ALIENS ARE COMING! ALIENS ARE COMING!

Americans hate illegal immigrants.


I know that seems like a horrible thing to say about a "Christian" nation, but it's true.  We detest them; we want them arrested, deported, or imprisoned for years and then deported.  Being a contrarian bastard, however, I don't hate them ... I don't detest them ... I don't want them imprisoned.  And neither does Corporate America.  Yes, Americans hate immigrants, but Corporate America loves cheap labor to be accessible, and that's why even President George W. Bush wanted to put them on a path to citizenship.  It was one of the few things George and I actually agreed upon (although I doubt George would have given a shit what I thought -- why should he be any different from anyone else?).


The reason I don't hate illegal immigrants is because it is absolutely not their fault that they're breaking the law. We've had laws against illegally immigrating to this country for a very long time, yet we've always exploited illegal immigrants as a cheap source of labor.  By ignoring illegal Mexican immigration for so long, we've encouraged it tacitly.  Not even tacitly; we've encouraged it vigorously throughout our entire history as a nation.  Until times when the economy got rough and jobs became more scarce.  But even in the times when there has been a furor over immigration (like when the Germans, Chinese, the Irish, etc., started coming to America to destroy our language and rape our wives and daughters -- in decreasing order of importance), we've always survived -- and even thrived -- as a nation ... because immigrants work hard and cheap.  Just what Corporate America wants.  And Corporate America gets what it wants.  Always.  And without question.


But there will come a time when outer-space aliens come to our planet en masse.  Not just in little masses, like those stray aliens who have been occasionally abducting Midwestern farmers and probing their rectums with Uranium Isotope Metal Dildo Machines (or, translated into an American English abbreviation, UIMD's), but in huge alien armadas of great big spaceships that will surround us, take our jobs, fuck our women (and every Midwestern farmer they didn't get in their first, smaller waves), and we will all be speaking Krthpthksqigglatca, and we'll all have to get used to having to turn grocery items around in the store so we don't have to read the nutritional ingredients of Krthpthksqigglatcan Soylent Green Illegal Immigrant Queso Flesh in their unpronouncable super-fricative alien language.  That is, if the Krthpthksqigglatcans are nice enough to allow us to use English at all.


(For the record, Krthpthksqigglatacans who are here already, I love Soylent Green Illegal Immigrant Queso Flesh ... even though I can't pronounce it in your native tongue.) 

I Love Money, Money, Money ....

I love money.  Money is small and shiny or it's big and green.  Money will get you out of any problem ... if you have enough of it.  Money will buy you love, make you more attractive, give you bigger breasts, allow you to have an erection for four or more hours (and to pay for the emergency room visit and penile surgery that follows a four-hour erection).  Money allows God to be pleased with you and gets you into Heaven.  Money makes parking tickets go away.  Money puts food on the table and keeps your wife or girlfriend in a sexy mood.  It buys admission to a movie theater, then pays for your perforated eardrum treatments caused by the explosive sounds of quadraphonic 3-D hypersound movie-theater speakers.  It buys you that big vat of popcorn that is ninety percent butterfat.  It gets you out of a murder conviction.  Lust for money, they say, is the root of all evil, but they only say that because they think that if enough people believe that money is the root of all evil, other people won't love money, and then the people who say that the lust for money is the root of all evil will have access to even more money that other people who believe that the lust for money is the root of all evil won't want.  The previous sentence, I realize, was quite convoluted, but if you read it several times, it will make sense, especially if you have money.


(ASPCA NOTICE:  No money was harmed in the writing of this post).

Why I Hate Cops (But Not All Cops)

I don't hate all cops -- let me just say that first, because I don't want the cops to come to my house, shoot me in the face, then drop a "ham sandwich" on me.  A "ham sandwich," for those of you who don't know, is what the New Orleans police call an untraceable weapon they use to plant on suspects after they shoot them.  You know, because you can't go around talking about planting firearms on dead people outright ... it might raise a few eyebrows.

All cops don't do things like that.  The reason, I think, that so many people hate cops isn't necessarily because the really bad ones go around doing murders or planting evidence.  It's because a lot of cops go around with the attitude that since they have to endure a lot of bad attitude from the public, they want to show how much they despise the public and also let the public know that they won't tolerate being despised.  It's understandable.  Being a cop is a terrible, terrible job ... one full of thankless tasks, an often rude and distrusting public, disrespectful in many ways.  And so many cops often feel it necessary to mirror the public's loathing.

