Cockfighting rings have been broken up in Phoenix Arizona, several of them since December.  The punishment, much like reading the Discord, is quick and severe.  Direct involvement can lead to a two year sentence, $150,000 fine, and decockmentation.  Just watching the cocks battle can lead to a $25,000 fine.  Fighting cocks is now illegal in all fifty states and is deemed by most (not including Michel Vick) to be socially incorrect in the modern age.

This has not always been the case.  In fact many prestigious figures in American History have been avid cockfighting enthusiasts.  Thomas Jefferson, while not pitching woo with indentured servants, was known to belly up to the cock pen.  George Washington liked to watch two cocks go at it. Andrew Jackson used to challenge his neighbors to match cocks.  Even Abraham ‘Cockcrazy’ Lincoln owned an entire flock of Gamecocks.  They all have their pictures on money, Washington is a favorite in my wallet.

Cock fights were an acceptable form of entertainment and sport, and nearly as popular as hockey is today (which isn’t that impressive).  The Bald Headed Eagle only beat out the cock by one vote to be are national bird.  I can picture our cock emblem flag flying proudly over government buildings and brothels.  “…and the cockets red glare…” (ouch).

These facts have led me to dig back through the ancient Daily Discord archives and search for articles relating to fighting cocks to see if any Discordians of old participated, or maybe even wrote with cock-feathered pens about the days of yore.  Apparently they did:

The Cock Dilemma

By Sir Wolfgang Atsals 1775

Horatio Zano and I keep putting it to the rest.  Benjamin Franklin has come with a potion he calls steroids from cow extract.  Horace and I have been quite effectively injecting our cocks with it (ouch).  Our monster cocks are just overwhelming all other participants. When Bald Cock Tony lets his tiny little cock out of the pen everyone laughs. Even that damn Irishman O’Tinno is in awe of our mighty cocks.  I whipped out a cock so big the other day a woman nearly fainted.    The problem is that although Horace and I have raked in a lot of silver lately, I feel the other competitors might bow out of the events.  Duel Wolfe is upset because his cock, although rarely used, has become limp and unable to participate.  Pete Winslow’s cock was killed, and Goober Crank’s cock would not even get back up into the cock ring. 

It brings into question the legitimacy of the “steroid question” and also that of money.  I do not feel we are cheating, but our cocks do have an advantage.  Our cocks are larger, very muscular, and generally more aggressive.  In the long run injecting our cocks may lead to the demise of the cockfighting ring, because the other competitors may drop out.  But, hey, better not to fight at all then to have your cock’s head bitten off.

 

Well there you have it; not only a past article on the topic but some very influential historians were involved in cockfighting as well as the Daily Discord.  It is hard to believe that cockfighting is being outlawed, but not the Discord.  Most past political icons certainly had a ball with their cocks.  George Bush, Nancy Pelosi, Barack Obama, and Hillary Clinton, the Daily Discord Nation respectfully challenges you to show us your cocks.

When my fourth grade teacher, Mr. Healy, asked for potential solutions to our country’s refuse problem I thought, in my typical ‘hey, I’m only in the fourth grade but have the balls to raise my hand today’ kind of way, maybe we should send all of the garbage into space, or shoot it into the sun or something.  That was the general idea, and, no, I still haven’t gotten over his reply.  Now, he could have discussed the cost of such a venture, or the logistics of flying daily to the sun with a shuttle full of empty milk cartons, but instead my astute teacher, who always liked Kimmy Grenawitz best, said, and this part I remember quite vividly, “Space is the last place we want to pollute!”

Space; infinite, empty space; our sun, the giant yellow incinerator, thingie.  Whaaaa?

Not only did he say this with the exclamation point, and the italics, but he added the derogatory inflection as well (try as I might, I could not find the derogatory inflection button on my keyboard). Why do I think this statement reflects a generation of teaching?  Well, I don’t, but it was a damn stupid response to make to a fairly reasonable fourth grader.  Overall I had a very good experience in school, minus Kimmy Grenawitz!  But I did think, even way back then, that we have some serious educational gaps to fill in this country, besides Mr. Healy.

