Ejewmuhkashun

If there's one thing I know, which I don't, it's that education is important. Anyone who says otherwise is either a drug dealer or a teacher. On what do these "anyones" base their assertions? Among other things, that there is no point in learning what you're just going to forget a year later. While I had originally planned to vehemently disagree, upon further assessment of the situation I have decided to directly oppose my opening statement. It's not because I am easily dissuaded, which I am. It's not because I don't have a single fact to support my argument, which I don't. It's not even because I was praying on bent knee that a plethora of insight would come to me as a rush delivery directly from God himself, which I was. It's because they've got a good point/I don't care.

Who the hell knows what the capitol of Ohio is or who the twenty-first vice president was or how to add? If I had to remember every single useless bit of information/important life skill I had ever learned, then there wouldn't be much room left for nothing, now would there? You may be intrigued to learn that approximately eighty-seven percent of my brain is currently unoccupied. Upon close observation, you might notice that there is a very small neon sign on my forehead that flashes "VACANCIES." (Even smaller are the words basic cable, mini-microwaves and free wifi.) It is this chasmic void of intellectual capacity that allows me to sit for extended periods of time without experiencing a single thought. Not one. This is where an analogy could be inserted, likening my entranced state to being Off the Air. A fried egg would work, too. My brain could be the egg and, well, I don't know what the skillet would be, but I'm sure there's a comparison in there somewhere. Why I could even resort to using this retarded looking smiley face  to illustrate my point. But all metaphors aside, if I were to be hooked up to an electroencephalogram it would register a resoundingly straight line. The doctors would declare that I was brain dead, the will would be read, and the cretins that call themselves my relatives would come crawling out of the woodwork and divvy up my estate (consisting of two thin pieces of plywood and a harmonica, thank you very much) before the plug could even be yanked out of the wall.

What I'm trying to say in my own not-so-succinct way is that education isn't about remembering a bunch of numbers and dates: It's about cheating so that you don't have to. Exactly how do you think the CEOs and the Subway night managers of the world got to be where they are, hmm? Certainly not with hard work, perseverance and the sweat off their brow, if that's what you were about to say. No one ever got to be anyone by putting their nose to the grindstone. Believe me, my cousin Saul tried. And where did that land him? In the emergency room with a maimed face, that's where. Oh sure, after months of litigation he was awarded a handsome sum in damages, but that only goes so far when you've got an amphetamine habit to support and pyramid schemes to invest in. And no matter how finely ground it is, a lifetime's supply of wheat is no substitute for vaguely nose-shaped Play-Dough where a real nose should be. I don't care what those fancy Bolivian doctors say, it doesn't look normal, not even if you squint real hard and "use your imagination."

Although I generally advise against it, right about now you're probably thinking. Thinking what, I couldn't say. Those online telepathy classes were a total rip-off. And while I would kindly appreciate it if you would just tell me, I can sense by that canister of mace in your hand that you are feeling not only unhelpful, but threatened. This is of little consequence -- I can easily project what I'm thinking (and eating) onto you. See below:

"But Kathryn, I'm confused. First you say education is important, then you completely contradict yourself. My question is: What's your favorite color?"

Listen here, whippersnapper, we didn't all go to fancy dancy "schools" with "teachers" and "books." (Some of us had to work on the compound!) Well, let me let you in on a little secret: There's plenty of stuff that can't be learned in a book. If you want to know how the kittens lost their mittens then by all means, read. We'll see how far that gets you in the real world, where when kittens lose their mittens they don't just go to Target and buy new pairs. They freeze to death. Kitten popsicles, the lot of 'em. And depending on my mood, either burnt umber or zinnwaldite.

My point is, cats are forgetful.

