Battle Action Church Goer with Kung Fu Grip

Father O'Staggers was leading us into the Lord’s Prayer when the enormous stained glass window bursts apart like shattered hard candy.

I’m not thinking about the masked commandos who pour through the jagged hole like so many somber gumdrops. Instead, I think about the ruined glass. Hundreds of hours of craftsmanship were laid to waste by men incapable of an honest day’s labor. My anger boils even before one brazen intruder cold cocks the deacon with the butt of his German assault rifle.

“You and the kids stay low,” I say to Mrs. Angry. One of the commandos directs a volley of lead into the crucifix above the alter. It smashes into a trillion pieces onto the floor, and the parishioners who aren’t already screaming fill the church with horror.

“What do they want!?” hisses Mrs. Angry, drawing Angry Junior and Angry Two close.

What these commandos want is unclear. What they’re going to get...is me.

I break the first commando's neck before his buddies realize a wolf has infiltrated the sheep. The commando falls to the ground, and now I have his gun. I make a brief apology to The Man Upstairs. Snapping vertebrae is bad form for a houseguest, but I’m left with little choice.

The Angry Czeck...at Church!

I take out two more bad guys before the morons stop aiming at crucifixes and start aiming at me. They speak a tongue I don’t understand, but their rifles do all the translating. I dive into the choir section and pray to God to make me bullet proof.

Wooden shrapnel explodes like fireworks above my head. Waiting around is suicide, and according to Catholic doctrine, suicide’s a sin. I decide I’d much rather send these bastards to hell.

I do something they don’t expect: I roll towards them, and it’s like the padre blessed the bullets. Commandos crash to the Earth like fallen angels. Sadly, I run out of bullets before I run out of commandos.

“Arrogant American slime!” says the jerk behind me, and in perfect English no less. I don’t have time to admire his pronunciation. He wraps me up in a bear hug that could flatten a Volkswagen.

Thing is, I’m not so bad with the chop suey. I share the first lesson I learned from Master Li at the Shinto Temple; I break the bastard’s nose with my head.

The commando’s buddies stop laughing and start re-loading. I don’t have enough time for elegance. I kick Mr. Bear Hug in the nuts and hope he’s ready to negotiate a peace plan. Sadly, peace never has a chance. The remaining commandos attempt to air me out with machine guns.

The training and the bionic implants take over. Or maybe the Big Guy has decided to take sides, I don’t know. Regardless, I see that Mr. Bear Hug has given up violence, and he doesn’t mind a bit when I use his 9mm to blow his little friends away. I’m ready for my victory speech when I hear the voice.

“Surrender, Capitalist pig!” he says, “Or your woman loses her head!”

I turn to find some greasy commando with his paws all over my wife. He has an Uzi pointed to her temple. Mrs. Angry isn’t scared. She’s pissed off. I begin to feel bad for the commando.

“It’s gonna take a shit load of confession to get out of this jam,” I tell the greaseball.

“Silence!” he shrieks. “I want a helicopter. I want 10 million euros! I want–”

What else he wants is a mystery. Mrs. Angry drives an emery board through his chin and into the mostly-empty hole he once called a skull.

“Peace be with you!” says Mrs. Angry, dropping the lifeless thug to the ground. She finds her purse, fishes out a baby wipe, and she sponges the blood off her good Church dress.

***

Church never held my attention the way my trusty Picture Bible did when I was a kid. Within its cartoon format, I discovered the hairy-chested tales of Noah, Sampson, Joseph, and Joshua. I loved it when Lot’s wife was transmogrified into a pillar of salt, or when Cain lost his cool with that suck-up, Abel. Good stuff.

Jesus is cool.

By comparison, Church was a mental chore on par with math homework. Math, I vaguely understood, would come in handy when balancing a checkbook. Church could be just as useful, but it wasn’t clear when or where.

By contrast, most of my classmates seemed to enjoy church. They lived it like a kind of second community. There were all kinds of camps for instance: Church Camp, Bible Camp, Young Baptist Camp. They’d return to school after summer vacation with steamy tales of debauchery that occurred on the church camp bus.


***

An unexpected voice was raised when the parish priest asked for fresh alter boy volunteers.

“My boys volunteer!” announced Angry Mom, pointing enthusiastically at my brother and me.

This Chinese-like form of volunteering had been administered without any discussion. Hell, I was wondering what poor bastard was going to be fool enough to volunteer for Chump Duty before my mom settled the question.

Truth be told, church proceeds in a more rapid-fire fashion when you’re hanging with the Big Wheels. You have big books to hold. Candles to light. Crosses to carry. The priest was generally helpful during the ceremony, sometimes whispering good advice like, “Get the communion wafers,” or “Hold the book higher.”

It isn't all just hanging out in the backyard,
shirtless, chopping wood.

One year, we went several months without a permanent priest. (We were a small Catholic community.) One temporary priest was an ancient, bald man who had no patience for chicanery. There was one evening Mass when the second alter server and I began goofing off a little during the “Let us offer the sign of peace,” segment. (When everybody shakes hands with the person next to them and says, “Peace be with you.”) My Jesus Partner and me needed to cross the alter to shake hands, which would have been awkward. So we kept pretending to extend our hands across the void, stifling chuckles.

The ancient, chrome-domed priest leaned over to me and snarled, “Behaaave, boy.”

My mouth turned into a stick of chalk. I thought God was going to smite me right where I stood. Poof! For whatever reason, He saw fit to spare me, and that was the last time I goofed off behind the alter.


***


For many people I know, Church is a hobby. Like golf. They spend their entire weekends sitting in pews and participating in groups, hoping to improve their relationship with the Lord.

People do free work for their church. I know co-workers who are constantly designing logos, producing videos, building web sites or even developing marketing plans for their church. They don’t receive a penny.

“Why the hell not?” I ask. It is sometimes implied to me that the reward waits in Heaven.

My favorite extra-curricular church activity is Men’s Bible Study. I’ve never participated in Men’s Bible Study, but I imagine it goes something like this:

Man 1: “Okay, what was the lesson learned after Isaac nearly sacrificed his son to the Lord?”
Man 2: “God works in mysterious ways. Who watched the British Open yesterday?”

I considered joining Men’s Bible Study so that I could pass around some business cards. But my fear was that, eventually, I’d be called upon to crack open a Bible. I never quite grasped the system. Chapters and verses and psalms. That’s why my old Picture Bible rocks. It’s like a comic book, only instead of Superman you have to settle for Moses.


***


When Mrs. Angry and I first met, she didn’t believe that I was Catholic.

“Can you recite the Hail Mary?”

“No.”

“A rosary?”

“I have one. Somewhere.”

“When was the last time you went to confession?”

“Ugh…when I was fourteen?”

