Tuesday, June 3, 2008

Christian rock?

Dear contemporary Christian
rock song,

     You got me with the bait and
switch! I was sure I had stumbled across a run-of-the-mill modern rock
station and figured that whole verse about “him” was in reference
to your chick’s secret lover or a drug dealer or something. Good one.
But, when the church choir kicked in on the “glorify His glory”
chorus it became horribly, appallingly clear: so that’s
what it would sound like if the Osmonds tried to play metal.      Look,
a rock song without vice is like a soda without the fizz, a Judas Priest
video without the buttless chaps. I need cheating women and booze and
demons in my rock-n-roll, fellas. And if I’m damned for eternity,
well, I can only hope they don’t play Jars of Clay in hell.

Columbia City Paper

Dear taxpayers,

       Just playing with the calculator
here. According to Sen. Majority Leader Harry Reid (D-Nev.) the U.S.
currently spends roughly 5,000 tax dollars per second on the war in Iraq. That’s $300,000 per minute, $18 million
per hour, or $432 million a day. At that rate, American taxpayers will
shell out close to $158 billion per year on the war. Since 2003, we’ve
paid over $523 billion, according to most estimates. If you translated
those war dollars into miles, you could travel to Pluto and back 174
times. But, we won’t dare calculate how much that trip would cost
in gas.

Columbia City Paper  

Dear lazy beachside avenue,

     Ah, the salt in the air, the
ocean breeze, the Parrot Head in a Speedo and unbuttoned Acapulco shirt
screaming and pointing wildly at traffic. The beachgoers on giant, umbrella-covered
tricycles shouting curses before nose-diving into ditches; the sunbaked
elderly flashing their golf cart headlights before careening off the
road and over the dunes. Little kids running in terror, inflatable water
toys bouncing off my windshield. What gives with these jerks? You’d
think we were we’re driving down a one-way street in the wrong direction
or something! ...Wait a minute.

Columbia City Paper 

Dear T-Rav,

         Some quick pointers: next time
you’re in the yard near the weight bench, pick the biggest guy in
C-Block and jump him in full view of both the Aryan gangs and the cholos.
That will buy you some time while they feel you out. In the meantime,
you’ll want to break off a piece of your toothbrush, sharpen it and
fashion a handle out of packing tape. Don’t make it too large, though,
as you’ll need to store it rectally while you’re in the showers.
Oh, and at visitation, have your secretary bring plenty of cigarettes
to trade. See you next spring,

Columbia City Paper

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