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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 20 Apr 2005
    In: Uncategorized

    Sudden Bursts of Anger

    Shall We Dance is the kind of movie that features advice like, “Just be alive!” and “Breathe!”

    Quit asking me “When is Josh moving to Knoxville?”

    Even though I specifically told the Balloon Lady at my son’s birthday party “No hat,” she made me a damn hat anyway. The biggest damn hat at the party.

    Was it just me, or was the first half of The Incredibles really dull?

    I like that my favorite network TV show, 24, has become The Torture Show. This season, at least six people have been worked over, half of those sanctioned by the government.

    I rented Sideways, and it had better be fucking good.

    I’m sad that the emotionally-challenged Chris was finally fired from The Apprentice last week. I like the astonished reactions of the applicants who got fired instead of Chris. They have the same face as when LaDonna tells her husband, St. James, “Those monkeys ate your balls, baby.”

    “I had a real, real tough headache, and you know what my doctor said? Take Bayer.” No fucking kidding. Aspirin? I’d fire my doctor.

    I purchased an entire case of Budweiser beer for my son’s birthday party, and the only people who had a bottle were me and Josh. Come on. King of Beers.

    Do you think when somebody is getting tortured on 24, Rumsfield and Bush are saying, “See? Now I know you’re a red-hot pincer guy, Rummy, but I’d recommend a rubber hose here.”

    I wish that the entire Boston Red Sox line-up, plus the journalists that report for the team, wind up in a room with Richards from 24.

    Speaking of Richards, I never get to see him work. He carries around a case full of oddly colored chemicals and syringes, which is cool, but if I’m being held (unconstitutionally) by CTU, and some guy produces a chrome case of chemicals rather than, say a rusty toolbox of pliers, then I’m thinking, “You ain’t never gonna make me fucking talk, suckers.”

    The agent representing the people buying our house flipped out on Meghan because we edited the contract so that the sale actually made us a profit. How dare us!

    Posted on 19 Apr 2005
    In: Uncategorized

    No Viagra® for me, please. A chimpanzee ate my nuts.

    What if you began the morning just as you are now, reasonably intact and physically recognizable to friends and family. Sure, you’re no specimen. You have your flaws. Nobody is confusing you with Robert Mitchum. Maybe you can stand to lose 20 pounds. Perhaps you could do with a fresh haircut. A trip to the gym twice a week wouldn’t hurt, either.

    But then let’s say your day ends in a medically induced coma because you are now without your fingers, eyelids, nose, buttocks and testicles? If this scenario has ever come to mind, then you have envisioned the real life fate of St. James Davis (whose name sounds like a movie character played by Charles Bronson).

    It gets worse. Not only have you made the sudden transition from Anonymous Joe to circus freak, you must now live with the grisly knowledge that your nuts were chewed off by angry chimpanzees.

    If that doesn’t make you want to scream, it ought to at least make you want to wince.

    I was in the Memphis Airport, sneaking to my job interview in Knoxville, when I heard the horrendous news. Thanks to the Memphis Airport’s irritating policy of adjusting the volume of their television sets to canine decibels, I could only hear bits and pieces of the story. I boarded my plane to Knoxville believing that the plot of Conquest of the Planet of the Apes had finally come to fruition.

    Of course, I later learned that there was no truth to the rumor that talking monkeys, trained by a miscast Ricardo Maltaban, were demanding George Bush’s surrender and testicles. In case you have yet to read the macabre details, here’s what actually happened:

    The awesomely named St. James Davis (a former NASCAR driver) and his wife LaDonna were visiting their own finger-chomping monkey, Moe, who was recently incarcerated in the local monkey farm for (ironically) biting a neighbor’s digits. The Davis’ made a mistake of bringing a birthday cake to Moe, which stoked the jealous natures of two fellow resident chimpanzees, who decided to go Hannibal Lector on the Davis family.

    As Moe watched, thinking his monkey thoughts, St. James tossed his wife LaDonna aside and took the brunt of the monkey abuse.

    Chimpanzees have the strength of five to ten humans. Imagine if Lou Ferigno grabbed you by your jewel sack. Now imagine five Lou Ferignos grabbing your sack. Within seconds, St. James lost his testicles, all ten fingers, his eyelids, his noses, a chunk of his buttocks, a significant portion of his foot and his chance at becoming America’s Top Model. Finally, the people who owned the monkey farm ended the rampage with complimentary rifle bullets to the head. Featured on the menu: Chilled Monkey Brains.