That night was Confession Night at St. John’s Catholic Church in Malvern, Arkansas. What made the evening special was that two priests had been imported by the parish to hear confessions. After Mass, many parishioners waited to have their deepest confessions heard, including my brother, my Angry Mom, and me.

In my mind, I tried to marshal my sins into a neat, easy-to-remember package. But when you’re fourteen, it’s hard to assemble any sins beyond “I smarted off to Mom.” Hell, I wasn’t even masturbating yet.

A woman emerged from the confessional weeping. When she had entered a mere five minutes earlier, she was confident and poised. Now she looked like somebody stuck her in the eye with a paper clip.

“Next,” said somebody, maybe the priest, or the deacon. I can’t remember. "Next" was me.

Our church was too modest for one of those cool confessional booths you see in the movies. This confessional was set in the vestibule, with only a small divider between the priest and the confessor.

“Bless me father for I have sinned. This is my first confession.”

He answered with something. “Proceed” maybe?

I tried to make my sins interesting. I defied my mother. I cursed. I told lies. I neglected to tell him about the unfortunate incident with my Angry Dad’s Playboy Magazine collection, or the fact that I had been staring lustfully at my classmates’ boobs.

"Boh-ring!"

The priest was understanding and kind, but seemed rather bored with it all. He prescribed some Hail Mary’s, which I guess I still owe because I can’t remember how the Hail Mary goes.


***


Mom was in charge of church in my Angry Family.

She wasn’t even born into it (a Cradle Catholic). She married a Catholic, and I suppose she decided that it made her Catholic. She carted my brother and I to church nearly every damned Sunday from the third grade until the time we left for college.

I can’t describe Angry Mom as spiritual, exactly, but she is steadfast in her determination. She wanted to make religion work, for herself and for her sons. She even taught several of our Sunday School classes.

Catholics have something called Confirmation. Don’t expect details, because I can’t recall what they are. The Reader’s Digest version: it’s the ceremony that officially makes you Catholic.

Confirmation for me arrived at the age of seventeen. We spent an entire year attending extra classes, learning how to be even more Catholic than we already were. You’d think serving as an alter boy would earn me a few credits, but no dice.

As my training drew to a close, we were requested to speak to the parish nun. There are two kinds of nuns: One is warm and fuzzy and you want to squeeze her. The second is a battle-axe. Our nun was the latter.

As far as Battle Axe Nuns go, ours wasn’t so bad. She never slapped anybody, for instance. But when she first arrived, she made a speech before the parish about “not singing too loudly.” We had a woman in the parish who liked to warble and hold her notes. It was aggravating but harmless. After the nun’s big speech, the woman never sang during the service again.

Some nuns are fuzzy. Some are mean. Some carry rifles.

So I had to talk to the Battle Axe Nun about my impending confirmation. We sat down and exchanged some pleasantries.

“Do you believe in angels?” she said. I knew I was in trouble. I didn’t believe in angels.

“Ah, you mean people who fly around and help people and stuff?” I asked. I was stalling.

The Battle Axe Nun’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

I decided that the path of least resistance was the quickest route out of the conversation.

“Sure.”

“And when you are to marry, will it be to a Catholic woman?”

This question came from outer space. First of all, I hadn’t made any nuptial plans. And secondly, this seemed more like a request than a question. There was a logistic problem, as there were few Catholic girls hanging out in Malvern.

“Um, I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Try.”

And that was the end of my meeting with the Battle Axe Nun, who would be proud to know that I married a Catholic.


***


One afternoon, Angry Dad and I were hanging out in my parent’s backyard, setting up the croquet game. I swear we went through a five-year phase of rabid croquet playing.

I was recently married, and I had revealed that my wife and I occasionally attended Mass at the cathedral in Memphis. I told him that Mrs. Angry wanted to go more often, but I was resisting.

“You know what I think about when I’m at Church?” asked Angry Dad, pounding a wicket into the Earth.

“No,” I admitted.

“I daydream that commandos have broken in, and I am the only man who can stop them.”

“That’s a good one,” I agreed, and I fished the black ball out of the canvas croquet bag.





####

The Monkeys Are Manning Up

Discouraging news for humanity appeared on CNN this morning, who announced that 100,000 gorillas have been discovered living in the swamplands of Congo.

(CNN) An estimated 125,000 Western lowland gorillas are living in a swamp in equatorial Africa, researchers reported Tuesday, double the number of the endangered primates thought to survive worldwide.

"It's pretty astonishing," Hugo Rainey, one of the researchers who conducted the survey for the U.S.-based Wildlife Conservation Society, told CNN Tuesday.

Don't you get it? Listen up, Hugo: The monkeys are building a secret army, man! They've had it with our larger brain pans and our Hollister t-shirts! Now they're organized, and not even Wal-Mart can bust up this monkey union.

The Monkey Insurgency is real! Leave everything you don't need behind – VCRs, ashtrays, the elderly – and head for the hills! Guard your testicles! Save us, Charlton Heston!







##

The Junkyard Dog and Barack Obama

Through channels that are a mystery even to The Angry Czeck, The Incredible Hulk became a must-see movie event for the African-American community. The theater was packed with black people – more than I had ever seen since attending movies at this particular theater. Families. Teenagers hanging out with their friends. A duo of African-American Dads sat next to me with their young daughters. The air was thick with pre-show buzz. Nothing was out of the ordinary.

Moments before the film was scheduled to begin, two theater employees appeared at the entrance, each carrying a flashlight. One, a round blond woman, clapped her hands loudly and demanded attention.

“We hope everybody enjoys tonight’s viewing of The Incredible Hulk,” she began, “But I am only going to say this once: silence your cell phones. And no getting up while the movie is playing. That can be a real distraction to people trying to watch the movie. Thank you, and have a great night.”

Viewing Threat Condition: Green

She and her theater henchman quit the premises amid a couple teenagers mimicking the squeaky pitch of her tinny voice. I tried to remember the last time I had sat in this theater and had been issued instructions (a warning) like that.

Not once. Not ever.


*

Like no other in history, the Presidential Election of 2008 will test the character of us. All of us. No longer is the election just a matter of political philosophy. Considering the nature of what is at stake, a contest of just political wills would be a Herculean (if not welcome) trial all by itself.

This is an election of exposure. One that will leave us all naked. A contest that will determine if we, as a Nation, have truly grown as a society. Or one whose fears and ignorance have been merely driven underground by a pop culture of forced political correctness.


*

The Junkyard Dog growled into the camera before turning to howl at the audience, who roared their approval with howls of their own.

Two friends and I sat on the living room floor, all knobby elbows and knees of adolescence. We watch the Junkyard Dog lock arms with some unknown wrestler. The only one in the ring who mattered was Junkyard Dog. We sing his praises.

In a twist of unlikelihood, The Junkyard Dog’s opponent managed to gain the upper hand through the application of a seemingly unbreakable headlock. The Junkyard Dog writhed and twisted his body into pretzel shapes, seeking escape.

