Return of SpongeBob Vega$pants

Return of SpongeBob Vega$pants

When we last left our hero, he had survived a horrible snubbing by toupeed Priceline.com pitchman and former stock-holding billionaire WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER, only to be verbally attacked by a disgruntled Star Trek fan.
Let’s go to the tape…
THIS IS THE MOST FAN UNFRIENDLY CONVENTION I HAVE EVER BEEN TO!”
And she storms away.
What the fuck?
Well, at least it can only get better, right?
Right, it can, and it does. Lots of people come by, people of varying ages, nationalities, sanity, and levels of costumery. I sign pictures of the young, geeky Wesley Crusher. I sign posters of the Teen Heart-throb that I’m told I once was. I sign posters that I’m not even on, in silver because everyone else did, accepting the apologies from the poster owners that I’m not on the poster. I always answer with the same joke: “That’s okay, you just can’t see me, because I’m on this planet here…” sign, sign. They laugh, and feel good, and I repeat the same ritual for the next 3 hours, for close to a thousand people. In all of this, there is really only one person who just freaks me out, and it only lasts for a few minutes, and I let security know, and we’re all okay again.
You know the cool thing? There are these fans who came over from Germany, and some of them are girls, and they are HOT. And they tell me, in broken English, how much they love me. Oh yeah, tell me some more baby. Tell daddy how you love him.
What?
I am so sorry. I have no idea where that came from. I apologize.
Speaking of broken English, there are 20 Japanese kids, all together, who’ve come over from Tokyo for the show. And they are, each and every one of them, totally cool. They are so excited, and having such a great time. The girls ask me if I’d please sign their names on it, and I do, and they giggle, and bow, and blush, and thank me, over and over. For a second, I feel like a rockstar. Then I look up, and the face that’s looking back at me is this guy who’s like 40, and he’s wearing a spacesuit that’s a little too small, and he’s made up like one of those blue guys with antennae from the original Star Trek. Andorians, I think they’re called. And I am rocked back from my “Almost Famous” fantasy, back into “Galaxy Quest” (at least it’s not “Trekkies“, right?)
Oh, this was so damn cool. One of the Japanese kids was a boy, about my height, and he comes up to me and says that his friends tell him that he looks exactly like me. That they tell him that I am his twin.
Last time I checked, I wasn’t Japanese, but I’m not about to dump on this guy, so I look at him, and I say, “Dude. You are so right. It’s like I’m looking in a mirror!” He turns to his friends, says something in Japanese, and they all share and excited murmur. I felt like I made the guy’s morning, which was cool. He asked me to sign his Wesley Crusher action figure, which I do, with the following inscription: “To Tamako,[I think that was his name] my long lost twin brother: Don’t Panic! -Wil Wheaton”
That was really cool.

Tangent: It’s wierd being a “celebrity”. People tend to give celebrities more attention than normal people. They seem to think that if you’re on TV, or play a sport, your opinion is somehow more valid than the guy sitting next to you…I’ve never subscribed to this ideal, because I’ve met tons of celebrities in my life, and most of them are really, really, REALLY, lame, and not very smart. Especially the athletes.
Well, one of the cool things about celebrity that I can touch people’s lives, in some ways. I mean, there are people who are so into TV or whatever, that just by meeting me, or one of the other Trek people, they get super excited. That’s why I think it’s so important that we’re not dicks to them. Don’t get me wrong, if you’re scary, and freaky and wierd, I’m gonna get rid of you as fast as I can. I don’t care how many tribbles you have…but sometimes, I get to meet someone, like the guy who said I was his twin, and just by being cool, I can make him really, really happy. I really like that.
I have always said that if I take 30 seconds to sign a picture or a napkin or something, and it makes someone really happy, I am the biggest asshole on earth, I mean, WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER big, if I don’t do it.
So let this tangent be a notice to all you future superstars out there: Whether you asked for it or not, once you’re a celebrity, you *are* a role model, because people pay attention to you. So don’t be a dick. And sign autographs with a smile, and make people feel good for coming up to you, because, believe it or not, they were scared to do it, and you’ve got a chance to leave them feeling good, or feeling like shit. Pop quiz, asshole:some nervous guy comes up to you, and asks you if you’ll sign his book. What do you do? What do you do?!
/tangent

