Take it from Snee: Keep your mitts off of Halloween

Once again, a major holiday happens to fall on Hump Day, and like last time, “Take it from Snee” will observe it. I’m a huge fan of Halloween, and like The Guys who are Red Sox fans, I’ve endured countless ups and downs.

In the early years, I couldn’t catch a break on Halloween and suffered through embarrassing mom-planned costumes like a bunny rabbit or a clown (before everyone became afraid of both). Then, there was the phase where I chose poorly: popular cartoon characters that are sadly dated, a foray into budget sci-fi (“Space Kid?” Really?) and the occasional ninja costume. The high point of this era was Joe Theisman and a wounded soldier.

And then … there was a crisis of faith: those teenage years where I was too old to trick-or-treat, but sexy Halloween parties were light-years away. I stopped observing Halloween, except to watch marathons of bad horror movies while handing out candy.

College, though, is when I went through a Halloween renaissance. Alcohol thankfully replaced candy, except for Candy, who dressed as a nurse. I suddenly understood why Elvira had big cans: because they’re as much a part of Halloween as worshiping our Dark Lord, the Desolate One. Or maybe they were genetic. Whatever, and good for her.

Rediscovering Halloween in this light is analogous, at least to me, of my team winning the series. It’s a vindication of the human spirit to know that I was right all along to think it is the best holiday of the year.

Think about it:

  • Thanksgiving means spending time with your family, which means wearing a sweater, hearing the same stories all over again, and hiding your smoking, drinking and closeted sexual deviancy. It also means a mangled turkey because who regularly practices baking an entire turkey for 6 hours in the 21st century?
  • Christmas is alright, I guess. There’s presents, and it’s that-guy-who-dies-every-spring’s birthday, so everyone is nice to each other. But, once again, there’s family (see Thanksgiving). Oh yeah, and you’re broke from buying shower radios and foot baths for every distant aunt or uncle.
  • New Year’s is downright depressing. Everyone gets drunk because the year is over, but–LOOK OUT–there’s another year coming up at midnight. So you make a list of everything that’s wrong with you, knowing that if you’ve put off a diet for one entire year, you sure as hell won’t do it next year. The only option is to drink yourself to near-alcohol poisoning and kiss someone that sure ain’t your wife. Damn, that’s really depressing. I should fix that next year.

But that’s not to say that Halloween is perfect.

Halloween is when the psychos march out of the woodworks. I don’t mean the goth kids or actual criminally insane that suddenly blend in, but the non-believers.

There are, of course, those fanatics that denounce Halloween as a pagan ritual designed to lure children to the devil. But then, they also use their own pagentry to lure children to their own religion, so are they really that trustworthy? It makes sense that those that push their own agenda on the public would assume everyone else is doing the same thing, I guess.

By just examining Christian rock, you can see their mistaken assumptions about rock music, as in its purpose–to play-act rebellion–and its sound–awesome. Christian rock does neither. So, of course, they make the same mistakes with Halloween: instead of rebelling for a night and look awesome, they try to scare us into accepting God … again.

And then, there are the “What Happened to Halloween?” crowd. Most of these people are newspaper columnists, so that shows how much they’ve adapted to the times. Every year, they apply the latest cultural fears to Halloween and try to explain why we’ve perverted it.

This year’s–and also for the past several years–fear is sluts. They’re afraid of women dressed as naughty [insert profession here]s, and they’ve resorted to their usual tactics: child human shields. You see, because of adult women’s whorish natures, girl children are becoming sluts, too–or, as they put it–sexualized.

This, as always, ignores the fact that children ignorant to sex cannot sexualize themselves. Adults sexualize children. I present this, with the expectation of outcry in the comments below: if you are made uncomfortable by a child with a bare midriff, you might be suppressing pedophilia.

And if you are upset by women dressing playfully, then you either (a) have your own twisted self-esteem issues regarding your body or inadequate sex life or (b) are possessive by nature and get upset when people notice your girlfriend/wife (e.g., that “Islamofascism” that these same people are normally at war with). And if your problem is b, then you also have to evaluate whether you have an unhealthy fascination with the woman that bothers you so much.

The argument is sure to be made that, by dressing down women and girls, they’re protecting them from predators. Like with the Christians, I ask: how can you control other people’s reactions? Pedophiles target children dressed as children, which includes Elmo costumes. If you’re actually concerned about children’s safety from rapists, then get involved. Escort your children while trick-or-treating. But don’t sit at home and blame everyone else.

