s all a bunch of crap. Don’t buy it.

I’ve been lying very low during this entire catastrophe. Primarily, there wasn’t much I could offer that someone else hadn’t already said or thought. Also, the political in-fighting and faux-cross-bearing was giving me a headache.

But I can’t let this go.

A few days before W. took responsibility, there was a meeting in the West Wing. This meeting had been going on for days, and no one was sleeping. Here’s a snippet of the end of that meeting:

White House Guy 1: We’re fucked. We’re so fucking fucked, it’s fucked.
White House Guy 2: Fucked isn’t the word for it. We’re terminal. We’ve shocked and awed ourselves.
Guy 1: I can’t remember a time when we’ve screwed up so badly, openly and obviously on camera.
Guy 2: It hasn’t happened since…
Guy 1: Since…
Guy 2: [a light bulb goes on] WACO!

You remember Waco. The ATF, the Bradley tanks shooting fire and rockets into a big house full of horny cultists and innocent children? Some of you might be too young to remember. This is back in the day when all the “terrorists” were white, American, and at one point Christian.

Anywho, Waco was a big stink. There was a big investigation with a climax that shocked everyone: Attorney General Janet Reno said she was accountable and took responsibility. And every person in the civilized world looked like that horse that had the heart attack in Animal House. A hush fell over the world. She took responsibility. No public official ever did that before.

And then you know what happened?

Not a goddamn thing. The damage was done. A highly public official took “responsibility”. Wasn’t that enough? Yes. Yes it was. Not only did Reno keep her job, but she went on to a successful career of blowing up cabins full of terrorists and scaring the bejesus out of children by shoving guns in their faces and inspiring Will Ferrell.

So, George Walker takes responsibility. Now he’s a hero. Now we’re going to see some changes. Right?

No.

George Walker pulled the responsibility card for the same reason Reno did – it was the last card in his hand.

Bill Maher nailed it:

“There's no more money to spend – you used up all of that. You can't start another war because you used up the army. And now, darn the luck, the rest of your term has become the Bush family nightmare: helping poor people. Listen to your Mom. The cupboard's bare, the credit cards maxed out. No one's speaking to you. Mission accomplished.”

Here’s what this responsibility is going to get us:

• An investigation, the conclusion of which won’t be available until after the ’08 election, and all the juicy parts (read: the parts where you find out who fucked up and how badly) will be blacked out.


• Maybe the creation of a new Department, because Republicans are all about less government. It can be called the Department of Freedom Assurance. This department will tie up all the bureaucratic loose strings caused by the Department of Homeland Security, FEMA, and… what the hell, the Department of the Interior, because they’re apparently not doing much and when’s the last time they caught a terrorist?


• The Secretary of Freedom Assurance will be some guy you've never heard of, unless you subscribe to Alpaca Monthly. This will work out well, because there won’t be any dirt on him, so no one will even notice his sheer lack of experience until we need a good scapegoat. He won’t even be a scapegoat, because his own incompetence will be its own indictment of his failure to do his job.


• And most importantly, we’ll get a president who cares. After all, what is responsibility if not a way of caring – unless of course you consider responsibility a duty to perform the tasks that you said you would in two oaths over the past five years to serve the country. If that’s the case, then we’re going to have a president who has just publicly said that he’s going to start doing his job. So that’s an improvement, right?

What is truly appalling is not the crisis, and it’s not how the crisis was made worse. What is truly appalling is the fact that he’s being lauded and celebrated for “taking responsibility”. Last I looked, a job is a series of tasks for which you’re responsible. Responsibility would mean not waiting a week to send in the National Guard. Responsibility would have been making sure that those buses had people in them, instead of people floating next to them, regardless if someone else wasn’t responsible for their job. Responsibility would mean not needing four visits to a disaster area beyond Biblical proportions to know what anyone with a TV in Uzbekistan knew the day after the hurricane.

