A Domain Xmas (more than likely without the "Christ", as that he won't approve of this stuff)

Eh yo.



I wanted to not flood your domes with too many attempts at life's lessons, as that, well, it is the holidays, and the big day is upon us. So, instead of discussing death, race relations, music, relationships, sex, or all the other things that makes up life, I have decided to, instead, put up some fluff to go along with that delicious fruit cake that I'm sure a lot of you will be using to prop up your trailers this season. Enjoy...I'm probably de-blogged till 2009....I hope you and yours enjoy the holiday season, and for those who believe...well, u know what to do...:)

Episode 1

"Twas The Bullshit Before Christmas"

Twas the bullshit before Christmas,

And all through my crib

I was trying to feed the rugrat

But couldn't find the damned bib

Now the 3 year old is bitchin'

Screaming at the top of his lungs

And I sigh to myself

Wishing the semen would of stayed in my hung

It's Christmas Eve

And the tree has been knocked over again

Because My oldest is a dumb ass

He tripped and now the stem's a-bent...in (ok, I screwed up...shut up!)

Anyway...ahem...

I Pull up "NORAD"

So the Santa Lie Can Commence

He falls for that crap

Makin' me Cool like Fiddy Cent

I tell the little half-breed

To go the hell upstairs

So the spouse and I

Can get the presents from the inner lair

The presents are stacked

And we say "Thank The Lord"

Then the nosy zebra child comes down and says

"I'm Bored"

WFT? I whispered

As I pointed towards the stairs

The 6 year old sighs

Saying "Whatever" and disappeared

Finally the kids are snoring

And I am drunk on egg nog

When I hear a loud crash

Like a trailer trash hog

I quickly grab my Glock

About to smoke the fools outside

When I see some crazy white guy

With a red suit on his hide

Thinking it's some drunk

I let off a few shots

El Caucasian Turns Around

With a bunch of drippy snot

I started to laugh

And he did too

I lowered my piece and asked

"What up, dude?"

The blanco had a bag

With Ribbons and Shit

He reached inside

And gave me more than a bit

Some Money, some toys

And a bunch of cool stuff

He winked at me

Then flashed me his muff

This dude was a gal

And and ugly chick at that

"What's the opposite of skinny?" I asked

She sighed and said "fat."

"I came because Santa

Got robbed in LA

I guess wearing red

Ticked off the wrong gang that day."

"So u're Mrs. Claus?"

I asked in amazement

She said yes, sighing

"I must be damned crazy"

So before I said a word,

She whistled real loud

And Rudolph and the others

On my lawn made a crowd

With a fart shaking her left butt cheek

She Leaped into the sleigh

And The reindeer grown

The fat chick did much weigh

As they soared into the sky

And she sailed out of sight

She Said

"This Xmas Jazz is bullshit...where's my dildo and good nite!"

Episode 2:

The Christmas Song (The Domain Version)

Your Nuts roasting, like on an open fire

Syphilis Dripping out your nose

Takings shots for the STD's you've acquired

Muttering "I shouldn't of boned those nasty Ho's"

It's the 5th disease you acquired

And now you won't get any Xmas Nite

Yuletides skanks won't ever light your fire

You won't be getting hard, tonight

You know you're desperate for a lay

The dog is looking good to do this very day

And every mother's child is gonna sigh...

Saying "Hey Momma, that guy has a nasty penis hanging out his fly"

So as you ponder this simple phrase

Since you'll won't get some even if you live to 92

Although you've tried, many drugs, many ways

Merry Syphilis, u're screwed.

Episode 3:

Rudolph Comes out The Closet

Rudolph The Rainbow Reindeer

Like Male Reindeer's Hairy Holes

Even the girls did love him

He wanted a hard thick bone

He had a secret lover

A big buck named Jerome

He took Rudolph to the forest

And took him via the chocolate road

Then one foggy Xmas Eve

Santa Caught them in the act

"Rudolph, I normally don't swing that that

But let me tap it from the back"

So now Santa's A Swinger

And Rudolph's nose is red as hell

So next Xmas eve when you see them

Their Secret to your mom you...can...tell

Finally...

