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The Angry Czeck
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I have no interests outside of subjecting my will upon others, reveling in your failure and bathing in your shame. I also enjoy Scrabble®.

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    The Fury Files

    Posted on 25 May 2005
    In: Uncategorized

    Rest in Peace? Never!

    “We’re all gonna die.”

    That’s what Billy the Indian Dude tells Carl Weathers in the Oscar snubbed Predator. It’s the only line in the movie I remember. When some mundane calamity befalls the office, I wait for that brief pause, and say, “We’re all gonna die.” It’s always good for a chuckle.

    A nervous chuckle. Chief Billy isn’t exactly Voltaire, but the big man speaks truth. We’re all gonna die, and the Angry Czeck is pissed off that nobody’s doing anything about it.

    Thanks to the immortal Sonny Landham, we know “we’re all gonna die.”

    Why isn’t the Bush Administration pouring every resource into this? Shouldn’t Alan Greenspan be assigned to the project? We’re worried about social security? The deficit? Terrorism? Shit, we’re all gonna die! All the people on Earth right now? Say “adios.” In 100 years, they’re all gone. Replaced by other people who are all gonna die.

    We’re all gonna die, and nobody is even talking about it. The Angry Czeck has an angry life insurance policy, but deep down, I don’t think it’ll ever be redeemed. I’m betting that in some volcano lair, a government-funded scientist is brewing the necessary formula to stick a stopper in death. For rich people. I plan to be rich. That’s what keeps me from writing a Will.

    We’re all gonna die, and I just ought to get used to it. But fuck that. Why should I just bend over and accept it, like everyone else? Death is the great equalizer, but I’m smarter than everyone else. Shouldn’t I be able to find a way to beat this thing?

    Even a crappy magazine like Maxim addresses death better than our most venerated thinkers. Maxim recently published a list of 100 Worst Ideas of all Time. I thought Number One would be Hacky Sack or the Frisbee. But Maxim said the worst idea is the world for all time is death. Damn right! Death is a stupid idea.

    On my way between Memphis and Knoxville, I was assaulted with a multi-fonts message on a highway billboard: Where will YOU spend eternity? How come the only people thinking about death are the nuts? The guys that drove passenger planes into skyscrapers were promised a hundred virgins. I’m not sure how long it takes to go through 100 virgins. I’m no Wilt Chamberlain, but it wouldn’t take the Angry Czeck an eternity before and I had 100 women wondering why I never call anymore. Even the guys taking death seriously aren’t accurately projecting the logistics

    Religious people try to look at peace when confronted with death. They cast their eyes in the sky and start talking like Mister Spock. They speak of eternal peace and joy. Listen, fool, you don’t know! What happens when we go to Heaven? We play cards with Moses? Play harps? You don’t know! And they know they don’t know, too. You can see panic in the eyes. Nobody has ever come back from Heaven and said, “Man they got a pool up there!”

    No! Wait! Shouldn’t Heaven be cool?

    We’re all gonna die, and deep down, we’re all wondering how. Croaking of cancer or a heart attack are always the leading candidates. Yawn! I read a story about an old guy who was diagnosed with inoperable cancer. Instead of waiting around for his first injection of morphine, he decided to hell with it. First, he convinced some guy to take him for a ride in a bi-plane. Then, once they reached a significant height, the old guy just leaped out of the plane! The best part was, the old guy crashes through some high-tension wires and splattered into a backyard before a family grilling burgers. What a way to go! Those kids will always remember the old dude diving out of the plane. Here are some more cool ways to go:

    1. Stepping in front of a freshly fired cannonball
    2. Lightsaber to the eye
    3. Leaping a flaming motorcycle into the Grand Canyon
    4. Getting hurled into outer space
    5. Partying too hard with Kid Rock
    6. Too much sex
    7. Shot down (dowwwwwwn) in a blaze of glory
    8. Saving the planet from a meteor
    9. Jumping into the sun
    10. Lightening

    I once read about a man who cut his own head off with a chainsaw. The local police had to spend money conducting a test to determine whether or not cutting your own head off with a chainsaw was possible. The test confirmed it so.

    One of my favorite movie death scenes is found in The War Wagon. Suspending all logic, John Wayne and Kirk Douglas convince the chief of an Indian tribe to drink an entire bottle of nitroglycerine – to explosive effect! Now you’re going to tell the Angry Czeck that Terms of Endearment had a better death scene? Fool! The War Wagon!