It's a terrible and vicious cycle.

I came home one evening months ago after getting a huge amount of really nasty fried chicken that I sat down and devoured like a maniac in one sitting.  A loud banging on my door commenced just as I was taking some Pepto Bismol, and when I opened the door a cop was standing just off my front porch, commanding me to come outside.  I immediately stepped out and said good evening, and he proceeded to interrogate me, saying that someone had heard gunshots fired on my property about five minutes prior to his arrival.  Now, certainly, if someone did indeed report such an event, the police were certainly justified in making an investigation.  I told the officer there had been no shots fired, gave him my driver's license, and told him that although I owned firearms, I hadn't discharged them on my property.  He asked me why I had a flashlight on my neck.

At this point, you may yourself be wondering why I had a flashlight on my neck.  Well, go fuck yourself; it's none of your business -- okay, that was harsh.  I apologize.  But it really isn't any of your business.  Okay, I'll tell you, anyway.  There was a flashlight (the kind you can wear on your head, the kind they sell in sporting goods stores) because I owned it, I was on my property, I am an American citizen ... and my porch light was out and I had taken out the garbage.  As he was smirking, I told him I had taken out the garbage and had needed the light because the porch light was out and it had been getting dark.

He saw that there was a security camera in my window, so he asked me why I was filming him.  (He seemed rather paranoid to me at this point).  I told him, "For security."  He actually snickered right in my face, on my property, after having commanded me out of my own house, which is probably departmental policy, for officer safety (the commanding me out of my house part, not the snickering).  I couldn't fucking believe that a cop would come to my house, accuse me of firing weapons on my property, and actually have the huevos to smirk and snicker as he interrogated me about my personal accutrements, but I completely kept my calm and remained polite.

When he was finished with his Colombo-style investigation, he started to leave after having told me he would return.  I told him to have a good evening (not showing any of the snideness that he had so pointedly shown me), and he responded without any departing salutation and instead repeated that he would be back (presumably like Arnold Schwarzenegger in The Terminator).  I said again, "Have a good evening," and he responded with a very emphatic, "We'll be back."  So I shrugged my shoulders and said, "Alright ... have a good evening."  And of course he repeated his prior declarative.  I decided that he was a fucking twat, and that I would just go back into my house, because obviously he had been raised by some kind of tribe of warlock savages and didn't know how to respond to a courteous salutation.

This isn't the only instance of Rude Cop I've ever experienced.  I try not to ever talk to cops.  And I know that's wrong, because they're just doing a job that has to be done.  I feel sorry for all the cops out there that aren't on steroids and feeding off the hate of the public, cops who just want to protect the public without inciting a hatred for their authority.  But I hate all the cops out there who do feed off the hate of the public.  The cops who carry "ham sandwiches," the cops who think another cop is a snitch if the "snitch" reports a bad cop.  I hate them.  And I hate cops who think that the public deserves no courtesy but only intimidation or interrogation.  I truly despise them.  And I hope their hatred destroys them and that my own hatred doesn't destroy me.

I think I'll be alright with my hatred, though.  Unless one day a cop offers me a ham sandwich.

Texas Justice! (Hang 'Em, Then Find Out If They're Guilty!)

I watched a really good documentary again the other day by Frontline on the state-sanctioned murder of Todd Willingham.  It's really fun to find out about innocent people getting murdered and/or imprisoned by the state in hick Southern towns because of witchcraft and Satanism (the West Memphis Three, in Arkansas, and this Todd Willingham sucker in Texas).  I like this kind of stuff because it's scarier than a horror movie where Satan possesses some hick schmuck and convinces him to move to the South.


Here's a link to watch it:





http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/post-mortem/


I especially like the fact that fire marshals, who investigate whether a fire is arson or not, are really just hicks who aren't trained and their determination of fact can easily get people sentenced to prison or executed.  Fire marshals and coroners ... they don't understand science ... but they understand Satan.


And people make fun of the psycho-superstitious Puritans of Salem, Massachusetts.  At least they had the excuse that they lived in the 1600's.


CORRECTION:  Sorry, that's the wrong link, but one that does pertain to today's subject.  Here's the corrected link:




http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/death-by-fire/







The entire Orion Nebula in visible light.
Credit: NASA/ESA


http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f3/Orion_Nebula_-_Hubble_2006_mosaic_18000.jpg

Brain Aneurysm Cancels Today's Doomed Stuffing

TODAY'S THE DOOMED STUFFING HAS BEEN CANCELLED DUE TO A BRAIN ANEURYSM THAT HAS STIMULATED THE LAZINESS CENTER OF MY CEREBRAL CORTEX.  

