THE WEEKLY BLAH - SECOND EDITION

For the people who know me only through my stories, I have a reputation as an insane, uncontrollable party-crazed animal. People think that I am constantly drunk as I carve a swath of destruction through my life, leaving nothing but empty vodka bottles, and funny walking whores in my wake.

Now, while it is true that I am like that sometimes, other times I am indistinguishable from any other regular guy. To those who don’t know me, my life seems so dazzling because all they see are the few gems; I don’t show them the tons of rock that had to be crushed to get those gems, because it isn’t interesting. No one wants to read about that night I went out, had a few beers with my buddies and then went home.

With that in mind, I present this story. It is not a typical tale of my drunken debaucheries, in fact I am writing about this weekend precisely because, aside from one incident, it is a very average few days. This is the closest story I have that shows what I am like when I’m not “on,” but is still worth telling:


My buddy Chevy had invited me to his house in Nantucket for the weekend. As I was in line at the airport to board the flight, I found myself behind an obnoxious slob. Watching him spill grease all over his shirt as he stuffed nasty Sbarros pizza in his face and yell at his dopey, ill-disciplined children, I decided that I was not going to sit in coach. I decided that I was better than him and deserved better accomodations.

Once I decided I was going to sit in first class, I ran into a series of problems:

1. I didn’t have an upgrade voucher.
2. I didn’t know anyone who works for this airline.
3. I am not a member of any sort of Elite Club Gold Ultra Miles Club.
4. I didn’t have $800 to pay for an upgrade (it was this expensive because I was flying from LA to Newark).

Still unsure what to do, I took my assigned seat in coach, next to a guy who looked like Bill Bixby but smelled more like The Incredible Vagrant. At this point most people would probably quit and just stay in coach. I was about to do this, then I remembered that I am not most people, I am Tucker Max. If there is a way, I can find it, I have to find it damn it, or I am no better than the slob…then it hit me. The most obvious solution in the world, I cannot believe I’ve never thought of it before: Me.

I waited until most of the plane filled up, saw that there were three empty seats in first class, summoned the Tucker Max A-game charm, and approached a young female flight attendant in the back cabin:

Tucker Hey, how are you?”
FA “Hi, good.”
Tucker “I really hate to bother you about this, but can you possibly help me out?”
FA “Yeah, what can I do for you?”
Tucker “Well, when my people booked my flight, they made a mistake and put me in coach. I hate to make an issue about this, but is there any way you can put me in first class? Normally I would just live with it, but I’ve already had a few people pestering me for autographs and what not…and I just can’t get anything done back here with everyone trying to get a piece of me. I’m sure you know how it is. I can’t be the first famous person you’ve had this happen to.”
FA “Oh my gosh, yeah, no problem. Hold on, let me just make sure we have room, I’ll upgrade you right away. Stay right here.”

Three minutes later I was in first class, throwing back free beer and putting complimentary slippers on my feet. No one “bothered” me the rest of the flight, and none of the flight attendants even asked who I “was.”

I keep trying to tell you people: Take command of your destiny, and karma will conspire to help you along the way.

After a few beers, I notice the guy sitting next to me. He is a few years older than me, mid-thirties, clean cut, wearing normal clothes…and has a huge bulge on his hip. Well, he’s not black so it can’t be his dick--this motherfucker is packing a gun.

Tucker “I hope to god you are an Air Marshal, because if you aren’t, [motioning to his piece] this is going to be quite a flight.”

Guy “I’m not an Air Marshal.”
Tucker [long pause] “Uhhhh…”
Guy [he kinda laughs at me] “Don’t worry, I’m in the FBI. I’m off duty but we are required to carry our sidearm with us on planes whenever we fly.”

He showed me his creds and lo and behold, he is indeed in the FBI. We get to talking and drinking [note: I drank, he didn’t] and trading stories. I told him The Buttsex Story, which he thought was hilarious, so he tells me an FBI story in exchange:

“At the FBI Academy, there is this simulation thing where you shoot at a huge screen. They throw scenarios at you to teach you how to react to them. Kinda like a video game, but life size. You even get a pneumatic gun that feels just like a regular gun when you shoot it, with a recoil and everything, but it only shoots a laser obviously.

Well, in one of the scenarios you are in a hallway trying to clear a house and a 12 year-old kid comes around the corner with a gun at his side. He walks around in a daze, and you are supposed to react to what he does.

When I did the scenario, as soon as he came around the corner I told him to drop the gun, he didn’t, so I started lighting him up. But strangely, he wouldn’t go down. It was so frustrating; I knew I was hitting him, because the little red dots were hitting him center mass, but he wouldn’t go down. I emptied the first clip, slapped another one, and kept firing.

It took me 19 rounds, but I finally dropped that damn kid. By the time he went down, I had advanced right up onto the screen, and was about to start pistol whipping the canvas. I couldn’t figure out what was going on. He finally dropped on the 17th and 18th shots, but I added the 19th when he was down, just for good measure. I wasn’t taking chances with the Bionic Twelve Year Old.

