Ooops, I did it again...

My latest CD purchase from BMG was Sixpence None The Richer's Greatest Hits collection.

I picked it up because I dug their song "Kiss Me" and their cover of "Their She Goes." Yeah, I know, go ahead and poke fun, it's all good.

Anyway, I told my buddy I was listening to it.

He asked me if I bought Stryper, too.

WTF?

Yes, dear readers, I managed to pick up yet another religious album.

I think God is trying to tell me something.

I have no idea what it is yet, but He's sneaking CDs into my collection.

Now I'm getting paranoid.

More Fun With Picasa

A black and white of the river that runs by Notre Dame.

The gargoyles on the side of Notre Dame.

Things I Learned In France

*note, this one was obviously written on the plane.*

Right now I'm on a plane at the Charles de Gaulle Airport, waiting for take off, and already missing Paris.

Admittedly, I didn't expect much from Paris. It's always been one of those places "I wouldn't mind seeing" given the opportunity, but it was never one of those "I gotta see this place before I die!" types. Well, after this past week, it should have been.

Paris is beautiful. There is really nothing more to add. I was simply blown away by the beauty Paris had to offer.

Here some other things I noticed in Paris...

1. The women are as beautiful as the city. Of all the places I've been, Russia used to smoke the competition. Used to. Russia, I'd like to introduce you to the number one contender. France.

2. They don't where berets in France. As a matter of fact, the only person I saw wearing a beret was an American tourist.

3. French people are not only very nice, they will help you. Yes, contrary to the stereotype, all you have to do is show some courtesy and attempt to help yourself and the French will not snub you.

4. Even in France, French poodles suck.

5. No matter what country you are in, a person with their hand in the back pocket of their girlfriend/boyfriend looks ghey. It's ghey squared when they each have their hand in each other's back pocket.

6. When crossing the street, and traffic is heavy, simply walk out with your right hand in the "stop" position, gesture to you and your friends with your left hand, admonish the driver for being rude and not slowing down for you and proceed to cross. Thanks to Stephanie for that helpful lesson.

7. There are no fat people. But this is easily explained. Because of the narrow streets, small elevators and slim hallways, if you get too big, you are forced to leave the country because, sadly, there is literally no room for you. I, of course, was an exception because they knew I was only going to be there for a week. If I was going to be there longer, there was a special fat-boy visa I would have had to applied for.

8. Crepes and waffles kick much ass.

9. There are a lot of roads in Paris that don't have lanes painted on them. I like to call those "free for alls." There are a lot of roads in Paris that do have lanes painted on them. I like to call those "free for alls." To add, motorcycles (which there were a lot of) can drive anywhere. Literally.

10. Riding in the cab around the Arc De Triumph scared the shit out of me. And I'm not afraid to admit it.

11. There is no such thing as French toast in France.

12. However, there are french fries.

13. No matter what Anthony says, the sun will come out.

There is still hope...

Every once in a while you meet someone that, even after a brief amount of time with them, somehow manage to either change you, change the way you think or maybe a little bit of both.

I met one of those types of people this past week in Paris, and she changed the way I've been thinking about my life a little.

There's a great line in Heat that is simple, but speaks volumes. Eady (Amy Brennemen) asks McCauley (Robert De Niro) if he's lonely. McCauley replies that he's alone, but he's not lonely. And that is a spot on statement for my life. I've been single for awhile, but I'm not lonely. I think most of that has to do with my past few relationships have either ended badly, were bad from the get go or a combination of both. I think I just got to a point where I was tired of the bullshit that relationships have offered me and I have felt no need to get into another one anytime soon. And I didn't miss them.

But the flipside of it is I didn't know if I'd ever be interested in being a relationship again, and that bothered me somewhat. Not enough to dwell on, mind you, but it was something that I thought about on occasion because I knew that not wanting to be in any sort of relationship was not quite normal. In a nutshell, my concern was would I ever have an interest in being in relationship again.

Stephanie (a co-worker in our Paris office), however, made me remember how cool women can be. She actually made me miss dating a little bit. And that's a good thing because for some time I thought that I would never want to date again. Yes, my relationships have been that fucked up. There hasn't been a woman to do that in a good while. Now, don't get me wrong, I never hated women. God no. But getting involved with them again was/is something that I still don't know if I'm ready for.

