The Angry Czeck

If you’ve heard of the Internet, then you’ve probably heard of peopleofwalmart.com. Yeah, sure, it’s awesome.

The premise is simple: post pictures of hillbillies who shop at Wal-Mart, write a pithy headline and caption, and then we laugh. An easy formula to execute, but an even easier formula to duplicate.

Listen, I loathe Wal-Mart as much as the next guy. But is it really fair to point out the social miscreants who are just innocently shopping for bargains? He who isn’t guilty of wearing a camouflage tube-top throw the first purple parachute pants.

With that in mind, I present PeopleofTarget.com. (BETA!) Sure, you love Target, because you think it’s special and great even though it kills small business just like Wal-Mart. But just you wait until you see the freaks that shop there! It’s hysterical. (Please note that I shot most of these with my camera phone.)

Pink-O on Aisle 2

Look at the pink shirt on THIS guy! And the “woman” appears to be dragging some kind of circus midget with her. “Excuse me, where does Target keep the genetics cleaner?” Ha!

Man-Boobs Ahoy!

Dude! The barbarians went that way! Oh, and you forgot to wear a t-shirt, Einstein!

Who Died?
“Stop here, Cletus! I need to run get me some tube socks before Pappy’s funeral!”

Oops. I forgot my clothes!
Listen, Ladies, we have a nice selection of Mossimo shirts on clearance. Hint. Hint. Oh, BTW, Pamela Anderson called. She wants her ankle tattoo back.

Two Words: Prell. Plus.
They came out with a new invention: comb. Just run it through your hair and enjoy the magic show!

Bath Time!
Ever wonder why you find toe-nail clippings in the sinks of Target public bathrooms? And it’s no shirt, no service. Oh, wait! You’re in a Target! I forgot.

The Kid is Wearing A Bag
Love the collar on this guy. He has the love-seat to match! Ha!

That’s all I got so far for PeopleofTarget.com. I’m still going to write the Angry Czeck, I guess, but I expect to actually see some revenue from POT. Send pictures if you can. Let’s get me rich together.

***

I hear things. Wacky, paranoid, hysterical, condescending, insulting things that used to be confined to the homeless guy who tried to shake me down for $4.25. What I hear most is, “We got to take back our country!”

This implies that, somehow, our way-of-life has been stolen from our grasps. We’ve been bamboozled! Hoodwinked! Flimflammed! And as usual, it’s not our fault!

Well, I have terrific news for you folks: the country is still right here! Look outside. It hasn’t moved an inch. We’re still consuming enormous amounts of calories. We’re still walking around with concealed firearms. We’re still screaming and thrusting poorly lettered signs into the faces of the officials we elected. Everything’s cool.

Yep. Sigh.

But it’s more exciting if everything isn’t cool, right? I mean a world with Bigfoot trundling around the woods is far more intriguing than a world with a dork wearing an Alec Baldwin suit, right? A faked moon landing is more interesting than an actual moon landing. What if George W. Bush really did know the 9/11 attack was coming? Everybody but Fox & Friends would be talking about it for years.

The Czar of the National Death Panel

There is a certain segment of the country that wants a stolen country, if for nothing more than to have something interesting to follow. Recently, a man was asked why he was (legally!) carrying a firearm to a Town Hall protest. “I don’t want a revolution,” he said. “I don’t want a civil war. But it is a possibility. It’s there as an option, as a last resort.”

Public health care is not an option, yet a civil war is. How can this possibly be? Because it would be interesting. Fascinating! Take one protester at the Tea Party hosted on the National Mall in Washington D.C. recently. “We are losing our country, we think the Muslims are moving in and taking over.”

Or take this woman from Battle Creek Michigan: “I really don’t want to be a guinea pig for the experiment they have with the population control.”

Or consider this woman in Canton, Ohio: “(President Obama) is going after our kids to try to indoctrinate them into a national defense army.”

