We have something of a guest blogger today: My niece, the Squirt, by way of my sister, P.

I've come to the conclusion that the best blog entries are either about kids, boobs, or bodily functions. As I totally have the boob thing covered, and since I really can't compete with Dooce on bodily functions (OR boobs OR kids OR anything), I wanted to put together a post about the kids in my life.

Unfortunately, I hardly ever see them. So I asked my brother and sisters to put together some emails with their favorite stories.

This is what I got in return:

5 years old:

S: Did you know that fish are naked?
P: Yes.
S: Did you know that when they are next to each other they are having
sex?
P: (Mortified that she said "sex")...Do you know what that means?
S: Duh, mom. It's when people don't have shirts on and kiss.
P: That's right. Don't do it.

3 years old

In the car saying "shit" over and over again:
P: You can't say shit, it's a bad word.
S: You say it.
P: I am an adult....when you are an adult and a mother you can say
shit.
--She is then quiet for a minute or so--
S: Well, I am Carter's (her teddy bear) mother, and he thinks I am an adult so I can say "shit."
P: Ok. Just don't say it in front of other people.

Squirt, you can say it in front of me whenever you want. I promise I won't mind.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 08:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

You know you are getting up too early when you begin to squeeze Tinactin on your toothbrush.

I may still have that nasty tartar problem, but at least I have that burning and itching licked. So to speak. And now my toes are minty fresh!

Posted by themightyjimbo at 04:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)

Man Speak: Learning To Read Through Testosterone.
A Guide to Compliments.

"You have beautiful eyes."
Translation: Nice rack. Let's fuck.

"Nice rack."
Translation: Nice rack. Let's fuck.

"I find you very attractive."
Translation: You'll do. Let's fuck.

"You're hot."
Translation: I don't care if you are attractive or not. Let's fuck.

"You're gorgeous."
Translation: I find you very attractive. Let's fuck.

"You're very cute."
Translation: You're attractive - but not to me. But we can still fuck if you want.

"You are a nice person."
Translation: I don't find you attractive at all. You are gonna have to get me really drunk.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 05:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (14)

Would it be out of line to take a tour of the white house wearing a tee shirt that reads "America Needs To Shave Its Bush"?

Posted by themightyjimbo at 07:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (11)

So to motivate us to participate in the class discussions, the instructors are handing out free drink tickets to either the on-site Starbucks or the Black Olive Pub. I love that they are using vice as a reward. I figure if we ace the final they'll pass out cigarettes, but personally, I'm hoping for porn.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 07:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (10)

So I’m back in beautiful, blessedly cicada-free Virginia at the concrete labyrinth of the National Conference Center. Another week of training to make me a better salesperson in a job I desperately hope to quit in order to pusure my dream of becoming an international playboy. I managed to upgrade to first class en route to Dallas during this little trek across fly-over country. I don’t know if you are familiar with DFW International Airport, the largest airport in America, but they gave me thirtyfive minutes to get from terminal A22 to terminal C32. Let’s just say I’m real glad I keep in shape. I ran it. Backpack on and suitcase in tow. Managed to get there with fifteen minutes to spare, just enough time to spend $14 on a dry green salad and a bagel. This of course made me wonder about that movie “The Terminal.” I haven’t seen the flick yet, but I kinda figure if you were going to live in the airport you would need to clear a good 200 G’s a year just to afford food and the occasional latte grande.

Speaking of latte grande, does it make me a prick if I demand a refund because my $4 iced chai tea tasted like ass? Cause really, I’m totally OK with that.

Regardless, I’m in the DC area. Although I fully expect that my schedule and my luck with the weather on the east coast will prevent me from successfully socializing with any of either my digital or analog friends, if you know me or want to meet me, and if I do get a day to play, let’s get a meal or at least get drunk and moon the white house. I know a certain lady in Oakland has specifically requested pictures of a joint Jimbo make-out session, but despite how flattered I am at the thousands off hits I have received from his site and his approval of what I consider to be too much fur, I can promise that this isn’t going to happen.

Sorry brother.

