V FOR VENDETTA

Several years ago, I read a graphic novel by the name of V For Vendetta, written by Alan Moore and illustrated by David Lloyd.  To be honest,  I don’t really remember much of the original storyline because at the time, I wasn’t overly impressed with the comic book tale of a London-based terrorist out to free the masses from a totalitarian regime.  That was mainly because the pacing was dry and storytelling style felt as if it was going all over the place (I later found out that was due to there being long delays – sometimes years – between the publication of chapters).   

Last year, I had heard that the Wachowski Brothers were planning a big screen adaptation of the novel.  This wasn’t totally surprising, since another novel by Moore, Watchmen , had a huge impact on the Matrix trilogy.   

Almost immediately, the production of the film was bogged down with problems: The lead role of V had to be recast due to the original actor’s alleged problem with alcohol.  Alan Moore demanded to have his name taken off of the credits due to the Wachowskis changing vital elements of his original story. 

Shortly into post-production, re-shoots were needed to fill storyline gaps.  The premiere was delayed for several months, allegedly because of the terrorist bombings in London, though rumor had it the studio dumped it into the first quarter of the year because of low test-audience reactions. But according to Rolling Stone magazine, the main problem was that one of the Wachowski brothers was becoming a Wachowski sister.   

Needless to say, when curiosity forced me into the movie theater I was expecting to be disappointed by yet another horrible movie based on a comic book.  As the lights dimmed, I was cursing myself for throwing away more money to these idiots, encouraging them to make more bad movies.  So I was surprised to find that the finished was as amazing as it was.   

First off, there were several things about the movie that I didn’t like.  For example, how is V supposed to kick all that limey ass when that mask would be blocking his peripheral vision?  But the thing that bothered me the most was, as it turns out, the main reason Moore didn’t want to be associated with the movie – the ham-fisted political message.  The film is a thinly veiled attack on conservative America, complete with a overly religious head of state who uses fear to control the population.   

While I can hardly be considered a fan of the current administration or their policies, this film comes off as being an extremely naive piece of propaganda.  Oh well, that’s par for course when it comes to political discussions these days, where being right is no longer considered as important as proving the other guy wrong.   

But on the other hand, the in-your-face nature of the film was what was so great about it.  Even if you don’t agree with the allegories, it’s impossible to just passively sit there without getting involved with the story.  In fact, I am willing to believe that the more a viewer disagrees with the messages, the more this film will cause that person to think, leading that person to have a conversation about their opinions.  

And that’s because this film is something that’s almost unheard of – something original coming out of a Hollywood studio.    In the days where it seems as if every movie is either a remake, a sequel, or a cheaply produced piece of garbage out to exploit a target audience, this movie stands as a rare gem and should be seen by all people, regardless of their beliefs.  While most films are quickly forgotten and disposed of in the clearance aisle, this movie actually takes chances and it deserves to be rewarded as such.

 

MAN… THAT ELMO GUY IS REALLY STARTING TO CREEP ME OUT…

   This past Christmas, I was yet again forced by my father to visit my step-sister’s house in exchange for my yearly check.  While there, I decided to passed the time between dinner and the annual alcohol induced family arguments by spending some quality time with my step-mother’s grandkids.  Actually, I was just trying to hide out for a little while – I wasn’t yet ready to take part in the usual forced, uncomfortable conversation about why I don’t want children, or why I haven’t even bothered to show up to church for well over a decade.  The kids just happened to be in the room I was hiding in, where they were watching two new Sesame Street videos.  And boy – were those videos eye openers.

The first disk the little crotch droppings put in the player was entitled Sesame Street: Friends To The Rescue.  In case you haven’t heard of this, this is the special DVD put out for parents to help them explain the tragedy of Hurricane Katrina.  And while it might not be quite as blunt as MY explanation of nature (Where I explain to the children how the Gulf of Mexico being a little wider is just further proof that God hates poor people.), it certainly is harsh.    I was expecting the video to simply be an annoying throwback to my childhood, full of irritating singing, dancing and life lessons, given to you by little puppets.  Instead, I was presented with what was a way-too-accurate reproduction of the storm’s devastation and aftermath, presented by Jim Henson’s workshop.  I wanted to watch Cookie Monster go through another period of binging and purging, instead I got to watch Oscar the Grouch floating down the street in his garbage can before being swept out to sea.

I wanted to nostalgically look at Big Bird explain to people how Snuffalufgus really is real, I didn’t want to watch him tearfully hold up a missing poster with a photo of the hairy beast on it. I used to love the goofy nature of Ernie, so you could have imagined how shocked I was to find out he had to spend several days in the bus stop, forced to loot because of the slow government response.  Hell, I’d have settled for one of Elmo’s stupid "Tickle Me" songs, instead I got to watch him rant at a Sesame Street telethon about how George Bush doesn’t care about Muppets.

But as traumatic as that video was, nothing could have prepared me and the young semen-demons for the next video, Elmo Visits The Doctor.  We all figured we were gonna be in for fifty-five minutes of Elmo acting like a spastic mongoloid while trying to tell kids that there’s nothing to be afraid of when they go to the doctor, along with more singing and dancing, all of which would be brought to us by the letter 6.  Now don’t get me wrong – it was all of that, only I had no idea it would prove to be so disturbing.

 ***SPOILER ALERT***

   It starts off with Elmo complaining of an ache in his ear.  Some nice, culturally diverse lady notices this and make an appointment for him at the local doctor.  When he gets there, the doctor uses one of those scope thingys to look into his ear canal and notices a large blockage.  She tries to remove it, first with a cotton swab then with a pair of tweezers, but she can’t seem to get it unclogged – Don’t worry, she makes sure to bill Elmo’s PPO for the full cost of the procedure.  After an X-Ray proves inconclusive, she orders Elmo to go to a technician for a cat scan, which reveals the horrible truth – Elmo Has Cancer.