    “The only good Indian…is an exploding Indian!”

    We’re all gonna die, and there is no good way to go. The worst part is, we as a civilization are getting lousier and lousier at it. Used to be when you died, somebody carved you a big stone statue that would last hundreds of years. Now we accept a quick cremation and a tiny metal marker than will fade before your wife starts dating again. Fuck that, I say. When the Angry Czeck goes, I want a big granite statue of a man with a shield riding a lion. Shit, I don’t even care if the guy looks like me.

    Several years ago, when the Angry Czeck was too young to worry about trimming all the hair in his ear, I worked at a Religious Lumber Yard. Everybody but me and another guy were related to the owner, who doubled as a preacher for a non-denominational church. Between lugging sacks of cement, one of the guys gave me a pretty neat explanation for death. God uses Earth as a kind of recruitment center for His divine army, was how the theory went. From this earthly coil, the Lord accepts the most devout into his regiment for a Holy War to be fought at some apocalyptic future. God can do anything, but He still needs an army. I never learned exactly what this army was supposed to fight.

    Science has no real understanding of death either. On the atomic level, we are all made of the same atoms that create mediocre entities like tuna fish and Bryan Adams. Yet, once we back away to the more familiar macro-level, we are all unique and capable of performing amazing feats. Back to the micro-level, once we pass away, our atoms simply disband and disperse into the cosmos, where some atoms may become elements of oxygen, and others become ingredients to new people. But the atoms never stop vibrating. They are still atoms, the most basic of the basic building blocks of reality. Yet, all things pass away from reality, whether you are a plant or Michael Jackson. It’s weird.

    Shakespeare and Marlowe do a nice job of contemplating death (Hamlet and Faust being two of literature’s most penetrating explorations into the void). Today’s entertainment seems more bent on the quantity of the body count rather than really exploring the meaning of death. Wouldn’t it be nice if Vin Diesel sneered, “From this mortal coil, I forthwith remove you!” before machine-gunning a truckload of thugs? No?
    <
    br />Nobody wants to die, yet life is cheaper than ever. I recently caught a showing of Revenge of the Sith. Thanks to a the two-liter portion of Diet Coke I drank during the film’s two hour run time, my bladder nearly exploded like a Death Star. Jitter-bugging in line at the bathroom, I found myself behind a father and son. The boy looked to be about four years old. The father, a Knoxville version of Hamlet, was vocally contemplating the film’s tragic conclusion. “Yep. Obi-Wan should have finished the job while he had the chance,” he mused, referring to Obi-Wan’s decision to leave Anakin to die. What a nice lesson for a four-year-old. Killing is the solution, son. Don’t think twice about it.

    Much like life, this post has to end somewhere, and as the Creator of this Blog, the Angry Czeck submits that it end with this paragraph. It’s okay. It’s going to a better place. One where sentence structure is always perfect and there is never need for a spell check. A happy place where verbs get along with adjectives and nobody dangles a modifier. May it rest in peace.

    Posted on 16 May 2005
    In: Uncategorized

    Go Fuck Yourself: A Primer to a Democratic White House

    I recently read that John Edwards is quietly engineering his platform for the 2008 Presidential Race. When Edwards ran in 2004, I embraced him as the future of the Democratic Party, even though I knew very little about the one-term Senator from…er…from somewhere.

    Edwards doesn’t need a platform. He doesn’t even need strategy. All Edwards must do is remind forgetful Americans that the eight years of W rule has been wrought with lies, quarter-truths, misconceptions, under-estimations, and gross displays of negligence. And he should skewer his Republican counterparts with their own ill-conceived words.

    Edwards, seen here on the right, getting his ass kicked.