Let’s shift to my daughter’s experience, my little microcosm of America, a girl born in central PA, who until recently attended the best public elementary school in the district.  She’s only in third grade and she was already threatened with rather elaborate violence and pushed from the monkey bars, twice.  One incident resulted in a fractured wrist and for the second incident she was lucky enough to land on her head.  No one saw anything either time and both third grade perpetrators are still at large.  Recently she was studying for her PSSAs, which I believe stands for (Pennsylvania Sucks Serious Ass).  She was worried about these regional tests because as she puts it, “If I fail my teacher could get fired.”  She also told me during her math homework, the same day, “I can’t work ahead, daddy, or I’ll get yelled at.” 

No child left, period.

Forget my daughter; what does she know?  Certainly not math.  Let’s take my own undergraduate “work.”  I was talking with my old philosophy professor over dinner recently.  I mentioned how his class was so enjoyable that I even attended now and again.  Perhaps, it wasn’t my fault my attendance was so bad, maybe, just maybe, it is the professor’s job to make the coursework remotely interesting (after all, wasn’t I the customer?).  He laughed at the comment and then told me “space is the last place we want to pollute!” 

Dr. Dan can be a bastard.  

I changed majors from biology to psychology my sophomore year mainly because of the suckiness of the course work (although, admittedly, the decision may have been influenced by my tendency to spend my spare time chasing women toward the nearest keg).  Years later, I asked the professor’s assistant, my friend Tim, why invertebrate zoology sucked so bad.  I remember saying, I watch jellyfish on TV all the time and they seem interesting enough (the last Democratic Convention comes to mind). 

“It was a ‘weed out’ course,” he explained, “you know, to see if you are reeeaaallly interested in jellyfish.”

Why don’t we try to inspire our youth instead of weed them out? 

Tim said, “space is the last place….” (you get the idea.)

Onward to my graduate work. My MS in psychology was completed totally on-line.  Doing class work and homework entirely from a coffee shop is, perhaps, the apex of human accomplishments (next to striped toothpaste).  Now, if we could only figure out what to do with all this garbage.  Hmmm.

I only lost points in e-college when I used non-recovery model language.  Knowing things is not horribly important anymore in our society, but cultural sensitive issues are paramount.  A hundred-thousand dollars later and our children can learn how not to offend the socio-economically challenged, opiate dependent person they are over medicating (I say pocket the hundred grand and arrest that damned hobo junkie).

The cost of education has risen 440 percent in the last decade and treating EVERYTHING like a business in this country is starting to backfire worse than the Ghetto Shaman after a burrito eating contest.

Which career pays 440 percent more in the last decade?   How long is this stupidity sustainable?  I feel like telling my kids to study for their future positions the way God intended, in public libraries.

This generation seems immune to the Flynn Effect.  There is an Intelligence Quotient cliff that Americans just did a Thelma and Louise off of. Eventually the peer-reviewed research is going to start reflecting this fact (then again, when the peers are sitting in the driver’s seat of said convertible…).  These are all reasons taken quite arbitrarily and, by themselves, I don’t really think they say much (except about that brown-noser Kimmy Grenawitz!). What it does do for me, however, is start to draw a picture, oh wait, arts have been cut too. 

Nevermind.

One contributor asked about the Discord’s submission and editing process, and no it wasn’t Pokey McDorkis.  He still doesn’t have internet access, or a clue.   L. Wolfe asked me, why hasn’t my article (sent to Mick Zano six months ago) been posted yet?  I explained to Mr. Wolfe, in true Discord fashion, the way an article makes it all the way from host to post. 

First off, after the realization that another article involving Thai Hookers is not what the readers want, Mr. Winslow approves the idea anyway.  The article is then written by one of our contributors, in this case L. Wolfe.  Typically the initial writing is done on bar napkins or coasters in a wide array of seedy establishments across our great nation.  The shredded rat’s nest of beer stained napkins is then handed off to me to decipher and type. This normally takes over a week, due to my inability to decipher or type.   Beware: blowing your nose carelessly before this first transcription phase can set back any given article several weeks. 

Mr. Winslow always says you go with the team of writers you have, not the team of writers you wish you had.  He’s a dick sometimes. 

The article is then emailed to Mick so he can fill in the unreadable words and the missing paragraphs that I failed to decipher. A week later I usually get an email requesting a resend due to “computer failure”.  My ass Micko; check your god damned recycle bin, jack ass. 

Two weeks later the article is emailed back.  I then print it out and begin what I refer to as Far Trek III: The Search for Poke.  Phoneless and rarely at home, finding Pokey is often harder than finding a skinny chick at Taco Bell.  I check the brew pubs, coffee houses, strip clubs, gutters, and massage parlors, often with no luck, well, luck finding Pokey.  He is often found smoking dung with the Ghetto Shaman under the Market Street Bridge. 