Population control. A national defense army comprised of children. Muslim takeovers! How exciting! I can’t wait to see the movie. Good thing we have stand-up guys like TEA party co-founder Mark Williams calming the citizenry with unoriginal but hearty maxims like, “You can have our country when you pry it from our cold dead fingers!“

Life without conspiracy is boring. We need a man on the grassy knoll, not mundane details like affordable health insurance, quality education, or even a better economy. Have you ever listened to Timothy Geithner drone on-and-on about interest rates, unemployment numbers, and the GNP? Boh-ring. But what if, what if, Geithner not only murdered his wife in the 1960s, but also got his economics degree from DeVry University? Instant interest!

Remember James Frey? He wrote a book called A Million Little Pieces, a true story about his two-fisted battle against drug addiction. Oprah loved it. So did a trillion book clubs. Problem is, it wasn’t true. Psyche! It was all made up. Frey knows that facts are boring.

Donald Rumsfield knows facts are boring. Glenn Beck, too. On the other hand, Roman Polanski knows facts can be so exciting that they can throw you in jail. He’s the exception that proves the rule.

I’d like it all to be real.

Many years ago, I waited in front of the television with breathless anticipation as Geraldo Rivera cracked open the “lost vault of Al Capone.” When, after two hours of prime-time, the vault was revealed to be empty, but I came away with a treasure of truth: The world is a dull, boring place my friend.

Even the Most Interesting Man in the World is dull

I’m not saying that it’s without its beauty and charm. I’m just implying that you may be wasting your time looking for the Loch Ness Monster or a Koran in President Obama’s desk. You don’t have to cancel your ghost hunters meeting at the Barnes & Noble. You can continue annoying your friends by claiming you’re psychic or insisting that you were Cleopatra in a past life. Keep it up, if it makes your world more fascinating.

After all, it’s your country.

***

“I don’t believe it was rape-rape. He went to jail and when they let him out he was like, ‘You know what, this [judge] is going to give me a hundred years in jail. I’m not staying’.”

Whoopi Goldberg
Idiot Roman Polanski Defender

There is no defense for Roman Polanski. The guy is scum.

I love his movies. The guy is scum. Chinatown is a masterpiece. The guy is scum. I even enjoyed The Ninth Gate. And still, the guy is scum.

In case you missed it, here are the disgusting facts: Roman Polanski drugged a 13-year-old girl with a qualude (how very 1970s of him), plied her with champagne, and fucked her. Wait, that sounds too romantic. He sodomized her. And he did this because he was Roman Polanski, scum. And if your neighbor did the same thing today, you’d set him on fire, run him over with a cement truck, and toss his smoldering body off the Sears Tower. Then you’d collect your gold medal from the Mayor.

Roman Polanski, however, is being received a bit differently.

For Whoopi Goldberg, whose credentials as a mind-blowing genius cannot be questioned, doesn’t consider drugging and sodomizing a little girl “rape-rape.” I don’t want to know what Whoopi’s definition of rape is. Quite frankly, I don’t want to know what her definition of anything is because obviously she is from outer-space.

Woody Allen was among the first to defend Polanski. Astonishing.

Martin Scorsese doesn’t think sticking your adult-dick in a child’s rectum is rape either. Directors Wes Anderson and David Lynch are cool with it, too. In fact, a number of Hollywood airheads have signed a petition demanding “the immediate release of Roman Polanski.” It also asserts that “film-makers in France, in Europe, in the United States and around the world are dismayed by this decision.”

Jesus, no! Film-makers in France are dismayed!

How do you defend a man who buggers little girls? Some are championing some kind of “statute of limitations” defense. It happened a long time ago – more than thirty years past. The victim is a 40-year-old mom today. Polanski is an elderly man now. It was a different era.

The thing is, World War II ended six decades ago, and we’re still rooting Nazi’s out of South America. The freshness date is still good on war crimes. When does child rape go stale? A couple weeks?

Polanski, seen here with Sharon Tate,
a woman waaaaay too old for him.

I’ve read a number of strange apologist theories for Polanski. He is a Holocaust survivor, he makes great movies, his wife was killed by the Manson Family, he’s eccentric.

