Wednesday, September 15, 2010


Today I'm going to break my streak of "multiple parts of a retarded story that nobody cares about" and go back to writing about something that bugs me. And this rant is inspired by a video I saw recently, of a pit bull puppy playing with a rat. Or more appropriately by the comments left on it.

Here is the video in question: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zbPW6iF98eo

Seems innocent enough, at least to me. A pit bull puppy playing with a rat, perhaps a bit roughly, and then the rat runs away. Cute, really. But not to the self-righteous, passive-aggressive masses. Below is a sampling of some of the wonderful comments left on this video:

From doggpower2233:
yes i have had rats for 9 year when they spueaks it hurt or pissed god ur so grrr poor thing i hope ur rat bites u in the face
I have to be honest: For a moment, I thought "god ur so grrr poor thing" was some sort of expression of sympathy to the poster of the video, but then was blindsided by "i hope ur rat bites u in the face." Wow, I'll bet that would show 'em, wouldn't it? The rat, obviously being completely cognizant of whatever the fuck it was about this video that offended YouTube champ "doggpower2233," should punish its owner with a "bite to u face."

But it gets worse. From bradrats:
poor little rat i hope u die!!!!! u should not own them if ur gunna do that ur evil and die in hell u bastard!!!!! u r so crule to animals
Wait a minute....did he just wish death on the poor little rat? And he wants it to die in hell? Don't you have to die first, in order to go to hell? Or have I forgotten my Judeo-Christian teachings somewhere along the way? In any case, he's quick to point out (apparently still to the rat) that it's "crule" to animals....and what could be worse than that?

Well, this comment from LodernaiVicious, for starters:
If you were my child I would have kicked you in the head and taken your pets to a shelter. Both pup and rat were in danger, you moron...
Yes, and your child would be in no way in danger if you kicked him in the fucking head. Sounds like a real stand up guy....

Then here's some wannabe rat psychology, courtesy of costernocht:
If the rat is squeaking, it's being hurt. This is cruel.
Rats only squeak when they're in pain. Duly noted.

Some obliqueness, courtesy of theLORDofSKATE:
.....is that a compliment?

Some self-importance from CahillandDelene:
Just the title this person chose says volumes. Fighting for survival. Pit bulls should be banned everywhere. And rats are wonderful pets. This poster is a jerk and trying to get away with something that looks "cute".
Yeah? Well I think rats should be banned everywhere, and pit bulls make wonderful pets. Enjoy your fucking bubonic plague.

A comment from the somehow appropriately named EvilSnooche:
Dude ur retarded..did YOU watch the video? Poor rat was getting mauled with no where do go until the end there where it finally got away.... Animal right faggots? I hope one day u get eaten alive by coyotes. I bet more ignorant people like u will be calling others human rights faggots too. now go back to ur deluxe trailer.
First of all, I won't even address the irony of "ur retarded." Second, to say the rat was getting mauled, when it pretty fucking obviously wasn't injured, it ridiculous. I'm guessing this winner hasn't actually seen a proper "mauling" in his life. And third, you don't get to compare animal rights to human rights when you just wished for a human to be eaten alive by coyotes.

As for the "deluxe trailer" comment, I have no idea, though I can only assume it's some sort of dig at someone being poor, as if EvilSnooche hadn't already shown himself to enough of an insult to mankind in general with the rest of his post.

Then there's DBNskiller:
Dude if i ever meat you in real life you dont wanna know how badly i fuck you up, believe me i would swear to god ill rip your eyeballs out and shit on them.

And easy to say, too, considering the video poster is from South Africa and DBNskiller is from the Netherlands, at least according to both of their profiles. It's always easy to threaten somebody you'll never have any chance of meeting.

I was surprised at the following timely, intelligent, and well-thought out comment courtesy of Banger606:

You're a fucking bastard. You're a fucking bastard. A shit fuck too. You're a fucking bastard. You're a fucking bastard ...

It's Not Funny !!! piss die mother fucker die mother fucker!!!