The lights come on and the instructor was in total shock,

‘Do you know why you had to shoot 19 rounds? The simulation ISN’T EVEN SET UP TO REGISTER SHOTS THAT EARLY. I’ve NEVER seen anyone RELOAD in that scenario before!’

Apparently, since the weapon was only at his side and not raised, we were supposed to yell some jibberish about “this is the FBI,” and something else along the lines of “put down the weapon,” and then give him time to comply before we fired. I wasn’t having it. You don’t brandish a weapon at Agent [Jones] and live to tell about it.

Then I got into a 30 minute argument with the instructor about how to write it up cleanly. I won, and he passed me.”

Tucker “You can’t just plug kids like that. Dude, I went to law school and I know there is no way a cop could do that and get away with it.”
Agent Jones “Oh no, of course not. Cops are different. They have very different force continuum rules than we do.”
Tucker “Force continuum?
Agent Jones “Basically, it means when you are allowed to initiate force on a criminal. Cops have a whole ordeal they have to go through, warning the criminal, giving him time to stop, etc. For the FBI, its not like that. If there is an immediate threat, we don’t have to say a thing, we can just shoot.”
Tucker “So if we were in a bank and some guy came in with a gun and held up the teller, you could just walk up behind him and do a contact shot to the base of his skull, no warning? Just fucking smoke him?”
Agent Jones “Oh yeah. As long as we don’t endanger the civilian, sure.”
Tucker “Have you ever done this?”
Agent Jones “No, never shot anyone. I mostly do white collar stuff.”
Tucker “Does this ever cross your mind, that at any moment someone could commit a violent crime in front of you, and you could kill them?”
Agent Jones “You think I don’t wish for that every day?”

Yeah…this guy is fucking cool. THIS is the type of person that deserves to sit next to me. I decide to tell him Embassu Suites part of The Austin Road Trip Story, and he loves it. He comes back with this one about his exploits with the US Border Patrol:

Agent Jones “I thought I was bad ass until I hung out with those guys. They are unbelievable. One time I was out with them right at to the border. There is a big fence with concertina wire and what not all along this stretch, but the Coyotes had cut a hole in it--”

I interrupted him.

Tucker “What is a Coyote?”
Agent Jones “They are the guys who smuggle illegals back and forth over the border. Anyway, the Coyote was smuggling about a hundred Tonks through the hole, and--”

I interrupted him again.

Tucker “What is a Tonk?”
Agent Jones “Oh--that’s what Border Patrol calls illegal immigrants who have made it into the US. They can’t call them ‘wetbacks’ or ‘spicks’ because obviously those are racially charged names, and ‘Mexican’ isn’t accurate since a lot of illegals are not from Mexico, so they say ‘Tonk.’ They call them that because it’s the sound made when you hit them on the head with a Mag-Lite.”
Tucker “HOE-LEE-SHIT.”
Agent Jones “I told you those guys were nuts. Anyway, so there we are, four trucks on this hill like 200 yards from the hole in the fence. We are totally blacked out, wearing night vision goggles and we can clearly see the Coyote hustling about a hundred Tonks through the fence. The Border Patrol guys wait until all of them are through the hole and about 50 yards into our side, when all four trucks simultaneously turn on all their spot lights and sirens. Of course, the illegals shit themselves and bust ass back to the border…and in the darkness, they all run right into the concertina wire. It was a fucking mess. Some of them did not make it.”
Tucker “You have to be kidding me.”
Agent Jones “Nope. You think our force continuum is loose? These guys shoot anything they want. You should see their situation reports for deaths. They’ll take out guys with rifles at 100 yards and write in the report, ‘Subject was threatening agent with a rock.’ It’s a joke.”

I get off the plane and part ways with Agent Jones, who is officially in my Awesome Guy Hall of Fame. Riding a great buzz, basking in genius slick maneuver that got me into first class, and having just heard some hilarious stories, I head to the gate for my Newark to Nantucket connection in a great fucking mood.

Then karma decides that my day is going too well and kicks me in the nuts. My flight to Nantucket is cancelled, stranding me in the Newark airport for six hours. Karma decides to reroute me through Boston, where I have to catch a puddle jumper to Nantucket. This means that I started my day at 6am in LA and will get into Nantucket at like midnight instead of 7pm. The bars close on Nantucket at 1am. Fucking karma.

I finally get to Boston and go to the terminal to board the puddle jumper to Nantucket. They take us to board, but instead of going down a jetway onto a real plane, we take a flight of stairs down onto the tarmac. We are outside, on the fucking runway, with all these huge jets around us. But we aren’t getting on those planes.

Sitting right there in front of me was the smallest joke of a plane I had ever seen. This is what it looks like.

Look at that fucking thing. LOOK AT IT. You can see the people all scrunched up in it. I’ve shit bigger than that. It’s a fucking Geo Metro with wings, and I am about to spend 45 minutes in this, flying over water? Holy shit.

