Occasionally, we emerge from our underground bunker (located directly below a Chuck E. Cheese’s, which is a little ironic, since I’m lactose intolerant) to visit the outside world. It’s usually to restock our supply of Steven Seagal’s energy drink (it certainly has a kick) and to check if the great Bieber plague is over (curse his full head of shaggy hair). In this case, I not only left the cat’s lair (but not without first consulting the Sword of Omen for signs of danger), I went overseas. What follows is a diary of my trip to Jamaica. No matter what happens on this vacation, it can’t be as big of a Caribbean catastrophe as Dead Man’s Chest.

Day One

I’m not saying that the new airport security measures are intimate, but the TSA agent asked if I wanted the lights on or off for my search. He was gentleman enough to offer me a cigarette and his phone number after it was over.

Not to be out-molested by man, machine gets its turn. I was selected for the full body scan. If you don’t think the images it takes are revealing, let me say this: I had the TSA submit the shots to Playgirl. Look for my pictorial in March’s issue.

In customs, when the agent asked if I was carrying any food into the country, I responded, “Come Mister tally man, tally me banana.” He thought I was hitting on him.

The speed limit sign in kilometers. I refuse to use the metric system. I’m on vacation, dammit. Actually, I can’t. Public school doesn’t teach you anything foreign. In fact, the one thing I know about Jamaica is that it’s the only place on Earth that has more weed per square inch than Snoop Dogg’s greenhouse.

It’s so relaxing to lay out on the beach and feel the sand between your toes. And even better to feel the sand beneath the toes of the woman sunbathing next to me. Eat your heart out, Rex Ryan (actually, Rex, maybe cut back on the eating).

Ordered a Cool Runnings. I can’t be certain, but I think Doug E. Doug served it to me.

The trip was going well until someone (probably Barbados Slim) stole my Manwich.

Day Two

More than 24 hours in and I haven’t seen nor smelled marijuana. Sweet lamprey of Montego Bay! I’m starting to doubt I’m in Jamaica.

The bar ran out of Red Stripe, so I was forced to drink its imitator, Ruby Line.

If America had a dish similar to Jerk Chicken, we’d surely call it Asshole Chicken, however unappealing that may sound, because we don’t mince words.

Had a nightcap of a White Lion. I can’t be certain, but I think a member of White Lion served it to me. At least that explains the “wait.”

Sculpted a sandcastle in the shape of Castle Grayskull. It took me an Eternia to get the details right.

Day Three

Learned that if I had upgraded at the resort to the Premium Package, Usain Bolt would’ve been my personal waiter. He’s billed as the fastest booze fetcher alive. If there’s one man you’d want to send on an alcohol run, it’s him.

Admired a thin and beautiful young individual sporting a skimpy thong. Then, I stepped away from the mirror.

At this point, I’ve heard so much Bob Marley, I swear I’m back in college at a frat party. Oh yeah, I be jammin’ – my ears with cotton. I wonder if M.Bison was a buffalo soldier.

Spotted the first overweight person with a dumb Chinese character tattoo. Teared up a little at this reminder of America.

Had the full body scan again. Fortunately, I’m immune to radiation after sleeping with a Glo Worm by my side as a kid. And if wasn’t from that toy, then surely I swallowed enough Lite-Brite pegs to build up a tolerance.

Activision officially announced cancelling this year’s Guitar Hero’s release at an investor’s meeting early this afternoon. I don’t think there’s a man, woman, or child alive who possesses such a finely tuned talent to channel the deep emotional chasm that has cleft itself in my soul – I will no longer be able to shell out obscene amounts of cash to hit buttons on a plastic guitar to Justin Bieber tracks from an obvious cash grab to squeeze dry a dying franchise.

Now that my band, the Zom-B-Sharps, is officially dissolved, I’ve taken pause to note the path set before us, as is custom for those of us who have given ourselves over to lady music’s siren call, only to be cast aside like so many needles on the shorelines of New Jersey. If I’m lucky, all of the following will come to fruition in a YouTube “Behind the Music”:

My first solo album will only be released on Teddy Ruxpin.