He’s a pedophile. Polanski didn’t leave this country to escape persecution. He left to escape criminal prosecution and the prospect of getting ass-raped himself in prison – without the benefit of qualudes and bubbly. Only because he is famous do these Hollywood blowhards lift a finger for him. They’re standing around him in a big circle holding up their fists in the air like he’s goddamn Billy Jack. Roman Polanski is not Billy Jack. He is not even the Legend of Billy Jean. He is scum.

Ronald Harwood, Oscar winning writer of The Pianist of which Polanski directed, says, “(Polanski’s arrest) is really disgraceful. Both the Americans and the Swiss have miscalculated.”

You’re right, Ron. We have miscalculated. We should have done this 30 years ago. And the worst thing that could have happened was that Brett Ratner might have directed The Piano.

*#*

Not long ago, the Arkansas State Red Wolves were the Arkansas State Indians.

In those days, the ASU mascot was Running Joe – a caricature that loosely approximated the resemblance of a human being. He was obviously a first-cousin to the Cleveland Indian. For example, Joe’s nose was larger than his feet. His teeth rivaled the size of Jimmy Carter’s teeth. Earlier incarnations of Running Joe featured him grasping a tomahawk in one fist and a scalp in the other.

Later, yielding to a more sensitive community, Running Joe lost the scalp. Eventually, Running Joe was simply lost completely, and in his place arrived a noble Native American chieftain who presided over football games stoically and with his powerful arms crossed. No tomahawk. No peace pipe. No scalps. Sometimes, a fully dressed, blank-eyed Native American woman accompanied him at his side.

The changes were too-little too-late to appease the NCAA Jedi Council, who decided that the Florida St. Seminole and University of Illinois’ “Chief Illiniwek” were nobler Native American mascots than the one provided by Arkansas State. It then became necessary to devise a new mascot. The process proved cumbersome and lengthy. There were some politics involved. A consulting group was imported to deliver a list of appropriate replacements. My brother and I had our own list.

Personally, I championed The Gorillas, which briefly served as ASU’s mascot in the 1950s. Who isn’t frightened by a gorilla? We’d exchange the highly derivative Tomahawk Chop for the far more unnerving Gorilla Chest Beat. If necessary, we could become the Scarlet Gorillas so the school wouldn’t have to invent a revised color scheme. Who would complain then? Jane Goodall?

My brother advocated The Mustard Gas. “We float into your city,” said he, “and attack your central nervous system!” I kind of liked The Mustard Gas because it was different and it implied a terrible, horrible death. The logo could be a dented canister with gas seeping out of the top. Dry ice machines could deliver a sinister smoke that would prove essential to any half-time performance. The dance team would wear gas masks. Our cheer would be the sound of escaping gas: Psssssssssssssssss.

Arkansas State’s expensive consulting group had other ideas. Among them: The Ridge Runners. The Diamond Cutters. The Red Wolves. Seriously, the Ridge Runners? How about The Incest? Why not The Meth Heads?

Somehow, the Red Wolves emerged as the winner from what was a pretty damn lame list of choices. Arkansas State is located in North East Arkansas, and there are about as many wolves in the area as there are hippos. But damnitt, we’re the Red Wolves now. Let’s live with it.

This thing is our master now!

To my surprise, the school more than lived with it. They embraced it. Quite truthfully, A-State fans always felt like pale facsimiles of Florida St. when we executed the Tomahawk Chop or when our mascot planted a spear into the end zone. The Red Wolf gave us new cheering opportunities. Now we had a big, puffy red dog thing riding around on a motorcycle to open up home games. The crowd howled with every first down. I’ve threatened to buy a werewolf mask and wear it to games. I just haven’t done it yet, but I will.

Still, I arrived with my brother and Dad to Arkansas State’s first home game of the year expecting the same old crap – a disinterested student section and way too many people wearing Arkansas Razerback gear.