I take a deep breath and turn to the guy next to me, “This is a funny prank, but where is the real plane? This is some kid’s model airplane or something.”

He gives me a look of complete disdain and turns away. Obviously this guy doesn't realize that he's beneath me. I was about to enlighten him on this subject, when one of the ground crew guys comes up and looks at the five of us like we are cattle at auction. He kinda furrows his brow, like he’s hard in thought about something. I look at the rest of the passengers, trying to figure out what the fuck he is looking at: It’s all guys, and we are all pretty big, in fact, I am the smallest of the group and I’m 6 feet 185.

The ground crew guy says, “Alright, we have to assign seats to distribute passengers according to weight,” then he points to me, “You are in the front.”

I have to almost crawl to get through the tiny door into the plane; I felt like I was in the play area at Chuck E Cheese. I sit in the front seat and the pilot is literally right in front of me, and all the controls are right there. I momentarily consider that I could just reach up and choke the pilot to death. So much for cockpit security. The ground crew guy pops his head in,

Ground crew “No man, the very front. Next to the pilot.”
Tucker “WHAT?”
Pilot “Yeah, its fine. Come on up.”
Tucker “You can’t be serious. You want me to co-pilot? A PLANE?”
Pilot “No. Just sit here. We need the smallest person in this seat.”

It took me about ten minutes to calm down. Then, once I re-attached my sack and relaxed, I realized how fucking cool this was. I was sitting in the co-pilot seat. The fucking controls are right there in front of me; the throttle, the altimeter, the airspeed indicator, the suction gauge, the tachometer, everything. This is basically what was in front of me (but not exactly):

Even the goddamn co-pilot control wheel was right there in front of me. I could just grab the thing. In fact, that is exactly what I did.

Pilot “No no, you don’t want to do that.”
Tucker "I was just trying to help."

After awhile my fear was totally gone, and I was more curious than anything else. While we were still loading up and doing pre-flight, I start talking to the pilot. I have never flown a plane but I have played a lot of flight simulator games, so I actually had a good idea of what some of the controls in front us do. I asked him a few mildly advanced questions so he knew I wasn't a total assclown. Then I asked him:

Tucker “Can I fly the plane? You know, when we are up in the air? Like take the controls?”
Pilot “Sure. That’s fine.”
Tucker “And can I switch on the marker beacon when we get there? It’s this button, I remember from Microsoft Flight Simulator. That’s my favorite part, night carrier landings.”
Pilot “Sure, OK.”
Tucker “WOO-HOO! Alright, you be Maverick and I’ll be Goose. It’ll be great!”
Pilot “Uh…OK.”
Tucker “Did you like that movie? You know being a pilot and all?”
Pilot “Yeah it was good.”
Tucker “I think it had kinda gay undertones.”
Pilot “Uh…OK.”
Tucker “The Defense Department regrets to inform you that your sons are dead because they were stupid!”

He kinda gives me this look and puts his earphones on, which I guess was my cue to shut the fuck up. Once we are up in the air and cruising, he gives me the nod and I take the control wheel. It’s loud as shit in there, but I can’t help yelling out:

“I FEEL LIKE I CAN FLY!”

Of course, I kinda shake the controls accidentally, the plane wobbles slightly, and he immediately takes the controls back. My career as a pilot unceremoniously ends.

We come up on the island and it is covered with clouds; I can’t see shit. All of the sudden a line of lights pops up, right down the middle of the runway, but I can barely see it through the clouds. He motions for me to put my finger on the marker beacon button, but tells me to wait for his signal. We go into the clouds and the whole fucking plane whites out. I can’t see anything. We start bouncing around and shit, and even though we are in there for only like 5 seconds it seems like forever. As we start to come out the bottom, he motions for me to hit the beacon, and almost out of nowhere the entire fucking runway lights up. It was awesome. I can’t contain myself:

“Maverick you have the ball!”

I don’t think he can hear me over the din of the propeller engines, so I emphasize:

“TAKE ME TO BED OR LOSE ME FOREVER!!”

Now I see why pilots are so arrogant. That is probably the closest I’ll ever come to flying or to landing on an aircraft carrier, and it was fucking thrilling. I can only imagine what it’s like flying a real jet fighter.

Chevy is there with his other buddies to pick me up. At Chevy’s place his mom puts the four of us in the guest house behind the main house. This “guest” house is loaded with antiques and knick-nacks; it looks like a fucking Restoration Hardware or something. Chevy’s mom is very nice but is a total society woman, very much prim and proper. So of course, I can’t help myself:

Tucker “You have a very nice guest house Mrs. Chevy.”
Mrs. Chevy “Thank you Tucker.”
Tucker “It must have taken you forever to steal all this stuff.”

Minus mom, we go out drinking in Nantucket. Let me give you some advice: If you haven’t ever been there, do not go. It fucking sucks. Wait, I am being hasty. There are some people who should go:

-If you are a wanna-be Kennedy with your perfectly windswept hair and Revo’s you never take off because you spent the day clamming in the NorthFace vest you also never take off because you are just so fucking authentic New England, then you will love Nantucket.