Episode IV:

We Wish You A Merry...Whatever

We Wish You A Merry Christmas

You know what we want to say this

We couldn't get a crap-mas

Cuz We don't give a crap

No Xbox, No Wii

No frickin' money

Can't Find A Damn Job

Let's Shoot the Easter Bunny

(repeat chorus)

I told you mother

She is so fat

Her lunch box is a refrigerator

And I think she ate the cat

(repeat the chorus)

Hey Phil, your kids

They ain't even that cute

Oh By the way, they ain't yours

The Daddy's Name is Beirut

We Wish You A Merry Christmas

Let me bend over so you can kiss this

And go ahead and eat shit

And throw up Miller on the New Year!

Peace and good will...and lucky lottery numbers on Xmas Eve.

Death, Life, and New Positions

I live across the street from a cemetery. It is located at a point where unless I totally drive out of the way, I will always go past the bloody thing (well, the residents have had ALL of their blood drained out before "moving in", but well, that's another story).


For as long as I can remember, I've been obsessed with my inevitable departure from this world. I ever so often read obituaries, or as I drive by the cemetery, I always glance towards it to see if some other soul has heard the call to answer for their sins (or get reincarnated, or whatever it is a person who has passed believed in before their time card got punched).


Yeah, I know it is "mentally irregular" (alright Rock-O!) to spend the small amount of time that I have on this earth to ponder these things, but hell, it is gonna happen...why NOT think about it, right? I guess the reason that I ponder this so much is that, well, there are a lot of regrets I have personally in my life that I wish I could correct. Also, going back to the whole "what you believe" thing, I guess I am a bit nervous on what happens after the Grim Reaper stops my sexiness.


I read an interesting blog (damn my memory for not bloody remembering who wrote it) where the author and two of her friends starting discussing what happens after one dies (in a religious/logical sense). I thoroughly enjoyed reading this post, as that it has been my obsession for so bloody long. I actually just left a wake of a "friend's" father who died suddenly at the young age of 57, and as that corpses give me the creeps (and I dream about them for weeks), I tried not to look at the casket...but, sadly, my obsession with the end of life (and what is left behind) caused me to glance at the man several times during my hour visit.

I know I probably sound like a person who you don't want to babysit your kids (then again, based on my earlier postings, I bet you were thinking that already). I guess it comes down to my thoughts of, well, if death truly is the end of life....

WHAT IS THE HELL THE POINT OF US BEING HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE?

I mean, let's figure this out...let's say, God (Or Allah, Buddha, Jehovah, or whatever Deity you choose to insert) willing I have, say, another 42 years on this early, and I get to the dirty swimming pool of worm feeders in my 80's. My son's will be in their 40's, and we'll assume the oldest (as that the youngest has Down Syndrome, and the chances of him having kids are fairly slim) has a couple of kids of his own (and 15 or so more others he doesn't choose the claim; hell, the kid is going to be a putang magnet), and I am lucky enough to know them till they have great memories of me (or they think I am a tick on a dirty pube...whatever). My son, due to good health and modern medical technology, lives to be as old as I was, and he gets his casket thang on. His kids will remember their dad, and perhaps remember me, their grandfather. Then they have kids...

Guess what?

At this level of the game of life, I officially do not matter, because that generation won't give two last rites about my fairly rotted ass.

So, what is life then, right? I mean, we all are going to be dead a lot longer than we will be vertical and ventilating.

I guess my obsession with my own end comes from a combination of fearing that agnostics and atheist are right, and what I am just fades away...destroyed like anti-matter, and oh f'ing well.

Or, if what my mama said was right...I have a lot (a wholllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllle lot) to answer for, and I won't get smart enough in time to get things right before my soul becomes that eternal pig on Satan's spit.

Let's not forget reincarnation...hell, I am hoping to come back as a white man with major paper...with the same sized penis as I have now (hey, it's fab, OK? Chicks dig it like Tic-Tacs...correction, have DUG it...my wife has the copyright, and I lose 2/3's on the refund).