And regarding grown women, would you say that women ask to be raped, that they deserve it if they wear a little more than what they wear at the beach? The law and I agree (for once) and you have some sick punishment fantasies.

Because I am a die-hard Halloween fan, I think it’s important to preserve it for what it is: one designated night per year of masquerades and ribaldry. There’s a reason why people are lured to the stage or writing, and that’s to pretend to be something else, which is often taboo because we get to be, as Cary Tennis put it, normal every other damn day.

How To: Fake your own death

Every so often, you will need a new identity. Maybe you’re from a race of immortals who must occasionally submit a death certificate to avoid arousing suspicion. Or perhaps you haven’t paid your bills in five years. And then there’s always doing it because you don’t want to kill yourself, but you’d like to make everyone pay for not going to your choice at the movies (“You’ll miss me and 3:10 to Yuma when I’m gone!”). Whatever: you have your reasons. But the only thing worse than a prat fall is a transparent prat fall that fools nobody. That’s why The Guys will now explain how to fake your own death.

A fake will/insurance policy (optional)
A safe house or travel plans

1) Don’t prepare anything for your “demise.”
If you don’t have a will, don’t suddenly write one. And, for the love of Gene Krupa, do not take out a new life insurance policy on yourself.* Don’t leave extra food for your pets, shut off the power to your home, cancel your subscription to Vogue or anything else that signals you’re going out for longer than an afternoon. The less you prepare for your “death,” the less likely people will think you had something planned.

*Exception: if the purpose is to frame someone for your murder, then draft an insurance policy/will that leaves everything to them.

2) Always use fire as your means of death.
Why fire? It’s the in-vogue fear right now. Thanks to the California fires being leaked to arson–or, according to Fox News, Al Qaeda–it’s the number three fear on people’s minds behind spiders and men’s room propositions. This means that they will have the proper sense of outrage/convincing that you intended. You can even leave your burnt-up body in the middle of your pristine living room, chalking up your death as another case of spontaneous human combustion.

Also, because fire will destroy all biological evidence of the surrogate body you’re leaving as evidence.

Wait, you mean you don’t have a body?

3) Get a body.
Apply comic book/soap opera rule #589: no body, no dead. Without the body, you’re missing, which is exactly what you don’t want. Missing people are all over the news and everyone will look for you.

The best place to look for bodies is in old apartment complexes. That’s where old people die and nobody notices for weeks until the smell builds up. The best part is that the cats will have already starting cleaning the meat off of the bones, so that gives you a head start on burning off biological identification. Finally, if someone finally notices they’re gone, they’ll think they’re missing, which means all attention will be on them, not you.

Referring back to step #2, this is probably why all spontaneous human combustion cases are old people.

4) Get out of Dodge.
Once you have set the body, you need to leave. Immediately.

If your plan was to disappear, great. You’re already on your way. Just don’t book any tickets under your real name.

If you’re waiting to see responses, check into the seediest motel possible under a fake name. Do not stay with a friend, no matter how much you trust them. He or she may not say anything now, but they will in a few years when torture becomes a standard practice again.

5) Back so soon?
Remember when you were 8 and you told your parents that you were running away? (Or remember when your favorite 80s sitcom kid said that?) How far did you (they) get before coming home? It’s very possible you won’t get across the street before giving up.

Do not admit to faking your own death. At best, you will alienate all of your friends and family, which means you’ll have to do the whole thing all over again, only more convincingly. At worst, we’re pretty sure fraud and tax evasion are illegal.

Instead, pretend you went on a spontaneous trip to somewhere without phones, lights or motor cars (we recommend Germany) and say, “You mean you didn’t find my note? It was sitting on my Lay-Z-Boy where you found that burnt body the vandals left.”

Whatever you tell them, let them know in advance that you’re returning. The last thing you want is to be mistaken for a zombie and shotgunned/chainsawed. How embarrassing.

Take it from Snee: Clothes are not the problem

There’s this idea that’s floated around since I was a bald-faced lad (I’m now a scraggly-faced boy-man) that the solution to all of societies’ woes is a dress code. Until recently, it focused exclusively on children, but recent attempts to legislate baggy pants in Atlanta and other states show that we continue to look for a simple solution for a “symptom” as opposed to the problem(s).