    If the Angry Czeck were like most Democrats, there would be no real solution after the before mentioned insight — just a pompous pronouncement, followed by the predictable lamentations. Fortunately, The Angry Czeck is equal parts lamentation and solution! What follows are actually quotes that Americans should never forget, and that Edwards should exploit:

    “WMD”
    The Angry Czeck suspects that “WMD” was invented for Bush in response to the President’s refusal to properly pronounce ‘nuclear.’ (By the way, when did we become such grammar snobs, anyway? Who hasn’t mispronounced nuclear? The Angry Czeck recommends that we all let this go.) This tidy display of phonetic problem-solving was most effective in spearheading the war effort. Because there was no evidence of nuclear warheads in Iraq, the Bush Administration had to think of something for the media to latch onto. Before W’s pitch to make Iraq the New Puerto Rico, nobody had ever heard of a WMD. But the nicely compact descriptor made us rethink. Suddenly, the threat of WMDs became THE MAIN REASON THE AMERICAN PUBLIC SIGNED OFF ON INVADING IRAQ. (Defenders of the war will maintain that WMDs was never the main objective, but securing the world against terrorism was. That’s complete bullshit worthy of a separate post.) Any time a doubt was raised, Rumsfield only had to grunt “WMD” (and sometimes “unpatriotic” for good measure) to cement the chastised media silence W prefers. Of course, there were no WMDs. It was a little embarrassing, like breaking down a door thinking you’ll find your wife sleeping with the plumber, only to rediscover the closet where you had stored all your girl-on-girl porn instead. Fortunately, a patsy in the form of CIA Director George Tenet was available to take the fall.

    “Even though the 9/11 guys were Saudis…how can I stay mad at you?
    Come here and kiss me!”

    “The violence in Iraq is caused by a small group of dead-enders.”
    Every now and again, Rumsfield’s brilliant assessment of the insurgency in Iraq is mentioned by the more bitter members of the media, but not enough. The public likes the cranky Donald Rumsfield because he “tells it like it is!” But Rummy’s “Shut-Your-Pansy-Anti-American-Mouths” response to the rising body count should have sealed his credentials as a complete liar. Nope. Americans love a curmudgeon who knows how to put the press in their place. The Battle of Fullujah or the most recent firefight (Operation Matador) wasn’t enough to convince some people that an organized rebellion is currently operating inside Iraq. And disbanding the trained Iraqi army only supplied recruits. But don’t worry, American GIs. It’s just a loose, drunken group of unemployed Syrians who are systematically suicide bombing Iraqi police recruitment stations and military checkpoints. Just a bunch of losers with too much spare TNT to detonate. We won’t even need body bags in a couple months. You just watch.

    “Now, you keep asking questions, and you might be getting a sudden
    vacation to Cuba. You follow?”

    “Bring them on.”
    The Mighty W chalked-up this carelessly brazen statement as an attempt at a morale boost for our fighting men and women. Nice boost. For the insurgents, whose ultra-macho culture can’t dismiss a direct challenge from the mastermind of the infidels. I’m sure US soldiers appreciated W shaking the hornet’s next for them. The Angry Czeck enjoyed the White House PR spin: it’s better for our well-equipped army to handle the terrorists (i.e. dead-enders) than fighting them on our Homeland (‘Homeland?’ When did we start speaking like characters from Dr. Zhivago?) But Bush must know what he’s doing. After all, he fought in Vietnam, so he understands exactly what it’s like to be shot at.

    “For the love of Allah, we shall bring it on!”

    “Slam dunk”
    Ascribed to the insanely loyal George Tenet, the W Administration can’t watch the NBA playoffs without cringing at the commentary. They should be cringing from kicks to the nuts administered by the Angry Czeck. The case for attacking Iraq was less a slam-dunk and more like a behind-the-back pot shot from the rafters. Every time a Republican starts talking about any policy, Edwards should calmly reply, “Really? Would you say obliterating social security is…a slam dunk?”

    “The people of Iraq will welcome the United States as liberators.”
    Possibly realizing that the American public would not take being lied to about WMDs very well, the White House immediately concocted an amazing fiction in which American soldiers would be treated like heroes upon liberating Iraq. Sure, the Iraqi nuclear program might have consisted of a Yard Jart set and a diagram of Ralph Nadar’s pants, but at least we’re LIBERATORS. Only, somebody forgot to tell the Iraqis. Some people still can’t understand how the brilliant Cheney and Rummy could be so far off the mark, but I’ll explain. I live in Knoxville. Let’s say there was some guy in Knoxville who randomly cold cocked people for ten years. Suddenly, a guy from Nashville appears and whips the Knoxville bully. We’re all glad that the bully is gone, but it’s a little unnerving to see a guy from Knoxville so easily thrashed by a guy from Nashville. In addition, now the Nashville guy wants a parade, and a key to the city that just happens to double as the key to the treasury. Pretty soon, the Nashville guy is knocking up our daughters, and just lately, randomly cold cocking people. Eventually, you’re like “If we’re going to have a bully seducing our women, at least let’s have one from Knoxville.” Hopefully, that explains everything.