Ultimately, it probably sucks to no longer exist, totally unavoidable as it is.

But...

If I DIDN'T die, and say, everyone else does...

Would I want to live and be alone?

Check out "The Green Mile" with Tom Hanks. Loved that flick. His character, due to some magical circumstance, got to see everyone he loved die, because he got the "gift" of outliving everyone else.

You'd think that would be cool, right?

My fear of death and what happens, unless I find some peace in religion or whatever, will continue for as long as I have time on this earth. But when it comes to it, if I get to help make my kids good adults, and they repeat those lessons, I guess in a way, albeit for a short time in the millennium, I can matter.

Besides...

...Being the last one standing is even scarier.

Geeks, Ugly Folks, Losers, The Socially Inept- Face It, You're Screwed (Or, well, not screwed most cases)...

Hello.

I wanted to take a little bit of time during this joyous, no job having, broke as hell, about to lose your homes, your husband sleeping with a hermaphrodite-doing (because he figured he was still sort of just hanging with the guys, yet get his "ho, ho, ho" jollies in at the same time) to talk to my fellow citizens to discuss something that I feel is of vital importance (well, I thought it was at the time this idea came to me, but that is another bowl of egg nog and vomit).

While enjoying a fine breakfast at the brand new IHOP in my area (hell, I know people will ask why I was there, as that I haven't worked in over a year; but my lovely, back-broken overworked spouse still tries her damnedest to, oh, once every couple of months or so, to do something nice for her hubby, as well as for, well, herself, as that she deserves some sort of reward for busting her pa-tooty to keep us afloat), I, as is my norm, began to survey the other patrons in the establishment (as well as see if this IHOP location had cute waitresses; yes, I know I am married, and I had no plans for trying to acquire a mistress; one, I love my wife, and two, my wife makes good money and no putang is worth that sort of financial downgrade) who were enjoying in what my humble opinion are the best pancakes money can buy.

As I was getting along with my warm-syrup eatin' pancake gluttony, I saw across the room this middle-aged fellow, extremely average looking, looking at one of those lovely electronic readers, chuckling to himself as he moved his rather thick glasses back onto his nose. His hair was somewhat disheveled, with a bit of grey mixed in as he continued to eat his pancakes, and read whatever he was reading...

Alone.

Now normally I would think nothing of it if it was, say, a mid-summers day and for, hell, all I know his wife was working on this particular day, and he was another schmuck like me who was stuck without a job...

...and who also had expensive toys, like his little item in his hand, probably reading "Harry Potter and His Mommy's Exceptionally Large Clitoris" (or whatever those books are called).

But, it is currently the Christmas season, and despite the economic downturn (ok, we are two upchucks and blown snot across the room from being in a full-blown depression, kids), most folks still pick this time of year to be, well, not in a restaurant eating pancakes and reading electronic books, but rather spending time with folks they normally don't get to see but once a year. So, for a moment, it struck me as odd.

As I turned away my gaze from this sappy fellow and concentrated on feeding my nearly 3 year old preschooler-to-be his breakfast, memories of my high school days came flooding back to me...a fit 180 lb teenager with a total lack of confidence, virginity intact until his first few months of college, and a total social reject loser, sitting at a local restaurant in The Bronx during lunch, alone...

..and listening to a Walkman instead of an electronic book, circa 1980's.

Sigh.

My friends, the universe abhors a vacuum, and the same thing applies to humanity as well.

There will always be rich folks, and there will always be poor folks (with the middle class, well, in the U.S; other countries is is just one extreme to the other, fronting the majority of the debt), despite the lack of sense that a country (like the aforementioned USA) with so much money cannot bloody distribute it's wealth (gotta love the Old, WASP-Y Old Boys Club; there would be no recession/depression/Chaka-Khan-sion/WTF ever-sion if they stopped given the old farts more money after they lost their own...hello AIG?).

There will always be "The Beautiful Ones" (baby, baby, baby!) and the ones who couldn't get a date if they bought a calender. Smart ones and those who will need other dumb ones to change a light bulb.

