A Healthy Alternative to Work

Comic Mitch Hedberg is dead at the age of 37. He apparently died of heart failure in a New Jersey hotel room.

I used to do drugs. I still do, but I used to, too.

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There's been a recent slump in the "low-carb" craze that's swept America over the past year or two. Well, Burger King (who I'm now officially declaring my mortal enemy, thanks to a certain commercial that is now playing on television) has stepped up to the plate to hammer the nails into the Atkins coffin with the Enormous Omelet Sandwich.

It's two slices of American cheese, two "fluffy" eggs, stuffed with three strips of bacon and a sausage patty and served up on a toasted bun.

Weighing in at 730 calories (420 of them from fat), the Enormous Omelet sandwich is up there with the 800-calorie Original Whopper with cheese.

Because this is America, and no one should have to wait until lunch to have a heart attack.

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Well, happy Easter, everyone! Five years ago, I spent Easter in Florence, Italy. I was in Europe for a semester abroad, and my girlfriend at the time and I decided to spend the long Easter weekend in Tuscany.

It was really a wonderful choice. We got to see some of the most influential and amazing pieces of art from the Italian Renaissance, including Michelangelo’s David (there are two, the real one is in a museum outside the main old city area and a full-size replica stands in one of the city’s main piazzas) and Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, in the Ufizi.

Easter was a remarkable day that year, because we were unable to secure a hotel. We wound up sleeping alongside the homeless that stay at one of the train stations in town, and when we woke up Easter morning, we were surrounded by volunteers giving coffee and pastries to the twenty or so people who’d had to sleep on the floor. They all hugged everyone, and everyone was joyfully exclaiming "Bona Pasqua!"

Since I’ve been in the Army, I haven’t had a chance to spend Easter with my family. I talked with Dad today, and he said that, as usual, he and Mom have prepared quite a remarkable spread for Easter dinner. They both are top-notch cooks, and they make a point of going the distance when it comes to holiday meals – tonight, I hear, there will be butterflied lamb and a truly sumptuous array of side dishes.

I told Dad that I would have loved to be there, and that I was going to see if there were any pizza delivery joints near here that served lamb and feta cheese pizza. So far, no luck.

I’ve been a bit remiss in terms of practicing my professed faith, Catholicism, since I went to Korea. I’m not sure why it is – I guess it’s been part laziness, part disenfranchisement... I don’t know. But before then, I learned enough about the Catholic faith to get to a point where it actually made sense to me. I’ve read so much Catholic philosophy, theology, and exegesis, that it all has come together into a cohesive whole in my mind. That’s something I used to take a lot of comfort in, and when I think about it, I feel bad that I haven’t been very good about living up to my end of that whole baptismal bargain.

To get this train of thought out of the introspective mode, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about Christianity as it’s understood today. I’ve been asked on one or two occasions whether I considered myself a Christian, and in the strictest definition of the term, I suppose I am.

But I don’t identify at all with Popular Christianity. What I mean by that is the force that strikes fear into the collective heart of the Left – that Bible-thumping, Disney-boycotting, homosexual-hating, hypocritical rule-making body of folks who seem to have very little access to common sense.

I’ve been trying to figure out why. I think perhaps one of my largest bones of contention is with the how the idea of being "saved" has been perverted and commercialized by hacks like Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson. The idea is that once you "accept Jesus Christ as your personal lord and savior," you are counted among the "elect," the few that are granted access to Heaven upon death.

That’s never made much sense to me. Comedians make a lot of fun of the Catholic sacrament of Confession, but here’s the underlying principle there – You’re baptized and you become "part of the faith." That’s the first step, but the understanding is that along the way, you are going to screw up. Ergo, Confession, where you humble yourself enough to confess your sins and thereby gain forgiveness – another shot at salvation, so to speak.

People often ask, "Well, why should I need to tell a priest about what I’ve done? Why can’t I just talk about it with God?" I suppose the reason for this is because God’s tough to see, and it’s a lot easier to "say sorry" to God through private meditation. In fact, I don’t think it takes much humility at all. "Gee, sorry, God. I got drunk a week ago and beat up my kids. My bad," is a lot easier to say in the privacy of your own brain.

