Dear Mr. Moore,

As I'm sure you're well aware, another Father's Day has come and gone. There's a certain tradition, if it can be called so, that finds my family seated around our kitchen table. With tender ribs smeared across our sun-burnt faces, we eagerly await the annual Apple Pie. I can imagine that all the references to food are tempting, Mr. Moore, but I ask you to restrain yourself for the time being. Trust me, it never killed anyone to listen for a few minutes - especially without food. As the pie, and the complement of vanilla ice cream, is distributed around, we soak in the atmosphere. Like a homemade crust saturated by the cinnamon apples, we absorb the sunny weather, the warm breezes, and the unbelievable food all in the comfort of our own home. Now, it's certainly not a stretch to say that our family isn't exactly wealthy. Mr. Moore, it's important to this family that our money is earned, and though it may be scarce at times, it's most definitely not undeserved. One could say that my family, with their Apple Pie on a warm Father's Day, is living the American Dream. It seems to me that I can almost hear the excrement dripping from your pants, Mr. Moore. I know that the mere phrasing of "American Dream" has certain effects on your bowel, but please, hear me out.

You're an American, Mr. Moore. Whether you like it or not, you're an American. You live under the same rules (or so one would think) that I do - the same rules that my father lives under. We live under the same banner as our neighbors - the same banner as the men who've died for it. If you think about it, we're not that opposite. However, I probably shouldn't say that. There's a noticeable difference between you and me, and no, it's not the 450 pounds, it's ideology. It's the fact that I'm grateful for what I have, for what I've earned. It's the fact that you aren't. Well, actually, I'm wrong again. I'm sure your grateful for the living you've made, but to what do you owe credit? Do you owe it to your European constituents who have supported your rather weighty backside through every slanderous word you've written and spoken? Perhaps. Perhaps you owe credit to the men who've died so that you may benefit by the free press that they've protected. Perhaps even, and this is purely speculation (something you're quite familiar with), you owe it to yourself. I'm sure that you've been labeled a 'hypocrite' by many of this nation's conservatives. Imagine that. It's an absolute shame. You? Mr. Michael Moore, acclaimed writer and director? The same Michael Moore who promotes distribution of wealth, socialism, and European lifestyles, but still manages to rake in a robust seven-digit pay check at the end of the year. I should probably understand you to live by the 'do as I say, not as I do' philosophy. Come to think of it, I'm wrong again. A humble and soft-spoken man as yourself would never pay himself the respect he deserves.
Thank God for that.

Mr. Moore, I have a simple question for you. I completely understand if you choose not to answer - I know it's rude to talk with your mouth full, so I'll patiently await your reply. Are you too good to be an American? Again, I’ll completely understand if you are. However, let me entice you to our side with facts that you simply cannot deny. America is one of the most obese nations on the globe. Hey, whaddya know, you fit right in! Also, America is the only place where you can truly express your outrageously inconceivable ideas! It's would completely illogical to imagine yourself surviving in Saddam Hussein's Iraq with your journalistic tendencies. But look on the bright side, I'm sure you could convince Saddam to change the Food-For-Oil delivery site to your home address. In all seriousness, I can honestly imagine a resilient fellow, such as yourself, to last all of 30 minutes in Saddam's prisons, but that's not your scene, is it? You'd much rather leave it to the young Americans who die so that you can trash the country they lived in - the country off which you thrive.

Mr. Moore, the American life has suited me just fine, although I may just be another American moron, as you're probably prone to believe. It's rather unfortunate that the men who've died to protect our homes, our honor, aren't alive to witness you, Mr. Moore. However, there is one thing I wish for them. I hope that their coffins are wide - it would be a shame for them to turn over in such a small space. I'm sure you disagree, but I find that the taste of Apple Pie on a warm and breezy day is a tradition worth living for, and apparently one to die for. Yes, this America has done me just fine.

Oh, look at that. There just so happens to be an extra piece of apple pie, draped in the flag you’ve sworn to blaspheme. Mr. Moore, I've saved this piece for you.

You're a smart guy.

You'll know where to shove it.

I'm Right, I Swear I'm Right

Perhaps I'm about to make an alienating statement. Perhaps I'm about to say something I've been meaning to say for a long time. Perhaps none of you give a damn (at least that would explain why I had all of two readers yesterday). The truth is, I really don't understand why pride is something to look down upon. True, Lucifer ultimate downfall was his Pride - his unwillingness to serve at the cost of his personal image. True also, Lucifer's pride is what keeps him going. Of course he knows that he's doomed in the end, we all know that, but his pride, his blood, his what keeps him fighting. Let me clarify that I, in no way, support Satan's actions. That wasn't my intention in using him as an example, and I probably should've steered clear of that path. But I didn't. Too bad.

