Thanks for Nothing, Fat Ass

You knew professional breadbox and fellatio enthusiast Michael Moore was going to make a movie about George Washington Bush #2 regardless of what happened. Then 9/11 happened, which was like 311 but way more, and one can imagine Mr. Moore pausing in between bites of his pork chops just long enough for chuckle to ruffle his chins when he heard the news. Now, don't be fucking stupid and pretend that I think what happened was funny. It wasn't, you fucking retard, but some people make a lot of money from tragedies like terrorist attacks and school shootings; one of them happens to be the president of my united states, and another one is sensationalist entertainer Michael Moore.

It is important to make the distinction between an entertainer and a journalist. A journalist reports news in a straightforward manner with as little bias as is possible, while an entertainer, especially one of Moore's girth and appetite, thrive on rabble-rousing the leftist-pinko-panty-wad party into a froth of parroting indignation. He did it with Bowling for Columbine, as Moore repeatedly ambushed movie stars and television celebrities with questions about guns and violence. Nobody knew the answers to his questions, including Moore. Not once was the audience given even a hypothesis explaining why America is such a violent culture, which was really the underlying question of the entire "documentary". Moore doesn't attempt to explain it, and in fact never makes a legitimate effort to try. Instead he relied on guerilla tactics to capture the reactions of people caught off guard by his accusatory inquiries, or flat out running away from his salivating jowls.

But enough about that movie, let's talk about Fahrenheit 9/11, not to be confused with the more worthy Reno 911. The first act of the movie exposes the Bush family's interests in big oil, their ties to the Saudi royal family, and the proposed pipeline from the Caspian Sea through Afghanistan. Because we are the radical left, conscientious citizens of the rock n' roll generation, we've already read Noam Chomsky's essays, and we already know all of that. Chomsky has always got the real scoop. The guy does his homework and really thinks about issues, while Michael Moore is at home licking gravy off his lap and thinking of snide questions to ask congressmen.

The second act of 9/11 uncovers the secret that no one ever knew: some people profit from military actions. No. Fucking. Duh. As it makes this death defying leap of faith, 9/11 seems to imply that Bizzaro Bush II, the tongue tied Texas Rainman was a willing accomplice in the WTC attacks, or that at the very least, it was directly his fault. Now, we all know that Bush is a warmongering toady of the oil industry, hell-bent on going down in the history books as the cowboy hero who crushed the world in his hands until all the evil oozed out between his fingers. Shit, his dad was the same way, and that's why we didn't fucking re-elect him. Not that I vote. I don't, so it's not my fault. So it was no surprise when we went to war with Afghanistan, and it wasn't surprising when Bush turned around and blamed Iraq. What was surprising, however, was that all of you dumb fucking mouth-breathers fell for the biggest red herring ever thrown in someone's face. The pathetic thing is Michael Moore fell for it as well.

The third act of Fahrenheit is all about the pointlessness of the invasion of Iraq. That's it. We see interview after interview of soldiers and family members questioning the validity of attacking Iraq, footage of midnight raids in Iraq, and Iraqi people being mad at us for cooking them with bombs. It goes on and on and on. Oddly enough, one feels that those soldiers and their families are the same people who had American flags suction-cupped to the passenger side windows when everyone first started talking about disarming Sadam. Figuring out that none of it made any sense was easy; figuring that out after you've napalmed your third village is retarded.

The funny thing about the invasion of Iraq is that it completely distracted everyone from Osama Bin Laden, of Al Qieda, of Orange Alerts, and of the flagging economy. It worked so well that it even distracted Michael Moore. It so completely derailed his corpulent frame that he ultimately forgot to make a movie about 9/11. Instead he made a movie about not liking the president. I don't like George Bush, but I also don¹t like Michael Moore. I'd like to kick one of them in the balls, but I can't tell you which one because of the Patriot Act you fucking sheep mcnuggets are so goddamn complacent with.

A Proposition to Revive

It was clear from the beginning that the kamikaze pilots of the Confederacy had received explicit orders from the King and his generals to kill me on sight, but they weren't counting on me wearing this awesome fucking jacket with "USA-1" and "United States of America" embroidered all over it.

Hour upon hour of dodging the Dukes of Hazard flag put me into a contemplative mood, and because I am the cynical dissident that I am, it wasn't long before I came to the inevitable conclusion that everything sucks except for Hookers-and-Drugs. In doing so, I was reminded of the time when, in a global display of badicalness, America tried to kick its own ass, and lost. Here is a documented, abbreviation of the thirty year conversation that started the Civil War:

North: Give us your money!