So the signing goes on.
And on.
And on.
And It gets closer and closer to 1:30, when I am supposed to leave, so I can rehearse with my group for our show, but there are still something like 150 people who still haven’t gotten their autographs. And I know, that as you get towards the end of the line, your signature degrades. Your humor slows down. You feel tired and worn out, and you just don’t have what the fans deserve. I know it, and it sucks, and I work VERY hard to treat the last 150 the same as the first 150, but sometimes, you’re just not physically able.
So I made a choice: I decided to leave, and get those 150 people the next day. I was going to be there all weekend, and stuff, and I figured that if I signed those people’s stuff tomorrow, they would get a refreshed, funny, cool me, rather than the top of my head (which, I understand the gay community has wanted for years. Sorry guys.).
But there was a risk: I mean, most of these people want to hate me. Don’t forget that. They’ve spent the last 14 years building me up to be this awful thing, and they reallly need me to validate that for them, by being a dick, or vapid, or whatever. I was nervous that this leaving would give them exactly what they were looking for.
So I stood up, and made an announcement:
“Guys! I was told I’d be done by 1PM.”
The grumbling begins.
“It’s now 1:30, and I’m supposed to be rehearsing with my sketch group right now.”
The grumbling gets louder, their sense of entitlement now roused.
“But I’ll be here all weekend, and I’ll sign whatever you want tomorrow. If I don’t go now, the show will suck.”
And an amazing thing happens. They all let me go, with good humor. They weren’t sad at all. They were actually singing. They sang without posters! They sang without pictures! They sang without autographs, blasters and fixtures!
So I left, and got back to the hotel.
And because I was late, the group had gone and done other things, like gambling, without me.
So I took a nap. One of those naps that lasts only 30 minutes, but feels like a whole night’s sleep.
I woke up, ate, showered, changed, packed my bags with costumes and props, and headed back to the con for the show.
=NEXT=
THE TALK
THE SHOW
RANDOM TANGENTS!
CHILLS!
THRILLS!
And, of course, Andy Rooney.

King of the world

King of the world

This is so cool.
I was very moved by the post from Salon that I, uh, borrowed.
So I emailed the author, and told him:

To: [email protected]
Subject: Flag
Mr. King,
Thank you for giving words to the feelings I have inside.
I was so moved by your writing, I copied it, and posted it at my own site.
Hope that’s okay. I included links to the original, and a mailto: link to you.
You’ve moved a lot of people. If you want to read their comments, they are here: http://www.wilwheaton.net/greymatter/archives/00000054/*.php#comments
Sincerely and admiringly,
Wil Wheaton
*
WIL WHEATON DOT NET
50,000 monkeys at 50,000
typewriters can’t be wrong.

http://www.wilwheaton.net

*

See, I would have just included the link to Salon, but I think that people are more likely to read something that’s right in front of them, rather than click a link, and I really wanted all of you to see this.
Here’s the cool thing: King wrote back:

To: Wil
Subject: Re: Flag
Wil,
Thanks. As you note on your site, our lawyers (actually, our person in
charge of rights and syndication — we can’t really afford lawyers these
days) frown on this sort of thing, but I found your Web site so charming
and fun that I won’t tell them if you won’t.
Cheers.
king

Isn’t that cool?!
So here’s the deal. Don’t tell anyone, okay?

Rally round the flag?

Rally round the flag?