“Man, what’s wrong with his back?” said One Friend, pointing to the television screen. Junkyard Dog’s spinal column seemed abnormally creased by his heavily muscled back.

Friend Two shrugged. “He’s a nigger.”

“Oh yeah,” agreed Friend One. The wrestling match continued. And when the Junkyard Dog liberated himself from the headlock moments later, I forgot to give voice to my approval.


*

Already, the groundwork for denial has been laid. John McCain, veteran not just of the Senate, but also of the Vietnam War, is being touted as “the candidate with experience.” Barack Obama clearly cannot lead because he has not endured torture by asshole Vietnamese.

Regardless of the merit of this argument, the question of experience becomes a convenient buoy. Yes, Barack Obama is a fine and articulate candidate. Yes. But does he have experience?
I’m voting experience.


*

I’m shucking corn with a man I just met.

He is large, ruddy-faced, with an infectious jovial nature that can only be enhanced with vodka and wine. I like him right away. We shuck corn as the grill simmers a few yards away.

“I don’t know who’s going to vote for Obama,” he says, rubbing a stick on butter on his ear of corn. “The guy’s a communist and a Muslim. He’s going to get shot. Who’s going to vote for that guy?”

I don’t say anything. I shuck corn.


*


A Newsweek poll earlier this month showed that 12 percent of those polled believed Barack Obama was sworn in as a U.S. senator on a Quran, and 26 percent believed that he was raised as a Muslim.

Not a Muslim.

Neither is true, but I receive occasional emails validating the lie anyway. The tones of these communiqués have an hysterical tinge to them.

Do you want a Muslim in the White House? He doesn’t believe in The Bible!

I am reminded of a story concerning the 1960 Presidential Election. John F. Kennedy was rumored to be engineering a plan to construct a tunnel between the White House and the Vatican consulate in Washington, D.C. Later, the rumor is refined; the tunnel is to connect the White House to the Vatican itself. A trans-Atlantic tunnel.

*

I have a friend, a man whose opinion I deeply respect, who routinely supports the Republican Party. He appreciates the basic tenets: Less Government. De-Regulation. Free Enterprise.

He oversees a significant number of employees, all with varying degrees of political faiths. Earlier this year, he approaches one he knows to be a Democrat. She champions government assistance programs and denounces the Iraq War in the same exasperated breath.

My friend asks her if she’s backing “Hillary or Obama?”

“Well, I’m not voting for a nigger.”


*

Democrats, and not Republicans, will be tested harsher this November. After all, Republicans merely have to place their check along party lines. No hesitation. I hate big government.

Meanwhile, Democrats will have to search their souls. The event that they’ve talked so big about these many years finally has a chance to coming to fruition.

Found on the first page of a Google Search.
It'll only get worse.

It’s not a charlatan like Al Sharpton, or an antique like Jesse Jackson – two men who are fun to root for, but you’d never seriously give them the keys to the Free World. No fucking way. You appreciated the effort. At the very least, Jackson made you entertain the possibility.

Barack Obama is not entertaining. He's not dancing for our amusement. He’s filling up Mile High Stadium to announce that he will be one of two legitimate choices for President of the United States. Republican’s already have their man. He’s not anywhere near perfect, but he certainly looks like the other 42 guys that sat behind the Big Desk.


*

Mrs. Angry and I have a pre-natal visit with the OB-GYN.

Angry Two flitters inside Mrs. Angry’s abdomen as she completes paperwork for a friendly nurse, who learns that we’re new in town. I tell her we used to live in Memphis, Tennessee.

“Oh,” she says. “I bet you’re a lot happier here.”
“Why?
“Isn’t it more than 60% there?”

“More than 60% what?” I ask. I know her answer, but I ask anyway.

“Black.”


*

From Manifest Destiny to putting our feet on the moon, America is a nation that talks and walks big. Our successes are legend. And maybe because of this, our failures seem nearly as large. If accomplishment is our nation’s trademark, then hypocrisy is our stain.

Concepts like “equality” and “freedom” and “opportunity” are fractured truths. White people complain endlessly about the concessions handed out to the black community. They moan bitterly about the scholarships, the business grants, and for the much-maligned affirmative action. We forget that in this country, black people have only had a real chance for thirty years. In that short time, we expect perfection from a society kept impoverished and without power for centuries.

American Black People, you have Barack Obama, and you are still screwed. Your AIDS rates rival those in African nations. You’re more likely to die of diabetes than your white counterparts. Your young men fill our prisons and not our schools. And if your back looks strange while you’re being subdued in a headlock, at least one teenage white kid is going to chalk it up to you being a nigger.

Which puts us back in the voting booth.

When the curtain closes, we will be left alone with much more than a choice of men. In November, we’ll be treated to a choice of ideals. Like the country he represents, John McCain is a legend through his deeds. He has experience.

He is also a relic. An old man. A curmudgeon who substitutes the past for vision. He knows the ropes, he’s been there a done that, and he refuses master a teleprompter. He is nowhere near as far away philosophically as his predecessor, which makes him familiar and comfortable. John McCain is safe.

Old white guy experience.

Meanwhile, Barack Obama is a fresh pair of eyes. A professional politician who works a photo opportunity as masterfully as he manipulates a crowd. He reminds us that leadership is more than knowing where the buttons are, and which ones to push. Leadership is the ability to inspire people to greatness; to put boots on the moon.

Obama may not be a Muslim or a communist, but he is black, and (to borrow a phrase my Republican brethren love to utter when no real words can be found) we’re going to have to “get over it.” He is naïve. He is too often without substance. And he is the man the Democratic Party has worked to put into the White House since Lyndon B. Johnson began rolling back Jim Crow. If not now, when?

This election will test us in ways no other event in our brief history ever has. Already, before the start of a single convention, I feel the cold tension. The weaknesses of Al Gore and John Kerry were so cartoonishly transparent, so easy to exploit, that the arguments those elections provoked produced harmless sparks from our bristly surface.

Come November, the debates we conduct at our most private moments will gouge us deep. Deeper than skin even. And we’ll have to wonder, truly wonder, if we are really voting for experience. Or are we voting to avoid one.




###

"Honey, Why Does My Vagina Itch?" (An Introspective Essay on the Gas Station Condom)

This was going to be a penetrating post skewering Barack Obama for reneging on his promise not to accept public money, but I decided to talk about gas station condoms instead.

Lady Czecks, you might be unfamiliar with the gas station condom, because they are only readily available to men taking a piss or leaving a crap in a gas station bathroom. The gas station bathroom, as both genders surely already know, is the perfect culture dish from which romance is fostered. That’s why you can buy condoms in a machine bolted over the urinal.

Tempting.

You usually need three quarters to buy a gas station condom. Not seventy-five cents. The machine doesn’t take nickels and dimes. You insert the quarters, turn a knob, and ploop. You have protection.