Gee, do you think he believes the video poster to be a fucking bastard? Or indeed, a shit fuck?

Wishful thinking from KakaoAndWhippedCream:

I hope you die.

No, not the rat nor the dog. just YOU.

Unfortunately, KakaoAndWhippedCream, they're all going to die, eventually. Hope you're okay with that.

From oliverotcasek:
I hope you die but before that know everyone hates you.
Well, oliverotcasek, I KNOW you'll die eventually, assuming you're mortal. And sometime before you do, I hope you realize that someone has preserved your idiotic, spiteful comment and posted your YouTube ID along with it.

A direct threat from the ironically named noneofyourbusiness65:
you mean person!! im thinking of calling animal rights activists on your behind!!!!!!!!

More helmet-wearing mental retardation, from thes0rleymussed:
That is not harmless play-it's toying with that rat. It would have eventually killed it-with stress if nothing else. I really hope you get raped by a fucking 6 foot 20 stone bubba..see how it feels, you fucking ride cunt bitch whore animal abuser. BURN IN HELL, CUNT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!­!!!!!!!!!!!
If there's one thing I can't help but notice in these comments, it's people making incredibly sadistic and inhumane comments at someone they perceive to be sadistic and inhumane.

Now I ask you, which is worse: Letting a rat and a puppy play roughly, or telling a woman you hope she gets RAPED and calling her a cunt, among other things? I know the answer to that, and I'm hoping you know the answer to that, but thes0rleymussed? He doesn't, and the world is worse off for having him in it. And the world is worse off still for someone who abuses the exclamation point so severely. Look at how angry I am!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Closing, I think this quote from djabsy1 sums it all up perfectly:
And there you have it. Somebody sees a video that reflects something he or she personally would not do, and then goes into full-on self-righteousness mode, appalled at how "SHOCKEN" it all seems to someone who has never seen it. A normal person would say, "Gee, the Orkin man is more of a danger to rats than this person," yet sadly, most people are far from reasonable.

In short, if you're so worked up over a YouTube video that doesn't depict anything abnormally harsh that you actually wish DEATH upon the person who uploaded it, then you you need to grow the fuck up. A rat is a goddamn rat, and while I don't condone genuine cruelty to them, you're not going to hurt their feelings or traumatize them for life by letting a dog play with them. Stop anthropomorphizing your pet vermin; life isn't a cartoon.

Pictured: Not real life

Saturday, April 17, 2010

We Three Kings: Fellowship of the Kings 

Holy shit, I'm still alive! Yeah, I slipped a little there. Anyway, I'm going to get back to updating this blog now. More random humor and gripe articles are likely forthcoming....but in the meantime, it's time to check back in to this pointless spy action story that for some reason I'm determined to finish.

"Is there any hors d'oeuvres?" Don said as he dug around in the miniature refrigerator. "I like me some hors d'oeuvres."

Stephen sat on the cheap, button-tufted wing back chair on the opposite end of the green room, arms crossed and eyes closed. He opened his eyes and sighed.

"Just sit down, Don. You're like a little kid half the time."

"Fuck off, Steve," Don said as he settled on a bottle of Coke and slammed the refrigerator closed. "My ass is hungry."

"Okay," Stephen said patiently. "What would your ass like to eat?"

"I done told you," Don said as he took one drink, screwed the cap back on the bottle, and threw it across the room. "Hors d'oeuvres."

"So what, you're expecting a party tray or something?"

Don fell heavily into the chair next to Stephen and narrowed his eyes at him. "The fuck's you talkin' about?"

"Hors d'oeurves don't just come anywhere. You serve them on trays at parties."

"You so full of shit," Don scoffed. "I get hors d'oeuvres all the time at the grocery store. Frozen. I heat 'em up in the microwave."

"I think you're confusing 'hors d'oeuvres' with 'snack food,' Don," Stephen said patiently.

"Same fuckin' thing, dumb fuck. 'Hors d'oeuvres' is a fancy way of saying 'snack food.'"