Wait a dadgum minute... that's not my point! Although for the record, they're lazy, too. What was I rambling on about? Oh, right. Education. I may have some reservations (all of which are perfectly legal and run, not only willingly, but happily by the people of Two Kettles Sioux Indian Tribe), but I have at last come to the conclusion that I already had when I started writing this thing. Education, if only in the haze of red and blue lights as the arresting officer leads you to his squad car and asks how much whiskey you had that night, is important. A lesser educated person might have to resort to the classic thumb-and-pointer-finger-measurement-estimator while slurring, "'Bout yay high," whereas someone with a comprehensive understanding of fractions can assuredly reply, "Why, one fourth of a bottle, Officer Handy. And might I say you're looking particularly dapper this fine evening." The policeman would be so dizzied by your intellect that he would let you off with a smile and a wave. You'll never be so glad you aced that fifth grade math test as when you careen into that ditch in a drunken stupor. But hey, at least you didn't get another DUI. If that isn't the sign of a flourishing educational system then I don't know what is.

It's a Bird, It's a Plane, It's a... Really Fat Guy in Culottes?

While the city slept, a cry for help in the form of a jelly doughnut appeared in the sky.

 Fatman, who had been thoroughly enjoying a program on oversized gourds, reluctantly acknowledged the glazed omen and got up to go save the world. Again.

 Fatman proves that superheros drive economy cars, too.

Upon his arrival, Fatman is greeted with the status quo shrieks of terror. "Save us, Fatman! We need you, Fatman! Get my cat out of the tree, Fatman!" Not once has anyone taken the time for a few common pleasantries. A remark about the weather might be nice before he spares the universe its fate. But does anyone ever stop to consider that there may be some feelings under all that flab?

Suddenly, Fatman is overcome with ennui. As he watches the little girl cling to the skyscraper for dear life, he can not help but think that if the roles were reversed that she would not save him. Now Fatman is not only depressed but seething with resentment. Why should he go out of his way to serve a public that has such an apparent repulsion to thank you notes?  It doesn't take much to show you care!

Being the consummate superhero that he is, however, Fatman decides to put ill-will aside and rescue the kid anyway. His charitable nature proves fleeting, though, because while Fatman waits for the elevator he starts to feel a little clammy. His arch-nemesis, Hypoglycemia, has struck yet again!

Fatman decides that the screaming eight year old can wait and goes to the grocery store for ammunition. His weapon of choice? Potassium.

When Fatman returns from vanquishing the evil excessive insulin levels, he is surprised to discover that the small child has managed to remain adhered to the building. Fatman is impressed by her strong constitution but it's kind of late now and he really wants to get home before that gourd documentary is over. Fatman is torn. 

In the end, Fatman decides that if the young girl really is that determined to survive, she probably doesn't even need him. In fact, he assures himself as he gets in his car, "she's much better off without me." He would hate to deprive someone of the satisfaction that comes with evading death, after all. 

And as Fatman sped away in his Toyota Tercel, little Kelly Shabowski lost her grip and plummeted towards the ground.  

Just another heroic day in the life of FATMAN.

She's Crazy, F#$%ing Crazy: A Memoir

In the age of  fabricated memoirs it can be hard to tell who's who and what's what. As we all know, author James Fey's memoir, A Million Little Pieces, turned out to be A Million Little Lies. Misha Defonseca, whose book,  Misha: A Memoir of the Holocaust Years, confessed that she is not Jewish and that she spent the war safely in Brussels. In the critically acclaimed Love and Consequences, Margaret B. Jones wrote about her life as a half-white, half-Native American girl growing up in South-Central Los Angeles as a foster child among gang-bangers, running drugs for the Bloods. The problem is that none of it is true.

Now go to the non-fiction section of your local bookstore. Once there, look for She's Crazy, F#$%ing Crazy: A Memoir. ...What's that? You can't find it? Did someone forget how to use The Dewey Decimal System? That's okay, my book actually isn't in the non-fiction section because my book is far too truthy to be lumped together with works rendered essentially fictitious by comparison. So where can I find your book, you ask? Well, do you see the flashing neon sign that says Truthtion and emits choruses of "Hallelujah"? That's right, my memoir is so deeply, profoundly chocked full of truthfullness that it has its very own faceted classification system.