   Through a series of song and dance routines, we get to watch Elmo go through both chemo and radiation therapy.  After awhile, Elmo starts to look pretty bad as a result of the treatments.  All of his red fur falls out, he’s reduced to almost skin and bones, and has a mouth full of canker sores.  But bless his heart, he managed to keep his spirit intact and displays it by prying himself out of his gurney for one last song to all of his friends.  Well, at least he tried to, until the physical exertion of standing upright and dancing caused him to cough up what appeared to be a rather large amount of blood.  The program ends with a somber procession down Sesame Street, where even Burt gets a little choked up.

   Needless to say, I found the afternoon’s entertainment more than a little unsettling.  Not only did these two videos give me the eeby-jeebies, but the kids were crying themselves into hysterics.  But after thinking about them for a couple of days, I find myself having to give both DVDs a solid five out of Bulldogs’s five nubs (Christ, I sure hope Bulldog was talking about his fingers when he coined that phrase – I’ve already got enough complexes to deal with…).  Now I’m sure you’re asking yourself how I could give something so possibly traumatic a positive review.  And the simple truth is that this was the first time in what seems like forever that the producers of children’s programming didn’t treat their audience like they were simple idiots (Don’t get me wrong – your children ARE simple idiots, but a change of pace is always refreshing).  Instead, they show them that sometimes the world can be a pretty cruel place, and every once and awhile, bad things happen to good people.  Well,  in this case, bad things happen to… whatever the hell Elmo was supposed to be.  Treating the little bastards like this shows them that you respect them enough to think that they can handle such material.  It gives them an opportunity to grow as individuals, and if you want your little money vacuums to grow up with some character, you could do far worse than letting them watch this.

 

TOMCOE’S REVIEW OF CD’S THAT HAVE ALREADY BEEN OUT FOR A LONG TIME, BUT HE’S JUST NOW GOTTEN AROUND TO LISTENING TO THEM

Family Guy: Live In Las Vegas

   I suppose I should get one thing out of the way before I start my review on this album, and that is acknowledging the fact that I’m a huge fan of the show Family Guy.  Whatever Seth MacFarlane puts out, I’ll give it a chance, and with a few exceptions (Like – ahem – the god awful, ham fisted American Dad), I’ll usually enjoy it.  Any show that has clips like these would have to produce an album funnier than anything on television or in the movies.  So it was with great excitement that I illegally downloaded this soon to be classic album.

   Looking back, maybe it was due to that excitement that I not only found this album so disappointing, but the only way I could have possibly liked it any less would have been if I had accidentally not paid for the edited "clean" version instead.  Not only is this album not funny, there are spots that get downright annoying.  If dick and fart jokes are your thing, then by all means, feel free to waste your time listening to this.  Myself, I used to love that kind of low-brow humor, but then I turned 12.  A song like "All Cartoons Are Fucking Dicks" might give you a slight chuckle when you read the title, but once you get beyond that and start to listen to the actual song, it’s apparent that the writing here is just plain lazy.  And I’m sorry, but there’s only so many times I can hear about Stewie’s bowel movements before it gets old.  (For God’s sake, this is coming from a guy who just recently posted an article laughing at the name of hunting products because they sounded dirty.)

   Worst of all, there are moments in this CD that are just plain tedious.  It’s bad enough that MacFarlane & Co. seem to have reduced one of the most clever shows on broadcast television to nothing but lazy humor, but they seem to have adopted the philosophy of "If it’s funny once, it’ll be even funnier if we do it 10 times in one song".  The worst example of this is Track #9, T.V. Medley , which lasts in excess of ten minutes, consisting of nothing more than Brian the Dog and Stewie singing the theme songs to shows like Family Ties.  Hey, as long as they were trying to get laughs from material that they didn’t write, they should have read aloud from the script where Alex P. Keaton gets addicted to amphetamines.  That would have been comedy gold, folks.

   This CD is nothing short of a trainwreck, with no apparent thought put into any aspect of its production.   While listening to it, I got the sense that the only reason the thing was released in the first place was so MacFarlane could score a quick cash-in while his show’s still popular.  My advice would be to avoid this mess at all costs, especially if you’re a die-hard fan of the show.  If that’s the case, then do yourself a favor, and stick with comedy albums from shows that know how to handle the format (Such as The Simpsons: Songs In The Key Of Springfield , or South Park Presents: Mr Hanky’s Christmas Classics.)  Or better yet, hunt down anything by Scottish comedian Billy Connolly.  In case you who don’t know who I’m talking about, he’s the guy who replaced the original teacher on Head of the Class , and later portrayed El Duce in the now-classic Boondock Saints .  Yes, he has more than his fair share of dick and fart jokes, but his delivery is some of the funniest stuff you’ll ever hear.

Wonderland: Original Motion Picture Soundtrack

   For a better soundtrack, I would recommend the one put out a few years ago in support of the film Wonderland .  For those of you who haven’t seen the movie, it’s an account of infamous porn star John Holmes (portrayed by Val Kilmer, who turns in what may very well be the best performance of his career) and his alleged involvement in one of the most brutal murders in Los Angeles during the 80′s. 

