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Dawn Of The Dead Website [Mar 30, 2004] My Dear Beagles: The Internet is a magical place. Nowhere else on earth, either virtual or corporeal, can people share so much factually questionable information colored by willfully ignored partisan bias. Nowhere else on earth can rumors designated to destroy the careers of longtime public servants be started and spread so efficiently. Nowhere else on earth can you be exposed, in great detail, to the drinking habits of thousands of aimless New York trust-fund party dogs. And nowhere else on earth can you watch the faces of Australian hippies as they bring themselves to orgasm. Until five months ago, the Internet was also the only place you could turn to receive a daily dose of my humor writing, called “annoying self-absorbed bloviation” by some and “deliberately overwrought” by others. Then, on November 10, this website went dark. For that, I must apologize. Thank goodness that I have this forum in which I can address those of you who are sitting in front of your computers, or who have programmed updates to this website directly into your cell phones. Your government failed you. Those entrusted with providing you the best in fact-based Web opinion failed you. And I failed you. I tried hard, but that doesn’t matter, because I failed. For that failure I would ask, once I’ve explained to you why I stopped blogging, for your understanding and your forgiveness. There were several reasons. The first was obvious to anyone who paid attention or who cared. I had something akin to a nervous breakdown when the New York Times hit my last book with a cruel and ill-intentioned review by a jealous and less-talented rival of mine named David Kamp. That review was the final blow, flushing years of hard work into the sewer, and I collapsed. But also, the Internet had changed by then. When I’d started a year-and-a-half earlier, conservative voices were much stronger, both online and in the country. There was a direct and immediate need for people to call bullshit on the Bush Administration, particularly when it came to the fraudulence of the war on Iraq. While I’ll make no claim to having been a leading, or even an important, voice of dissent, I know that my words were part of the chorus, and I take pride in that. Now, I would argue, liberals dominate online political opinion. Online journalists like Atrios and the Daily Kos have stepped to the front of the line, to the point where they’re quoted like normal pundits and invited to Democratic Party fundraisers. And I’m sure this is the first place you’ve heard that news. In addition, Andrew Sullivan, the pundit who this site was created to mock, has become distinctly less annoying. The President’s position on gay marriage and his administration’s reckless fiscal policies have finally pushed Sullivan, if not to the side of good, then at least to the side of reason. When it comes to Iraq, Sullivan’s psuedointellectual jingoistic pomposity, along with that of Christopher Hitchens, have been discredited by that country’s continued unraveling, by the continued parade of untelevised body bags shipped back to the States, and by the continued number of American young men and women whose lives, minds and bodies have been scarred by the ravages of needless war. Wacka-wacka. With former Bush Administration officials writing books and testifying in Congress about the incompetencies of this White House, with a liberal radio network set to launch tomorrow, and with a reasonably united Democratic Party, mine is hardly a voice in the wilderness anymore. Lord willing, the combined efforts of sensible, intelligent, and good-humored people, along with the efforts of Michael Moore, will mean that we only have to endure nine more months of the worst Presidency in American history. I’m willing and prepared to play whatever tiny part I can in the struggle to take back our country from the Bible-thumping, oil-swilling forces of intolerance. I’ll update this site from time to time, though not daily. Probably more like once or twice a week. The “character” who dominated this site before is gone, as, regretfully, is his beleaguered manservant Roger, now happily gay-married to a Canadian television reporter. Such semi-popular features as the journal of Raul, the last Iraqi teenager with access to the Internet, will continue, as Raul has survived the occupation against all human odds. Also, the Blogs Of The Candidates has been reduced to the blogs of John Kerry and George W. Bush, but as long as The O.C. is on the air and the next generation of Strokes lookalikes prowls the earth, there will be room to simultaneously make fun of party bloggers and Presidential candidates. In addition, I’ll still use this site as a platform to mock certain trends and pomposities in American literature. While the world reels from the effects of an undeclared World War III, the American literary establishment lurches forward in its inevitable plodding, clueless, inbred way, like a mastodon uninformed of Ice Age’s end. I’ll be here to wave an uninvited middle finger in its face. That’s all for now, except, of course, for this: Excelsior! Neal
