Aaron R. Davis

I read this week that Katherine Heigl said she wanted back on Grey’s Anatomy. Katherine Heigl stories in the gossip media are always hilarious to me for three basic reasons. 1) Katherine Heigl obviously (and wrongly) thinks she’s a very popular actress and person, 2) there are these bizzaro lady fans she has who troll the news feeds for any remotely negative thing anyone says about her so they can jump to a pointless and impassioned defense of this actress they’ve decided to make the symbol of how everyone obviously hates successful women who speak their mind (doubly hilarious if these people aren’t actually working for Heigl, which I’m not convinced they are), and 3) seriously, it’s Katherine Heigl, if she weren’t such a gigantic bitch, no one would even be talking about her in the gossip media, anyway.

I was also going to add that Katherine Heigl has a crippling lack of self-awareness, but she’s shown an amazing media-savvy for the last five or six years now. It’s just that her presupposition that people like her is the flaw in this savvy that brings down everything she wants to do.

Example 1: she gets herself cast in the movie Knocked Up after Anne Hathaway drops out. After years of crappy television and Lifetime movies, she has her first major hit playing an irredeemable, self-centered jerk, because you should play what you know for the sake of authenticity. It makes a lot of money, and it makes her look bankable to Hollywood, and they start building romantic comedies around her assuming that she’s now a movie star.

But then, she decides to go on record talking about how Knocked Up was a terrible movie and it made all women look like bitches. So while she’s smart about how being in a hit film can pay off in other aspects of her career, she’s also publicly an ingrate. That doesn’t make you friends in an industry that is surprisingly over-sensitive about what people think. You’d think money would help you get over it, but I don’t know personally. I’d love the opportunity to find out. I mean, if Katherine Heigl really hated it that much, she’s free to give me some of the cash she made of off degrading herself playing professional make-believe. Just a suggestion.

And so what if her movies are crap? I mean, 27 Dresses, Life as We Know It, The Ugly Truth … yeah, they’re all the same movie, but who cares? All actors and even directors do is make the same crappy movies over and over again. Makes Michael Bay millions. Gets Steven Spielberg called, for some reason, the greatest director of all time. Tom Cruise makes the same movie over and over again, and people go to see those. Hell, Christopher Guest has basically remade This Is Spinal Tap four times, and this supposedly makes him a comedy genius. Her movies make a respectable amount of money, and they probably don’t cost much to make, so more power to her. She found a job that pays a lot of money compared to the actual work that goes into it. (Let’s face it, it’s not like movie stars are teachers, or something where people aren’t compensated in relation to the actual, exhausting work that goes into the damn thing.)

Anyway. Katherine Heigl’s kind of a movie star. I’ll give you that. And she’s got this One for the Money that’s come out, which is going to be a failure, obviously, because the books were popular 20 years ago or something and no one goes to see a movie just because Katherine Heigl is in it (despite whatever you’re going to screech about in the comments section, Heigl defenders, because she was probably someone’s ninth choice to star in this), and there’s not going to be enough profit to justify a sequel (much less a franchise), and if it’s such a great movie with a bankable star in the lead, why is it being dumped in the last week of January when everyone’s going to see whatever got nominated for the Oscars instead? This leads me, roundabout, to my second example.

Example 2: she gets a regular role on Grey’s Anatomy, a show which is inexplicably popular and inexplicably still running. Whatever, not my cup of tea, doesn’t matter. It’s a big ensemble, so when she sees an opportunity to pull focus, she does. She goes out and protests during the writer’s strike when there are cameras present, so she looks like she really cares. When Isaiah Washington calls TR Knight a homophobic slur, Katherine Heigl is there telling the media that this really hurts KATHERINE HEIGL because tr knight is KATHERINE HEIGL’s friend and KATHERINE HEIGL really cares about gay people. She’s smart at recognizing opportunities for Katherine Heigl to make the world (or the few people in it who care) see what a kind and caring person Katherine Heigl is. An orphan baby has a curable heart defect? Make it known that KATHERINE HEIGL SELFLESSLY ADOPTED A SPECIAL NEEDS CHILD. I’m kind of amazed she didn’t decide to frame it as “adoption by Katherine Heigl heals the sick.” Someone at work is an asshole and says something nasty to a gay actor? Tell the media: KATHERINE HEIGL WON’T PUT UP WITH GAY-BASHING! Because what’s the point of being a good person if everyone in the world doesn’t see how good a person you are? It’s not like kindness is its own reward, or anything. Not when there are shitty romantic comedies that need leads and a race for the film quality bottom against Jennifer Aniston to be won!

