So something has finally peeved my to the point of taking the time out of my busy schedule to rant about it, it so here it is; fuck you FCC, line up ‘cus I'm gonna punched every single one of you in the face. Well I’m getting ahead of myself; let me start from the beginning. I work fairly long hours, ranging from eight on a normal day to sixteen when the workload is heavy, and for all the hours I break my back I cherish every dollar. While in the PX, Personal Exchange kind of like Target or Wal-Mart, I happened upon a Mindless Self Indulgence CD. Delighted with my exceptionally rare find, I purchased the album immediately. After listening to it, something felt not quite right with the CD but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Two days later it fucking hit my: not a single damn curse word. All the empty spots in the songs should have contained one of the handful of crass, offensive words know to us as “cuss” words. I paid the same price for the damn kiddy version of the CD as I would have for the regular CD. I figure with all the blank spaces, I’m missing out on about 15f the words on the whole CD. I should only have to pay 85f the regular price for the crapass version if I’m only getting a fraction of what the artist intended me to hear. I understand that some parents, in their infinite wisdom, feel that if their child only listens to CDs with no offensive language, said child will grow up to be a well-adjusted, positive contributor to society. That’s all well and good but fuck that. I want every shit, fuck, bitch, ass, and damn in my fucking CD because I fucking paid for it. I’m not proposing a cessation to the censoring of artist’s work, because there will always be those who want to shelter themselves and others from anything remotely offensive. I want a sticker that alerts me to a censored CD, much like the parental advisory sticker, but the opposite. A “be advised this CD is for bitches” sticker if you will, so individuals in a situation similar to myself aren’t blindsided and disappointed in a CD that just isn’t all it could be.

 

On a positive note, Henry motherfucking Rollins, one of my fucking heroes, is going to be at my fucking chow hall on Monday. My whole shop is gonna try to get him to go out to Kinville to drink with us. If that happens and Henry Rollins and I become buds, I will shit myself.

I’ve finally decided to take the time to sit down and try to update every facet of this myspace business, and as this seems easier than taking a long deep introspective look at myself to create the most accurate profile possible, I'll start with the blog. I was fortuitous enough to be selected to be part of the detachment from my company to deploy to Sri Lanka to participate in humanitarian aid. Unfortunately, the logistics for transporting my seven man det, (Det means detachment; Marines habitually shorten words and use abbreviations.) our gear, and our van (Large box in which we fix electronics in the field.) to Sri Lanka have not been finalized, so we have been in a ready status for about a week and a half. After our morning battalion formation to tell us that nothing new has happened, we were released back to the barracks. Failing miserably, several times, to defeat the final boss in Metroid Prime 2, I turned to the television for entertainment and relaxation. Pimp My Ride was on MTV. A young man was got his beat up station wagon “pimped” to the tune of about $20,000. I couldn’t help but wonder if instead of putting a seven inch flat screen TV and turn tables in the back of some fucking knob’s car, MTV could have bought say five cars for single mothers with no way to get to work. Or they could have sent someone to college who couldn’t otherwise afford it. Or bought a palette of food to be delivered to and Iraqi village decimated by war. Something other than trying to make this tool look cooler in front of his friends for about two months or however long until he becomes complacent and nonchalant with the $20,000 plus modifications that were made to his fully operational, albeit unattractive, station wagon. I love watching bitches cry because they’re fucking their roommate but they have a boyfriend back home and are confused. Or crying about how hard their life is because they lost the latest Road Rules, Battle for Ozzfest, The Assistant, or “insert brainless elimination show title here,” challenge and might get sent home. On E! I found a show in which celebrities were compared in various nonsensical categories. Who’s the better reality TV show star: Jessica Simpson or Paris Hilton? Who’s the hotter actress mom: Madonna or Demi More? Who’s coming out was better: Rosie O’Donnell or Ellen Degeneris? As the target demographic for a majority of the programming on television today, I would like to address the producers, writers and conceivers of these shows and the many others like them that congest the air waves these days; Fuck you. Fuck you for thinking I give a shit who’s the bigger ditz or bigger lesbian is. Fuck you for thinking I care that by some remote possibility I too can have $20,000 wasted on a car I’ll probably wreck in three months because I can’t keep my eyes off my mini-in-dash-TV screen and on the fucking road. Fuck you for thinking that I can’t see that if you don’t have any novel or clever ideas for shows anymore, you can throw about 8 fucks together in a wacky situation, tape it and call the garbage a show. I get enough reality out of the eighteen hours I’m awake every day. Kudos to you Discovery, National Geographic and History channels for keeping your outpouring of shit shows to a minimum. After watching the History channel, I don’t feel like kicking someone in the face for pushing shit on the air. On the contrary, I actually feel I’ve learned something. I might not retain the information, but fuck, I’m not stupider as a result.