The idea that “the clothes make the man” is probably best illustrated by the Looney Tunes. In a particular cartoon, a hats accidentally fly out of a delivery truck and land on Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd. With each hat change, their personality changes: a bridal veil turns Elmer into a blushing bride, while an Army helmet turns Bugs into General Patton.

It’s a great gag, but there are a lot of people who buy into that idea in real life. It ignores the idea that people change costumes to affect the changes they’ve always wanted to make about themselves. A kilt doesn’t make some Scottish, but that person may want to act Scottish, so the image jusitifies doing whatever it is the wearer thinks Scottish people do that is awesome.

So we characterize people based on their clothing because we assume that they interpret their clothes the same way we do. When I wear a kilt, people assume that I’m going to drink, headbutt soccer officials and shag some sheep. In reality, I’m just going to drink, but no more than usual, and I could care less about soccer. I don’t plan to shag any sheep, but who knows where the night will lead? (For the sake of the public and sheep, hopefully not to a farm.)

By replacing the kilt with baggy pants, people assume I’m going to earn a lower GPA, kill whitey and degrade a few women as “hos.” They have no idea that I’m wearing baggy pants because my elephantitis is inflamed again. Instead, they assign the uniform of baggy pants to the thug, that black hip-hop monster that will achieve nothing more than rhyming in rhythm.

What’s their solution? Send me to The Gap for some well-fit khakis, which will not help my swollen testicles. But dressing me up won’t improve my grammar, ethnicity or class (in both senses of the word).

But I’m less threatening in khakis (unless my testicles grow larger from chafing), so the problem can be ignored. I’m not an example of “what’s wrong with America” anymore, but instead look like the people who don’t have said problem. Bill O’Reilly can excitedly compliment me because I didn’t mug or rap at him.

The other basis to the dress code idea is that it will save me some grief because everyone is wearing the same clothes as me; therefore, they can’t decide whether I should be beaten up or not.

As I wore a uniform for three years of Catholic school, allow me to rebut.

People don’t get beaten up for the clothes they wear; they get beaten up because there are assholes who like to beat people up. Assholes will find any reason to kick your ass: your clothes, your stupid face, telling them that you’d like to (lovingly) sodomize their sister, disgraceful taste in wine, poor hygiene, the way you walk, your speech impediment and etc.

In fact, I’ve had offers to rearrange my face my entire life whether I was dressed in a uniform or at the height or most modest standard of fashion. Come to think of it, the only time I haven’t been threatened was when I was naked, but that’s because the guys that would beat me up were too nervous about looking gay by talking to or laying hands on a naked guy.

Even if everyone is dressed the same or–as the proponents call it–appropriately, we always find something to dislike about a person.

In Catholic school, we had to wear predominantly white sneakers, so we made fun of the kid in the dorkiest white shoes. Woe be to the boy who wore Keds or similar nurse-centered attire. We also had a choice between khaki pants or shorts, but, since this was in Hawaii, only losers wore the pants. And, of course, we could still judge a kid by his face, hair, athletic ability, race, nerdish qualities and whether or not he took Communion at Mass. And since we were mostly military brats, there was the inevitable division of officers’ and enlisteds’ kids.

That’s why it is important to not forget the dual-purpose of uniforms: yes, they make everyone more or less the same; but, they also assign rank to that person. This is why we dress prisoners and servants in such a manner–to remind them, and us, of their place. Nobody cares if white CEOs wear relaxed-fit Levis, but it’s an “epidemic” when young people, who frighten us, do. In fact, when guys like Richard Branson do it, they’re “rogues” or “colorful.”

We’re fascinated by simple solutions to life’s complex problems. After 9/11, e-mail messages floated around about General Pershing vanquishing Islam in the Philippines in the early 20th century by burying killed Muslims with pig corpses, which ignores the ongoing clashes with Islam in the Philippines today. Or that by buying everyone in the world a Coke, the world would “stop and chill a while.” Or, my favorite, that by groggily pledging allegiance to a flag every morning, people will become better citizens.

Dress codes follow the same vein of thought. They don’t really solve the bigger problem, nor do they help the person with the problem. Instead, they dress up the person in question so we don’t notice them anymore or are less threatened by them. And the sad part is that it doesn’t work. Ask all the pre-Civil Rights blacks that were lynched in the South despite straightening their hair and wearing ties.