And now, an excerpt from a tale of inspiration, heroism and downright stupidity:

They said it couldn't be done. A blind, armless woman, to climb Mt. Everest? Impossible. Then again, that's what they told Abraham Lincoln, too. "You can't be the president and an astronaut!" But open up any history book and you will find that not only did he become an astronaut, he was the first man to walk on the moon. As Mrs. Millard, my 4th grade teacher, described the scene of Honest Abe planting the American flag in that great-big-hunk-of-cheese-in-the-sky, I wept with newfound hope. By golly, if he could do it, so could I! It was not until I applied to flight school, however, that I was told I could not, in fact, "do it." Undeterred, I set out to find a newer, better purpose. After some quick soul searching I had it narrowed down to two choices: motivational speaking or mountaineering. Either one had the promise of an appearance on The Oprah Winfrey Show, and mountaineering came with the bonus of what was, in my understanding, an unlimited amount of snow cones.

Mountaineering it was then.

I immediately devised a plan for success, even though I had no idea what I was doing. It seemed logical enough to me, though, that people who accomplished things all shared one common denominator. Rocky Balboa did it. So did Harriet Tubman and Spiderman. Thus I concluded the key to success in any given area was to consume vast amounts of raw eggs. Everything else was inconsequential. This is not to say that I didn't have a fully comprehensive understanding of the task I had undertaken. I followed a rigorous schedule of occasional training. I got on the treadmill for at least five minutes during an episode of Deal Or No Deal before becoming so enmeshed in the complexity that I had to sit down. I acclimated myself to Mt. Everest's conditions by conditioning my hair not once, not twice, but three times a day.

I (thought I) was ready.

(I wasn't.)

As it turns out, Mt. Everest is really, really tall. Not to mention really, really cold. If you ask me, a much less deceptive title would be The Biggest, Coldest Hill Ever. It was following a tediously long plane trip, rickety bus ride with only chickens for fellow passengers, and a week's hike during which I subsisted entirely off of one bag of stale Doritos and some Tic Tacs that I stood at the bottom of The Biggest, Coldest Hill Ever and came to the realization that I brought a sled for nothing. But did I give up? In a heartbeat. I was dehydrated, malnourished, blind, armless, insufficiently outfitted, and unprepared. All I wanted was to go home and land a book deal painfully detailing my ordeal.

Then something inexplicable happened. I opened my eyes and saw for the very first time. Floating in front of me, enclosed in a space helmet was the disembodied head of Abraham Lincoln. He told me to find a man by the name of Tinzing, for he would show me the way. I didn't know what to do or where to go so I took off all my clothes and crawled in a north-easterly direction. My hand-and-knee voyage came to an abrupt halt when I bumped into something furry that smelled of hallucinogens.

Tinzing.

I opened my mouth and plunged my teeth into the icy cliff. (At least I was right about the whole snow cone thing!) My bare feet, now black and blue with frostbite, dug into any ledge they could find. My body ached from head to toe and each gust of frigid wind slapped me in the face with the conviction of an aggravated Scarlett O'Hara. Yet, using a combination of sheer determination and freakishly strong jaw muscles, I overcame. Higher and higher we rose, day turned into night, night into day, until at last we reached the climax. And, as Tinzing the Little Indigen Sherpa and I made swift, rapturous love atop the mountain,  he brought me to mine. You know what they say -- if the mountain's a-rockin', don't come-a-knockin'!

(My thoughts and prayers go out to the families of those who perished in the ensuing avalanche.)

