Desperate for Experience Points, Dems Opt for Controversial Mind-Meld

The mind meld is a potentially dangerous procedure first used by a race known as Vulcans. According to Wikipedia, the most trusted name in collaborative wisdom, Vulcans can perform mind melds with Humans. Dems fear some of Biden’s traits could bleed through. This fear was only heightened when, immediately after the procedure, Obama answered the question, “How do you feel?” with a forty-seven minute litany on feelings.

Losing Pub Friends in the Starbuckarama (Rebuttal)

Dave Atsals

I am worried about my friend, Mick. Unlike all the other Discordians, Mick believes he needs to better himself.  Mick strives for lofty misguided goals in order to overcome his many inadequacies. He used to have a distinct, although often overbearing, personality and sense of humor.  But, at least you knew what you were getting with Mick, trouble.   Now he is only a shell of his old self.  I refer to this shell as ‘m’.

The Mick I knew was witty, in an insulting type of way.  He was misguided, but authentic; often drunk, but functional; unshaven, yet neat; suffering from erectile dysfunction, yet STD ridden. (Just kidding about the last one; partly).  Mick could be the life of the party, although more often the death of it.

We used to hang out in BARS with live entertainment, a large menu of exotics, and cheap double shots.  Sometimes we even did the cheap double shots with the exotics. “Hey Dave can I borrow some singles?” Now, ‘m’ hangs out in coffee shops where the entertainment is often a guy playing music without lyrics.  The exotics are made of various tree roots; the menu consists of finger sandwiches made of grilled ahi tuna and liverwurst, and the double shots are espresso roasts.  THIS IS NOT OUR MICK.  This is not change we can believe in.

In these upscale coffee shops, pool cues and dartboards have been replaced with laptops and notepads.  Neon lights have been replaced by ugly paintings of ugly things priced over 500.00 dollars.  Bar stools are now sofas, the tables have lamps on them, and the dance floors are covered with coat racks and large stand up plants (sometimes ferns!).  And let’s not forget to mention the urinal-less restroom decorated by some Martha Stewart wanna be. Please don’t forget to knock, lift the seat, and, heaven help you, aim, because it’s bi-sexual (like ‘m’).

Inside this group home like setting, ‘m’ has digressed to typing endless pages of rhetoric that will be read by no one.  When he wearies of this, he downs a few more double shots—espressos, that is—and bounces over to the other patrons saying “let the caffeine-induced political psycho-babbling commence!”  These three socialites then spend hours debating the last press conference held by Senator Frabish, heard only by those same three and the six other XM radio POTUS listeners.  THIS IS NOT OUR MICK.  This is not change we can believe in.

‘m’ needs all of the up-to-date technologically advanced gadgetries, but cannot operate any of them.  He moved on to Tivo although he never learned to record with his VCR.  He now owns a GPS but can’t get it out of Spanish mode.   He has a TV with surround sound and one speaker.

As for food, Mick used to always be up for the late night greasy spoon.  In college, not only was Mick fond of eating the cafeteria food, he was also fond of throwing it—he could fling peanut butter with the best of them.  But not ‘m’—only the finest for hi‘m’.  He has moved on to high society food, and organic peanut butter is just way too expensive for such flingery.  He now only eats Sushi, Japanese foods, or food from other spookily distant cultures (SDC). As a matter of fact, you may see ‘m’ eating anywhere except at an American restaurant. ‘m’ believes this is the proper etiquette of a man of his new found lowercase stature, although in the Orient, McDonalds would be the delicacy of choice. 

The coffee shops around here give last call at ten, which coincides with the new curfew ‘m’ has imposed on himself.  No more after hour parties for Mick… ‘m’ must ‘m’asterbate at ho‘m’e.

Well, at least one thing hasn’t changed.