Not fair, but it is what it is.

Losers, ugly folks, idiots, geeks, and so forth are here to, sadly, be ridiculed, picked on, not touched by women who actually have discernible breasts and a full set of teeth (or men who actually would qualify for at least cute, so not to be sexist on either side of the coin), and basically to be, well, sitting in IHOP's and reading a book that doesn't have pages.

Unless you are, well, Bill "I can buy any piece of tail I wanted, but besides Windows, the only other mistake I made was picking this chick as my wife" Gates, or have "paper" like him, y'all are just screwed; doomed to be either to date/marry someone JUST like you, so that you can restock the loser/social reject/geek species, or to be alone, period.

Now, as in all things, this isn't an absolute fact. I had a friend with the initials "CR", who was, well, shit-stinking ugly. I loved the guy to death, but this dude made Mon-Chi-Chi's looked sexy. But, this dude was so confident in himself, he made himself into a hell of a salesman, with pristine credit, 2 kick-ass houses, and a sicccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccck hot wife. Before he got married, he made a certain garden tool ask for permission to use the term "ho."

He didn't sleep with ugly chicks (well, there were a couple of girls that I wouldn't do with a dead white man's penis); he was a true player in every sense of the word.

Now, of course, money probably helped a great deal (as that he seemed to have plenty of it); but some of these women usually required that you were at least an "8" on the "hottie" scale, as that anything less would bring them down on the social scale. But he re-wrote the playbook, and did it well.

There are always exceptions to every rule.

However, on the most part, it isn't going to happen for you, people.

I was once one of you, and in a lot of ways, I still am. Only people who call my phone are as follows...

1. Mom and Dad
2. My In-Laws
3. Bill Collectors

And No. 3 is the most prominent ringer of my telephone.

I have 2 dear friends who I see maybe once a year. The only time I was "semi-popular" was when I went to parties formed by other lonely folks back in AOL's heyday. Once I got married, they scattered as if one was asked for jury duty.

Hell, ultimately the only reason I blog is to share my skewed view with people who don't know me, and I've had, what...less than 500 visitors so far?

Hell, there's a blog called "Why Women Hate Men" (a very funny blog, BTW) that has had close to a half-million visitors in the 5 months its been up.

As I said, the universe abhors a vacuum.

Sadly, for those who got the crap sperm-shoot of geek/loser/ugly-dom, you just got "puzzle-pieced" in the wrong section of the big picture.

Deal with it, and either buy electronics (like I do), get some lotion and imagine a girlfriend named "Sweet Sue BlowMe", or, well...

Accept who you are and be happy. 'Tis about the only thing you can control in this life.

Peace and KY is not a good substitute for a conversation.

"It's Nothing Personal"...yeah right, bite me!

"It's Nothing Personal."

One of the weakest excuses in human history.

I was in a store, looking at shit that I can no longer afford (i.e. Best Buy, my haven of electronic orgasmic pleasure...well, "Fry's" is better, but hell, guys orgasms are a dime a dozen anyway...let's move on!) where I hear these other shoppers (and by all of the crap they had in their shopping carts, they have, well, JOBS) talking about someone they knew, and the one guy is like ripping the diarrhea spew out of someone they obviously both knew. The back end of the convo I was not eavesdropping on when like this...

"...well John is like a total jack-off...nothing personal against the guy, but damn!"

OK...lesse...so, he's an hand grasping a penis in a up and down motion, with the hope of causing Mount St. Semen's after several strokes (or a couple for you 2 minute fellows), and his friend/co-worker/whatever follows such a blow with "it's nothing personal."

Hey, jacking off is as personal as one can get, don't ya think?

Being compared to the act is even more so.

People should like, well, have the pubes length to speak their minds, without trying to use such a backhanded apology as "nothing personal."

You just called your boss ass spew....but it's nothing personal.

You said that your wife's crotch smells like rotting flesh in 100 degree heat...but hell, that's nothing personal.

You said that your best friend's mother is so fat she uses a refrigerator for a lunchbox...nah, just constructive criticism due to your concern about her slight obesity problem, right?