• After ending my fake music career, I continue on doing fake drugs – lines of pixie sticks and chain smoking bubble gum cigarettes.
• An acoustic solo/throwback career where I play all my songs on a Simon from the 1980′s in an effort to “return to my roots”
• Temporary incarceration in the Monopoly jail after failing to pay back rent.
• Trading my fake “axe” (a fake guitar) in for fake monopoly money to get out of said jail.
• Getting a large rub on tattoo inked across half my face.
• Several loveless internet marriages, mostly in MMORPGS like World of Warcraft and Everquest, all ending in bitter divorce, all performed by an Elvis impersonator over video conference in ChatRoulette.
• A stint playing backup for Chuck E. Cheese’s animatronic band
• Setting up a comeback tour in 2017 when “Air Guitar Hero” is finally developed, where my spastic movements are further channeled, having realized I need only sit on my couch and scratch myself to play every Beatles song ever.
• Eventually succumbing to a grizzly demise when I choke to death on a playdough sandwich in a kiddie pool outside my mobile home.

Writing this all on the blog, the literary equivalent of fake writing, was probably a good start.

Do you believe in UFOs, astral projections, mental telepathy, ESP, clairvoyance, spirit photography, telekinetic movement, full trance mediums, the Loch Ness monster and the theory of Atlantis? Well, you’re here, so you’re probably somewhat mentally challenged or hallucinatory – close enough!

After an article in a local Minneapolis newspaper “debunked” the myth (like science has ever proven even remotely useful in disproving myths), the internet dove into a sea of confusion the likes of which haven’t been seen since Ricky Martin came out of the closet.

What? He had me fooled.

Had astrological signs really changed? Only as much as the global market for leprechaun gold and unicorn farts has. Yes, the Earth has wobbled more than your average trailer park denizen’s arm flab into a bucket of KFC, but that doesn’t mean your hocus pocus sign of the zodiac is any less (or more) real. Hell, they even threw in a thirteenth “missing” sign, Ophiuculus, the serpent god (which really should’ve been Serpentor anyways).

If we’re doing a cosmological rewrite, I say we start with a clean slate. Aquarius, the water carrier? The only carrier I care about is trying to screw me out of my 200 texts a month. Virgo? That’s exactly what people want to be associated with, not getting laid. Because you didn’t ask, here’s how we think the signs of the zodiac should be represented now.

See anything here? Neither do we.

Marios & Luigii, "The Plumbers" - Despite being fat Italian stereotypes with a penchant for hanging in sewage drains, having a mustache rivaling Ron Jeremy's, and tripping on shrooms 24/7, you somehow manage to pick up the ladies almost any time you want. While your every day attire may not turn heads, your fashion sense should not be maligned, as you have an extensive wardrobe, a suit for every occasion that comes up.

Demolitionus, "The Three Seashells" - You are futuristic, mysterious and enigmatic. Your life may not be glamorous, but your role in helping greater causes, especially the environment, cannot be understated. Unfortunately, your lot in life is to handle other people's shit and the only person who really "gets you" is a piss ant Rob Schneider.

Hulkarian Hoganus, "The Hulkamaniac" - You love being at the center of attention, getting whipped into a frenzy by gratuitous cheers feeding your ego. Your voyeuristic nature is also aided by the fact that you will tear off your clothes around other men frequently and without warning.

Tequilas, "The Anarchist" - Also known as "the dice roll", "the wildcard" and "all bets are off". You are the person to talk to when you need to make things happen, mostly parties. You're also the absolute worst when there's a real problem to solve. You find balance in the chaos, which means the highest of highs and the absolute lowest of lows, with trouble following you wherever you go.

Tampaxius, "The Absorbant" - Your softness belies your ability handle anything that comes at you. You always have a "pearl" for whatever streams forth from life. You're also a great at keeping secrets – you'll never let anything leak! (Note: This constellation receive a generous sponsorship from the Tampax corporation, a division of Proctor & Gamble).

Chewbaccarian, "The Wookie" - A gentle, quiet nature is obscured by your inability to properly express yourself at times. Your loyalty to friends is absolute and you possess a strong handiness towards all things technical. Still, you're not particularly neat or well kept and could use a hair cut every now and then.