Recent events have made finding Pokey much worse.  He now has no roommate to point me in the right direction.  I also could not find him at home for two weeks due to the “Danger” tape wrapped around his entire residence.   It started as a small enough fire but got much larger during the period it took him to run to the local Denny’s to call 911.  (Did I mention he has no phone of his own and how dangerous smoke signaling can be?)

The article then spends a week with Mr. McDooris who eventually tapes it to his door for pick up (the door he didn’t char).  Smoke signals let me know that this phase of editing is complete.  This can be complicated, of course, by house fires and bad cooking.  Rain, sleet, snow, hail, and vomit normally need brushed and or scraped off the article at the time of pick up. 

Let the next round of deciphering, decoding and retyping begin.  Finally the article is done and is ready to be sent back to the original author for final approval. 

The article is then sent via email to our Chief Editor, Pierce Winslow.  This often involves the mysterious zamboni gypsies, especially when Mr. Winslow forgets to take his Risperdal, and another round of editing and losing of the article commences.  When everyone is completely dissatisfied and no longer cares about the content of the article, it is ready for upload to the Daily Discord.  When it is finally posted, sometimes months later, the process ends with someone saying “Oh Shit” after the realization that the original version has somehow been uploaded to the site.

Did I mention that, by hitting the ‘contact us’ button on our website, you too can be a part of this joyous and quite free epic process?  Send your article to the Daily Discord today!   Don’t waste another minute…that’s our job.

Since moving to the great American southwest, I have grown increasingly troubled by some of the local customs, color, and culinary transgressions associated with the high-desert peoples.  Normally, the thought of stopping at a jerky stand would never even enter my consciousness, but here, in the land of dirt, dust, and more dirt, I can not help but notice any and every business I pass in my travels, mainly because I’ve only seen four of them.  Somewhat disturbing was the moment I realized that the scant few ‘establishments’ found outside of civilization’s kindly influence involve a suspiciously high amount of jerky.  Two jerky related incidents struck me with considerable angst in recent weeks.  The first occurred north of Phoenix in a town called North of Phoenix where a fat man with a straw hat sat in the blazing heat selling jerky products to passersby.   It was over one hundred degrees at this particular moment in time and this man had no cold beverages to peddle, as if man can subsist on jerky alone.  I’m not just saying that…that’s what his homemade sign read: Man Can Subsist On Jerky Alone.  Granted, this is a free country, but that guy’s life insurance rates should be higher than mine, just on principle. 

Even more disturbing, he kind of reminded me of that guy from Motel Hell. You know, the movie that brought us the timeless passage: It takes all types of critters, to make Farmer Vincent’s fritters. What kind of critteresque roadkill was jerkied-up for my enjoyment on this hot Phoenix afternoon?  What would compel someone to stop at this remote desert jerky stand in the first place?  Is every fifteenth customer thrown into Farmer Vincent’s vat?  Or was the customer-to-vat-count much higher? 

Do you feel jerky, well…do ya?

What point of desperation and depravity could lead a man to eat some unknown jerkied meat-product from a Motel Hell-looking guy?  But then it hit me.  There is nothing, absolutely nothing, between Phoenix and my destination.  This was the proverbial it, as far as choices were concerned.  He had a veritable jerkyopoly.  To complicate matters, my stomach and my curiosity were peaking like Janet Jackson’s tit at a halftime show.  So, I pulled over and I stared at the straw hat wearing Farmer Vincent looking dude through my clip on sunglasses.  He stared back at me warily and somewhere nearby the theme music to Fistful of Jerky whistled through the dunes.  Thankfully, I remembered the granola bar in my glove compartment.  So I waved at the impressive stranger and turned my Explorer back onto the Carefree Highway.  One would pretty much have to be on a road called the Carefree Highway to chance the dietary unknowns associated with private jerky stand in the middle of Nowhere, AZ (Actually, in retrospect, Nowhere, AZ, was about fifty miles northwest).

My second, and arguably worst, desert jerky encounter (DJE) came complete with much fear and loathing amidst a Vegas trip to see fellow Discordian, the Great Bald One himself.  A typical road trip for me back east involved stopping enroute at every coffee shop and brew pub, where I would often write witty articles blissfully devoid of any and all jerky products.  It once took Pokey McDooris and I three days to make it the hundred miles from State College, PA to Harrisburg, PA.  We were actually shooting for Philadelphia, but never made it further than a brewpub called Bube’s Brewery (best of both worlds).  But here, in the Valley of the Sun, well, just north of the Valley of the Sun, my road trips tended to involve (gulp) driving to my destination. 