Pride is something, well, of which to be proud. We make decisions based on pride. What other level of self-consciousness can possibly be reached? Frankly, there is no point that surpasses that of pride. We do things because we don't want to be embarrassed. We don't want to admit defeat - or allow the slightest chance for weakness to be shown. Can love and pride ever be entwined? Yes. Sadly enough, they pass glances only in broken hearts. Love can not truly exist with Pride in the scene (unless of course it's love of one's self). How can it? What proud man, in their right mind, would lower every standard of self-image to attain the mere attention of a woman. Note that attention doesn't sex, kisses, or a hug from your grandma. It's recognition. Somebody please tell me that there is woman out there to make me do these things. Deep down, yeah, I know she's there. Have I met her, no. But I have seen Jennifer Aniston on FRIENDS - does that mean anything?

Countless times I've seen relationships end because some moron isn't aware enough to see what he really has. Give me some credit, I may only be 16, but I know things when I see them. Which leads me to my next profound statement. People who cheat are gutless, spineless, prideless people. Allow me time to explain. In suiting the perfect woman, we men tend to lower every standard of masculinity that we've set for ourselves. This alone damages the ego enough, but we have our eyes on the prize - trust me. No other goal would derive this much sacrifice from such a proud gender. I could never imagine going through the pains of the self-inflicted ego-bashing that's associated with courting a lovely lady, and then throwing it away for some quick lay. Can we not take pride in our efforts? Christ guys, we've worked our asses off to get this certain girl to even look at us. Doesn't that mean anything? Why can we not just admire the fruits of our labor? Has a farmer ever toiled for months in the field and then destroyed his crops with zero reason? You're right, they haven't. Why is this any different? In this case, some doctors need to cut back on the Viagra prescriptions and start administering a healthy dose of PRIDE, another wonderful product brought to you by the people at Pfizer.

I've made mistakes. Check your saturated arteries at the door, please, this isn't for the faint of heart. Believe it or not, the Sean Moylan whose blogs you've become so addicted to, the Sean Moylan who beats back rebellion with an iron fist and golden diction, the very Sean Moylan who, well, I seem to have run out of witty comparisons, so I suppose I'll move on. I've made mistakes, you've made mistakes. It's not ingenious. It supposedly takes a man to admit to making those mistakes. It also takes a man to pass a kidney stone. It takes a man to do a lot of things - not just admit to being wrong. The choices we make close off certain paths. It's a fact of life. Personally, it takes more of a man to sincerely play the cards he's dealt, whether it be a royal flush or a seven-two off suit, then it does to admit to a mistake. Answer me this - what has admitting to anything ever accomplished? It takes a man to change things, and simple words (except for those of this blog, of course) just don't have the power to do so. Maybe we all need to show a little pride and start fixing what we've broken. Maybe the age-old perception of "real" men only admitting to their wrong-doings needs to change. Maybe it has to change.

Maybe we need to choke on the pride we're all supposed to swallow.

Maybe I'm sick of the taste of swallowed pride.

Just Maybe.

Through The Rear-View Mirror

If there's one thing about driving that never ceases to annoy me, it's the rear-view mirror. Of course it's useful, for driving's purposes, but personally, it's a burden. As a driver, I tend to shift in my seat. Whether leaning forward to change the station away from the mega-talented Sean Paul, or leaning on my left arm, the rear-view mirror has a horrible tendency of never being where I want it be. Any good driver spends a chunk of their time looking in their finely positioned mirror - it should be a given that the damn thing be where it should. Before I get charged with character defamation, I'd like to take a moment and share with you the favorable (ok, not favorable, but tolerable) qualities of the rear view mirror. It hides nothing.

Let's be completely honest with ourselves. Certain mirrors have different features than others. Perhaps the mirror in your bathroom is more flattering than the mirror in your bedroom. It's nice to know that our favorite mirrors show a fair reflection, but the rear-view mirror has no friends. The last place anyone wants to check themselves out is in the rear-view. Objects seem closer than they appear is no understatement. From the rear-view mirror a blind man can count the pores on his forehead (and that's no understatement either). It shows no mercy to the late-night partier who's had so much to drink that their face vaguely resembles a lunar eclipse. The rear-view mirror is your brutally honest friend who tells you that they've seen better hair on Wayne Newton. Needless to say, it's not polite. On the other hand, this characteristic is something that all of us need. Looking in one mirror for what you want to see doesn't change what you really are. The rear-view mirror tells no lies and has no friends because of it. It's hard to swallow, sure, but maybe this mirror - this instrument of bitter truths - deserves a little more respect. Our bedroom mirrors don't tell us what we need to hear, they simply feed our confidence with falsehoods. Our bedroom mirrors don't protect from what other people see, they simply show us what we want them to see. Our bedroom mirrors don't keep our secrets, they just shield us from what we know is there - from which we have no chance of hiding.

Just remember, as you forge your way down the local boulevard, that the tacky rectangle attached to the windshield is more than just a hanger for your fuzzy dice. Its advice may hurt, but it's far more valuable than any words a friend can share.

And that's no understatement.