I read this at Salon tonight. Read it quick, before some lawyer comes here and makes me take it down.
Rally round the flag?
I love Old Glory. I just wonder if I can take it back from the creeps who’ve waved it all my life.
– – – – – – – – – – – –
By King Kaufman
Sept. 18, 2001 | I’m wrestling with the American flag.
It’s everywhere now: tiny ones riffling on car antennas, medium ones waving from porches, giant ones yawning from cranes. People are wearing them. Every Old Navy flag shirt ever bought has been pulled out of the drawer this week, and Stars and Stripes ‘do rags are all the rage.
There’s no flag flying on my porch. I don’t have a flag, and they’re hard to come by these days anyway — not that I’ve tried to get one. And if I had one, I can’t figure out if I’d fly it or not.
See, Old Glory and I, we go way back, and we’ve had our problems.
For most of my life, the American flag has been the cultural property of people I can’t stand: right-wingers, jingoists, know-nothing zealots. It’s something that hypocritical politicians wrap themselves in. It’s something that certain legislators would make it a crime to burn — a position that’s an assault on the very freedom that the flag represents. It’s something brandished at times like these by idiots who say things like, “Let’s go over there and burn those rag-heads!”
During the Gulf War, I hated the American flag. It was everywhere then, too, on porches and car antennas and over the left breast of every uniformed athlete, all in support of a war I and many others thought to be immoral.
But I also love the flag. Seeing it stirs something in me, even when I’m mad at it, or disagree with those who wave it. I am, after all, an American, and despite being opposed to every single military adventure this nation has undertaken in my lifetime, I’m a patriotic one at that.
For me, though, patriotism is more about the freedom to criticize the government than it is about waving a piece of red, white and blue laundry around and singing “God Bless America.” It’s about loving our shared national personality — aggressive, impulsive and open, unimpressed with such Old World nonsense as royalty. It’s about feeling at home in a country where the first question asked of new acquaintances is not “Where are you from?” but “What do you do?”; where a loutish baseball star can sit next to a president and say, “Hot as hell, ain’t it Prez?” and be loved all the more for it. It’s about loving this country’s crazy cultural stew — that “melting pot” that we give ourselves more credit for than we should, but that really does exist.
For me, statements like “America right or wrong” or “America: Love it or leave it,” a chestnut from my childhood, are the antithesis of what this country is all about. And those are the sentiments that the flag has come, over many years, to represent for me.
So you’ll be surprised to hear that I have an American flag shirt, and maybe surprised to hear that I sometimes wear it — without irony! — on occasions such as the Fourth of July. First of all, it’s a hell of a shirt since, after all, it’s a Grand Old Flag. But I also like what it says. It says I’m an American. Not for me the pretentious Europhile weenieness that sometimes plagues my fellow middle-class American white boys. I’m a proud son of the country that’s produced Bart Simpson and Ambrose Bierce, Robert Johnson and Abe Lincoln, Michael Jordan and Doc Holliday. Bruce Springsteen said something in his “Born in the U.S.A.” days that stayed with me: “That’s my flag too.” How did the Republicans and the gun nuts and the xenophobes co-opt it?
There are two kinds of patriots: The “God Bless America” kind and the “This Land Is Your Land” kind. I’m the latter.
On the surface, the songs sound similar: simple melodies with lyrics about America’s natural beauty, the mountains and deserts and “oceans white with foam” in one; the Redwood forests, Gulf Stream waters and “sparkling sands of her diamond deserts” in the other.
But that’s only because we don’t sing all the verses that Woody Guthrie wrote in his song, an answer to “God Bless America,” which he hated for its sentimentality and dumb, blind devotion. Here’s one of the verses school kids don’t sing: “As I was walking, I saw a sign there/And that sign said ‘No trespassing’/But on the other side, it didn’t say nothing/Now that side was made for you and me.” Another verse has “my people” at the relief office, “wondering if this land was made for you and me.”
That song’s political and social criticism, its questioning, are also part of what make this country great. These things, as much as our culture, our national personality, our country’s physical magnificence, are what the flag represents to me.
But when I see that flag flying from a neighbor’s porch, I think, “Oh boy, right-wing nut.” And I’m not hearing people singing “This Land Is Your Land” over the last week, though “God Bless America” is everywhere.
While I’m not quite a pacifist, I have a pretty simple, even simplistic view of war: You don’t fight unless you’ve been attacked. So now that this country has been attacked, I agree with the vast majority that some sort of military response is warranted. This is a new feeling for me, this feeling that we’re the good guys and we’re fighting the bad guys. It makes sense that I’d want to fly the good guys’ flag, but that flag comes wrapped around a lot of baggage.
There’s the bell. The wrestling match continues.
salon.com
– – – – – – – – – – – –
About the writer
King Kaufman is a senior writer for Salon.

Son of SpongeBob Vega$Pants

Son of SpongeBob Vega$Pants

When we last left our heroes, they were in a hotel room, on little sleep, somewhere in Las Vega$…
“Mrphhzzzzgggggthphbbt,” was all I could muster.
There was silence on the phone.
“Wil?”
There’s this voice in our heads. That voice that tells you it’s not a good idea to kick that guy, or that you probably should think twice before you take all that shrimp from the Buffet…it’s the self-preservation voice…you know it. My self-preservation voice, and my stay-in-bed voice are currently having this conversation:
“Dude. Mumble again, and go back to sleep. It’ll be okay.”
“What?! You have a commitment to these people! Get up!”
“Gettin’ up is for pussies!”
“If you don’t get up, everyone will hate you.”
“They hate you already! Stay in bed! Hey! Youurreee wiiffeessss innnn bedddd….”
Somehow, I got up. I told them that I’d take a cab, so they didn’t have to worry about that, and I’d see them about 9:45.
Anne gets up, and orders some room service (Which is *always* over priced, so I’m not even going to complain about it) while I take a shower.
So:
Shower.
Coffee.
Eat.
Coffee.
Kiss.
Walk through casino.
Cab.
Convention.
I get to the hotel where they’re doing the show at about 9:55. I’m supposed to start at 10, so I can imagine that they’re freaking out a bit.
I’m right. I wander all over the hotel, giving all of the appropriate Vulcan and Klingon salutes, until I finally find someone from the con, who tells me where to go. Then she shows me where I’m supposed to be.
The autograph thing works like this: some people paid quite a bit of money to get these “golden ticket”-style things, where they’d get the best seats, access to all the extra shows, and they’d get an “in-person” autograph.