   In this movie, the audience gets a pretty clear picture of what the real-life Holmes was like, which was basically a manipulative, abusive, free base addict.  (But hey, at least he was a manipulative, abusive free base addict with a giant dick…)  Because of his habit, he eventually falls in with the wrong crowd, and the next thing you know, Christina Applegate and one of the guys from O Brother, Where Art Thou get their heads bashed in with lead pipes. 

   The easiest way to describe this movie is to think of it as the polar opposite to Boogie Nights, which was actually loosely based on the life and times of John Holmes.  (Yeah, you know that part when Dirk Diggler tries to rip off that creepy guy with all the coke, who then kills that guy who played the Punisher?  Well that scene was inspired by the events depicted in this film.)  In Boogie Nights, you’re shown both the bright and dark sides of the porn industry, with all the characters eventually overcoming their personal demons.  Well, that’s great for that film, but in this flick, there is no bright side, there’s hardly any reference to the porn industry, and it seems as though Holmes himself is the demon, turning the lives of all who get near him to shit.

   But the best aspect of this movie is that it doesn’t treat the viewer as if they were idiots.  Rather than spoon-feeding you with information, the filmmakers present the story as two opposing accounts of the slayings as told in a series of interviews to the two detectives assigned to the case.  By the time the it’s all over, the writer and director leave behind a lot of loose ends, half truths, and downright lies, forcing the audience, like the investigating officers, to sift through it all before they can make up their own minds.

      Abe summed up the movie perfectly when he said he felt the need to take a shower after he watched it the first time.  The atmosphere conveyed in the film is that palpable.  So, when I got the soundtrack, I was prepared to be disappointed.  I expected it to be like most other soundtracks.  In other words, nothing but a collection of loosely strung together songs that have absolutely nothing to do with one another.

   Well, I don’t know if it’s due to the sequencing of the tracks or because of the impression I was left with from the movie, but in my opinion, this is easily the best soundtrack since Pulp Fiction.  And that’s in large part due to the fact that this disk exceeds where so many other soundtracks have fallen short.  From the moment you put this album in your CD player and hear John Holmes say that he’s gonna tell you a story called "Wonderland", you get the same feeling you did from the movie – everything from a sense of over-stimulation (T-Rex’s "20th Century Boy" ), paranoia ("In Every Home, A Heartache" , by Roxy Music), excess and aggression ("Search and Destroy" by Iggy and the Stooges) with a brief moment of pure joy, just to throw you off balance ("Faith To Arise" , sung by Terry Reid).  Plus, it doesn’t hurt that it’s loaded with nothing but songs from one of modern music greatest eras – the late Seventies and early Eighties.  And hey, in my book, if you can find a CD that successfully combines Ted Nugent and Gordon Lightfoot, you’ve got a winner on your hands.  You might have to do a little bit of hunting for this one, but if you see this album – buy it.

 

THE BIBLE GAME: A REVIEW

   As you may have read, I have been getting rather fed up by the state of video games lately.  They either have weak storylines, show gratuitous violence and sexual behavior for their own sake, or worse yet, both.  For a long time now, I have been looking for a game that would instead offer uplifting morals for not just me, but for my non-existent family, as well.  Luckily, the programmers at Crave Entertainment must have heard my pleas, because – just in time for Christmas – we have The Bible Game .

   Based on the greatest story ever told, the game is divided into two segments.  In the first segment, based on the Old Testament, the player assumes the role of God itself in a scenario reminiscent of older games such as Sim City and Sim Planet .  Gamers face challenges such as building up several species, only to screw things up by eventually working their way up to humans.  Well, actually, it only takes six days in the game to get to this point.

From this section of the game on, it’s well advised that the player has more than a passing knowledge of biblical myths, as the game then shifts gears slightly and presents them with scenarios based on the scripture.  The storyline progresses when the player directs the actions to play out as they do in the actual bible, such as making sure some random guy named Job loses his family and his fortune, as well as his clear complexion, all for the sake of God winning a bet against the devil.  Included in this game are wholesome, family friendly plot devices including the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah , where you’re allowed to firebomb two cities worth of innocent people, simply because you don’t agree with their lifestyle.  Other story lines include trying to convince some random guy to kill his kid in order to prove how much he likes you, as well as the story about two sister who are convinced that they’re the last people on earth, so in order to repopulate the species, they get their father drunk and seduce him (Hey – I’m not making this stuff up).  (On a side note, the descendants of those two sisters are now living in southern Kentucky, where they are currently petitioning the Vatican to name the late Dale Earnhardt as the patron saint of chewing tobacco.)

After running through the first segment of the game, players are able to unlock the second, more exciting part of the game, subtitled Grand Theft Cart: Jerusalem – New Testament, Same Attitude.  Here, the player assumes the role of The Lamb Of God, otherwise known as Jesus of Nazareth. The storylines are nothing if not accurate, only they’ve been updated to appeal to today’s youth market.      A key part of this second half of the game involves the gathering of Jesus’s disciples,  as later on you find yourself in a gang war with your dreaded rivals, the Temple Elders .  Missions include going on a roll-by stoning, stealing donkeys, as well as making sure that Mary Magdalen is on her corner everyday, so she can give Jesus his fifty percent.

All in all, this game fully represents all that which is good in the good book, with the action coming at you as fast and violent as anything put out by Rockstar Games.  And as a die hard gamer, I wouldn’t expect anything less from a product based on the holy testament.  Not only would I heartily recommend this for any gamer, I urge parents to sit down with their little ones and use it as a tool to help explain the Scriptures and all the magic held within them.    Oh yeah, and if you don’t like this game, then you’ll spend all of eternity sitting between Eddie Guerrero and Owen Hart in hell.

 

MY LETTER TO THE EDITORS OF ROLLING STONE MAGAZINE

Hey There, Hi There!