Before Stephen could retort, the door to the green room swung open, and with the swagger of an old gunfighter, in walked the man, the myth, the legend: Larry, the oldest living King. Stephen and Don both stood immediately to formally great him, but Larry waved them off.

"Save it, fellas," Larry said dismissively. "Now I need to know why you're here. And I don't want to hear anything about SCEPTER sending us on another mission. I'm retired. From that, anyway."

"Yeah, when did your ass retire?" Don asked. "I didn't get the memo."

Larry hesitated, then: "Well, I guess I took it for granted that agents leave the field once they turn eighty. I figured you all knew."

"So you're eighty?" Stephen asked.

Larry grinned. "I'm not falling for this one. Nobody knows this old boy's age except the old boy himself. Now, what can I do for you gentlemen?"

"Well, I think you already know," Stephen said. "SCEPTER. I haven't been briefed yet, but Don knows about it."

Larry looked to Don, who shook his head and pulled a cigar from his pocket.

"They told me they want to do the briefing," Don said as he bit the end off and took out his lighter. "I ain't supposed to say shit."

"You're not supposed to smoke in the green room, sir," Larry said pointedly.

Don struck his lighter and paused, looking up at Larry, the unlit cigar still dangling from his lips. He snorted, then lit it anyway.

"Fine then. I can see we're not playing nice," Larry said. "Why exactly do they have to tell us themselves?"

"Knowing SCEPTER, so it will be more dramatic," Stephen sighed.

"I'm the attestation of privileged information," Don said between puffs. "I got it, ya'll don't."

"What's the deal with him, anyway?" Larry asked Stephen, pointing a thumb at Don. "Kind of a pissy mood."

"Yeah, you'll have to excuse him," Stephen said. "He just drove cross country, twice. Three times, if you count laterally as 'cross country.'"

"And ya'll don't have no hors d'oeuvres," Don fumed.

Larry nodded at this, then did a double take. "Wait, what?"

"Do you still have the Larrycopter?" Stephen asked hopefully.

Larry shook his head. "No. I got rid of that when I retired."

"Shit. Looks like we're still stuck traveling in Don's Pimpwagon."

"I done told your ass," Don growled, blowing smoke in Stephen's face for effect. "It's called the Big Ticket."

"Yeah," Stephen scoffed. "Named after all those unpaid citations in your glove compartment."

"I can pay off that shit any time I want," Don muttered, jamming his cigar back into his mouth.

"Alright, fine," Larry said. "So we're going to DC then, I guess, and we're going in the Big Ticket."

Stephen and Don both nodded simultaneously.

"Great," Larry continued, with a hint of sarcasm. "I'll get Kathy Griffin or Bob Costas to sit in for me the next couple of nights. Let's get this over with."

Larry stepped aside and motioned for Don and Stephen to walk ahead of him. He hesitated before following them out.

"Why do I have such a bad feeling about this?" Larry muttered under his breath.

"Problem?" Stephen called from down the hallway.

"No, no problem," Larry called back as he left the room, the door swinging closed behind him.

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

We Three Kings: The Old Man From Brooklyn 

Since I have nothing else to write about at the moment, this month's update will continue with episode 2 of the adventures of three guys named "King." Enjoy. Or not.

Larry walked out of the studio with confidence, with none of the stumbles, trembles, or bent-over posture of most men his age. He wore a black silk shirt, with a vibrant blue tie and matching blue suspenders, a striking color combination that inspired awe among everyone on set. He smiled and nodded to the passing members of the crew, responding "Thanks" to anyone who commented "Good show, Mr. King."

Larry's director Preston, a short, slight, bespectacled man in his late 20's, approached from down the hall as Larry opened the door to his dressing room. Preston still had his wireless headset on, and was carrying a random stack of papers in his right hand. Larry halted his entry and greeted him.

"Hello, Preston. Good show tonight."

"I should be saying that to you," Preston beamed back. "Bill Maher interviews are always great."