National Abort Your Unwanted Embryo Day!

Today, if you don't know it yet, is the second day after President's Day.  Most people might think it's just another bland Wednesday, and they wonder if "American Idol" or "The Voice" is going to be on -- and should they make a meat loaf for dinner or just commit suicide by drinking Drano.  Don't commit suicide today, people, because I am declaring today National Abort Your Unwanted Embryo Day.

Some of you who might be reading this (if any of you do, especially after I have just declared today National Abort Your Unwanted Embryo Day) might be thinking, "Jesus, that's a horrible holiday for some blogger who doesn't have the slightest authority to declare!"  But think again.

I want all you pro-lifers to get on board with this.  Embrace this holiday.  There needs to be an awareness among you semi-literate hysterics who think pro-choice advocates want babies to die ... and I'm just the sicko blogger to bring that awareness to the forefront of your lobotomized forebrains.  If anyone can do it, I can.

Here are some links to help you celebrate National Abort Your Unwanted Embryo Day:

www.plannedparenthood.org

www.hopemedical.com

www.naral.org

I think it's important for pro-choice advocates to embrace their confrontational side (Christ knows, those wacko pro-lifers have embraced their confrontational side).  Support these groups, if you can, and when some hick asks you how you'll feel when God punishes you by sending you to Hell for supporting choice and "killing babies," don't go overboard like they do when they shoot doctors for performing safe, legal abortions.  Just kick them in the nuts a few times.  Maybe they won't impregnate so many women whose matured fetuses they won't want to support when they hatch.

Remember, an embryo is just an egg with a sperm cell stuck in it.  You can't even make a good omelet with it.

A Message for the People

I want to talk a little bit about why I hate people.


Now, first, before all you Judeo-Christians (or whatever you are) start blathering about loving your neighbor and scoffing at my unbridled misanthropy, I just want to assure you with the caveat that I absolutely don't hate all people.  I don't even hate most people.  But when I imagine the connotation of the word people, it doesn't conjure up lovely tribe-gatherings of peace-loving, companionable, unified souls interacting with one another with the sympathy and compassion and comradeship of what those commies Marx and Engels probably would have called "The Masses."


People is a word that conjures up images of Penn State University blockheads, drunk on their own sweaty Mickey Finn of anger, alcohol, amphetamines, and stupidity, creating a riot because the coach of their football team got fired because he knew about a sexual misconduct allegation against his assistant coach and did practically nothing (which is what the university hierarchy apparently wanted him to do, which is no excuse).  People seem to genuinely care more about sports than they do about the possibility that one of their precious sports heroes was diddling little boys.  I think this fact, undeniable, is indictment enough against the word people.


Sure, there are good people, but they are perhaps more properly called persons -- if you'll excuse the alliteration.  But people are more likely to cover things up out of fear of losing their jobs or not being able to feed their own kids than they are about the welfare of others.  Whistle-blowers are shunned by people, derided, taunted with names like "Serpico" and "snitch."  People gather together in petty, whispering conspiracies to ostracize anyone who tries to right some egregious wrong.  Persons only occasionally gather together to try to protect the people -- perhaps because persons feel the same way I do about people.


"60 Minutes" reported this Sunday that the FDA allows drug companies to use only the positive studies the drug companies commission to prove the efficacy of their antidepressants (which, it turns out, are not efficacious; unpublished study after unpublished study shows that antidepressants are about as effective as placebo or exercise, but antidepressants have much more dangerous side effects and are much more expensive).  Crap like this could only happen with the deplorable consent of the people involved.


I doubt any persons would have ever been involved in these two examples of the disgraceful conduct of people.


So don't start crying because I hate you, people.  You might just be a person.


If you're not a person, go fuck yourself.

Meteors, Whitney Houston, and Schmucks

Because I got my vehicle stuck in the mud Friday and had to call a tow truck and pay an exorbitant ransom for the towing, I thought I'd write Monday's blog on Saturday, just in case that meteor the size of the runaway stupidity of Texas' judicial system strikes the Earth before I have a chance to post Monday's blog.