You have to understand how aggravating it is to attend an Arkansas State game and to see people wearing Razerback crap. Would one attend an University of Oklahoma game wearing Oklahoma State Cowboy attire? Would you wear a Hawkeye jersey to an Iowa State game? Of course not. Yet Arkansans believe it’s just as appropriate to wear a Hog hat to an A-State game as it is to engage in sexual congress with your sister.

“I’m taking my camera phone,” I announced pompously, “and snapping pictures of all the fools wearing Razerback crap to the A-State game!”

Except, I had no subjects to snap. The stadium was packed tightly, and everyone was wearing Red Wolves attire. The image of the Red Wolf himself, unimaginably named Howl, was bared on the chests and backs of nearly everyone in attendance! I struggled to find a single Hog. I came up empty. Empty! Finally, ASU pride had seeped to the top of what was once a cesspool of apathy, chagrin, and denial. Arkansas State Red Wolves! Arooooooooo!

All I see is red and this guy’s head.

We’re still new to this loyalty thing. We’re not completely sophisticated. For example, one popular shirt featured the penetrating eyes of the Red Wolf and this puzzling inscription, “These Eyes See No Fear.” It sounds cool until you begin to ponder its meaning. Those eyes don’t see fear because we don’t scare anyone? Maybe it was supposed to be, “You don’t see fear in these eyes,” but the t-shirt printer was in too big a hurry to proof read. Regardless, it’s a dumb t-shirt.

Still, it was nice to hear all the enthusiastic howling as the game kicked off. It’s a meaty and threatening cheer, unlike the farmer’s call they do in Fayeteville. (“Wooo Pig Sooey?” How about “Heeeere, piggy piggy?”) Everybody was caught up in authentic Red Wolf excitement, in a packed stadium no less, even though the Lozerbacks were getting their bacon smoked by Alabama on national TV. At last, ASU had a true fan base, and all we had to do was trade in an old tired Indian for a red wolf.

The delicate facade began to crack about three minutes before halftime.

The game started at 3:30. As the game clock ticked close to halftime, I caught this comment from a woman seated behind me: “Well, I’m not even hungry yet! I hope I get hungry!” My first thought was, Well Christ, Lady! It’s ten minutes to four! Nobody is hungry. And then it occurred to me, the terrible, horrible truth. This was Jonesboro, Arkansas, dude. Five o’clock is dinner time.

Immediately, I envisioned The Cracker Barrel parking lot rapidly populating with SUVs and pick-up trucks. No, ASU, no! Don’t fail me now! Not at halftime, when the game is so close! Surely you can forgo one lousy dinner to howl your Red Wolves to victory! For God’s sake, would a Hogs fan leave at halftime to take advantage of the Early Bird Special at Lubby’s Cafeteria? Jesus, no!

Jesus, yes. When halftime was over, many of the Red Wolf “faithful,” including the Not Hungry Yet Lady, had vanished. Poof! My team had become cuckold’s to the blooming onion at Outback Steakhouse.

“Where did everyone go?” asked Angry Dad, puzzled.

It only got worse as the game progressed. The football game itself was amazing. The lead changed several times. There were heroic plays on both sides, and still the grandstands evaporated. The visiting team’s band, sensing their foe’s inexplicable betrayal by their own fans, pumped out their taunting tunes with more venom and vigor. Desperately, the ASU cheerleaders worked to coax a howl out of the crowd, but it was too late. Denny’s was serving breakfast all day long.

The final score was 30-27. The victor was Troy State. The Red Wolves fell in the last moments thanks to a botched punt return. Those who stayed, those who ignored their stomach’s demands, left disappointed but enriched with the knowledge that they had stayed to the brutal end, giving all they had to a team that must have wondered what the hell happened at halftime that made so many of their fans abandon them when there was so much football left to be played.

The next morning, me, my brother and Angry Dad decided on Cracker Barrel for breakfast. Parked in the lot was an SUV with a message soaped on the rear window: TROY OWNS YOU. Indeed. Indeed.

We entered the Cracker Barrel the same way one enters any Cracker Barrel, and that’s through the cheesy gift shop. What greeted us immediately was a colossal kick to the pills.