Larry nodded. "He's a smart guy, funny. Plus, he's always available when I can't get any actual celebrities."

Preston laughed a little too loudly. "Okay, Larry. Hey, Natalie is looking for you. She wanted to ask you something about the show."

"Tell her I'm in my dressing room."

"Will do," Preston responded, adding a cheerful mock salute. He continued on his way down the hallway.

Larry stepped into his small but comfortably furnished dressing room and closed the door behind him. He loosened his tie and walked over to the liquor cabinet, pouring a shot of Glenfiddich 18-year Scotch and taking it in slowly. He looked himself in the mirror and sighed.

"How much longer can you keep this up, old boy?" he asked himself. His reflection did not respond. Time for another drink.

Just as he began to tip the bottle, the door to his dressing room unlatched and began to open slowly. Larry nearly dropped the bottle as he spun around.

Natalie was a young intern for Larry King Live, a blue eyed, black-haired non-traditional student roughly 30 years old. She wore a rather tight pinstriped power suit with a very non-traditional miniskirt and black silk stockings.

Larry smiled. Young enough to be a fox, old enough to be experienced.

"Mr. King," Natalie began with genuine innocence, "I just wanted to ask you a few questions about the show tonight. I'm so fascinated by the way you conduct your interviews."

"Preston told me you were looking for me," Larry said casually as he lifted the bottle of Scotch.

"And you were going to pour me a drink," Natalie continued as she closed and locked the door. "You sit down and relax. I'll pour us both one."

"Be my guest," Larry replied suavely as he sat down heavily on the pea green love seat in the corner.

Natalie strutted to the liquor cabinet, bending slightly with her derrierre pointed right in Larry's direction. Just as he was enjoying the ample view, a flash (other of course, than Natalie's black silk panties) came to him.

A small tablet broken in the drink. A laugh....the same laugh he remembered from his mission in the Ukraine in 1997. But it couldn't be!

Natalie had just poured the drinks as was turning towards Larry when something knocked the left drink from her hand. The shot glass fell to the floor, unbroken, spilling the exensive whiskey onto the hardwood. Natalie looked up, surprised, to see Larry, standing with one foot on the right arm of the love seat, weilding his left suspender behind his head like a bull whip.

"But, Mr. King, I don't - " Natalie began.

"Don't play games with me, sweetheart," Larry growled. "We've played this game before....Natalya Sedusinska!"

Natalya tilted her head back, laughed her familiar diabolical laugh and then lowered her gaze into Larry's, staring coldly into his soul. His heart skipped a beat, but Larry stood his ground. He began to swing the suspender over his head like a lasso.

"Well, well well, Meester King," Natalya hissed in a Russian accent distinctly different from her earlier voice. "I see you have seen through my little plot."

"You don't even know what I'm capable of," Larry replied, still swinging the suspender.

"I know what you are not capable of....at least without your precious Cialis!"

Natalya kicked her left foot, sending her stiletto heel spinning towards Larry. He ducked and did a somersault off of his hands, just as the heel missed and and embedded in the wall. Natalya kicked her right foot, sending the right heel straight through the uplostery of the love seat. Larry landed on the other side of the room, and whipped off his right suspender, having lost the other one in his tumble.

"Oh, erectile dysfunction jokes should be off bounds," Larry moaned painfully, despite not being visibly perturbed. "It's just too much of a low blow."

"You meesed your opportunity for a blow, Meester King!" Natalya shouted with berserker rage as she ran towards Larry and jumped, hurdling towards him with an outstretched right foot and a kung-fu scream.

Larry let loose with his suspender, snapping it around her foot with a deft throw and tossing her to the closet behind him. She landed with a muffled thud as she knocked over racks of hundreds of suspenders.

"Suspenders!" she hissed. "You and your damn suspenders!"

Larry stared at the tangled Natalya intensely as a high-pitched whine emanated from parts unknown. His eyes grew wider and wider and the sound increased in frequently.