Ladies and Gentlemen of America,

I wish to make it quite clear that, in light of recent events, I apologize neither for my actions nor comments. Of course, being of the "silver-spoon" demographic, I can only speak for myself when I say that I know nothing about the little people of the country. I know nothing of the plasterers, the laborers, the non-union-can't-pay-for-my-child's-braces typical American, why? Because I don't care. Honestly, these are "average" Americans with less intelligence than the toilet bowl from which my dog drinks. Let's face the facts, the typical run-of-the-mill American doesn't know how to run a country, let alone choose a leader. Look at our President. Not only did he provide tax cuts for the moron class, otherwise known as the laborers, but he also defends American honor. What nerve! What the American people need is not a rambling Texan, who is actually proud to defend the namesake of his nation, but a leader with astronomically low levels of gumption - "balls", for the lay man. Once such leader would be myself. It's absolutely abhorrent to assume that America, who's trodden over countless enemies in wars past (a tradition that sadly continues today), should again defend herself. It's become abnormally clear that any hope of victory in whatever conflict we so choose to involve ourselves in, should immediately be dashed. To further the point, we should not only dash whatever chances of victory we had, but humiliate ourselves in the process. What the American people need is a vision - a vision of false media reports, of anti-American rallies! America's voice has reached its highest decibel! It's time to silence Lady Liberty, and replace with her with our new direction - Lady Liberal, or Lady Europe, perhaps even Lady Walk-All-Over-Us-Cause-We-Won't-Do-Anything. Ah, it's a beautiful future that faces our nation. As the walls of democracy crumble, the socialist dawn will rise over Washington. We'll scrap the massive hunk of copper known as the Statue of Liberty. Perhaps we'll even melt it down and mold it to the new World Penny, adopted by our counterparts in Europe. We'll form coalitions with France and Canada and traipse around the world, badmouthing the old ways of American past. We'll denounce the likes of President Washington, claiming that his victory on Christmas Day was deceitful - a classic example of American tyranny. We'll belittle the names of American veterans, specifically those who threw their lives to the wind, upon orders by the satanic Federal Government. It's these men who represent the highest levels of old American cowardice. The shameful day of June 6, 1944, in which thousands upon thousands of these young men, who without brain or reason fought for the evils of democracy, gave their lives for the spreading of fear. I claim that the blood they spilled in those Atlantic waters was not red, but yellow. We will march upon the memorials; trounce the veterans who oppose us, perhaps giving the finger to one while speaking to a bunch of impressionable youths. Yes, people of the new America, 2004 will be a time of unprecedented change; we'll crumble the ways of the American past - the honor and faith that at once we supported. Yes, America has seen her time in the sun, and, fortunately, it is now setting.

Thank you,



Senator John Kerry

That Handy Potpourri Spray

Today was yearbook day at school. Please, tone down the deafening cries of joy (I know you're all thrilled by that glorious news, but I have to ask you to restrain your glee). As I flipping through, thinking of the people I hate, and the people I hate a little less, and the few that I like, I couldn't help but notice a picture that stood out. Now, I'm not sure if the cameraman happened to walk in while this person was caught in a meeting with nature (thankfully the pictures are only from the chest up), but it seemed odd that someone could appear so constipated before the camera. I'm sure everyone one of you knows someone who couldn't fake a smile if Ron Howard was dancing in chaps for them. Maybe you're one of those people. Frankly, Ron Howard dancing in chaps isn't the most appealing thing, but who knows, you could be weird like that. Moving on, it became clear to me, as I sat and stared at this hideous smile, that some people just can't fake happiness. Believe me, if you saw this picture, you'd know. It's vaguely reminiscent of the look associated with walking into a restroom after someone else just used it. That's right, the sheer magnitude of the god-awful stench is much like an unwarranted bitch slap - it comes out of no where and hurts like a mother. I'm sure that all of you can imagine the expression from this point, unless you need me to hold your hand through it. The thing that struck me most odd is the fact that this person is one of the most genuinely jovial (how bout those phonics) person in the school. Constantly smiling and telling stories, bouncing around with fits of contagious laughter, this person isn't the sort you'd imagine to fake a smile. But it makes sense, doesn't it? A person as sincere and genuine can't fake their happiness. Plain and simple. It's obvious when a pecan such as that isn't happy, they don't pretend to be, and they happen to take no prisoners if rubbed the wrong way. On the other side, it's people like this that can be so gregarious and uplifting that their presence just makes everyone around feel that much better. How can we ask someone like this to fake a smile - especially for an expensive piece of shiny plastic and chrome paint known as the camera. The abhorrent fake smile is the photographic representation of this thesis: If your camera can't capture me in a truly pleasant moment, which happens to be my most preferred demeanor, then you sure as hell shouldn't expect me to fake it for you, (lest you desire the horrid someone-didn't-courtesy-flush expression).

As for me, I'd take a crappy picture over a drab reality any day. Thankfully for me, I tend to be the person who uses the bathroom first. Unfortunately, it's always the happy folk who tend to follow.