Tangent about autographs: I don’t get autographs. I don’t understand the appeal of having someone’s signature on a photo. It’s just not something I’m into. But here’s what I do get: having someone sign something for you means that you get that person’s attention for 30 seconds, and you can tell them how much you like them, or how much you didn’t like them, or whatever. The autograph is secondary. It’s that contact that’s important. At least that’s what I guess about these people, because they paid a lot of money to get their autographs “in-person”.
So the way this works is it’s like an assembly line kinda thing. You come into this long hallway, and there is Michael Dorn, sitting at a table. You give him your ticket and picture (or phaser, or whatever) and he signs it. You go to the next table, and there is Marina Sirits. Ticket. Autograph. Repeat.
Contrary to popular belief, sitting at a table, signing thousands of autographs is really hard. Because it’s not just scrawling my name. It’s stopping and listening to the always excited, sometimes shaking, sweating, scary dude wants to know exactly why I did X on episode Y, and would I please sign his picture in gold, because Marina signed it in silver, and now he wants the men in silver and the women in gold, oh, and I hated your character, and here are 25 reasons why, and I expect an answer for each one of them.
Now, personally, I think this approach, while the only one that really works, has the potential to really suck for the fans. Sure, if you’re in the first 100 or so we see, that’s fine. But towards the end, we start to get tired. Our arms and backs get sore. We begin to lose our voices, and we’re ready to go home. But I do my best. I stay focused, and I remind myself that these fans waited a LONG time, so they are the ones that I need to give the most attention to, when I am the most drained.
End tangent.

So I get to the hallway where we’re set up for autographs, and, as I am walking up the hallway, I see Dorn, Marina, Renee, Kate Mulgrew, and WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER. Shatner has always been a dick to me, but I want to say hi, so I approach them, and I say, “Hi! How you guys doin?”
Everyone returns my greeting, even Kate, who I don’t know, at all. Never even been introduced. Everyone, that is, except WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER! Old toupee-head won’t even look at me! I don’t know what this guy’s problem is, really. I think he’s very funny, I think he’s got a great sense of humor about himself, but he is always a dick to me. So all I can do is just smile, shrug it off, and get set up at my table. On my way there, I hear Kate say, “Could we get some coffee?” The person who is working for the con says, “Sure. There’s a coffe cart in the lobby.” WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER says, “Uh, no. What we need is not just coffee. We need a Starbuck’s run.” Cool, dude. Like this convention staffer isn’t over-worked enough. Good thing there’s a Starbuck’s every 100 feet.
Okay, so I’m at my table, and they send in the flood of fans. I’ve got my game-face on. My pen hand is strong, and I’m ready to be witty, charming, friendly, and make these guys feel like the autograph I’m currently signing is the only one I’ve signed all day.
Here comes the first fan. Okay, she’s not wearing a spacesuit…that’s a good sign. She has a witty Sci-Fi T-shirt on. Also a good sign. She’s about 20 feet away, and I can’t smell her. A VERY good sign.
Here she comes.
“Hi! How you doing today?!” I say.
“AWFUL! THIS IS THE WORST CONVENTION I HAVE EVER BEEN TO! I HATE DAVE SCOTT! I HATE LAS VEGAS! I HATE THIS CONVENTION!”
“Uhh..I think…that…this convention…just started…and…uhh..I’m sure that if you talk to Dave Scott, everyt–”
“DAVE SCOTT IS AN ARROGANT ASSHOLE!”
“Uh…yeah…well, you see, the thing is, I’m sort of not really involved in the planning of this convention, you know? I’m just, like, a guest…maybe you could–”
“THIS IS THE MOST FAN UNFRIENDLY CONVENTION I HAVE EVER BEEN TO!”
And she storms away.
What the fuck?
Well, at least it can only get better, right?
=Next=
MORE AUTOGRAPHS!
ZANY FANS!
THE REHEARSAL THAT WASN’T!
THE TALK!