Here in northern Arizona piss breaks usually involve cactuses (if I’m alone), or the electric window (if I’m not).  For my first trip to Vegas I wanted to stop somewhere along the two hundred and fifty mile trip and get something iced or brewed or maybe even some non-jerky-related sustenance.  The only thing between Kingman, AZ and Las Vegas, NV, a two hour haul, was a stand on the west side of the highway called Rosie’s Jerky Mart, or some such place for all of your jerky needs.   I’m not just saying that, that’s what the sign said: A Place for All of Your Jerky Needs.  OK, I’m making that part up (won’t be the last time). 

This was the only place on the way to Vegas? This?  It looked downright dangerous, and I have been known to blunder, nah frequent, some rather unsavory establishments in my time.  Besides, if I needed a jerky it was going to involve a Vegas hooker and some Manishevitz.  Right now, I wanted a friggin beer. 

What is the southwestern fascination with this shit?  Is jerky used for some other purpose in this region?  Do all of the pickup trucks out here have a jerky indicator that blinks on if jerky levels are low?   I felt like a stranger in a strange land. 

The words Rosie’s Jerky Mart, or some such, were, if memory serves, spray-painted onto a large crude sign in the same style, though admittedly more grandiose, as the Motel Hell guy’s truck of business.  There was a small sign that said coffee, but I decided, hell, it’s only another sixteen thousand miles to the next jerky stand. 

I don’t know what I was expecting.  My last trip out this way, involving a man known only as Shag, was no different.  People have said to me, Mick, why did you expect lots of stuff in the middle of the desert?  And to these hypothetical intruders I would reply, it’s not the hundreds of miles between things that are concerning me, it’s what people are choosing to open hundreds of miles between things.  You know, without the kindly influence of civilization, business sense, or even rational thought.  If I stay in this region will I become one of the jerky boys?  I already have a healthy fear of jerky, but each lonely drive through this groovy jumping wasteland brings me closer to that jerking fear (little too Lovecraft?).

Do you feel jerky, well…do ya?

There are many reasons for the decline of science fiction. OK, in all fairness, my version of science fiction. As an avid sci-fi fan who almost never watches the Sci-Fi channel, I’ve started to reflect on where it all went so horribly wrong. There are many culprits. First, the movie Outlander comes to mind.  Outlander, not the Scottish decapitating swordsman dude, but the Sean Connery as an aging space-cop dude, was a sci-fi crossroads of sorts. This movie was simply a cops-and-robbers story set on one of Jupiter’s moons. For the first time, the setting, the actual reason we are watching a science fiction movie in the first place, took a backseat to a space-marshal human drama. Support your local Cylon?

A second crossroads came as Gene Rodenberry passed the torch to Rick Berman, who immediately set to work flying the starship Enterprise into a black hole. He made some god-awful TV shows, on TV show budgets, and called them “movies.”.

Somehow he thought, “Hey these really intelligent, detail-oriented Star Trek freaks won’t notice recycled footage, dumbed-down FX, and poor storylines, right?”

Great thinking there, Rick. This, coming from the same man who brought us Deep Six Space [Deep Space Nine], or, as I like to call it, “Melrose Space,” as it sadly competed for the Melrose Place audience. For those not familiar with Beverly Hills 90210 or Melrose Place, you might know their viewing audience as the cheerleaders who would never date you. This human-drama soap opera always danced around the possibility of a true science fiction storyline, although that rarely happened. Berman decided it’s much easier to have the same actors, the same makeup people, and deal with the same alien races each week.  It’s much too expensive to beam down to a new planet each week, see something novel, blast it out of existence, and then beam home. So, instead, we get the same few Ferengi who are in love with the same few Bajoran. This was beginning of the end for the franchise. Even Enterprise, which tried to go back to the old themes, failed because of its multi-episode, cliffhanging, only-really-interesting-at-the-end-of-the-season, recycled plot gimmicks. AHHHhhhh, AHhhhhhhh! Sorry, I just had a Sam Kinison moment. Was there even one episode of Enterprise where they beamed down to the planet, met the creature creeping around the alien landscape, then had the captain bang something green, rip his shirt, and blast the bad alien into space dust? Even once? My guess is never. So what worked in the first series was never actually tried in the last. 