In case you missed it, Whitney Houston is dead.  I would normally not mock someone's demise, but I feel the media has made Ms. Houston's death mockworthy.  I will admit that she had a decent voice at one time (and horribly banal songs with pedestrian lyrics and cringe-worthy high-pitched vocal gymnastic gloating), but the media has turned her into a hero.  She was not a hero in any sense of the word.  Heroes go into flaming buildings to rescue helpless quadriplegics and/or children (and not pets of any kind) at great risk to their own lives, or they throw themselves on top of grenades to save their platoons.  Heroes aren't people who can hit ridiculously high notes.  Heroes aren't people who donate to charities for tax write-offs.  Heroes are not people who invent iPhones and make billions of dollars.  Heroes are not people who feed their children properly and raise them right; those people are called parents.  A hero is not a man who survives for eight days wedged in a crevice in a mountain and cuts his own leg off to do so; that person is called a survivor, or a victim of his own desire to experience an adrenaline rush.  The Crocodile Hunter wasn't a hero because he got killed by a stingray; he was a victim of his own adrenaline addiction (as well as the sting of the stingray that stung him in his chest).


We use the word hero too much because we all want to be heroes.  Alas, we cannot -- nor should we -- all be heroes.  And we should not degrade the word to mean anyone who accomplishes anything or succeeds in any venture.  Heroes should be rare.  They're the way we tell the differences among good people, okay people, and total schmucks.


By the way, when that meteor the size of the stupidity of Texas' justice system hits, I'm going to be cowering under a toilet with my knees between my legs and trying to stuff my head up my backside while screaming louder than one of Whitney Houston's terrible songs.  I don't want to be a hero.  I want to be a schmuck.


We all have to have goals.

My Apologies, but I'm Awesome

At the close of The Doomed Stuffing's first blogweek, I'd just like to take the time to tell all my readers (to date, this means some nefarious crumpet-eating Words with Friends opponent named Skipper Dick -- if, indeed, that is his real name -- and me) that I am deeply ashamed with how poorly this blog is doing so far, ratings-wise.  I expected to be inundated with comments by numerous proselytes, hermaphrodites, Daisy Duke-shorty-shorts-wearing prostitutes, degenerate gamblers, serial killers, colostomy-bag-wearing former police officers with lengthy past histories of civil-rights violations, curmudgeons, yoga-exercising vegans with rickets and serious protein deficiencies, lesbians, hashish-eaters, Communists, Republicans, Democrats, cocaine abusers, chronic masturbators, retired secretarial clerk-typists, and US government spies masquerading as garbage collectors.  I have been vastly disappointed thus far, but I pledge to my meager readership to continue my efforts to lower American standards of journalism even lower than they are now.

Perhaps I'm to blame, meager readers ... but I just can't accept that.  No, indeed ... I am fricking spectacular!  A credit to the bloggosphere.  A champion of tripe and swill, if you will.

Next week will be better.

I'm expecting comments from leprous ex-al Qaida members.

Until then,

THE DOOMED STUFFING

The Law Is the Flaw

There is a new proposal for a city ordinance being bandied about Shreveport, Louisiana, by arch-Big Brother City Commissioner Michael Williams, who has publicly stated that public pajama-wearing is demonstrative of a loosening of morals in our society. Apparently he went into a Walmart and saw someone wearing pajama pants and saw too much of the offender's nether regions, so he decided what all politicians decide to do when there is such a momentous infraction of human decency: he decided to make a law.

Laws are funny. We need them to protect individuals not only from other individuals who would do them harm, but also from the grinding machinery teeth of government. However, laws usually end up doing most of the grinding, no matter how well-intentioned. This proposed ordinance, though, isn't even well-intentioned. It's stupid -- a very stupid overreaction from a politician who wants to make a name for himself to ostensibly restore moral order to the universe.

Granted, I don't want to walk into a grocery store to buy my daily ten pounds of regular ultra-fatty hamburger only to find the meat aisle empty and John Holmes' heir apparent in a Speedo, holding all my hamburger meat, but that has nothing to do with wearing pajama pants on the street. People who wear pajama pants are not in a moral decline. They're just comfortable. Laws often make me uncomfortable ... because they often presuppose that the law is the law and therefore the law is good, right, moral.

Arch-Big Brother City Commissioner Michael Williams is what better political hacks would call, in the parlance of political hackdom, "a go-getter." I think he represents everything that is wrong with people who are given too much power, too high a pulpit, or too grandiose a sense of self-importance. Less diplomatically on my part, but more to the point, I think he's a total schmuck.