“You gotta be kidding me!” gasped my brother, figuratively massaging his nuts.

Displayed before us, like some kind of grisly shrine, was a mammoth display of University of Arkansas Razorback’s merchandise
, available for sale right there in the Jonesboro Cracker Barrel, supposedly home to the Arkansas State Red Wolves.

Next time just knee me in the nuts, Jonesboro Cracker Barrel

My brother pointed to a ceramic dinner plate that featured a Hog in the center. “I want to buy one of those just so I can break it in front of the cashier,” he sneered. He didn’t do it, of course. Like me, he’s an Arkansas State fan, and we’re all talk.

***

Recently, I hacked my 1000th tweet on Twitter. If you figure that each tweet takes about 10 seconds to compose, that’s more than two solid hours of tweeting.

Despite all my intimate research, the Angry Czeck has yet to understand Twitter’s value – if it has any value at all. If you like to receive news the instant it happens, then you might like Twitter. If you want to read Kid Rock’s shameless trolling for cute fans, then you might like Twitter. If you are amused by pithy, 140-character bits of wit and insight, Twitter might be the thing for you.

AC’s fury often destroys Twitter’s puny servers.

I use Twitter to promote the Angry Czeck. I also use it to unleash something called Bursts of Anger, a rapid-fire salvo of fury that I attempted to launch in the early days of this blog. The format was a blogging dud, but it works good enough on Twitter.

About a month ago, I complete 100 Bursts of Anger. Some of these bursts are kind of funny. Others are lame and should be given to Dane Cook. I could allow these bursts to disappear in Twitter’s ether, or I can catalogue them here for your future reference. You don’t have to thank me. I just want your cash.

100 Bursts of Anger

(Plus more because I often lost count)

Burst of Anger #001: Expected to be lighter this morning, but scale said otherwise. FU scale! Your truth is a dagger in the belt of Brutus!

Burst of Anger #002: Nobody told me, but it was Ass SUV Parking Day at the parking deck this morning. Back up and park straight. Just once.

Burst of Anger #003: Santana and Kenny Wayne Sheppard are boring and overrated. There. I said it.

Burst of Anger #004: God curses Egypt with boils and plague, and the Angry Czeck with man boobs.

Burst of Anger #005: What is it about an “R” rating that compels some parents to think, “Junior has to learn about rape and murder someday.”

Burst of Anger #006: Cold-cocked a state senator this morning and stole his Mercedes. Wait. No I didn’t. Crap, my life is boring.

Burst of Anger #007a: Nothing beats sitting alone in a room lit by fluorescents, shirtless, waiting for the dermatologist to judge your moles

Burst of Anger #007b: Lost all my plans and schematics for the bank heist. Now I have to start ALL over. Stupid cleaning crew.

Burst of Anger #008: The worst invention ever? It’s a toss up between the Frisbee™ and wind chimes.

Burst of Anger #009: Mrs. Angry gets vanity sizing. Why can’t Mr. Angry have vanity sizing? “Why look! These size 28 shorts fit just right!”

Burst of Anger #010: Anger refuses to rest on Sunday.

Burst of Anger #011: Allowed a truck into my lane today, but didn’t receive a “Thank you” wave. I’ve been reduced to lesser Seinfeld plots.

Burst of Anger #012: Still rubbing the tear gas out of my eyes after the riot. Wondering what I should do with the stolen police car.

Burst of Anger #013: Got into an argument with Mom. Same old thing. I’m NOT a mercenary. I’m a soldier-of-fortune. There’s a difference.

Burst of Anger #014: This PC thing is getting way out of hand. http://tinyurl.com/ck9va8

Burst of Anger #015: Saw the Roach of Spring today.

Burst of Anger #016: I gots me an Alamo to avenge.

Burst of Anger #017: I should have printed a t-shirt that reads in Spanish: I don’t want a time share.

Burst of Anger #018a: Been in Mexico nearly half-a-week, and still nobody has called me “gringo!” What gives?