Curse You, David Kamp! [Nov 10, 2003] I generally don't read The New York Times, because I prefer to get my news from sources unsullied by a baldly anti-American agenda. Nonetheless, I forced myself to read last Sunday's Book Review. My editor had informed me that my novel Never Mind The Pollacks was the subject of a politically-motivated takedown by a jealous rival with the unlikely name of David Kamp. It's almost certain that you missed the review, because no one pays any attention to the Times anymore, but you can read it here. Unlike David Kamp, I'm not a practitioner of what I like to call "snark," a word fungus that has completely destroyed the once-noble profession of book reviewing. A review is snarky by definition if it criticizes something written by me or by my friends, and particularly if it refers to me as "an ordinary humor dork, yet another doughy, 35-ish white man with a goatee and thinning hair." Reviews should only praise books in general, and should always give a flattering impression of the writer's appearance in particular. Would the great Lionel Trilling, whose wife Diana used to provide me with a weekly hummer, ever have referred to, say, John O'Hara as a "doughy 35-ish white man?" I think not. These are books we're writing here, people! Sacred objects of a bygone age! Books! How dare you criticize me, David Kamp? Have you no shame, man? Have you no respect for the temple of literature? Further complicating the situation is the fact that David Kamp has been stalking me for nearly a year. The editors of the Times should have known this. Assigning him this review was a clear conflict of interest. A couple of weeks ago, I was signing books after I'd given a reading before 10,000 enraptured people in a San Diego-area basketball arena. A man stepped to the front of the line, camcorder blazing. "Where are you staying while you're in town?" he asked. "I'm actually staying up in L.A.," I said. "I got a room at the Chateau Marmont. Big orgy later. Wanna come?" In retrospect, that was a huge mistake. "Sure!" he said. He gave me his book to sign. "What's your name?" "David Kamp." "OK, David. I'm in Suite 317. Don't forget to bring that camera!" In retrospect, another huge mistake. So I guess what I'm saying is that the "Neal Pollack" in the Neal Pollack Sex Tape that David Kamp has been making available for the last week on his website, goateedanddoughy.com, is, in fact, me, and yes, those are the Hilton Sisters who've got me in that sandwich and yes, I am doing that thing to Diego Luna. I'm not ashamed. It's a right sexy tape, and people have been emailing me all week surprised at the evident quality and quantity of the videotaped sex. But I think that Kamp should have been disqualified from reviewing my book after he publicly made available footage of my threesome with Drew Barrymore and Fab Morretti. Don't you? On the night of the orgy, Kamp wrote, on his website, “I have looked evil in the face. I’ve been in the same room with it, and, in fact, watched someone come on that face. I don’t know how else to describe my feelings now except to say that I feel unclean, and I’m having to fight being afraid. And I wish my erection would go away.” The next morning, he woke up and reviewed my book. The editors of the New York Times Book Review owe me an explanation, an apology, and a re-review by a writer of my choosing. If they don't provide those, it would represent a moral failure of the highest order. With that, I must sadly announce that this site is going on indefinite hiatus, which I recently trumpeted in two whiny emo-style posts that have since been deleted because I'm ashamed of sincerity. I shall return sometime next year, when I'm sure that things will be going great in Iraq and the Bush Presidency will be in its final months. Let us pray. Please buy Never Mind The Pollacks. Also don't forget to buy the accompanying album, on a now-defunct record label. Thank you, and good day.