If anyone out there in the terribly lawless and immoral world of the internet wants to contact Arch-Big Brother City Commissioner Michael Williams and tell him what you think of his schmuckiness, here's a link:

www.caddo.org/district3.cfm.

The above link contains his home phone, office phone, and e-mail address. Be sure to call him at moral hours. And wear a Speedo while you do it.

The Purpose of No Purpose

You're probably saying to yourself right now, "Hyram," (I'm having you call yourself Hyram, but if your name is Coolio, Thread Monster, or Anna Nicole Booby Freak, don't worry -- you can just substitute your crazy name for Hyram), "what is this blog, 'The Doomed Stuffing; or, Excursions with Nebulous Earthlings,' all about?"  Well, I'll fill you in.


Blogs are about nothing.  All blogs.  Blogs are as unimportant as having a conversation on the street with a wino prostitute who wants to tell you all her (or his -- I'm all about choice) ideas, beliefs, thoughts, and experiences.  No one really cares what anyone else thinks -- especially wino prostitutes who want to tell you their thoughts on the World Bank/Jewish conspiracy to control America.  In fact, if you're crazy enough to care that a wino prostitute actually believes UFO's are commanded by rectal-probing aliens who want to impregnate Midwestern white farmers to take back fetally aborted samples of redneck-alien tissues for later dissection on their home planet of Krpnukthcth, I certainly have nothing for you.


If you believe Bigfoot is a bear that mated with a gorilla before Pangaea split and the continents of Africa and North and South America were no longer one, you probably won't find anything of interest here.


Oh, sure, maybe once in a while I might come up with some crazy idea.  For instance, I believe rodents are a superior race of humans that evolved because early Man didn't enjoy gnawing on electrical wires enough -- but that's my own personal quirk ... like when I poop in random unlocked vehicles (I always leave a roll of septic-safe toilet tissue when I do this; I'm not a total savage).  Generally, though, this blog will be about reason, logic, atheism (God told me to tell you that He doesn't exist, and that if you don't believe me, you don't believe Him, and He will castrate you eternally in Hell and solder your empty scrotum to Satan's pitchfork), and the occasional odd odds-and-ends that have nothing to do with reality or general human perception.


If you want to read a blog about how much some chick loves her pussycat, hit "Next Blog" on this site, and you probably won't be disappointed anymore.  Humanity, however, should weep inconsolably.


Thank you for your attention, Hyram.

Keep Your Kids off Drugs by Getting Them Interested in Dogfighting

It's very important that Junior be a good citizen -- and what better way than encouraging him to develop other interests?  Drugs are bad, as the school councilor from "South Park" always says, mm-kay, and despite the century-long "War on Drugs," no progress in the American drug problem has been made.  In fact, drug usage has become far worse than it was when you could kick the mud off your spurs, slap your horse's reins around that wooden bar outside your favorite local tavern, and mosey on in to the watering hole to legally order a box of Bayer's Heroin Tablets from the surly barkeep, who always had dyspepsia because his liver was shot from overindulgence in alcohol.  So take junior to a dogfight.  Let him feel like he's Michael Vick for a day.  C'mon, parents!  Kids need heroes!  Family is important.

GREETINGS, EARTHLINGS

Greetings.  I would say, "Hello," but I don't feel I know any of you that well.  You're all probably closet racists and pedophiles, anyway, and so I shouldn't really care how you feel about such a formal greeting as "Greetings."  In fact, you are probably worthy only of perusing the schlock that passes for facebook pages and ABC News blog-splatterings, comments from disastrous excuses for membership in the overhyped and underfunded species commonly known by government scientists as Homo sapiens.  Do not be discouraged, Teabagging quislings, for you shall imbibe the terrible, squeezed-out juices and tannins and exotic caffeines of my tirades soon enough (I believe the metaphor has been itself terribly squeezed out, but take the point, if you dare).


Also, I would like to extend my condolences to Whitney Houston's lawyers and to everyone who shall now and forevermore be subjected to the squealing replacement notes from Jennifer Hudson.  It is a sad day for us all, including Homo sapiens.  May we all recover from this day of penultimate tragedy.  And also (sorry for the redundancy), as a word of warning, large doses of Xanax and hot baths do not mix.  One would have thought Whitney would have known that from her long-time romance with Bobby Brown's dope.