    “Mission Accomplished”
    This is a memo The Angry Czeck recently intercepted from the White House: “Dear Navy. Thanks, Navy, for risking your life for my baseless war. And thanks for letting me strut around your flight deck wearing a military outfit while real soldiers were getting blasted by a small group of dead-enders. And by the way, fuck you for putting of the sign we told you to put up. Don’t tell Newsweek that the sign was actually printed by
    the White House printing press. That would make it seem like it was authorized by the White House. Signed, W”

    “The sign should actually read, ‘Mission Accomplished on Bizarro Earth!’”

    “Being the President is hard. It’s hard.”
    W’s strategy of not preparing for a nationally televised debate unearthed this gem when he was confronted with some of his more questionable policies towards Iraq. What a condescending prick. Did he think that the American public would sympathize? Did he feel that you and I would pity the most vacation-taking president in US history? Hey, moron, we voted for you because the job is hard. Not so you could pass the buck to George Tenet. Not so you can shrug your shoulders every time a US soldier is killed, or thumb your nose at another UN report that underscores the galling lack of any evidence to mount such a destructive attack. Yeah, it’s hard. So is patrolling the streets of Bahgdad after your Commander in Chief has invited gun-toting, suicide bombers to “bring it on.” Not that you’d know, asshole. You’re too busy trying to recreate photo ops that Ronald Regan did better than you 20 years ago. Let’s face it, W. You ain’t got the chops for the job. You never did. You never will. And we’re suffering.

    “Nobody’s mentioned Haliburton in months,
    thanks to my gay daughter.”

    “Go fuck yourself.”
    Actually, I kind of liked that one. Well said. You go, Dick Cheney. That will be the Angry Czeck’s response when drafted by the military.

    Posted on 12 May 2005
    In: Uncategorized

    Star Wars Geeks: You are running out of reasons to fail

    I just read this on Ain’t It Cool:

    “You can’t possibly understand what it felt like for me sitting in the theater watching (Revenge of the Sith) unless you were there in 1977 for the very first film.”
    Ain’t It Cool Review

    The sad part is that I do understand. You liked Star Wars. You really liked Star Wars. You wore iron-on t-shirts featuring Chewbacca, and for a time, you attempted to master the simple language of the Jawas. When asked your religion, you deadpan “Jedi.” You claim to have summoned the Force with every erection. You list “learning that Darth Vader was Luke’s father” the most startling revelation of your life. You spent three awkward teenage years whacking off to an image of Princess Leah in her steel bikini. (In these tender moments, you refer to yourself as Hand Solo.) In your resume bio, you call yourself a “scoundrel” though you never explain why. The biggest tragedy in your life is that now, for no good reason, Greedo shoots first. Later, you bored your friends and worried your parents with your penetrating, shrill analysis of why Jar Jar sucked. At first, you tried to defend “metachlorines” as an example of Lucas’ genius for tidy scientific deduction, but you later join the bandwagon opposing it. And now the final installment of your lifelong justification for never kissing a girl has come to its thunderous fruition. Once Annie vacuum seals himself into the Darth suit, your license to fail expires. You will suddenly discover that your Masters in Comparative Religions (where your fanatic quest to legitimize Jedi teachings earned you a steady diet of Cs and Ds) is completely useless in the job market. You will have to augment your lightsaber fighting skills with a degree in drafting or air conditioning repair. Before long, after several months of finally earning a steady paycheck, you realize you haven’t uttered a Wookie cry in a crowded Gadzooks store in weeks. You discover a nutritious diet does not include Cheetos. You find that, if you move your action figure collection into the attic, you have room for a stereo and a bigger TV. When a girl says “hello,” you forget to launch into your well-prepared diatribe concerning a padawan’s virginal discipline. Instead, you return her greeting with normal English, and before long, you go on your first date ever. She’ll forgive you for groping her breasts too hard once you explain to her that you never touched breasts before. And you will live my friend. LIVE! Because now you are free. Lucas no longer has his sinister, Sengali-like hold on you. You can end your war with the Trekies and join the workforce. Welcome.

    Posted on 10 May 2005
    In: Uncategorized

    I’m smart now because I’m famous

    I’m famous! Now I am going to tell you who to vote for! Why? Fuck you, that’s why! I’m famous.