My Shameful Addiction [Nov 6, 2003] Dear friends. You've all been very patient with me this week as I've attempted to return to the routine of producing important fact-based Internet opinions. I've been remiss. There are so many people I want to thank for my incredible rock-n-roll adventure recently concluded, but most of all I want to thank those of you who donated so generously to the cause of The Neal Pollack Invasion. Your money bought a lot of gas for the van, and, indirectly, a lot of gas for the band. My bandmates have horrible dietary habits, and I couldn't stop them from eating at Bob Evans, even once. But my rockstardom was a fraud, an illusion, the terrible lie of a pathetic trickster. I'm not the confident and muscular beast of rock that you see on stage, and I'm not the master of Internet opinion that you read on this site five days a week. No. I am a shameful, terrible person inside. I am a drug addict. Before the tour began, I went to see my doctor. I told him I was having trouble connecting to people, and also my knee hurt real bad. He gave me Vicodin for the knee, and capsules of Oxytocin for my connection problem. You may all laugh, because Oxytocin is best known as the hormone that stimulates labor in women. But it's also, these days, widely known to be the "hormone of love." On tour, I needed to give a lot of love. The Vicodin was great for a few days, but gradually I found myself waking up in a puddle of drool, and it wasn't my own drool. Using every ounce of willpower I possessed, plus really strong coffee, I was able to over come the crushing Vicodin hangover that addicts refer to as "the jackhammer of Hades." Oxytocin was another story. My initial two pills a day became four after two days, and eight after four days. By the time I got to Philadelphia, I was refilling my prescription daily by FedEx, taking up to 32 pills before breakfast and nearly 100 every day. Oh, yes, I was feeling the love, but soon I was really just feeling the feeling about feeling the love, not the actual love itself. When my supply ran out in Chicago and I pitched myself from my hotel room window, I realized that I had a problem. Fortunately, I was staying on the second floor, but I wept as I squatted in that shrubbery. And I weep still. Immediately following this blog entry, I'm checking myself into rehab for at least eight days, more if my insurance will cover it, to once and for all break the iron grip that the hormone of love has placed upon my soul. This blog won't refresh on Monday because I'll be strapped to a board, sweating through my nightgown while Roger sops my forehead with a damp cloth. But the treatment center will allow me to bring my laptop along, and I promise a fresh post first thing Tuesday morning. I'm not making any excuses. Over the years, important writers from Sebastian Junger to Jonathan Franzen have emerged from treatment centers to great fanfare and praise for conquering great demons. They've written articles for Harper's and other magazines about their demon-conquering exploits. They're said to be great role models and examples for others. Well, I'm no role model. OK, I kind of am, actually. I'm the father of blogging and the best writer in the history of the Internet. No pills will rob me of that designation. But I nonetheless feel deep shame and sorrow at what I've become. An Oxytocin addict. I am a slave to the hormone of love. So goodbye, Mount Winchester, and Peggy, my clone baby, and my dog Hercules. The nanny will care for you all while I'm gone, just as Roger will care for me. As for you, my friends, my readers, my donors, you won't be neglected. Through the hallucinations, I will continue to post. I will not let you down. My Tuesday return is certain. Meanwhile, please buy the 6063rd most popular book in America, and enjoy the first video from The Neal Pollack Invasion. It will make you weep for what could have been.
Thou Shalt Not Take Ronald Reagan's Name In Vain [Nov 5, 2003] So much to discuss today. President Bush signed the partial-birth abortion ban, in a major civil-rights victory for the partially born. I've always said that if you're going to come out, you need to come out all the way, but some people prefer the comfort of the semi-womb, and it's not for us to dictate their choices. Also, the controversy continues to swell over Howard Dean's statement that he flys the Confederate flag from the antenna of his pickup truck. Again, this is his choice as an American. Certain so-called Democrats need to stick their self-righteousness where the sun don't shine. Oh, sure, they like to party, as they told the audience at Tuesday's Rock The Vote debate, but I think that when it comes to the flag issue, they need to take the advice of John Edwards' favorite singer, Peaches, and "fuck the pain away." While I'm not Howard Dean's number-one supporter, he does continue to impress. I happen to agree with his Tuesday statement that "race slavery" makes "a certain degree of economic sense." In theory, of course. But the last thing we need in this country right now is a Civil War that pits brother against brother. Let's mop up the terrorist hordes, and then we can talk about reinstating slavery, Dr. Dean. No item in the news, though, makes my corpuscles hop like the announcement that CBS, under pressure from the Republican National Committee, has cancelled "The Reagans," a badly-titled miniseries about the Reagans. While I haven't seen the program myself, I have received an email summary of its contents from the RNC, and I can tell you that they made the right choice. No President should be subjected to this kind of treatment by filmmakers, except for John Kennedy, who was a womanizer and also he consorted with Communists. Let me run down a partial list of lies contained in the program. Ronald Reagan was not a former actor recruited by powerful Republicans to play the part of President so they could fool America into accepting a sketchy combination of charismatic Christianity and tax cuts for the wealthy as national policy. He never made flip jokes about starting a nuclear war. The country's industrial base did not collapse during his tenure. Agents of his Central Intelligence Agency did not introduce crack to African-American ghettos. By no means did he support right-wing guerilla organizations in Central America, starting terrible wars that killed thousands of people in the name of fighting Communism. His administration did not sell arms to the Iranians to fund these wars. His wife was not a control freak who regularly consulted astrologers. He did not suffer from advancing senility, allowing his administration to be taken over by an uncontrollable group of fringe nutcases. And he most certainly did not sit by exhibiting the most extreme forms of public bigotry while the most terrible virulent disease known to humankind ravaged this country's gay population. Why, none of these things are true about Ronald Reagan! He's a great man who brought morning to America and rescued our hostages from the second spoke of the Axis Of Evil. Country-club membership increased greatly during his tenure, and so did yacht ownership. The 80s were a wonderful time in American history. I love the 80s! And I love Ronald Reagan. All praise to CBS for keeping the historical slate out of the hands of independent filmmakers and journalists and in the hands of the people who know what best to do with history: Heavily partisan political operatives. Long live Ronald Reagan! Long live the Republican Party! May its reign bring freedom and democracy to the world a for a thousand glorious years!