See, the thing is, one of my main requirements (for oh, so lack of a better word) for a woman I'd date is independence. I don't want to take care of anyone. I want to be there for them, but I don't want to hold their hand in life. I want to do things with them (one of the things I miss most from dating is traveling with someone), but I also like time to myself and I don't want to hear grief for it. And here comes Stephanie telling me, among other things, all the places she's gone (world wide, mind you). On her terms. Meaning, she did it by herself. Put simply, that fucking rocks.

I've been to four countries and 21 states. But none by myself. Not that I wouldn't be up for it, it's just something I haven't done yet. I have much respect for someone who just picks up and moves to different countries to see what else is out there.

To get to the point, I must give Stephanie a big thanks. She gave me hope that the cool girls are still out there and my quest for the one is not a lost cause.



Sometimes, 20 minutes feels like days. :)

I think I just paid 13 bucks for toothpaste...

I'm in Paris.

My plane landed about five hours ago.

I haven't had any sleep in about 25 hours.

I dozed on the plane off and on, but that's not sleep. That's closing your eyes for 10 minutes at a time, only to be shaken awake by turbulance.

However, I will not complain about the plane ride. Here's why...

I arrive at Dulles Airport at about three o'clock in the PM yesterday. The flight was slated to leave at 5:45, boarding at 5:00. Fortunately, I got there early enough to get an aisle seat. But I still had to wait in line for about half an hour to check in. But I got an aisle seat. So it was all good.

Another 20 minute wait in the security line, and I was on my way. To add to that, I didn't get randomly pulled out of line for a spot check. Yay for me, I'm well ahead of the game.

So, time goes by and eventually the plane boards. I'm walking behind an elderly woman on the plane, who is struggling to find her seat. She turned to me and asked if I could help her. Normally, I would just point out the stewardess and be on my way, but since the lady was holding me up, it would just go quicker if I helped her myself. So I checked her ticket to see what seat she was in, all the while praying to God she didn't pass it already. Those plane aisles are narrow enough as it is, and being barely able to walk wasn't going to bode well for her if she had to go back the other way.

Back to it...

So I checked her ticket. And then I checked mine. They were the same seat.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

1. I like older woman. MILFs give me teh hot. But she was not a MILF. So she definitely wasn't sitting on my lap.

2. I was going to lose my aisle seat. As much as a dick I like to be, there would be no way I'd make this woman sit in between people.

I grabbed the closest stewardess and informed her of the situation. She looked at the tickets and said, "I'll take care of this."

I said, "And by taking care of it, you mean that I will still get an aisle seat, right?"

"I'll do my best."

Oh, I was already getting hot. But, the suck thing is, you can't get hot in that situation, or your ass is getting arrested. They just don't f around with airline safety, anymore.

The lady disappears for a couple minutes and comes back with new tickets. "Miss So-and-so," she said, "you're in 37C. Mr. Redrum, you are now in business class."

Oh dayum.

BC in the hizzy.

I don't feel like explaining the difference between business class and economy class right now because then I would have to go into why business class rocks on an eight hour flight.

But for those that know, you know.

Yeah, I'm tired as hell, but things are going pretty sweet thus far.

Except I think I just paid 13 bucks for a tube of toothpaste today.

King for a minute...

Well, today's blog is located here.

Yes, ladies and gents, I've been honored with a guest editorial on kick-ass horror author Brian Keene's blog.

Today is a great day, indeed.

It's been up awhile, so I'm gonna put it here now (because my sister is to damn lazy to click links and scroll down).

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

:: Monday, April 18, 2005 ::

Guest Editorial #18


KING FOR A MINUTE

By

Stewie


When I was growing up, I had it pretty damn good.

I had a mother who liked horror movies.

I had a pretty cool sister who I idolized and liked horror movies.

I had a father who wasn’t a horror movie fan, but was laid back enough to see them with us.

And there was a drive-in in the town where we lived.

Quite simply, my childhood rocked.

When drive-ins were the rage, my family saw a lot of movies, many of them horror. While I don’t have memories of whole movies, I distinctly remember certain scenes from horror movies projected on that gargantuan screen. I remember…

… the zombie falling in the fountain and Stephen sliding down the escalator in Dawn of the Dead when I was 8.

… Danny Torrance riding his big wheel down the hallway of The Overlook Hotel in The Shining when I was 9. I thought what he was doing was the coolest thing ever until he saw the twins. Even at 9 I knew they were creepy.

… bits and pieces (no pun intended) of The Evil Dead, also when I was 9.

Plus many, many more.

Now, don’t get me wrong. My parents weren’t sadists. My sister and I always had to hide our eyes during the bloody, violent or nude scenes. And while the movies no doubt scared us, we always knew they were just that – movies. That was because my parents always were there to answer any questions or talk to us about what we saw.