   You know, I’ve been a life-long reader as well as a steady subscriber to Rolling Stone magazine for many years now.  I’ve grown up reading your magazine, loving the candid interviews, the objective reviews, giddy with the fact that half of the pages in the magazine consist of advertisements, and have been thrilled with your coverage of all the latest fashions… Well, actually, I couldn’t care less about your fashion coverage, after all, I was born with testicles, but hey – I’m sure you get the drift.

   Anyway, the point of this letter is that there’s always been something about your magazine that’s rubbed me the wrong way.  I could never figure out what it was until today, when I received the latest copy in the mail and turned to page 94 of the review section where I was eagerly reading up on the new Ricky Martin album (because I’ve just gotta find out what that no-talent piece of shit’s up to.  I’d like to personally thank you along with all of the other corporate shills out there for helping propel him as well as other hacks like Ashlee Simpson and Ashton Kutcher to the level of celebrity while ignoring musicians that actually have talent like The Dropkick Murphys - Thanks a lot, assholes).

   After learning of The Vida Loca One’s latest opus, I was shocked to look at the opposite page and see an advertisement for the U.S. Army.  I just couldn’t understand what was in front of my eyes.  Surely one of pop cultures most prominent leftist magazines wasn’t kowtowing to the man by placing an add for the military in one of its most read sections?  The magazine that is so staunchly opposed to the U.S. presence in Iraq wasn’t taking money from the very origination it so vehemently detests!  What would Michael Moore say!?  Please, dear God – don’t tell me you’re nothing but a bunch of hypocrites?!

   Needless to say, my world has been rocked to its very foundation.  Everything I once held dear to my heart as stone cold facts now has had the seeds of doubt planted inside of them.  Black is now white, up is down.

  But as if things weren’t bad enough, when I turned the page, it automatically flipped to a calendar provided by Chevy, advertising their gas guzzling, smog spewing abominations!  How could the magazine that has championed the cause of saving the environment be accepting money from one of the planets biggest polluters?  And while I’m thinking of it, how many forests have been destroyed to produce the paper needed to print your magazine, anyway?

   Now, don’t get me wrong – I have no problem with your magazine’s political beliefs.  After all, they’re nothing but beliefs, and you have every right to spew them out—and yes, I know that there are plenty of hypocrites on the right—but if you’re going to stand on a soap box, you should at least back your statements up with actions.  Please, save yourself some embarrassment and at least follow the courage of your convictions.  Don’t pretend to present news articles with the veil of objectivity while having as much integrity as Rush Limbaugh at a Chinese buffet.

 

Thomas J. Coe

Spring Lake , Michigan

 

 

P.S. How many times do you have to have retarded bimbos like Christina Agulara and Brittany Spears on your cover.  For a magazine that believes so strongly in women’s rights, you sure do go out of your way to portray women as nothing but sex objects.

 

HUNTERS ARE PERVERTS

   Once again, autumn is upon us, and in the state of  Michigan , that means one thing – the start of the fall hunting season.  I always feel conflicted during this time of year.  You see, I’ve always been a strong supporter of hunters’ right to blow the hell out of cute furry animals, as well as anything else that pisses off vegetarians and animal rights activists. But, at the same time, I can’t help but hate hunters.

   For years, I never really knew why.  Perhaps it’s because of the redneck stereotypes most people think of when hunters are mentioned (And as I’ve learned, most ethnic stereotypes are true – especially when it comes to the Irish).  Or perhaps it’s simply that today’s hunters are pussies, relying on things like bait piles, "Deer Cane", camouflage, and guns to bring down their meat.  Why, in my grandfather’s day, he would go out in the woods dressed only in a garbage bag and armed with a lead pipe.  (The good news is that most of today’s hunters wear none of the recommended hunter-orange, which in turn leads to all those entertaining accidents they talk about on the news.)

   But, on top of everything else, hunters are deviant perverts.  Don’t believe me?  Take a walk down to your local sporting goods store, and you’ll see what I mean. Below is a sample of products found in nearly every hunting store across the country.

  On a side note, not only is it funny that someone out there thought that naming doe urine "Still Steamin" was a good idea, but how would you like to be the guy whose job it is to get said urine out of the doe?

 

Pretty Bad News From Home

   Since I’ve moved out west to the armpit of Michigan , I’ve been trying to keep up on my Couch Party responsibilities, as well as staying in touch with everyone back in the civilized world.  I’ve been slacking on both, and for that I truly apologize.

   After a few months went by without hearing from anyone, I pretty much figured my bridges were all but burned.  So, I was pretty shocked on Labor Day to get a phone call from a former co-worker, one of the rare ones I would consider a friend.  After spending a few minutes playing catch up, he cut to the chase and told me the reason for his call.

   Friday morning Andrew Bradley, an engineer I used to work with, was a "No Call, No Show".  This was odd, considering he was one of the more dedicated people there.  Management placed a call to his girlfriend, but she said that he left at his normal time and that he should have been at work.  It wasn’t until later in the afternoon that they found out what was happening.

   Andrew liked to ride his motorcycle to work when the weather permitted.  He was headed in to work as a lady working third shift at a pickle factory in Bridgeport was headed home.  She was tired and not paying attention when she pulled out into the road and in front of Andrew.  He was killed instantly.

   Dan Stewart, a member of management at the factory where I used to work, is also a volunteer firefighter.  Purely by coincidence, he responded to the call.  According to Dan, the death was instantaneous.  That’s about it for the good news.  The bad news is that Andrew was so badly injured that they couldn’t I.D. him until they ran a check on the license plate.  To make matters worse, Andrew immigrated from England, and because of a series of red tape mishaps, his parents still don’t know what happened to their son.