Why I will not rally around the president

Why I will not rally around the president

This comes from alt.fan.noam-chomsky. I agree whole-heartedly with the author. I realize that this may piss some of you off, and it may cost me some readers, but this whole site is about getting to know me, and who I am. Well, this is part of who I am.

Why I will not rally around the president

Homework

Homework

Two quick things tonight. Not a lot of time to write, because I have a HUGE audition tomorrow (Monday) for a supercool miniseries. So I have a lot of homework to do.
Speaking of homework, here’s yours:
Read this, and get involved.
Read this, and laugh your ass off at one of the coolest things, ever.

Random

Random

My wife and I were driving home from Nolan’s soccer game this morning.
Let me pause here and say how much I love getting up at 6AM on a Saturday, so I can go sit in wet grass and watch overachiever parents scream at their terrified 10 year olds that they’re doing everything wrong. Oh, and I especially love when the assistant coach of the freaking team gets so pissed at the kids for making a mistake that he takes off his hat, throws it to the ground, and stomps on it. For reals. And if that wasn’t enough, when one of the kids missed a fairly easy goal (maybe he was distracred by his father screaming at him to “Kick it, Brandon! Kick it! KICK THE DAMN BALL!”), he actually dropped to the ground in a ball, and pounded his fists against the ground, like Kirk in Wrath of Khan.
Fortunately, Nolan is a phenomenal soccer player, and he doesn’t get yelled at by any of his parents, or the head coach, who happens to be his dad.
But my favorite is the guy who can’t even sit down, beacuse he’s pacing the whole time, screaming at his kid, “David! Get back! NO! Get up! NO! Cover your guy! NUMBER 4 DAVID! COVER NUMBER 4! NO! Don’t look at me!!! NOOOO!!!” Pace. Pace. Smoke. Smoke.
Running a close second is the guy who yelled at his kid, “Alberto! Alberto! You just cost your team a goal! What did we talk about?! WHAT DID WE TALK ABOUT?!”
I have two pieces of advice for those parents:
1) Get a life. They’re 10. It’s not that important.
2) For the benefit of the kids, and all the parents around you, please stay the fuck away from the field, okay? Drop your future Maradona off, go home, and come back when the game is over.
Read the AYSO guide of conduct, recently, guys? I didn’t think so.
What a tool.
Anyway, I’m on the way home with Anne, and this really wussy song comes on the radio, and she says, “Is this The Crash Test Dummies?” (One of the wussiest bands in history, for those of you scoring at home)
“No, it’s Metallica.” I told her.
So if any of you were wondering if Metallica has completey lost it, there you are. I can’t believe that the guys who croak out “Until It Sleeps” are the same guys who gave me whiplash in 95 listening to “Damage Incorporated” and “Master of Puppets”
“Napster bad!”
So are formerly cool metal bands who wuss out.
A change of pace?
Am I the only person who is at once really tired of, yet unable to pull myself away from, the wall to wall converage of the WTC bombing? Apparently not.
But KCBS Channel 2 here in LA has finally stopped running their coverage (I am convinced now that Dan Rather is not a person, but a very complex robot who can stay awake for hundreds of hours in a row. That or he’s a series of clever clones, like in that Droopy cartoon).
The only thing is, they’ve replaced the constant replays of horror and suffering and destruction with…a marathon of Judge Judy.
What?
Belly Buttons
I think that there are few things in this world that are sexier than a flat tummy, in one of those midriff shirts, with a subtle piercing and NO FUCKING WAIST BRACELET. Waist bracelets belong one place, and one place only, and that is on strippers. So if you’re not a stripper, please, please, puh-leeeze. Just say no. You’ll be glad you did.
Anyway, I turn on something like VH1 or something, and they’re playing that Levi’s commercial, where the belly buttons are singing, “I’m coming out”. You know the one. Does that give anyone else the creeps? Somehow, they made those belly buttons look the opposite of sexy. They made them scary. I mean, they made them clown scary.
Clown scary, Chet. Clown scary.

Please Read

Please Read

This is making its way all around, and, sadly, I don’t think the people who really need to read it are capable of that. But, please read it, if you haven’t already, and spend a moment to reflect. It comes to me from Loren.