Kool-Aidius, "The Fruit Drink Bearer" - You have a positive attitude towards everything in life. Spontaneity is everything and everywhere you go, a party breaks out. Speaking of breaking, though, your zeal for breaking down barriers is matched by your destructive force, with little that can stand in your way, so others are often left to clean up the mess.

Bacones, "The Tastemaker" - You make everything around you that much better by simply being there. Are you going to make problems go away? Certainly not. In fact, your short term solutions usually exacerbate things down the road. You're a guilty pleasure, though, and you help spice up situations that would other be bland and stale.

Snoop Doggus, "The Doggfather" - You are the epitome of both casual attitudes and fiscal responsibility – laid back with your mind on your mind and your money on your mind. Your biggest character flaw is your need for social recognition – you have a compulsion to ask everyone "What's my name?".

Batmanius, "The Dark Knight" - You're not much for friends, at least close ones, but you've got a ton of enemies. It comes with the territory of being a complete bad ass. Haters gonna hate, after all. That's fine – you prefer the night life when no one is up anyways.

Tyrannus, "The T-Rex" - You're a little mouthy and that tends to scare people away. You also suffer from serious inadequacies in many of your relationships – you want to hold them but you're just unable to do so. You're old school, like coming from a previous era, and people appreciate that. You stand out above all the rest, so people admire you for it. They just do so far away from your path of destruction.

Conanius, “The Fiery Coiffure” – Silly dancing and absurdist humor are you forte. Your inclination towards the inane is matched by your sharp wit and biting humor. You pal around with some hot shots and make a name for yourself, but being the good guy means you’ll often take it on the chin.

End of times stories not involving zombies (yes, we’re dismayed) come from the South this week, where hundreds of birds have clustered in large mass death rituals not involving an Ozzy Osbourne concert. Theories have been offered up – a new infection or disease attacking the local wildlife, some sort of massive trauma, etc – but none are all that fun for a event that may in fact be one of the signs of the Apocalypse.

Thankfully, having absolutely no scientific background in this area, being nowhere in the vicinity and having no connection to this makes me perfect for coming up with some conclusions that are a lot more fun.

When God is “giving you the bird”, you damn sure know it.

• Hunting laws in the South have become so lax that animals are required dive bomb into the pavement
• After seeing Black swan, the flock of birds had been flying to Hollywood in order to court Natalie Portman, but became suicidal shortly after upon news of her pregnancy/engagement.
• Big Bird has the bitchinest New Year’s Eve parties. Unfortunately, he was never very good at keeping friends from flying home drunk.
• Alfred Hitchcock has been haunting the area and he’s being a complete dick about it.
• Several egg-stealing pigs have been exacting revenge of their own through covert operations.
• The birds never bothered to master landing on the air craft carrier in Top Gun for the NES. How they have paid for their sloth.
• They’re doing the largest re-enactment of Monty Python skits ever and they are dedicated as hell to their pining of the fjords.
• Twitter in Arkansas is still sent by carrier pigeon. Of course, when the “Fail Whale” hits…

Thinking outside the batter’s box.

I’m not saying Derek Jeter is old, but in contract negotiations he used the word “multi-vitamin” as much as he did “multi-year.”

Jeter is more washed up than a seashell on the Long Island shore.

A-Rod is also similar to a seashell, in that both once likely contained crabs.

At this point, it looks like The Situation has more productive years ahead of him than Jeter. Abs>ABs (at bats)

It’s true, Jeter considered an offer from the Mets. He also considered an offer from Metamucil.

If coaching was a staring contest, Jim Caldwell would win.

There’s at least one book we know Caldwell doesn’t own, Blink by Malcom Gladwell.

The Yankees are taking the Lee rejection so hard that they’ve banned Cliff Bars from the stadium concessions. They’ve also cut Lee jeans as a sponsor.

Into the Woods: If Tiger's tweeting, we're joining the club.

It was probably a bad Choice for Tashard to ask for Vick’s autograph after the game. Should we treat him with kid gloves if the gloves were for a kid?

After Romo got hurt, Cowboys had to open their emergency Kitna.