Anyone who’s gone to Confession will tell you that the anticipation of going into that little booth is not a very enjoyable feeling, especially if you know you’ve screwed up big time.

So what’s the big difference? It’s that many Christians believe that you gain Salvation by achieving some kind of status – popularly called "being saved." Catholics – at least in my own understanding of the belief – realize that you’re capable of screwing up until the very end, and that you will be judged based on how you faced the struggle of life. I don’t think Mother Theresa ever found herself thinking, "Well, I’ve done enough. I’m saved now. To hell with these lepers."

I didn’t want to spend a whole lot of time on specifics here, but basically, what I’m saying is I don’t identify with people who believe that they’ve got the Whole Thing figured out – namely, American Christians. In fact, this isn’t even what I set out to write about at all this evening. I was going to go off on some hateful screed about things I despise, and look where I’ve wound up!

I’m going to wrap this up by using what might be an unexpected quote, but I think it speaks to the differences between Catholics and the "Religious Right":

Life’s a journey, not a destination – and I just can’t tell just what tomorrow brings.

– Steven Tyler, "Amazing," Aerosmith

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Go pick up the current edition of Rolling Stone, issue #970:



It's full of stories from people who knew him, snippets from the Thompson sports desk, and incredible photographs. Highly recommended, and essential reading for any Gonzo fan.

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It’s rained all day here in Kentucky, and it makes me think it’s somewhere else, since when you think of Kentucky, chances are you don’t think of rain. It’s a pleasant feeling, really, since it doesn’t take long for someone from somewhere else to get sick of this one.

I got some bad news a while back – I was to report to Fort Bliss, Texas, to a new "Unit of Action/Lifecycle" unit being constituted there. In the orders, I was told that since this new unit is a lifecycle unit, I’d need to have three years left in my enlistment at my report date. If I didn’t, I’d need to reenlist until August 16, 2008.

In the contract I signed two and a half years ago at the Syracuse Military Entrance Processing Station, it said I was going to end my active-duty service on August 26, 2007. Five years... which were going to be involuntarily extended to six.

I’ve had my difficulties with the Army. I’ve come to loathe the bureaucracy, I’ve had little respect for some of the individuals who have been designated "leaders" by the established system, and I’ve yearned for a chance to get out and take what I’ve learned – both here and in college – in a more independent journalism environment. Over time, I’ve come to believe that what I’m doing is more PR than actual journalism, which is true.

That’s not an ethical issue, really. Every institution, company, firm, or corporation needs public relations. It’s how you interact with – drum roll – the public, your clients; or in this case, the people who provide your paycheck, the people you serve.

But for a while now, I’ve felt that my real calling is Journalism (note the capital "J"), the Fifth Estate, the independents who keep the representatives honest – or as honest as possible. That Bob Woodward stuff, or the guy who makes sure nothing sneaky happens at community school board meetings.

The Army isn’t exactly the place for that. I’ve been blessed with having been given opportunities to work in environments where the PR I’ve worked on usually overlaps with community journalism. We have base newspapers, and they undoubtedly provide a very real service to military communities. But when the rubber meets the road, it’s the Company first. That’s pissed me off on several occasions, but it’s only because I’ve been lucky enough to have a job where on a day-to-day basis, I feel like a (small time, at least) reporter.

When I read the orders, my initial reaction was to think, "Fuck them." I didn’t care about the Army, and as time has gone by over the past couple years, I’ve become less enamored of the entirety of what the Army and the United States stands for. I thought about ways I could get out of the Army early, like getting some kind of injury, faking psychosis, or just going AWOL. Maybe I could run away to Canada, where I’ve got loads of relatives. Maybe I could go on a marijuana binge, and get kicked out for pissing hot. I’d heard the general discharge becomes honorable after six months.