Currently Listening Voldemort Can't Stop the Rock see related

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows or When Harry Met Voldy

     Harry Potter, officially of Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, England, had spent many a sleepless night thinking of this moment. How would it happen? Would he know when it did? Or, in the blink of an eye, does death shake hands with life and bid it good day? For all the numerous scenarios he had played out over and over in his head, this was not one of them. In fact, it did not bear the slightest resemblance. He certainly never thought his life would come to an end whilst wearing a collar that said "Mr. Whiskerson," nor did he expect for Julia Child to be there holding a steaming bowl of French onion soup.
     "Care for a lovely slice of boule to go with your soup, Mr. Whiskerson?"
     "Please. Do you have any butter?"
     "Salted or unsalted?"
     "Unsa... wait a second. This can't be right. Julia Child would never pair such a hearty, country bread with the delicate sensibilities of onion soup. It's creamy, intertwining melodies would have been far better complimented by the crispy crust and soft, chewy crumb of ficelle!"
     "And you're a talking kitten, but do you see me throwing around insinuations like they're Fizzbang Firecrackers?"
     "I'm not insinuating anything, Lord Voldemort."
     "It's true," hissed Lord Voldemort, as he slowly removed the mask of lies, "I am no chef. I can't even manage a proper souffle." In reply to Mr. Whiskerson's quizzical stare he went on to say, "Sure, I strike fear in the hearts and minds of every living creature in our world, but to be perfectly honest, it gets kind of old after a while. Do you have any idea what it's like to never hear your own name? Not even the occasional 'Hey there, Lord Voldemort, nice to see you!' or 'One lump or two, Lord Voldemort?' No, it's always He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named this and You-Know-Who that. A trifling consolation for the life I should have lead. You can't honestly think that I wanted it to be this way? That I wanted this, this miserable existence for myself? Mooching off a professor with a speech impediment? Living in a diary? Obsessing over some teenage angst-ridden orphan with a bad haircut? All I ever wanted was to cook. The folly of youth, I suppose. Fantasies of duck confit, walnut goat cheese tartines, foie gras, beef bourguignon, crepes stacked as high as the eye can see! But, alas, I couldn't cut it. My bechamel clumped. My puff pastry didn't puff. My dreams died."
     "So that's when you turned into evil incarnate?"
     "Yeah, pretty much."
     "It's not surprising, I had you pegged for a foodie all along."
     "All along?"
     "You heard me. Say hello to an old friend."
     And before you could say Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, the black cat with an oddly shaped marking on it's forehead transformed into the gangly, green eyed, raven haired boy that had so often consumed Lord Voldemort's thoughts.
     "Oh. It's you. Did you want something?"
     "As a matter of fact I do. Don't take this the wrong way, or anything, but I'm here to fight you to the death."
     "Ah. Yes, yes I suppose you're right. Quite."
     "On the count of three, then?"
     "Jolly good."
     "One.... two.... thr..."
     "Wait! Wait! Wait. Let us not act in haste, Harry. I for one have all the time in the world. My ten o'clock Death Eater raid just cancelled, so I'm free as a bird, really. After all, we don't want to rush into anything."
     "Act in haste -- rush into anything?! What are we supposed to do, kill each other lethargically? For the love of Bertie Bott's, we've both been waiting our entire lives for this moment!"
     "So we are in agreement. Excellent."
     "Huh? Well... uh...I... I suppose there would be no harm in taking a slight intermission. Just until you get your bearings."
     "Thank you. Your patience is most appreciated."
     The two sat on the floor, Voldemort intently observing the tiles, as if there was something very interesting going on down there, while Harry twiddled his thumbs at such a furious pace that they became one fleshy blur. Their silence, which had reached an entirely new level of awkwardness, was broken only by an unlikely apology.