It’s no coincidence that Big Ben has had his clock cleaned twice this season.

President Obama had to get stitches after an errant elbow in a pickup game with his staff. That’s what he gets for appointing Dikembe Mutombo to his cabinet (as Secretary of Defense, naturally).

I’m not saying Brett Favre is old, but he’s Facebook friends with Father Time.

I’m not calling Brett Favre old, but he remembers when defeating the Redskins meant taking their land.

I’m not saying Brett Favre is old, but he has Gatorade make him a special flavor: prune.

Sal Alosi’s trip was dirtier than Rex Ryan’s napkin after dinner.

The Lakers were invited to the White House to be congratulated on last season’s championship. Andrew Bynum was injured shaking the President’s hand. He’s out 6-8 weeks.

Yao Ming is more fragile and expensive than a Ming vase.

Tiger Woods has trouble taking his children out to dinner — not because he’s famous, but because every place reminds him of a woman he’s slept with. Wendy’s, Dairy Queen, The Olive Garden and especially Hooters. You don’t even want to know what Fuddrucker’s makes him think of.

Michael Vick has been playing at an MVP level and it’s all thanks to his dogged determination, his refusal to roll over.

McNabb was replaced by a dog killer and then by a man whose name could be a dog’s (atta boy, Rex). Throw him a bone.

It didn’t take Mike Shanahan long to adapt to D.C. culture and talk out of both sides of his mouth.

We’ve read the SI cover story on Vick so many times, the pages are dog-eared.

Of course Michael Vick should win the MVP award. It does stand for “Most Vicious to Dogs,” right?

Andre Johnson hit Courtland so hard, I thought we’d be holding Finnegan’s Wake.

Johnson and Finnegan have agreed to settle their dispute in People’s Courtland.

The Winter Classic is the one day when hockey comes out of hibernation to show its face on national TV.

In the Coaches vs. Cancer Classic, it’s like the coaches are the Washington Generals and cancer is the Globetrotters. Cancer always wins.

There’s going to be some Urban decay in Gainesville.

We won’t see Giants acting as stupid as on Sunday until Gulliver’s Travels with Jack Black opens.

Giants fans were so upset after the loss, they destroyed every Dodge in the parking lot.

The only recent NY performance worse than the Giants was Spider-Man: The Musical. Both breakdowns are all over the web.

We’ve reached a breaking point with how much poking and prodding we’ve allowed airline security to get away with. When checking in requires the gentle nature of a prison rape scene, somehow a cross country car ride with your grandma farting up the family car starts to seem like a much more viable option. United’s even thinking about changing their slogan – “Fly the friendly skies! But first bend over and grab your ankles”.

With the gruff demeanor of a 57 year old ex-con manhandling every hoo-ha, wing-wong, and taint between, you’d swear you were reliving the repressed memory of “Uncle Handsy” when you were five. And while they may have marginally more power than your local mall rent-a-cop, it doesn’t mean you have to take it. Here now, the Concentrated Awesome guide to making it through the TSA security checkpoint.

Unlike “A Scanner Darkly”, it’ll have way less Keanu. Strike one, TSA.

Carrying on about your carry ons

Be aware of your belongings at all times – but check your pride at the door. This ain’t no flower hour (despite the touchy-feely nature of everything) so don’t expect a song and a dance before you get down with the romance. Let security know exactly what you want – spell it out for them (even if they don’t know how to spell). Your baggage (physical, not emotional) should include all of the following for inspection: a twig and berries, a bag of marbles, a coin purse, a pair of eggs (hardboiled, if that’s what kinda guy you are), an atari joystick, a door knob, assorted deli meat (kielbasas, bratwursts and salamis preferred), and just so we don’t leave out the ladies, a clam with a hilariously tiny beard glued on.

Looking your best

You don’t go out on a Saturday night without dressing up a bit do you? Well, if you’re reading this, you probably don’t go out any night period. If TSA is checking you out, give them something to stare at!