Raul Back In School [Nov 4, 2003] Last night's "Rock The Vote" debate on CNN was decidedly not rock-n-roll, except for the moment where John Edwards turned to Howard Dean and said, "Dude! You are SO off the tour!" Other than that, the evening was comprised of some pretty sad rhetorical flailing, in bad black turtlenecks and shirtsleeves. My vote will go to the first candidate to wear a Misfits T-shirt on TV. How coincidental, then, that I've been getting emails lately from Raul, everyone's favorite rock-n-roll Iraqi teenager with access to the Internet. He's like the Boswell of the Iraqi Renaissance, or maybe the Johnson. Let's see what's going on in his world: October 28 "Dear Neal: Well, it's Ramadan, which doesn't really mean much to me, since I only eat about two meals a week anyway. I could have up to five, but instead I prefer to spend meal money on gas for my stolen Volkswagen Passat so my punk-rock band, Baghdad 123, can have rehearsal space. The band is doing quite well, and growing angrier by the hour. We threw a Rock Against The Occupation concert the other week with several other similarly-minded groups, including Basriot, The Museum Looters, and the Ahmad Spencer Blues Explosion. We had a great time until U.S. troops showed up, spraying the crowd with bullets and killing ten teenagers. Don't they understand that every time they kill an Iraqi, another punk band is born? You can't slay the rock, Donald Rumsfeld!" October 30 "It was back to school today for me and the boys. Somehow, we made it through the security checkpoint. This new campus is being called the Perle Academy. I have no idea what that means, but I know that our last school was not surrounded by razor wire and there weren't machine guns mounted on jeeps guarding the perimeter. Of course, our textbooks claimed that Saddam Hussein invented gravity, but we were smart enough to guess that wasn't true. Now we're learning English from a primer called "Love Thy Bremer," and math from U.S. Defense Department texts, which say 89 billion minus 40 billion is none of your business, just give us the money. How I long for a substitute like the American actor Jack Black, who will teach us about the rock! In the afternoon, we snuck out of class to the open-air urinary trough, where we smoked some hash courtesy of A.J., the sensitive one. A U.S. soldier joined us in the smoking, which was fortunate for him, because at that moment, his jeep was attacked by an insurgent mortar shell. As he watched his best friend blown to pieces, the soldier turned to me and said, 'Nothing will penetrate my resolve to complete my mission here in Iraq. We came here to bring freedom to the Iraqi people, and are prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice.' He took another puff of hash and began to weep at the magnitude of his lies." November 1 "I'm very saddened by today's helicopter disaster involving U.S. soldiers, and deeply disturbed by the celebratory dancing in the streets. The leaders of the insurgency distinctly told us that there should be no dancing unless we shoot down at least two helicopters. As the prophet once said, no chickens should be counted unless they are hatched and we blow up the Al-Rasheed Hotel. Ramsi wanted to write a song called "Helicopter In The Ditch," but I urged him to check his impulse. We don't want to jeopardize our application to South By South Cairo. Down with the U.S.! All hail the glorious Iraqi People's Revolution! Your friend, Raul."