    Hey, I graduated from college, so I’m smart. True, my acting degree did not require any science or math credits, but I did get an “A” in Film Appreciation II, and that was hard. Don’t look at me like that! I attended nearly every class.

    I’m famous, so you’d better get used to me telling you what policies to embrace, which foods to eat, and what kind of clothes to wear. If you wear fur, you are evil. Because minks are cute and cows are, you know, not. And shame on you if you don’t support Tibet. People got it tough in Tibet. I own a house there.

    You want to know who I’m voting for? Of course you do. If Oprah cares, then you care. How do you like it? I’m voting for the guy – or GAL – who’s for solar powered cars, a living wage, homes for homeless people, and advocates the end to hunger and war! My personal attendant has already filled out my ballot.

    I’m a gun control authority because I made some easy jokes at Charlton Heston’s expense at the Academy Awards. What a dopey old fuck! Only bodyguards should be allowed to carry firearms.

    Forget insightful. When was the last time this woman was even funny?

    I have three kids from three different women, so I’m entitled to have my children’s book published. Hell, yeah! It’s about a little boy – much like me — who’s scared of monsters in his bedroom. Been done before? Fuck you. It ain’t been done by a famous person. Besides, my children’s story is real. It don’t talk down to kids. I draw from my own experiences, and I used to be scared of monsters. And besides, nobody was interested in illustrating my children’s book about having a three-way with the two groupies I banged in Orlando.

    “I dreamed up a children’s book while getting banged
    by Willem DeFoe in Body of Evidence

    Parenthood is hard. It’s a bitch! The nanny is always like, “Little Junior would like to see you this month.” Except, I don’t have a kid named something gross like “Junior.” My kids are named Prometheus, Wingnut and Yellow Pages. And when they go outside, I make them wear surgical masks so nobody thinks they’re weird.

    Hell, yeah, I’m famous! When I get old and fat, I’m running for governor, because I once played a governor on TV. I’ll tell people how it is. I’ll say, “Dude, we need to raise taxes to help out these poor people. I only make $50 million a year, and I give some of that to poor people, you selfish hotel maid!” That’s “keeping it real” and “telling it how it is.” The people appreciate that from celebrities.

    “Just because I haven’t made my own sandwich
    in 20 years doesn’t mean I don’t care!”

    I can’t understand why every liberal I endorse never makes it to the White House. I’m famous! You’d think my sheltered, glitter-stick perspective would be appreciated by folks from middle America. In a movie, I once played a Southern sheriff who didn’t wear shoes. That was real.

    One day, while watching the evening news with a relative of mine, we were updated with the latest report of a particularly destructive Georgian tornado. One survivor, a middle-aged woman who had lost everything in the storm, was in the process of thanking God for sparing her life.

    My relative shouted at top volume, “Go ahead! Pray to God! Where’s your God now!?”

    Granted, it’s a pretty legitimate statement to make. (It was also incredibly insensitive and entirely too loud.) A tornado had descended from the heavens and reduced the woman’s home to a pile of broken Tinker Toys. Real life of Job stuff, if you ask the Angry Czeck. Seems like fist pumping and curses were more appropriate than thanks.

    The problem with many atheists is that they take God’s apparent disinterest with mankind as hard evidence that a higher power is not in command. An atheist sees a world conspicuously short of miracles and draws the elementary conclusion that a world without miracles is a world without God.

    Fair enough. It’s a good argument. But it is the atheists’ only argument, and when you only have one argument, you tend to repeat the argument over and over again, at increasing volume. An atheist’s knob goes to 11.



    Sadly, The Angry Czeck is related to this guy.

    That is not to say Christians are not without annoying twists of logic. Only a Christian can make a weakness, like a lack of divine evidence, and make it into a cornerstone of faith. For example, if my atheist relative grabbed the tornado lady and personally delivered his high-volume message,  Tornado Lady might have replied, “God works in mysterious ways.”

    The Mysterious Ways argument is the biggest pussy argument going today. Not because it is vague and leaves God off the hook, but because it’s usually delivered with such smug conviction, you just want the specter of Robert Mitchum to appear with a bag full of bitch-slaps.

    You know, serial killers work in mysterious ways. Nobody prays to Ted Bundy.

    But what kills me about atheists is the narrow-minded self-righteousness.