Take it from Snee: ‘Nice guys’ deserve to finish last

Ah, yes: the heartfelt nice guy who wants you to know how much he cares about you by ubiquitously clinging onto you and telling you what’s wrong with your boyfriend.
Every four months or so–basically the beginning of every semster/summer break–I get the same piece of anonymous hogwash titled “To All the Nice Guys” or some other variant. It’s always the same story about a guy who keeps getting passed up by the girl of his dreams for some ambiguously evil “asshole.”

The chief complaint, as if you’ve never read it, is that the nice guy puts in all the time: purse-watching, clothes-advising, hand-wringing and providing a shoulder to cry on. Meanwhile, the asshole, who is presumably responsible for said crying, gets to put his hand under her shirt. It’s not fair! the story whines, so it begs the women of the world to quit dating the “asshole” and date the “nice guy” that wrote this.

Let’s examine the roles of the nice guy and the asshole.

The asshole is the villain in this letter. He’s presumed to be a jock, has perfect teeth and can “get any girl he wants,” so he presumably will use that ability to cheat on the nice guy’s stalkee. Do you see what I see? That’s right: it’s a stereotype.

The asshole isn’t anyone in particular, has committed no particular crime against the woman or nice guy and simply fills the nice guy’s role of “not me.” This stereotype, like all stereotypes, is more damning of the speaker than the target. Therefore, if you are in a relationship, chances are very good that you (yes, you) are an asshole to someone else. You don’t even have to cheat on the woman.

Granted, some assholes are actual assholes. These are typically the guys that act one way to bed a woman, and then transform into an phoneless leacher once the sex gets stale. So, although the writer of this letter is resorting to a stereotype, there could be an actual asshole he fails to mention. However, the letter is black-and-white in this regard: you are either a nice guy or an asshole.

The nice guy in this letter is the token (not-gay) male friend. He’s that guy who’s always hanging out with your girlfriend, buying her Christmas presents on par with/better than yours, taking her out for meals and prying secrets out of her whenever you’re not around. Every time your relationship gets rocky, he’s the one advising her that she “deserves better” (read: him). And why does he dote on her and pretend to be her friend? To get her in the sack.

I know, you’re thinking, “But he’s the nice guy. He wants a relationship.”

The nice guy’s complaint is that he already has the relationship, but no sex. If he was such the understanding friend, he’d realize this woman has no sexual interest in him and maintaining a relationship with such expectations is deceitful. So, by putting on an act to get sex from a girl that’s in a relationship with someone else … Sweet Ringo Starr, the nice guy is actually an asshole!

Now if you noticed a striking similarity between this and every emo song ever written, you’ve won yourself a cigar.

Whether it’s a song by Fall Out Boy, Good Charlotte or Dashboard Confessional, it is the anthem of the duplicitous “nice guy.” The protaganist is that guy who is “trapped in the unbearble sadness” of not having the woman of his dreams. He may have even had a one night stand with the woman, making him “a notch in her bedpost,” but she stayed with her asshole (a.k.a. boyfriend). So what does he do? He whines to anyone who will listen that he’s not getting his due; in other words, he’s bragging in the locker room like an asshole.

But who’s really at blame in this typical tale? The nice guy blames the asshole and maybe the woman. But if he was really a nice guy, wouldn’t he have told her no?

There’s an old concept that “nice guys,” as emo songs and this letter describe them, always ignore: minding their own business. There’s nothing wrong with being friends with a woman in a relationship, but by actively participating in the sabotage of her relationship, he’s butting into a situation that will never work out for him.

With the voluntary androgyny of emo-ness, there’s a pitfall: self-imposed emascualtion. The nice guy in these songs is frustrated by the very role he’s adopted: the token gay friend. In fact, the woman in question might not even notice him because he’s working his way in from the inside as an infiltrator.

If he wants to be an androgynous nice person, there’s a better role model: Emily Dickinson. The emo kid is already on his way there by staying home, writing a lot of poetry and waiting to die alone because “nobody understands him.” But nobody wants to really be Emily Dickinson (not even Ms. Dickinson, according to her poetry), so it’s obvious that this is all an act–a ploy for your undue sympathy.

Let’s just say, for the sake of covering all bases, that the nice guy is, in fact, better for this woman than the asshole. Now let’s look at the letter and emo songs.

