Meet America's newest anti-terrorism unit!

Personally, I think the grotesque combination of Satan's lieutenants and the army of spineless jellyfish currently sliming their collective way through the halls of Congress wasted precious time crafting an un-American bill like this one when such a crack squad at our nation's disposal is blessed with sartorial powers that could goad even the most fervent jihadist into letting his guard down through uncontrollable fits of laughter.

I really have to stop linking the real world with these comical album covers because all I end up doing is creating ulcers and the strong desire to drink heavily both before and after throwing heavy objects against my monitor.

Does anybody remember laughter?

Episode #452*

Some Republican did and/or said something stupid today.
He/she/it is stupid.












More Bush administration crimes came to light.
They suck, and they won't be punished.















It's tough, I know.

But chin up, little buckaroo! One year ago today I started this mediocre blog and here's my gift to you: some putrescent purple prose from my only piece of godawful, overwrought, melodramatic, nightmare-inducing fiction!

Oh.

You wanted wacky album covers instead?















"Patience, grasshopper. Wax on, wax off."
















"Crisp writing does not exist in this excerpt, does it?"
"No, sensei!"
"A well-plotted story does not exist in this excerpt, does it?"
"No, sensei!"
"Good characterization does not exist in this excerpt, does it?"
"No, sensei!"

Given that stuff from that flick is about 180° from the junk below, one would assume I must be drunk for using it. But I'm not, so I don't know what the hell happened to my brain. Do you? I think I'll stick to poetry from now on. I promise. *cue conciliatory music* [what does conciliatory music sound like, an Afterschool Special soundtrack? That reference was lost on all you young types, wasn't it. You millennial wankers get all hot and bothered about Schoolhouse Rock and other assorted cultural artifacts from the 70s like Luke Skywalker hair and your parents were busy getting high behind the grade school gym when that shit was on the tube. Damn whipper snappers.]



[Anyway, for those that don't want to dirty their beautiful minds with the following crap, here's the short version: guy walks past a fancy library, sees a bunch of leaves caught in the wind, then runs to work. Yawn.]

I passed the entrance at no. 58 of the magnificent Imperiale Bibliothèque Nationale, its grand, black iron gates, lifted from some long-lost English gothic novel, allowing me passage those first two Saturdays in Paris to whittle away at my petrifying ennui in the brand new, frightfully welcoming beauty of the Salle de Travail – the theatre of centuries contained in her cast-iron supports, wrought-iron arches, glass roofs and tiled walls, and in her pages housed in that holy place, exquisitely lined upon shelves lorded over by grand scenes of natural joy, Beethoven’s sixth dramatically brought to life each moment in those rich murals of verdant green. I passed uncounted streets, the rues Rameau, Saint-Augustin, Saint-Marc and, rarest of all, some of the very few unmapped alleys that managed to avoid, through some ancient magic, the brutal hand of Haussmann, some clean, some filthy, all paved canals, blurred portals that led to the maze of buildings between myself and my destination, a vertical hex inscribed in stone, in the barrels of active chimneys, in the salt of the earth that laid its lugubrious curse upon every man, woman and child that dared defy the gods to live, work, play, struggle and die here. Even the ones whose flesh never starved, the aimless bodies that I passed on that treeless avenue, they suffered from malnourished spirits nonetheless. Those of us rare souls who had the prescience to recognize this condition could do nothing to save ourselves. Escape from this eternal spell was impossible.

Turning the corner sharply, I shunned going directly left onto the Boulevard Haussmann and paused, my gaze turning right, down the Boulevard Poissonnière and then above. Unfurled from the canopy of clouds, gentle streamers of light fluttered beneath, occasionally broken by the swirling breeze that made the tinted leaves dance to a Spanish guitar melody, unheard save by the dreamers. As I looked up that long street, as I caught the reflection of a man in a window staring back at me, I saw none but the crestfallen. Avoiding him as best I could, I watched those autumnal ornaments, when the air stopped to breathe, have a rest against the limestone, brick and glass, the first daubs of color on an unadorned fresco. After a moment, the air rose again, my sickness temporarily lifted, and the dance began anew; reds, their pulsing veins flush with delight, jumping far and wide; yellows, aglow like a field of daffodils in the sun, pirouetting around statuesque trees and through oranges, their spicy, perfumed steps rhythmically leaping to and fro, barely avoiding joining hands with stately browns that moved not to this tune, but to its own, a lilting waltz, their anxious hearts hiding underneath this poem to imaginary romance. This bewitching joie de vivre abruptly vanished when the whites came, the discarded papers of a wastrel, the garbage of this city, sallow below its artificial beauty. I looked upon the great hall my soul had just traversed, had just felt, the leaves lying as motionless as wallflowers, mastered by the memory of a someone lost long ago.