"HA!" Natalya barked. "Does Meester King have the gas?"

The racks on the closet floor started to vibrate as one pair of suspenders after another came to life, moving accross the floor and wrapping themselves around Natalya's extremeties. She attempted to scream, but was cut off by a cheerfull, rainbow-patterened handstitched pair that wrapped around her throat like a boa constrictor. She gagged as she looked to the wide-eyed old man, terrified of what she saw.

"I DIDN'T WANT TO DO THIS," Larry's voice boomed over the frequency, though his mouth was not moving. "BUT YOU HAVE LEFT ME WITH NO ALTERNATIVE."

The rainbow suspenders constricted violently, snapping Natalya's neck as easily as a #2 pencil. The vibration and whine both stopped at once, and Larry collapsed to the floor, exhausted.

"Larry! Hey Larry!" came a shout from outside the door. Suddenly the door flew open with a crack as Preston jumped into the room. The first thought that crossed Larry's mind was how a man so wormy could kick through the door to his dressing room.

"Jesus, Larry, what the hell happened here?" Preston exclaimed as soon as he saw the body in the closet. "Poor Natalie! You kinky old bastard!"

"Not Natalie," Larry muttered as he lifted himself to his feet and brushed off his clothes, immediately looking around for his misplaced blue suspenders. "Natalya. I've dealt with her before, about eleven years ago. She was much younger then, little more than a girl."

"Oh, dammit," Preston sighed as he planted his face into his right palm. "Another spy? This is the third one in the last year!"

"Sorry Preston. You know what you have to do."

"Yeah, sure," Preston replied, exasperated. "Don't tell anyone, hide the body in your rolling suspender cabinet, and wheel it out after the studio is mostly cleared. I should get a raise for this."

"Remind me about that later," Larry said as he took another draft of Scotch straight from the bottle. "I'll see about making it happen."

Preston started out the door, then added: "By the way, have you scheduled either Don King or Stephen King for an interview?"

Larry lowered the bottle and raised his left eyebrow, then his right. "No. Why?"

"They're in the main studio looking for you. I'll tell them to come back later."

"No," Larry said dryly as he placed the bottle back into the cabinet and started working his suspenders back on. "I'll go greet them. You take care of our deceased intern."

"Kinda funny that all three of you are named King, isn't it?" Preston added as Larry started for the door. "With Don and Stephen, I mean."

"Yeah," Larry replied coolly. "Hilarious."

Monday, December 10, 2007

We Three Kings: The Beginning 

Skid's Note: In order to revive Murky Depth and keep it going, I'm adding to my old format of "Gripe Article," "What Might Pass For Humor Article," and "Pugnacious Kerfuffle." I've decided to include an exciting serial (to be updated periodically, in between articles of the aforementioned variety). This series will follow the action-packed, occasionally incomprehensible adventures of....well, you'll see. Enjoy. Or not.

The Beginning

"Hey Steve. STEVE! Wake yo' ass up!"

Stephen rolled over and yawned, checking his bedside clock. 6:30 AM.

"Don't make me put a boot in yo' ass! Get out here!"

Stephen got out of bed, careful not to wake Tabitha. He walked to the bedroom window, stretching and belching softly as he looked from his bedroom window. It was a nearly cloudless morning, and windy. The air from the Gulf carried only the slightest chill. Near the spiderweb gate was parked a pearl lavender 1972 Cadillac El Dorado, complete with a white carriage top. Stephen could see a shaggy grey mass sticking out of the driver's window.

"Oh shit," Stephen hissed as he fumbled with his clothes and made for the door, closing it quietly behind him.

Stephen stepped from the front door of his home and made his way towards the car. The engine was purring softly, and he could hear the faint sound of B.B. King's "Rock Me Baby" playing over the stereo. Don was in the front seat, glaring at him with a gigantic, half-burned cigar between his teeth. He just glared silently until Stephen got the gate opened and approached the vehicle.