South: How ‘bout yous suck our nuts?

North: Seriously, bitch, give us your money or will put the smack down on your shit. We’re talking taxes and tariffs, motherfucker.

South: Nuh’uh.

North: How about we kick you in the nuts and take away your slaves, then?

South: I'd like to see you try.

North: Wrassil’ you for ‘em

And then it was on; Jefferson Davis invented the Confederate States of America, and Abraham Lincoln co-founded the Regular States of America. The RSA attempted to win back the love of the Confederates by shooting bullets into their heads, burning their houses down, and starving them to death. The Confederates employed similar tactics to win their independence, and shit got heavy.

This raises the question: Why would Regular Fucking Americans try so hard to retain the mutant half-breed mouth breathers that the Confederacy was comprised of? Had I been in charge, I should have marched the entire Union army to the Mason Dixon line, and given them orders to push. But that didn’t happen.

Why not? A good answer can be found by taking a closer look at the "current situation with that camel fucker in Iraq." We're all familiar with the rhetoric and posturing that preceded the operation. America’s proof of Iraqi links to Al Qaeda, though imaginary, as well as exaggerated intelligence of Iraq’s burgeoning chemical, biological, and nuclear weapons programs, was enough to put the fear into Americans of serious cock-blockage in U.S. attempts to skull-fuck the world.

This all makes sense, to a point, to retards, and people who believe that failure to support American aggression amounts to being a pussy-faced homo who hates Freedom, Shaq, and Kobe. Which explains why you bought a patriotic bumper sticker while the U.S. blew up Iraq, chased out (or burnt) its government, and destroyed its infrastructure. Saddam was captured, his family killed, which is all right with me, because that was the Primary Mission Objective, and success meant the Americans could stop worrying about being attacked by all of those Iraqis that always attack…um…But in doing so, everyone found out that there were no links to Al Anything, nor were there any NCB weapons programs.

So we won, right? I mean, we went over there and shit in their sandbox. Mission Accomplished; time to go home, right?

Apparently not.

The Bush White House has never read Steinbeck’s The Moon is Down, or if they have, decided to ignore its warnings about the extreme difficulties of occupying foreign lands. Instead, they jumped to the same conclusions that Abraham Lincoln arrived at: American Presidents should be free to decide how other sovereign states govern themselves, and to enforce that freedom with violence when they see fit, especially when a profit is to be made doing so. The driving principle behind this ideology is that it is wealth, not people, which makes countries great; when there is a choice between sacrificing the some several hundred thousand lives, and increasing revenue through taxation, the decision is not a difficult one.

Therefore, people who think that it is a mere coincidence that American occupation forces are now siphoning from the second largest supply of oil in the world are as fucking retarded as the people who think the American Civil War was started to abolish slavery.

When Lincoln freed the slaves of the Confederate (but not the Union) States, it was at a time when most nations, including most of Europe, deemed the Union’s resistance to the Confederate States a doomed effort, and threatened to become involved on behalf of the South. What the Emancipation Proclamation did, besides supply the North with fresh troops, was to give a new meaning to the same old war, the costs to prosecute which were rapidly outweighing the benefits. After all, the glow of blind patriotism wanes after time, and as it does, people begin asking questions, which is what we all should be doing now. We all know why we invaded Iraq, but what the fuck are we still doing there, when an American presence is guaranteed to perpetuate the chaos and violence?

If you’re like me, you don’t want to trade lives for Iraqi oil wealth, and you’ve noticed that every time you get raped at the gas-pump, that said wealth isn’t doing shit for you.

And if you’re still like me, you think that since Southerners are still waving their dumb fucking flag, we should offer them another chance to secede from the nation.

Politicians pay a lot of lip service to preserving freedom and democracy at home and abroad, which is a sad euphemism for pursuing the interests of the federal government. If not, then when South Carolina declared its independence from the rest of the United States in 1860, the Man would have said, "Rock on, brother! Let Freedom fucking ring!"

Jophen Stein

Let's face it: Art sucks and so do the people who make it. Everyone thinks they're a genius because once their dad molested them, so they went out and bought some circular stencils and colored pens. Fuck your colored pens. Just turn the TV back on, forget about making a difference, and shut the hell up. No one cares. Now, this being said, every now and then, once in a great while, some dick comes along from outer space that amazes me for a month or so, and I have to make an exception. Despite what you may have heard, Southern California doesn't have a lot of artist; it really doesn't have a lot of anything except traffic and smog. Consequently, there are probably only a dozen or so significant artist contributing anything worth a damn. I, lucky ducky that I am, happen to have met one of them ten years ago in a shitty camp ground somewhere in San Bernardino. Though he never really introduced himself, or even pretended to be nice, he did punch this guy in the face who was holding a screwdriver to some of my friends. We've kept in touch over the years, and I got him to reluctantly agree to an interview.