The Rock Gods Fatal Flaws

  1. The Beatles (went to extremes to impress Jodie Foster)
  2. Led Zeppelin (shocked by death of drummer—didn’t they watch Spinal Tap?)
  3. The Rolling Stones (hired zombie/pirate to play lead guitar)
  4. The Who  (too many summers at Uncle Ernie’s for Pete’s sake)
  5. Aerosmith (Run DMC?!  Couldn’t you just have given head for drug $ like everybody else?)
  6. Jethro Tull (tights?  Oh, there’s a Minstrel in the Gallery, all right, and he looks fabulous)
  7. Rush (named band after fat, cigar-smoking, Oxycotin-popping neocon)
  8. Ozzy Osbourne (chose singing duet with Lita Ford rather than actually committing suicide)
  9. Black Sabbath (lengthy rounds of therapy after the Lita Ford Incident LFI)
  10. STYX (ever thinking they’d be listed in a top ten ‘rock gods list’ in the first place)

The Discord to Lay Off Seventeen Editers

The Discord will forge ahead despite the unexpected lie off of seven of our valued employeees. Having boundless talent, we have, reached the conclusion that we—as a staff) can funktion without the aid of our worthy colleageus, and, to, further prove our grammatorial prowess;: we have even shut off our grammer chex, as well as our spell check options on our personal PCs. We will miss you editers…not so much..

Losing Pub Friends in the Starbuckarama

Mick Zano

I am worried about my friend, Dave. Unlike most of our fellow Discordians, Dave never made the successful transition from the bar scene to the coffee shops.  Dave never even made the ever important transition from the bars to the pubs either.  In fact, if memory serves, he never made the transition from junior high to high school, but that’s a different story (spelled GED, incidentally).

The problem is this: Dave favors those smoky dive bars to that of the jazzy rifts of brewpubs and coffee shops. Dave fears change.  For example, if he could grow hair it would remain in perpetual-mullet-form (PMF).  He never sported a mullet in his life, mind you, having never had enough hair for one, but the mullet, like his bow-legged swagger, is always implied.

So why am I so worried about my poor misguided friend and his coffee house naiveté?  Well, my liver doesn’t tolerate nearly as much alcohol these days, so gradually I’ve shifted to the hip coffee shop scene.  There, nestled amongst books and chess sets, I sip my deluxe mocha frappe crappas with those terminally artsy-fartsy types.  I have tried to wean Dave onto coffee and often encouraged him to dabble in this new cultural espressorama.  Recently I told him, “hey, let’s meet at the Coffee Tea Room and then hit the pub.”  Notice I said pub rather than saloon or bar.  I’m trying to start small with Dave—to match his vocabulary.  Just before he arrived, I had just conveniently ordered the house special, the Plenty Venti Bucket of Espresso.

His eyes darted about the room as he begrudgingly took a seat.  Through a sheen of social anxietous sweat, he asked: “Where’s the pool table?” and then “where’s the dartboard?” and then to the horror of my female friends, “where’s the stripper poles?”

There are places that do offer coffee and beer, and if we both moved to an area that accommodated such an establishment, perhaps it would help Dave make this difficult transition.  Such milestones are not without precedent.  I am forever grateful to the establishment Sudds and Dudds, which single handedly catapulted Dave’s hygiene problem into the realm of the nearly tolerable.  But in this case, I don’t think he wants to change.   Dave will never move beyond the pipe-dripping, slanted pool table, southern rock spinning joints.

Now if Dave ever chose to pit a Belgian triple or some other well-crafted ale up against my favorite beanage, we’d have a debate, but this is clearly not the case.   Dave will forever haunt establishments that ‘Proudly Serve Blatz!’  Indeed they will actually have coasters in such places with, ‘We Proudly Serve Blatz!’ emblazed upon them—always with the exclamation point—because even the makers of Blatz (not to mention Blatz light) need reinforcing slogans such as: We Proudly Serve Blatz! or Blatz…Nearly As Good As Old Style.  One wonders how else anyone could get through a day at the Blatz factory without such Milwaukeean malt mantras.

But I digress.  Back to Dave.  For years Dave’s favorite beer was a distant cousin to Blatz, Genesee Beer, brewed in upstate New York in the heart of the Geneseo Valley, while no one was looking (or apparently brewing either).  “A cold Gennie was better than sex,” he’d say.  His girlfriends throughout college typically agreed with this statement.

I am through with Blatz, Milwaukee’s Best, Old Style, Old Milwaukee, or anything from new-waukee, for that matter.  I would rather just add a shot of espresso to something dark and daunting.  Sumatra roasts are pure heaven.  Perhaps I can get Dave into Sumatra stouts—the hybrid—and then lure him over to the dark roast side.  Luke, I am your venti.

I know it’s hopeless.  You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it stop drinking.  I go into dive bars for the same reason that Dr. Sterling Hogbein travels to remote villages of the world…to study our distant selves.  I don’t want to go back and do it all over, not for Eddie amount of Money.  Truth be told, I couldn’t spend one solitary night in my old coveted college party house, not one.