"The fuck are you doing here?" Stephen asked, still slightly groggy.

"The fuck is you doin' here, Steve?" King replied, removing the cigar from his teeth on the word here. "I thought yo' ass lived in Maine."

"In the summer, yeah. It's December, Don."

Don was inconsolable. "Do you know, I had to drive my ass all the way from Vegas to Maine, only come to find out, yo' ass wasn't there? You in motherfuckin' Sarasota motherfuckin' Florida."

Stephen nodded, humoring him. "Yeah, sorry to hear that. I'm sure you're heartbroken."

"I am!" Don said, reinserting the cigar. "SCEPTER wants us to meet them at the D.C. headquarters."

"What's it about?"

"We'll get a full brief at the HQ. I'll tell you what I know about it after we pick up our third man."

Stephen pointed at the car's radio. "So I take it B.B. is joining us again?"

"Hell no," Don muttered. "My brotha's diabetes is all actin' up on him."

Stephen raised his eyebrows. "Rodney?"

"Man, shit no!" Don snapped, sending spittle flying on shit. "That nigga ain't worth shit 'cept gettin' his ass kicked."

"So I guess that just leaves Carol, then," Stephen shrugged.

Don turned his head, and a toothy grin crept across his face. He shook his head no.

"Billie Jean?"

Don held his grin. Removing the cigar again and leaning in close, he replied quietly: "Larry."

Stephen recoiled slightly. "Larry? What the fuck is he good for?"

"Motherfucka please," Don scoffed. "His ass is precog, and telenakimetic!"

Stephen rolled his eyes. It took practice to learn Don's language.

"Okay then," Stephen started, then noticed no one else was in the car. "Um...where is he?"

"L.A." Don said casually.

"Los Angeles? But you were in Vegas."

Don turned to Stephen, face blank. "So?"

Stephen closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "So why didn't you just pick him up first, then come by and get me? Now you have to drive all the way to California to pick him up, then all the way back to Washington to SCEPTER's headquarters."

"The fuck I am! I already drove to Maine lookin' for yo' ass!" Don raged. "All them cracker asses with their lobsters and scrimps and shit. Freakin' my ass out. And I'm tired, too!"

"Okay, fine. Move over and I'll drive us," Stephen replied soothingly as he opened the driver's door. Don reluctantly moved across the mink upholstered seat to let him in. Stephen put the Caddy in gear and glanced one more time at his house. He sighed.

"I was going to do some writing today, too."

"What?" Don asked as he stubbed out his cigar in the car's already full ashtray.

"Nothing," Stephen said as he accelerated slowly, pointing the car west. "Nothing at all."

Friday, April 13, 2007

Imus Be Dreaming 

I had nearly given up on updating this blog a while back, but now there's something in the news I feel I must comment on...and in the process am rediscovering how good it feels to vent here. I guess that means Murky Depth lives. Huzzah.

On April 4th, famed radio personality Don Imus made the following controversial comment in regards to the (mostly black) Rutgers Womens' Basketball team:

"Them's some nappy-headed hoes."

The comment immediately drew fire from a handful of self-righteous, moral crusaders, (led by bad-hair extraordinaire Al Sharpton) who apparently want to make it their business if Imus is a racist or a sexist. They immediately sought to censor him in every way possible, from demanding an apology from him (which he made the mistake of doing, only adding publicity to an already volatile story) and demanding that CBS fire him from his radio show, which he has run for 30 years. On April 12, CBS did just that.

"I think we've got to really used this to really stop this across the board," Al Sharpton said in response to Imus' being fired. I think this quote perfectly illustrates Sharpton's state of mind. Seriously, if you can figure out what the hell he was trying to say, leave a comment below. I'd love to hear some possible translations.