I remember my mother saying to me after Dawn of the Dead…

“Now Steven, there are no such thing as zombies. What you saw was make believe. Zombies don’t exist. Unless you are bad. Then I’ll drop you off at the mall they were in.” She would have, too.

Well, eventually, the drive-ins died out and, with them, my parents love for going to the movies. I’m not saying I never saw another movie – hell, I remember seeing movies like Raiders of the Lost Ark, The Empire Strikes Back, and E.T. (the first time I remember crying in a movie). And the father/son trips to the movies to see Flash (savior of the universe!) and Stir Crazy (the first time I saw moving boobies without having to cover my eyes!) were part of my movie experience, but the days of horror at the drive-in were over.

Then came the VCR.

Boy, when the VCR came out, it was movie time all over again. But now, instead of my mother choosing the movie (which she mostly did during the drive-in days), it was a family event. About every Friday or Saturday, my parents picked out a movie or two and my sister and I alternated each weekend with a choice of our own.

So, one night (when I was about 12 or so) it was my sister’s turn to pick out the movie we were to watch. She was about 15 and she picked out a movie she had heard her friends at school talking about.

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre

Now, I’m not going to lie and try to sound like a big shot. The very title of that movie instilled such a dread in my soul. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. That title still freaks me out a little. And at 12, no way in hell did I want to watch that movie. But there was also no way in hell I was going to let my sister know that. So I bucked up and told her it was a good choice and I’d been wanting to see it. Hell, I probably would have picked it out next weekend if she hadn’t picked it up that night.

She laughed her big sister laugh – which, for those of you who have big sisters, it’s quite demeaning – and said “Whatever sissy-boy. We’ll see.”

Bitch.

When we got home, my mom said my sister and I could watch TCM first, as she didn’t feel like watching a movie that night. So, since she was going to bed, she delegated my father to watch it with us. Not the wisest move.

A quick blurb about my father. He is the greatest man alive and the person I look up to the most. The best father anyone could want. The most laid back. As mentioned before, this is the guy who took me to see Stir Crazy and didn’t bother to tell me to cover my eyes during the boob shots. Not that I was complaining then, or now. He just focuses on the movie – everyone else be damned.

So, did he tell us to cover our eyes during TCM? I think there may have been a half-ass mumble at the beginning of the movie, but that might have been gas. If I had been watching the movie alone, no one would have needed to tell me to cover my eyes anyway. But I wasn’t alone. My sister was there and she was cutting her eyes at me the whole time to make sure I was watching the movie and not wussing out. So there was no way I was going to confirm her suspicions that I was indeed a “sissy-boy.”

I don’t know if showed on the outside, but on the inside I was so scared watching this movie that I wanted to throw up. I may be fooling myself when I think that my sister never noticed, but one can hope. But then something strange happened. About 15 minutes before the movie ended, my sister went to bed.

The movie wasn’t even over! Granted, there was only a little bit of time left, but it wasn’t over! Regardless, my sister got up, yawned, stretched and said goodnight. Shocked as I was, I managed to say goodnight back and my dad gave a brief wave. Off to bed she went.

After she left, whether I wanted to or not, I was now determined to finish that damn movie. This was a dream come true for me. I could hold this over my sister’s head for years. I only had to finish the movie. She wussed out and went to bed. She couldn’t even finish it because she was too scared. I was going to be King! And, at the end of the movie, I thought I was.

With the movie over, I said goodnight to my dad and ran upstairs to my room. Honestly, I wanted to get under the covers and away from Leatherface as soon as I possibly could.

I hit my room, stripped down to the whitey tighties, flipped the light off, put one leg on the bed and as I was lifting my other leg…

A hand from under the bed grabbed it.

I did what every 12-year-old, red-blooded American boy would do in that situation.

I screamed like a 12-year-old little girl.

Before I knew it, my dad was at my door, concerned as hell and asking me what was wrong. All I could do was point at the bed because my voice was gone to wherever the hand went. My father, not wasting a beat, flipped the bed (box-spring and all) in one swift motion.

There, on the floor in the fetal position, laughing her ass off, was my sister.

My father, mad as hell, picked my sister up by her arm and shoved her out of my room.

“YOU!” He screamed at her. “GO TO YOUR DAMN ROOM NOW!”

“YOU!” He screamed at me. “STOP ACTING LIKE A DAMN SISSY!”

I was King for all of one minute.