But here’s the real flaw with it all: she’s still an ingrate. Because she comes out and very ungraciously says “Oh no, I know you Emmy voters think I’m incredibly talented, but don’t vote for me this year because the Grey’s Anatomy writers didn’t write anything good for me, and instead of talking to them or to producers about it, I think it’s much more polite and professional to whine publicly about it.” So when no one wanted her around anymore because she burned all of her bridges there, she just said she was too big for the show and was going to have a grand movie career, anyway.

It’s an astonishing character flaw in a person who is otherwise pretty smart about the way she handles her business. It’s seriously, just rubbernecking it online when people report on her, like looking at someone who has selective self-awareness. Someone who knows how to make her career work, but can’t stop herself from saying really stupid things about the people she works for because she thinks she’s a special little princess and has all of the love in the world. I mean, seriously: was she just hoping to be fired so she could move on, or did she genuinely think that Grey’s Anatomy writers were going to look at what she said and realize she was right and they should do better by her?

I think it shows a real self-awareness on her part that she realizes One for the Money is going to do about as much for her career as VI Warshawski did for Kathleen Turner’s. But it shows a real lack of said self-awareness for her to publicly opine that Grey’s Anatomy should have her back on when she’s done her best to make everyone there never want to see her face again.

Seriously, Katherine Heigl: what is your deal? You should really just stop talking to the media for a few years.

Aaron R. Davis lives in a cave at the bottom of the ocean with his eyes shut tight and his fingers in his ears. You can contact him at samuraifrog@yahoo.com

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Aaron R. Davis

I know I’ve mentioned before in these pages that I think Chuck Norris sucks and the people who like him kind of suck, but just to remind you: Chuck Norris sucks and the people who like him kind of suck.

I just don’t get this guy or his inexplicable popularity. He’s got that shitty magic – a combination of mere recognition and nostalgia (which, despite what the Internet blathers on about daily, are not actually the same thing), which makes people overlook that fact that a) he’s untalented, b) he’s not interesting, c) he never once made a movie or TV show that could be objectively considered good unless you were eight when you saw it and then never again since or maybe once took a tow-hook to the head or unless it involved Bruce Lee in some way, and even then, no, Chuck Norris’ movies suck. Also, d) he’s a right wing, homophobic, Huckabee-endorsing, other religion-hating birther, which is the absolute worst thing about him except for the fact that he has people on the Internet who think he is awesome despite the fact that he clearly and definitively is not.

But whatever. If people didn’t like stupid shit, half the Internet would shut down.

So, the latest sucky thing about Chuck Norris is this: he’s demanding that The Expendables 2 be trimmed down to a PG-13 rating, or else he refuses to appear in the picture.

…

What?

I know, I know, it sounds like I’m making a joke, but it’s true: Chuck “The Total Gym Guy” Norris is demanding cuts in The Expendables 2 as if he’s anybody that could tell anyone in Hollywood to do anything. Except what’s weird about it is that producer Sylvester Stallone is agreeing to these demands, because apparently the guy trying to put together the ultimate action series actually seems to think that having Chuck Norris in a flick is something so commercially important it can’t be lost. Apparently he never saw Delta Force. Because that was all Lee Marvin.

And let’s not be mistaken here, The Expendables kind of blew. It was a neat half-joke concept, that you get all of those aging action stars in one place together and make this awesome, stupid action movie. In execution, it was more stupid than awesome. Like, a lot more. But hey, it made some money, and people got excited for a sequel, so more power to Stallone and everyone involved. Since Mickey Rourke decided he was a serious actor that week and declined to appear in the sequel, Stallone turned to Chuck Norris instead. And Chuck Norris demanded cuts.