I will miss Dave and his mulletless antics.  Perhaps I’ll go see him some day, at Frankie’s Place or Timmo’s Tavern, while he’s talking up the glory days with a bunch of grey haired, fatty-livered miscreants.  For me it’s Seattle’s Best, Starbuck’s finest, and mom and pop java joints from here on out.

All right, fine. I’ll meet you at Timmo’s Place for the game, but then let’s get a cup a joe.  Oh, and it’s time to hit Sudds and Dudds again mildew man.

Band of Klingons Ruin Local Civil War Reenactment

In hindsight, the decision to host a Star Trek convention at the Gettysburg Inn on the same day as a civil war reenactment was a mistake,” admits hotel manager Sam Watkins. “Tragically, we discovered that fake muskets are no match for the bat’leth.”

Enter the Ghetto Shaman

The Ghetto Shaman

Traditional shamanic practices employ chanting, dancing, sweat lodge and fasting to induce altered states of consciousness.  Long ago, cave dwellers created these rituals to achieve insight and wisdom. With guidance from ‘plant spirits,’ shaman priests discovered roots, vines, cacti, and mushrooms that, when ingested, stimulated the nervous system, allowing access to perceptions of abnormal frequencies of consciousness.

Archeologists all concur that ‘psychedelic visions’ sparked the inspiration for the Paleolithic cave art found throughout the world, and may explain most of the Wal-mart midget sightings.  Many scholars even argue that hallucinogens are the very roots of rational civilization itself.  It’s odd that mainstream science agrees on the importance of hallucinogens in human development, yet these same scientists dismiss the significance of the perceived spirit world. The scientific community reduces these visions into mere random subjective byproducts of an abnormal brain.

The divine world of the gods, demons, angels, fairies, and hedge yetis have long been suppressed by Western Civilization.  On that note, meet the Ghetto Shaman.  He has seen the hedge yetis and has spoken to their king!  Too long has society locked the shadow side screams of schizophrenia behind the materialistic bars of insignificance.  Too long has society left the Ghetto Shaman shaking and quivering in his drunk-tank retreat (after the last Mardis Gras Enlightenment Party bust).

What are these spirit worlds where ancient shamans traveled to find health and wisdom for their people?  Does the shaman’s spirit world wisdom have any relevance today?  Our current medical and psychiatric ‘symptom cures’ leave us empty and unsatisfied, but who has the money for the Amazonian Sacred Healing Vision Quest?  Who has the time to beckon these ‘plant spirits.’

The Ghetto Shaman is closer than you think. He resides under the Market Street bridge (southside).  The Ghetto Shaman’s flesh has been affectionately stripped from his bones by the Thunder Gods and then reassembled during a seven day initiation/barcrawl.  Why do scientists balk at this?  Can I make this stuff any clearer? The Ghetto Shaman uses his own rituals, special substances, and ‘avante guard’ sexual techniques to stimulate the induction of unusual frequencies of consciousness (snorkel not included).

The Ghetto Shaman leads workshops on discovering your sacred parasite, as well as an interdimensional escort service (the inspiration behind the movie, Happy Hooker Goes to Narnia). The Ghetto Shaman’s ‘weekender,’ constitutes two days and two nights in the Raystown boiler room.  Rates vary—survival rates, that is, and for those concerned about last month’s ‘incident,’ the Ghetto Shaman is now CPR certified.  Home visits available—for no extra charge…well, one item from the fridge is the recommended donation and there is always the chance of a Forced Sleep Over (FSO).

Ayauhusca, DMT, peyote, Ibogaine and psilocybin are all illegal and difficult to unearth. No problem. Meet Mr. Nutmeg (spice of the gods), Robutussin, DM (nectar of the odds), and Maddog 20/20 (vine of the sods).  All three are legal to possess and with the right guidance can induce profound changes in the nervous system, accessing ‘abnormal’ frequencies of consciousness (don’t try this at home).

The Ghetto Shaman is also a wizard with the earth’s most life-enhancing foods like lentils, curry powder, cumin, and ginger.  A dash of this and sprinkle of that, add whole nutmeg and slow cook to a saucy paste (seriously, don’t try this at home). Toss it in a tortilla with rice and healthy puddles of Bob’s Big Bad Mamma Jamma Hotsauce ®.  Sell the recipe on-line to Jenny Craig.  Jumpstart the Further bus and get the band back together. It’s the Electric Nutmeg Taco Test. For the even more adventurous, there’s his Electraquilla Mad Dog Mess (for god’s sake, man—don’t do it).