STEWIE is an IT professional for a law firm in Washington D.C., and writes reviews for Horror Talk under the name "Alien Redrum". He has two different colored eyes because the toll an exorcism took on him at age 7.

If you are interested in contributing a guest editorial at Hail Saten, send an email to ragekeene@hotmail.com. The thoughts, opinions, and views expressed by our guest columnists do not necessarily reflect the views of Brian Keene or his publishers. Comment on our guest editorials HERE.
:: Brian 11:58 AM [+] ::

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Time for some pics...

This pic is from Russia. It is unaltered.

A pic of me and a Russian warrior (I'm the one in the blue shirt).

The Stanley Hotel (The Shining you fools!).

Contemplating a move to Hollywood.

Hollywood (from some popular Japanese restaurant - so popular, I forgot what it was called).

Nakatomi Building (from Die Hard).

Wolfram & Hart

And on a lighter note...

I saw it. I bought it. It's friggin' awesome. GOSH!

Stop your damn whining.

There's a lot of things that I have no patience for. A lot. In the top five are people who feel sorry for themselves and people who whine. In the top 3 are people who do both. It's one thing to feel sorry for yourself, it's a pain in my ass to hear you whine about it. And your troubles. And your life. And...

Shut the fuck up. Seriously.

All you do is whine about how much your life sucks and how you have so many problems and I don't know what it's like.

Well, you know what? You're right. I don't.

I don't know what it's like to be a whiny fucking baby, crying about all that is wrong in my life. I have no clue what it's like to beg for people's attention, even if the attention is negative. I have no idea what it's like to blame everyone else for my problems. Like the great Paulie Walnuts once said, "I have my own fucking problems." I don't need to hear yours.

Just the other night I was telling my roommate how I can't stand people that whine. Then it dawned on me that much of these blog entries are bitch-fests and I may be seen as a hypocrite (which I am, but not on this). But there is a difference between whining and bitching. I don't write this blog for people to give me attention. I don't write this blog for people to feel sorry for me. I don't write this blog so I can cry about every fucking thing that is wrong in my life.

I write this blog to write this blog. And to bitch about people that piss me off. That's it.

If no one reads it, that's fine. For those of you that do read it, while I appreciate the audience, if you stopped reading it, that's fine too. I would still write. Admittedly, however, I do write this blog knowing that people do read it, so part of me is writing to entertain as well. Hopefully, I am succeeding. If I'm not, thanks for reading, anyway.

Back to the subject at hand...

Folks, seriously, stop crying. I'm not exagerating when I say no one wants to hear you. No one. Nobody. Not one person.

Wait, scratch that, there are some co-dependants out there that live for this type of behavior. So, please, go find one of those people to cry to. I'm tired of hearing it.

You are in charge of your own life and only you can fix it. It's not your mother's fault you are a fuckup now. It's not your father's fault that you can't keep a job. You're a fucking adult, so buck up and act like one and stop acting like a God damn two-year-old with all of your blubbering.

Again with the two posts...

This past weekend was the engagement party for one of my best friends.

This past weekend was the reason I suffered through the whole suit buying ordeal.

This past weekend was a blast.

Saturday started off really great and kind of depressing all at the same time because Saturday was the day they filmed my part for this movie I've been involved with for the past couple months (blog on that later). It was depressing in its own way because it was the last day of the shoot. But I get to be in a movie, with a speaking part. Yeah, it's three words, but it's three words in a movie.

Anyway, I left the shoot, headed home, picked up my suit and headed to Steve's house. Long story short, he lives about an hour away from me, and since we had to get up early to do the Vietnamese engagement (which is NOT your ordinary engagement party, it's much more complex and interesting), I decided to crash at his house.

Look, I could go into everything that happened Saturday night and Sunday morning/afternoon, but I'm not going to now. The good stuff is the party at Steve's house after the engagement ceremony.

In case you haven't figured it out yet, Steve is Vietnamese. As is his fiance. Between them, they have a LOT of Vietnamese friends. As a matter of fact, the only "white" people at his party were Alex (Steve's friend from college), Roman (my Russian co-worker), Christina (Roman's fiance), Jeanne (another co-worker) and myself. That's five. Five. Out of fifty.

Now, don't get me wrong, I was not uncomfortable in the least. I've been to enough of Steve's parties to know quite a few of the people there, so it was no big deal. Plus, the women were just smoking hot. A sea of Vietnamese women. It was heaven. Yet, it was also hell, because for every Asian woman, there was her Asian boyfriend. Yeah, every honey that showed up was accompanied by her man. Didn't stop me from looking, though.