• Stuff an afro wig down your pants big enough to make Disco Stu look like he’s rocking a crew cut. For added effect, just before getting your groove on with the agent, pull out an afro pick and give it a quick toss. Or, take it the other direction – shave a landing strip and alert the agent “the plane is ready for take off”.
• Rock a full on Batman suit. Walk up to the scanner and eye them suspiciously, muttering about your “secret identity”. Insist “I didn’t need to take off my belt on the way here and I’m not going to now!”. Refer to the agent the entire time as “Alfred’.
• Fake a foreign accent – you may be able to get an arranged marriage and a couple goats out of the procedure.
• Throw on a red hat and claim membership in bloods (or blue/crips, if you feel it’ll make your eyes pop more). See how well the TSA can handle the NWA.

Playing the part

So you’ve got your outfits – now you have to make good on your preparation. Even those who’ve been around the block a few times get the shakes (getting groped in front of 20 other strangers can do that). Some good habits to keep in mind:

• Humor always has a place at the airport, especially during those long waits. A quick way of making friends is taping a sign reading “I promise I’m not smuggling anything up my butt” to the passenger in front of you, though they may not fully appreciate it until later when they can comfortably sit down again.
• As the agent puts on rubber gloves, pull out a condom from your pocket and feign readiness to put it on. Mention how amazing the ladies of Amsterdam were, “so you’ve got quite an act to follow”. If you can apply some fake cold sores beforehand, even better.
• Desperately plead to bring a small bottle of shampoo on board with you. When denied, scratch your junk furiously, pat the agent on the head and wish the agent better luck than you’ve had with the little fuckers.
• Make sure to take notes as passengers ahead of you are screened. When questioned, explain how it’s preparation for your job as a camp counselor next summer. Whisper “I won’t tell if you don’t” and give a sly wink.

The Afterglow

As quickly as it came (or as quickly as you did, we’re not judging), so will your examination end. Remember that snuggling is frowned upon despite how cuddly your bear of an agent may look. Other things to keep in mind:

• Ask for directions to the nearest scalding hot shower. Shake back and forth as your rub your hands together, with a few “the dirt just won’t come off!” for good measure.
• Boners should not be hidden. Rather, they should be proudly displayed as “Freedom Towers” you’ve erected in the name of liberty.
• Crotch/butt sniffing is permissible if the lines aren’t too long, but don’t take all day – 2 to 3 seconds only. You don’t want to get weird, after all.
• Don’t call us to bail you out of jail.

There’s been a great deal of speculation about my absence, although not enough to send out a search party. “He’ll return when he’s ready,” was always my parent’s attitude. As a result, I’m still waiting for my childhood canine, Doggie Howser, to come home.  Some said that after our 200th post, success went straight to my head. Lies. Just because I started substituting cocaine for salt, then began heavily salting all of my food (over-salting, according to my sponsor, but I say blow really brings out the flavor in Bagel Bites).  I didn’t turn into a hedonist just because I hired Tia Carrere as my personal escort, made her wear a stovepipe hat and a beard, introduced her to everyone as “Babebraham Lincoln” and myself as a schwing voter (coincidentally, her services cost mere pennies a day). There were rumors I became a J.D. Salinger-esque recluse, which is half-right, since I was working on my own novel about teen angst, Pitcher in the Barley (it’s about a boy’s love of beer, but it’s not auto-biographical, I swear). As is often the case, the truth was stranger than fiction. Here’s how I actually spent my time away:

Convinced the Crayola folks that they need a new shade of orange named “Boehner.” Wrote a dozen jokes about how the new Speaker of the House resembled Garfield, including that his first order of business would be to kick Odie off the table and how he would refuse to come in on Mondays. Scrapped them when I decided he looked more like Heathcliff.

Tried to cast a spell that would make a bottle of booze appear, by chanting, “Expecto Patron.” Tila Tequila appeared instead, thus ending  once and for all my curiosity with magic.

Played parlor games with comedians. There was spades with David Spade, hearts with Kevin Hart and mahjong with Ken Jeong.

Pitched my TV show ideas: 1. A comedy about a group of misfit Muslims who own a hookah bar, set in the city of brotherly love, It’s Always Sunni in Philadelphia and 2. A reality show with celebrity cokeheads, Whose Line is it, Anyway?

Founded a combination bakery and strip club, Hot Cross Buns.