If you’re trying to gain the affections of a woman, would you tell her how stupid she is? Both do so in this case, explaining she’s stupid for not dating him.

How about telling her that she’s marginally evil for “playing with your emotions” by being your friend? I’m sure that women love it when you devalue their friendship.

And do you think you’ll really convince her that you’re on her side by calling the man that she might very well love an asshole? Any man who’s tried to tell a woman how to feel will line up to slug you just for being an idiot. Seriously, if she loves the guy, she’s going to defend him and you’ve made the situation even more untenable.

So if you’re sitting at home, IMing a woman to tell her about your latest song or livejournal entry, hoping she’ll figure out that it’s about her and leave her “asshole” of a boyfriend, I got news for you: you deserve to be alone. Give yourself a few more cuts so you can cry about your self-imposed shortcomings, because you don’t know a thing about being nice.

Or here’s an idea: find a woman and tell her how you actually feel. If you can do so without getting maced, you might actually be a nice guy.

Take it from Snee: Impatience is no virtue

Thanks to impatience, rush hour is the slowest time to drive to and from work. Thanks a heap, irony.
To quote your grandparents (let me pull my pants up real quick), what happened to patience? Halloween costumes have been on display since Labor Day; Christmas was apparently pushed forward to February; and election primaries will likely start November this year. Why the rush on profits/screwing that will happen inevitably as scheduled?

Don’t get me wrong, though. You will hear the full fury of my whiny Toyota horn if you sit at a green light. I’d kill my neighbors if it meant my Internet would run faster, which is one helluva feat since it’s cable–tomorrow’s New York Times today! And I get irritable when sitting in the McDonald’s drive-“thru” for 15 minutes, grumbling impotently every week that “I’ll never eat here again.” I also blame my fiance if she doesn’t orgasm in the first 30 seconds of sex; she missed her chance, and that train is flown and sagging.

So maybe I’m just observing my own impatience, but I’m pretty sure everyone else is just as pissed off at slowpokes and hopped up on caffeine as I am (because I was too impatient leveling my LOTRO champion to sleep). I know, I know: I’m taking too long to write this. Calm down and do your breathing exercises.

Here’s an example we’re all familiar with/guilty of: speeding and running red lights.

Just last week, I watched two cars collide head-on right in front of me in an intersection. How close was I? I almost shrilled like a little girl, put my car in reverse and rear-ended the car waiting behind mine at our red light. Fortunately, I didn’t, mostly because I, too, was running late for work, so I was ready for the light to turn green and swerve around the twisted metal. The accident happened because on person was trying to make a left turn before the oncoming traffic reached him. Obviously, he didn’t make it. (Not like that: he was still alive and got out of his car to check on the crying woman in the other car.)

In fact, most of the accidents I’ve seen are because of impatience. That car that inches too far into the intersection, waiting for their light to turn green. The very important person who doesn’t observe red lights. The driver that changes lanes without looking because they missed the turn for Taco Bell, but doesn’t have the time to drive on and turn around at the next light.

Taco Bell, McDonald’s … There’s another example. We’re so impatient that we’d rather eat fast “food” than pack a lunch, eat at home or go to a restaurant with actual biological food bits.

Once that diet makes us fat, we then complain that it’s too hard to get back in shape (e.g., it takes too long). “6 Minute Abs” used to be fast enough, but that’s old news. Duct tape some electrodes to my nipples, staple my stomach to the size of a raisin and lipo off the excess; whatever it takes, make it snappy because my reunion’s next week!

And let’s not forget miracle-bodies by “flaxseed oil.” Body-building is barely a sport anymore if anyone can get the results of years of training (not to mention a roll of the genetic dice) in months. High school athletes are even doping up now to play like professionals, impatient with the natural growth cycle of adolescents.

Do you realize that, at this very moment, a high school freshman is signing an obligation statement to play basketball for a university? The parents are too impatient to let the kid grow up and decide on a career that doesn’t involve a ball and Nikes. The school’s too impatient to wait for atheltes that have spent four years of high school being, well, high schoolers. And the kid’s too impatient to become a millionaire, though who knows what will happen to him in three years. Of course, this is all because the college knows that if they wait too long, he’ll sign his NBA contract before his first blowjob.

Everyone I know from college is getting a huge letdown. We aren’t managers or making six-figures yet. Nobody’s put us on the big screen or published that novel we’re too impatient to type up right now. (Yeah, I should start working on that again.) We’re financing cars and other big ticket items to pay for them later, while paying off student loans, instead of–holy crap–waiting until we can afford them.