Maybe. I’m not the Surgeon General, but I think you should heed the Angry Czeck’s Warning that gas station condoms are not likely to stop the flow of sperm. In fact, a better contraceptive might be wrapping a hairnet around your pecker. Or maybe just spraying it with Lysol.

I’m trying to imagine what a conversation might be like after a romantic encounter involving a gas station condom.

GIRL: I never felt anything like that before.
MAN: Yep.
GIRL: Where did you get that condom?
MAN: Gas station bathroom. Which reminds me; where the hell are my Tic-Tacs?
GIRL: Get the fuck out of my trailer! Don’t wake my kids.

There isn’t a good female equivalent to the gas station bathroom condom. Should one be invented? How about a gas station bathroom IUD? Listen, honey! It makes banjo sounds! How about a douche? It freshens the hooha, and it was purchased in a venue that’s cleaned once a week by a poorly paid teenager. Somehow, I don't think women would go for this.

Close your eyes and imagine what a man in the market for a gas station bathroom condom might look like. He doesn’t have to be a big rig trucker. He can be a dude driving Pontiac Fiero.

Yeah! Cherry red Fiero with the high school graduation tassel hanging off the rear view. And what’s that playing on the stereo? Blaring super loud, windows down, so everyone can hear? You know it’s Feel Like Make’in Love! (Or maybe something from Air Supply.) He tucks his tank top into his jorts, and he runs the shopping list through his head: Red Bull, Pringles, Gas Station Condom. Fuck yeah!

Of course, most men are not quite as forthcoming about the purchase location of their condoms. They feel self-conscious enough that they’ve opted for the Ultra Slim Fit over the Magnum. Don’t worry, Ladies. Here are some tips that might come in handy.

Signs that Your Man is Using a Gas Station Condom

1. Hours after make'in love, your man's penis continues to make Rice Krispie sounds
2. The condom has a zipper
3. The condom plays Final Countdown during the final thrusts
4. Your man smells like Slim Jims and gas
5. Condom comes with a tiny Polish joke book
6. Nine months later, you have another kid
7. Your vagina is itchy
8. Your vagina glows in the dark
9. Your man drives a red Fiero

If you experience any of these grim symptoms, then you want your man to come clean about what kind of protection he’s using. Remind him that you’d prefer to have your condoms purchased over the counter from a chuckling pharmacist.

If the condom looks like Big Ben,
it's probably not a Trojan.

Promise him that you’ll try the Spanish Fly if he’ll start buying his condoms at Walgreens. Or at least treat him to some beef jerky and a deep-fried egg roll. If you have to, take a few pennies from the Take One, Leave One dish and have him spring for something ribbed for your pleasure.




###

Disney World Makes the Angry Czeck Its Bitch

Like Zeus battling the Titans, the Angry Czeck pitted his volcanic rancor against Disney World's effervescent happiness. Not since Rocky cut the Russian would such a heroic upset be recorded. I ditched my bigheaded secret service goons, sprinted up the Splash Mountain and screamed, “Dis-NEEEEEE!” before a theme park of cringing toddlers. Mine is the anger that melts cryogenically frozen cartoonists. Mine is the rage that zaps flying elephants out of the sky. Behold my homemade leather wallet of hate.

Disney would not break me. Disney would become my bitch, and Minnie Mouse my fourth best ho.


*

The first knee to the nuts, however, went to Disney. Despite adhering to a rigid itinerary that had us arriving at the Magic Kingdom ten minutes before the drawbridge was raised, the Angry Family was still directed to a parking space approximately 100 miles from the nearest rollercoaster. Damn you Disney! We brought the Angermobile to a stop at Pluto 18.

Pluto, I grimly noted, is the planet farthest from the sun.

But the Angry Czeck wasn’t here to park. The Angry Czeck was here to make Disney his bitch! Summoning a fresh burst of fury, I yanked the stroller out of the trunk and slam-dunked Angry Two into the seat. Meanwhile, Mrs. Angry and Angry Junior were already hopelessly infected with goofy joy. If I were to maintain my level of rancor, then I would have to limit my exposure to them.

From atop the Magic Castle, you can see where you parked.

One death march, tram ride and a monorail ride later, the Family Angry arrived at the Magic Kingdom. “If you believe, it will come true!” claimed the testicle-free voice of Mickey Mouse. Bite me!


*

The pamphlet we unearthed in our condo promised new chills at the Haunted Mansion, an attraction I enjoyed the first and only time I visited Disney World. That was 24 years ago, when I was only the Mildly Aggravated Czeck.

Angry Two is a year old and change. I wasn’t sure how he’d take holographic spirits and day-glo painted animatrons springing from behind rubber tombstones. Simultaneously, I braced for screams while preparing more space in my Rubbermaid™ Storage Bin of Irritation. My concerns were unnecessary. Angry Two waved politely at all the ghosts. Angry Junior articulated in exasperated words of wonder what Angry Two could only communicate through cherubic squeals.

A grin broke my face, and I begrudgingly awarded Disney another point.


*
It’s A Small World is the only world that makes complete sense to Angry Two. Everybody is less than two-feet tall. Penguins play drums. Hippos wink. That damn song plays on a continuous, seamless loop until it overwrites every MP3 that used to play inside your brain.

Normally a one-finger-pointer, Angry Two activated both chubby fists to pointing at everything his miniature mind could grasp. If he had suddenly grown a third hand, he’d have pointed with that, too. “Buh!” Angry Two announced, as if claiming the ride as his own kingdom.

“Buh!” I agreed.

*

At Disney World, everybody dresses like they’re spending the day trimming hedges in the backyard. Park-goers begin each morning selecting the worst t-shirt from their suitcases and putting it on. Forget concealing the flaws. Every bulge and horrifying skin condition is on inglorious display at the Magic Kingdom.

Disney World is a stage where personal philosophies are showcased on the chests and bellies of people more accustomed to using the English language for ordering French fries. “Life’s Too Short Not To Be Blond,” reads one woman’s shirt. “Get in line, Ladies,” invites another teenagers’ top.

An alarming number of people wear Disney merchandise to Disney World. It’s like they arrived to Florida without a suitcase. “Don’t worry! We’ll just hit the t-shirt shop for Mickey attire!” Nice plan.


*

I lose my eyeglasses at the Dumbo ride.

While sweltering in the thirty-minute line, Angry Two takes one-too-many swipes at my glasses, so I slip the specs into my pocket.

"I will happily steal your designer eyeglasses!"

The Dumbo ride is just as boring as I remember it. Even Angry Junior refuses to be impressed. “Why didn’t that last longer?” he wonders as our anatomically incorrect orange elephant is lowered back to Earth. I point to the mammoth queue waiting jealously to take our place. Angry Junior understands without further explanation.