FAG: I remember first seeing your work spray-painted in a drainage ditch up in Mt. Baldy. I was really impressed, but, undeniably, your work seems to have really matured over the past decade. Describe where you began versus where you are at now and the positive/negative aspects of both.

JS: Maturity is a relative and questionable matter when it comes to my work; I think the pussy and fart jokes are still the same but my delivery is a little more subtle. Its been a long haul since the Graffiti days, but a lot of what I'm doing now is a direct result of those past experiences.

FAG: What does the word "art" mean to you, and what do you think of "artist"?

JS: I had this discussion with Jack Chick the other day. He compared the art world to a plane spinning out of control, and artists today are fighting over whose going to be the one to pull the yoke bringing the plane back to safety. I simply told him that I hope the fucker crashes, I'll be in the back mixing drinks and offering free last minute sex to the art fag passengers.

FAG: I love a good Jack Chick book as much as the next guy, but do you think talking to him is a good idea. Has his homosexuality influenced your work?

JS: It has influenced my art a great deal. Gays have it right; they're not making babies which seems to be where the majority of life's problems begins. Let me explain: If the dumb shit working class stopped making babies then the "MAN" wouldnt have poor people to push around. Only rich fagtard Cardigan wearing, Yacht sailing, Senator kids like JFK Junior Junior would be left. The gays have figured this out. This is why Bush hates gays so much, theyre trying to make sweaty lezbos out of his daughters.

FAG: My mom has characterized your "art" as "the work of the devil". Do you have any other influences?

JS: Satan mostly. I think your mom just has a general bias against me because I drew her with a crack pipe in her butt. If she knew that I hung out with Jack Chick on a regular basis shed probably have a different opinion about both Satan and me. Dodge ball was my other influence but that became gay pretty quick, so now Im onto switchblades.

FAG: Some of your work in the past seems to be pushing thinly-veiled sexual deviance through colorful commercial advertising aimed at fat children. What in the hell do you think you are doing?

JS: I don't really know; it's what I was taught in art school.

FAG: Are you trying to push somekind of political agenda through your "art"?

JS: No I'm not that smart I just steal everything the gays say and support the baby hate campaign. I guess I could say something about Texas Nazis or Terror men but I think 9/11 didnt just create a war of reactionary forces, but it also created a lot of bad art.

FAG: Sure, guy. Anyway, do you even know who Michael S. Dukakis is?

JS: Yeah, he was the guy who played Mr. Belvedere, on Different Strokes. I loved that show they had a train going through their house and Jay Jay was always saying Dy-no-mite to Michael Landon.

FAG: Right. You have an upcoming show featuring your "Transnational Space Race; The Final Moment in Black History" series. Could you maybe give us a brief description/warning about what we will be seeing?

JS: Transnational Space Race; The Final Moment in Black History," is about racism and outer space. Or more specifically, how Bush would go about convincing people that going to Mars is a good idea. Send a black man.

FAG: Where else can people go to view and/or buy your work?

JS: Check out http://web.archive.org/web/20050305042157/http://www.haistar.com/ or http://web.archive.org/web/20050305042157/http://www.scribbletheory.com/ they have a majority of my work. Ill have a site up some day at http://web.archive.org/web/20050305042157/http://www.skankstudios.com/, which will have all of the projects and collaborations that I am doing with other artists.

FAG: What is with your attitude? It seems really bad.

JS: I guess it just comes with the territory; it's hard being poor and getting little respect for what I do. Someone asked Hunter S. Thompson why doesnt he enjoy writing if it's something that he likes to do. He explained that writing was like sex, for amateurs it's all shits and giggles but when it becomes a job old whores arent laughing. I suppose thats where the smug cynicism and sarcasm in my art comes from.

FAG: Poor! You're not poor! Being poor is for jerks! [laughs]

JS: No...really, I am. I don't always get to eat.

FAG: Oh.

Jophen Stein has an upcoming show the first Saturday of November at Scribble Theory from 7-10 p.m. His Transnational Space Race Series will be displayed among fellow artists' work in a group show. There is no cover charge and plenty of free beer and food. For more information and directions try [scribble theory] or [jophen stein].