C'mon, grow some boobies! (hey, everyone says "grow a pair"; I am thinking outside of the box).

If you are going to be some rude, sticky, yellow sputum, don't hide behind some wanna-be save. Just call it as it is!

Hell, if you think your friend's girlfriend is a raving whore, tell him so!

Your mom's pie tastes like that nasty chick you went down on the weekend before Thanksgiving, leave her a note!

Your girlfriend when she goes down on you gets her braces stuck in her short hairs, slap her on the back of her head to let her know (and, beyond ripping a few of those puppies out, setting her free from the man-bush; explain that to the paramedics, huh?)

Ultimately it just English and society's way to use words to soften what may be the truth. If you don't like someone or something about them, why the hell are you trying to protect their feelings?

I mean, hell...if someone told me that I was a big headed, broke ass, fat-bellied, wanna be writer who just wasn't funny and I should go work at McDonald's, well....

I'd tell them to go screw a light socket with a bucket of KFC and hemorrhoid cream on the side.

Nothing personal, of course.

What the hell are they putting in children's books?

Wow.

For once, I won't talk yer ears off...

However, for the first time in my 6 1/2 years of being a parent, well, I feel like a parent.

Check this picture out; this came out of one of my son's books he had to read for an assignment...

Now, I don't know if you can zoom this in or whatever, but the picture is of a man and a woman, with, well, his tackle hanging, and the "garden" bushing-out on the female.

WTFlyingfizznuts?

I mean, how is this in the children's section of a public library (unless it is actually the "pubic" library)?

And the guy's man pull...doesn't help the stereotypes for white men AT ALL.

And hell, there is only one boob on the chick...like a mastectomy done by Jose Feliciano, with an assist from Ray Charles and Stevie Wonder.

The great mouth has been silenced...at least for a few moments.

And for the first time in my life, I feel my age. And that terrible genital-like itch called...geech...

RESPONSIBILITY.

Sigh.

What's The Difference? All Bras Hold Up The Same...Not!

Dear Women of the World:


This is G. Eric Francis, the purveyor to nil when it comes to my spittle...I wanted to write to you in reference to, well, one of my favorite things in the world. I mean, even since I was, oh, 8 years old, I have been fascinated by it...its different shapes, styles, colors, clasps, and all around goodness (and issues fighting gravity as time passes in one's lifetime). An attractive piece will make me drink your bathwater even if you were bleeding at that time of the month (hell, its just like Kool-Aid, isn't it?) while the grandmother special will, well, I'll still look, but then I won't look at a map the same ever again, as the veins and wrinkles on the package it contains remind me of the map of California.

Ladies, I am talking about da boulder holders, the man pillow guardians, the Vickie of the Secrets...the incredible, snap unhooking braaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaasiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeere!!


Da bra.


Yeah, it seems silly, a man of my age writing a post about undergarments as he is some horny teenager, trying to see if the girl he's checking out is wearing a leopard print special with matching panties. But for whatever reason, a woman's choice of undergarment, especially when I was single, was a big determining factor if I would continue to pursue the woman or not. But one of my big interests (and downfalls a lot of times in my life) has been the female gender (like most men), and their physical attributes, and the packaging involved.


Let me tell you a story...I mentioned in one of my previous blogs about a young lady named Juliet that was my first truly great love. She was also the young lady whom I first went beyond a kiss with. Juliet, I found, had a propensity to wear black bras...nothing super fancy, but as black is my favorite color (and it isn't because I am considered as such; I am more of a deep brown, like a well done steak) it was utterly fascinating to me as a 16 year old kid who actually had a girl who wanted to play with my growing grass field and pole vault stick.


Beyond the fact that Juliet had awesome, well, "love stacks", her brassiere, while rather simple (girls didn't do the low cut bras and thongs as they do today...my loss); hell, it was pretty much the "Playtex special" (more on that later), to a 2 time loser like moi , that "cross your heart" was like the bomb. That really got me, well, "hooked" (sorry, bad pun...and I never did the radiator bra removal practicing thing).