-If you are pompous douche-bag who inherited his money from Mommy and Daddy, and have no personality and no motivation to actually do anything with your life except be a sheep in your pink polo shirts with popped collars, drink over-priced appletinis and hit on ugly girls because they are also sheep from rich families, then Nantucket is for you.

-Or if you are just old and rich and white and only want to be around other old rich white people, then it is heaven.

Here is a perfect example of what the island is like: Around 1:15am the first night (because the fucking bars close at 1am) we all head to some late night eatery. Chevy is a total prick, even worse than me, and mouths off to some typical Nantucket douche-bag. Nothing big, just stupid drunk talk that we ignore.

This one guy, PoppedCollar, decides that he is not going to let Chevy get away with talking shit to him. But instead of confronting Chevy himself, like a man would do if he had a problem, he went and got three of his friends, all bigger than him. These three friends go into the food place and start getting up in Chevy’s face, but get this: PoppedCollar stands outside watching! What a pussy. These are the dudes that hang out in Nantucket.

I am also standing outside the food stand, next to one of Chevy’s friend that I just met that weekend, Dallas. Dallas is from Mississippi, played football at an SEC school, and is a total Southern guy. He dips like he owns stock in Phillip Morris, drinks like grew up with Jim Beam, has great game, and is the type of guy people enjoy being around. But beneath his nice exterior, you can tell he is not be toyed with. I grab him:

Tucker “Dallas, we need to go help Chevy.”

He kinda looks at me, and then looks at PoppedCollar, “No, hold on.” He walks over to PoppedCollar.

Dallas “Let me ask you a question. Those yur friends in there?”
PoppedCollar [acting like he is tough] “Yeah.”
Dallas “Let me ask you another question: Do you know how to fight?”

The way Dallas said it, I was even intimidated. You ever met one of those guys who, in a totally calm and composed way, can scare the shit out of you? Dallas is like that. When he is serious, you can sense the violence behind his calm voice. PoppedCollar’s tough guy image dropped immediately.

PoppedCollar “Uh…no, not really.”
Dallas [totally playing up his southern accent] “Have you ever fawght someone from the south bafour?”
PoppedCollar “Uhhhh…”
Dallas “Well, I’m an amacheur boxer, and I train for UFC-style fightin’, and if we fight, I can promise yew that one of us is goin’ to the hospital. Considering our backgrawnds, and my steel-toed boots, I think yew and your buddies er’atta disadvantage. You sure you still wanna do this?”
PoppedCollar “Uhhhh, no, I guess not.”
Dalls “Well then go tell your boys to back off, and we’ll go our separate ways.”
PoppedCollar “OK.”

PoppedCollar walked right in there, pulled his boys away from Chevy and left.

Dallas [waves to them as they walk off] “Have a nice night, ya’ll.”

That day we went deep sea fishing off the island. It was awesome. I caught like 8 bluefish.

[INSERT PICS--sorry, these will be up later this week]

Of course, the highlight of everyone else’s day was another incident. I kept fucking up my casts, so the captain of the boat stood next to me to see what I was doing, and he said I didn’t have my hands properly situated on the line. So he took my hand to reposition it, and then exclaims,

“Well damn there’s the problem—Look at your tiny hands. You can’t even reach the line properly. Here, use the light tackle pole, that’s small enough for you.”

Thanks asshole.

We went to dinner that night with Chevy’s parents, and like everything on Nantucket it was pretty boring except towards the end, when Chevy’s mom got drunk and we goaded her to tell us stories about Chevy.

Mrs. Chevy “Oh you boys don’t even know what a handful Chevy is. He just sits around all day, scratching himself so much you’d think our house was overrun with crabs.”
Chevy “MOM!”
Mrs. Chevy “I don’t have many stories about things he’s done that you guys don’t know. Besides, he doesn’t tell me the real bad things, I just pay the bail bondsman and don’t ask questions.”
Tucker “He has to have done something he hasn’t told us about.”
Mrs. Chevy “Well…OH! Did he ever tell you about the summer he spent in Maui tagging whales?”

The whole table lost it, mainly because she didn’t get the joke—she was actually talking about him working with marine wildlife, not fucking fat girls.

All the guys kinda looked at me, expecting me to drop some hilariously subtle quip. If you are a football fan, you know how even though a great defensive back can catch anything not thrown to him, when the pass comes right at him he will freeze and drop it? Yep.

Tucker “Uhhh…CHEVY FUCKS FAT GIRLS!”

It was an awkward moment for all of us, especially his mother.

We went out drinking after dinner, without the parents obviously, and waded back into the sea of fucksticks that is the Nantucket social scene. I start talking to one girl, and somehow the discussion of penis size comes up.