But One Limb To Give [Nov 3, 2003] I went to see Shattered Glass over the weekend, and was bitterly disappointed that my role in the sordid affair was glossed over, and, some would say, utterly ignored by the screenwriter. This is very typical, I think, of the way Hollywood treats the Jews. To set the record straight: I was at The New Republic the whole time, or at least part of the time, if nothing else then because I was constantly trying to get Leon Weiseltier to return my calls. Also, I found the ending of the film, where Glass ascends to heaven only to be cast down to hell by the angel of Walter Lippmann, thoroughly unrealistic. The filmmaker took certain other liberties as well. Marty Peretz (mispronounced in the film as POO-ROTZ), would not have served wine during an editorial meeting, and certainly not that particular wine. Also, I know for a fact that Glass, for all his faults, never whipped out his penis in the office, asking whoever who would look, "do you think it's big enough?" If you want to see a real movie about high-stakes journalism, catch Veronica Guerin at your local dollar cinema. At last, someone is telling the truth about the deadly death squads of Venezuelan "President" Hugo Chavez. The movie was really my second choice for weekend entertainment, but my current cocktail of medications prevented me from attending the Mount Winchester Community Singers All-Star Salute To Elliott Smith. I was saddened, while on my rock tour, to hear of Mr. Smith's demise, as he always was my favorite Canadian economist. It's gratifying to see that America's young people are paying appropriate tribute to the man who helped formulate the sound economic theory that undocumented immigrants, particularly Mexicans, steal the souls of legal children. I'm grateful to CNN's Lou Dobbs, who in recent weeks has brought this terrible problem to new light. I was also busy over the weekend reading letters from soldiers wounded in what I'm now calling the Iraqi Renaissance. If you watch television or read newspapers and magazines, you might get the wrong idea that we're losing the Renaissance, or at least flailing about without much direction. But take it from my highly-reliable correspondents who file from anonymous email addresses. Our soldiers are not losing their resolve, and thanks to our brilliant strategy of opening schools and then surrounding them with barbed wire, we're winning the hearts and minds of ordinary Iraqis everywhere. How can you disagree with the following letter? "Dear highly-placed media professional: As I lay here in my bed gazing at the dappled skylight sun in the Walter Reed Medical Center, I weep with joy at the mission I have just concluded. I believe so strongly in the United States military and everything for which it stands. We're defending freedom all over the world, helping rid innocent people of the scourge of terrorism. I would gladly sacrifice another arm if I could help President Bush win this terrible war for the future of civilization. Thanks to our excellent battlefield medicine, the gangrene is receding, and one more member of the Iraqi Provisional Governing Council walks free tonight. When I joined the Army, this is exactly what I bargained for: A poorly-planned drudge on fixed pay with no definable end. All my men agree that a long, hard slog is what we bought in for. We're proud to bleed, and, in many cases, die, so that Donald Rumsfeld doesn't have to apologize for his crummy decision-making. I must go now. Time to change the catheter. Had to get one sometime. Why not at 22? All best and God Bless America, PFC Name Withheld For Security Considerations." Are you weeping as hard as I? Then do me a favor. If you've read my new novel, Never Mind The Pollacks, currently the 1880th most popular book in America, please submit a review to Amazon.com. Three is not enough. The only thing I ask is that the review contain no snark, because snark has no place in today's literary and political climate. That's my dogma, and I will not bend.