After emerging from Snow White’s Scary Adventure, I discover that my glasses are no longer in the pocket. I remember how much I paid for them and grit my teeth.

Damn you, Disney.

*

There are two kinds of people at The Magic Kingdom: people with a Fast Pass™, and poor bastards without a Fast Pass.

A Fast Pass is a ride ticket with a pre-set time. If you don’t feel like waiting in line for an hour now, you can get a Fast Pass for a time that will get you in much faster later. You just have to show up.

It’s nice waltzing by the stifled queue of humanity as you breeze through the crowd like Phil Donahue. For bonus points, Mrs. Angry and I say snarky quips in our best Vanderbilt voices. “Waiting is for the proles! Like paying taxes and going to jail. Ha.”

Of course, it became a Lenin-like coup when, at about 1:00, the Fast Pass kiosks began spitting out times for 6:40 and 8:00 PM. Suddenly, the Fast Pass elite were staggering between rides in complete panic, unable to function. “We have to wait? An hour? For Pirates of the Caribbean? Aw no!” Viva de Sweaty.

*

A Dad freaks out behind me.

He has a 1:40 Fast Pass for the Lilo & Stitch show, but he’s acting like it’s a Willy Wonka Golden Ticket. He barely hears the patient Disney attendant telling him that only 1:35 Fast Passes are allowed in at the moment. The Dad is too busy freaking out.

“Come on! I’m 1:40! I have a Fast Pass!”

He’s also got three kids hanging on him, and a three-foot tall wife who looks like she opened the closet door and was clobbered by the bowling ball. The Dad weighs as much as a cat and might have eaten a kilo of cocaine for breakfast.

“Who’s going? We’re all going! Wait! Are you coming in or not? Yes? No! Come on!”

He’s practically standing on my head.

The Official Face of Walt Disney World.

Angry Junior and I enter the show. After some robotic brouhaha only Angry Junior fully understands, we’re whisked into a big round room where we are locked into our seats. “I gotta get out of here!” shrieks an eleven-year-old girl next to me. Eleven! She's completely unstable. The seats are locked. There’s no getting out. The lights go out, and it’s pitch black. The girl shrieks for the entire show.

“Get me out of here!”

*

Disney is following (or perhaps it pioneered) the despicable trend of emptying rides into souvenir shops.

Angry Junior and I finish The Buzz Lightyear ride, which isn’t bad because we get to fire laser blasters at alien monsters and sinister robots. A digital read-out in our space car reveals our scores. “Did I win, Dad?” asks Angry Junior. His reads 1700. Mine reads 60,450.

“We tied,” I tell him. We exit our car and head out through a set of double doors.

And we’re deposited into a toy store. Hundreds of Buzz Lightyear crap and bric-a-brac surround us. General Akbar screams inside my head, “It’s a trap!” Damn you, Disney!

“What’s this?” says Angry Junior, perplexed.

I steel my loins. “They want us to buy something.”

Angry Junior pauses. “I don’t want to buy anything.”

I’m so proud of my son. A chip off the old Angry block! See there, Disney? We don't want your crap. I win this round, Walt.


*

They’ve roped the streets off, and I’m trapped in Adventure Land. A float carrying some dork dressed like Aladdin passes by.

Angry Two has been snoozing in his stroller for half an hour now. While Angry Junior and Mrs. Angry toiled in the Pirates of the Caribbean line, I sat in the shade with my slumbering son and watched the odd human shapes pass by.

Some of the women, I note, are wearing headgear that almost resembles a wedding veil. I apply my keen powers of deduction and determine that these women elected to get married at Disney World. I’ve seen people get married in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, so I’ve witnessed sadder sights.

One wedding-veil lady outweighs a Volkswagen and appears to have been molded from a cast that was originally created to stamp out fire hydrants. I imagine receiving a devastating left- hook from her meaty fist. Like a good magic trick, her new husband appears at her side. He’s no prize, but I still feel sorry for him. A lifetime of unwanted nude encounters and trips to the 7-Eleven for more cigarettes and Ding Dongs.

It’s getting time to meet the rest of the Family Angry outside the Johnny Depp enhanced Pirates ride, so I adjust the canopy over Angry Two’s perspiring face and I truck forward. I almost make it out of Adventure Land before cheery Disney employees cut me off. Cordoned! Trapped! I needed a Tommy gun to blast my way to freedom.

But I was frisked for weapons at the ticket counter. Cinderella waves at me from a motorized island of gossamer and tin foil. Her heavily made-up face glistens in the mid-afternoon heat. Her lips grin but her eyes scream. Buck up, babe. The parade’s just begun.

*

The last drop of moisture drips out of my body during our second wait in line at It’s A Small World.

There’s a water bottle in the diaper bag. The bag that doubles as Mrs. Angry’s purse. It now hangs like a corpse off my drooping shoulder. Angry Two sits in the crook of my arm. His index finger is pulling at my nostril. Knock it off.

Eerily lifelike when you're dehydrated.

I can’t reach the water bottle without releasing Angry Two into the wild. My tongue feels like a lint brush. A large family brushes by me, as if they don’t see me and my son standing in line.

“Go ahead,” I say. “I’m just standing in line.”

I remember Cocaine Dad, and I decide to let it go. One of the ladies who cut in front of me weighs more than the electric cart she’s riding. This woman represents about 10% of the people who visit the Magic Kingdom. Don’t tell me it’s a gland thing. I witnessed one such woman licking the chocolate off a candy bar wrapper.

The line lurches forward. Angry Two is flirting with the girls behind us, so my nostrils are safe. Forty minutes later, we’re seated in our plastic boat, Angry Two is pointing at singing Eskimo robots, and I’m pouring warm water into my body. Deflated tissue cells plump with new life! Suddenly, I’m Papillon after half a year of solitary confinement.

“I’m still here, you bastards.”


*

My back gives out while we’re waiting to meet Mickey.

The sky blackened, and we stampeded into Mickey’s House like cattle frightened by the lightening. The kids approved of Mickey’s taste in décor. All is immaculate, as though permanently handled with white gloves. Enormous white gloves.

Angry Junior especially liked Mickey’s kitchen. It seemed like a fun place to make a lunch, with its bright yellow rolling pins and the electric red oven. It reminded my stomach that dinner would be appreciated, provided that it come soon.

Mickey isn’t home. He’s signing autographs in the building next door. Moo! We shuttle forward. I carry Angry Two, and Mrs. Angry skillfully herds Angry Junior into the barn-shaped edifice.

My back is constructed of Jinga blocks. Remove the right block, and I collapse like the Walls of Jericho. To the cows assembled around me, I look like a man in his thirties having his first stroke. My knees cave beneath me, and I hold Angry Two close so that if I do fall, he’ll land softly on my belly. I don’t fall. I will the muscles around my spine to hold.