Girl “It’s ok, size doesn’t matter.”
Tucker “I hear that a lot, but its always in a consoling tone. I’m not buying it. But its alright, I’ve found a way to get around it.”
Girl [kinda suspicious of what I’m going to say, but still interested] “Oh, what’s that?”
Tucker “Well, I always slide a ball point pen in the girls pussy first, because the vagina will naturally constrict to fit the size of whatever is put in it. Then, when I put my dick in, it feels huge in comparison.”

I thought that was hilarious, but she was offended. I talked to her and her friends for maybe another half hour. They sucked. Seriously, one of them looked like Snaggle Tooth from Star Wars, and the rest were rejects from the village of the damned. I go to the bar to get another drink, and finally, like 45 minutes later when the asshole bartender deigns to serve me, he informs me that they are out of vodka. OUT of vodka. What the fuck? Does these people not know how much better than them I am?

I’d had enough. I’d had enough of the dipshits, enough of the pompous idiots, enough of fighting off these tools to get in overcrowded places that sucked ass, I was just fed up. I walked out of the bar and into the street, and I started looking around for some other place that didn’t suck.

Down the street I see a big crowd standing outside, so I start walking up there. As I get closer, the girls out front start to look a bit young, and then they start to look way too young, and then I am just weirded out, because they are clearly children hanging out with their parents at like 11:30 at night. What is going on?

Then I see a kid with a blue lightning bolt painted on his forehead, dressed in a cape and holding a broomstick…holy shit, it is Friday July 15th…this is a release party for the sixth Harry Potter book. This isn’t a bar, it’s a bookstore. There are like 100 kids of various ages and their parents hanging out here.

At this point, I had a decision to make. I can:

A. Leave immediately and go find a bar in which to drink and fornicate,

B. Hang out and mess with the Harry Potter fans, or

C. Grab a wand and a cape and pretend that I am a wizard.

I stood and thought about it: What is going to maximize my utility tonight? There is only one more hour of drinking left because this island sucks. I am not very drunk and won’t get to a good level in only an hour, so that is pretty much a sunk cost. There are not many girls on this island and the ones that are here suck, plus the chances of finding one I like that I can pick up, all in the span of just an hour are not great. And to be honest, I was going to buy a copy of the new Harry Potter book anyway…

Fuck it, Harry Potter it is.

I get in line and buy my ticket at like 11:40, and then go stand outside under this huge tent with everyone else to wait for the books to be passed out. As I look around, I see all kinds of people, not just little kids and parents. There are teenagers, young adults, old people, just about every demographic is represented here. I started to get worried. What if someone recognized me here. That would look great, Tucker Max at a midnight Harry Potter book party [it didn’t even occur to me at the time that I would EVER write about this].

So I kinda stood off to the side with my face covered with my hand. I looked ridiculous, so of course this little kid came up to me. She was dressed like Hermione. She couldn’t have been more than 8, but her parents weren’t anywhere that I could see.

Kid “What are you doing?”
Tucker “Nothing. Where are your parents?”
Kid “Over there talking to the man dressed as Snape. Are you excited about the book?”
Tucker “Beyond ecstatic. I can barely keep myself contained.”
Kid “I can’t wait to find out what happens! They say someone dies, I wonder who it’ll be.”
Tucker “Didn’t you hear? It’s Ron that dies in this one.”

She gets a look of complete horror on her face and her eyes start welling up with tears.

“NO NO NO—I’m just kidding. Totally kidding, please don’t cry, Ron doesn’t die, I’m just kidding,” she stops her tears and her face goes back to normal, “It’s actually Hermione that dies.”

She turn and runs off. Oh well, she has to learn at some point that guys are assholes.

I immediately move my location, because I didn’t want to deal with her parents, and as much as I like kids, I didn’t want to talk to anymore unsupervised underage girls. Nothing good can come of that.

I get into line on the other side of the tent they have set up outside (there are that many people there). Its like three minutes until the release the book, and there is this nerd in front of me who is getting all kinds of giddy. He is probably 23 or so, and has the typical nerd huge backpack that has every single one of his possessions in it strapped to his back. He is talking to the girl in front of him and keeps turning left and right, hitting me with his backpack, so I reach down (he is short) and grab it, and hold him still.

Nerd “HEY!! WHAT THE!!! HEY!!”

The dude is flailing around like a turtle on its back, trying to reach me but can’t because his backpack is so huge and he is uncoordinated.

Tucker “Calm down. I’ll let go when you stop hitting me with your backpack.”
Nerd “HEY! GET OFF ME YOU SNOTTY-FACED HEAP OF PARROT DROPPINGS!”

I HATE dorks that quote Monty Python, so I decide to teach him a simple lesson: This was real life, not British comedy. I sweep his leg and he crashes to the ground. I kinda laugh at him, thinking that this will shut him up; I mean come on, this kid is like 150 pounds with less muscle than a chicken wing. But he struggles back to his feet and momentarily gets in my face, kinda bumping me. I instinctively grab his shirt:

Tucker “DO YOU ACTUALLY WANT TO FIGHT ME? ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE?”

Two “adults” get in between us, and we both kinda looked at each other, realizing that like 100 people were staring at us…and that we were now those guys…who started a fight at a Harry Potter book party.