Burst of Anger #018b: Nobody wears sombreros in Mexico. I was promised sombreros.

Burst of Anger #019: Zorro is my defeated foe. You are weak, Zorro! WEAK!

Burst of Anger #020: Country Music + “Special Guest Jimmy Buffet” = Hell

Burst of Anger #021: Should have read the fine print on bottle of weed killer: “Will Triple Your Weeds Upon Application.” Now I know.

Burst of Anger #022: Must come up with a cooler defense of luscious chest hair than “Birds never nest in barren tree.”

Burst of Anger #023: is. Wait! Crap! That’s my ultra-witty Facebook update nobody has ever thought of before. Tomorrow: Song lyrics all day!

Burst of Anger #024: Jack Bauer infiltrates American Idol and tortures Paula Abdul for having a “fishy” last name.

Burst of Anger #025: I’m no Encyclopedia Brown, but I suspect that the N. Korean rocket failed to reach space because it wasn’t designed to. [N. Korea Rocket Shooting Edition]

Burst of Anger #026: Spoke with Arkansas State Senator Sydney Soresack today. First time I realized he’s Chinese.

Burst of Anger #027a: Following Newt Gingrich might have been a baaaad idea.

Burst of Anger #027b: Informed homeless dude that I don’t have cash. Was then invited to accompany him to an ATM.

Burst of Anger #028a: Steve Hannah, CEO of The Onion, never heard of Angry Czeck. Surprised. Angry. Deeply hurt. Finally, hungry for tacos.

Burst of Anger #028b: What good is following a porn star when all she twits about is buying a house? I demand cheekiness.

Burst of Anger #029: Jesus 1, Death 0 [Easter Edition]

Burst of Anger #030: Just shat a cinder block.

Burst of Anger #031: Following Jean Claude Van Damme not quite the “kick” I thought it’d be. More like a poorly executed Indian Burn.

Burst of Anger #032: Renting a boat and scuttling some pirates. Which way to Africa?

Burst of Anger #033: Up to 63 (sixty-three) followers. I’m gunning for you, Kutcher. Demi will soon groan the name Angry Czeck!

Burst of Anger #034: Putting Texas on eBay today.

Burst of Anger #035: Parked perfectly in my parking space this morning. I can’t hope to duplicate it. Life’s colors duller from here on.

Burst of Anger #036: Do. Not. Judge. Me. Bathroom. Scale. Damn your sinister numerical eyes!

Burst of Anger #037a: Decided to TinyURL tinyurl.com. Miniaturized half the Internet. Sorry.

Burst of Anger #037b: Broke two of my rules today: parked backwards and wore sandals to work. Three if you count the state senator I killed.

[Apparently skipped #038]

Burst of Anger #039: In five years, you’re gonna be real sorry you ain’t got no more new Grand Ams to drive.

Burst of Anger #040: Swine Flu appears to share many of the symptoms of Wine Flu.

Burst of Anger #041: AngryCzeck.com has just been optioned as a movie starring Rip Torn and directed by Michael Bay.

Burst of Anger #042: Opened up a Can of Whoop Ass. Stale again! Damn you generic Kroger brand Can of Whoop Ass!

Burst of Anger #043: Before news of Hugh Jackman nude scene, Mrs. Anger had no interest in seeing Wolverine. Now she does. Mmm-hmm. I see.

Burst of Anger #044: If you like actors raising their fist to the sky and screaming, “NOOOOOO!” more than once, then you’ll love Wolverine.

Burst of Anger #045: Wife stares at my stomach for a long time. She finally says, “We should go on a gym date.”

Burst of Anger #046: Play my new drinking game – take a shot every time a college basketball player claims his nickname is “The Chosen One”

Burst of Anger #047a: The Official website for National Day of Prayer Task Force offers a Prayer Guide for $8.95: http://tinyurl.com/cgne3r

Burst of Anger #047b: Celebrating National Prayer Day by commemorating Separation of Church and State.