Honored the NES’s 25thh anniversary by raising money to get Sister Sledge to sing my remake of their hit, “We are Famicomly” (sample lyric: I got all my plumbers with me/Mario and Luigi/ to stomp on a goomba, press ‘B’)

Polled professional horse racers to find out if they feel obligated to wear Jockey and surveyed produce sellers/weavers to see if they feel similarly about Fruit of the Loom.

Paid tribute to JCVD by resolving the decades-old pop culture question of which catalog of his films is better: the theatrical releases or the straight-to-video ones? Conclusion: Get James Lipton on the phone and graft some extra thumbs onto Ebert’s hands so he can stick them up in approval because his body of work should be declared the eighth wonder of the world.

Campaigned heavily to make sure McCheese won another term as Mayor (the Hamburglar wasn’t going to steal this election).

Pondered what would happen if the double rainbow guy met Rainbow Brite…on Diwali (or Christmas or Hanukkah).

Deleted a bunch of pictures Brett Favre kept sending me of his groin. As if I don’t get enough junk mail.

Petitioned President Obama to boost the economy by re-branding turning back the clocks as “Rolex Presents: Daylight Spending Time.”

A lifetime of neurotic tendencies will often manifest itself in some funny ass ways. You have your general what am I going to do with my life, health scares, existential crises, etc. that are a common thread amongst us all. That becomes a nice white noise in the waiting room of daily bullshit. You notice it, but it’s so pedestrian that oftentimes it’s safe to ignore it.

For example, my quirk is that every time I take off in an airplane, I’m about 115% sure it’s going down in flames.

That might be a bigger deal for most people, some kind of mental instability that would require the management of copious amounts of prescribed narcotics and the wallet-raping advice from a shrink. Always the eternal optimist though, I’ve manage to rationalize it in the following ways:

The sweating is just a glandular disorder – I’m actually pretty mellow about the whole thing.

1) Those babies on board seem to be getting a way shittier deal than I. At least I’ve had a beer or two, grabbed a boob, seen an R-rated movie with JCVD in it, all that good stuff. Then again, they can safely poop themselves as the plane is going down and no one would be the wiser. We’re about to bite it and some grandma sitting next to me rocking the colostomy bag is going to look down on me? Eff that.

2) I’m too tired to care. Unlike the dentists office or moving to a new place, the kinds of experiences where you have to be an active participant, a plane crash seems pretty passive, not to mention final, as soon as that door closes. An apathetic New Yorker may be cliche, but it damn well comes in handy when you’re about to face plant from 20,000 ft in the air.

3) It’s like winning the lottery, except just the opposite. The “you’re fucked” lottery. Gotta feel lucky that within the confines of billions of lives that have scoured this planet, I’m one of the few lucky thousand ever to exist that goes out crashing straight into it. Take THAT Mother Earth!

Now if I can only get Leslie Nielsen on a plane with me, I’ll be all set…

Congrats to President Obama, who Sunday joined the illustrious “random shit thrown at an American President” club. Previous inductees include better known candidates such as President Bush, who dodged a penny loafer during his second term, and lesser known like Howard Taft who on two separate occasions had a rabid possum thrown at him (or quiet possibly a perturbed shrew – some documents are still undisclosed from the “varmint years” of his term).

Now, Secret Service says it was an enthusiastic author who so badly wanted Obama to read his book, he rushed the stage and tossed it to the President. I suppose that’s one way to look at things – what actually happened. We expect a better kind of investigative journalism here at CA, so we’re taking it upon ourselves to look at the usual suspects here (I have a sneaking suspicion Marc is actually Keyzer Soze, but perhaps I’ve said too much).