Oh man.

I got my book and slinked off. I am pretty sure even the little kids were making fun of me.

That was pretty much the entire weekend. Of course, even when I set out to not cause a scene, it seems like I do anyway. I guess maybe there is something to that image of me carving a swath of destruction.
TUCKER....

Professions I Would Like To Have -

Some people have a dream job, not me. To me the only way to go is self-employed. That or marry rich and laze around. But working for the man, or the Wo-Man is just not the way to go. This is why I buy lotto tickets so that someday I can live the dream.

Now, even though I do not have a dream job I do have some Dream Careers. I know it is essentially the same thing but there is a slight difference. Anyway, here is the list of my dream jobs.

1. Assassin - I know this one is a little out there but you know it would be cool. Travel the world as a contract assassin would be fun. something like James Bond. I know he is a spy, but you get the point.
2. Stand Up Comedian - I think this would not be that hard to do. It is all about delivery. But I would end up being one of those angry comics like Dennis Leary or the Dice Man. It would not end well.
3. Skateboarder - I am dying to see Lords of Dogtown this weekend. Dogtown and Z-boys is one of my favorite movies ever and they looked like they were having the time of their lives. I also think skateboarding is cool as milk and I am always impressed with the people that are really good. It blows my mind that it is not an Olympic sport yet. Horse jumping is, but this isn't. Go figure.
4. Pro-athlete in one of the big 4. NBA, NFL, MLB, and NHL. Not just a bench warmer either. Top star. Favre, Shaq, A-Rod, Sakic, etc.
5. Prime Minister - I would do a great job. You know it, I know it. Cheese for everyone!!
6. Actor/Musician - Being famous rocks. Acting or singing seems like a great gig if you have any talent. Unfortunately I do not.
7. Fighter Pilot - Fast planes, Dog fights. Dropping bombs on the enemy. Ahhhh, I love the smell of daisy cutters in the morning!
8. Astronaut - Going into space is my biggest dream. Being an astronaut would be cool as hell. AND, it would be even cooler if you got to stay on the space station for a few months. I would love it.
9. Deep Sea Explorer - My second biggest dream. To explore the bottom of the ocean in some sort of cool submarine. Actually, I want to live in a city under the sea, but this is close enough.
10. Artist/Writer - Would like to live in the woods or mountains and be an artist or a writer. I am not that big on people, so living away from it all would be pretty sweet. I have a lot of respect for artists and writers. It is really hard to do what they do and if they do it well, it is amazing.


The Jewish Samurai
There once was a powerful Japanese emperor who needed a new chief samurai. So he sent out a declaration throughout the entire known world that he was searching for a chief.

A year passed, and only three people applied for the very demanding position: a Japanese samurai, a Chinese samurai, and a Jewish samurai.

The emperor asked the Japanese samurai to come in and demonstrate why he should be the chief samurai. The Japanese samurai opened a matchbox, and out popped a bumblebee. Whoosh! went his sword. The bumblebee dropped dead, chopped in half.

"If you want somebody to repair your roads, educate your kids, or purify your water supply, you may want to turn to private enterprise, but if you want massive f***loads of your enemies wiped out in record time, Uncle Sam is the man for you."

"The French, you might as well gas up the dinghy and go fishing with Fredo because you are dead to me, okay. You know something? These pricks are now putting -- they're putting swastikas on our flag in France. You've got all those boys buried in Normandy. And after we had the good taste to chisel the armpit hair off the Statue of Liberty you gave us, you know something, I always thought that tint was oxidized copper. Little did I know it was green with envy."

"Listen, I would call the French scum bags, but that, of course, would be a disservice to bags filled with scum. I say we invade Iraq, then invade Chirac."

"The only way the French are going in is if we tell them we found truffles in Iraq."

"I don't know what I think of George W. Bush when he first got in, but I've grown fond of the man, and maybe it's the times we live in. They say he's not an environmentalist. But every time I see his ranch on TV, it looks pretty nice. You know something, if we all took care of our own, we'd have a great environment."

"As for what many are calling racial profiling in the aftermath of September 11th, well, get ready to be pissed off, you ACLU-F***ing-Morons, we're dealing with a massive threat and limited manpower, so, you want them to check everybody out equally? Sure, fine okay, but let's at least compromise and put the Swedish dwarf a little further down the list than the Iraqi explosives expert carrying a Belgian passport with more eraser marks on it than Kid Rock's trig final."

"There's a lot of differing data [about global warming], but as far as I can gather, over the last hundred years the temperature on this planet has gone up 1.8 degrees. Am I the only one who finds that amazingly stable? I could go back to my hotel room tonight and futz with the thermostat for three to four hours. I could not detect that difference."

"The simple fact is, you've got to view this war like we've been on a long family car ride. Bush is the father and he's been screaming 'don't make me come back there!' for around 200 miles now and it just reached the point where we had to pull the car over and the bad kid is going to get the spanking of his life."