You don’t start taking responsibility after everything is so fucked up that people will only acknowledge your existence to lambast you with insults and criticisms. By that point, you don’t “take responsibility.” You “find Jesus.” Of all people, George W. Bush should know that.

And he does. The question now is will the American people finally realize that? Actually, the real question is how long do you have to sledgehammer plungers into rectums before people realize you're anally violating them?

I’m glad Kerry lost, because Bush now has to deal with the tragedy he’s responsible for. Or maybe he won’t – he’ll just say he will. Like he always has. Unless of course, someone finally holds him accountable.

Stay tuned for 2006, kids. The end is only beginning.

While everyone in the Bay – including the St. Pete. Times – was justifiably focused on the Hillsborough County Commission blatantly discriminating against gays and essentially violating First Amendment rights, our elected governor snuck one by us, and I don’t think anyone’s really noticed yet.

On June 21, page 3B (the local section) in a side column, the Times ran an article headlined, “Bush signs bill limiting early voting.” I’ve included the full article below behind a cut.

I’ll let you read the article, but the long and short of it is that early voting is being limited both by resources, locations and hours, including the provisions that early voting cannot be held more than eight hours on any weekend and that it ends on the Sunday before the election. In other words, you can’t vote the day before the Tuesday election.

It seems many elections supervisors were pretty much against this decision, which was pushed through by Florida’s Republican dominated branches. Of course, one elections supervisor who supports the bill is Buddy Johnson, Hillsborough's Elections Supervisor and Republican assjackal supreme. I’m not saying he’s an assjackal because he’s Republican, but I’m sure that helps influence his assjackalness. If you’d like to know why, you’re more than welcome to read my accounts of early voting and notes about Johnson this past November.

Obviously, I have problems with the lack of fundamental ethics behind the bill, but I have a bigger problem with the awful coverage this has been given, and how little people are consequently aware of it.

First, the Times fails tremendously in the article itself. There are no details about the advantages of early voting, if any exist. Also, the Times doesn’t provide any stats on what the party split was for early votes. Is Jeb basically preventing Democrats from voting early, because most people who can’t get out of work between 8 and 5 on a Tuesday vote Democrat? That's what I'm assuming, but the Times doesn't provide any info to support or disprove my theory. Maybe if they didn’t blow so many barrels of ink on Schiavo (STILL?!), they’d be able to print me a fucking pie graph. The only stat I really get from the article is that 51% of Citrus county voted early, which should instigate a question somewhere asking how Florida government can rationalize restricting early voting. But I don’t even know how much of that Citrus majority was Democrat or Republican.

Now let's talk priority. The article is on 3B. 1B focuses on the aforementioned Commission activity and fallout. Okay, I can understand that, but explain to me how another 1B article about a local DJ and his car accident gets more priority. 2B is saturated in whatever inconsequential crap is going on in Hollywood, film and movies. Y’know, whatever critical knowledge we as a race can gain from Tom Cruise and the fate of the Miss America pageant. Want to know what’s on 1A – the front page? Above the fold (the part that sells the paper) is a giant picture of Terry Schiavo’s fucking headstone. The rest of the “most important” headlines is the price of oil, something about credit cards and an article that starts with “Saddam Hussein loves Doritos, hates Fruit Loops....” Even the margin with leads to the local section doesn’t mention this.

The only insight I have acquired from the article is perhaps a hint into why voter apathy exists: because my local newspaper apparently doesn’t give much more of a shit than the officials I tried to vote out of office.