Why? Because he doesn’t like the salty language.

Yes, because Chuck is a man of the people (unless you’re gay or an atheist, in which case he hates you and thinks you should either be killed or sent to a re-education camp) and insists on being family-friendly (um … now), he’s insisting the language be chopped down, which I really hope against hope is going to lead to a lot of badly-dubbed swears about fargin’ iceholes and mother-fathers. This is a rare case of a movie becoming its own TV-friendly edit before it’s even released in the theaters. Because Chuck Norris, the near-fascist who nigh-treasonously demands to see President Obama’s long form birth certificate because he doesn’t trust a black guy to lead the country, wants to make sure that children aren’t assaulted by the F-word when they head out for a night of blood-soaked, casually violent family entertainment.

That’s the thing that gets me the most. Chuck Norris is presumably fine with the violence; it’s the language he objects to. Sure, kill as many people onscreen as you want, but for chrissakes, don’t call someone a cocksucker as you depict them being ripped apart by bullets!

Family values!

And like I said, The Expendables was okay, kind of. It didn’t make me want to see an Expendables 2. Chuck Norris being in it makes me want to actively avoid it. I just think it’s ludicrous that Stallone, riding the wave of a comeback after the first flick and Rocky Balboa and the surprisingly awesome Rambo, would actually cave on something that naïve. And I think it’s hypocritical that Mr. “Show Me the Birth Certificate Because I Am Apparently Important” has built his career on the exploitation of violence but rather cartoonishly draws the line at dirty words. If some ass hadn’t created the world’s worst Internet meme around the world’s most ridiculous jackass, no one would care. He’d be in his home working out obsessively and talking about his martial arts championships and about how he used to be in movies a long time ago, one of which involved teaming up with a dog to fight crime.

But hey, I get it, whatever. Encouraging hate crimes in your shitty column, good; saying “shitty,” bad. You got it, Mr. Family-Friendly.

Aaron R. Davis lives in a cave at the bottom of the ocean with his eyes shut tight and his fingers in his ears. You can contact him at samuraifrog@yahoo.com

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Aaron R. Davis

The night is cold and dark as Twinkie the Kid walks into his office and closes the door behind him. He uncaps his brandy, pours himself a generous helping and sits down in his contoured office chair. Removing his cowboy hat, he heaves a long, deep sigh, exhaling all he can before downing his drink and feeling the burn of the alcohol and his own shame.

“Two bankruptcies in the same decade,” he muses, pouring himself another glass. “Christ almighty, how much longer can we keep this up?”

Wearily, straining, he lifts himself to his feet again and paces the room, looking at a lifetime of decorations on the wall. He is almost amused by how long he’s had this office, the shelf life of a Twinkie being disturbingly long. He was certainly a survivor, and only a little dried out for wear and the financial stress of the Hostess Corporation.

Twinkie the Kid steps over to a dimly-lit corner and opens his humidor, about to reach in for a cigar, when, almost as a reflex, his eyes dart up to the painted portrait of King Ding Dong. The chocolate majesty’s eyes almost seem to stare back at the Kid, piercing into him. And the Kid’s shame and guilt finally come to the surface, moistening his cakey brow.

“It can’t be helped,” the Kid mumbles to the portrait. He tries to avert his eyes, feeling small and naked under King Ding Dong’s stare, and tries to concentrate on the smooth, flowing brush strokes of the King’s frosting mustache. But almost instantly his eyes are drawn upwards to the almost accusing gaze of the glazed ruler.

“What else was I going to do? Profits are down, demand is down. People finally noticed that their kids looked like sausages bursting out of their casings. You know all parents care about is the self-esteem of their little chunklets. It was only a matter of time before we suffered for it. It’s so easy to blame the little rack at the end of the cereal aisle.”

Still, the painted stare of King Ding Dong made the Kid feel withered and impotent.