Having never listened to Imus and not agreeing with his comments about the Rutgers' team, I still can't help but hang my head at the thought of another victory for censorship. I find this case remarkably similar to two other cases of the past few years:

Bill Maher: In 2002, the host the popular ABC (Comedy Central prior to that) TV talk show Politically Incorrect, Bill Maher was debating with a conservative guest on whether or not members of Al Quaeda should be considered cowards, considering they actually willingly die for their cause. Maher made the following argument:

"We have been the cowards lobbing cruise missiles from 2,000 miles away. That's cowardly. Staying in the airplane when it hits the building, say what you want about it, it's not cowardly."

There was immediate public outcry over Maher's alleged "Anti-American" statement, including demands that he apologize and that he be fired. Although Maher never apologized for making the statement, per se, he did apologize for any misunderstanding on the part of the viewers, claiming that he was accusing politicians and generals of cowardice, not actually the soldiers. Nevertheless, ABC allowed the contract on Politically Incorrect to run out the next year without a renewal. However, Maher did not disappear: He went on to develop Real Time With Bill Maher, a similarly themed but far less restrained show on HBO. Maher is also still a popular stand-up comedian and a (very) frequent guest on CNN's ever-popular Larry King Live.

The Dixie Chicks. This Dallas-based female pop/country act made headlines in early 2003 when, during a concert in London, lead singer Natalie Maines made the following intro to the song "Travelin' Soldier":

"Just so you know, we’re on the good side with y’all. We do not want this war, this violence, and we’re ashamed that the President of the United States is from Texas."

Once again, there was immediate public outcry. How dare these women have the nerve to criticize our President, in front of a foreign audience no less? This will obviously "embolden" the enemy. Because you just know there's some Middle Eastern man in a cave somewhere, wiping away a tear of joy when he learns of the fact that the Dixie Chicks are on the side of Allah. He would spring forth with newfound resolve, grab his Kalishnikov, and head straight out to meet with his co-conspirators, all of whom will begin furthering their plot to poison the water supply in San Francisco.

Although radio stations all over the country began holding public demonstrations destroying the Chick's CDs and merchandise and making it clear that they would never again play their music, Maines finally caved and offered a weak apology for "disrespecting" the asshole she criticized in the first place. However, she was also adamant that she still meant it.

After disappearing for a couple of years, The Dixie Chicks released an album in 2006 entitled Taking the Long Way, with a single called "Not Ready to Make Nice." The song was a rather blatant shot back at the bands critics, and despite minimal radio airplay was apparently powerful enough to attract much media attention to the band's new album: The album went gold within one week, and as of 2007 the Chicks had earned multiple Grammys: Best Album, Best Record (apparently those are two separate awards), and Best Song (for "Not Ready to Make Nice"). After their Grammy win, the Chicks' album hit #8 on the Billboard 200 and their single hit #4 on the Pop 100.

Maines even retracted her early apology, saying "I apologized for disrespecting the office of the President, but I don't feel that way anymore. I don't feel he is owed any respect whatsoever."

So, back to Don Imus. Imus, like Maher and the Chicks, made a controversial comment. Some might argue that the analogy between them is hard to follow, since his comments are harder to defend, but to that I reply: Harder to defend for whom? Certainly racists and sexists would have no problem defending it....or anyone who seeks to protect free speech.

I say: Let Imus have his show. I don't give a damn if he's a racist, sexist, homosexual, zoophile, Nazi, Satanist, or Green Party candidate. The guy can say whatever he wants, and those that don't like him don't have to listen. How about we all stop pretending we can eliminate bigotry in the world, finally accept that it's human nature, and rather than try to censor it, we do more to be aware of it?

You can't spell Optimus Prime without IMUS.

Besides, if there is one thing that he can learn from the cases of Bill Maher and the Dixie Chicks, it's that trying to censor controversial comments only increases attention to those who made them. I suspect that something similar will probably happen to Don Imus. He'll get another deal somewhere along the line, and probably maintain legions of fans (hell, probably gain some) for facing such hard-nosed adversity from the likes of Al Sharpton and his tens of followers (no, that's not a typo).

See you net-jackers next time, when I find something else to bitch about or chew over. Greasy-headed cracker, over and out.

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