Today, I put five staff stories into my sports section, four of which were mine. That’s an upswing since I got my orders – after I’d read them, I’d lost motivation and drive, I hesitated to write, I didn’t feel like doing anything other than going back to my barracks room and sleeping. But for whatever reason, this week I picked things up and knocked out four stories on Tuesday, and now, I feel pretty damn good.

It’s not that I’m excited about spending another of what are supposed to be the best years of my life in the Army. I’m still a bit pissed off about that. But I’ve started writing again, and writing four stories on deadline reminded me of why I became so dead-set on this career field to begin with.

And I learned something. I learned that when I stop doing it, I get depressed. If I get lazy and indolent, I retreat into self-despair... real fear and loathing....

God bless you if you’ve made it this far through this entry. I don’t know for sure what’s going to happen. I’m still going to try to get my orders amended so that I can get an assignment changed to a shorter-term slot – which would most likely mean an all-expenses-paid trip to Saddam Hussein’s old back yard – but I’m not going to run away or cop out. I’ve made it this far through this soldier stint, which I never would have thought I would be able to do before I did it, and I’m going to leave it with my head high, despite how hard they try to screw me in the process. I’m going to leave the Army like Tim Robbins’ character left Shawshank.

I think that’s probably the best "Fuck You" possible.

Thanks for reading, if you’ve made it through. I’ll be back on my bloghorse now.

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ADDENDUM - By the way, speaking of horses... Tattoos are a pretty popular thing in the Army, and I’ve been trying to figure out something unique to get while I’m in. So far, the best idea I’ve had is to get a "U.S." tattooed on my left thigh, like they used to brand Cavalry horses with (see Dances With Wolves). Any other brainy ideas, faithful readers?

I was a busy sportswriter today, pumping out a total of probably 70 column inches of copy at the office today, and laying out the four-page B sec tion as well. Among them was the following sports commentary on the congressional hearings on Major League Baseball. See what you think. Personally, I think the column started strong and lost focus toward the end, but hey, I was on deadline.

A missed opportunity for Big Mac

By Spc. Ian Boudreau
Turret Sports Editor

"I’m not here to talk about the past," said former baseball slugging legend Mark McGwire at last week’s congressional hearing on the use of anabolic steroids in Major League Baseball.

That’s too bad. The hearing, where McGwire appeared alongside former-teammate-turned-sn itch Jose Canseco, would have been a great opportunity for Big Mac to reiterate the claims he’s made about never taking illegal performance enhancers during his meteoric career, and refute the claims Canseco has made about him in Canseco’s recently-published tell-all book "Juiced."

Rafael Palmiero and Sammy Sosa, who also appeared and spoke under oath at the hearing, didn’t hesitate to make themselves clear on their use of steroids. Both claimed – Palmiero almost vehemently – that they had never used steroids or any other performance enhancer during their careers.

But McGwire basically pled the Fifth Amendment, refusing to discuss his own or any other player’s use of drugs, quite unlike previous occasions where he was more than willing to say explicitly that he had never used them.

Could it have been because this time, before he spoke, a congressman made him swear to tell "the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"

Haven’t had enough bad news yet? Don’t worry – there’s more.

Thanks to league officials, Commissioner Bud Selig, the Players’ Union, and this congressional hearing, Major League Baseball won’t impose fines on players caught using steroids. The fines – which started at $10,000 for a first offense – were a joke anyway, but it would seem that softening possible punishment isn’t the way to go here.

Selig says that MLB’s steroid problem is "exaggerated," which is undoubtedly the line that baseball’s political action committee is peddling to members of the government in Washington.

USA Today’s Money section ran a story on the baseball PAC on its front page Tuesday, and said that the group had spent $7.1 million lobbying congress since 1998, including $1 million last year.

Then again, where exactly is finger-pointing going to get us?

It can be hard to look at the steroid scandal in MLB – and, by extension, all pro sports – in the "big picture" light, but that’s what really has to happen.

Fans might be angry with their idols Barry Bonds or Mark McGwire, but in at least one sense, Mac was right – we all need to look to the future when it comes to steroid use. Whether players have or have not used steroids to break records is one thing, but the real concern should be over the influence this use is having on young athletes across the country.