“What’s wrong with you?” whispers Mrs. Angry. I tell her. She watches grimly as I perform dorky exercises to loosen my lower back.

Minnie Mouse pops out from behind a door like a disgruntled butler wielding a knife. Instead of stabbing Angry Junior, she wordlessly takes him by the hand and we’re all lead to a secret chamber. The Secret Chamber of Mickey Mouse.

Either he wants a hug, or his Enzyte™ is working.

Mickey receives us with open arms that spoke in the words his sealed mouth could not. Angry Junior leaps to be embraced, while Angry Two points and mysteriously shrieks, “Beeeeeee!”

That’s all the love Mickey gets from Angry Two. He retreats to mother when Mickey lumbers forward. Mickey is just as good when observed from a distance.

Meanwhile, Angry Junior absorbs the discharge of flash bulbs, vulcanizing his face into a serious grin. Mickey pantomimes a treatise of welcome only small children can decipher. When we leave, Angry Junior glows.

*

The sky wrings a colossal wet beach towel atop The Magic Kingdom.

We stand resigned at a small play area, where Angry Junior and Angry Two splash happily with strange children. Mrs. Angry and I observe nearby, bemused. Mrs. Angry is especially delighted with the rain. She calls it “romantic.”

Despite my mightiest effort, I don’t feel the romance. My back gives every five minutes, my feet are wooden blocks, and I’m experiencing fresh chaffing between the thighs. Athlete's Foot is plotting to colonize the moist spaces between my toes.

Mrs. Angry is beautiful in the rain. The mane of hair she takes so much care of is now matted to her forehead and neck. Her arms and collarbones shine, and the green tank top becomes a little snugger. Her smile is confetti.

I feel the romance then.

*


It’s 5:30 and everybody at The Magic Kingdom looks like they’ve been dragged behind a stagecoach.

I peer into the haggard faces of the parents shambling by, and I see myself. Survivors. The weak have retreated, leaving the lines a tolerable ten to fifteen minutes long.

In stark relief to the damp and wrinkled humanity who plod down The Magic Kingdom’s cobblestone streets are the Disney employees. Perfect and bright, as though steam-ironed upon the fabric of reality. They smile and wave serenely in the haze and heat.

"I will tear out your heart, and pump it full of cheer!"

Magic Kingdom employees are like a kind of Terminator. They feel no pity. They don’t feel pain. They only feel good cheer, and they absolutely will not stop until you’re eating sunshine and crapping puppy dogs.

The nerves in my lower-back flicker, like a Cub Scout singling Morse code with his flashlight, and I nearly collapse in front of the Haunted Mansion.

“Want to go in here again?” I ask, looking at Angry Junior. You bet he does.


*

For the third time in eleven hours, Angry Two and I are visiting It’s A Small World.

I don’t stare at the plastic Arabian princes or the British soldiers. Instead, I focus on my little son’s face.

His eyes are roller coasters. Reflected in the blackness of his pupils are hot air balloons and ducks that quack the chorus. His fists point to giant lollypops and Hula girls who will never stop dancing. This is his world, and for a moment I regret that he will have to grow up into mine.

I know that I am witnessing the moment that will represent Angry Two to me forever.


*

For the second time, a parade stands between me and the rest of my family.

Much in the way a dung beetle understands what must be done with carbon-based discharge, the visitors of Magic Kingdom instinctively know to line the streets at 8:00 for the final parade. Grinning employees unroll the ropes and the faithful assume cherry position along Main Street.

I realize that this is the best time to go. Visions of escaping Pluto 18’s orbit unimpeded flash across the synapses of my powerful brain.

Mrs. Angry and Angry Junior have a hankering for a cookie. “Meet me at City Hall!” I announce. I toss Angry Two into his stroller, and together we pound our way to the end of Main Street.

I was told that the park’s Lost And Found was located at City Hall, and I still harbored hopes for retrieving my pricey eyeglasses. The parade started at 9:00. I had twenty minutes to accomplish my mission, reunite with the rest of my family, the make a dash for the exit.

I reach City Hall, and the Asian exchange student informs me that no eyeglasses matching my description had been returned to the Lost And Found. I imagined a 400-pound hillbilly slipping my designer specs onto his moon-pie face. Damn you, Disney.

By the time Angry Two and I return to the sidewalk, the parade has just begun. My wife and eldest son would have to somehow cross the street to reach me. Damn you, Disney!

The floats are festooned with Christmas bulbs, but Angry Two is too exhausted to give a damn. He takes a swing at me, and I secure him into his stroller. Where’s Mrs. Angry? Our one opportunity to escape The Magic Kingdom was slipping away, and I could almost hear the frozen chuckles of Walt Disney himself taunting my bad fortune.

“If you believe, your dreams will come true!”

The philosophy of Mickey. With my will to live gone, I have plenty of room for hope and desperation. I close my eyes, and at first there is nothing. I try again, and this time, I believe.

I hear my wife calling my name. I open my eyes, and there she is, with Angry Junior in tow. An impossibly happy Disney employee had allowed them across the street, and now we are the Family Angry once more.

The floats dazzle Angry Junior. He wants to stay. Just for a little while. To see the floats. I don’t look at my wristwatch. I look at my son, the hues of electric gold and red and blue brilliantly reflected in the circular lenses of his eyeglasses.




###

The Pastor and The Photo Matter

No matter how much I want to see the man succeed, no matter how many times I find myself gravitating to his well-chosen words, I know that The Pastor and The Photo matter.

I want to say that Reverend Wright does not speak for Barack Obama, just as the photo of him wearing a turban was merely an effort to connect with ethnic voters. And if I shout long and loud enough, it’s an argument I know I can win. After all, I feel that I am on the side of the righteous.

Except that I know otherwise.

I Want to Believe

I can chalk up Obama's staggeringly poor decisions to naivety, which has concerned me about Obama almost from the beginning. He seems so fragile, speaking in glowing terms of hope when his counterparts are trying so hard to sound tough. My God, what would Cheney do to him? What will McCain do to him?

But I like the man anyway. Good God, I’m tired of the gloom the Bush Administration has drenched this country in, like gray wash water drained from a laundry bucket. His ancient cronies plot and plan in dim rooms, practicing Dark Age, Richard Nixon politics in a world that screams for our leadership. But leaders have vision and optimism, especially in desperate times. Bush gave us the Axis of Evil and a vice president that shoots people in the face.

Yes, I like Obama’s message, as thin on actual policy as it is. What’s wrong with hope?

Certainly more inspirational than
Dick Cheney's memoir, Go Fuck Yourself

The Photo was a cheap shot, really: Karl Rovian in its conception and execution. At first glance, I thought it was a fake. But it was no fake. Here was a politician, sporting a name like "Barack Obama," a man who 11% of Americans would one day believe that he took an oath of office with his hand on a Qu’ran – this was a man who had somebody talk him into wearing a turban in front of a guy with a camera.