The Great Barrier: Rieff [Nov 2, 2003] With much anticipation and general breathlessness, you’ve patiently sat at your desks, oh loyal Beagles, yea these last five weeks while I was busy conducting an experiment in the human body’s ability to consume whiskey, ride in a van, eat at Stuckey’s, and still survive. I have so many people to thank for helping me consummate my rock-n-roll dreams and for making Never Mind The Pollacks the 9771st most popular book in America at this writing, despite the attempts of many jealous critics to bring down my surging literary career. Specific thanks will arrive in days forthcoming. But for now, I’ll thank the substitutes who kept this space amusing and informative during some of the most spectacular news cycles in modern history: Donnie Bowman, Paul Fisher, Christopher Monks, Jesse Popp, and especially Matthew Tobey, who will someday be a famous screenwriter and will serve drinks to me at his Hollywood mansion long after I’ve become a withered, pathetic sexless parody of myself. And no, smart guys, the transformation hasn’t happened yet. I must also announce that tomorrow’s previously proposed protest, Donald Luskin Is A Stalker Day, has been indefinitely delayed at the request of my good friend Atrios, the Internet’s latest potential free-speech lawsuit victim. Apparently, Atrios believes that reasonable discourse will solve his problems better than wise-assed agitation. We shall see, oh great liberal blogmaster. Tomorrow won’t Donald Luskin Is A Stalker Day after all. For now, hold your fire. But I cannot hold my fire, or my ire, or my inflamed desire, in the face of David Rieff’s absurd slander of the Bush Administration’s Iraq rebuilding policy in yesterday’s New York Times Magazine, or, as I like to call it, The Very Bad Publication Ignored By Anyone With Good Judgment Magazine. First of all, Rieff is Susan Sontag’s son, a hideous accident of birth that should disqualify him from writing anything but book reviews for the Nation. Second, he has no experience with war reporting, except for a few years in Bosnia, which, since we didn’t declare it, wasn’t technically a war. Rieff’s central thesis is completely misguided. He claims that the “occupation,” though I prefer to call it the “Renaissance,” of Iraq was poorly planned and has been incompetently executed. How could he possibly gather that from, according to him, two extended visits to the country? I receive emails all the time from men who say they’re soldiers, and they claim that everything’s going just fine. According to my sources, dozens of people in Iraq are happy, healthy, working good jobs, and generally enjoying the fruits of a mild autumn. I’ve found that anonymous emails are often more telling than actual experience. And even if Rieff is, technically, “correct,” his research and opinions should be utterly ignored. As Montaigne once said in his essay, “On Occupation,” one should never allow poor planning and incompetent execution interfere with a preset ideological commitment. To quote, “truly great leadership should be able to bend physical reality to fit lunatic intellectual abstraction.” The Times has spent far too much time and ink worrying about the small number of deaths of our soldiers in Iraq, and too few column inches celebrating the happy days spent by the thousands of Iraqi children who, through luck or street smarts, are still alive. Euclid, in his Absurdities, wrote of the “flesh sacrifice” necessary to “make the world whole.” The parents of the American military departed shouldn’t think of their children as young people murdered in their prime during a meaningless, ill-defined war. Instead, consider their bones building blocks for a new world. We must honor the dead and then forget about them immediately, while ignoring the so-called strategic mistakes that led to their demise. Our great leaders have said all along that this is a war for the future of civilization. The terrorist minions, who multiply frighteningly every day, cannot be allowed to distract us from our holy mission. Now if you’ll excuse me, a month of incessant rock touring has caused me to suffer numerous severe glandular dysfunctions, and I can only remain seated upright for a half-hour at a time, maximum. My doctor has prescribed several excellent drugs for me, none of which are addictive in the slightest. Roger is bringing my tray now. Why, hello, Roger! Look at all the pretty birdies!
I Don't Know Why You Say Goodbye, I Say Hello [Oct 30, 2003] Good day, dear readers. Today marks the end of our time together. Neal's tour has ended, and he'll be back to woo you and wow you on Monday. Before I, Matthew Tobey, say goodbye though, I know I speak for Neal when I say that the bloggers who came before me, Donnie Boman, Paul Fisher, Christopher Monks and Jesse Popp, all did superior work. You should thank them for their efforts by visiting their respective electronic homes, or if computers are too impersonal, you could always approach any or all of them and insist on giving a heartfelt and plutonic French kiss. Haven't they earned it? Many of you are probably wondering what to expect when the road-weary Pollack returns. I've been informed that Neal will waste no time returning to form and will announce Monday plans for Donald Luskin Is A Stalker Day on Tuesday in response to the actions being taken against Atrios. That is all I know. Neal will have details. It's been quite a week hasn't it? We've been through so much together, I kind of just want to forget about the world around us for a day and cuddle. Unfortunately for your head and my shoulder though, current events don't have cuddle-breaks. While you let the cuddling images dissipate, I'm sure they're being replaced by insatiable urges to know what I have to say about the fact that companies responsible for half-a-million dollars in contributions to President Bush's 2000 campaign have been awarded upwards of eight billion dollars in contracts related to the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Personally, I'm not very shocked. Politics and business heaving and sweating in a cash-soaked sixty-nine position is nothing new. For example, did you know that Lincoln freed the slaves only after receiving a hefty kickback from the robot industry? Any day now, the Emancipation Proclamation is going to make some 200 year-old robot moguls very rich. Or, were you aware of the fact that an alliance of folk singers contributed tens of thousands of dollars to Lyndon Johnson's reelection campaign in exchange for Johnson sending more troops to die in the protest-song-inspiring Vietnam War? And, I'll bet you're completely oblivious to the fact that the first President Bush's entire campaign was funded by the douche-bag industry. The exposure tripled sales. So you can say nay all you want, fickle people of the Internet, but if George W. Bush is guilty of anything, it's merely of being the President of these United States. Glory, glory, hallelujah… Don't forget, I sling the same kind of shit on a regular basis at The City of Floating Blogs and on Haypenny. See you next time.