Pointing fingers at the individuals who have used steroids – or who Canseco alleges have used steroids – may satisfy some social sense of justice, but the important task that needs to be accomplished isn’t figuring out whose records to put asterisks next to.

What’s really important is adopting an across-the-board policy that discourages professional athletes from using drugs to enhance their performance on the field, and to show the young players looking up to their sports role models that to succeed in sports, you need lots of hard work, dedication, and a genuine love of the game… not something that comes in a syringe.

Eh, it's an effort, I guess. If I'm not clear, let me just say that I'm completely against using steroids at all - in sports, it's for the same reasons that I'm against using corked bats or other methods of cheating, and in general it's because of how horrible they are for your health.

McGwire missed a golden opportunity - but it was an opportunity only an innocent man could have taken. His contribution to baseball, which has garnered him a highway with his name, will always be suspect, at best, after this latest performance.

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Update: The minimum fine recommended was $10,000, not $5,000. I caught that this morning before this week's edition went to press, and I've changed it here. Critics, be happy.

I hate scientists. Not all of them - there are lots of scientists who are making daily progress toward breakthroughs and cures that are going to improve the quality of life of the world. These guys are definitely legit.

The scientists I hate are the ones who just make stuff up. I could go into this more, but I think this story speaks for itself:

Astronomers detect first invisible galaxy

Go ahead and read through the story critically. It sounds like the kind of stuff people who watch too much "Star Trek" babble about.

I like this bit: "The object appears to be made mostly of 'dark matter,' material of an unknown nature that can't be seen."

Doesn’t this smack of complete and utter bullshit? They made that all up, I swear to God. I can just hear the conversation at NASA:

"It should be far away... what’s a big number?"
"60 million?"
"No, that’s too big..."
"How about 50?"
"Sounds good. Okay... ‘50 million light-years away..’ "

If you’re not convinced, try this headline:

Space Station circuit breaker fails again

I’m supposed to believe that you can find invisible galaxies 50 million light-years away, and yet you can’t keep the fuse box together on the Space Station? Give me a break!

Seriously, though, folks, I can’t understand the justification of the gargantuan sums of money that go pouring into the space program these days. The Hubble telescope is broken, and apparently is not under warranty, and we’ve successfully  sent a remote control car to Mars.

I’m sure it’s lots of fun to use R/C cars on Mars (although it would be more fun if they’d sent two; at least that way they could have had races and those of us who don’t get to play could at least gamble on them), but what, precisely, does that accomplish?

That might be treated as a very "Dark Ages" comment to make, but seriously, when the price tag has over nine zeroes on it, I think we should probably evaluate the cost/benefit ratio. If some of the taxes I’m paying are going into this thing (and by now, I’m sure I’ve thrown in a nickel or two), I better see a goddamn alien.

Meanwhile, in Japan, researchers have at realized they’re full of cow chips, and have devoted their efforts to creating mice that glow in the dark.

Oh sure, they say the glowing mice are going to help find cures to cancer, asthma, genetic diseases, and probably the common cold. But I’m pretty sure there were a couple scientists sitting around contemplating the universe after a couple of bong hits, and one said to the other,

"Hey, man. Wouldn’t it be cool if we made some mice... that glowed in the dark?"


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I don’t know how they swung the timing on this one. On the same day that Scott Peterson is sentenced to death, Robert Blake is acquitted of the murder of his wife Bonny.

Despite constant media scrutiny, those two trials at least bore passing resemblance to something other than an episode of Pee-Wee’s Playhouse. No so for the Michael Jackson trial, which, if nothing else, will certainly prove categorically that the former "King of Pop" (a dubious title, at best) is living in a reality of his own device.

The other day, Jackson arrived over an hour late, looking disheveled and wearing what appeared to be pajama pants. Great outfit for someone who’s trying to clear himself of a charge of sleeping with and molesting young boys.