The Art Fag / Scion Installation Art Tour

It certainly wasn't a year of surprises when many prominent artists of lowbrow/street fame got together to paint on cars - sponsored promoted and shit goosed by Scion (a subsidiary of Toyota) and Rebel Organization (a subsidiary of Urb Magazine). Installation brought out the kids of tear-drenched Oprah fans for a rousing round of in-depth, in your face street art, which according to Scion has an urban attitude like no other.

After all my screams of yippee fucking yippee I had to question Scion’s position and the artists who willingly participated. Is it because cars drive on the streets that your attitude has to be from the streets? Apparently so, because they obviously discounted a wide range of kids when trying to appeal to the next generation of car buyers. Who the hell are they trying to impress. Kids from the streets don't have money, they have knives and gout which doesn't buy too many cars, so the obvious target market here are kids from nice homes who wished they had black friends with knives and gout. This is how Scion and the Rebel Organization describe it:

"Scion is a new line of vehicles from Toyota Motor Sales (TMS), U.S.A., Inc. Scion’s mission is to satisfy trend-leading youthful buyers through distinctive products and an innovative, consumer-driven process. Scion will continue to respond to an emerging culture of new car buyers with unique products, targeted marketing and a dedicated sales process."

"The Rebel Organization, Inc. is an ‘off-line’ viral marketing and promotion company that specializes in connecting brands to the progressive youth culture. Using grassroots platforms that range from street teams and event production to art shows, film screenings and promotional music CDs – the Rebel Organization is a full-service lifestyle marketing partner that helps companies make a ‘real’ impact in the underground sub-culture of today’s youth."

All of this translates into another attempt to sell crappy cars on a cool to cool basis. Our cars are cool; you’re cool, so buy our shit. Sew my vagina shut! You mean my P.Diddy Records and Cross Colors will finally be expressed to their fullest potential and capacity? What fuck fart thought up this culture - Hey I got an idea, lets take any and all artists create a premise that sounds like we're the coolest fucking ‘realest real’ that ever walked the ‘real’ streets and sell some fucking shoe box sized cars. This has nothing to do with progressive youth, art culture, or anything any of us consider worth while but has everything to do with sounding hip to the hippiest hipster while simultaneously raping any fragment of dignity art has left.

And for all of the artists that I've now come to expect very little from, congratulations, dipshits, you just did a fucking car commercial for free, what a retarded way to sell-out like no other, since all proceeds went to charity. There are numerous other ways to get exposure, credibility, and promotion without compromising integrity - i.e. Do it yourself, quit holding hands with your retarded corporate surrogates, you fucking babies, and plan the same events minus the cars.

This issue has been convoluted for a long time, since it is the artist’s living that we are talking about; which is all fine and well, but ultimately this trickles down to a highly visible display of excruciatingly bad art, while still tediously claiming credibility. As if to say that being poor and from the streets adds a legitimacy to endeavors of corporate promotion. If this is the case why doesn't the same group of artist turn their attention to less promoted corporate icons, such as Kool-Aid. A company well in need of promotion with a long track list of street credibility. For instance, in 1978 Kool-Aid was an accomplice in murdering over nine hundred people. Kool-Aid’s “passion fruit” flavor is the English translation of marijuana, and it only costs eleven cents. As opposed to Scions xB which costs around $14,000. And if you thought that Scion and Rebel were the only organizations capable of being charitable, Kool-Aid donated over 3,000 gallons to our brave troops over in Iraq (http://www.hastingsmuseum.org/koolaid/kadrive.htm). With thus such an icon you kill two birds with thirteen stones, you keep your street real, you give to charity, and support a corporation.

Scion Installation Art tour 2005 is coming, and I suggest not going, because the last year and a half of this shit hurt my eyes and my expectations. But if you have high hopes of street flavor art in your face real style, then go; maybe you'll be lucky enough to test drive-by an xB.

The Ninety-Nine Cent Menu

When I was kid, a group of mexicans surrounded me the first day of school and demanded that I give them my shoes. The conversation that followed was brief and mostly one-sided but resulted in them punching me in the face, kicking me in the leg, and finally running off with my left shoe.