“I’ll be the first to admit our products don’t really taste as good as they used to,” he reasoned. “Why do you think those assholes in Texas started deep frying Twinkies? I mean, come on, those people were deep frying Twinkies and somehow childhood obesity is our fault? Twinkies have been around since 1930, god damn it! I’m 82 years old, and kids in the seventies didn’t look like McNuggets with legs! Everyone knew Hostess products were full of sugar and fat back then, too, but there were parents to stop their little drones from sitting in front of the TV and inhaling Ho-Ho’s every night of the week! What happened to actual parenting?!”

The Kid gives another sigh, this one deflating him to the core. He sips his brandy, then puts down his glass and finally closes the humidor, defeated. “It’s not our fault parents can’t be responsible about their children’s health anymore,” he mumbles. “Why are we the ones to suffer?”

He starts pacing again, thinking about all that’s gone wrong in this still young century. “Bad enough those Wonder Bread geniuses can’t find a way to cash in on this whole grain craze, as if wheat is going to magically make their little piglets skinny and muscular and perfect. Try not slathering it with hazelnut sludge for a change! Maybe stop pretending that McDonald’s is healthy just because they started putting skinny hipsters in their commercials!”

The Kid sits down in his chair and, at last, voices what he’s been holding in all day. “What was I going to do? Pay out all of those employee pensions? Keep propping up those damn health benefits? How can we show a profit with all of those union costs? There was no other way to save our profits but to file for Chapter 11 and try to roll back all of those union benefits. Those damn workers, always trying to chip away at our profits, always with their demands and their blathering on about dignity and rights … what about our rights?

“Corporations are people, damn it! Corporations are people! What country do those unions think this is?! We’re in danger every second. Fuck, have you seen how the Vachon market share is growing with those May West Twinkie rip-offs? How are we supposed to fight these things? Well I’ll tell you what, it’s not going to be with damn Transformers endorsements! No one eats Sno Balls, anyway. What, you think Fruit Pie the Magician is going to wave his little wand and make our problems go away? Do you think Little Debbie has to deal with this union overhead?! Bad enough their food still tastes good! Have you ever eaten a Nutty Bar?! It’s delicious!!!”

Suddenly, a knock at the door pierces the Kid’s reverie. Shaking with his fervor, he tries in vain to calm himself down, patting down his kerchief before walking over to the door and opening.

“Is everything okay in here?” asks Chauncey Chocodile, straightening his straw hat. “I heard yelling. I know the bankruptcy announcement has you down, Kid.”

“Chauncey? You still exist?”

“Mostly on the West Coast these days,” Chauncey shrugs. “I guess people in the East don’t want to eat a chocolate-covered Twinkie.”

“And people in the fat states want to deep fry it and blame us when their arteries close off,” the Kid snaps. “Sorry, Chauncey. I am on edge. It’s all falling apart. It’s workers and their damn rights. People are in another one of those snits where they want to be treated like people again.”

“Well, what can you do?” Chauncey shrugs. “I mean, why not be one of those rare businesses that makes its employees comfortable, proud to work here? Aren’t happy workers more productive? And in today’s economy …”

“Today’s economy is slaughtering us!” the Kid yells, past his breaking point. “We can’t afford to deal with unions and still turn a profit, and with this health fad in full swing, we’re not just seen as non-essential, but completely detrimental! Jesus, ‘Twinkie’ is practically shorthand for harmful junk food. Since when do parents not want their kids to eat delicious, crème-flavored chemicals!”

“Sorry, boss,” Chauncey mutters, worried that he’s witnessing the mental collapse of the legendary Twinkie the Kid.

“Will you pray with me, Chauncey?” the Kid asks, now broken.

Chauncey, now seriously concerned, backs away a little bit. “Kid?”

“Pray with me,” the Kid repeats. “Pray with me to Mitt Romney to reassert corporate personhood and institute work-for-hire so we don’t have to deal with these unions.”

“Kid, you’re kind of freaking me out here. Maybe you should go home, get a good night’s sleep and come back on Monday nice and refreshed.”