Burst of Anger #048: Humiliated and defeated Kobra Kai today. I showed those arrogant California punks no mercy.

Burst of Anger #049: Once again, another Mother’s Day passes, and Mom fails to give me credit for the easy birth. It takes two to birth, Mom

Burst of Anger #050: Let’s see what the online porn-name generator came up with. “Tiny McSpeedy?” What the hell?

Burst of Anger #051: Okay, let’s see what the online Christian Name Generator comes up with. “Kris?” What the hell?

Burst of Anger #052a: How can “oe” possibly we a word, evil and sinister Scrabble for Facebook application?

Burst of Anger #052b: Took an entire bar of Irish Spring to wash my stomach this morning. Might have to take my gym membership more seriously

Burst of Anger #053: Parked my SUV backwards in a space for Compact Cars Only. Take that, America!

Burst of Anger #054: Had to decline that Supreme Court thing this morning. Sorry, Big O, but I hear good things about that Sonia chick.

Burst of Anger #055: Told Mom that I wanted either Destro, Storm Shadow, or Snake Eyes. She gets me Bazooka. Bazooka! Still mad at Mom.

[ #056 omitted for religious reasons]

Burst of Anger #057: The office is filled with interns, yet I have “phone duty.” What the hell?

Burst of Anger #058a: Wondering if the grass I mowed this weekend was really the twitching legs of spiders.

Burst of Anger #058b: Finally, something to almost be happy about – still no French permitted on the bridge of the USS Enterprise.

Burst of Anger #058c: I may be Big T-Shirt Guy at the pool this summer. Expect to receive nonchalant thumbs-ups from other Big T-Shirt Guys.

Burst of Anger #059: The last 3 bursts of anger have been #58. Excessive levels of awesome can cause lapses in memory and enlarged testes.

Burst of Anger #060: My trainer said “Take fish oil pills. It makes everything slippery.” On a related note, pooped in 8 seconds today.

Burst of Anger #061: Heard that Obama received an authentic, WWII white flag from France during his visit this weekend.

Burst of Anger #062: Totally emasculated by my bastard trainer today. Considering turning in my chest hair and becoming a eunuch.

Burst of Anger #063: Nearly crushed by a crop duster today. Not nearly as Hitchcock-ian as one might think.

Burst of Anger #064a: Racist invades Holocaust Museum. Muslim extremist murders army recruiters. I feel like I’m living a Fox News segment.

Burst of Anger #064b: The peril of twit-following a porn star is that it invites others in the industry to follow you – Confucius, 540 B.C.

Burst of Anger #065: “On the third day, God takes a second look at the budget and begins to quietly cut corners.”

Burst of Anger #066a: Wondering if the Iranians learned to count ballots in Florida. Almost certain I’m not the first to make this joke.

Burst of Anger #066b: Saw that look in my personal trainer’s eye this morning. The look that says, “You big pussy.”

Burst of Anger #067: Personal Trainer, “So, how’s your diet been?”

Burst of Anger #069: The 69th Burst of Anger is coincidental to the publishing of AC’s first (last?) sex post: http://tinyurl.com/plf9jy

Burst of Anger #070: Can’t get Jon Gosslin off my couch. Dude, no more “I hate my wife” stories, please. Trying to eat.

Burst of Anger #071: Must be something about living in a Carolina that makes married politicians horny.

Burst of Anger #072: The Angry Czeck Axis of Evil – Michael Bay, France, and King King Bundy. Don’t discuss.

Burst of Anger #072: Grabbed my own crotch in tribute to Michael Jackson. Hurts, but better idea than having Pepsi set my hair on fire.

Burst of Anger #073: Do NOT type “Billy May” in your update box.

Burst of Anger #074: B. Madoff in Prison, “How would you like to double your cigarettes? Don’t rape me and I’ll tell you how.”

Burst of Anger #075: The most popular search words to The Angry Czeck yesterday? “jessica lange boob” My audience is Mom, Dad, and creeps.

[What? No #076?]