“I’ve been hearing a lot of talk about “bombing Afghanistan back to the Stone Age.” Ronn Owens, on KGO Talk Radio today, allowed that this would mean killing innocent people, people who had nothing to do with this atrocity, but “we’re at war, we have to accept collateral damage. What else can we do?” Minutes later I heard some TV pundit discussing whether we “have the belly to do what must be done.”
And I thought about the issues being raised especially hard because I am from Afghanistan, and even though I’ve lived here for 35 years I’ve never lost track of what’s going on there. So I want to tell anyone who will listen how it all looks from where I’m standing.
I speak as one who hates the Taliban and Osama Bin Laden. There is no doubt in my mind that these people were responsible for the atrocity in New York. I agree that something must be done about those monsters.
But the Taliban and Ben Laden are not Afghanistan. They’re not even the government of Afghanistan. The Taliban are a cult of ignorant psychotics who took over Afghanistan in 1997. Bin Laden is a political criminal with a plan. When you think Taliban, think Nazis. When you think Bin Laden, think Hitler. And when you think “the people of Afghanistan” think “the Jews in the concentration camps.” It’s not only that the Afghan people had nothing to do with this atrocity. They were the first victims of the perpetrators. They would exult if someone would come in there, take out the Taliban and clear out the rats nest of international thugs holed up in their country.
Some say, why don’t the Afghans rise up and overthrow the Taliban? The answer is, they’re starved, exhausted, hurt, incapacitated, suffering.
A few years ago, the United Nations estimated that there are 500,000 disabled orphans in Afghanistan–a country with no economy, no food.
There are millions of widows. And the Taliban has been burying thesewidows alive in mass graves. The soil is littered with land mines, the farms were all destroyed by the Soviets. These are a few of the reasons why the Afghan people have not overthrown the Taliban.
We come now to the question of bombing Afghanistan back to the Stone Age. Trouble is, that’s been done. The Soviets took care of it already.
Make the Afghans suffer? They’re already suffering. Level their houses? Done. Turn their schools into piles of rubble? Done. Eradicate their hospitals? Done. Destroy their infrastructure? Cut them off from medicine and health care? Too late. Someone already did all that.
New bombs would only stir the rubble of earlier bombs. Would they at least get the Taliban? Not likely. In today’s Afghanistan, only the Taliban eat, only they have the means to move around. They’d slip away and hide. Maybe the bombs would get some of those disabled orphans, they don’t move too fast, they don’t even have wheelchairs. But flying over Kabul and dropping bombs wouldn’t really be a strike against the criminals who did this horrific thing. Actually it would only be making common cause with the Taliban–by raping once again the people they’ve been raping all this time
So what else is there? What can be done, then? Let me now speak with true fear and trembling. The only way to get Bin Laden is to go in there with ground troops. When people speak of “having the belly to do what needs to be done” they’re thinking in terms of having the belly to kill as many as needed. Having the belly to overcome any moral qualms about killing innocent people. Let’s pull our heads out of the sand. What’s actually on the table is Americans dying. And not just because some Americans would die fighting their way through Afghanistan to Bin Laden’s hideout. It’s much bigger than that folks. Because to get any troops to Afghanistan, we’d have to go through Pakistan. Would they let us? Not likely. The conquest of Pakistan would have to be first. Will other Muslim nations just stand by? You see where I’m going. We’re flirting with a world war between Islam and the West.
And guess what: that’s Bin Laden’s program. That’s exactly what he wants. That’s why he did this. Read his speeches and statements. It’s all right there. He really believes Islam would beat the west. It might seem ridiculous, but he figures if he can polarize the world into Islam and the West, he’s got a billion soldiers. If the west wreaks a holocaust in those lands, that’s a billion people with nothing left to lose, that’s even better from Bin Laden’s point of view. He’s probably wrong, in the end the west would win, whatever that would mean, but the war would last for years and millions would die, not just theirs but ours. Who has the belly for that? Bin Laden does. Anyone else?”
-Tamim Amsary

Fuck You, Falwell, and Robertson Can Kiss My Ass

Fuck You, Falwell, and Robertson Can Kiss My Ass

Via Plastic.com via the Washington Post:

Television evangelists Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson, two of the most prominent voices of the religious right, said liberal civil liberties groups, feminists, homosexuals and abortion rights supporters bear partial responsibility for Tuesday’s terrorist attacks because their actions have turned God’s anger against America.

50,000 Monkeys at 50,000 Typewriters Can't Be Wrong

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