“You don’t want to pray?” the Kid asks, his suspicious eyes searching Chauncey’s face for signs of betrayal. “Why not? You seem awfully sympathetic to these unions.”

“It’s market reality, Kid,” Chauncey tries to explain. “Who’s going to even buy our products if the workforce can’t afford those kinds of luxuries? I mean, no one really needs to buy a Twinkie, right? Why not give our employees a stake in the company and give them incentive to focus on creating a better product?”

“What are you blathering about, Chauncey? What do you mean ‘better product’?”

And it’s then that the Kid spies the wrapper hanging out of Chauncey’s vest pocket. Twinkie the Kid’s eyes widen, and then narrow again in anger.

“A Little Debbie Nutty Bar, Chauncey?” the Kid seethes. “You dare bring that in here? In this building? In my office!”

“Kid, I … I just …”

“You reptilian bastard.” It’s a cold whisper, but it blares in Chauncey’s ear canals like the report of a pistol.

And that’s when Chauncey sees crème smearing his crappy vest. Suddenly, his legs seem to lose all their strength, and Chauncey collapses to the ground. As he looks up, his vision blurring, all the sound in the world seems to vanish, until all he can hear is Twinkie the Kid, all he can see is Twinkie, looking down at him with utter hatred, his mouth twisted in a scowl, his six-shooter smoking in his hand. And Twinkie the Kid speaks to him one more time: “We’ll be sure to chocolate-coat your coffin, you traitorous redneck lizard.”

And then the darkness.

Aaron R. Davis lives in a cave at the bottom of the ocean with his eyes shut tight and his fingers in his ears. You can contact him at samuraifrog@yahoo.com

Aaron R. Davis

I must not have been a very good boy last year, because right after Christmas, my computer finally melted down. It’s melted down before, don’t get me wrong — you’ve seen the breaks I take — but I’ve always been able to reboot, clear out virus problems, fix the registry or, worst case scenario, reformat. But when your computer crashes in safe mode, it’s pretty clearly time to get rid of the damn thing.

I had a Dell from something like 2003. It was still running Windows XP, so at least I got to bypass Vista entirely. It had a frustrating slow processor (for 2011, not for 2003), and I was getting more and more tired of that giant desktop. I had always wanted to get a new computer. I just wanted to wait until I could actually afford one.

But this, no, this had to become a giant paperweight over the holiday break. Of course.

Of course it had to happen when the local library was closed and I couldn’t get to the public computers.

Of course it had to happen when my wife’s Toshiba laptop was in the shop after suffering its second massive crash in the six months we’ve owned it, just before Toshiba mailed it back completely unsecured in its box — a box that showed up with a hole in it, so, you know, thanks for the care and attention to detail, Toshiba.

And of course this has to happen when we’re poor — and we’re always poor, which is why we both can only work part-time/freelance on jobs we find on the freaking computer!

So this was a fun situation to find ourselves in.

The first thing we did was go to some rental places to see if we could float enough money to rent a computer until our tax refund came in with, hopefully, enough to just pay the damn thing off. We were a bit leery of this option, not just because of the hit to our incredibly meager finances, but because we really only had the option of pre-leased machines. Granted, the warranty options were surprisingly generous, but I was just wary of paying for a computer with the possibility of preloaded problems. Was it worth it, or could we hold out until the wife’s laptop came back maybe with its issues resolved?

My mother entered the stage then and tried to help, and I want you all to remember that I appreciate that she had good intentions while I continue to rant here.

My mom dropped off an older Mac she had laying around.

And frankly, in all honesty, I would rather have no computer at all than deal with a Mac.

I know this is an insane point of contention with a lot of people online. There are a whole lot of Mac zombies out there who don’t mind spending the money to constantly upgrade their OS for the wonderful sense of elitism that being a Mac user and part of the whole Apple community apparently provides. And you know what? Fine. That’s cool. Whatever makes life seem worthwhile in this terrible economy and idiotic political climate. I get that. But even with an unlimited amount of cash, you could not pay me to be a Mac user.