   I’ve written some things at the expense of the people I used to work with.  And while all of the stuff I said about the place is true, I by no means hated each and every single person there (only about 95% of them).  Andrew was among the few I liked.  My memories of him are dominated a mutual respect for music and comedy (he introduced me to Tom Waits; I introduced him to Bill Hicks) as well as my threats to call immigration on him.  He was also one of Couch Party’s earliest fans, and our conversations would often end up in my articles almost verbatim.  He was a bit on the goofy side, but all in all, he was a good man, and I’m truly sorry to see him gone at such an early age.

 

STOP TRYING TO TAKE CARE OF ME!!

   I love the porn.  All kinds of it.  Straight, girl on girl, two girls on one guy, and special occasions, I’ll even pop in a copy of Livestock Gone Wild .  But, as I’ve noted in previous articles, there’s a special spot in my heart for the softcore porn.  All the visual stimulation, half the guilt, and zero percent of the hairy scrotum of your average Jenna Jameson title.

So you could just imagine my excitement when I’d heard that the programmers of Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas put a hidden scene in the game depicting the main character getting it on with a skeevy crack whore.  Now I was among the millions of gamers who ran out and bought the title when it first hit shelves last fall.  Unfortunately, I was more than a little let down when I discovered that it was nothing more than a mere rehash of the previous installment.  A few weeks later, I was fed up and decided I wanted to play a real game, so I traded it in for The Punisher . (For a review of this kick ass game, check out HAB’s article).

   Anyways, when I hear about what’s being referred to as the "Hot Coffee" scene in San Andreas - in which sex is not only depicted, but controlled by the player – I immediately started to get a stiffy.  I rushed out to my local electronics store, only to find that the game was being pulled off their shelves due to the newly unearthed content.  Undeterred, I searched the rest of the area stores, only to find the same thing.  It seems as if a bunch of uptight parents, as well as a certain New York Senator who’s trying to appear more conservative, complained to retailers around the country that kids might get a hold of this game, and as a result, I had to pay E-Bay Prices for the damned thing.  The funny thing is that there wasn’t that much of an uproar about this installment’s violence content.  But as soon as word got out that there was an exposed nipple, the shit hit the fan.

Not only am I pissed off about my compulsion to buy a shitty game twice, but thing that really gets on my nerves is the fact that I have to put the welfare of children ahead of my video game collection.  Don’t get me wrong - I love kids, especially with a side of gravy, but the game was intended for adults in the first place.  That’s why the industry adopted a rating system – so parents could easily identify those games which they might not let their spoiled little ingrates play, and people like me can have as much sex, violence, and filth as they can handle.

   No other form of entertainment has to go through these kinds of hurdles.  And that’s because when most parents think of video games, they think that they’re all intended for young kids, never mind the fact that seventy percent of today’s players are between the ages of eighteen and forty.  And, as is the habit, people put their concern for children ahead of common sense.  As a result, I – a law abiding, if not responsible, adult – am not allowed to choose whether or not I can handle a game.  You see, people want to look out for us, so they’ve taken it upon themselves to make our decisions for us.

   Take for example the bullshit going on in the fast food industry.  It seems that last year some fuckwit made a movie where he ate nothing but grease burgers for a month straight, and he expected his audience to be surprised when he got fat.  As a result of the bad press, I’m no longer allowed the luxury of getting a large order of fries through the drive through.  People who support this decision say that it’s for our own good, and, and a result, everyone will live longer.

   Well, who the hell are they to make that choice for us?  People aren’t as stupid as they’re treated.  Anyone could tell you that eating a steady diet of deep fried starch will cause health problems, but it should be up to the individual whether or not they want to put that into their own body.  And as far as trying to keep people alive, the population’s big enough as it is, we don’t need any more of you running around to fuck with my day.

   The same rule applies to the use of tobacco.  These days, it’s getting harder and harder to find a place where I can smoke peacefully without having some idiot telling me about the health risks.  Within the last month, I’ve been lectured twice while by the clerk at the check-out line buy a pack of smokes.

  The most common argument that people parrot is the bullshit about second-hand smoke.  According to the EPA, I’ve killed dozens of people by smoking around them.  Now, don’t get me wrong - if I’m over at a non-smoking friend’s house, I’ll step outside before I light up, and I refuse to smoke around children.  But what most people don’t realize is that the study they’re quoting has been proven to be the result of faulty information and the main reason the government is stepping up anti-smoking legislation is to generate extra revenue from taxes and lawsuits.

   But, these latest incidents are hardly the first time parents have shoved their noses into everyone’s business.  Today, it’s video games and supersized value meals at McDonald’s.  But fifteen years ago, it was people like Ice-T and his song Cop Killer .  (Never mind the fact that the song sucked.)  Actually, those people are still out there complaining about lyrics in songs.  As I mentioned in a previous article, I now work for one of the largest retailers in the world.  At this store, I am not allowed to buy a copy of some shitty Green Day album because of the political content, not to mention it has several dirty worlds on it, but I would have no problem walking fifty yards down the aisle to the sporting goods department, where I can easily buy a shotgun, ammo, and a ski mask.

   The main problem is that parents aren’t doing their jobs anymore, and so they’re looking to the rest of the community to take care of their kids for them.  I know what the three of you reading this are probably thinking to yourself – "Fuck off, TomCoe!  All your articles are long winded, and besides – What do you know about raising kids?!"  Well, nothing, but after seeing what you’ve brought into the world, I sure as hell see the value of a strong condom laced with equally strong spermicide.