As my Sunday was spent either unconscious or shaking with barely controlled outrage while reading Krakauer’s excellent albeit terribly disturbing “Under the Banner of Heaven” at roughly 30,000 feet, my weekend was for the most part shot to hell when I had to motor on out to Hemet on Saturday in order to cut the lawn on one of my investment properties. What should have been a sixty minute project turned into a six hour ordeal when I couldn’t for the life of me get the goddam mower to start. I grew up in Tucson, Arizona and have not lived in a house with a lawn since I was nine years old, so I hadn’t actually used a lawnmower for about fifteen years. It was only after literally hundreds of pulls in virtually every combination of prime and throttle and pull, resulting in two bleeding blisters on the fingers of my right hand that I received a call from my partner informing me that I needed to forcefully push the lever that engages the engine with my foot before attempting to start the mower. Just using the hand lever wasn’t enough. Dammit. Where is migrant labor when you need them?

Of course as I was finishing up the back yard I would have to destroy one of my control valves for the sprinkler system, requiring yet another trip to Home Depot and another hour of wasted afternoon.

I can’t bitch too loudly. A day of hard work, if you consider pushing around a lawnmower to be "hard," is remarkably satisfying, especially when you spend most every day dissatisfied with the professional fraud that has become your career. I did manage to get a tan out of the deal and racked up another three hours on the VFR, motoring out there and back via the voluptuous and picturesque Ortega Highway – a trip surprisingly unmolested either by slow-moving SUV’s or predatory CHPs. And I had perhaps the best Mediterranean salad at a little local pizza joint around the corner from my house. It sucks when you can get better Italian food in Hemet than you can in Newport.

On Friday, however, I had dinner with Todd from AZ, and then arrived home to find that three hot women had sent me unsolicited (OK maybe a LITTLE solicited) nude photos, and you know that’s never a bad thing. So I suppose my weekend wasn't a total loss. Sometimes being The Mighty Jimbo (or just an unrepentant internet slut) has its advantages.

Speaking of advantages, with a little good luck and some decent fares from Alaska Airlines, my all-time favorite internet slut will be making a brief pilgrimage to Newport Beach one week from tomorrow.

As I’m out of town all week, that gives me precious little time to hang the swing-set, reinforce the foundation, stock up on Cool Whip and Captain Morgan, install the video cameras, and figure out what the hell I did with that prom dress. And the ball-gag. Remind me to shop for Gatorade and Advil while I’m at it too. I’m probably gonna need it.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 06:57 PM | Permalink | Comments (12)

Precious few places I have been are as photogenic as British Columbia. I wish I had brought my 35mm, but we all will have to make due with my crappy little 4 mega-pixel Olympus point and shoot. But next time I go I'll be going pro.

I apologize in advance as this set includes no gratuitous photos of my abs or Tassy's boobs. Pictures of both those subjects can be supplied with the appropriate motivation.

And when I get stuck up on that rock, I can use my head to signal rescue aircraft.

I fell head over heels for her, and not just because she would lay down, roll over and spread her legs every time I touched her. She is 50% wolf, and I like any dog that can both recognize that I am alpha male and yet can still tear out my throat. Besides, they named her Kilimanjaro. And that's just cool.

The view from my room at the Four Seasons in Vancouver. Bo KNOWS camping.

For the record, I paid $88 bucks for that hotel room. Feel free to hate me.

If you aren't bored of pretty green things and self-portraits of my shiny noggin just yet, you can find the rest of my trip here .

Posted by themightyjimbo at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (12)

Ever look at your sexual history and think that it's a lot more Dr. Seuss than Dr. Ruth?

That being said, I suppose that's not necessarily a bad thing. Cause I would do it in a box. I would do it with a fox. I would do it on a train. I would do it in the rain.

Ok. That was lame.

The Mighty Jimbo will please go now.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 01:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

You wanted manifesto? You wanted to know what I’m about? Sometimes even I don’t know what I’m about.

Heh, my lack of understanding has never kept me from having an opinion before, so why stop now?