    Believe me, nobody finds the fish icon on automobiles more obnoxious than me. I mean, what is that icon supposed to say? “I merge for Christians?” Do you enhance the Blue Book value of a Dodge Shadow if you slap a fish icon on the bumper? Christians tend to imagine themselves as part of a big club. So I suppose the fish icon is no less pretentious then, say, a bumper sticker that screams, “Give Blood. Play Rugby.” At least, that’s how I’ve justified it, and it prevents me from running Fish Drivers off the road.

    But the atheist can’t leave it alone. The fish icon, as annoying as it may be, is not an attack. Yet atheist feel compelled to strike back with the Darwin Fish (a fish with legs). How insulting. It implies that either a) if you’re a Christian, then you must be a backwards Creationist, or b) you’re just a big fan of On the Origin of Species.


    Annoying, yes. Pompous, you bet. Threatening? No.


    If you think somebody delivers the Mysterious Ways argument with smug conviction, imagine the look on the atheist’s face when he’s slapping the Darwin Fish on the trunk of his Ford Focus. “Take that, religious nuts!”



    Now that’s just damn rude.


    Nothing riles an atheist’s rancor more than the threat of prayer in school. The Angry Czeck is a big fan of the seperation of church and state. But if a high school in Texas wants to broadcast a prayer before a football game, who gets hurt? A religious minority (Muslim? Jew?) Atheists? Listen, I can’t even send a Christmas card anymore. (I send ‘Holiday’ cards today.) Now a simple prayer is off limits? If my Jewish and Muslim brethren would like to join me in their particular brand of prayer, the Angry Czeck embraces them.

    Atheists chose this battleground because, well, what the hell, right? There’s a man in California, a lawyer, who has decided to increase his own notoriety by throwing his daughter beneath a school bus by claiming that the current configuration of the Pledge of Allegiance has caused her irreparable harm. She’s been emotionally scarred, see, because the Pledge asserts than we live in a Nation under God, and she’s an atheist.

    I don’t know how old this girl is, but is she really old enough to discount the existence of a spiritual being? No more than I was mature enough to make Catholicism my belief-brand of choice, I suppose. But at least I was railroaded in private. This man not only adheres his personal views onto his daughter (something we all do, like it or not), he decides to drag her life through the mud with a totally needless piece of legal shitigation. What a dickhead.

    Christians are often called out for a high-and-mighty attitude, and not without reason. For many people of faith, pressing personal religious values upon others earns them a spiritual merit badge and a magnetic keycard that opens the pearly gates. Too many times, faith interferes with a quiet lunch or even a midnight trip to the porn theater.

    Atheists are just as bad, though. But rather than using picket lines and poorly printed pamphlets, atheists communicate through Hollywood, which finds atheism to be a trendy validation of their sponsorship of violence and vice. In Hollywood, the only religious people who appear on screen are the fanatics with bombs, or the Southern senator with a misguided moral axe to grind. When Mel Gibson makes a Jesus movie, and not a movie where he’s shooting people, he’s a zealot. A religious nut. Some even called him a Nazi. (Unlike many of the people who denounced Gibson as anti-Semitic, I actually saw The Passion of the Christ, you pussies. Yes, it was a bloody snuff film. Yes it was oddly moving and spiritually stirring. But I did not come away feeling that the film was an attack against Jews. True, some Jewish priests were the bad guys. Movies have bad guys. I guess if the bad guys are Jewish, it’s anti-Semitic, much in the way Basic Instinct is anti-gay. But lets say Gibson made a movie about a coven of priests who raped alter boys. Nobody would complain then.That’s entertainment.)



    We’re more comfortable with this side of Mel.


    My point, I think, is that fanatics are found on both sides of the spiritual fence, and neither do well in promoting their own agendas. Many of today’s Christians are embolden by the presence of a Jesus-guy in the White House, calling for the heads of liberal federal judges and titty-twisting Democrats into rethinking their stance on abortion and gay rights. That w
    ill backfire. In the end, it doesn’t matter what kind of faith you have, Americans don’t cotton to bullies. Christians, long vilified in the news and in Hollywood, are getting cocky, and pretty soon they will be re-portrayed as the abortion doctor killing, backwards crazies atheists have always claimed them to be.

    Meanwhile, atheists will continue to make pompous statements like, “Do you have any idea how many wars have been waged in the name of religion?” I don’t. And neither do you.


    ***