In all fairness, it’s not as if it’s a stone-cold case against him. The accuser’s brother’s testimony seems to have holes in it, and their mother has been shown to have a history of inviting wrongdoing in the pursuit of financial gain.

But really, it all smacks of a gold-digging parent who’s willing to pimp her children out to make millions off a perverted pop star.

I don’t know when I heard my first Michael Jackson joke. No, not the kind about how "only in America could a poor black boy grow up to become a rich, white woman." More like this kind: "What do K-Mart and Michael Jackson have in common? Boys’ pants, half off."

That must have been close to 16 years ago, long before these kids started hanging out at The Smooth Criminal’s "Neverland Ranch."

So what parent in their right mind would allow her kids to not only hang out at his place, but also sleep over? It’s insane.

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UPDATE: "Acquitted" added in the lede. Sorry, it must have been sliced while I was rewriting.

I had really had it with the garish colors and stickers that had accumulated in this space. "A Healthy Alternative to Work" just wasn't looking good... much too homemade.

Unfortunately, using the templates available online was completely beyond my capabilities. I'd tried a couple of them, but the results were disastrous. That old blue screen that popped up when Windows 95 took a dump on you looked better. What on earth is moveable type? Xanga? I have no idea.

That's where my dear friend Rinna stepped in. She's completely responsible for this awesome new look. The sum total of my input was, "Hey, I'd like to redesign my blog" and, in response to her query as to what I wanted to keep, "Um, the title, links, and the MilBlogs ring logo."

She found the template, tweaked it to work in tBlog (using a form of voodoo that I'm unfamiliar with - I guess I should have taken more anthropology classes), and did it all while still settling into her new home, training newbies at work, and munching raisin toast.

Apparently, she also mentioned to a couple tBlog users that I wear thongs.

I don't, but if I did, I wouldn't call them thongs. I prefer the term "banana sling."

Thanks, Rinna, for making "A Healthy Alternative to Work" so much more professional-looking... which, if you think about it, is a bit ironic, given the title.

Links, blogrolls, and hopefully a bookshelf are in the works.

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I went and saw Lewis Black last night at the Louisville Palace. A great show, since I think rage is really one of the most valuable tools in making any sense out of what’s going on in the world. Black echoed a couple sentiments I’ve felt, and perhaps expressed in this space. One of my favorite lines was about the recent presidential election:

"I felt like I was being given a choice between two bowls of shit that both tasted the same."

His routine blasted through a range of current-events topics including congressional politics, last year’s Super Bowl halftime show (versus this year’s), gay marriage, and some cultural issues, like Valentines Day and Christianity’s use of the Old Testament. He talked a bit about the Book of Job, which, he said, led him to believe, at an early age, that "God is a prick."

I’ve always liked Black’s take on politics. He’s a self-described socialist, but his personal ideals don’t enter into his routine much. His best material is just pointing out the insanity that makes up American government.

A couple quips, quoted as accurately as I can remember:

"To all you Republicans out there, who might not like what I’m saying [about George W. Bush], save it. Because the whole time Clinton was in office, I whined about that asshole too."

"There was a dearth in leadership. And, just like every time an absence of leadership occurs, the Democratic party went and shoved their heads straight up their asses. ‘Oh, what’s going on? I don’t know, but it’s pretty dark in here.’ "

"The debates were a joke... John Kerry was asked a question, and about two paragraphs into his response, I had forgotten what the question was."

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I have a bad tendency to rush off on mad tangents and pursue them for fifty or sixty pages that get so out of control that I end up burning them, for my own good. One of the few exceptions to this rule occurred very recently, when I slipped up and let about two hundred pages go into print... which caused me a lot of trouble with the tax man, among others, and it taught me a lesson I hope I'll never forget.

Live steady. Don't fuck around. Give anything weird a wide berth -- including people. It's not worth it. I learned this the hard way, through brutal overindulgence.