With that in mind, as far as I can tell, at the age of 32, here’s what I’m about:

You wanted manifesto? You want to know what I’m about? Sometimes even I don’t know what I’m about. But I’ve been giving it some thought. So as far as I can tell, at the age of 32 here’s what I’m about:

I’m a fiscally conservative, socially liberal registered independent.
I’m an optimistic pragmatist who is cynically idealistic.
I ache for a third party.
Anytime you let ideology trump your humanity, you are wrong.
Anytime your religion trump your humanity, your religion is wrong.
Anytime you let your government trump your humanity, your government is wrong.
All organized religion is based on false assumptions, bald-faced lies, unchecked charisma, our basic human fear of the unknown and need to belong.
But if that’s what works for you and if it makes you a better person, have at it.
Environment and education first.
I prefer sports I don’t have to pay for.
I am pro bolts, pro access, but against drills, glue and chipping.
Litter pisses me off to no end.
I am not for socialized medicine. I am also not for 28% profit margins for pharmaceutical companies.
Don’t need it, don’t buy it.
Unless you just really gotta have that new iPod.
Don’t try to justify bad behavior. At least have the balls to accept your vice.
It’s better to live with consequences than with doubt.
Being pissed off doesn’t give anyone the right to be an asshole.
I’m for cheap airfare for students and college deferments for international travel.
I am pro-death, pro-choice, and generally appalled by both.
I’m for cheap, unregulated high-speed internet access. I’m for digital libraries. I’m for open source. I’m for standards. I’m for good design.
I am against piracy in all its forms.
I am all for freedom of expression. Burn your flag. But don’t bitch when someone breaks your nose.
I’m for consumer rights.
And for tort reform.
Pro legalization. Pro moderation. Pro responsibility,
Reality is way, way more interesting than delusion.
I’m tired of paying for other people’s fuckups.
When it comes to new condos or the survival of a rare species of field mouse, the mouse wins.
I am profoundly against fast food, the ethics of meat production and commercial fishing.
Apple.
David Lee Roth.
Equal rights for lefties. Uh, yeah. Whatever.
I would sell a kidney for mint chocolate chip ice cream that doesn’t make me fart.
Atkins can bite my pasta-fattened ass.
Have at those stem cells.
If you don’t exercise I never want to hear you bitch about how you look.
If you don’t vote I never want to hear you bitch about the country.
I’m for a federal law banning all forms of unsolicited direct marking.
Ass cancer to those who break it.
Good oral hygiene is essential to a happy life.
Trim.
That Osama Bin Laden is still alive but 900 US soldiers who went to Iraq are not makes me nauseated.
Religion in all its forms is to blame for as much of the world’s evil as it is to blame for much of the world’s good.
Maybe more.
I’d rather be on top.
I have no kinks but I’m really, really flexible.
Read this very carefully: We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.
Just because we were created equal doesn’t mean that you don’t have to earn your way later.
The best way America could protect itself from terrorism would be to remove it’s lips from the blackened tit of Arab oil.
But I do love my SUV.
I don’t believe in conspiracies theories. Life is rarely so simple.
If you are going to believe in anything, believe in yourself first.
I am for holding hands, tight hugs, and making out on the first date.
I generally like dogs better than people.
Animal cruelty deserves mandatory jail time.
Rapists deserve street justice.
Bill and Opus 04. Now more than ever.
Why is it that all the people who want to tell you how and who you should or shouldn’t fuck also seem to be the people who most desperately need to get laid?
Anytime you think you could probably be doing something better with your time you are probably right.
My distaste for hypocrisy has no limits.
Apparently neither does my appetite for it.
Change is inevitible.
Especially on this list.
Love. First. Always.
Bloggers who post lists like this or use Single. Word. Sentences. Probably need to reconsider those posts or just put up some beefcake and go to bed instead of wasting everyone’s time with this kind of digital crappola.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 12:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (9)

So Chris decided that in a market that has been appreciating at better than 30% a year for more than half a decade, maybe he ought not to pay $625 a month for a place on the beach when he can use that hard-earned cash to get himself a daily trip to the Home Depot for some dirt and wood and tile that may eventually allow him to retire like a king in someplace like Iowa.