Hope and naivety, yes. But no evidence of sagacity.

What public gaffs, what inopportune errors in judgment, what embarrassing displays of naivety will Obama make once he is in the Oval Office?

That's definitely not a thinking cap.

The Photo has momentarily vanished, but I know where it resides: right in John McCain’s back pocket. On the even of an essential debate, or after a critical dip in the polls, you can count on Turban Obama making its nut-punching return to the Internet.

The Pastor has received more airtime, possibly because it doesn’t feel so slimy on the surface. Reverend Wright earns the indignation his caustic words generate. He’s the Bad Guy no one feels sorry for. And while Obama supporters are quick to say that Wright is not Obama, they either fail to see or refuse to acknowledge the much larger point.

Bush’s biggest failing is not his lack of curiosity or his knuckle-headed stubbornness, but the people whom he elected to serve as his council.

Rumsfield. Rove. Cheney. Libby. Brown. Cooney. Harriet Meirs.

Remember her? Of all Bush’s narrow minded cronies, Meirs was the most insulting. Not because she wasn’t a nice old lady, but because she was a nice old lady who was sweet to George and it won her a nomination to the Supreme Court. Her qualifications? She was a lawyer. She headed the state bar of Texas. That’s about it.

"Her qualifications? She's nice to me."

Harriet Meirs was part of George Bush’s circle. He respected her opinions. She represented George Bush.

Like it or not, Reverend Jeremiah Wright represents Barack Obama. He attended his church. He listened to his words. Reverend Jeremiah Wright officiated Obama's marriage to Michelle, and later he baptised Obama's children. Not once, as far as I know, did Barack Obama stand up from his pew and leave.

And if this is whom Barack Obama picks to be his pastor, whom will he select to serve in his Cabinet?

Some friendships never fade away.

You have my vote, Barack Obama. But man, you do not have my confidence. You'd better grow up, and grow up fast, because if you think Hillary Clinton is tough, wait until you go toe-to-toe with a man who sneered down more than five years of Vietnamese torture.

Yeah, The Photo and The Pastor matter.


#

Facebook Has Me By The Balls

Save me.

Today, the Angry Czeck is 80% stomach. Yesterday, he could not wait to miss “Don’t Mess With The Zohan.” Before that, he enjoyed the Greek food fest even though he is 1/8 Trojan.

Please. Somebody save me.

I’m addicted to Facebook™. Every morning, like a heroin addict hunched over a mini-Bic and a bent spoon, the Angry Czeck dutifully updates his status. He searches the crevices and folds of his abnormally huge brain for lost pieces of witty insight. He wishes he was the first to come with “Angry Czeck is is.”

It’s killing me.

Damn your sans-serif soul!

It’s not enough just to check some friend updates and post a note on The Wall. Not when I must tend to my apps, like Bar Fight, which is moderately amusing in its conception but essentially mindless in execution. Somehow, I’ve recruited 21 people to join my pub. Why in the fuck do I have a pub?

Because I am sick.

I made Facebook my browser’s homepage, making the act of Facebooking a prerequisite to surfing the Internet. Look! Bruce changed his profile picture! I’ve been invited to plant a daisy! Jennifer discovered her favorite sex position! It’s Kevin’s birthday today, and some guy who is friends with a girl that was in my third-grade class wants to be my friend!

I feel my neural transmitters plugging into the collective hive, one by one.

Like a man addicted to tobacco, I zealously recruit more victims into the fold. “You got to be on Facebook, man! That’s how I connect!” I sneer at the dolts who decline beneath the auspice of protecting their precious privacy. Feh! You just don’t get it, man.

I am a fan of Toast

Yes, toast. It has a fan page. So does Sponge Bob, of whom I am also a fan. What else? Overton Park. The Madison Hotel. G-Force. Meineke. Rotofugi. Benjamin Franklin. Barack Obama. Rock the Vote. The Little Rock Film Festival. Seinfeld. NPR. House. The Watchmen. Boondogs.

And the Angry Czeck. I am a fan of myself.

I'm a huge fan of your work. Huge.

Mrs. Angry attended a birthday party with Angry Junior the other weekend. One of the attendees told her that “The Angry Czeck is a big Facebooker.” What does that mean?

Facebook’s new instant messaging (Facing?) is the secret fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse. He rides in crazy zigzagging patterns, drawing attention to himself as billions of billable hours waste away unused inside the ether. “You’re here all the time!” observes one Facer. I immediately switch my status to “offline.”

The Angry Czeck is no stranger to Web-related addictions. I ripped out ten posts my first month on Blogspot™. During football season, I stick a USB plug into my cerebellum so I can instantly download useful fantasy football tips. I pounce on every email. I absorb CNN.com like, I don’t know, something that absorbs things. I stagger into walls and scream profanities at nuns when my Internet connection is down.

Look what Facebook did to Amy Winehouse.

Yet, this infatuation with Facebook feels different – a willing and buxom breast that doesn’t mind a long but tender squeeze. An acceptance of your Friend Request is satisfying validation. Destroying a pal on Bar Fight makes the day pass quicker. Leafing through a coworker’s photo album borders on creepy, but you figure that they are doing the same to you. It’s okay. Peek.

Help me.



#

Let's Buy China

The Angry Czeck celebrated Mexico’s overthrow of its sinister Norman invaders by crushing a pyramid of vodka tonics with a crony. During the course of the evening, the conversation drifted to a common drunken topic: foreign policy.

My friend argued that the United States should withdraw all military personnel from all foreign countries, and that our military should be maintained for defensive purposes only. We honored the idea with a toast.

“Wait,” I said. “Didn’t your company just buy out a competitor earlier this year?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Didn’t you do that to expand your market share and protect your interests?”

“Yeah,” replied my friend suspiciously.

“Well, if that’s good business, why isn’t that good foreign policy?”

If the British Empire taught us anything, it’s that conquered people make good customers. (Except, of course, if the merchandise is tea.) Which leads me to China, the country best positioned to pinch our customers.

Unlike Mexico, who we should simply annex without even bothering with a press release, there’s no way to absorb China against her will. Not without inspiring Alan Alda to write more pompous episodes of M*A*S*H anyway. Nope. To take over China, we must apply the principles of the boardroom.

We buy it.

Lock, stock, and Buddha.

The only way to trump China's economic advantage.

We’re a country that spends a trillion bucks the way a five-year-old runs through a cup of tokens at Chucky Cheese. You know we have the coins, bro. Plus, the American people don’t even have to foot the entire invoice. Let Uncle Sam recruit some investors with deep pockets: MicroSoft. Wal-Mart. Bechtel. Oprah. Don’t tell me they don’t want a piece of the egg roll.