"Michael Moore simultaneously represents everything I detest in a human being and everything I feel obligated to defend in an American. Quite simply, it is that stupid moron's right to be that utterly, completely wrong."

"I'll say this about the war protesters: At least most of them are only putting duct tape across their mouths so I can still tell the rest of them to blow it out their ass.

The emperor exclaimed, "That is very impressive!"The emperor then issued the same challenge to the Chinese samurai, to come in and demonstrate why he should be chosen. The Chinese samurai also opened a matchbox and out buzzed a fly. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh! The fly dropped dead, chopped into four small pieces.

The emperor exclaimed, "That is very impressive!"

Now the emperor turned to the Jewish samurai, and asked him to demonstrate why he should be the chief samurai. The Jewish Samurai opened a matchbox, and out flew a gnat. His flashing sword went Whoosh! But the gnat was still alive and flying around.

The emperor, obviously disappointed, said, "Very ambitious, but why is that gnat not dead?"

The Jewish Samurai just smiled and said, "Circumcision is not meant to kill."

DENNIS MILLER AND THE HOLY GRAIL

"If you want somebody to repair your roads, educate your kids, or purify your water supply, you may want to turn to private enterprise, but if you want massive f***loads of your enemies wiped out in record time, Uncle Sam is the man for you."

"The French, you might as well gas up the dinghy and go fishing with Fredo because you are dead to me, okay. You know something? These pricks are now putting -- they're putting swastikas on our flag in France. You've got all those boys buried in Normandy. And after we had the good taste to chisel the armpit hair off the Statue of Liberty you gave us, you know something, I always thought that tint was oxidized copper. Little did I know it was green with envy."

"Listen, I would call the French scum bags, but that, of course, would be a disservice to bags filled with scum. I say we invade Iraq, then invade Chirac."

"The only way the French are going in is if we tell them we found truffles in Iraq."

"I don't know what I think of George W. Bush when he first got in, but I've grown fond of the man, and maybe it's the times we live in. They say he's not an environmentalist. But every time I see his ranch on TV, it looks pretty nice. You know something, if we all took care of our own, we'd have a great environment."

"As for what many are calling racial profiling in the aftermath of September 11th, well, get ready to be pissed off, you ACLU-F***ing-Morons, we're dealing with a massive threat and limited manpower, so, you want them to check everybody out equally? Sure, fine okay, but let's at least compromise and put the Swedish dwarf a little further down the list than the Iraqi explosives expert carrying a Belgian passport with more eraser marks on it than Kid Rock's trig final."

"There's a lot of differing data [about global warming], but as far as I can gather, over the last hundred years the temperature on this planet has gone up 1.8 degrees. Am I the only one who finds that amazingly stable? I could go back to my hotel room tonight and futz with the thermostat for three to four hours. I could not detect that difference."

"The simple fact is, you've got to view this war like we've been on a long family car ride. Bush is the father and he's been screaming 'don't make me come back there!' for around 200 miles now and it just reached the point where we had to pull the car over and the bad kid is going to get the spanking of his life."

"Michael Moore simultaneously represents everything I detest in a human being and everything I feel obligated to defend in an American. Quite simply, it is that stupid moron's right to be that utterly, completely wrong."

"I'll say this about the war protesters: At least most of them are only putting duct tape across their mouths so I can still tell the rest of them to blow it out their ass.

THE GOP AIN'T WHAT IT USED TO BE
ASK ANY CLOSET QUEEN LIVING IN DC

Here is the sticky, irresistible question, hovering like some sort of perky rainbow-colored cloud over anyone who reads the news or pays attention to the scandals or the nifty bathroom hand signals or the various semen stains covering the pages of the Official GOP Handbook like some sort of wretched, skanky Kandinsky painting:

Really, just how many closeted, self-hating, violently repressed "I-am-not-gay" totally gay hypocrites are there in the Republican Party? Or for that matter, in your average born-again Christian megachurch? Or in the U.S. military? Or in (your morally righteous group's name here)? Ten percent of them? Fifty? A hundred and four?

Because baby, it just keeps popping up, scandal after scandal, homophobic lawmaker after anti-gay preacher after gay marriage attacker after hooker-loving "family values" adulterer, Bob Allen to Ted Haggard to Jim West to Glenn Murphy Jr. to David "Diaperman" Vitter, so many examples of a militant loudmouthed Christian Republican suddenly caught with his pants down around his boyfriend's ankles that, after so many headlines, the notion that these cases might be rare or exceptional simply vanishes and you are left only with the undeniable fact that, oh my God, the American right is simply teeming with so much murky, pressure-cooked homoeroticism it might as well be a Young Republicans kegger at Mark Foley's pink Miami Beach condo.

Not exactly a revelation, I admit. As you already know and as any D.C. therapist or male prostitute or honest historian will happily remind you, this is the way it's always been; incidents like Idaho Sen. Larry Craig's toe-tapping in the tearoom merely reinforce the great Rule of Conservative Hypocrisy -- the louder and more self-righteous the indignation over a given "moral" issue, the more sure you can be that the screamer in question is simply oozing with repressed fantasy/lust regarding that very issue -- and what's more, is very likely acting on it, right now, in a fetish dungeon, brothel or bathroom stall near you.