Burst of Anger #077: Wife went to Branson and didn’t return with any items from my list: Grand Am, crystal meth, weird religious conversion

Burst of Anger #078a: I’m feeling small and insecure. Let’s kick Britain’s ass again! [Fourth of July Edition]

Burst of Anger #078b: Celebrating July 3rd by ignoring France’s contribution to the Revolutionary War. Try it. It’s easy!

Burst of Anger #078c: On this day in 1776, the nation would have to wait 198 more years for me to be born.

Burst of Anger #079: Found a biography of GW Bush at the library in the kid’s section. Seemed way too thick.

Burst of Anger #080: I’m no theologian, but I believe that it was Jesus who said, “Kill thy joe, resurrect some mo’”

Burst of Anger #081: I don’t know much about the devil, except that he’s red.

Burst of Anger #082: Nobody died all weekend. [MJ Death Week Edition]

Burst of Anger #082: Nobody asking Sotomeyer if the Supreme Court ever intends to reinstate Pluto as a planet. You fail me again, government

Burst of Anger #083: Just reviewed Anger Bursts #020-075. Think I might have been mailing it in #042 through #061. No refunds.

Burst of Anger #084: Nobody has taken up my offer to scratch my arm pits.

Burst of Anger #085: Nobody told me that my muscles would go away if I stopped working out. Who can I sue?

Burst of Anger #086a: My only hope to lose ten pounds is to get a tape worm. Looking for half-eaten hamburgers in trash tonight.

Burst of Anger #086b: All those moves I mastered in Nintendo Wrestling meant diddly in the Homeless Octagon this morning.

Burst of Anger #087: Dear Mr. Mean Airport Cop Who Put A Parking Ticket Under My Windshield Wiper, I wash my windshield with herpes.

Burst of Anger #088a: I don’t care about Toms Shoes. (There, I said it.) Furthermore, I thought Walter Cronkite died ten years ago.

Burst of Anger #088b: It occurs to me that I spend most my time on Twitter telling you how great I am.

Burst of Anger #089a: I will no longer read anything that begins, “It’s that time of the year again!”

Burst of Anger #089b: Watched a country music video last night. Thought, “Damn, this is a long video.” Turned out it was TWILIGHT.

Burst of Anger #090: Bill Clinton, “What do you think two attractive chicks might be willing to do if I sprung ‘em out of Korean prison?”

Burst of Anger #091: To the moron-loser who shot up a bunch of women because he couldn’t get a date: have you tried looking less ugly?

Burst of Anger #092a: Julie & Julia opens tonight. Didn’t they already make Mrs. Doubtfire? Is this Part 2?

Burst of Anger #092b: A-Roid’s pharmacist trumps Big Dopi’s pharmacist last night in New York.

Burst of Anger #093: Told the Chik-Fil-A cashier that she’s gonna be real sorry when Jesus drops by on Sunday and can’t get His chicken.

Burst of Anger #094: A homeless man dared me to scream like a homeless man at a Town Hall Meeting today.

Burst of Anger #095: Dropped by my local Town Hall Meeting to get in a little Judo practice. Hip tossed an old lady.

Burst of Anger #096: Learned that my parents looooove Glenn Beck. Would have rather learned that I was secretly the King of France.

Burst of Anger #097: Add “Prison Girl Uniform” to list of things Mrs. Angry refuses to wear.

Burst of Anger #098a: For the first time ever, I may be interested in seeing Barney Frank in wrestler togs.

Burst of Anger #098b: After seeing what happened to Senator Palpatine, I predict Sara Palin looks like Dick Cheney in four years.

[Inexplicably, there is not Burst of Anger #099]

Burst of Anger #100: I either have St. Elmo’s Fire burning in me, or I ate a tube of Ben Gay.

Yep, so that’s about it. 100 Bursts of Anger. (I’ve committed myself to at least 900 more.) Not exactly Stuff White People Like, but better than the Jay Leno Show, and NBC didn’t pay me a dime.

You can follow The Angry Czeck on twitter.com/angryczeck

###