How I Learned to Stop Worrying About Global Warming and Learned to Love the Sun

L. Wolfe

The global computer model supports the notion of an array of “natural” factors contributing to climate change, such as solar fluctuations, fluctuations in the earth’s magnetic field, fluctuations in volcanic activity, and flatulations in a little understood process of planetary gas emissions known as Earth Fart (www.ProjectEarthFart.org).  For more on this subject see my beer-reviewed journal article entitled Earth, Earth, the Magical Fruit.

Our current climate computer model accurately predicted a relatively short-term cooling period after the major volcanic eruption of Krakatoa in the 1800s, when the Earth, as science records it, “really ripped one.”  Since the 1800s, the computer model has not done so well.  In fact, there is a significant point of departure around the mid-twentieth century, when the model actually predicts a mild cooling trend; whereas actual data shows a substantial acceleration in warming over that same period.  Here’s the clincher: the scientists then added the input of greenhouse gases from human activities since 1850.  With that addition, once again, it predicts a global warming trend that closely follows the empirical data.  Hmmm. Perhaps Al Gore isn’t Satan (just one of his demonic helpers).

Unfortunately, it’s pretty clear that humans aren’t going to stop pumping greenhouse gasses into the atmosphere any time in the near future—to say nothing of residual Earth toot (RET).  We probably won’t see an end to such industrial emissions in our lifetimes—especially, if our lifetimes are significantly shortened by global warming (running rings round you logically).  With the population of India and China growing, with the energy demands of those countries skyrocketing, with the Kyoto Accord in the shitter, and a mongo leadership vacuum in America (MLV), this warming trend is likely to continue.  That means all of those bad things you hear about: glacier recession, sea levels rising, an Al Gore candidacy, or even (gasp) a It Could Happen Tomorrow sequel could actually happen tomorrow.  We may face droughts, storms, plagues, bad sit-coms, dogs and cats, living together, mass hysteria! And, yes, Ted Turner may resort to cannibalism, but only due to an age-related neurological disorder.

But does anyone ever talk about the good side of global warming?  Is there a good side?  Better global warming than global cooling, wouldn’t you agree?  I mean, who chooses the poles for their vacation getaway?  What’s it gonna be? Edmonton, Alberta or Daytona Beach, Florida?   (hockey fans are, no doubt, going to be the outliers in this poll.) Besides, most people on Earth never see the arctic or the Antarctic in their entire lifetime.  So what if it’s gone?  You want to see penguins, go to Pittsburgh.  Intercourse the penguin!

A great HD documentary aired recently called “Planet Earth”, and they took some impressive footage of the place.  That’s good enough for me.  Now, no one need fly to the top or bottom of the earth, wasting all that nasty fossil fuel.  I can simply turn on my HD TV, plop in a DVD, sit in my air conditioned home, and wa la’.  So what if it’s a few degrees hotter outside?  That’s what the temperature gauge on my air conditioner is for.  Sure, you can do all those calculations to determine what the “carbon footprint” is for my Fat Ass sitting in my comfy chair (made in China with all those chemicals, transported on a diesel-burning ship to the U.S., and sent on a diesel truck or diesel-electric train from San Francisco—my chair not my ass—which is made in America), eating McDonald’s food (made with beef grown on a clear-cut rain forest farm in South America, fed with growth hormones, flatulating all that methane [a much more effective greenhouse gas than carbon dioxide by the way] and shipped on diesel-burning vehicles to my local McDonald’s), in my air conditioned home (using those ozone-depleting chemicals, running on electricity generated by coal-burning power plants [48.9%], natural gas [20%], nuclear [19.3%], or other [11.8%]), watching a DVD (made from petroleum), on an HD TV (made in China and shipped on diesel-burning vehicles).  OK, I admit that was a run on sentence, but my grammar may also be impacted by climate change.  Thus the origins of the made for TV movie.,it Coul’d Happens; Next-Week…?