Ever since I slipped my first pillow with the fun buttons in the middle out of that "boulder holder", I've been fascinated with this wonderful piece of clothing. I mean, hell, I should of been the guy who thought of "Victoria's Secret." Shit, that is one little "secret" I'd of kept to myself.

So ladies, here is my query...this was prompted by one day while at a department store, I overheard a couple of women who were, well, "past their firmness prime" (those puppies were like making nipple dents on the floor from bouncing south every time those two took a step, OK?), discussing what is the best bra for their purposes.

OK...

Isn't a bra, like, well, a bra?

Let's look at the definition of the brassiere, shall we?

A Bra is...

"a woman's undergarment for covering and supporting the breasts [from brassiere]."

Sooooooooo....

Why is there a discussion on this? I mean, hell, this is the way I see it...

At the age of, say, 10 to 13, unless u have some sort of "Boobsplosion", u r gonna be doing the training bra thing. Nothing sexy about those...unless u name is R. Kelly.


From 14 till about, say, 30...these are the prime brassiere years...because, unless u are so fat that one cannot tell where the breasts begin and the stomach ends, these are when those girls are up, firm, and ready to be packaged like Christmas wrapping. Lace, front closure (my personal favorite; it's like a "Knocks in a box" when you unhook those puppies), different designs, low plunging, the whole carnival of "man pillow" goodness.

Then, sigh....the 30's and beyond...gravity becomes Satan, and unless you and silicon have a close personal relationship like Christians do with Jesus, then the support issues come into play, and the pretty, fun wrapping is replaced with fruit cake variety boredom.

I bet you are thinking...this pig doesn't have a clue. And u r probably right. My wife is rather, well, "busty", and she has made me swear to take a hatchet to her lovelies if I ever win the lottery. While this would make me sad, I guess they are murdering her back. (Of course, I plan to package the cut-off portions in a mason jar, so that I can stare at them and sigh, remembering the good times I had with them).

Now her trade off for doing this for her is that she claims she would get sexier brassieres for my visual pleasure. Which, while it would make me happier than a lobster jumping out of a Red Lobster before death, it still brings me back to my question...

What's the difference?

Well, I guess this proves why men are, well, stupid.

You ladies have bras for support, for breastfeeding, for seduction, to avoid "THO's" (if ya don't know what that is, you better ask somebody). It also goes along with putting on makeup to get friggin' bread, or doing the laundry, cleaning the house, or all the other things you have to do because men either mess it up or are too lazy to do it (playing with their testes while watching the game). So, I probably have no right to ask such a question, as that I have no idea what a pain in the ass breasts are to you.

So, I depart with this...while I appreciate the front closure, black model with boobage flowing out special, as that I have no clue how to deal with carrying up to 20 lbs each (for those Dolly Parton girls without the help Dolly got; c'mon, at 60+, no way those puppies sit up like that with just super bra-straps), or leaking when your kid is hungry, or getting the shit squeezed out of them in the hopes you don't find a lump, I will leave my question unanswered...unless you care to answer it for me...

In the meanwhile, I once again tip my hat to the crap women have to deal with on a daily basis. No way u r the "weaker sex."

(Note, for those women who are under "C" cup size, you don't have an excuse. Get a Vicky Secrets card, ok?"

The Un-Politically Correct Domain

You know, domain-ites, if this blog was actually read by more people than my siblings, my Mom (who, being a Devout Christian female, hates my spittle; now if we were a Kentucky family, she'd think my spittle would be sexy...ok, made myself sick there, let's move on!) perhaps folks would of noticed that for the first time in my young blogging career I let more than 48 hours pass when I didn't share my funkydopeflynessoffthefizzhizzlenizzleness observations with the world.

I needed therapy, I'll send you the bill for the bottle of Jack Daniels I can no longer drink because I've been "domesticated" (i.e., married and more mature; OK, married, the mature part was utter bullshit).

Anyway, just for leaving me be, I am going to rap about something that, well, bugs me a little bit...and probably will tick off the few people who bother to check out my blog (and will probably cause another well intentioned phone call from my mom about the subjects I care to share with the world on this thing).