     "Sorry about that scar of yours," said Voldemort, now examining the ceiling.
     "This? Bah, don't be!," replied Harry, his thumbs now moving, if possible, even faster. "I hardly ever notice it's there. Besides, it's not like you meant to leave me with a daily reminder of my grim fate -- all you ever wanted to do was blow me up into itty bitty bits!"
     "That's the spirit! Though I don't suppose you've ever tried putting a little Mederma on it? Muggle remedy. For me, that stuff always works wonders on the various scrapes and bruises that come with waging magical warfare."
     "Can't say that I have, no."
     Reaching for his pocket, Harry thoroughly expected Voldemort to withdraw a wand, but much to his astonishment, there appeared a small, white tube.
     "Here, take mine," Voldemort said as he threw it to Harry.
     "That's real decent of you, Voldy. Real decent."
     "Don't mention it. Shall we get back to what we started?," Voldemort asked, getting to his feet.
     "Right. One... two... three!"
     What happened next was difficult to decipher, as there was a very loud bang followed by a puff of black smoke that engulfed the entire room, compounded by a great deal of shouting from Harry's end. Once the smoke had disappeared, Voldemort could be found lying on his back, slumped against the wall approximately twelve feet away from where he had begun.
     "You're not trying!"
     "Yes I am!," said Voldemort in defense as he brushed the dust from his robes. "This is me, trying."
     "You didn't even have your wand pointed in the right direction."
     "Look, let's just cut the dragon dung. You and I both know that I'm not exactly a spring centaur anymore. The truth is, I'm getting too old for this. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined that I'd still be in the business at my age. It's one thing to try and take over the world when you're in your twenty's; it's an entirely different story when you're so ancient that it takes two hours just to summon enough courage to put pants on in the morning."
     "I'm not sure I follow."
     "Dear, dear Harry, it needn't be so complicated. You want to kill me and I want to die. So what's stopping you? There's no one around. Once you've vanquished me into oblivion, you can just trot along and tell The Daily Prophet all about your glorious victory. How bravely you fought, loads of valor, good triumphs over evil, etcetera, etcetera. You shall be the hero and I shall no longer have to put on pants. Everyone wins."
     "Isn't that sort of... cheating?"
     "Do you want me to die or not?"
     "Yeah."
     "Then shut up and fulfill the prophecy already. Tell you what, since this is your first time I'll make it easy on you and turn around."
     Harry's heart, which had already had it's fair share of arrhythmias for one day, began racing so hard he thought it would explode. He couldn't understand why he was so nervous: This was what he had always wanted to happen, wasn't it? Moreover, this was what had to happen. "Neither can live while the other survives." And it wasn't like he was dealing with a saint, here. This was the man who had murdered his mother and father, had stolen from him what should have been a happy, normal childhood, and had cast a dark shadow over generations of witches and wizards. Why couldn't he just do it? What was so hard about saying those two little words?
     "Everything okay back there?," inquired Voldemort.
     "Fine, fine. No worries," said Harry, trying mostly to reassure himself.
     "I'm not getting any younger, you know."
     Taking a deep breath, Harry slowly raised his wand, and as he exhaled whispered, "Avada Kedavra." Nothing happened. Not even a sparkle.
     "A little bit louder, next time," suggested Voldemort.
     "Avada Kedavra!"
     Still nothing. Whatever hesitations Harry once had were thrown to the wind, his sights set firmly on the task at hand. Increasingly exasperated with his inability to perform the most Unforgivable Curse of them all, he abandoned form and instead resorted to making violent slashing movements with his wand. With each "Avada Kedavra!" his voice raised one octave, and, having reached soprano, looked and sounded like a mentally unstable operatic singer.