Here’s what “they” won’t tell you.  The benefits of global warming:

  1. More sunny beaches.
  2. New coastlines.
  3. More bikinis.
  4. More boat drinks.
  5. More unwanted pregnancies (oh, wait: please delete).
  6. No more salt on northern roadways fouling streams and lakes.
  7. A free and clear Northwest Passage (the holy grail of commerce to the far east [read – China], which everyone has been searching for since before Columbus’ time and which everyone will need in the future since China will make EVERYTHING we want to buy.
  8. On a related note, shorter trade routes from China equals less boats sinking with hazardous lead based toys.
  9. An archaeological boom once the glaciers recede, giving us access to archaeological sites, relics, and frozen thunderbirds, wooly tadpoles, and pre-cambrian shit goblins—a cryptozoolgists wet dream (literally).
  10. New beach-front property (buy it now, its cheap, some of the most depressed and crime-ridden parts of several major U.S. cities will become prime beach-front crime scenes).
  11. Greenland.  It will finally be green again!  If those poor Vikings had only held out 500 more years….
  12. More bikinis.
  13. Putting an end to the iceberg menace will allow the Titanic to finally have its’ revenge.  Live, Rose, live!

I could go on and on (and have)—thank goodness for editors—so slip into that bikini girls and don’t think global extinction, guys, think global erection!

Hurricane Kills 7, Harasses 3, Before Downgrading to Tropical Storm in an Effort to Elude Police

Forming in a seedy section of the North Atlantic, Hurricane Mel has churned up a devilish trail in his wake. "He got hooked on thermals and warm ocean water, he’s been spinning out of control ever since," explains his mother, Hurricane Edna.  Mel’s meteorological mother admits to her own sordid past which includes a long string of tidal surges, heavy winds, and prostitution (mostly blow jobs).  Apparently, the apple did not fall far from the uprooted tree.

Who’s Looking Out for “True”?

Mick Zano

How do we really know what’s going on?  Truth seems harder to find than an Obama supporter on the Appalachian Trail.  These days, how can anyone parse out the truth in politics, culture, or even science?  Yes, even science is suspect.

Take my recent MS in Psychology, which focused on addiction and psychopathologies.  (I actually majored in literature; the MS degree was merely an exploration of my booze problem and uncontrollable urges to kill.  What can I say?  I have issues.)

Research into addiction is funded by pharmaceutical companies seeking scientific validation.  Lo and behold, the researchers’ findings typically “suggest” exactly what their sponsors are looking to confirm.  These endless “beer-reviewed” studies are self-serving and often suspect.  (This is not a slam on scholarly journals; I’m just usually drunk when I read them.)  The point being, science itself now borders on “scientism,” which is almost a religion in its own right.  Richard Dawkins is the perfect example—a brilliant man, but philosophically felonious.  Forget history, throw out spirituality; instead, everyone must focus on his version of evolutionary psychology and let the best “meme” win.

This is nothing new for science; I think it used to be called logical positivism, but I’m not positive about the logical part.  Each scientific or psychological breakthrough is always the answer. Remember when behaviorism could explain everything?  Great job, Watson and Skinner.  You’ve really curbed my uncontrollable urges to kill.  Thanks.  I’m reminded just how well behaviorism works each time I shovel the human remains from my carport.

Limited funding provided by the same dubious sources—pharmaceutical companies, medical grants, and the military—results in a uniformity of thought that impedes genuinely significant research.  Case in point: What ever happened to the research into Jell-O-kinesis or remote spewing?  (I won’t go into detail on these subjects for fear of losing readers).

Speaking of Jell-O, politicians take the cake.  Our foreign policies have become simultaneously draconian and juvenile.  We invade and take over Afghanistan, and the world opium supply suddenly quadruples?  I’m partial to coffee and cocaine, so please sign my petition encouraging the U.S. to start bombing Columbia immediately.

And speaking of drugs, the only people who can’t seem to get any these days are the terminally ill.  Even my own use of medical marijuana (a pound a day for glaucoma in my left eye) is under heavy scrutiny.  Psychedelics like Ibogaine may prove to be the best combatants of addiction; but since that would not fit into our current paradigm, the research remains ignored.

Education has become a business.  In fact, virtually everything has shifted into a business—except our businesses, of course.  They’ve just shifted overseas.  Detroit should be grateful for its status as “Hockeytown,” because innovative and well-engineered cars are beyond its manufacturers.  The puck stops here, people.  I’ve owned seven vehicles in my life: six American-made cars and one “rice burner.”

I miss the rice burner. 