Leaving the busy intersection, I headed southwest on the Boulevard des Italiens, where, my wondrous reverie apparently over, vengeful discomfort reanimated itself. The shapeless faces of the crowd began to take form; an impression, an emotion, most of indifference; some of those I disliked; some who offended me with their blind allegiance to progress at the expense of truly living; others, those that I loved, those that had disappeared – all by my hand. I ran, miraculously managing to not collide with anyone or anything. I ran when I saw their faces now so clear, their open mouths straining to speak. I ran until I reached no. 15, inhaling with the seeming intent of forcing my lungs to burst out of my chest. Slowly regaining some degree of equilibrium, I calmly exhaled and unlocked the front door, going in to begin another day drowning within an ocean of words.


*oops, almost forgot the accompanying YouTube.

Party time! Excellent!

I said everybody sing. This means you, jailbird. Put down your chicken.
And your two kinds of fruit.

Where didja hide the nukes?

Don't make us hide you.

You're terminated.

A legendary figure in special effects. He'll be missed. And unlike a certain other famous person recently six feet under, he did not help enable a cabal of bloodthirsty neocon warmongers. Although Mr. Winston did direct Pumpkinhead. Oooh, spooky.

Star Trek: The Old Generation

This post will self-publish in 10 seconds.

Oops, wrong TV show.










"Number one, warp factor nine. Engage."

"I'm not Riker."

Still on vacation, chicks and dudes and I'm afraid that if I stop to peruse your wonder-working, reminiscent-of-fable blogs, my lounging about the house important work will never get finished. But isn't that why The Flying Spaghetti Monster created employment?

Drive-by posting

One of the stupid fucking fire alarms is going off at work (hey, you try finding a replacement for a Saturday), and no one can figure out how to turn the fucker off. Where's a scientician (or some earplugs) when you need one?

BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP
BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPINEEDAGUN
BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP
BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPMAKEITSTOP
BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP
BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPSTOPITFUCKER
BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP

On a lighter note (hey, ain't my team, we know we suck -- although we did manage to tie top-ranked Argentina; and you doubted the efficacy of black magic!) Les Bleus, reaching the point of desperation, have dug deep into their bag o' tricks in order to jump start their offense, as stagnant and tepid as Old Europe itself:












"You will score more goals...you will score more goals..."

Barack Obama, proud member of the American Hypnotical Association
since 2005.

Au revoir, suckers!

Curse you, la fin de l'exercice budgétaire®, I was hoping to save these vacation days for my soon-to-be legendary hangover after watching the guilty verdict of Chimpy and his criminal cohorts at The Hague.

Sorry, it's the heat. Anyway, here's the agenda:














And if that fails miserably, there's always Plan B.

"B?"

"Yes. *dramatic pause* B."














Try not to kill anyone while I'm away
'cause I'd also like to have a say.
I'll be back sometime soon
with yet another brilliant post YouTube.
In the meantime, do what's right --
blogs found down to your right.

See how I rhymed right with right?
Betcha didn't see that coming.

If politics was a person, I'd like to set it on fire while laughing uncontrollably at the screams

I've said it before and I'll say it again: this is what happens when you sit down to watch the talking hairpieces.

But Randal, you say, that's a mighty good rant.

Indeed it is, but our esteemed ranter has likely cut 72.6 years off of her life by watching such overheated tripe. And if there's one thing you don't want to overheat, it's tripe. Really loses its flavor and then you're stuck compensating with too much Mrs. Dash.