( Bush signs bill limiting early voting )

Fact: if you look carefully in old paintings inspired by God to the artist where Satan is depicted, you may notice small gnat-like creatures usually around Old Nick’s ass. These “mythological” creatures essentially serve the purpose of crawling up Satan’s anal cavity, much to his pleasure, and rifling through whatever goodies may be stuck up there. The gnats are looking for bits like corn and whatnot, which will be rationed off as rewards and culinary delights to special deserving residents of Hell like Richard Nixon. There are many terms for these creatures, mostly in Latin, but the modern nomenclature is Rectal Vulture. While they look like gnats, most things do in the true scale of an archangel like Lucifer. In fact, when these Rectal Vultures roam the earth, they’re roughly the size of genetically deformed, dwarven men. While they are hideous both in form and in their mannerisms (especially their impish attempts at speech which resemble Sylvester the Cat with a mouthful of maggots), they are capable of passing themselves off as humans. Such is the art of Satan’s magical ways.

Sometimes the Rectal Vultures will span entire human life-terms on earth, occasionally aided with special incentive from the Lord of the Underworld himself. A good example of an earth-bound Rectal Vulture is Malcolm Glazer.

This is the only conclusion I can imagine, for he has somehow accomplished the previously impossible venture of Jedi-mind-tricking stock holders into ignoring his colossal debt and amassing enough cash to buy the controlling portion of Manchester United. While this sucks for the UK, I’m fucking delighted.

Over the years, I’ve had problems with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Some of this had to do with their courting of highly overrated but useless athletes, like Keyshawn Johnson, Brad Johnson and the true embodiment of undeserved arrogance, Martin Erratica. But most of my contempt was political. From the cahoots of Tampa Sports Authority to the raping of the fans’ trust, to a deal to get the city to pretty much pay for a stadium and to pay people for it to happen, all of it has revolved around one hub of graft, hubris and fraud – Malcolm Glazer.

However, over time I’ve grown to like the Bucs. They acquired the second best coach in the game, who began changing the strategy of the team and promoting and demoting members much in the way I had hoped. The only thing that keeps me from being a complete fan is Malcolm Glazer, and now there’s hope he won’t be around either.

For Glazer to pull off the near-ownership of Manny U., even with the assistance of Satan’s accountants, he’s going to have to trade something off. It’s basic math. According to the figures, he shouldn’t have the capital to own both teams, and now that the Bucs aren’t the team they were five years ago, it wouldn’t be unreasonable for the Rectal Vulture to pawn the Tampa franchise. If he retained both teams, then it’s only evidence that he’s been promoted to Super Duper Colonel Rectal Vulture, for there will be no other reason to explain it.

As for the future of a Glazer-less Bucs team, I’m sure many people will worry. Most of these people will be what I call New Fans. Not that there’s anything necessarily wrong with these fans, but many of them didn’t care less about the team until they were Super Bowl bound. True, they are fans, but not of the caliber of the Old Fans, the ones who wore jerseys even when the team nearly went two whole seasons before winning a game. The Old Fans are the ones who had season tickets for twenty years, until a certain Rectal Vulture ignored their loyalty, deleted their seniority for tickets, and reduced them to the same peasant anonymity he reserved for everyone else in the Bay. Most Old Fans are used to a losing team and will support them regardless. However, many of the people throwing temper tantrums and accusing Gruden of running “Dungy’s team” into the ground are going to be the same who scapegoat anyone they can, because they can’t wrap their heads around the fact that all great teams go through a period of suck. These are the same people who don’t know that the Packers blew goats for nearly two decades before the Brett Favre/Mike Holmgren years. That didn’t obstruct the Cheeseheads from their loyalty. But I digress.

My point is that the Bucs, like all teams that didn’t win the trophy last year, are in transition. They want to win the big game too. Doesn’t mean they will, but it doesn’t mean they aren’t trying their best. They can do it just as well, if not better, without the grubby shit-stained hands of Malcolm Glazer. True, all sports teams’ owners are vile. Ask Jon Gruden. They’re some of the most ethically deprived businessmen who drag their knuckles across the planet, and there is a special place in hell for them. But only one of them is a Rectal Vulture. If you thought the Brits hate the Yanks now, wait'll they get a load of Glazer. I can only hope it’s a matter of time, and if I’m right, then I’ll be a total Bucs fan.