Public education has become a farce.  Remember that annoying little child Bush refused to leave behind?  Well, the rest of the class is now waiting for him.  He’s in an extended time-out right now and won’t stop spitting his Ritalin pills at the teacher, so the rest of his classmates may be waiting for quite some time.  Give him another study hall—that should do the trick.  In the meantime, children, try sitting next to someone of Asian or Indian persuasion during your PSSAs.

Overall quality in healthcare is collapsing as social services and medical clinics focus on billable hours instead of quality treatment.  Managed care, HMOs, and the proposed national healthcare system are all part of the problem, not the solution.  Insurance companies focus their resources on avoiding claim payments, while our personal and national debt accelerates faster than a monkey on methamphetamine.  (Don’t try that, by the way. It pisses off the PETA people, not to mention the monkey.)

Since 1950, the average sperm count in the US of A has dropped 75%.  I repeat: seventy-five percent! I suppose it explains how I got through college without a single “oops.”  (Alas, I can’t say the same for nether-region rashes.)  The FDA allows massive piles of shit in the guise of “food” to be sold in various shapes and sizes via homedelivery, 24-hour drive-throughs, and buffet-a-ramas.  Enjoy variety and shapes while you can, folks, because soon all Americans will be uniformly round and sterile.

America: If the only one looking out for you is Bill O’Reilly, then do the honorable thing, young samurai, and fall on your loofah.

So, what are the answers? 

We must seek the truth.  We must speak impeccably in all endeavors.  We must take back America, blog by blog.  Our journalism and our politics must change—they must become more than empty slogans pushed by campaign managers. Remember, with crises comes opportunity.  Moderates around the globe: Continue sharing your ideas and pierce the ever-thickening wall of bullshit passing as discourse.

For years, I have championed a more parliamentary style of government.  Not enough of us fit under these two big dysfunctional tents, if we ever did.  The current administration has magnified the flaws in our system, so “revampage” is imperative.  Revamapge is tidier than a revolution, so let’s get cracking.

Smithers, release the flying meth monkeys!

Luckily, we don’t have to worry about damaging the Constitution or the Bill of Rights; Bush and his cronies took care of that.

We at the Discordare advancing the agenda of a new, emerging party known as the Transcosmetic Party.  You will hear more and more as we start wearing our cute little arm bands and marching in goose-step fashion from sea to shining sea.  I’m kidding, of course; we’ll probably take the bus.  We are, after all, fat, middle-aged, monkey-drugging, coke fiends.

Now, let’s start our assault on reason by systematically rating the journalists, column-writers, and cable news anchors of our time.  Exposing the flaws of our peers is not meant to slander or attack.  This report card is necessary.  We will be mercilessly non-partisan (MNP).  After all, we’re not prejudiced; we hate everybody. We will hold each individual up to Ken Wilber’s four quadrants to determine their overall integral scores.  This should be fun, although in no way does Wilber approve of what we are doing.  We are the “barely integral,” damnit!  And you know what they say about an ounce of knowledge: It’s for medicinal purposes only.  I have glaucoma in my left eye!

Top Ten Worst Documentaries Of All Time

  1. Southwest Airline’s Great Baggage Screening Outtakes Reel
  2. Going Up? The Musak Story
  3. The Accidental Martyr (starring Abdul “I strapped on what?” Rahman)
  4. Interview With the Narcolept
  5. Finland: Frozen Shitcicle of Europe
  6. Ventriloquism for Dummies
  7. The Unedited Joe Biden Story (87 min intro by Bill Clinton)
  8. The Making of the Making of: My Big Day at the DMV (director’s cut)
  9. Family Trips on a Dollar’s worth of Gas (5 minutes of fun in the SUV)
  10. Raising Camel Spiders as Pets (spider holes can conceal your most precious belongings)

Springtime for Wilber?

Sometimes, just sometimes, watching the democratic process stirs up a mix of emotions that is oddly reminiscent of how I feel when I see things like chocolate covered potato chips. First, I’m a little intrigued. Then, I think, what a waste of perfectly good chocolate. Then, I end up feeling a bit scared on behalf of humanity as a whole.

During some of the presidential debates, I felt all this, and more, as I watched Ron Paul’s emergence and his fellow candidates’ subsequent confusion. When someone like Paul brings up those pesky National Intelligence Estimate findings to the denial squad, or mentions facts about torture, habeas corpus, or the constitution, it can be both comical and dangerous. For Republicans any deviance from the White House’s talking points triggers serious consequences, such as (gasp) realization.