So we work overtime and weekends because we were impatient for debt, and our bosses were too impatient to give a realistic deadline to an impatient customer. And if that customer is the government, then they’re impatient because we hastily elected an president in November 2007, who had to rapidly expand the government because he or she was too impatient to wait for weapons inspectors in Sandistan.

Finally, there’s cheating in marriage. I don’t care about cheating in unmarried relationships because the aren’t real commitment other than wishful thinking. But cheating on your spouse because the magic is dead or you want to date again is about as impatient as you can get. Take a note from the past and get a divorce, or–even more patiently–wait for your spouse to die. Hell, even killing your spouse shows more patience because you’ll have to make plans to cover up the body and DNA evidence.

There’s a national barometer for figuring out which human aspects we hold ideal: little girls’ names. Hope, Charity, Constance, Prudence and etc. were names chosen by parents to inspire such behavior in their own lives and/or that of their newborn. If we continue to celebrate and reward haste, it won’t be long before we actually met Impatience.

Don’t worry if you’re too impatient to get to know her. She’ll be drafted because we were too impatient to let democracy naturally evolve in Glassistan (formely known as Sandistan).

Take it from Snee: The flag’s still fabric

From my understanding, the American flag is something to really rally under. There are a number of theories to explain this:

1) Flags are bright and festive, and our flag is no exception. Since it flutters in the wind, too, its spectacle is comparable to television.

2) People died for it, proving that Capture the Flag is really an exercise in patriotism.

3) It’s taller than everyone else, so it’s more prominent than, say, Dabney Coleman. (Does that mean that people would rally under Dabney Coleman if he were as tall as an American flag? Undoubtably, yes.)

So, as the focal point for every gathering in this country, including Cub Scout pack meetings, super-saver sales at Wal-Mart and Klan rallies, the flag has become a sacred object. So sacred that some people in Reno took offense when “a business […] was flying a Mexican flag above an American flag.”

Warning: the article includes a picture of this act, so it might not be safe for work.

In case you aren’t outraged yet, NBC affiliate KRNV-4 was kind enough to also link to the U.S. flag code to prove flying another flag over the American flag “is illegal.”

There are a few problems with this assertation.

First, these laws are about as enforceable as sodomy laws. In fact, no flag desecration case has ever been upheld by the Supreme Court, thanks to the First Amendment. While the current outrage is a symptom of rabid zenophobia of Mexican illegal immigrants, other abuses continue to escape media attention, including those commited by country music stars wearing flag shirts and do-rags.

OMG! An illegally displayed flag on the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Adminstration’s “Ocean Explorer” Web site. In other words, a violation of the United States flag code by the federal government!
Second, the amendments signed by Dwight D. Eisenhower in 1954 apply only to “all buildings, grounds, and naval vessels of the Federal Government in the State, Congressional District, Territory, or Commonwealth.” So any private citizen can fly any flag they choose over their property, much to the dismay of Homeowners’ Associations everywhere. And they don’t have to fly it half-mast everytime a congressperson goes to the great soapbox in the sky.

Third and finally, it’s a piece of fabric. Despite what video games tell us, exchanging flags does not make this business part of Mexico. It makes it the target of off-duty minutemen that haven’t kicked enough brown people around today.

In other words, this really isn’t a big deal. Thanks, NBC, for scaring us over nothing.

Take it from Snee: HPV vaccine enables sinners

But the other 50% deserve it, too.

There’s an ongoing debate about whether to administer the HPV vaccine to young girls before they become sexually active. While this could eliminate one of the primary causes of cervical cancer, which affects moral people who get married and raise preferably Christian kids, there is an undeniable consequence: that is, there is one less consequence for having sex.

That’s why I’m not just against inoculating the young from this disease, but inoculating anyone else for that matter. By treating sexually transmitted diseases, our nation’s health care providers are deliberately undermining our tax-funded abstinence-only sex education.

But the HPV vaccine is the tip of the iceberg. At this very moment, doctors are giving deviants antibiotics to treat syphilis, gonorrhea, Chlamydia and a variety of other non-viral STDs. They are prescribing topical creams and pills to control sinners’ outbreaks of herpes and genital warts. They are even courting Bono and spending further research dollars on a cure for HIV/AIDS, which wouldn’t exist if people had sex with only their spouses.