- Hunter S. Thompson, "Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail '72"

I hated that Burger King commercial so much, I had to write a commentary about it for the paper. Here it is:

My editor stopped by the sports desk today and gave me a present: "Everything You Know Is Wrong." He’s in the process of moving, and, as a newspaper editor of some tenure, has amassed what I can only guess is a huge library. He said more is on the way. Thanks!

A hot-button topic in military communities these days is the Base Realignment and Closure program (BRAC), which was instituted in the 1990s and aims to consolidate military assets – necessarily resulting in shutting some down.

Bases have significant impact on the surrounding community, not the least of which is financial. Federal dollars pour into the paychecks of the servicemembers and civilians who work there, and are in turn eagerly spent.

This article just appeared in the News-Enterprise: Study projects life after BRAC.

Apparently, a federally-funded study is going on to examine what the impact on surrounding communities would be if Fort Knox were to, say, shut completely down (like Fort Dix, New Jersey, for example).

But here’s the official line:

"Officials say that's not cause for alarm, insisting the study is entirely separate from the 2005 round of Base Realignment and Closure and in no way hints that Fort Knox could be on a list of closing installations."

Maybe... but the signs are ominous at best. Fort Knox Garrison is out of money and talks are underway to get the Fort Knox schools absorbed into the Hardin County district. Not exactly the kind of things that bespeak a flourishing installation.

There are other telltale signs, as well - last year, one of the big stories was the institution of the Warrior Transition Course, a program to retrain former servicemembers from other branches, or Army soldiers with a significant break in service, and enter them into the active-duty Army.

While the course is still running here, there won’t be many more cycles at Fort Knox. WTC is moving to Fort Bliss, Texas, in the near future.

Rumors have a tendency to build their own momentum, but unfortunately, the Department of Defense has forbidden base commanders, public affairs shops, and any other representatives from commenting on BRAC. So nothing on the subject will appear in tenant publications, and, I suppose, no constructive comments will appear in interviews for articles in independent civilian publications.

Down the memory hole, as they say.

Now it’s time for the OFFICIAL DISCLAIMER:

The views expressed on this website do not necessarily represent the positions held by the United States government, the Department of Defense, the Department of the Army, the Installation Management Agency, the Fort Knox Garrison, the Fort Knox Public Affairs Office, the Turret, or anyone else other than the author, who is a lower-enlisted soldier and ergo has no access to the Truth.

Hooah. Cue up some more Toby Keith.

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I suppose if I'm going to turn this thing into something that is in any way respectable, I should probably hit on current events now and again – and by that I do not mean satanic fast food commercials.

The latest issue of Armytimes has a cover story about soldier bloggers, focusing on those troopers in Iraq who update blogs while they take breaks from the front lines, often to the chagrin of their commanders.

Well, some readers may remember a run-in I had with my bosses thanks to the efforts of a certain tBlogger. The end result of that was tBlog being blocked at work, and, I’m sure, a little more "visibility" for me on the Network Demons’ screens.

A couple weeks ago, I wrote a post about censorship in Army public affairs, and a Navy petty officer stationed in Italy wrote my boss letting him know that I was maintaining a blog that linked our publication to defamatory material. The sailor didn’t bother contacting me first.

So I hope readers understand that even though things are going on here that are worthy of writing about, I’m a little hesitant these days to post anything that could raise the hackles of anyone wearing officers’ rank on their collar.

The solution may be in moving relevant newsworthy stuff to another blog and use an anonymous handle, but I have problems with that, since I think that anonymous writing is automatically less credible than material you’re willing to put your name on. I’ve never been ashamed of anything I’ve written in here, and I’ve made no secrets about who I am.

Unfortunately, a couple easily-offended folks have used that fact to go over my head and rat me out, since they’re clearly more interested in covering their asses than in the exercise of free speech.

Suggestions are welcome here.

And my blog is due for a serious redesign. This current one is SO 2003. Thanks!

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C.J., our civilian staff writer, pointed out this incredible site to me today: God Hates Harrodsburg.com.

This is really amazing stuff, ladies and gentlemen. Take a few minutes and learn why Bob Hope, Ronald Reagan, and Cpl. Pat Tillman are all in hell. Or browse the author’s explication on the "Fag Military."

