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Eight years to be exact.
For those of you that don’t know who I am, allow me to introduce myself: I am Wayne Chinsang. From time to time, I’ve been known to go by Insane Wayne Chinsang. For many years, I ran a little magazine/website/cult named Tastes Like Chicken. There will be more announcements about Tastes Like Chicken in the near future, but for now I’d like to talk about some more pressing issues.
Earlier today, I received this email from my old boss. Some of you may know him as Shady:
You see, during the run of Tastes Like Chicken (from 1998 to around, say, 2007 or so), Shady quietly ran shit anonymously behind the scenes while I was the angry (and much prettier) face of the magazine. That isn’t to say Shady and I didn’t see eye-to-eye on most things, but I was always much better at voicing my… let’s just call it dissatisfaction with the world than he was.
And, I mean, let’s be honest here: Shady is a shell of the man he was during his TLC days. He’s now the father of a little girl. He has a tattoo of the Muppets on his arm. And that’s not even to mention his male-pattern baldness, or the fact that he just turned 40.
None of those things describe me. I am the father of exactly zero children (that I know of), the only tattoo I’d ever get would be of the phrase “TATTOOS ARE STUPID,” and I have a luxuriously full head of hair. Oh, and I don’t age. No, seriously, I never age. That’s what happens when you’ve spent the last eight years of your life sleeping in the abandoned ruins of a castle in Romania.
But I digress….
See, the thing is, I was able to take an eight-year break from reality because, as far as I could tell, humanity was mostly back on track. Sure, there was awful shit going on in the world, but we’re never going to be able to fully eradicate all misery. Not as long as contemporary country music exists, at least. Still, humanity was progressing nicely. We all seemed to be getting along together fairly well, or, at the very least, we respectfully accepted our little differences as simply that: little differences.
But then today I get that email from Shady, and after a quick Dogpile search (I told you, I’ve been gone awhile) I find out that 60 million Americans willingly voted a pussy-grabbing fascist into the White House. I’d like to say I’m surprised by this outcome (as Shady obviously was, as illustrated by his sophomoric and minimalist reaction of teen angst), but I’m really not. I mean, we’re talking about a country that elected that Texas hilljack Dubya (AKA George W. Bush for the newbies) into the White House twice. Twice!
All of this is to say that Trump’s ascension to the top of the political shit pile that is the U.S. government is about as surprising as Kanye West’s mental breakdown. (I spent a lot of time on Dogpile today.)
And so, Shady has decided to pass the anger baton on to me for the next four years, and rightly so. Because, when compared to me, Shady just doesn’t possess the appropriate amount of anger needed to adequately tackle this fucked-up turn of events. I, on the other hand, most certainly do.
Need proof? I once started an online petition to God to give Dubya cancer. For real! I really did that! And I don’t regret one goddamn second of it. Know why? Because Bush and his entire crew are still nothing more than petty war criminals. And I’ve said it before, and I will say it again: I will throw a fucking party each and every time a member of that administration leaves this mortal coil. Red Dog and Jack’s Frozen Pizzas on me, y’all!
But until that happens, Donald Trump, I’m turning my attention to you.
So while Shady concentrates on his silly “this is what I’m reading” or “here’s a misspelled sign” or “read this dumb quote one of my friends just said” type of posts here on The Blarg, I’m now in charge of managing the anger around here.
Because let’s be honest, folks… suddenly, there’s a fuckload to be angry about.
Stay tuned, dear reader. Trust me, it’ll be worth it.
…my good friend Milan gave me this t-shirt as a present for my 25th birthday.
Here’s a closer look just in case you can’t make it out.
I got this shirt two weeks to the day after September 11th. Needless to say, it wasn’t the most popular article of clothing to be wearing right on the heels of the nation’s worst terrorist attack, especially while living in Ohio.
In those months that followed, I got a lot of dirty looks from people while out in public. Once, while waiting in line at a grocery store, a cashier mumbled something under her breath about me being either a traitor or a terrorist. She spoke loud enough for me to hear her, but soft enough for me not to fully make it out.
Still, I wore this shirt with pride for the rest of George W. Bush’s presidency. Actually, I continued to wear it well into Obama’s first term, mostly just to remind myself of what dark times we had just emerged from.
For those eight years, while running Tastes Like Chicken, my friends and I went after Bush every chance we got. I’m not proud of everything we did and said in those years, but a lot of those funny little jabs still hold up today.
Especially this one.
But those years are now in the past (thankfully) and George W. Bush is mostly forgotten. Of course, over time he’ll probably become a glowing poster boy of pride for the GOP, but that won’t ever change my opinion of him.
He’s still not my president. And I don’t have to wear a t-shirt anymore to prove it.
I’ve had this shirt for more than eleven years. It feels great to finally get rid of it.
Heading to Goodwill,
John Yoo is the dickbag who worked in the Department of Justice under Dubya’s administration. He’s also the moron who played a key role in the administration’s justification of the use of torture on Abu Ghraib prisoners.
With his seedy glory days behind him, Yoo has turned to the college lecture circuit where he pollutes the minds of America’s youth with his bullshit rhetoric. He lectures at both Berkeley and Chapman University.
It was during one of these lectures that a guy from the Australian comedy show “The Chaser’s War on Everything” hopped up on his desk and started asking Yoo questions… while dressed like an Abu Ghraib prisoner.
Yoo awkwardly cancels the rest of the class, not knowing what to say or do next. He bumbles and fumbles around with some papers, and quickly makes his way for the door.
Does that make you uncomfortable, John Yoo? Not as uncomfortable as having your balls wired to a car battery, I’m sure.
Watch the hilarity unfold here:
The war criminal is Yoo,
Is it completely lost on the people of Washington that he’s nothing more than a fair-weather friend? The dipshit kid who desperately clings on to whichever kid happens to be “cool” that week?
First, he’s a Democratic vice presidential hopeful. Then he’s a GOP ballsucker who’s managed to weasel his way into every nook and cranny of Dubya’s intestinal tract. Then he runs all over the country holding John McFrankenstein’s hand, showing what good of friends they are. And now he’s following Obama around like a lost puppy, throwing compliments at the very man he painted as being naive just four months earlier.
You, Joe Lieberman, can suck it.
You have no real friends on either side of the aisle. You are a bottomfeeder of bottomfeeders, living off the excrement of men and women who are greater bottomfeeders than you could ever hope to be. And you will leave this planet as nothing more: a pitiful, bottomfeeding independent Senator whose influence was zero because you were too busy scrambling around, trying to figure out whose wiener to put in your mouth next.
Go away, Joe Lieberman. You’re a hero to no one.
When you’re friends with everyone you’re really nobody’s friend,
Maybe next time.
But first, you will have my size nines,