Anyway, somehow Alex, Roman and I ended up in the driveway drinking, smoking and all around bullshitting while everyone else was in the backyard doing the same. Every time someone arrived, looking unsure if they were at the right house, we directed them to the back.

Then something dawned on me. And I shared it with Alex and Roman.

We were segregating the party.

Slant eyes in the back, round eyes up front.

A good laugh was had on that one.

And here I am pimping. Ladies look out.




(Click it, it's clearer)

An unchecked force...

You often here people say "If I only knew then what I know now."

That is so true.

Especially in high school. If I only knew in high school what I know now, I would have not only probably had a steady girlfriend, but most likely have lost my virginity a lot sooner.

But not only was I stupid (life wise) in HS, but I was dumber than the average male. I mean dumb. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

Here's a prime example of my luck with the ladies...

My junior year, I was friends with a foreign exchange student named Lars. He was from Sweden. He was cool because he knew pretty decent English and he liked hard rock (hard rock at the time was, of course, Def Leppard, Bon Jovi, White Snake, etc. You know, real kick ass headbangers. Not like those pussies Metallica). Anyway, he was in my homeroom and we became friends from the first day he showed up. If I recall correctly, his host family's son was a cock. He was one of the preppie football players and he didn't think Lars was cool because he wore concert shirts. So he completely disassociated himself from Lars once they got off the bus at school. Shit, it's bad enough that the dude is thousands of miles from home, but then to be shunned by the person who is supposed to be showing him around is even worse. That's just one of the reasons why I hated most of those fucks at my school. But I digress...

Anyway, there was another exchange student that same year. From Spain. Her name was Patricia.

Oh. Dear. Lord.

I fell in love the moment I saw her. She was absolutely beautiful. If I look hard enough, I may still have her graduation picture in one of my boxes in the basement (she was a senior). Pathetic, probably. But she is still one of the most beautiful girls I've ever seen. If Selma with Penelope (Cruz) had a lesbian love affair, and by some miracle produced a child, and that child was from Spain and went to the U.S. as an exchange student in 1989, her name would be Patricia. She was absolutely stunning (and probably still is).

Lars, Patricia and I had the same English class. I don't recall learning much English that year (or semester or however long it was) because most of my time was spent pining over my Spanish amour'. She didn't know it yet, but she was going to have my babies. And the reason she didn't know it yet was probably because I never told her. Or even talked to her for that matter. I couldn't talk to her. I'd just get stupid around her. More so than I already was.

But, fortunately, Lars did talk to her. Anyone who has ever had foreign exchange students in their school should have noticed that they all stick together, or at least know each other. Seeing that they are strangers in a strange land, they have an unspoken bond. I don't know how they find each other, but they always do.

Since Lars talked to me and he talked to her, he knew I liked her, but could not figure out why I wouldn't ask her out, much less even speak to her. I couldn't tell the guy I was intimidated. Hell, I was 16! Girls didn't scare me! But that was the long and short of it. She was so pretty, I was scared to talk to her. Stupid, yes, but I was 16 and dumb even for a 16 year old.

Finally, one day Lars told me Patricia asked him why I didn't ask her out. He said she told him she saw me looking at her all the time, but I never talked to her. He told me to ask her out. So I did. And she said yes. (On a side note, Lars told me later that he was lying about the whole conversation with her, she never said such things and she had no idea that I checked her out every given opportunity. She verified this on our date. I was money and didn't even know it.)

So I took her out to dinner and bowling (hey, I already said I was stupid) and had a helluva time. I think she did, too.

When we got back to the house she was staying at, she invited me in. We're standing there in the foyer and she thanked me for a fun time. I said the same. She said (and I will never forget this as long as I live), "My host parents are probably asleep by now."

I replied with, "Well, we better not wake them up."

And I left.

My stupidity does not have a limit. There is no cap on it. It is like a never ending energy force that runs unchecked.

If I only knew then what I know now.

Pretty much sums it up.

Nihilist Bear


Which Dysfunctional Care Bear Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

When no one looks, I pimp.

My buddy Steve is having an engagement party this weekend. Vietnamese custom is for the groom and his groomsmen to hand out gifts to the families of those getting married. Since I have the honor of being a groomsmen, I am participating in this tradition.

But I need a suit.

I don’t recollect ever owning a suit. I’ve only had the need for one maybe five times in my 33 years, and my dad always had one I could wear. I guess it was high time to get my own.

This past Monday I had the day off and decided that was the day I was going to become an adult (and get XM radio — thanks again Nicki).