It may seem inhumane to allow people to suffer from their afflictions, but let’s look at history, which is always on the side of those telling it and, in this case, I’m a-tellin’.

Al Capone murdered his way to the top of a crime syndicate to spread demon rum to the masses, yet he only served time for tax evasion. Fortunately, the good Lord gave him syphilis for his wrong-doing, making sure Al wouldn’t outlive his sentence without a bout of raving lunacy and leprosy symptoms.

After trying to kill the Almighty, Frederick Nietzche was smote from above with syphilis. Guess who’s dead, and, more importantly, who’s still alive.

Jazz legend and the Devil’s contractor, Robert L. Johnson also died from syphilis. If he was so keen on Faustian bargains, you’d think he’d negotiate for a cast iron willie.

And let’s not forget all of the adult film stars that the Guy in the Sky punished with AIDS. God gave us cameras to film picnics and potty training, not the filthy act of fornication.

In conclusion, as every valid point is wont to have, it is vitally important that we maintain a viral/bacterial deterrent for sex. As long as we can point to people suffering from God’s wrath, we can ignore our own natural misdeeds and enjoy a world without sex.

Take it from Mister Snee: We all be needin’ Talk Like A Pirate Day

Happy International Talk Like A Pirate Day, me hearties!

I’ve been celebratin’ this pro’ound holiday for several years, includin’ two columns in The Guys’ old prov’n ground, Radford University’s newspaperrr, The Tarrrrrt’n. It’s been gainin’ interest since the release o’, from all sources, Disney’s and Bruckheimer’s Pirates o’ the Caribbean; but now that the series be over, what perchance should happen to our favorite holiday?

It be a terrifyin’ prospect for considerin’. Once Marilyn Manson became passé, Halloween became all about the infernal Powerrr Rangers again. Christmas only witness’d a massive cultural upswing with the release o’ Reindeer Games, but now ye’d be lucky to find decorrrations as early as June. On the other hand, The Passion o’ the Christ scar’d the bilge out o’ so many lubbers that Easterrr feels like celebratin’ yer first keelhaul. (In other words, undesirable.)

Aye, the faithful shall remain, but be that enough for maintainin’ a sense o’ dignity every September 19?

Some would argue for keepin’ this day exclusive, but it be more important to be sharin’ the buccaneerin’ spirit with mateys at all four corners o’ the charts.

For instance, do ye think the Chinese be free to express their piratical natures? It be laughable to think so. Why, these poor rats be forc’d to shanghai (har!) their way into the Interrrnet for pornography. Yarr, it aggravates the senses further to think that this be happenin’ in plenty other countries to boot!

And take into further consideration the plight o’ the moderrrn cube rat. Most pirates got their start workin’ for The Man (o’ in this historic case, The British Man). They were flogg’d into submission to autocratic rulin’ and had no liberties to speak o’, save their evenin’ ration o’ grog. What did they do? They got fed up and turn’d pirate, they did. But there be no sign on the horizon o’ anyone today takin’ a stand and sayin’ no to extra unpaid hours when they’d rather be home watchin’ Survivorrr.

And, o’ course, there be the recent case of Andrew Case, the young lad that the University o’ Florida Police felt in need of a taserrrin’. Case ‘tis the very example o’ why the old salts left the British Navy in the firrrst place, or why another group o’ lubbers pitch’d tea off o’ diversities into Boston Harbor–“diversities” be meanin’ old, old wooden sailin’ ships.

‘Twere briny depths that day indeed!
I’d be remiss to not point out that the constables were already settin’ Case in shackles b’fore even makin’ him dance with Jack Ketch–all because he broke a rule about not speakin’ out o’ turn in a “town meetin.'”

It be a sign o’ the times. We’d rather be goin’ ’bout our business then be inconvienc’d for one second of unsettlin’ liberty. And why? Because we want to follow the rules and not be getting’ the boot. We’d rather be acceptin’ our pint o’ grog than to be takin’ 40 lashin’s in the public square.

So that’s why it be so blast’d important that this day survive Johnny Depp and Kiera Knightley. It be a fun day o’ confusin’ classmateys and office crewmemberrrs, but it also be a celebration o’ the spirit that originally found’d this nation: captainin’ our own fates, rather than lettin’ some other lifeless lubber do it for us. International Talk Like A Pirate Day cannot remain in our exclusive lot’s coffers, but shar’d with the disenfranchis’d all around us.