While I have many concerns with the latest incarnations of the Star Trek, I have to say that The X-Files was the single most destructive force in sci-fi. There were about eight episodes of the TV series that I absolutely loved, which hooked me onto countless, conspiracy-entangled empty hours, none of which can I ever get back. I held out for those wrapped-up-in-one episode gems, where they’d meet the ancient killer bug or hunt the strange alien creatures in the woods. Sadly, nine out of ten episodes were cheaply done cliffhanger rip-offs designed for one purpose: tune in next week to find out another meaningless piece of the meaningless puzzle, kids! And don’t forget to drink Coke. One day, while watching Mulder muddle through yet another dead-end lead, the clouds parted and I remember a voice from the heavens saying, “My god, they don’t know where this is going either!” And I didn’t even care, because I kept waiting for the monster episode, which grew rarer as the series wore on.  

The most recent affront to sci-fi, Battlestar Galactica, borrowed from a lot of these cheats. I’ll grudgingly give the show some credit, as it started with great writing and great special effects, but the space/action soon gave way to human drama, just like all the rest. Human drama, which has nothing to do with space, but is much cheaper to deal with, always creeps in like a Triffid on Amp. It’s the law of diminishing returns: it becomes less about Cylons and more about human-looking Cylons, and then ultimately who is banging the human-looking Cylons.  As a sci-fi traditionalist, I want the women to literally suck the chrome off the bumper, so to speak.  If you’re going to show me robot sex, then let’s get down with something that can suck the chrome off the Millennium Falcon.

Today’s sci-fi shows use trickery to draw you in; then, before you know it, the only worthwhile episodes are the season premiere and the season finale. Luckily, I have a wife who tells me when the first and last episodes air each season. During the commercials, she’ll fill me in on all of the plot gimmicks, sub-themes, and who is inter-galactically banging who. Yes, she has watched every episode of Battlestar Galactica, yet she still calls the bad guys “Zylons”. Women,. I think they are part of the problem. Remember Species? My wife knows every elf in friggin’ Rivendell, including the correct elvish pronunciation, but four years later and the bad guys are still the “Zylons”. She’s lucky she’s cute, and not in any way an android.

While independent movies can be wonderful, these folks need to stay away from sci-fi. I have bad news for you independent film buffs, a.k.a. morons: formula movies work in sci-fi. Endless variations on the same theme trigger wonderful things in our collective psyches. Such formula movies include Night of the Living Dead, Night of the Lepus, Night of the Comet, Night of the Jackal, Day of the Dead, Day of the Triffids, and The Day the Earth Stood Still. Frankly, anything with “day” or “night” in it will work. I will even accept “morning” or “evening,” if you insist on change. The Morning the Robot Badgers Struck; or how about The Evening the Radioactively Enlarged Ice Weasels Ate Yuma. Basically, they come, whoever “they” are, from outer space, but they must land via meteorite, spacecraft, or via solar wind, radiation, or melting ice floes. Atom bombs will work in a pinch. Anyone in the opening scene must die no exceptions.  Bonuses awarded if they are cute scantily clad women.  Some mysterious entity picks off the protagonists, one by one, until the survivors are huddled in some structure or other, be it church, house, bunker, Starbucks, whatever. Oh, and boarding the windows during the end sequence is a must. 

Screw the rest of you trying to pull sci-fi into something other. Refresher course: “other” is typically Melrose Space. Be imaginative, but stick with the theme. Show me something. We are in the outskirts of space. I don’t give a radioactively enlarged rat’s ass who is banging who. If everything must evolve, how about setting that end sequence in a Starbucks? Starbucks even sounds space-appropriate (it worked in Battlestar Galactica). You can have the survivors using cordless screwdrivers to board themselves in, or for super-futuristic, how about laser drills digitally enhanced by Lucas Film?

Bottom line, don’t change what works.  Change what doesn’t work, you know, like Pokey McDooris.