Particularly interesting is the author’s - one Bart McQueary - take on the new symbolism of the American flag.

A native of Kentucky, McQueary (an ironic name for someone with such a virulent hatred of homosexuals) is a self-professed hater of America and Pres. George W. Bush – but not for your standard set of reasons. McQueary is upset that the nation is - I’m not making this up - "drenched with fags and dykes," and that God Himself was the architect of the Sept. 11, 2001 terrorist attacks.

This guy makes Jerry Falwell look like Woody Allen.

The local angle is also amusing. Some of the "preacher’s" most potent hatred is reserved for the Kentucky towns of Harrodsburg and Danville. Don’t miss his accounts of picketing KFC restaurants and being "harassed" by the local "dyke loving" police.

McQueary’s "about us" page is probably the most hilarious of them all. I’m pretty sure he wrote this himself:

"It was obvious from an early age that Bart McQueary was in possession of near genius intelligence..."

Which took him, according to the site, into the world of professional wrestling:

"Proving that he was made of something a little tougher than most men, Bart McQueary repeatedly took beatings with objects such as steel chairs, garbage cans, and other punishment [sic] that would send most ordinary people to the hospital."

I don’t think I need to go into any more detail to demonstrate the fact that this guy is certifiably insane – the beatings to the head with those garbage cans probably did it. Bart McQueary is in for one hell of a surprise when he hits the afterlife.

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UPDATE: Welcome, Mudville Gazette readers.

I spent an interesting day at work this Monday, since a large amount of time was spent discussing the finer points of my potent hatred of the newest commercial scourge unleashed upon us by Burger King and Darius Rucker (formerly of "pop sensation" Hootie and the Blowfish). Perhaps you’ve seen it?

If you have a cable subscription or an antenna hooked up to your television set, then of course you’ve seen it. But in case you’re lucky enough to have missed it, let me fill you in.

Our scene opens with good old Darius, dolled up in Will Rogers ‘50s-style Vegas cowboy attire, strumming a jumbo guitar in a quaint black-and-white country scene... he’s singing about the new "Tendercrisp Bacon Cheddar Ranch," which, as we will see later, is the most incredible development in the food industry since... well, since food was invented.

As Darius closes his eyes, the scene lights up in Wizard of Oz-style technicolor, and we can see brightly-dressed stable hands and leggy cowgirls romping around like munchkins from hell in the background. Porn superstar Jenna Jameson is up a ladder, picking these remarkable sandwiches off a tree, and at this point you recognize the song Darius is strumming – it’s a sick parody of "Big Rock Candy Mountain," an old song about a Depression-era hobo’s fantasy world, except, in this case, the words "Big Rock Candy Mountain" are replaced with "Tendercrisp Bacon Cheddar Ranch."

You may notice a trickling sensation on the side of your head at this point. That’s blood coming out of your ears.

There’s more, though. There’s a sexy Asian cowgirl helping pave the streets with blocks of bright yellow cheddar cheese, and two more black cowhands sitting back to back in a field of expanding French fries, dozing as they hold Tendercrisp Bacon Cheddar Ranch sandwiches. The song - particularly if it’s the minute-long version of the ad (yes, that’s right: 60 God-forsaken seconds of this) - is still going on, and you realize now how horrible the parody really is: "There’s a train of ladies comin’ with a nice caboose," as greased-up models pump a hand-car down some railroad tracks...

I could go on. But no, now I can’t. I’m only just able to keep myself from trying to puncture my left temple with this plastic fork I have here.

This commercial is wrong on so many levels, I’m beginning to wonder if they did it on purpose.

First, and most apparent, it’s a direct insult. Committees spent millions of dollars on the development of this ad, because they really believed that they could appeal to you and me on this level. They really believe we’ll want this damned sandwich because they put Darius Rucker into a Ken Kesey/Shaggy from Scoobie-Doo version of the Wizard of Oz and had him sing some half-baked, shoddily-written (I apologize for the overabundance of adverbs) parody of an old country tune.