You see, I have a special needs child, who is the most adorable kid EVER (at least in my humble opinion). Yesterday my wife and I went to his future school so he can be evaluated by therapist so we can put together an education plan for the little tyke. While answering a myriad of questions from the 3 ladies in the room, our little "disabled" child started to blow us away by doing things that we didn't think he could do, because, well, he's "special."

The kid has Down Syndrome...but good lord, he, beyond being developmentally delayed, is friggin smart, and the little half-breed (hey, I'm his dad; I can call him that) has been holding out on us.

Totally impressed his future teacher and therapist...and his folks, too.

Now, based on their observations, he is about at the level of an 18 month old kid.

He'll be 3 next month.

Does that mean he'll never do anything in life? Hell no...hell, he could be the first DS president, or a porn star...personally, I am hoping for the porn...his daddy, while he cannot touch, will be more than willing to sit in as a camera man.

(Hey, don't think I'm creepy...i used to change the kid's diapers,and silicone looks so lovely under proper lighting).

Anyway, onto my point.

There was a commercial when I was kid that stated "words hit like a fist...don't hit your kid." Always stuck with me, 'cuz words when I was growing up have had a negative impact on my life...it's the old saying that if you hear something enough times, you'll begin to believe it.

Now my boy I am sure as he goes through school will be picked on, and will be called ignorant shit like "retard" and the like, even though the boy isn't retarded (and even if he was, so what; it is part of who he is; more on that in the finale of this flick).

However, there are facts that even I as his dad I cannot ignore.

He will probably (operative word being PROBABLY; this kid sat up and tried to get out of his crib 5 hours after major heart surgery...I put nothing past that Mofo) be behind other kids. It's a fact; tis the cards he was dealt.

He will be lucky to hit 5 feet, and probably will be under that. So, sadly, he won't be able to save my pitiful New York Knicks...too bad, cuz he can catch and pass like a son-of-a-gun.

In short, my kids is different due to an extra chromosome. It makes him what he is...a little behind mentally, shorter than most kids, and a possible victim for some jackass kid (or kids) in the future.

But he is also the sweetest kid, gives the best kisses and hugs, and has already touched plenty of lives...

And he's just getting started.

He has Down's...it sucks. But I don't treat him any differently than anyone else. I used to, but someone got me over it. If he screws up, he gets punished just like my other knot-headed "normal" boy.

I've booed and covered my ears as a bunch of DS kids sang at a walk to raise funds for the local chapter of the DS support groups here.

They sucked...they were tone deaf; it was like listening to rapid fire farts in a tin can.

What? Was I supposed to be nice and applaud because they have Down's?

They couldn't sing...perhaps they would be better as architects, or artists, or hell, even as a guitar player in a band if they loved music that much.

But just because they were born differently doesn't mean I should treat them with kid's gloves.

Politically correctness is stupid. I don't support being mean spirited and evil to those with disabilities is f'd up, and I don't support it.

But hey, "handicapped" folks...if you can't move your toes because of a disease or accident or whatever, you're crippled.

Does that make me any better than you?

Hell no!

A "crippled" girl was my great heartbreak...has had negative effects on my life even today.

Oh, and last I heard (via my lovely college's alumni magazine) she was a big shot in the publication department of a Fortune 500 company (after graduating with a Journalism Degree), had a couple of kids, and was quite happily married.

While my "walking" ass can't even get a phone call for an interview, and have to hope for unemployment extensions from the Federal Government.

Remember the controversy surrounding last summer's comedy "Tropic Thunder?" The entire "retarded" comments and t-shirt crap?

Certain people really need to stop being so damned sensitive.

There are retarded folks on this planet. It's a fact...due to whatever reason, they got a bad hand of cards. However, as in any other group of people, there are really smart ones that do well in this world, and there are those who push the carts out of the parking lots at your local grocery store.