   The people who want to get rid of naughty video games, tell us what food we should be eating, or outlaw smoking aren’t interested in our well being.  What they’re trying to do is control behavior and limit individual choice.

 

I HAVE TWO WORDS OF ADVICE FOR YOU: AVOID SURGERY

   In addition to getting used to my surroundings, I’ve also spent my time in recuperation.  About a month and a half ago, I started having severe abdominal pains on my right side every night.  The best way to describe the pain would be to say that it felt as though I was being stabbed with a spear that was going in just under my ribcage and  coming out between my shoulder blades.  Usually, the pain would start about two hours after I fell asleep.  I assumed it was just a severe flu, seeing as we’re in one of the worst years for it due to the shortage of vaccine.  However, it was pointed out to me that, unlike what I was experiencing, the flu is usually over before three weeks, and people generally don’t need to resort to Ultracet and half a bottle of Maalox in order to relieve nausea.

   I knew it was inevitable, but I didn’t want to go to a doctor.  My main concern was money.  I hate having to deal with insurance companies under normal circumstances, but matters had been made worse with the job change.  I’m under my wife’s insurance, but she wasn’t having any extra money taken out of her check for my insurance, and I wasn’t sure if I was receiving coverage yet.  My wife however, insisted that I go to the emergency room one Friday night after spending four hours in a fetal position.  Besides, she said she’d pick up the tab.

   So, I broke down and agreed to go to the local MediCenter.  While laying there, curled into a ball on a gurney, I learned many valuable lessons.  For example, when the nurse asks you to rate your pain on a scale of 1-10, always tell them ten.  Otherwise, all you’re getting is a couple of Motrin.  Also, when it comes time for an injection, and she asks if you’d prefer it if she gives it to you in the thigh or the ass, take it in the ass.  You see, in real life, I’m one of the most bashful people you’re ever likely to meet, and I’ll be damned if I’m dropping trou in front of a complete stranger, regardless of what they’re certified in.  I didn’t bother to to take into account that because there’s less fatty tissue in the leg, the injection would have that much of a harder time finding its way in.  I don’t know what she had in that hypo, but it felt like cement coming out of the needle and going into my leg.

   Two hours later, I finally got to see a doctor.  I could tell that he viewed me as just another number, and cared more about the fact that I was interrupting his Tee Time than whether or not I felt like I was dying.  He absentmindedly poked and prodded me while making some banal small talk, and by the time he shoved his fist under my ribs on my right hand side, I sat up in agony.  Which led to the question, "Did that hurt?"

   "It would seem to me", the doctor said, "that you’re having gallbladder problems.  Chances are it’s gonna have to come out"  That’s when I freaked.  I won’t get into exactly why (Because quite frankly, it’s none of your fucking business), but when I heard those words, I lost it.

   After I calmed down and had some X-Rays taken, I was sent home with a prescription for mild painkillers and an appointment for an ultrasound for the following Monday.  On the way home, I stopped in at work and explained the situation and apologized for my absence.  I might not give a rat’s ass about my job, but I still think courtesy is important.  The truly shitty thing about that night was that I’d have to miss my friend Matt’s bachelor party.

  Monday came, and I was surprised to find that the goo used for the ultrasound wasn’t as cold as all those pregnant women said, but it was instead pleasantly warm…  Man, I fucking hate pregnant women.  All they do is bitch to every man they see about being pregnant- regardless of wither that man has anything to do with the situation or not.  It’s like they want all of us to feel guilty because they were too goddamn lazy to take their goddamn pill.  Fuck them.  If they don’t like being pregnant, they should either get fixed or break out the kabob skewers and the dust buster.  And what’s this shit about women never looking better than when they’re pregnant?  Ladies, let me give you some inside info here:  Whenever you hear a guy say that to you, it’s because he already knows he fucked up by using an old, fragile condom and simply doesn’t want to hear you pissing and moaning even more when he agrees that you look like a beached sperm whale (Pun intended)…

   Anyways, the warm goo was where the good news ended that day.  It turned out that the walls of my gallbladder were so thick the ultrasound technician couldn’t see into it.  Later that day, I had to go to the specialist’s office, but I was there more out courtesy than for anything else.  It was no surprise when he confirmed that surgery was needed, and an appointment was made for the following Friday.  The one bit of silver lining in all of this was that I was that I had two weeks of  work-free, narcotic filled recuperation to look forward to. The bad news was that the chances of my making it back home to be in Matt’s wedding looked pretty bleak, which sucked ass, cause I’d already paid for my tux, and wasn’t sure if I could get a refund on it.

   So Friday arrived, and I got ready for the most humiliating day in my life (And considering what happened at the Jimmy Buffet night at Club Tuesday’s, which ended with me crying in Tommy Thompson’s arms, that’s really saying something.)  Luckily, my father came down from Roscommon to offer moral support and enjoy the show.  After registering at the front desk, the nurses made me strip me down.  I’ve already explained my views on such things, so I’m sure you can imagine how I felt when I was down to nothing but a skimpy gown and knee high stockings. (Settle down there, Mr. Van Winkle…)

   I had the I.V. put into the back of my left hand, and that’s where I started to get a little nervous, mainly because whenever I’d been under anesthetics, whether it was when I had all four of my wisdom teeth out or when I had a scope shoved into my digestive track, I’d always wake up in the middle of the procedure.