Being one who is naturally cynical, I haven't come remotely close to embracing the inspirational, feel-good-campaignism of the Senator from Illinois. Just ain't my gig. Of course, being one who is naturally not inclined to overtly militaristic imperialism, the jackass from Arizona garners support in the negative. By default, I trust the average politician about as far as I can throw them, and I haven't been all that strong since I got off the flaxseed oil. Even pressing triangle, circle or square has become somewhat of a chore. The verbal smackdown by Barack Hussein X of Holy Joe, a truly contemptible and vile excuse of a homo sapien, was, however, quite enjoyable -- keep it up, young man, and you may yet win me over to indifference. Even more enjoyable was my (and other's) representative's on-the-floor crusade/jihad for impeachment that I know will end up going nowhere.

Yes, Lack O' Votes Brigade and the We Hate The Perfect Coalition, I understand your viewpoints, and even sympathize on rare occasions when I'm drunk or voting or voting while drunk. What I don't get are the 40-50% of Americans -- a greater amount than the crazy few still counting themselves as followers of Satan's puppet -- who don't support impeachment at all -- are you fucking blind, been living in a cave on Mars for eight years or merely passed out because of painful gastrointestinal problems caused by salmonella-infested tomatoes? Only $5/gallon gas truly boils your blood, the reasons for the price increase be damned? -- nor the cowardly and/or evil fucks of both parties that waste time in Congress investigating my fellow juicers or documentary filmmakers. (I dare not bother with the well-coiffed assholes at all; they're as helpful to the discourse as bovine spongiform encephalopathy is to good health) No, wait, I do understand them, as do you. All too well. But please, do not waste precious time defending either of these groups.


They don't deserve it, but we certainly deserve the government we have. A shame we cannot excise the 25 percenters from polite society like we aren't doing with the creators of this planned clusterfuck. I know that doesn't sound uniquely American. Big deal. I had no control over where I was born. If I had popped out in Gaza, I'd probably be a suicide bomber. If I had crawled into existence in France, I'd likely be topped by a beret (socialist, not raspberry) while writing bad existential poetry along the Seine.

Our outdated, two-party system doesn't work. Another uniquely unAmerican statement. I'd love to consistently vote third party, but unless you have a foolproof plan for a grand cultural shift, good fucking luck with those guys in any kind of national election. Folks like George Wallace, Ross Perot and Ralph Nader were the anomalies that proved the rule, and none of them had a legitimate shot at sitting in the Oval Office. Ever.

Oh, Randal, stop helping to prop up a broken system.

I will, when one of the major parties stops nominating candidates who count bombing, unfettered money worship and invasion of privacy instead of feathers, body oils and champagne three-ways as fetishes.

Look, we're a winner-take-all nation. Despite the lip service played to the underdog, America loves a champ; it's forced into our collective social DNA from birth. Don't believe me? How much Yankees and Red Sox paraphernalia do you see compared to the Brewers? Did you already forget the choking jingoism after 9/11? Shining city on a hill, hear us march on down to stomp you out of existence so we can steal your take our resources 'cause we're the greatest thing since the invention of the sandwich, motherfuckers.

I am legion, for we are many.

Everyone not the boss is quickly forgotten (unless you're the Buffalo Bills) because we're all trying to be the boss. There is a deeply ingrained expectation, and acceptance, of a bipolar world.

"My, what simplicity you have!"

"All the better to eat you with my dear!"

Yes/no, either/or, up/down, left/right, man/woman, red/blue, ketchup/mustard, good/bad, us/them. Nothing changes overnight save which B-movie you're watching on cable while sprawled out on the living room couch, bloated from too many bags of Funyuns.

Of course, this would all be solved if we had a parliamentary machine with a distinctly European flavor instead. Tell me you aren't salivating at the mere thought of bitching about an entirely different set of problems!



















Those marching suckers were pissed off over, not an obvious transformation into a full-fledged rogue nation, but beef. Beef. Too bad this would never happen here. Protest and survive? Bah.

In a few decades, humanity is going to look back and wonder what the fuck we were thinking by not kicking these lunatics out of office. Oaths just aren't what they used to be.

I wonder how psycho the next one will be.

And remember, if paranoia about losing the election had/has/will have you against it, fret not, mes amis. We can still lose, trials and DOC inmate numbers or not. Place faith in the American voter and affiliated electoral contraptions at your own peril. I will not be joining you. Unless you're buying. I warn you though, the green fairy is expensive.

"Fool me once, shame on you. You fool me, can't get fooled again."

Oh, but we can.