     "Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra!"

     With his voice about to crack, Voldemort suddenly crumpled in front of Harry's eyes like a puppet whose strings had just been cut. Frozen in place, Harry braced himself for a flood of conflicting emotions to arrive. The elation of finally being free from the monster who, for so many years, had tightened his clutch around Harry's neck. The uncertainty of wondering whether the part of him which had been so closely interlaced with Voldemort may have been killed as well, and what that might mean. The horror at having perfromed the Killing Curse. The turmoil, the terror, the tears. ...Nothing? Really? "You've got to be kidding me," he cried to the empty room. "After all that? After all that?" Talk about anti-climactic. Little did Harry know that he was not, in fact, alone.
     "Shh! He's going to hear us!"
     Wand at the ready, Harry bolted around, expecting to see a stray group of Death Eaters. Instead, there was only a veil covered broom closet. "H-hello?" No reply. "Who's there? I demand you reveal yourself immediately!"
     "Calm down there, mate," said a familiar friend, as he emerged from behind the veil.
     "Ron?"
     "You did it! Brilliant," the red haired Weasley exclaimed as he gave Harry a robust clap on the back.
     "We knew you could," said Hermione, who, too, had appeared from the closet.
     "Hermione? Have you two been in there the whole time?"
     "Well, where else were we supposed to wait? The Deathly Hallows? Wretched place. Oh and you'll never guess who we found i--"
     "I thought we agreed that once you finished off all the Death Eaters outside you'd come help. What about 'We're with you all the way, Harry' and 'Long live the three musketeers?'"
     "It seemed like you had everything under control is all," answered Ron, all the while staring at his trainers.
     "We didn't want to steal your thunder," added Hermione.
     "Is that popcorn?" Harry was aghast.
     "Apparition makes me hungry," shrugged Ron.
     "Harry!"
     Upon seeing the rather aged, dangerous looking man to whom the third voice belonged, Harry nearly fainted. "Sirius?!"
     "Fancy seeing you here, eh?"
     "So it finally happened," Harry giggled to himself. "I've finally cracked."
     Snapping Harry out of his daze, Sirius said, "I'm sorry to inform you, my most beloved godson, that your brain remains intact."
      "But... I... it... it can't be! I thought you were dead. And now, come to find out, you've just been in the closet?"
     "I wanted to tell you, honest I did. But in the wizarding community there's always sort of been this don't ask, don't tell policy, you know? I was afraid that if anyone ever found out there would be retribution."
     "Retribution? Sirius, what exactly are you on about?"
     "I ... uh, I think the question is, Harry, what do you think I'm on about?"
     "I think you think I think I know what you're on about."
     "Do you?"
     "Do I what?"
     "Do you know I'm... I'm--"
     "Gay?"
     "Merlin's beard no! Er, yes. Technically. But only in the sense of being happy."
     "Then you're not sexually attracted to men?"
     "Oh yeah, that too."
     "So let me get this straight, the veil was not only literal, but also a metaphor for your closeted homosexuality?"
     "Well, well, well. Potter isn't nearly as daft as he looks. Oh wait, he is," interjected a voice with a distinct air of derision.
     "Now this is just getting ridiculous. What the bloody hell is Snape doing here?," demanded Harry, as he motioned to the newest broom closet arrival.
     "Professor Snape to you, Potter."
     "I know you have a less than pristine opinion of Severus," said Sirius, making sure to get between the two, who were now glaring at each other with extreme malcontent, "but henceforth I ask only that you keep an open mind. Harry, I'd like you to think of him not as the hateful potions master that he was, but the caring, devoted life partner that he is today. Isn't that right, Sexy Sevy?"
     "Oh for Christ's sake. Would someone mind telling me what the fuck is going on here?" This was the point when Harry surpassed exasperation and proceeded to full-on hysteria. "What about Dumbledore?! Was his death a metaphor as well?!"
     "No, no, he's just dead. Deadums. Deadsies. Deathy death death. By the way, how has life been treating you?" queried Sirius.
     "Great. Nothing out of the ordinary, really. Just avenged my parents' death. Eradicated unadulterated malice from the world. Found out that any hope for Professor Dumbledore's return was delusional. Same old, same old."
     "Good, good. Lovely weather we've been having isn't it?"
     "Abysmal, if you ask me. Far too much sunshine," said Snape with an elaborate sigh.
     "Oh sod off, you great buffoon. And you never answered my question: what the bloody hell are you doing here?
     "I'm redeeming myself for murdering Dumbledore, along with all of my other past indiscretions, what does it look like?"
     Eyeing Snape's attire, Harry remarked, "I wasn't aware that redemption involved tap shoes."
     "And jazz hands! Cue the lights."
     The sight of Snape breaking out into a spontaneous jig made everyone there sincerely regret having had a generous breakfast that day. But, like a train wreck, no one could keep their eyes off the singing, dancing, flinging, prancing, complete and utter, arse.
     "Snivellus, Snivellus, Snivellus Snape
     Greasy black curtains of hair that drape
     Soul so sullen, eyes so sunken
     Heart of stone and most assuredly shrunken
     Snivellus, Snivellus, Snivellus Snape
     Cold and callous, I take the cake
     Mummy didn't hold me, Daddy didn't care
     It's no wonder I'm full of despair
     Snivellus, Snivellus, Snivellus Snape
     I'll never know the joy of adhesive tape (What?)
     I said I'll never know the joy of adhesive tape (What?)
     I said I'll never know the joy of adhesive tape (What?)
     Snivellus, Snivellus, Snivellus Snape"
      Just when Harry thought he was about to have a hernia, the high kicks and pelvic thrusts stopped. Stunned speechless, the group of mismatches took care to avoid all direct eye contact with one another. But while everyone else was preoccupied with attempting to repress the memories of what had just occurred, Hermione pulled Harry aside.
     "What is it?"
     "Oh, Harry, your scar!"
     "My scar?"
     "It's... gone."
     Pressing a hand to his forehead, Harry felt for the lightning bolt shaped mark he knew so well.
     A seemingly frightened Hermione asked, "What could it mean?"
     "It means, Hermione, that it worked."
     "...Worked? What worked?"
     Harry then slipped a small, white tube into her hand and said with a smile beaming ear to ear, "Mederma, skin care for scars."