So with that in mind, I'm looking for a new roommate. Know anybody who might want to live in Newport Beach, in a stellar little pad by the pier? For the low, low price of $625 a month and a third of utilities you get a Newport address, free high-speed wireless, and the chance to say you live with The Mighty Jimbo.

You also get this access to Newport Beach and the Newport Pier. Tan and dumb surfer dudes and surgically enhanced blonde girls with those hot little tattoos right above their butt that peek out of their low rider pants not necessarily included.

Included is this view of Newport Harbor. Free rides on multi-million dollar yachts not included unless you are a surgically enhanced blonde with a hot little tattoo right above your butt that peeks out of your low rider pants.

You get use of this 36 inch TV, but if you are not planning to watch either HBO or that television crack called "I Love The (Insert Decade Here)" on VH1 you probably won't get me to relinquish the remote.

Roommates are not allowed to have sex on this white couch. Unless you are really drunk and she is really hot. Or you use a drop cloth.

Included with house is access to the world's ugliest cat.

Hot applicants who used to have pink hair and currently live in the East Bay get to choose their bedroom, so long as it's this one.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (15)

Ever get the feeling that the march of technology sometimes isn't really progress? Look, I know these polyphonic ring tones are all the rage with the kids, but am I the only one who finds it excessively annoying that I have to listen to samples of your pirated MP3 collection every time Brittany wants to talk about her crush on Dylan or Jackson or Tyler or something? I don't care who's milkshake is better than yours. I'm fucking lactose intolerant! The song sucked on the radio. It sucks worse on your cell phone. It’s giving me brain freeze for sure.

Here's an idea for a ring tone, I want my cell phone to sound like a PHONE!

Now if you want still want to annoy me with your milkshake, I suppose you can do it with one of these , which with a little luck, will be arriving at my house in just about a day or so.

Your milkshake might be better, but I bet your MP3 player isn't.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 02:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (18)

A certain somebody asked me if I have ever tried Viagra and if I was ever interested in trying it. As this particular part of me is currently, thankfully, in perfect working order, and more to the point, as this certain somebody is very well aware that this particular part of me is in perfect working order, I fail to see my need for the drug. Seriously, what's the point of a redundant boner?

Posted by themightyjimbo at 11:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (12)

We haven't seen a drop of rain yet. I've been climbing every day. My fingers red and sore from rock, toes blistered and raw from the shoes, joints aching from the descents, clothes smelly and filthy from the trails, back knotted from sleeping on the dirty green carpet of George’s living room floor.

Basically, I couldn’t be happier.

Well, I could be but that would require a better looking belayer. Sure, Gary is hot, but really, that whole six-foot, muscular, Germanic, ex-Olympian look just isn’t for me. Besides, I think his wife would be a little upset.

Regardless, it’s been a great weekend. Single pitch sport climbs. Short and easy crack climbs. Long, 500 foot multi-pitch jaunts up the Apron of the Chief. When the sun is shining, there is no place better than BC - especially here in Squamish. The sun doesn't set until after nine, so you can climb well into the evening. Everywhere you turn, forests of deep green and towering glacier capped mountains. Granite cliffs decorate every mountain side and the 2000 foot monolith of the Chief looms directly over the town. Howe Sound sits calm and dark, the mountains rising right up from it's forest lined shore. The Squamish River runs right through this valley. Waterfalls in every direction.

From the tops of my climbs I can see the kite boarders sailing in the sound. Downhill bikers and single-track riders pedal through town on their way to the hundreds of trails. The parking lots are filled with dirty looking men and women in sandals and packs, hands still chalked and bloody from the thousands of routes and boulder problems all minutes away. The road is noisy from the sport bikes racing up through the picturesque curves of the Sea to Sky Highway en route to Whistler.

I have my shoes and harness here, but I wish I had my SUV. Packed complete with the mountain bike. The wet suit. The camping gear. The hiking boots. And the VFR on the hitch.

I think if I move to Vancouver I’ll be grateful for the all the rainy days. It would be the only time I would ever get anything done.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 10:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Walked into a store in Whistler today that sold just three things: Bikes, boards, and bongs.

