A new semester is well underway, things are falling into place, and I’ve been given the time to write this sermon for your Sunday amusement. Some of you, however, may be disappointed if you attended church today as there’s no better comedy than a room full of elderly women moaning, Jesus.




My rhythm for this has been off and it’s obvious I haven’t been regular. What I have been doing for the past several months, besides editing more of my own horrible writing, is making observations. And one of my observations is this: Fiber regularity. America has finally consumed enough Psyllium husk and a purge of Instagram-Facebook-Tumbler swath of shit—the kind that explodes, splashes water on its ass and paints the smooth edges of a porcelain toilet with fecal chiaroscuro has arrived. This is followed by a dapper egocentric swagger out of the stall offering a patronizing handshake to the only constipated asshole in the room.

About a month before the semester started, while I was still throwing hay and building a barn, shooting pool on Fridays in the Solon Hotel with my brother and sleeping in the small cabin I built, I went to breakfast at a truck stop diner on Route 201, where I ordered a western omelet.

When the server asked me what kind of toast I wanted, I told her, white.

Then the server asked me what kind of cheese I wanted in my omelet. Swiss, cheddar or regular?



Sometimes, I can be such a stupid liberal faggot. Had I been on Facebook at the time, I would have undoubtedly relayed my ignorance to a venue that would appreciate it. But, that simply wasn’t enough to bring me back.

Just before the semester got underway, I made an effort to enjoy a sushi-date in Portland, Maine. I enjoyed Portland, and the date; however, the atmosphere was something that I would have changed at the moment, but I realized later it would become part of the motivation for this insipid post.

We were finishing when a man and woman stumbled into the restaurant. I’m often a fan of promoting Sriracha and I take a personal delight in introducing people to it. Fortunately, I was not responsible for promoting Sriracha that night. When the man tried it for the first time, he slurred his enjoyment and focused his attention toward us, my date mostly.

He slid the hot sauce down the wooden bar. “Try that. It’ll change your life,” he said.

I remember thinking, So will a bullet, and I left it there inside my dome. Those kinds of vocal declarations put people on edge. There are many things I don’t say that I want to, mostly because I’m a coward.

Later, the man asked for a fork and when he received it yelled, “’Merica, fuck yeah.”

Yeah, man. America.


Several weeks ago, I ventured to a town in upstate New York for a friend’s birthday. Typically, I despise the presence of numerous drunken college students roaming the streets. That night was no different, but I did get the opportunity to observe some more interesting behavior.

First, a group of gentlemen walked by as I stood out on the corner. They laughed as they made their way to another bar where there were more “fucking bitches.” As they passed, two or three of them laughed harder when one of them concluded his most recent hook-up story. And then I pissed in the slut’s mouth and she didn’t even care.

It was a wet night, and on occasion, it was a little misty. Then, I saw something I’d never seen. Girls began to shuffle down the hill and I could see that they were barely clad in typical black mini-skirts that had ridden up enough to see the fabric of their panties – if they were wearing any. Most of them held plastic Walmart bags over their hair like a legion of back alley abortions that somehow survived nearly two decades and crawled out of the dumpster bearing the dispensary device they were cast away in. Mostly, they complained about how cold and wet it was.

I ventured back into the bar, but missed the observations I was making outside. My friends eventually closed their tabs and I went outside to wait for them. As I passed the smokers’ coral that the pub had placed on the sidewalk outside of the bar, the four hundred pound woman leaning against the coral, breathing through her mouth against the screen of her newest iPhone, glanced up to look at my camouflage, Wild Turkey hat. She rolled her eyes as if a few more rolls were simply accessories and proceeded back to her phone, dragging her jelly-donut rape-finger across the screen.

As I walked past her, the coral skidded over the sidewalk and the noise startled me. I turned to see her waving her arms to keep her balance, which remarkably, she did. Then, she turned to the drunk guy leaning against the coral, pushing in the opposite direction that she had been leaning and screamed, “Stop fucking moving it.”

Apparently, I was staring, shaking my head, and the girl looked at me. “What the fuck are you staring at, you fucking retard?”

To which I replied, “You’re obviously not a physics major.”

The girl, possibly confused, went back to her phone. “Oh my god, why hasn’t anybody liked my status?”

And because of that, I thought about America, apple pie, Facebook and Jesus.

I came back to Facebook furiously deleting and blocking people to avoid the torrent of “real-woman” memes and those with incessant Farmville or Mafia requests that, unfortunately, has changed to this CandyCrush bullshit, which I thought had something to do with fucking a stripper. I wondered why these parents were talking about their kids playing this game. I’m not going to check out CandyCrush. I’m just going to assume there are more shitty parents than I thought.

It’s hard to be a narcissist without the validation of Facebook. I came back to Facebook because it’s where I belong, tucked snugly in the folds of the world-wide Web where I can read memes about pushing a 1 for English.

Reading at a third-grade level and being able to link letters together so they form some phonetic resemblance of a word makes it easy for people who type with one finger. I should be able to understand the frustration of having to take your finger away from the gems of discovery that you were about to share with the world to push the 1 for English.

That’s really all it takes. Or did I miss something?

Right. As the Facebook meme states, It’s un-American.


I spent a great deal of time thinking about what it means to be American, why we’re supposed to feel special. We can buy cheap products obtained through the exploitation of child-workers in foreign countries at Walmart, where we can also buy assault rifles and Justin Bieber albums. We have big trucks that will go through mud and shit. We have a mainstream culture of musicians and writers who speak only to a demographic of myopic tweens, and the producers of this music are waiting to legally undress those spank-bait starlets to further continue their revenue stream. And we have reality television.

We also have free education, libraries, paved roads and a voting process, one that gets used little because a bunch of bitchy cunts won’t leave their fucking Facebook page to go vote, and when they do, if they do, they vote for the person all their friends on Facebook are voting for. We have a mass population of American citizens who think that knowing the pledge of allegiance is all they should have to know about their country—that taking prayer out of school is a mark against their freedom with no reasonable or logical explanation as to why the fuck it’s there in the first place. I asked my students just a few weeks ago, as we were reading “What is Poverty” by Jo Goodwin Parker, what was happening in the decade prior to 1971. One student, the only student who responded said, “World War II.”

We have so much privilege but can’t take the opportunities to appreciate them. We use our energy to say things like, pressing 1 for English is un-American.

And there’s a problem with that.

Because English is not American, motherfucker. It’s English—from England, a country our white ancestors fled from to claim land, express religious freedom and fuck slaves. The cell phone or computer you’re typing your bullshit sentiments on is probably not American. The clothes you’re wearing are probably not American. Most of the components of your vehicle or any of your appliances are probably not American. The toys you buy your kids for Christmas are probably not American. So, after you make your third trip through the line at the Chinese buffet and need to burn off a few extra calories, take a walk around your home. Take everything that you have that isn’t labeled, Made in America, and take it outside and burn it. It’ll probably be easier to burn your fucking house down.

We’re the laziest and dumbest people in the world, and like our cheese, at best, we’re simply regular.


P.S. If I’ve offended anyone, I hope that it’s some consolation that I typed this post with one, American finger. Also, Jesus is not American.





3 thoughts on “Reg’lar

  1. As those of us with a half awake brain still struggle through the idiocy of what is presented to us by generations gone by, ugh. Ask your students what are the three branches of government and you will know how to grade them instantly. Missed seeing your writings on here, glad your back. GG

  2. Nice little ray of American sunshiny rant. Miss you bud. Glad you’re still calling it like it is. And don’t forget that wile Jesus was not American, the Garden of Eden was in Missouri. It’s now a Lambert’s.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s