The wonderful thing about comedy is that it allows folks to laugh at all parts of life...and did anyone ask a "retarded" person if he or she laughed at the inane comments in the film, thinking to themselves "That Ben Stiller is a dumbass!"

I am sure there are a few folks who disabilities out there who took it for what it was...a joke.

People, there are plenty of "normal" folks who are either too lazy, too uninspired, or just don't give a crap to make something better of themselves.

"Normal" and "non-conformity" are a matter of opinion, domain-ites.

There are stupid people, folks with no damned sense, and losers. Just the way it is. And there folks in wheelchairs who can do anything (Umm, FDR, anyone? I believe he had a pretty good job before he passed away...and he didn't do too much jogging), and there are those who sit around feeling sorry for themselves.

Folks who cannot move from the neck down, or from the waist down, or from the penis down...whatever, they have a CRIPPLING condition that 99% likely will be there for the rest of their lives.

But let me throw out some more names here.

Christopher Reeve, who proved in his too shortened life that he was a true "Superman"...and had to friggin breathe through a straw.

Chris Burke, who travels all over the country going to every Down Syndrome walk in the U.S.; a fine actor (and a constantly working one; check out his IMDB info (and the quote on it is one of the funniest I've heard in my lifetime).

But Mr. Reeve was crippled, and Mr Burke has Down's.

A fact is a fact. But they didn't let their shortcomings stop them from changing the world, and how it sees folks like them.

Sort of like Dr. King...or, more recently, the soon to be 44th president of the United States.

Not bad for folks who, supposedly, can only rob, steal, and not support their 42 kids.

Words hit like a fist...remember I mentioned that? Words only hurt for 3 reasons...one, if it is the truth. Two, if you start to believe it is the truth. And finally, if you let them hurt you.

A final point (or 12, knowing me), then I am going to go groom my pubic hairs (they look lovely with jheri curls).

First, I am sure that folks will throw back into my face "well, how come we can't call you 'colored' then" or something like that.

Well, for one (assuming that it would be a white person who said it), Caucasians turn more "colors" than any black person (black and blue, ghostly white, pale and pasty when you croak, etc).

It is an inaccurate description...and, as I mentioned earlier, it's all "PC" crap.

I am a man whose descendants are from Africa. Beyond that...and well, having a deadly weapon in my pants (not due to color or stereotypes; I am just, well, good...lol) I am only different because I am an individual...as is every other Black, White, Hispanic, and so forth person.

Same thing should apply to someone who needs wheels to get around, or due to a bad mix of genetics can't do certain things...they are still individuals.

Finally, the mind is what makes anyone and everyone who they are, what they can accomplish, and what they want it to be, if they choose to use it. A person shouldn't need to be protected by politically correct statements. For either those folks who have a disability, whether it is mental or physical, or its a cultural or lifestyle kind of thing, it is what it is. Hurtful things like the "n" word, or thinking a mentally delayed person is "stupid" or a crippled person is useless just makes the world (if it looks beyond the words) think that the person who's saying it is deathly afraid of it happening to THEM.

Besides, attempting to make a person feel better about inherited (or otherwise) conditions by making "pretty"words ain't gonna, say, make a person get up from their chair and duplicate one of the dance scenes from "Footloose."

In this example, they are crippled...physically.

Doesn't mean they can't conquer the world...

Or run a country...

Or be a great actor...

Or be a cute little nearly 3 year old who shouldn't shock his parents anymore...he's already proved he can do anything...labeled or not.

(Update to da blog on December 10th 2008): I just watched about 25 minutes of "Tropic Thunder" before shutting it off and returning it to Blockbuster. Yes, I can see why folks with or supports of those with disabilities would be offended by the "Simple Jack" thing. However, I stills stand by this blog's words...you are what you believe to be, and while a disability may make things more difficult, it's up to you what type of quality your life is to be. I hope, of course, never to find out what it is like not to walk, or have some sort of brain trauma, or whatever...but looking at my son, and what's he's been through (and what I am sure he'll have to deal with), he'll live...and propser...oh, beside the fact that it was offensive, the movie was just f'ing stupid...:) Ben Stiller, you can do better, bud.