As a somewhat liberal-leaning web site, it’s probably time for SeriouslyGuys to come clean: we’re absolutely at war with Christmas. We tried to keep it under wraps, CIA-style, but, that’s now impossible because of our new amazingly strong president and his very productive tweets. So, yes, Virginia, the War on Christmas is real, and The Guys aren’t going to give up the fight until every American on Earth says “Happy Holidays” and eats a Kwanzaa cake or whatever.
That said, The Guys are sending our thoughts and prayers to Christmas prisoner of war who, like POWs in Vietnam, alerted us to their status through clandestine sign language. In one captive’s forced photo with Santa Claus from 12 years ago, a toddler signed the word for “help,” letting us know both that he is alive and also that baby sign language totally works, you guys.
Mr. Spencer, even though it’s been more than a decade, stay strong. Santa may claim he has leverage through surveillance on you and try to convince you that you are naughty, but that’s just how he wins hearts and minds over here. We have it on good authority that you have been and shall remain on the nice list … provided you don’t give away any of our War on Christmas secrets.
In another decade, the death of who may be this living generation’s greatest example of humanity might have been regarded as a solemn occasion: a time to reflect on his achievements and appraise our own life’s work in comparison.
Fortunately, Nelson Mandela was South African, so that let Americans off the hook.
Instead, we took it as an opportunity to decide who was and wasn’t grieving appropriately and, more importantly, “How is this Obama’s Teapot Dome?” (Having already used Watergate, Katrina, Iraq, and even “Mission Accomplished Moment” to describe the president’s failures, we’re now re-appropriating scandals from the Harding administration.) Oh, and to determine whether the recently ex-living embodiment of dismantling systemic racism was “just another socialist like Stalin, Hitler, and FDR.”
So, on behalf of all my fellow assho Americans, I’d like to thank Mr. Mandela for politely letting us carry on like a pack of baboons for the past several days. A lesser corpse would have rolled through to China by this afternoon after enduring these “stories,” proving just how swell of a guy Madiba was …
While we agree that Willard deserves to be heard (sorry), complaining you’re missing out on the music at a nudist festival sounds (sorry again) an awful lot like claiming to read the articles in Playboy.
The LPGA has just passed a rule that will require all lady golfers to pass an oral (heh) English exam next year. Any two-year members who can’t pass the test in 2009 will face an immediate suspension. This new rule will affect a possible 121 foreign golfers on the tour, especially 45 South Koreans with translators.
As an English-writing blogger and avid viewer of the LPGA, I say GOOD. It’s about time!
I mean, sure: I normally watch ladies’ golf like I watch Rachel Ray: on mute with soft lighting and an oven mitt. While I may not hear them speak dirty, indescribable things to me, I need to know that they could if I ever met them in real life. That means speaking English-lusty, filthy English.
And English is what? American. It’s as American as pizza and bratwurst. It’s been spoken by Americans like Arnold Schwarzenegger, Bruce Lee and Jean-Claude Van Damme since they were first born in small Midwestern towns. Go to any library, and you’ll find the great founding works of our country-the Bible, Montesquieu, the ancient Greeks-all written in one language: English, motherf–ker.
So, I was at Taco Bell for lunch (because nothing is more American than mystery meat and cheese in a flour tortilla). I waited patiently in line, using my time productively by deciding how I wanted my tortilla folded, and when it was my turn to order, I stepped up to the register.
The cashier did not greet me—strike one.
Unphased, I said, “Uh, yes, I would like a number three—soft tacos—with a Pepsi, please.” (Whenever I order, I always make sure to specify all the choices so the waiter doesn’t have to ask a bunch of questions. It lets them know that I appreciate blue-collar Americans and shortens the wait time for other diners.)