Alabama is trying to kill me

I figured I’d post this one before the other guys got a chance: STDs are on the rise in Alabama, and the main culprit is abstinence-only sex education.

Key Quote: “The subject of condoms, under the state course of study guidelines, is not broached, [said state Department of Education spokeswoman Edith Parten].”

The Guys are concerned, not because of the lack of education, but because I’m here in Alabama. That’s why we recommend the following healthy practices:

  • Do not sit on toilet seats in any restroom that isn’t yours. Okay, don’t sit on yours, either. We might be in the neighborhood and need to use it. 
  • Use a giant hamster ball to get around. Absitence isn’t enough. Even AIDS is transmitted through phone handsets, unregulated hugging and tear consumption.
  • Stay out of the doctor’s office. You know what’s in the waiting room? Sick people. It’s like a zombie movie, only with soap operas and Highlights Magazine in the background.

Stay strong, people. But more importantly, stay home.

Take it from Snee: Heroes are meant to be destroyed

I scanned the news all week to find a topic to skewer. Unfortunately, all I could find were stories about the VMAs, fallen politicians and opinions on why the surge is/isn’t working. But I did notice a theme, one that is always in the news, but not always at the same time.

We embrace people for a variety of reasons as icons, emulate/support them for a bit and then dig up the dirt to bury them.

The obvious example here is Britney Spears. I’ve endured her songs in the dorms for the past four years, so I found it fitting that her career was killed not long after I graduated. And maybe most of her downfall was through her own panty-less fiascos, but the American people got tired of her after a near decade and now she’s a has-been.

Then there’s the politicians. We elect these people to office, and then wait for a scandal to get rid of them. Even now, we’re pushing primaries ahead of schedule to send Bush back to his ranch on a permanent vacation … as opposed to all the time he’s spent there so far.

Let’s not forget how high his approval rating was on September 12, 2001. Five years later, he’s no longer a hero. Is that statement incredibly simplistic? You bet. There are a million reasons we don’t like him anymore, whether those are a million illegal immigrants, a million million dollar budgetary defecit or a way overestimate million lives lost in the Iraq War. My point is that within five years of being a hero, he overstayed his welcome in the good guy light.

Heroes never last long because, although they may inspire us to become more, they remind us of our own shortcomings. We appreciate them at first, but then we look at our own lives and wonder, “Why not me?” At first, “why not me” means, “I could do that, too.” But after a while and being sexually molested by a bogus modeling school, “why not me” turns into “I’m not that great, and neither is that person.”

Going back to Britney Spears, we saw a tasty bit of jailbait that swore she was a virgin. She sang, she danced and she gave men guilty boners. Girls wanted to be like her (though I don’t know why), and boys wanted to hit her one time at least, if not once more. She didn’t have a great voice, but she had everyone’s attention. She made me believe that I, too, could be an onstage tease with snakes and back-up dancers.

Like Britney, I’m not a great singer, but people don’t want to see me in pigtails (really, handlebars). The bitch had to go down.

And go down she did, on people that I had grown to dislike for similar reasons: Justin Timberlake, Kevin Federline and Chriss Angel. They’re more celebrities that seem as mildly talented as the rest of us, but why do they get million dollar paychecks and private jets? Why do they get to sit next to Jodie Foster at awards shows when the rest of us have to kill a president for her?

So I enjoyed a bit of schadenfreude when I saw the pictures from the VMAs and read the reviews, announcing her pop tart career over. My dislike of her was vindicated: she’s not as good as me. In fact, now she’s worse than me. Hooray! The hero is dead!

President Bush? Same story, only he has no public speaking ability yet won debates for the presidency. Basically, just re-read the Britney Spears part again, but insert “invade other countries” instead of “Justin Timberlake, Kevin Federline and Chriss Angel.”

That’s how we like our heroes, dead and buried. We need them to become obscure references at parties to seem funny. We need new heroes so we can dress ourselves differently. (Can you imagine if MC Hammer still set the bar on fashion today?) Even Beowulf had to die doing what we loved him best for: killing scary monsters.

And what happens when they finally die and we’re happy again? We eulogize them as if they never did wrong. Try looking up the Nixon obituaries if you don’t believe me. And that’s the role of the hero.