Obama Jesus Gear

Update: Cafe Press has their panties in a twist over my Obama Jesus illustration and has temporarily taken the store items down while we haggle over their content usage policy via email.

As of post time and last night’s presidential debate, I am still undecided on who to cast my vote for come November. My opinion of McCain has changed little over the past few months (still an old war dog) and while I like the idea of Obama (the man, not the Messiah), his rabid, cult-ish following makes me not want to vote for him. Case and point: while out knocking back a million beers a few Fridays ago with Johnny Ballgame, an intoxicated young woman approached us at the bar and asked for matches to light her cigarette(s). I handed her a pack from the bar ashtray and idle banter soon segued into “Who are you guys voting for?” which segued into her Barack Obama recruitment routine. She informed us shortly thereafter she had been canvasing the area neighborhood on a grassroots campaign to recruit Independent voters to vote Obama. Annoyed at the fact she broke cardinal drinking rule #2 (no politics) and ruined the excellent buzz I had going, I decided to push her buttons. What followed was an eloquent verbal tirade on my part extolling the virtues of one Ralph Nader and concluding with, “I think that is who Jesus would vote for if he were alive today.” The young woman blinked, took a drag of her fifth cigarette, pointed her finger at me and quipped, “Fuck Jesus! What did he ever do for this world?! Vote Obama!” and then stormed off. This cute story inspired me to create the Obama Jesus campaign. Do my unborn child a favor and buy as much Obama Jesus gear as humanely possible. Daddy needs to buy some Pampers.

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A Catholic Guilt Trip My Grandmother Would Be Proud Of

My friend John is a Catholic so he knows how to lay down a solid guilt trip. Take this email he sent me at lunch, for example:

I had a moment and wanted to share a surreal personal experience, not unlike your dream of advanced aircraft maintenance. I dreamed the other night that I had pimples on my face and one on my left eye (yes the reference to Lisa “Left Eye” Lopez, RIP, comes to mind). Well, I went to pop that bad boy and my eyeball exploded into my hand. According to my understanding of anatomy, the innards of the human eye have the relative volume and consistency of a chicken egg yolk. Little FYI. Then, with a black hole where my eye should have been, I ran around looking for a ride to the hospital. Just thought I would share that with you. I think it was my subconscious wrestling with trying to understand why you would not come out with us on Aaron’s birthday. Thanks for the nightmares, jerk.

John, congratulations on your recent engagement. It is always wonderful to hear big news like that through a third party. Asshole.

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The Weekend That Was

Friday. It is my birthday so I take the day off. I wake up, make some scrambled eggs and bacon and watch Clash of the Titans on the digital cable. My sort of lady and I play nine holes of golf. My sort of lady gives me clothes and candles that smell like pumpkin musk. We crack a Michelob Ultra and toast to my 28th year. After killing three Michelob Ultras each, My sort of lady and I realize that Michelob Ultras go down very smooth. My sort of lady departs to get ready for birthday festivities at Old Chicago. Kaye, Aaron and Johnny Ballgame stop by to check out the town home improvements. We leave for the pub where I drink the night away with family and friends, consuming only two shots (thanks to Monica and an old high school friend Rachel). For the first time in three years of birthday celebrations, I do not wind up face down in some skeezy parking lot in downtown Denver dry heaving on a tree.

Saturday. My sort of lady and I drive to Redstone (20 miles outside of Glenwood Springs) to attend the wedding of a childhood friend she has not talked to in six months. I soon find out why my sort of lady does not talk to aforementioned friend (the term bourgeois princess comes to mind.) Together, we know a total of three people at the wedding. We sit at our table and drink ourselves half blind. I begin to spin yarns to the gullible and uppity wedding guests. My best story begins when someone at the table asks me, “How long have you and your wife been together?” I reply “Six long years,” and then proceed to tell them how we met on the frozen sea ice of Antarctica where we were both studying botany and the psychoactive effects of blue-green algae on the human brain. I am sure to include my harrowing smack addiction and how my wife supported me through the dark times when I brought home filthy drug addicts to fuck and spike the vein with in our basement. I conclude the story with, “I am going to get a drink, anybody want one?” (I told you I am good at weddings.) My sort of lady and I dance. On the drive back to Denver, my sort of lady falls asleep somewhere near Glenwood Springs. She wakes up when I nudge her pulling into our town home complex. She stretches and proclaims, “That drive was so short.” I drove three hours in solitude.

Sunday. My sort of lady and I go for an early morning run as a pre-emptive strike against the assault our digestive tracts will face during the birthday celebration at my parents house. We arrive at my folks shortly after one in the afternoon and are presented with heaping plates of food. On the menu is stuffed shells (shell pasta filled with ricotta cheese and covered in homemade spaghetti sauce) and peach pie. My sisters get me candles that smell like vanilla musk, a candle holder (I begin to think the women in my life called forth a candle conspiracy for my 28th year) and a gift certificate to Old Navy. My parents float me duckets and two books: Ortho’s Home Improvement Encyclopedia and Techniques of the Great Masters of Art. We then head back to my sort of lady’s house and I fix her screen door and hang some mirrors on her walls. I play in a late hockey game and receive my first ever game misconduct penalty. Much like Claude Lemieux after boarding Kris Draper in 1996 and destroying his face, I stand by the hit.

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Silent Death Awaits

Thanks to friend of the MB John Croghan who provided this link, my thoughts are consumed with ninjas. Ninjas; mythical stealth assassins that are masters of the shadows, silently dropping from rooftops and slicing their enemy’s throat only to watch them die in a pool of their own blood and excrement. Before I delve into the ridiculous, I suggest you read about the historical ninja, first. Now, diving into the ridiculous with flippers and a snorkel mask, I recommend this site to anybody who likes one or all of these things: cheerleaders, ninjas, schoolgirls, and nudity. Spend the time to watch the video clips. They will teach you things. Things like cheerleader ninjas do not wear panties.

Here are a few my favorite ninja things:

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