FIRST OF ALL, I would like to apologize for any embarrassing things I wrote in rant two, however, I won't.

Just cringe and get over it.'s why the United States is at war with Iraq and everyone else, including your mom. The They/We (TM) are at war for the same reason that so many people died in the Station nightclub fire in Warwick, RI. Say what?! (You say.) My erudite blinking goes like this: If the development of the human brain wasn't in it's infancy--and had perhaps 9,000 more generations of evolution under its belt--then the people in that nightclub may have been socially trained to recognize that acting in their own interest would bring about their demise and that their best chance for survival would have been to ensure the survival of those around them. Then perhaps they could have tried walking out calmly, in single-file fashion like they teach us during those timed fire drills at work and school. But nature hasn't selected for the non-panic gene yet, or bred-out the climb-my-way-to-the-top gene. Concurrently, the Untied States is merely saying to the rest of the world: "Excuse me, but we're getting out of the club, first." Except they're saying it with a "fuck you" instead of a "pardon me." Excuses are for politics. I admit the idea of a group of humans, either as concert goers or as a nation, acting collectively towards the greater good of humankind sounds rather Socialismistic (TM)... but I know, you know, they know that war is the only way out of this self-inflicted, sore-infected mess. The history of humankind is one long, redundant game of "king of the hill." It's always been this way. Most of us were just too busy being entertained to notice. Mathematically speaking, the number one goal of human existence is to achieve its own extinction. So it kind of makes some sad, sick sense that--as Bukowski observed--it's War All The Time. Granted, those Rhode Island folks only had twenty-seconds to access the concept of finding the Celebrity Exit (backstage) before they were wedged-in like human slate. Likewise, the Untied States is now stuck with the concert fire it has begun and there will be plenty of other countries the US will have to step on as we all try to make our way off of a wedged-in, burning planet.

One of the sick-trickiest things about the Warwick, RI tragedy and the Chicago nightclub tragedy are the front door photos of the still alive, yet squished and flailing. The informative thing about that is that they are all men. Chivalry is dead. The practice of "women and children first" has been relegated to an old saying from 20th century sea faring. We all know where the not-pictured women are in those photos. Can you imagine hitting on a girl one minute then crushing her ribs with your feet in the next? Perpetual prurient self-interest exposed. Life trumps sex. Who knew?

The Station nightclub tragedy is a model for what is happening with world war and it is ubiquitous (that means it's everywhere): A little corruption, a little secrecy, a little money to be made, a Domino of Bad Decisions and what do you get? You get dead bodies. Dead bodies that look like they're in a battlefield.

(Sometimes the kids say goodbye to one another with the phrase "Peace Out." That's very perceptive because they are accidentally right. It is out. Out of style. War's in fashion now. The next time someone floats you a "Peace Out," raise one sardonic eyebrow and tell them, "War In".)

On a lighter note, lottery tickets still seem to be doing well. Despite all the money to be made in fear industries, people are still lapping-up the hope. I just wish scratch tickets had realistic names like One In Six Million or Struck By Lightning. How about a game targeting the elderly called Fixed Income.

(Match any of the dates that your Social Security check is supposed to arrive with the winning date, win prize shown. Get a wheelchair symbol in any spot, win that prize automatically).

Instead, they have names that make people think they're winners...not losers. Lucky this. Golden that. I'm surprised they don't have one called Good In Bed. (Scratch each bed to see if "O" for orgasm appears. Match the total number of orgasms with your partner's winning number of orgasms and win prize shown. Get a vibrator symbol in any one bed, win that prize automatically) Or how about a scratch ticket game that showcases what it's really all about called: SCRATCH IT IN THE STORE. You could make the icons on the scratch ticket be little, mini-scratch tickets that say "win" or "lose" underneath and the goal is to get more winning mini-scratch tickets than losing mini-scratch tickets and all prizes are void IF YOU LEAVE THE STORE! On second thought, just give me two Lucky Deaths and one Lose At Home and I'm outta here. Every scratch ticket is a predetermined winner or loser. The bullshit plot is just psychological pomp designed to arouse a gambling erection. Give me a daily lottery that's "heads or tails" and the party's over.

On a heavier note, now that spring has sprung it is time to reflect upon reflection. Like zillions of Americant's, I was razed (sic) Catholic. I remember the last thing I gave up for Lent was Lent. Before that, I figured I could get away with giving up easier things like driving on the wrong side of the road or murder. Of coarse (sic), the best part about giving up murder for 40 days is that on Easter you get to go on a killing spree. "Lent's over! Killing spree!!" Ahhhh, the rejoicing. Not much sacrificing, though. Heck, the beef-cooked-away-from-dairy-while-standing-on-one-leg process of preparing Kosher foods makes not eating meat for six Fridays look like Judaism-Light. Aren't most people vegetarians now? What the Hell are THEY giving up? Besides murder. Lettuce? Try giving up ketchup if you want a challenge. The Catholic Church needs to ordain women priests and ban carrots on alternate Thursdays. And at least with women priests some young girls might have an equal opportunity to be molested so we--as a culture--can attempt to level the unjust playing field of child molestation which is overwhelmingly biased towards young males. That's why they call them altar boys, of course. They "alter" the boys for life. They usually alter them right in the rectory, too. Ouch. Catholicism has way more crises than these but I've always opined that if Christ could have just hung out for one more day, Easter would fall on a Monday and we'd all get an extra day off. And that's my biggest gripe with the Catholic Church. Not enough holidays. No Easter Monday.

As for understanding Masterplan, I have no clue what that song means. I may have been trying to emulate a facet of Lars' writing style whilst drinking. I did learn that bulletproof vests are illegal. The public is not allowed to defend themselves against the police. This is too bad because I imagined a profitable line of designer, bulletproof fashion-wear for the office. Still, white-collar workers might be better served with a fashion-helmet since the majority of disgruntled employees aim for the head. But that doesn't help me figure out what Masterplan is about. Like all of our shit, it's open to interpretation. All I know is that EVERYONE is WRONG, including me.

That's it for now. All work and no plague makes Larry a dull boy.


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