I Think You Might Mean "Casualness" [Oct 29, 2003] Loyal visitors of The Neal Pollack Invasion, our time together is once again nearing its end. Tomorrow will be my final day. Monday, Neal will return, and I, Matthew Tobey, will crawl back into your dreams. But before then, I plan to do all that I can to leave your mind feeling violated and your body feeling liberated. Before I take another step toward educasturbating your soul though, I'd be remiss if I didn't remind you that if you don't watch Neal on Comedy Central's The Daily Show with Jon Stewart tonight, Elizabeth Smart will be re-kidnapped. Now that that's out of the way, let's get down to business. If you're like most human beings, you were saddened and dismayed when the news came out today that the postwar casualties in Iraq had surpassed the during-war casualties. And while it is almost always sad when someone dies and while in hindsight it might appear that President Bush's celebratory, dramatic and seemingly-smug appearance on the USS Lincoln in front of a sign that read, "Mission Accomplished" was our Commander in Chief's way of pissing on the graves of any soldier who couldn't hack it after May 1, it's important to remember that this type of thing is quite common. For example, as recently as 1973, the Japanese continued to bomb Pearl Harbor, Hawaii every now and again, "just for old time's sake." Likewise, this past April, eleven Union soldiers were killed in an ambush by the Confederacy outside of Minnesota's Mall of America, raising the total number of U.S. Civil War casualties to just over four million. Moreover, many of the recent soldiers killed in Iraq actually count toward the postwar casualties of the first Gulf War. Five of them were technically and officially part of the post-War of 1812 effort. The point is, be it before, during or after a war, for a good cause, no apparent reason or thinly-veiled imperialism, our forces will incur losses. Otherwise, what would I blog about on Thursday, October 30, 2003?
Three is a Magic Number [Oct 28, 2003] Today I, Matthew Tobey, enter the third day of my third stab at guest-blogging here at The Neal Pollack Invasion. I highly suggest you prepare yourself for triple the luster, triple the aroma and triple the divinity. As you know, California is in the process of burning down even as I type this. By Friday, tinsel-town will be but a brilliant, glimmering, whore-like dream. But, what will become of the world with Los Angeles gone? This will: After being sworn in as Governor, Arnold Schwarzenegger will survey the damage and suggest that the state's capital be moved to a "less-charred city." When his advisors inform him that the capital of California is in fact Sacramento and not Los Angeles, Schwarzenegger will respond by burning Sacramento to the ground and suggesting that the capital be moved to Los Angeles. He'll be applauded for his foresight. In a teary confession, Gray Davis will eventually reveal that it was he who had started the fire in the first place. Davis will admit that he'd been burning a box of love letters that California had written him "back in the day, and things just got way out of hand." With their homes destroyed, many celebrities will be forced out of Southern California and will opt to relocate to other parts of the country. Through pure coincidence, both Morgan Freeman and Jennifer Love Hewitt will end up in Dog Patch, Kentucky. Their tremendous wealth coupled with the extremely low cost of living will render the pair Gods among men. Hewitt and Freeman will build vast estates, eventually employing every citizen of the tiny hamlet between the two of them. At first they'll peacefully coexist, but when the last inch of property in town goes up for sale, a fierce bidding war will ensue. Eventually a bitter and violent rivalry will develop with the townspeople pitted against one another. A battle will rage and when the smoke clears, all but Hewitt and Freeman will lay dead. It will be at that moment that the pair will realize that they'd been in love the whole time. But it will be too late because a big dog will sneak up and maul them both to death, all because of a little fire. It's pretty obvious that the California wildfire isn't the only thing that's violently out of control. If you hate wildfires, you ought to buy Neal's book and CD and visit Haypenny and The City of Floating Blogs. And don't forget to watch Neal on The Daily Show tomorrow night. If you love wildfires, you should email me.
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