Jingoism - An Erotic Journey

Today is somebody's 237th birthday. No, I'm not talking about Peter O'Toole. It's Independence Day, man! American Independence Day, to be more specific. Or if you get confused every time somebody says "Independence Day" because you assume they're talking about that stupid fucking movie that made Bill Pullman a household name, it's just "Fourth Of July". That's exciting, right?

Today, folks all over the country will gather to burn various meats over open fires, drink copious amounts of beer, and set miscellaneous flammable items alight, their blossoms of light, color and sound dazzling the human spectators and filling numerous animals with a primal terror that we will only truly understand when we come face to face with death itself, if death were an anthropomorphic explosion, which would be really fucking weird and/or amazing.

Now I can't get the image of a multi-colored explosion in a tattered robe out of my head. Some up-and-coming death metal band needs to make that the cover of their debut album. I wouldn't buy it, but I'm sure some poor soul with terrible musical taste would make that mistake.

Speaking of mistakes: democracy.

So what are your plans for this delightfully patriotic holiday? Mine involve trying to consume the night with fire in an effort to satisfy my insane patron deity. Who actually pays attention to the warning labels on fireworks? Light fuse and run away? I don't run, dammit! Fat people never look cool when they run. I stroll.

But not on this day. On this day, I take a few tentative steps backward  and enjoy the lightshow. Sure, sometimes I end up catching fire, but I've always been able to extinguish the flames  before they cause any permanent damage. Because I refuse to let the fire win. But if my actions cause another member of my family to catch fire, that's not my problem. They understood the risks when they chose to allow me near poorly-constructed explosive devices. Besides, it's all in good fun.

Speaking of good fun: arson.

Because I am a caring individual, I've decided to provide you with a special little something to help you celebrate this festive occasion. It's... well of course it's a fucking podcast. You know the score, Dear Imaginary Reader. Podcasts are the only real card I have to play, because I'm not terribly creative. Only one post thus far this year has not included a podcast, which is a personal best for this blog. Or worst, I guess, if you want to be a Negative Nancy. But I allow only positive energy in my bubble. And whiskey, because I can't deal with all this positive energy sober.

I suppose I should introduce the podcast, just to get this charade over with. It's not an episode of the award-winning Lies My Podcast Told Me, and it's not a new episode of the podcast listeners forgot, Celluloid Cellar. No, this is what we in the podcasting business call a "special event", which is just code for "too fucking long". I finished editing this podcast two hours ago, and I think it's pretty damn good.

It's called Superman Spectacular!, and it's about that superhero guy whose name I forget. It features myself, resident guest emeritus Ky, and making his triumphant return to the airwaves, Titus Tsimonjela as himself. In this delightful twenty minute-long endurance test, we all talk about Superman's numerous cinematic outings, including the recent Man Of Steel and the misunderstood masterpiece, Richard Pryor's Superman, The Third. So before you blow yourself up with some paper cone stuffed with gunpowder and pain, sit back and listen to this nonsense. It's maybe-kinda-sorta worth your time:

Superman Spectacular!



Before I sign off, you may or may not have noticed the slight aesthetic adjustments to this blog. That's because I fussed with the layout a bit. Nothing major, just a few tweaks. I got bored and decided to make the old blog look a little more... modern, I guess? How about less antiquated? Yeah, that sounds better. So enjoy it, because I do all of this for you, you ungrateful sons of whores. Merry Christmas.

TIME MARCHES ON!