Didn’t that kook, Paul, get the memo? FOX News has assured us that the incompetent parts of the last seven years (roughly 94%) never happened. Who is this constitutional upstart? Doesn’t he realize that what’s left of the Republican Party is designated to the ever-shrinking Bushian bubble of non-reality, hovering over the White House like a Roveian fart? When Paul spoke during the debates it was like watching robots being fed paradoxical statements. Smoke rose out of their ears, a few springs shot into the audience, and the knee-jerk responses spewed, such as, “America doesn’t need to apologize to anyone!” Apparently, this includes those affected by all the war’s collateral damage as well as those people wrongly whisked away into the night, detained, and tortured without proof or due process.

These neocons must be brought up to date slowly; otherwise it’s like watching a deep sea diver surface too quickly, or abruptly rousing a sleep walker, or reliving that mother/daughter end-of-the-Crying-Game moment. In short, the Republican denial involves pride, stubbornness, and a lack of Ginkoba supplements. You have been terribly wrong about a terrible war that may have far reaching consequences for the Middle East and the United States, but it’s OK. When you are a neocon digging a hole, it is best to stop digging, casually lay down the shovel, look as inconspicuous as possible, and maybe shift your energy toward domestic affairs, like dismantling more of the Constitution.

The ‘Surge’ may well be working, but the fact remains that this is just the first step of our build-your-own-country kit. After five years, countless lives, and an ongoing two-billion a week price tag, we have successfully inserted tab A into slot B. Hurray, now we have completed step one…only 187 left (I knew we should have purchased the preassembled model).

I understand it may be distasteful to allow your liberal friends to pull you out of this hole, so why not employ the aide of someone more integral? Someone who understands that foreign threats do exist and that something really does need to be done about them, but have you ever seen something fraught with this many missteps end well? OK, maybe the play Springtime for Hitler, but, let’s face it, that was a fluke.

Personally, I marched on Shock and Awe Day, but I was brightened by the purple thumb brigade during Iraq’s first vote. Our cheerleading must be tempered with the awareness that any progress might be seen as a green light for the Bushies to move their invasion to other countries, including loveable Canada. This eventuality continues to cause considerable moral and patriotically-grounded angst. After all, they invented back bacon and hockey. It’s time people started to appreciate the difficulty that I have had walking the line between patriotism and rationalism. Let’s face it, if Iran, and or Syria, are ever to become the next logical step in Bush’s ‘road-side-bomb to peace,’ there is no way, no how, it should be managed by Dr. Incompetent and his Neonatecons.

Isn’t it time for more options than ‘America is always wrong,’ or ‘America is always right?’ In order to rise above both parties, isn’t it time we formed a new one? Integralists will help you out of this ideological ditch without saying, “I told you so,” or “where is that twenty you owe me, bitch?” But on that note, I would like to take this moment to ask, “Where is that twenty you owe me, bitch?”

This party will stand by the original tenants of conservatism, small government, and protected civil liberties, while embracing civic responsibility for those less fortunate among us. A more ‘integral’ party loosely based on some of the work of Ken Wilber, will help us address the complex problems of the twenty-first century. Our battle cry, which will ring out from the fruited plains to the purple mountain’s majesty: “Don’t be stupid. Be a smarty. Come and join our TransCosmetic Party.”

Worst Rock Solo Careers of All Time

  1. David Lee Roth (Hello Yankee Rose—Goodbye Diamond Dave!)
  2. Art Garfunkle (Hello silence my old friend)
  3. Oats of Hall & Oats: (The Just Oats Tour)
  4. Roger Daltry (Who?)
  5. Syd Barret (He’s dead now, so we can start the healing process)
  6. Glenn Frey of the Eagles (and as for you, Don, it’s always been about Joe. But good luck with that rainforest thing)
  7. We may be going out on a limb here, but Jimi Hendrix was nothing w/o The Experience
  8. Animal from the Muppets (pre rehab)
  9. Vince Neil of Motley Crue (although he did have a single on the Encino Man soundtrack)
  10. Did we mention the Just Oats Tour?

OK, OK, we made up the Oats one, but it’s plausible.

Palin Faces Ethics Panel

In a potential scandal, Vice Presidential hopeful Sarah Palin recently tried getting her former brother-in-law fired from the state police. She will soon face an Alaskan ethics panel to determine if she abused her powers. We at the Discord believe the interrogation should be led by Michael Palin of Monty Python fame. She should face both the rack and/or the comfy chair…because ‘nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.’