Still, you don’t need to be Alan Greenspan to know that we’ll have to keep all the revenue stream options open. For instance, let’s put China’s naming rights up for sale. Imagine visiting the tasty nation of McChina™ – A Billion People Served!

The Angry Czeck speaks the language of big business. He knows how to get to the brass tacks. Let’s talk bottom line: how many banana peels are we talking here?

Technically, China is The People’s Republic of China, so we have to buy the people first. That’s 1.3 billion people, sure, but we’ll get a bulk rate because tobacco and pollution related diseases have significantly reduced individual value. (True, the life expectancy in China is comparable to that in the States, but sometimes conducting big business means telling small lies.)

The Angry Czeck recommends offering $100 a head – $1,300,000,000.00 American. Bill Gates alone is good for that. And the Chinese will love it! Hell, 23 million Chinese don’t even see $90 a year, let alone enjoy an instant hundred-smacker windfall.

We'll throw in Free Exploration to sweeten the pot.

But what about land? China is a fraction smaller than the good old USofA – a smidge more than 3.6 million square miles. (Eat that, Thomas Jefferson!) Some of the land is developed. Much of it is not. Plus they got that old crumby wall to tear down. Couple that with the fact the China is routinely assaulted with hurricanes, earthquakes, floods and tsunamis, and we’re looking at securing a nice discount!

Let’s go with $50 per square mile. Remember, we paid $19 per square mile for the tick infested Louisiana Purchase, and it was filled with angry Indians! China will cost us more than double! In all, we’re tacking on another $180,000,000 to the offer. That’s not chump change, President Jintao!

Communism? Or oodles of sweet, sweet cash? Decide.

Of course, we’d be fools not to acquire China’s intellectual property rights: Egg rolls, that funny alphabet, Confucius, Yao Ming, Ming vases, The Little Red Book, chop sticks, The Great Wall, Fu-Manchu beards, woks, wok-shaped hats, etc., they have to come with the package. I want to see a Nike Rickshaw® available on the Internet weeks after the sale!

The copyrights and trademarks will be pricey and too difficult for the Angry Czeck to calculate. (Math = Sucks) Let’s just play a little American poker and offer the cost of Uncle George’s stimulus plan: One hundred and fifty billion bucks. See if China blinks!

Add it up, and we’re shopping the Sharper Image catalog for a steel briefcase that can hold one hundred fifty-one and a half billion dollars. That’s a good deal, considering that the Iraq war has already cost us $500 billion with nothing to show for it.

I think we have a sweeeet deal.

Take the cash, China. We’ll even ship Howie Mandel and the Banker over to broker the deal. You’ll have some easy green lining your pockets and a new Starbucks on every corner. We’ll arrange for Ben Bernanke to tweak your interest rates and FEMA to manage your flood relief efforts. When you leap into your new Chevy Malibu and listen to your new iPod on your way to your new asbestos-free job, you’ll thank God.

And Howie Mandel.



#

Oil Industry Fingers Greedy Profiteers of Huge Gas Price Hike: You!

While soaking in a steamy tub and reading the liberal rag of choice, Newsweek, the Angry Czeck stumbled upon an advertisiment even more compelling then those featuring the Mercury Mountaineer chick.

DO YOU OWN AN OIL COMPANY? thunders the headline. Nestled at the bottom like a stamp of quality is the logo of the party responsible for the ad’s placement: The People of America’s Oil and Natural Gas Industry. To further underscore the plebian message, the word “people” is written in a totally outrageous font, so that there is no mistaking that humans and not hamsters wrote the ad.

Finally, somebody is speaking for the people.

The ad features a lot of copy, but a pull-out makes sure that a key point is not missed: “Tens of millions of Americans own a piece of the U.S. oil and natural as industry.” A pie chart at the top illustrates the statement by suggesting that most profits from oil are funneled into the IRAs, pensions, and mutual funds of hard working people like you and I invest. The rest benefits “individual investors” (23%) and “other” investors (5%).

The lowest percentage? Why, it’s the oil industry’s corporate management! Magnanimously taking a mere 1.5% of the pie. These guys aren’t opportunistic white-collar thugs! They’re heroes!

According to the ad’s copy, there’s a “good chance” I own a portion of the fuel industry if I make under $70,000 and I have an IRA or personal retirement account. The People know this because of a study conducted by a company called SONECON (The Distribution of Ownership of U.S. Oil and Natural Gas, September 2007 – you can download the study and others from SONECON.com if you like).

There's a good chance they own an oil company!

Just in case we haven’t added it up yet, the advertisement identifies the “real winners” of the industry’s earnings, Middle America! However, the most salient point is made at the conclusion:

So when the political rhetoric gets hot about increasing energy taxes or taking “excess profits” from US oil companies, it is important to step back, look at the facts, and ask yourself, “who does that really hurt?”

One can imagine George Bailey delivering a similar speech to rioting customers of the old Bailey Savings & Loan.

“Whuh…whuh, you see? You’re acting like those $15 billion in profit are anchored in a yacht on a dock outside my Caribbean estate! But it’s really in your one bedroom apartment, Jorge! And it’s in your 1997 Dodge Eagle, Jennifer! Don’t you see? Don’t you see what these evil politicians are doing? They’re scaring you with the fact that we just earned more profit than at any point in our company’s history! Why, we can’t let the politicians win!”

The spirit of George lives on.

I feel good knowing that an altruistic and impartial group like The People of America’s Oil and Natural Gas Industry is looking out for my interests. Look out, sinister Capitol Hill! The power is on my side now! We just placed a $100,000 ad in Newsweek!

Naturally, the Angry Czeck wanted to learn more about his brand new ally, and he was pleased to find the website at the bottom of the ad, EnergyTomorrow.org. Dot org! That seals the deal. This ad was straight-talk I could trust.

“Delivering America’s Energy Securely” is Energy Tomorrow’s mighty mandate. Fuck yeah! One glance at the homepage grants you all kinds of valuable education, like this:

The Department of Interior estimates there are 112 billion barrels of technically recoverable oil beneath U.S. federal lands and coastal waters. That’s enough oil to fuel 60 million cars for 60 years.

You mean we’re standing on our own energy independence? How shortsighted and careless of us. Why won’t the politicians just leave us alone and let us drill? Nobody is using federal lands anyway, and who gives a fuck about the coast? Obviously, congress has forgotten about a little concept the Founding Fathers liked to call “freedom.” Let us drill!

Nothing that a few oil pumps couldn't improve.

Clearly, only the sage and the brilliant are recruited to write for Energy Tomorrow. Who are funding these guys?, asked the Angry Czeck. I imagined a benevolent society tucked in the mountains of Switzerland, surrounded by towering shelves of books and guarded by silent monks armed with ninja stars.

“For more information and additional materials, please visit API.org.” API, eh? That kind of sounded Swiss to me! I pressed the link happily.

API (often called AOI) is the American Petroleum