Talk about knowing your customer.

Add a tattoo artist and some cheap beer and you have retail nirvana for the Red Bull set.

Whistler. The prototypical mountain town of ridiculously rich white people and local dirtbags who don’t shower much and spend every day doing things that will get them a spot in the X-Games and/or a fractured pelvis.

God, I miss mountain life.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 11:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Random thought: I’m thinking they need to line the space shuttle with the same stuff they use to make egg rolls. Seriously. Egg rolls. I can pick an egg roll up with my bare hands, and yet bite into it and find that it’s holding molten lava. I have burned holes through the roof of my mouth on those things. It’s like a culinary back draft. The minute you expose the inside of an egg roll to oxygen they burst into flames. They don’t fry those things in oil. They fry them in magma.

So anyway. Enough about egg rolls. I'm in Squamish, 35KM up the Sea to Sky Highway in Vancouver. Decided I needed a long weekend on the rock. I've gone from sea to sky to sea again, and weather permitting, back to sky tomorrow.

I love it here. The sun setting on Howe Sound, the trees, the waterfalls, the granite. the dark gunmetal water. Amazing. I have said it many times, but when the sun is shining, there is no place better than British Columbia. Now that I've arrived, I can all but guarantee, the sun will stop shining. Happens every time I show up to climb.

No matter right now. It's late. I'm tired. I'm off to bed. Rocks to climb tomorrow.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 11:57 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (1)

I am not going to vote for George Bush in November. Not because he is a Republican. Not because he is pro-life. Not because he is using fear as a means to control public opinion. Not because he wants to amend the Constitution of The United States to alienate up to 10% of the population. Not because his primary campaign contributors and personal business interests represent petroleum and energy companies that have cost the American people (and Californians during the energy crisis) untold billions of dollars. Not because he is an inarticulate, bumbling stooge whose policy decisions and rhetoric have consistently alienated the United States from the international community. Not because his record on the environment is the worst in modern history, and his administration has been the bane of every major ecological organization in the world. Not because his administration lied to the world and the American people (or at the very, very least failed in it's intelligence) in order justify a war. Although I think we all need to consider that very carefully. A war, people. A war.

I'm not going to vote for him because in the last year 890 Americans and up to 3000 Iraqi civilians have died.

And Osama bin Laden has not.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 11:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (22)

Inspired by the illustrious Greg Howard .

I love it when I actually let a girl pay the check after she says "I'll get it" when she clearly expected me to argue and pick up the tab.

That look of surprise almost makes the sex I won't be getting later worth it.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 11:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)

Funny thing about broken hearts, they never really heal. Hearts grow, you move on. You learn not to think about the past. Learn to avoid the hole where someone once was. Sometimes however, when you aren't paying attention, when you least expect it, you can accidentally fall back in.

It's been a year since we imploded. At this point I don't even remember who was to blame or what it was all about. I've long moved past the anger and the resentment and the pain from who she became and where we were.

She has even messaged me from time to time. And despite those initial pangs of shock at seeing her name pop up onto my monitor after all this time, in a strange and maybe nostalgic way, it was good to hear from her.

But today, while finally cleaning house, taking the time to do a little much needed maintenance on my room, wash away the dust and the lint and the dirt that had piled up in all the corners of my 11' x 12' place in paradise, in the back of my book shelf, more than a year forgotten, and stuffed inside my tarnished silver cup given to me at my birth, I found a collection of little hand written notes on hotel stationary from our second trip to Arizona. The start of our second doomed attempt at love.

It was like falling through a hole in the ice. Black and terrible and sudden and shocking and excruciating.

And for a split second, I loved her and I hated her all over again. I remembered in vivid detail that trip. Feeling complete and full again after four months of feeling broken and empty. And then I remembered the next long trip. The one that felt like I had been drinking drain cleaner.

I jumped out as quickly as I could. I shuddered once or twice, uttered a couple choice obscenities and dried myself off. I laughed at my dumb luck, and then I did what any other person would do after falling into ice water.