Currently Listening The Fragile Army By The Polyphonic Spree see related

A Vote for Me Is a Vote for... Uh...

My fellow Americans, I would like to take this opportunity to formally declare my bid for the 2008 presidency. Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that I don't have the broad-base of knowledge required to lead the free world, that I lack experience and maturity, that I'm about as emotionally equipped to handle this as an autistic four year old. I can't dispute the fact that I'm not exactly a pillar of wisdom. Hell, I don't even have a high school degree. But think of it this way: all of my choices would be made purely on gut instinct. None of that "weighing the facts and making an informed decision" crap. Remember when "Iraq has weapons of mass destruction that pose an imminent threat to The United States" was a fact? With politics being what it is today, it's really only a matter of time until my opponents find something to criticize. Before you know it they'll start saying things like, "She's only running to prop up her failing bumper sticker business,"or that I'm, "addicted to huffing household solvents," or, "She thinks she has a salsa dancing alter-ego named Carlos who enjoys womanizing." Hahaha. Salsa. Merengue, sure. Maybe a Paso Doble here and there, but salsa? So I haven't proposed legislation or amended anything, but I have watched an occasional episode of The West Wing when nothing else was on. Then there's the matter of my age. Okay, fine, I'm a year or two below the minimum. Big deal. I can totally work around it. Just because I'm not legally allowed to run doesn't mean I'm not going to. Take, for example, the Bush administration:  They've done lots of things the constitution expressly forbid, but nobody's said anything about that.

Unlike so many of my counterparts, I won't try to silence the skeptics with speeches written by Harvard graduates with self-esteem issues or all inclusive vacations to St. Barts. Instead, I will embrace them in an open dialogue. I invite each and every one of you to sit down and just have a conversation with me and the people in my head. Let's talk. What would America be if not a land in which everyone was entitled to debate controversial issues without fear of retribution? Is free speech not one of the founding principles that our great nation was built upon? All men are created equal, eagle patterned baldness, from sea to shining sea, let freedom ring, low cost goods at the expense of underdeveloped nations, and so forth? I believe it was Voltaire who said "I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it." Well, actually, there's been some doubt as to whether he said it or not -- but that's beside the point. Yet for all of that, it seems as of late that naysayers are not a welcomed presence amongst our elected officials, or those vying for their positions. And to that I say there must be change. Accountability. People want a candidate who won't tell them what they want to hear, but a candidate who wants to tell them what they want to hear. A candidate who isn't afraid to kiss ass. Ladies and gentlemen, I am that candidate.

I am Kathryn Von Pickleshingles.

A farmer's daughter, I grew up in the deep south. Blue eyes, brown hair, Dissociative Identity Disorder -- I was the girl next door. Mind you, we didn't have a lot back then in 1995, but Momma and Daddy always made sure there was supper on the table and love in our hearts. But you know what? That's all we needed. Forget the trappings of modern day society, the iPods and the MTV and the oral hygiene -- as long as we had each other, we were happy. It's values like these that were instilled in me when I was barely knee-high to a grasshopper. Values that I'm proud to say I live by to this very day. Sadly, it seems like politicians with principles are an ever endangered species. I for one am sick and tired of turning on the news only to see the mug shot of another elected dignitary. What was it this time? No, don't tell me. Embezzlement? Money laundering? Tax fraud? Stach? If the worst crime I'll ever commit is wanting to make the world a better place, then so be it.

How exactly do I plan on going about such a thing?

Guns.

Big guns.

Lots and lots of big guns.