Come to think of it, the idea that Darius Rucker - or all the members of Hootie and the Blowfish, for that matter - could make a product more desirable is appalling. Hey, Burger King ad executives: we were the ones who quit buying their CDs, remember? He’s available because – and this commercial proves it, if you were unconvinced nine years ago – his career is over!

Comedy is something I enjoy a lot, if it’s well done. In fact, I just bought a ticket to the Lewis Black: Rules of Enragement tour, which is coming to Louisville this Saturday. On one of the lowest echelons of comedy, however, is song parody. Weird Al fans, shut up. Yes, he’s done some funny stuff, but it’s just enough for a "Ha ha" the first time you listen to it, not belly laughs.

And this one is total and complete garbage. Right off the bat, they have to cram the syllables of "Tendercrisp Bacon Cheddar Ranch" (eight of them) into the space originally used by the line "Big Rock Candy Mountain" (six). So the meter’s already screwed up by the fact that Darius ("Ionlywannabewithyooooho ooo") has to stumble over words.

And even if we didn’t take musical meter into consideration, the lyrics are god-awful – the line "there’s a train of ladies comin’ with a nice caboose" was clearly the result of songwriter’s block, it has nothing to do with the rest of the stupid jingle - other than the fact that the gyrating cowgirls all are taking every opportunity to show off their backsides.

No, I don’t have a problem with nudity or sex or anything like that. I just resent it when it’s used as a sandwich-selling shill.

The words of the song, essentially, have this as their content: Burger King has this new sandwich, the Tendercrisp Bacon Cheddar Ranch (which is the chant the demons in hell have certainly taken up), and it’s so good that it makes great people like Darius Rucker think about this fantasy land where there are tumbleweeds of bacon, streets paved with cheddar cheese, and Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders (yes, they’re in it, too).

Visually, the commercial makes a good case against the use of LSD.

It also makes a good case for the reinstatement of the practice of crucifixion, which would be what Darius Rucker and the Burger King advertising department deserve after this.

I hate this commercial so much, that not only am I never going to buy one of these sandwiches, I’m also going to avoid going to Burger King at all. I definitely can’t go on a killing spree (which seems to me to be, ultimately, the right thing to do here), but I think Burger King should have to pay for this somehow.

I’m fortunate enough to never have been given a Hootie and the Blowfish CD. But I’m aware that some of you may indeed own an album or two. I encourage you to burn them. Just let go. Face it - you haven’t listened to it since before people where scared about the Y2K virus; you’ll be fine without it. And now you’ve got a great reason to destroy them, namely, Darius Rucker is a burned-out, pathetic, burger shilling corporate bitch, and everything he’s done is now tainted by that fact.

Okay. I’ve got to think about something else. Let me know what you thought about this commercial.

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Greetings once again from HQ Brogonzo... currently a barracks room on Fort Knox, to which I've just returned after the staff's weekly trip down to Elizabethtown to put the finishing touches on the newspaper.

Tip for the day - If you've been "involved" in a murder, don't throw the body into a handy lion enclosure. These guys have already tried that.

I have a couple friends in law school, and I'm going to have to ask them how they'd handle a defense situation like this. "No, no, no. See, I didn't actually kill the guy... he was already dead when I helped toss him into the lion cage."

John Grisham, if you're reading, please make this into your next novel. I promise to buy it.

Speaking of books, we stopped by Barnes & Noble's after lunch to get coffee at the store's Starbucks. Sitting at a table was a strange looking man who was passionately delivering a motivational speech... to no one in particular. I figured he must have been talking up the voices in his head. He was saying that a man shouldn't care that others will judge him based on the clothes he wears and the way his hair is done.

I also picked up a copy of Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail '72, since it's widely regarded as required reading for HST fans. I feel bad that it's taken so long to get to it.

That's all for now, I suppose. I've got a fresh pack of smokes, a bottle each of Coke and Maker's Mark, and a nice new leather-bound&nb sp;volume to write down thoughts in. Cheers.

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