I built a fire.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 03:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (13)

Ever get the feeling you are living in the parentheses of your life story? Ever feel like a footnote? Why is it so easy to forget that we are writing the book?

Posted by themightyjimbo at 11:59 AM | Permalink | Comments (6)

These are the people who inherit a garage-full of random Polartech and Gore-tex and Spectra and Rip-stop crappola and one really nice watch when I finally pile it in off a rock or introduce my head to a Suburban at 60 MPH. Let's hope they don't look ANYTHING like this when that happens.

They are swimming in a good gene pool, don't ya think?

PS: Yes, there is one more, but I don't have a new picture of her to post right now. Either KJ is too busy to take photos or she is still in that larval infant stage.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 10:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

A friend of mine told me last week that chocolate is like sex for a girl. At first I thought, damn, I've been using this Baby Ruth all wrong. But then she said that chocolate triggers a nerve that goes right to the vagina.

I got to thinking, for men it's a little different. Nothing really triggers a nerve that goes right to the penis.

The penis triggers a nerve that goes right to EVERYTHING else.

Sorry. It was too easy.

I'll stop now.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 08:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

Feeling like wet flint. No matter how bad I want one, I just can't seem to find the spark today.

Maybe I just need a some time to dry out. Maybe I need to fly to San Fran and kidnap a pink haired girl for inspiration. Maybe a five day rock climbing road trip from Calgary to Vancouver next week will help. Maybe I need to see my doctor. Maybe I need to move. Maybe two weeks climbing in Italy in September will light the fire. Maybe that's just the beginning of something I've been talking about for several years. Maybe I need a puppy. Maybe I need to fall in love.

Maybe.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 10:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (12)

So a few weeks ago a digital friend of mine asked on her very naughty little weblog, "what turns you on?" To answer it I posted an excerpt from my personal journal. Unless you are one of about six people you don't know what journal I'm talking about, and that's because you are not supposed to know what I'm talking about. I was planning on keeping this post relatively private, but several people who read it expressed how much they liked it. One person even told me she thought it was the best story I had written. I'm not sure if that's really true or if she just really needs to get laid. Either way, that compliment was too nice for me to keep it private any longer.

So I figured what the hell. I'll post it. Everyone already assumes I'm using this blog to meet chicks.

So what turns me on?

Panties.

Specifically, the very first time you remove a lover's panties. When your lips are still moist from hers. And you can feel your heart catch in your throat. As you slide your hands down her bare waist. You sense her breathing quicken as you slowly sink to your knees, prostrate in front of her. She looks down at you, totally vulnerable and yet totally in control.

Running your hands over her hips. Those amazing, tight, round hips. Kissing her navel. Breathing gently on her belly. Taking in the scent of her. Savoring her. Needing her. Feeling her arch slightly, moving toward your mouth. She is breathing as hard as you. You look into her eyes, and she can see your desire.

Slowly slipping your fingers underneath the strings. Those tiny, delicate strings. Feeling the gentle pressure of them as you slowly pull them down over her hips. Feeling them resist, just ever so slightly before relaxing and falling away as she does when you first enter her. Sliding that soft, simple fabric down, exposing her to you completely for the first time, unwrapping the gift that you so desperately want.

The crumpled, tiny garment, now dropping over her long, strong calves, your hands sliding over the smooth soft skin behind her knee as they make the seemingly endless journey to the floor. The slight bend in her knee as she lifts her foot, discarding them, no longer necessary. And on the floor. A tiny weightless triangle of fabric. The last barrier to all that you want, all that you need, all that you can think about. The last obstacle before the sweat and the heat and the glorious, blinding, sticky, salty, aching, moaning, gasping, unifying release of sex.

They are the bow on her finest gift to you. There is nothing quite as sexy as removing a lover's panties for the very first time.

Except for maybe the very next time.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 09:35 AM | Permalink | Comments (14)

I can't begin to tell you how often I hear people who have never traveled outside the United States claim that America is the best country on Earth. It drives me insane when people blindly believe that life here is so much easier and so much more advanced, and yet their impression of the world is limited to what has been fed to them through television.