Here’s my problem: I need to access my email and a specific website in order to accept and carry out paid work assignments. It’s the same for my wife. And here I was, stuck with a Mac that was running an older OS and that could only be upgraded so far without just springing for a completely different overpriced machine. So out of three browsers loaded on the damn thing, exactly none of them could access my email. IE? Couldn’t access freaking Yahoo Mail, much less either of our work websites, without upgrading to a newer version of IE … which we couldn’t do without upgrading the OS. Ditto for Safari. And Firefox wouldn’t open at all. Chrome? Opera? Couldn’t even download those on the OS this old thing was running. So while we had a computer that was very pretty, it wouldn’t work for literally the only things we desperately needed it to do: access email and our job websites.

This was incredibly frustrating. I managed to find access to a newer OS through a friend of mine, which would’ve given me the minimum of what I needed, but I couldn’t load it from a USB device. I needed a disc. When I searched the web for advice, I found chat room after chat room full of total assholes whose most helpful comment was “If you don’t have a disc, you must have stolen it, so fuck you, we’re not going to help you.” The archons of Apple, jealously guarding their holier-than-thou status by refusing to open the curtains to show you the inner workings of their church. So thanks for nothing, Appleholes.

My experience with the Mac zombies, and the noise of their moaning Wozniak’s name while copulating with their servers, drove me away from the Internet for a few days. I experienced a wider world … well, a wider of world of Star Trek and Saturday Night Live reruns streamed from Netflix through my Wii. But still, it was nice decompressing from the annoyances online of political commentary, snobbery, fanboyishness and the aforementioned Appleholes. I read, I played games, I did some puzzles … I lived. Remember living? It used to be nice, back before we started letting in so much of the damn noise. It was a fun break. Frankly, I think it’s the kind of vacation I need to take more often.

What ended up happening — since I’m obviously online again — is that I scraped together some holiday money and just bought myself a new laptop (not a Toshiba, that’s never going to happen). I don’t need a tower or an all-in-one; I just need something that gives me word processing and that can access my email and jobs. Frankly, this little laptop is faster and has more space than my old Dell did, so I’m set as long as this thing wants to keep working. I’ve long since lost my fear of losing anything important — I don’t place importance on a lot of things anymore, since it’s just destined to be lost — and now that I’ve reconnected with silence and turning the white noise from the Internet vacuum off, I feel a lot better about the world than I did last week.

Oh, and sorry for the Appleholes crack. People just pissed me off. In the end, it’s not important.

The real lesson of this week: not a lot about the Internet is.

Aaron R. Davis lives in a cave at the bottom of the ocean with his eyes shut tight and his fingers in his ears. You can contact him at samuraifrog@yahoo.com

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Aaron R. Davis

The Late December Holiday Mash-Up is nearly upon us, and the orgy of corporate-mandated Good Cheer that comes with it, and I want to wish you all a safe and happy season of whatever the season means to you personally and will offend you the least.

I wish you good tidings and a pause to ill news. I wish you a lack of long lines and a decent parking space. I wish you less awkwardness than ever when dealing with your families, especially if you’re interesting enough to have found your own identity in spite of how you were raised.

May all of your technology work the way it’s supposed to for a change. If you have to contact a call center, I wish you help instead of belligerence, and an actual human voice instead of a goddamn recording.

I hope we all learn to drive for a change in 2012. No more of the dozens of daily car accidents we take for granted because we assume people are too stupid to pay attention when cars are trying to merge during rush hour. Seriously, people, pay attention to where you’re going. Oh, and people in Mini Coopers, I know you have a tiny little car, but that doesn’t give you license to weave in and out of traffic constantly like you’re zipping around in a goddamn Vespa. Seriously, what is wrong with you people? You still have to obey the rules of the road. And why the hell are you driving a Mini Cooper, anyway? Look at your life, look at your choices.

Um … I mean … may we all learn to forgive others, and ourselves.

I wish more Muppets for the world in 2012.

I wish us actual good movies again.