• Christine O’Donnell w/ Harry Potter – What better way to distract from her bewitching ways than to shift blame to the White House? It’s not like she can just whip up a spell for every problem that comes her way (do you know the price of frogs eyes these days?). In this economy, even your every day sorceress, shaman, and general conjurers need to pinch those pennies.
• Anonymous Tea Partier w/ War and Peace – Just kidding. I don’t think your average Tea Party zealout could spell War and Peace, let alone find a copy of it in the library. Besides, they’re really more the book burner than the book thrower type.
• Jesus w/ a Bible – Man, no one reads that thing anymore! The Messiah’s gonna have to do a few book tours at your local Barnes and Noble if he wants people checking that thing out. And hey, if Obama casually mentions it during a speech, it’s win-win! Good exposure for the big man with liberals who might abandon their heathen ways and for Obama, conservatives may forget for 5 minutes he’s Muslim!
• Tony Romo w/ the Dallas Cowboys playbook – Really grasping at straws for a win these days if you’re hitting up Obama for coaching. Then again, ten yards away from the President and he still missed, so maybe do whatever you can. You also have to question his offensive line for letting Secret Service tackle him so easily.
• G.W. Bush w/ Everyone Poops – Because God dammit he wants to prove that EVERYONE poops. Second choice being a Winnie the Pooh book.
• Mark Zuckerberg w/ Facebook – Zucker-punching Obama, the billionaire CEO needed some kind of press to counter the negative image portrayed in the movie “The Social Network”. I guess throwing a sheep at his Facebook profile would’ve been too easy.

“If you only knew the power of the Dark Side”. It’s amazing what some parlor tricks and rolling around like a bad ass in a sweet ride can do for you. That said, Darth Vader, for all intents and purposes, is dressed like a clown.

Is this blasphemy among nerds? Perhaps, but he does walk around with platform shoes, a tricked out track suit, and a cape. There’s only one other dude who could pull that off (Elvis) and he didn’t even summon force lightning. You might be confused as to how they relate – it all comes down to mind tricks (yes, that’s technically a Jedi power; I’m mixing my Star Wars metaphors, but hear me out). You put on a good enough show and people will believe whatever you’re selling.

Christine O’Donnell may have given up witchcraft, passing it off as youthful hijinks. That doesn’t mean she isn’t still practicing some kind of dark arts to an ancient underworld god. The woman has done literally nothing and yet in the span of a week no one can shut up about her, including us. Palin, the Emperor to her Vader, at least was Governor of Alaska first.

My best explanation for this is a power I’m unable to fathom to its true depths – stupidity. You’d think with my Rainman-like ability to recall Simpsons episodes and unhealthy devotion to starting some sort of 80′s Renaissance that my personality would be balanced out with some sort of mental handicap. Idiot savant qualities aside, I’m smart enough to realize stupid when it smacks you in the face. Seeing O’Donnell launched into the limelight is like getting floored by a Mack truck. Which brings me back to my original point – if you only knew the power of stupidity.

Quick example. Go into a Burger King. You’ll see they have three size for their meals – medium, large, and king size. Try explaining the concept of “medium”, the middle size, to an employee. See who wins in that contest of wills as the employee sluggishly fumbles for a “small” button alongside a vacant, confused stare. What happens? You give up and ask for a medium. Stupidity wins.

I propose a three step process, the Looney Tunes process, for dealing with stupidity:

There may be a reason we confuse CNN with Cartoon News Network.

1) Distract – Elmer Fudd doesn’t understand a sound argument. What he does understand is that he’d rather kiss an anthropomorphic rabbit in a dress with a blonde wig than hunt Bugs (and who could blame him?). That would certainly explain the pitbull with lipstick.

2) Confuse – Rabbit Season! Duck Season! Primary Season! Election Season! You don’t confuse an idiot with logic. What do you is ask a blindingly simple question that should be answerable to anyone who can tie their own shoes. “What magazines do you read?” stumped Palin. Hell, you might be able to get away with convincing O’Donnell that she’s a Democrat and have her run a smear campaign against herself.

3) Anvil – They’re distracted and confused. That’s when you hit ‘em where it hurts, sarcasm, the Acme anvil of the debate world. Both ridiculing and baffling to idiots, smart-assery is our best defense and our most potent weapon. Which just goes to show that Jon Stewart is the Luke Skywalker in this poorly constructed analogy.

And that’s where we come in. When we look back and question years spent on TV and JCVD movies, we don’t think we’ve wasted our time with mundane trivial pop culture references and general idiocy. We’re preparing for the future. We like to think we’re doing it for the greater good. Your good.

Concentrated Awesome – the last line of defense against stupidity.