Kids, that's not patriotism. That's ignorance and arrogance - and one of the world's biggest complaints about our citizens. Look, patriotism shouldn't be a belief system, and it certainly isn't a fashion statement. And you shouldn't be poking me in the ass with that flag of yours if you never make it out to vote.

This isn't to say that I'm not a patriot. This isn't to say I disagree with the statement that America is the best country on Earth. I just don't blindly agree.

We work far too hard for too little pay. We are vilified overseas - often justifiably. Our cities are less safe than nearly anywhere in the western world. Public transportation? Riiiiiight. Our citizens are fat. Our public schools leave much to be desired. Our consumer, suburban culture lacks soul, character, and any sense of permanency or inspiration. We can't sew our flags onto our backpacks despite our overwhelming desire to stick them onto our bumpers. Jessica Simpson has her own television show. And our "elected" leader is a bumbling, inarticulate, borderline fascist who can't even correctly pronounce the "nuclear" weapons he so terrifyingly has control over.

Honestly people, this may sound crazy to you, but many of the people in Western Europe have a higher standard living and better quality of life than we do. And often, they are happier even if they don't. Americans can be a miserable lot. Wrapped up in 80 hour work weeks and dual mortgage payments and soccer tournaments and the never-ending need to buy bigger homes to fit our bigger cars to haul our bigger toys and take us to the store to buy bigger pants to cover our ever bigger asses.

This isn't to say that life here isn't amazing and we aren't incredibly fortunate. We have many advantages. America is basically clean. Hygienic. Jessica Simpson has her own television show. We created the Oreo cookie. The baseball hat. Casual Fridays. And the Victoria's Secret catalog. It's good to be American.

However, the biggest advantage we seem to have, other than hot water from almost every home, high-speed access to internet porn, and the ability for anyone to buy near anything, anywhere at anytime (this is seriously totally unique to the United States), is opportunity.

What we have is freedom of opportunity. No where on the planet is it easier for someone, anyone, to generate personal wealth. We have created more millionaires and billionaires than anywhere on Earth. Our relatively egalitarian approach to socio-economic advancement is one of a kind.

This of course is also one of the world's biggest frustrations with America. The freedom we so often speak about isn't so much about freedom, but about money. And subsequently, our desire to promote the American way of life isn't about promoting freedom. It's about money. Our money. And our ability to create more and more and more of it.

Admittedly, it's a freedom I particularly enjoy. If I want to use my recently acquired status as a narcissistic, yuppie bastard to enrich my life with shallow relationships and material goods, so be it.

It's my freedom and my opportunity to take or to lose. I'm grateful for it.

I'm grateful for all my other freedoms. I'm free to want to quit my job, relinquish my status as a narcissistic, yuppie bastard in order to move to one of those other countries and spend my days writing weblogs and meeting open-minded Swedish women with long legs. I'm free to waste my time bitching about how other people choose to waste theirs. I'm free to mock the Catholic church, in spite of my current status as a confirmed Catholic. I'm free to loathe the President, free to publicize that contempt here or anywhere else I see fit, and free to do everything within my rights to ensure that he never sees another term in the White House. I'm free to stay. I'm free to leave. I'm free to choose. So are you. I'm free to listen to loud and obscene music and stare at bare boobies all day, even if the FCC would rather I didn't. I'm not free to smoke a bowl, and despite my total lack of interest in doing so, I'm free to influence our government to allow other people to toke as they please. I'm free to marry. I'm free to stay single. I'm free to own vinyl pants. Even if my mother doesn't think I should be. I'm free to run out and purchase a large caliber firearm, and I'm free to think that I ought to need a difficult to obtain license or a registration in order to do so. I'm free to live my life the way I want live it, and free to tell you how I think you should live yours, You're free to ignore me completely when I do so, and I'm free to tell you to "go to hell" when you try to tell me how to live mine.

228 years ago, a group of men got real tired of other people telling them how to live theirs. They came to the conclusion that this truth, above all, was self-evident: that all men were created equal. Unless you were black, Native American or a woman. It took quite a few more years before they found evidence of those truths, but I'm not going to start that debate today.