   The way my father calmed me down was to tell me that the same thing happens to him.  A couple of years ago, he went in to have his hand operated on for carpal tunnel, and he woke up just in time to experience having the inside of his forearm being scraped out by a stainless steel hook.  He could see, hear, and feel everything that was going on, but he was completely paralyzed from the drugs and couldn’t respond.  The one thing that stood out for him was when the surgeon was speaking to his assistant and said, "Now look what happens when I touch this nerve here."  Thank God I can count on my father to be there when I need a shoulder to lean on.  Of course, this is the same guy who told me as a young boy to always keep some form of I.D. on me.  That way if I died, they’d know who I was at the morgue and they wouldn’t donate my body to science.

After I said my goodbyes to my family, I was wheeled down the hall where I met Kieth, the wacky anesthesiologist.  "May I offer the sir a cocktail?", he said, waving the hypodermic needle in his hand.  Before I had a chance to protest that I didn’t want a jerk off like that having anything to do with me medically, he plunged the needle deep into the I.V.

   "So, what was that, anyway?” I asked.

   "Oh, it’s just something to help you relax a little before surgery.  It’s basically the equivalent of a couple of beers."

   Great , I thought to myself.  Now I’m gonna start apologizing to everyone for no reason right before I get pissed off because I suck at NHL 2005 .

   I was waiting for a chance to talk with the surgeon before the operation, because I had a few questions about the procedure and I was curious about what I could expect.  But before long, I was being wheeled down the hall yet again, this time to the operation room.  "This is just some oxygen to help you breathe," said Keith, holding a yellow face mask in his hand.

   I tried to ask him, "Where’s the doctor?", though in reality, I doubt I managed to get through the " ere’s" in "Where’s" before I was knocked out.  My guess is that asshole Kieth snuck some heavy drugs up on me, because the next thing I know, I’m struggling to breathe in the recovery room.  It seems that because I never had the opportunity to talk to the doctor, he never had the chance to tell me someone was going to shove a breathing tube down my throat.  Upon approaching consciousness, my body did the only sensible thing by trying to fight it, and I felt myself begin to thrash.  Before long, I also felt a cold trickle enter my hand as yet another narcotic was injected into my system.  Soon,  I was out again.

   I woke up some time later, this time to discover a nurse standing over me, asking me to rate my pain.  Now, before this ordeal, whenever someone asked me to rate my pain on a scale of 1-10, I always figured that a 10 would have to be like being beaten with your own freshly severed arm.  You see, whenever I’m in a little pain, I think of my friend in Saginaw, the good Reverend Seamus, who as a child, had a lung removed, kidney problems, and his tongue re-attached, all before the age of seventeen.  I figure that if he can get through all of that without complaining, I’d better shut the hell up.  And like the dumbass I am, I forgot about what I learned at the MediCenter and I told the nurse that it’s somewhere in the 5 or 6 range.  Well, four shots of morphine later and I’m out, yet again.

   Soon afterward, I wake up in room 411 with my wife, father, and step-mother staring at me while I felt as if I’d been eviscerated from the surgery and fistfucked in my throat by the breathing tube.  To be perfectly honest, I don’t remember much of the next couple of hours, or the conversations I had in them, but I’ll try to do my best to piece them together for you, the loyal Couch Party audience.

   I remember eating what can only legally be described as food while my father kept telling me not to be surprised when I throw up.  After being spoon fed some cottage cheese and chicken noodle soup by my truly angelic wife, I fell asleep while my father was impressed that I managed to keep it all down.  According to witnesses, I then bolted up in my bed.  My wife must have knew what was coming, and she got a basin in front of me just as the mixture of curdled dairy and broth soaked pasta came flying out in what I was told looked like a yellow-white arch (Luckily, when it comes to projectile vomiting, I’ve got a dead aim and was able to get everything into the basin).  I then fell backward and was snoring before my head hit the pillow.  My father later told me it was one of the damnedest things he’s ever seen.

   After awhile, visiting hours were over, and I was left alone with my new room-mate, Lewis, who was in for hip surgery.  Hearing his feeble voice through the privacy curtain made me feel a little better.  Not for the companionship or anything like that.  No, it just made me feeling a little better knowing that, unlike the sap in the bed next to mine, at least I could walk.  Or so I thought.

    Later that night, I felt nature calling.  The commode was within eyesight, and I had just been given a strong dose of Demerol.  I felt that I may have been slightly incapacitated, but I still had my pride.  I’m a big boy now and haven’t pissed in the bed since my twenty-first birthday, and I’d be damned if I was gonna start back now.  What I wasn’t counting on was the fact that my legs were strapped to a aero massager on the bed, nor did I take into consideration the searing pain in my side whenever I tried to move.  Still, I had a point to prove.  I called the nurse, Michael, in to help walk me across the room, but instead, he offered a little plastic bottle.  Feeling the pain kicking in, I relented, and agreed to have him close the other side of the curtain while I filled the bottle.  A few minutes later, I was apologizing for the fact that he had to empty the contents, as well as the earlier incident with my dinner.  He said not to worry about it, seeing as how it’s his job.  I was thinking about what a shitty job that must be when the painkillers kicked in and I drifted off.  I awoke with the realization that the bottle trick hadn’t worked out nearly as well as I had hoped and needed to have my gown changed.  But by then I was so full of dope I really didn’t care.

Oh, sweet, sweet Demerol.  Some people have long walks on the beach, some people enjoy gardening, but for my money, if you need to relax, you can never go wrong with high grade narcotics like the ones I received.  At one medication time, I was laying in my bed, eating saltine crackers while the TV flickered Family Guy back at me.  Soon, I was given my bi-hourly dose, and I woke up just in time for another one, only to find the same crackers still in my mouth.