First, I went to Sears. Well, first I went to Bestbuy to get my XM radio installed, then I went to Sears. Since I couldn’t justify spending more than $150 or so on something I might wear once a year, I figured that would be the place to start.

Nuh-uh.

Sears had two things. Jack and shit. And Jack left town, apparently taking the suits with him. Sure they had blazers, but that’s not the same.

So I aimlessly wandered the mall on a quest to find a suit. For those of you keeping score — Suncoast, Sam Goody, Electronics Boutique, Borders, Prints Plus and Hot Topic do not carry them. I debated on going back to Bestbuy, but I decided against it because I’ve been in there enough times that I would have remembered if they had a suit section. Oh, and while Auntie Anne’s has kick ass pretzels, they don’t carry suits either. They even give you a funny look if you ask.

I eventually found myself in front of the entrance to Hechts, where I stood and debated whether or not to even bother. I knew they sold suits, but chances were they weren’t going to be in my price range. After some deliberation, I thought “what the hell, there might be a sale.”

I made my way back to the suit section and, before I could even focus on any, the salesman was BAM! Right in front of me. I swear these guys come out of nowhere.

“Can I help you with something, sir?” He said, giving me the once over. I felt like I should have worn something else besides my jeans with the hole and a t-shirt that had seen better days. Then I felt like punching the salesman in the face for no particular reason. Yeah, I already disliked this smarmy little ass.

“Yeah, I’m looking for a suit. It’ll be a throw-away. I’m looking to spend no more than 150 to 160 bucks.” Fuck it, you know? Might as well be up front.

“Well, sir, we don’t have anything like that here. But we…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Thanks anyway.”

And I walked.

I know… I KNOW if I had stayed, there would have been a confrontation.

I am not a violent person. At times, an angry one, but not violent. But this guy pissed me off to no end. This fucking suit salesman piece of shit. I probably make double his salary and he has this holier than thou attitude. Cock.

Reality check, assmunch. You sell suits. At Hechts. You aren’t doing anything that anybody else can’t do. It’s Hechts, man. Two steps above Sears, one above JC Penney, but still one below Nordstrom. You aren’t even top tier. Get the fuck over yourself.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not downing the guy for what he does for a living or how much he makes — although it may seem like it. I worked retail for 10 years, so I know what it’s like and I respect those in the field. But, let’s face it, it’s not the type of job where you are in a position to act better than potential customers.

So I left the mall a little pissed, but not too pissed because I picked up a DVD I’ve been looking for for awhile and some new sunglasses that I dug a lot. It’s rare that I can find shades that I dig enough to buy. So good did come out of it.

The following day, I went to Men’s Wearhouse and bought a suit and shoes. Toya (the saleslady) absolutely rocked in finding me what I needed.

The final cost? $350.

Plus, when no one was looking, I put on my new sunglasses to see how they looked with the new suit. Superfly, baby.

Money well spent.

Ding dong, the witch is dead...

Yeah, the Pope died today.

I, for one, am happy.

I'm not really happy he suffered as long as he did--but part of me does think he brought some of that suffering on himself.

I hope that when he gets to heaven and sees God for the first time, God lays him out.

"Hello God. I'm your loyal servant and I'm ready to serve you in heaven."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. There's a couple of things we need to clear up."

"Before we do, Lord, I just have one question. I served you well for many years, so why did I suffer so at the end?"

"Yeah, funny you bring that up. That suffering part? Yeah, that was my idea. All that shit you said about the gays and women who get abortions, covering up the pedophiles, that sort of thing? Yeah, that wasn't cool. For a man who was supposed to be all about my love, you sure as hell preached a lot of hate. Come now, let's take a tour."

So off they go and take the tour of heaven. After the Lord shows him all around, they get back to where they started, the pearly gates.

"Wow, God. It's everything I expected and more! I cannot wait to get started doing Your work."

"Oh no, my son. You already had a chance to do my work and you blew it. I just wanted to show you what you'll be missing for the next 100 years."

And, as the Pope is leaving the gates, Matthew Sheppard, Rock Hudson and Liberace are all there to see him off. Oh, and Mr. Brady. Mr. Brady has got to be there, too.

See you, pal. I hope you enjoyed your stay.

See? I'm not completely bad, I'm not damning him forever. I just think he needs a dose of what he preached, because he sure as hell didn't make things easier for certain groups while he was on this earth.

I truly hope the next Pope has more love in him, and he can love everyone. And if he doesn't, he can keep it to himself.