228 years ago those men declared their freedom. And I am always grateful they did. It was that vision that allowed my family to arrive here and prosper some 125 years later. It was the result of that inspiration that I can sit here and write these words today. It was through their sacrifices that I can voice my concern about the sacrifices we are making as a people and a nation today.

It was because of their courage that I can spend tomorrow drinking large quantities of home-made sangria on my balcony, wearing a red white and blue bandana (made in Pakistan), and behaving like a complete jackass.

Happy Independence Day. Go celebrate yours - just don't infringe on mine.

And thanks Thomas. We wouldn't have made it without out you.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 07:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (16)

I have no trolls.

I have used this website to mock Republicans, Canadians, women, men, Suzuki owners, Texans, smokers, fat people, gays, hockey, The White Stripes, Catholics, and my mom. I'm arrogant, vain, opinionated, egotistical, profane, uncouth, and probably smell bad.

I've even posted half naked pictures of myself around here, and if there ever was justification for digital abuse, it's the shameless promotion of my abs as a means to meet slutty chicks.

I even had a mullet.

But I have never had a troll.

The ex-boyfriend of she-who-must-not-be-named allegedly once sent me a series of really creepy, mildly harassing emails under a pseudonym, but aside from that, I have never had a troll. Sure, some of you people have pissed me off once or twice, and Melly is a borderline blog stalker, but these are the people who keep the conversation in my corner of the internet interesting.

For the record, Melly can stalk me ANYTIME SHE WANTS. She remains one of the funniest people I know. Melly, if I ever get a troll, really, I want it to be just like you. And I mean that in only the nicest way possible.

Now I have no idea how many people read this thing. The only counter I have tracks just the hits on the splash page, probably the least accessed page on this site, so I'm pretty clueless as to who is reading my daily digital diatribes unless they feel inclined to comment. I'm told by fellow bloggers that I'm fairly well read (or at least well known based on the obsessive-compulsive blog stalking I do on my own). That combined with an average ten comments per post makes me think they may well be right.

If that's the case, I would have expected at least ONE troll by now.

It's not like I'm not trying to piss people off around here. Watch:

Will and Grace is a shameless attempt to legitimize the homosexual lifestyle! And I have no problem with that at all! Despite the problem I have with that wretched program they pass off as "must-see-TV!" George Bush is a fat, clueless baby boy attached to an Arab oil tit! Most conservative Christians are the least Christian people I know! There is precious little of interest anywhere east of Colorado and west of New York! The average IQ in Florida is the only thing lower than the average elevation of the state! Suzuki Samauris still suck! Radiohead has produced several of the least listenable albums I have ever heard! Hockey is the northern social equivalent of NASCAR! Most beers taste like fermented ass! I've never seen American Idol! Uma Thurman looks like a big blond horse with tits! Canadians love to get all uppity about their use of the Queen's English but still haven't learned how to pronounce "pasta!" People who haven't figured out how to properly use contractions have NO BUSINESS WRITING OR COMMENTING IN BLOGS! No more naked Tassy pics! OK, so maybe I don't mean that, but if ANYTHING should piss you people off it ought to be that.

Sigh.

Still no trolls.

Look, I like to think I keep an entertaining and reasonably popular little website. Don't I give you people enough? Is there something wrong with me? If I cut you, shouldn't you want to make me bleed?

I think maybe I should just start trolling other sites. Randomly leaving inarticulate, inappropriate and profane comments and always using "your" incorrectly. I would try, but honestly, the people worth trolling I respect too much to harass. Besides, I would be depressingly outgunned for a battle of the wits with Kat or Sarah or Greg or Heather .

Maybe all I need to do is grow a pair of boobs or get pregnant. Seems that's all it takes to lure a troll onto other sites. Have a vagina and write something reasonably intelligent. Pow! Within weeks someone is calling you a whore.

Maybe this is because there are far fewer female trolls and my site seems to be read primarily by women. Maybe the instinct to troll is expressed by the same gene that regulates crank calls and wedgies. Or maybe women have just figured out that the best way to really fuck someone is not to fuck with them at all.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 07:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (27) | TrackBacks (1)