Crime does indeed pay, you and your predecessors proved that.

You didn't think I put that up there for shits and giggles, did you?

Speaking of crime -- boy, am I the Master of the Segue -- a comment by Divajood in the Miami Vice post from this past weekend got me thinking. Most album covers that should -- if there were any justice in the world, and we know there isn't -- be illegal are usually associated with equally repulsive music, regardless of genre. But, within your personal collection, are there any putrescent sleeves stealthily hiding exquisite music?

I'm not talking ones that call forth neither good nor bad feelings, ones that fail to conjure venomous hatred and loathing, but ones that are, frankly, embarrassing. Until you spin the disc. See, even the greats fuck up.

My choice: one of my all-time favorite albums, a completely underrated classic within the primordial metallic soup that was the 1970s that one wouldn't know merely by looking at the disco inferno duds worn by Messrs. Butler, Iommi, Osbourne and Ward. I blame the drugs.

















Top that.

Kicked in the Teeth*

"C'est ridicule ! Les Bleus onlee von a tie vith zee Romanians! I vill get to zee bottom of zis! Je ne souhaite pas embrasser ma soeur ! Mais, au moins nous ne sommes pas AC/DC !"


















"How do you thinka we feel? We losto to the Dutcho! Ruberemo il loro cioccolato! Almeno non siamo AC/DC!"



















"High voltage rock and roll selling out!"

*What, you expected something thought-provoking? Like I was going to watch talking hairpieces or turn the computer on over the weekend. Silly humans.

"Make Me Vomit"

Not pictured: Crockett and Tubbs.

The Adventures of Barack Hussein X

"Remember what I did to that punk ass, Lieberman?"

"My friends, I have to go to the bathroom."

Housewifehusband log: Stardate XXX*

If the XXX doesn't grab your attention, I don't know what will.

Free gas for a year!

Eat some beans. As you will see, there's a distinct lack of erotica. Sorry.

Closet prude!

No, that's where I keep my stash of porn. I am indeed truly sorry.
Here you go:


















Oh, Alessandra. Sigh.

Je m'excuse, Flying Nunly, you'll find no beefcake here.



















"My friends, don't I count?"

Of course not. Anyway, you have zero time for striking a pose; isn't there an election to steal? Since we're on the subject of kleptomania, the reason for thieving, for the second time in a week, a post title from the inscrutable and groovetastic Freida Bee is three-fold:

1. I'm off today, and when I'm off, I'm even lazier than normal; thus, not using whatever small reservoir of energy I still possess to think of a clever title on my own. To my credit, eventually waking the slumbering powers of my brain, I did manage to change it from wife to husband because, though I do sometimes cry during certain movies and crying is about the most womanly thing there is, I piss standing up.

2. Despite my penchant for slackitude, there is plenty o' laundry to wash and fold, so I will be, in a certain sense, playing house. And once we've shuffled the kids off to school, my sometimes-better-half and I can play doctor in the near 90° heat.

Gee, this post is even sexier than I had envisioned.

3. I couldn't think of a third thing, so read my NBA Finals preview.

Hey, where are you going?

Ungrateful bastards.

















Woo. How exciting. Celtics and Lakers. Golly, I hope we see Michael Jordan at courtside! That would make the experience super duper special! Anyone have a bucket or an industrial-size paper bag?


















"Lakers...Celtics...oh, yeah."

Dammit Stern, not again. Would someone get him a towel?

Here's what we know: the Celtics can win on the road, which in these playoffs, came as a surprise. The Hawks beat them three times, for Satan's sake. The Pistons can lose at home, which is their recent modus operandi. My bad for giving them the benefit of the doubt. Flip, you're flopped. The Lakers can win if they're playing a predominantly older team. The new-and-not-improved Big Three aren't young pups. The Spurs can lose if Manu Ginobili suddenly misplaces a leg. And what was with giving up not one, but two 17+ point leads? Assholes.

Ray Allen finally showed signs of life as the series rolled on, Paul Pierce played magnificently on the road in a game that would clinch a Finals berth and Kevin Garnett was workmanlike. The problem? Since acquiring Pau Gasol, the Lakers, including the postseason, are 40-12. Kobe has indeed been spectacular, but Los Angeles doesn't make the ultimate round without that outright theft of an all-star calibre player for a never-was, a couple of never-will-bes, a corpse and some draft picks. Fuck you, Memphis.