   The next day I awoke and was looking forward to getting back home, where my wife would wait on me hand and foot while keeping me sedated – not to mention finally allowing me to have the remote.  But before I could leave, the nurses said I’d have to speak with my surgeon and walk around a little, just to make sure that I’d be alright on my own.  So, after they took the massagers off my legs, I stood up for the first time in roughly twenty-four hours.  And like a champ, I was soon making laps around the fourth floor.

   Before long, I started to feel a sharp ache in my right shoulder.  I asked a nearby nurse what the doctor had done to it, and she informed me that during the operation, they inflated my abdomen with air in order to lift and separate my internal organs.  The air was now settling and putting pressure on nerve endings, and the result was the pain in my shoulder.  Before I would be allowed to leave, I had to start expelling the air.

   A few minutes later, I’m sitting on the toilet –  full of pride I might add, due to the fact that I was able to maneuver myself there without the aid of a nurse.  Nature began to take it’s course, and that’s when I started to get scared.  You see, when I’m in that situation, my body has a tendency to over produce, and often, I have to put forth more than a little effort to take care of everything.  Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem.  Hell, it’s usually something I look forward to just so I can read in peace.  But normally, I don’t have stitches holding my organs in place, and considering my luck, I was worried that I’d pop them open, making Elvis’s death look tame in comparison, not to mention a whole lot less messy.  Luckily, no such thing happened.

   Later in the day, it came as no surprise to me to find out that the doctor wasn’t going to be able to make it to his appointment.  So, instead of talking to him or anyone else, the nurse basically told me to take it easy and let me leave.  Before going, I was given a prescription for Vicodin, and the tiny vial I requested containing my gallstones.  To show my appreciation toward her, I’ve sent the vial to a local jeweler, where the stones shall be set into a pair of earring’s for her.

   In all sincerity, I really do have to thank my wife.  This was a relatively minor surgery, but without her being there, I wouldn’t have been able to take care of myself.  As a result of her bedside manner, I was not only able to recuperate, but I was well enough to go back home and use the tux she paid for to be in Matt’s wedding.  So, thank you, Kelly.

 

WHERE I’VE BEEN AND WHAT I’VE BEEN UP TO

   It’s been awhile since I’ve had a chance to write anything, but give I’ve been pretty busy out here.  The biggest task since moving out to the west side has been finding a new job.  The criteria was pretty simple: I didn’t want a job where I got stressed out, and one that I basically didn’t give a shit if I get fired, the most obvious choice was to go back to retail.  So after an exhaustive one hour search, I settled on the local Super Center .   Now, like Ash, the celluloid legend from The Evil Dead series, I’m now selling guns in the sporting goods section.  Yeah, I think that’s kinda scary too.

   It’s a little weird getting used to the changes in the new job.  But I’m taking comfort in the fact that if there’s one thing in life that’s universal, it’s that stupidity doesn’t recognize county lines.  For instance, for those of you who aren’t familiar with state politics, the West side of Michigan is a well known Republican stronghold.  And, yes, I’m willing to admit it’s my fault for talking politics at work with an idiot, but the subject of gun control came up, and I just couldn’t help myself.  Well, apparently because I believe that common sense ought to be applied to the distribution of firearms (Sorry, I just don’t think some people need to own anti-aircraft weapons), I’ve now been labeled a Liberal Hippy.  But I can’t hold it against my co-worker for being a little judgmental or even uninformed –  after all, he’s 19, so obviously he knows everything…

   Then there’s the sad lot of people who congregate in the back room.  When I go back there, I have but two objectives in mind: Blacken my lungs a little more with my beloved Marlboro Lights, and impress the rest of the chimps back there by reading a book with neither pictures nor word balloons.  Nowhere in the list is there room for mono syllabic conversations with Rita about her life in the trailer.

Rita asked me to take a picture of her while shopping. She said, "I’ll show you something only people in The Park have seen!" I thought she was going to juggle.

   Now you’d think that the fact that someone’s sitting there minding their own business and not saying a word would be enough for most people to leave them alone, but apparently not.  For example, there’s one lady in particular who feels the need to share every aspect of her life with anyone she can find - loudly, I might add.  The first night I was back there, she proceeded to tell me about how she’s really into guns.  She should be, because she then gave me a detailed list of all her guns, (About twenty pistols and thirty long guns).  Without looking up from my book ( Get In The Van , by Henry Rollins – Highly Recommended!), I asked if she was nervous about an accident.  But, this lady had no such fear – I guess your father shooting you in a drunken rage when you’re twelve has a way of making people into pretty tough bastards.  She then spent the rest of my break telling me how she’d been stabbed in an attempted rape, the funny little story of how her first ex-husband accidentally ran over her with a car, the anecdote of the teeth she’d lost in bar fights, and the amusing tale of why she has a piece of a ceramic potpourri burner lodged in her hand (Something about smashing it against her third ex-husband’s head in a fight).  But wait, there’s more to learn about this lady.  I guess after three miscarriages and cervical cancer, she’s barren.  It was after that when she asked me what my name was.

   But the best part of working at this new place has to be the customers.  My favorite group so far has to be the lesbian softball players.  Once or twice a week, a couple of ladies will come in looking like a cross between Rosanne Barr and Jason Harris, and I just know where they’re heading.   I was bored one night, so I figured I’d see what they needed.  Before I rounded the corner, I heard one such lady complaining that hers was too tight.  She didn’t like the fact that it no longer had the flexibility it once did, but her friend said that if she found the right oil to rub into it, all she’d have to do to fix it was stuffing it with a ball and tie it with a string.  Turns out they were talking about a catching mitt.