Same as it ever was? Absolutely.

Maybe this, then, is the more interesting question: How far back does it go? How deep can you trace it? To the very roots of humanity itself? Indeed, you need no microscope, no copy of "The Agony and the Ecstasy" to see the ocean of homoerotic sexual repression surrounding the very foundations of the conservative fundamentalist worldview, or the church itself, hearkening back to all those early, nasty popes (secretly married, secret adulterers, secret flocks of nubile boys at their disposal).

You need no "Da Vinci Code" to tell you of the religious right's eternal repression of the feminine divine, its deep fear of sex, its eternal fascination with the supple flesh of young males. Hell, show me a vociferous anti-sex fundamentalist of any religious or political bent -- be he Muslim, Christian, Jew, Mormon, Republican or other -- and I'll show you a slideshow of his secret nighttime fantasies so kinky and dark it would make Jenna Jameson shudder. And not in a good way.

In this light, Larry Craig is merely carrying on a proud, rather disgusting tradition among the morally rigid and the sexually turgid. He is but one in a long, long line of dangerous, duplicitous cretins who stab madly at the world and work like fervent demons to demean others because they cannot stand their own repulsive reflection in the mirror.

It's as if all the pedophilic priests and all the gay evangelists and the hooker-loving, cocaine-snorting family values GOP crusaders really want us to know that there exists no bastion of stiff, sanctimonious "moral" values that is not, at its core, corrupt and messy and wrongheaded as the Taliban at a nudist colony.

Not our military, a massively warped organization apparently far more terrified of gays than of dropping its entrance barrier so dangerously low it makes good soldiers nervous, not the seminary with the pitter-patter of young men's feet from bunk to bunk after light's out, not the megachurches with their deep, eternal, fetishistic fascination with all things anal and perverted and hookeriffic and yummy.

And for the record, no, liberals and Dems are far from immune to this timeless rule (though the self-hating hypocrisy part is largely muted, by default). It's equally true for any hardcore PETA activist or Earth Firster. The more intolerant you become and the more fixed your ideas of how it's all supposed to work, the more likely the universe will simply laugh, and smack you upside the head, and secretly take your picture licking your new leather boots or applauding the bombing of Afghanistan or eating that endangered baby seal burger. In your Hummer. With a rifle. On top of Bill O'Reilly. (Shudder.)

But one vital aspect of this otherwise rather typical gay-Republican scandal must be repeated, merely for the record: Truly, no one would give much of a damn that Craig's as gay as a three-dollar bill and probably has been for oh, about 40 years now -- in fact, it might have even been applauded, had he come out with anything resembling dignity or honesty -- were the man not a raging, deceitful, duplicitous fraud, one who's intentionally and maliciously damaged lives, restricted sexual progress and, with his fellow homophobes in Congress, taken a rusty, serrated knife the very fabric of human love. Oh yes he has.

After all, this is the same sniveling Larry Craig who snickered that Bill Clinton was a "bad, nasty, naughty boy" during Lewinskygate, the same Craig who helped to enact the military's brutal, failed "don't ask, don't tell" policy (which, as Slate's William Saletan points out, is a complete and degrading sham -- if you don't tell, they make you tell), the same senator who voted for the Defense of Marriage Act and against adding sexual orientation to the list of punishable hate crimes.

In fact, Craig's classic case of GOP hypocrisy, of the chasm between his homophobic public persona and his homosexual personal lusts is simply so blatant, so undeniably grotesque, he becomes a bizarre case study, a cultural curio, a deeply fascinating -- albeit largely nauseating -- archetype, full of obvious but still mandatory lessons for us all.

But let us look, just for now, at the biggest one of all. This particular lesson comes straight from the universe itself. It flows and ebbs and floods over all of time, it reeks of blood and sex and huge explosions of exotic flowers, tells tales of history and warped leaders and sexual mayhem going back millennia. In other words, this lesson, as they say, has seen it all.

It goes something like this:

Dear eternally baffled, terminally horny humans: You can only poison your own soul for so long. You can only lie to yourself, your wife, your children, the nation, your own miserable and intolerant genitalia before the backlash, the recoil, the nasty acid reflux comes right back up to bite your ass in the cold, cold bathroom stall of life. Do you understand? Do you not yet see?

Do not, at the peril of your very spirit, at the risk of all that is beautiful and good and fluid and sexual and wet and sticky and right, hold so tightly, so violently to your narrow views of sex and love and human behavior that, when you are caught naked and shivering and salivating on your bed of nails doing exactly the thing your beliefs profess to hate, that your very soul explodes, the flowers wilt, the gods laugh and you are handed a tiny yellow ticket guaranteeing your return in the next life as a small, black, cancerous lesion on the underbelly of a hyena. OK?

Thus endeth the lesson.