In the regular season, Boston won by an average scoring margin of 10.3 points/game, the highest such mark in the NBA since the 1996-97 Chicago Bulls. In other words, they were really good. The Lakers weren't slouches themselves, winning by 7.3 points/game, third in the league. In the postseason, however, the Lakers have maintained such excellence, winning by 6.4 points/game, not too shabby at all considering the much better opposition. Yes, that leads all playoff squads. The Celtics have fallen back to 4.3 points/game, and were even outscored in one series -- by the Cavs. Grumble.



I'm with you, Herm, but the best indicator of future success is the points/runs/goals you score and allow, not your W-L record. And that, unfortunately, is what I have to make my prediction on, not the fact that Boston won 66 games beating up on scrubs like Miami, Charlotte and the rest of the Atlantic division. The Celtics certainly don't look like that steamroller anymore, do they?

Rooting for the city of Boston to win another title is akin to rooting for a Republican in anything, but I'd much rather see Kevin Garnett, for example, hold the Larry O'Brien trophy above his head than a guy named after a fucking steak. At power forward, Top Sirloin Rosenberg! Morons. Like this guy: McHale the GM was quite the opposite of McHale the player, and that, not The Logo, is who Garnett had to work under for so many years. And I didn't see a Hall-of-Fame calibre center thundering across the Land of a Thousand Lakes either.

One more, not often voiced, reason to root for the Celtics is the way they arrived at this juncture. How many times have we seen a team trade away serviceable, if not outright quality, veterans for so much young, untapped talent, draft picks, cap space, you name it? And how many times has that blown up in that team's face? Boston said, fuck no, good people of Massachusetts, let's get some old dudes and make a run. Sure, we'll be capped out and we'll lose some young players in the process, but these guys already know how to play. If the Celtics win the title, then more teams will likely follow The Dogma of Herm. For us basketball junkies, that means no more Jonathan Benders, Stromile Swifts and Kwame Browns controlling your fortunes! More blockbuster trades! Not for the future, but now! Crazy hedonism! Live for the moment! Pass that stash! Run around the house naked! If you're not trying to win a championship, you're in the wrong business! I'm looking at you, Donald Sterling!

So, drunken leprechauns dancing in the streets? Sad to say for those of us with a soul that hasn't been charred to a fine crispy texture because we're not cursed to find habitation in the sweltering concrete and plastic heap that is the City of Angels, that won't happen. Lakers in six. Fuck it. KG, Defensive Player of the Year, baby!








"Celtics in seven!"


*sorry, FB, today it's DefCon 1.

The times they are a-changin' (a little, anyway)

The band that divides metalheads like no other -- there, that ought to scare everyone off even more than a sports post ever could -- which is coming tomorrow, muahahahaha, etc. -- are they the White Castle of headbanging, love 'em or hate 'em? -- has returned with their ninth full-length, Watershed. An audacious title, no? Or an entirely accurate one unrealized upon first glance? Neither their most brutal album, nor their most mellow, it's unquestionably their furthest exploration into the depths of 70s progressive rock, one of their creative foundations, nearly as equal in importance as thunderously sick metallic riffs. And it's unmistakably their most layered, their moodiest.

Coil rises up, a jarring shock to the system used to the rolling, viciously sprawling ten-minute power chord-saturated openers of the past such as The Moor, Advent and The Leper Affinity, to instead strike with three minutes of dark neo-folk guitar and narcotic voices, those of mainman Mikael Åkerfeldt and guest Natalie Lorichs, surreptitiously dragging us ever so delicately down into the bleak.

And what is bleaker than the sludgy darkness announcing the doom awaiting the Heir Apparent? A crushing riff, the eerie tinkling of piano keys, the triumphant return of said riff layered with corrosive death metal vocals. All these trappings of the genre are expertly woven within each measure. Oh, when you reach the bridge, toss in a few jazzy snare hits underneath a smattering of ambient guitar and don't forget the machine-gun percussion and snarled lyrics leading to the hypnotic denouement where, wrapping up the proceedings, guitar lines are stretched to the limits as to let the emotion pour forth as blood from a fatal wound. Thanks.

Yeah, the song is pretty fucking good.

