(Everybody knows that God uses a Tablet PC)
Sometimes, I really wish God were a little more proactive in His or perhaps Her management of humanity. A little more “hands-on.” You know, like He or perhaps She was back in the Old Testament. Back then, God took no guff. Just ask Egypt. God needs to get back to that. I’m not saying we need a bunch of messy smiting to come back into vogue. I simply think that God ought to take the role of high school basketball coach when it comes to those people who, really, aren’t justifying their lives on planet Earth. Remember your high school basketball coach? He’d observe you at tryouts, evaluate your game, and then, if you were too short, too slow, too uncoordinated, whatever, you were simply cut. Checked your name off the list, and you were dismissed. Clean, efficient, and deserved. That’s what I’m looking for from God. However, since He or perhaps She seems content to let humanity slowly drown in its own pool of morons, I’m asserting myself. “The Cut List” will be used when a remarkably stupid, rude, incompetent, or uncouth person makes his way either into the news or my personal life. Like the coach noting your athletic inadequacies, I’ll sum up their offenses against civil society, and pronounce them, officially, cut from humanity.
Senator Ted Stevens, R-Alaska
The EXTREMELY senior Senator from the state of Seward’s Folly hasn’t really done anything in a while, so this is more of a cumulative decision than one based on a single, dramatic incident. I just can’t stand this guy. I think it’s because I’m a Republican, and Theodore is the guy who embodies the stereotype of the ethically handicapped, bullying, out-of-touch, indentured servant of Big Oil that leaps to the minds of a lot of people when they think of the GOP. But here are the reasons why I’d cut him: 1) In 2005, in a Congressional hearing prompted by soaring oil company profits intended to question oil company CEOs about exactly where the hell those profits are going, Stevens rejected repeated and reasonable requests to have the executives sworn in before their testimony, 2) The ridiculous “Bridge to Nowhere” that he championed, and of course 3) “The internet is not something you just dump something on. It is not a big truck. It’s a series of tubes.”
Ted, you’re cut. You can leave your jock with the equipment manager.
Rupert Murdoch, Chairman & CEO, News Corp.
Rest in peace, Wall Street Journal. May your inevitable decline be quick and discrete. Rupert, for showing a complete and total inability to refrain from crapping all over good, intelligent, objective journalism wherever you find it, you are cut. And for a guy whose bilious media fiefdom has done more than most to exalt the superficial and the Botoxed, maybe you ought to look into a little tightening for that mug of yours…it’s got more folds than the ass of a rhinoceros.
The Two Girls In Front Of Me In Line For The World’s Crappiest Haunted Hayride This Weekend
So my ladyfriend and I hitched up the horses and rambled on down into spook country this past weekend for what was purportedly the scariest haunted hayride in the area. I was a little skeptical when we got out of the car and a chubby fellow in camo gear and an ill-fitting fright mask made a half-assed attempt at scaring some nearby high-schoolers with a move I called “The Lean.” He went up to them, leaned forward a little like they were going to tell him something, and then just drifted off like he remembered he was 10 minutes late for a pot buy. Lots of the actors on the hayride practiced “The Lean” in its various permutations. Needless to say, the hayride sucked. The scariest part of the evening, in fact, did not take place in the amateurish, shoddy attraction itself, but was instead the two hours (TWO FRIGGING HOURS) spent in line behind the walking talking stereotypes who I think put me off ever having children. If MTV decided to film a central Kentucky version of “The Hills,” these girls would be on it. Teased hair, make-up typically seen on the groupies at a tractor-pull, and a vocabulary that was not only breathtaking in its bald stupidity but also vulgar, these bleached, fatuous serpents put on the most soul-crushing exposition of petty human nastiness I have absorbed in quite some time. If they weren’t pointing at a pre-pubescent girl and exhorting a masked hayride actor to “scare that fucking kid” or braying into their cell phones at a guy neither of them knew and asking him if he was the “one who did Sharon in the hot tub at the party last weekend,” they were unself-consciously revealing a stunning ignorance of a range of topics, from how TVs work to basic grammar to scoliosis (yes, scoliosis). The hayride was boring, these gum-snapping imps were deplorable. Girls, you’re cut. I only wish the government could force your eventual husbands to get the same treatment before you can procreate.
Shorts In Winter Guy
We get it. While the rest of us are chilled to the bone, pulling our coats tight against our frosty bosoms, scurrying hurriedly in the cold air from our cars to the warmth of the mall, the classroom, the museum, our homes, you are a man apart. You must have Inuit blood in you, you intrepid winter pedestrian, for to you January’s icy assault is merely a minor annoyance, the buzzing of a fly or the dripdrip of a leaky faucet. And though winter long ago drove us mere mortals into the wool embrace of sweaters and thermal underwear, you contumaciously stride into the windy breach with uncovered calves and naked knees. And, God and sonny Jesus bless you, though the circulation to your fingers and toes must be slowing, you flip Jack Frost, that winter assassin, a fiery middle finger nonetheless with every easy, windswept step. Walk on, Human Torch. Walk on. For the civilized world cannot countenance such reckless disregard for one’s epidermis, and you must therefore be cut lest your example inspire others to expose their less-worthy lower legs to the ice and the snow.