    You’re probably thinking, “I never knew monkeys craved man-flesh.” Me neither. But a monkey autopsy revealed no human flesh inside the stomachs of either monkey. That’s right, folks. Just like DiNiro in Cape Fear, the monkeys chomped off meaty chucks of St. James and then spit them aside like gristly pork. Patoeey!

    LaDonna, who lost a thumb in the monkey beat-down, praised her husband for absorbing the majority of the monkey horror. But I’ll wager that when the heroic St. James stepped in front of those monkeys, he never thought he’d come away a eunuch. Hollywood always edits-out the testicle-munching in Tarzan movies, even the one with Bo Derek.

    Meanwhile, the mighty St. James is recovering in a hospital where he has been mercifully put into a medically induced coma. Frankly, I want to be in a medically induced coma, and I’ve only read the details. When St. James wakes up, not only does he have to endure countless skin grafts and physical therapy, but he’ll also be married to a woman with only one thumb.

    The Pope has died, the war still rages in Iraq, gas prices are sky high, but I can’t get over the monkey attack. About thrice a week, I Google “chimpanzee attack” in the hopes that I might obtain fresh news. Has St. James awoken from his coma? Has LaDonna told him about his nuts? Did Moe ever get to eat his birthday cake? News has been hard to come by.

    Once, my brother’s hamster bit him on the finger. That was pretty gruesome. But getting eaten up by surly monkeys is another category. I’m trying to think of worse things that can happen. So far here is my list;

    1. Being sucked dry by a 30-kilogram tic
    2. Being thrown out of a stagecoach and into a hive of angry Africanized bees

    I can’t think of any more than two things. After learning the fate of poor St. James Davis, I’m getting rid of all my monkeys. Even the one who holds the camera for me in the bedroom. I can’t risk becoming primate snack food, and neither should you.

    Posted on 19 Apr 2005
    In: Uncategorized

    A Memo to the New Pope

    TO: Pope, The New
    FROM: The Angry Czeck
    RE: Please Don’t Fuck This Up

    Congratulations for being elected The Pope. All of us American Catholics really liked the Old Pope, John Paul II, so you come in with high expectations.

    Not that we really ever listened to Pope John Paul II. We liked him because he was the first Pope you could hang out with. A Pope that made your forget that you had to kiss his ring before speaking to him. A Pope who could ski. We gave him credit for dismantling Communism, making peace with Muslims, apologizing to Jews for past atrocities and spreading Christianity to Africa. We appreciated that, unlike the Popes of the last 400 years, he wasn’t just another Italian cleric with a mandate for More-of-the-Same.

    So we hailed Pope John Paul II, even though we ignored his antiquated edicts concerning birth control. We admired Pope John Paul II even when he blamed the pedophile scandal here in the States as an evil product of homosexuality — and then did nothing. We marveled at Pope John Paul’s command of different languages, but he remained noticeably silent on issues like women in the clergy and marriage for priests.

    This is your chance, New Pope, to get it right. I understand that a religion of 1.2 billion people has become more a political force than a spiritual one. I realize that making pronouncements that will alter the lives of one-sixth of the world cannot be rendered in one night.

    But try. Try anyway.

    You’ll have plenty of backwards Cardinals and Bishops advising you to adhere to the same ancient argument: “It never was, so it shouldn’t be.” But you are smarter than that. You’ll see the intelligence of allowing marriage for priests so that becoming a servant of God is a little more attractive to people other than criminals. You’ll understand that condoms prevent the spread of AIDs and reduce family sizes so that everybody gets to eat at night. You may even discover that being a homosexual doesn’t make you a pedophile, but being a pedophile makes you a pedophile. And the solution is not to move a pedophile to another parish, but to move him into a prison.

    But you will be advised to resist. To stay the course. Your counsel will not see that most modern Catholics are re-forging their religion so that it makes sense in today’s world. Your advisors will fail to realize that too many Catholics view the Pope as just a guy wearing a big hat.

    Make the papacy relevant again, New Pope. Do it now, before 1.2 billion people decide that Martin Luther had it all figured out, and the Catholic Church melts into obscurity. You have a lot of people counting on you. Including The Angry Czeck, who is looking to you to lead us. Amen.