At the time, I was pretty upset and said "stupid fucking mexicans" a lot that year. But now that I've entered my late twenties, I can honestly say I've almost forgot about the whole incident. In fact, I think I might be starting to appreciate mexicans. No, really, I am. Sure, a lot of people call me a racist pig, but I'm totally not. I'm just a misunderstood cultural analyst. You don't think I know where my Double Decker Taco comes from? Duh. Of course I do. We need mexicans and the spicy food they bring to our country. Without these people where would we be? Lost! Lost in a world of five dollar hotdogs and mayonnaise. Yuck!

Which, somehow, brings me to the Minuteman Project. While I realize that many members of the organization may in fact be overly zealous, latent racist, I really believe their hearts are in the right place. Allow me to explain: The last time I checked, illegally crossing the borders was still illegal. This being said, I really think the members of the Minuteman Project are interested in only upholding the law. Kind of like how the crossing guard or the umpire at your favorite baseball place just wants everyone to follow the rules and have a good time, only with guns. Sure, the Minutemen carry guns. But that doesn't mean they're going to shoot anybody. Lots of people carry guns. Look at John F. Kennedy, he carried gun and never got to shoot anyone. Not even himself!

Obviously, illegalized mexicans have just as much right to work here as any other loser. That is just an undeniable right. The right to work in another country without paying taxes or obeying the law is just owed to you. So how do we keep our Chillitos and Baja Chalupas hot and spicy without getting stabbed to death? Well, I developed a little something I like to call, The Other Final Solution: Imagine a world where mexicans could come to the United States by filling out paper work, exercising a little patience, and obeying a few measly laws. Crazy, huh?

Yes! It will be diffcult; No! You can't have my shoes. But I think if we work together, we can accomplish anything we set our minds to, no matter how small or deformed they may be. And, now, as I look back upon my life, typing this last sentence, I realize that my boyhood experience with the mexicans was just a minunderstanding, probably my own fault, and that, at one time or another, we are all a "stupid fucking mexican".

If you would like to share your opinion or get involved for the cause, please email: info@swarmtheminutemen.com.

Grasp on Self-Expression Pried Loose

Now that the war on terror has been won, and the flags of Freedom and Justice waive over the minefields and mass graves of new friends and allies, who once pursued the destruction of all in the world that is pure and chaste, but who now embrace the ideals of the gods and kings of the West with fervor and reverence unbeknownst previously in their breeds, now that that has come to pass, the Champions of Liberation, the Warrior Poets of Free Will and Rational Discourse can, in good conscience, divert their enterprises toward achieving new goals, in which case, for this proponent of Unity, means fixing up my truck.

Not that, mechanically speaking, the truck is unfit for the travails of the modernized streets and highways of this great nation. Rather, the vehicle lacks a certain aesthetic, that ephemeral quality that will vault it from its lowly stations of mere mode of transportation, into loftier reaches of concrete representation of my individuality.

Toward this goal, many modifications must be made to the machine, beginning with the elevation of the frame a full fathom from the firmament, followed by the sticking-on of new wheels, at once monumental and monstrous.

Thereafter it shall become obligatory to attach several chrome accoutrements as symbols of prosperity through honest labor. These, as catalogued in order of importance, begin with a hitch, capped by a faux propeller; next to come, the single step arching from below the driver door, rendered non-functional by the height of its perch, yet a vital tribute to the idea that form must not always follow function; the last adornment must be the chrome-plated depiction of human skulls, roasting in the flames of perdition, which shall serve as the grill of the truck.

While the symbolism underlying this depiction has been so deeply tangled in our collective-consciousness as to make it difficult to unravel its specific portent, it seems safe to assume that it is representative of an apocalyptic warning to those who fail to heed the edicts written long ago in the books of Traffic and Safety.

The final, and no doubt most significant, addition must be the vinyl cutouts destined to transform the rear panes from simple sheets of glass into windows to my innermost self. Here, and only here, are we afforded the opportunity to voice any number of the optional beliefs to which we may safely subscribe.

While tradition suggests these be limited to one’s preferred clothing company, or music corporation, many feel that the limits should be set only by the selection of your local vendor of such stickers.

In this case I shall make use of a cultural icon: a white vinyl Calvin pissing on an inverted Calvin below him, who in turn pisses on the feet of the first, serving as a reminder to all of the importance of community involvement.

Our task now complete, we are free now to unveil the truck, not just as a means of getting to-and-from places, but as a badge of membership to the legions of white working-class citizens, announcing in beautiful brevity that, like you, I worship the ideal of pursuing my individuality unfettered by the tyranny of evil in its many guises, and that, like you, I share a deep appreciation and admiration for the two deathless American Standards: beer and pussy.

Music Band

I'm thinking about starting another band.