1. Quantified Social Praise – I don’t care about your grades, just keep learning from everybody and everything. The world is filled with stupid straight-A bureaucrats and Magna Cum Lessas.  You may know them better as our CEOs and our government officials. 
2. Bottle Feeding – a tit is always better than plastic unless the plastic supports the betterment of the tit.
3. Anti-Evolutional Academic Sequencing (AEAS) – Have sex with them if you must, but don’t force our kids to judge their social identity on academics.  Especially if the child is not developmentally prepared for success.  And, for god’s sake, use a condom. 
4. Homework – I just spent all day listening to your boring textbook crap, I filled out your worksheets, and helped you justify your state mandates. Now you’re gonna impose upon my free time? Show me the study, otherwise…teacher, leave them kids alone.  And, for god’s sake, use a condom.
5. Cell Phones – cell phones are directly linked to brain cancer but, on the bright side, at least there’s no proven a link between brain cancer and developmental disruptions…right?  CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?!
6. Failed Abortions – well, abortion technologies promise to bolster success rates.  Shall I pop the champagne, dear?
7. Electronic Entertainment – distractions from a meaningful life dulled into neurological and unimaginative mush (besides the Discord).   Let’s go down to the corner pub and talk on our cell phones, play on our laptops, while watching The Simpsons.  I’m talking to YOU, Zano!

Propaganda bombards us from every angle of the media, but there is one piece of propaganda overlooked by everyone. The cell phone has become instituted as THE medium for communication in the post-modern age.  I’m talking about how the cell phone is good and even necessary for human interaction.  Everybody has one.  They’re in the bars, on the buses, in the parks, and even in the hands of our children.  We’ve bought them hook, line, and ringer.  We’re merrily chit-chatting in our own little worlds while remaining oblivious to the real consequences.

Fact—there is a direct link between cell phone use and brain cancer.  Studies find that a person who uses a cell phone for ten years has a fifty percent increased risk of brain cancer.  Fact—cell phone use is addictive.  The only true piece of rhetoric that cell phonies state is “once you try one, you’ll never go back.”  That’s the same thing a junkie once told me about heroin, and Mick Zano about Thai Hookers, and Dave Atsals about hookers on heroin.

We conscientious communicators do encounter a dilemma.  Today, any other telephone is obsolete.  It’s like trying to get my eight-track music mix to work at an iPod party.  The old school phones now charge me long distance to call a cell phony standing across the street if his area code doesn’t match mine.  Oh, you’re 212, honey? Call me when you’re 516.  And just try to find a working pay phone these days.  My Morse Code, semaphore, and smoke signals are increasingly ignored.

“Breaker one nine, Zano.  Where’s the End of the Year Party this year, over?”

So I either submit to these brain-numbing technologies or else I’m out of loop.  Let me tell you what; you can take your loop and shove it up your iPod.

As one who has had the wisdom and forbearance to abstain from the cell phone tyranny, I can objectively report my findings—cell phones make people dumb…well, maybe it’s just that dumb people tend to use cell phones.  I noticed so many stupid people around. Double dumb, Dave Atsals carries two cell phones at all times.  He’s a regular Text Ritter. So I guess that’s one good thing cell phones offer; they bring stupidity out of the closet.  Oh yeah, they’re out of the closet all right, and now they’re talking loud on the bus about their chronic constipation and the latest episode of Survivor.

I’ll be fair. Cell phones do bring some benefits.  They improve social popularity (among brain dead people); they allow mediocre people to feel important without having to develop substantial qualities.  Cell phones enhance your financial opportunities by beating us slow Pokeys to the punch.  Oh, and let’s not forget that cell phones also provide easy distractions from potentially uncomfortable and introspective moments.  At any time of day, people of all ages now have the ability to shelter themselves from what’s occurring right in front of them.  Finally, humanity has the chance to create a completely calm and complacent society. The benefits will allow people to avoid the stressful realization that their Federal Government has ransacked the treasury and is in the process of creating a social tyranny of which our children and grandchildren will never recover.  Don’t worry, be chatty.

It’s time to make a stand.  Throw those cancer machines in the trash and talk to me face to face—if you’ve got the guts.  By the way, what gives you the right to ban me from smoking in public while you’re allowed to take your cell phone anywhere?  I’ll tell you what gives you the right—your lack of logic and your comfort with hypocrisy.  I demand that a study be done on the effects of second hand cell phone radiation.

As for me, I’ve had it with our age.  This technocratic society has reached a point of no return.  I’m done with TVs, cars, cell phones, iPods, internet bureaucracies, and this false Federal Government that promises to give us everything in exchange for our liberties. 

I write for the Discord, a funny website.  Ain’t never been there, they tell me it’s nice.

I’m slipping through the cracks of this preprogrammed dictatorship for good.  I’m heading for some new Verizons, people, so DON’T CALL ME, I’LL CALL YOU.