    Posted on 18 Apr 2005
    In: Uncategorized

    Dick Cheney’s Fashion Advice for a Papal Funeral

    (Transmission intercepted from a Soviet spy satellite)

    DICK: George. Hi. Enough small talk. What are you wearing to the Pope’s funeral?

    GEORGE: Uh…how did you get in here, Dick? I’m taking a shit here.

    DICK: Answer me, you idiot.

    GEORGE: I don’t know! Black suit with a red tie. Maybe my Lance Armstrong bracelet.

    DICK: No. You’re wearing a green military parka. One with your name sewn on the front

    GEORGE: I don’t think that’s appro—

    (15 minutes of slapping)

    DICK: I wore a green parka to the Holocaust Anniversary, and it was a smash. I was applauded for using my American patriotism to upstage the death of 10 million Jews. Brilliant strategy by me, Dick Cheney, who never served a minute in the military…clean yourself up, bitch.

    GEORGE: Parkas make me look fat.

    DICK: Come here. I tell you when you look fat.

    GEORGE: Not now, Dick. I have a headache.

    DICK: I’ll give you a headache. Now give me what I want.

    GEORGE: You mean like last time.

    DICK: Stop talking.

    FINIS

    Posted on 18 Apr 2005
    In: Uncategorized

    Like Skirts and Tampons, Only Girls Wear Sandals to Work.

    I’m not sure how it happened. Or exactly when. But somehow it became perfectly acceptable for men to wear sandals to work. In climate controlled office buildings. Inside. In full view of real men wearing real shoes.

    “Harper, why waste precious joules of anger on men wearing sandals?” I’m gently asked, usually by smug slackers wearing sandals to the office. Listen, I base my whole life on one guiding principle of manhood, Sunshine, and you should do the same:

    WWRMD?

    If you haven’t guessed by now, Lowbrow, this stands for What Would Robert Mitchum Do?

    Mr. Mitchum only wears sandals to work when the script calls for it (see the excellent Cape Fear for reference). And the script had better call for major smack-downs and back slaps, too. Because smack-downs and back-slaps are the only acceptable actions that counter the wearing-of-sandals to work. A prison record and a sinister southern accent helps, too. Leering at underage girls is a bonus.

    If Mr. Mitchum arrived to his pine-paneled office (staffed by dames and broads fetching him black coffee), and discovered one of his male subordinates wearing sandals, the immediate termination of employment would come in the form of a wordless punch in the face.

    Sure, I know Jesus wore sandals. Don’t throw Jesus at me, you right wing nut. The Big JC didn’t have AC. Nor were His disciples Mr. Nike or Mr. Reebok. Tell you what, you bring me a notarized Birth Certificate certifying that you were a product of a virgin birth, and I’ll permit you to wear sandals at my office.

    Some men-with-questionable-chromosome sequences attempt to alter my stance by insisting that sandals feel “cooler on the feet. “I suppose if we worked in a cabana or a Memphis City Public School that argument would carry some weight . However, we work in climate controlled offices, not on the set of Baywatch. David Hasselhoff has earned the right to wear sandals to work.

    For the counterfeit claim that sandals are “cooler for the feet,” I’m penalized with hairy, misshapen hammer toes with yellowing, crumbly nails. Don’t point at your fellow female co-workers, Sally, because you’re just underscoring my point that sandals are for women. Women’s toes are pretty. Men’s toes belong inside of shoes.

    The final ingenious argument? “They’re just comfortable!” Some people find anal plugs comfortable.

    And where does it end? I’m most comfortable when I’m not wearing pants. I’ll stop wearing pants. Fuck the shirt, too. And if I’m going to chuck the shirt and pants, I might as well ditch the underwear too. Besides, it’s my comfort that’s important, not yours. Your discomfort is merely the product of your narrow-mindedness and retarded social mores. Tell you the truth, I’m even more comfortable whacking off. If you don’t like it, tough. Free country. It’s not my fault that the sight of a naked, slightly overweight man who just-so-happens-to-be whacking off makes you feel uneasy. If you are allowed to subject me to the home of roughly 30% of your sweat glands, then I think I should be able to Release the Kraken, if you know what I mean.

    War’s over, Hippy. Put on some shoes with toes. In return, I’ll keep my pants on. I think that’s a good trade.