Amidst the plethora of seemingly ephemeral, if not outright jury-rigged and glued-on wanderings -- the constant fluctuation between light and shade, heavy and soft -- an Opeth song is nothing but a teleological argument; there is a purpose, despite the inane ramblings of troo kvlt partisans: human feeling, and all its hues -- and the world contained therein -- is examined. The gentle hum of a troubadour before the off-kilter juxtaposition of clean vocals over blastbeats followed by deathly ones over more standard, yet still galloping, fare, trading jabs over a bedrock of propulsive riffing, meandering off course, shipwrecked on shores lapped by waves of barely audible, resonating keys and green, verdant guitar, the land of The Lotus Eater, a drama spiraling out of control, captured in an awkward, descending chord progression that mutates into a neo-funk riff before pushing back into the uncertain future, the possible end of one's world.

The hours of that world contain our Burden, and the notes growing within display the full flower of the band's longtime progressive leanings. Shadowy, emotional lines create an ethereal panorama inhabited by a searing Fredrik Åkesson guitar solo, the presence of a rippling organ line; this is saddened Deep Purple and melancholy Yes filtered through one of the foremost purveyors of Scandinavian death metal at their most despondent. The guitars fade until only one remains, fluttering into discordance and accompanied by an understated laugh, a lost character from the mass of lunacy at the beginning of Black Sabbath's The Writ, chuckling at our pain.

That pain is released with the inevitable shattering of those with a Porcelain Heart. Pregnant with a forlorn temperament, the murky, gothic sentiment of black walls closing in around us, faint whispers of deeds we've done, the ghosts of our past, those memories of loss, calling to us in soft, single notes between torrents of undulating, disjointed chords and wordless harmonies before the opening motif's reprise, a declaration that such despair cannot be vanquished.

A monochrome underpinning gently giving way to the veils of a dreamy Technicolor kitchen-sink prog workout, Hessian Peel wonderfully displays the largest improvement over the last album, the far better utilization of the keyboards. They never dominate proceedings but provide atmosphere, context and when necessary, epic sweep along the gently ascending guitar riff, climbing the beautiful, sloping, yet neverending meadow before settling at last on the rock of abrasive death metal on which the song pivots. And which should have been a bigger piece, you goddamn bastards.

Reading the song titles, I expected this to be an excursion into violence. Though the subject matter -- as is the case with every Opeth song -- isn't full of fuzzy little bunnies, the dynamic of Hex Omega never fully opens up, merely teases, threatening to burst. Executing such a construction often fails with spectacular results, but here it works and the song is growing on me with each listen. Quiet into loud with classic, vaguely eastern-sounding metal riffs arriving before a shift into a sweep of keys that guide us to the end of the piece with it's fuzzed-out guitar and marching, insistent drumwork.

Ask Norway's monumental Enslaved about purists, those of the black metal variety in their case, laying childish complaints -- based in ever-weakening attachment to some long-dead school of the old descending further into the recesses of history -- at their feet and how that impacted their natural musical progression not one iota. I'm sure the death metal weenies out there will find plenty to bitch and moan about here, but Opeth are not Suffocation, nor Deicide, and they never were. It's quite convenient to leave Silhouette or To Bid You Farewell or Credence out of the equation, isn't it. I myself would be remiss in not admitting that I wouldn't have minded another steroid injection or three of Blackwater Park or Demon of the Fall-style brutality, and after the addition of a full-time keyboardist -- and with three years of retrospection, the partial (for them, from their lofty creative perch, anyway) misstep of Ghost Reveries -- one could be justified in clinging to a wary nature. Yet to look back once more upon that musical landscape, the previous album was still among, if not the, best releases of 2005; that's simply how high Opeth have set the bar. Their 'fuckups' would proudly be the masterworks of others. Lessons learned, gentlemen. Watershed does its moniker proud.

Mexed Missages

Aren't those of a southern persuasion supposed to hate the French?
Sarkozy the American never ceases to work his Gallic magic!
Vive le Sud, I guess.

Cajun powers, activate!

Great, now I have images of Justin Wilson going cai-yonne! on-yon!
I gar-on-tee! Help!

It Takes a Nation of Hundreds to Hold Us Back

Or just a few if they're armed with semiautomatics.
Or if they catch us sleeping. Or hungover.















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