OBAMARAMA

Nonsense attack ad season is upon us. Recently the McCain campaign has run a TV spot showcasing Senator Obama on the road giving speeches here and abroad. For a brief moment, pictures of Paris Hilton and Brittney Spears grace the screen. The gist of the ad is to paint the Senator as nothing more than a celebrity, capturing the votes of millions with nothing but that winsome smile and a flurry of media coverage. No dice! Until I see that head shaved, you're out of luck. No sordid sex tape, eh? Find your votes elsewhere. Back to the B-list you go...crafty little devil. I wonder if Hilary's got a sex tape?...

We get it...now put your shirt on...please?

My apologies for the last post, I was in a bad place. Now...back to business.

Our nation seems to be primarily composed of closet masochists. At least I'm assuming so. What other explanation could there be for allowing Matthew McConaughey to star in such cinematic atrocities? Fools Gold, Failure to Launch, Surfer Dude, The Wedding Planner, How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days, the list goes on, each film more painful than the last. Picture Woody Harrelson choking to death on a poorly written script.

What happened to the good old days when his castings were limited to such poignant roles as 2nd Guy and Rental Truck Guy? Maybe him and that DiCaprio fellow will shoot a film together, thus suffocating each other to death in fits of incorrigible megalomania. Here's to hoping.

(Note: Opinions expressed herein are the opinions of Bahil and him alone. All opinions are founded on movie trailers, and not whole films. Should he have actually watched any of the aforementioned films, the urge to fasten a plastic bag snugly on his head with an entire roll of duct tape while playing in the tub cradling a plugged in toaster would have been unbearable.)

A sales pitch for the Midwest

Come enjoy a mid-western summer! As close to feeling like a suffocating fish as you're likely to get!

I wish I had diarreah...

To say my parents had bad luck with automobiles would be a gross exaggeration. Car after car sustained either breakdowns of a biblical proportion or crippling car crashes. I distinctly recall one breakdown that occurred while in transit to California, the location of my fathers next church debacle. (Did you know that there are churches abroad that vehemently refuse to grow?) Somewhere in the barrens known simply as 'Arizona', the van containing a majority of our family, decided to call it quits. Without a cell-phone or the luxury of any other cars seeming to be on the road, there was nothing to do but pack all eight of us snugly into the cabin of a two passenger moving van...by the grace of God went we.

I offer up this insipidly dull anecdote as a warning. You see, the curse is apparently genetic and quite possibly contagious. Since graduating from high-school I have worked my way through the following: a white Ford Taurus, two vintage diesel Mercedes Benz, one an automatic the other a manual, an AMC Eagle, an Oldsmobile 98, a GMC pickup(rust blue), two Honda Accords, and currently an Oldsmobile Achieva. In the past two weeks I have taken my car to the shop to replace an ignition switch and my wifes car in to have the fan motor replaced, along with the driver's side window controls and a diverter plate, for a grand total of just over a thousand dollars. Within the same period of time, my buddy has taken his car in to the shop twice for a total of almost two thousand dollars. Today, in a rare fit of selflessness, I set out for my Grandpa's farm with the intention of assisting in the dessication of a tree. Before I reached Freemont, copious amounts of coolant began streaming from the heater core, sending the temperature gauge careening for the red zone. Luckily I am blessed with having an uncle well versed in the art of MacGuyver. A quick switching of hoses enabled him to by pass the core altogether, thus enabling me to drive dejectedly home. (Doing this apparently renders the heater useless and the replacement of the heater core will ultimately exceed the amount I originally paid for the car.)

All those consistently in contact with me or members of my immediate family would do well to cut all ties or better yet conduct a ritual euthanizing. Any sort of touching, sexual or otherwise, should be refrained from indefinitely. Is it possible I'm just a pawn in some poorly constructed terrorist plot?...

Not to alarm anyone, but its official...I am a maximum of 5 years away from complete and total senility. It came slow at first, misplacing my glasses, clumsily buttoning my shirt at least two buttons off. Now the 'crazy train' is roaring down the tracks, full speed, indiscriminately mowing down innocent children along the way. A few examples...

As I arrived at the wedding reception of an intimate friend, I frantically began searching for my phone. A quick search of the floorboards and front seat ended fruitlessly, as did the obscene groping of my own pockets. Just when I was about to give up hope, certain my wife or sister had absconded with it, I became aware I was white-knuckling a corporeal mass in my hand. Further investigation confirmed the inevitable...the prodigal phone had been found.

Act Two: Pumped full of adrenaline from seeing "The Dark Knight", i arrived home, emptied my bladder and positioned myself in front of the mirror in order to practice my Joker face. What proceeded was possibly the most frightening moment of my life. My loving wife had purchased me a Joker shirt depicting the face of the green haired clown beast, a grotesquely toothed grin, surrounded ubiquitously by the word HA!. As I looked into the mirror, the menacing HA! flipped itself over backwards to read AH!. As I mentally curled up into the fetal position, images of the Joker clutching a tongue depressor, poised to perform my next check-up burst into my brain. I simultaneously evacuated my bowels and vomited through my nose.

Rest assured, events like this are sure to escalate, so by all means stay tuned.

P.S. Did you know the plural of cul-de- sac is culs -de-sac?

What the ...?

To better facilitate my hate-mongering, I recently visited the website of the Ku Klux Klan. (Don't worry, I look horrible in a wife beater so I was automatically disqualified from membership.) To try and document the hilarity that ensued would be an injustice. Page after page of propaganda dribble, the highlight of which was a headline to beat all headlines. "The Ku Klux Klan does NOT support OBAMA for president." As if there was some confusion?

Frugal Aid Effort and You

As the flood waters around the Mid-west recede, residents all across these rain-soaked plains fight to regain some sense of normalcy. FEMA is most certainly doing all they can, along with the Red Cross and countless volunteers from all over. Not wanting to be left out, I feel I should do something, but have reached the classic impass. Giving money is out of the question as my wife is currently, (and really always has been) the primary breadwinner. Money she makes goes to buying pretty things for me...and bills of course. I lack the drive and passion to volunteer as a laborer and even the sight of disaster-relief food makes me gag so preparing food just isn't going to happen...

And then it hit me. What these people really need is a morale boost, a synchronized gesture of goodwill, an expression of solidarity a la haute coutuere. Tomorow, at 3:23 p.m. exactly, I am asking all of my readers to don a pair of high-water pants. Our ankles bared to the sun, the hems of trousers dry as British sit-com, we can make a difference. Won't you please give back?

(NOTE: Those of you so fashionably inept as to not own a pair of highwaters, the same effect can be reached by tight-rolling a stright legged pair of trousers; see 80's photo albums for the desired look. Also...ladies, capri pants, whatever the hell those are, do not count...they're stupid...not to mention ridiculous.)