May Steven Spielberg finally make a movie that isn’t about penis or how creepily magical little boys are, may Pixar make a movie that isn’t a giant allegory for sexual dysfunction and may Hollywood finally relent and finance some Terry Gilliam movies, since almost every popular movie ever has just been ripping the man off. Alright, maybe I’m too hard on everyone; it’s mostly joking, guys. Except for the boy thing, Spielberg, what the hell? AI was like a damn NAMBLA ad.

May Michael Bay never make another movie again and instead travel the world making explosions that help mankind somehow.

I wish some kind of happiness for the people who lost Community only to get a freaking Chelsea Handler sitcom instead. I wish some serious perspective for NBC. I hope Kate Beckett and Richard Castle finally get together, already; seriously, you’re running out of excuses to keep them apart that aren’t just straight trolling the audience. May all of our sweeps weeks contain something worth watching that isn’t all gimmicky.

May Kat Dennings get everything she wants forever until the end of time, because she is perfect and I love her.

May we each win $20,000 in contests we didn’t even know we entered and that don’t turn out to be scams. May all scammers and people who create viruses drop dead from massive coronary episodes that create immense pain. And may they be revived, only to feel every artery harden, then feel their brains shut down and then finally die once again as the people they victimized kick them repeatedly. And this isn’t a one-day thing, oh no, this goes on for like a week, with one artery hardening at a time, and one synapse in the brain shorting out. Yeah, yeah, and then they have to relive all of their most painful moments, like when their dogs died or that creepy guy with the shed next door touched them inappropriately, and then they overload on the pain, but they can’t even become unconscious or numb to it, they just have to sit there and take it all in, just feel all of that pain and sorrow, they can’t filter that shit out.

Oh. Um …where was I? I mean, of course, may we all find inner peace and enlightenment.

May we all understand the value of other people, or, failing that, may we all somehow find ways to work from home and get paid for, I don’t know, entering data or something. Man, that’d be sweet.

May we all get the exercise we need and eat more fruit.

I wish jobs for the people who need them. May corruption be weeded out of our institutions and may cops stop pepper-spraying people in the face for exercising their rights of free assembly. May anyone who says that pepper spray, hotter than the hottest pepper known to man, is merely a food product, get pepper-sprayed in the face so they can see what they’ve been missing. I wish for a Congress that isn’t filled with traitors, who want to do the best for the people of this country and the Constitution of the United States instead of putting a promise made to Grover fucking Norquist above their oaths of office.

I hope the Republican debates get more interesting. Like, instead of the same idiots saying the same stupid garbage over and over again, they have to make it through the final round of American Gladiators or something. Or the games in Tron. Something to make it exciting instead of an exchange of non-ideas. It’s like watching a Model UN made up of D students. Seriously, you know you’d rather watch Rick Perry have to try to be a cowboy instead of just dressing like one and blathering on about prayer in schools. I bet he gets stomped to death by a bronco, which would just make the world a better place, anyway. And who doesn’t want to see Newt Gingrich crying his eyes out while trying to wrestle a bear?

Oh, and let’s tax the rich in 2012. Fuck the one percent for always asking the rest of us to contribute more and more while they contribute nothing to the economy AT ALL. You can’t take it with you, chumps. (Oh, and before you get all pissy in the comments about “job creators” and other buzz-lies, take a deep breath, realize you aren’t rich and you never will be, that you will never be in the one percent ever at all, and that they in fact laugh at you for defending them while they steal your pensions and your 401(k), and go play with your kids or volunteer at a shelter or just read a book or something. If you’re in the one percent, you’re certainly not reading this.)

Oh, and no more corporate personhood. Give me a fucking break with that.

I wish you no racism in 2012. No sexism. Actual compassion for all people. An end to the irrational fear that because someone is a different religion, they want to kill you.

I wish Pat Roberston a quick and very, very quiet retirement.

No more hate. No more war. No more disparity. No more demonizing other people and bombing them because we don’t want to fix problems at home. Economic recovery. Hell, economic prosperity.

Peace and all that. Live long and prosper. May the force be with you.

See you in 2012. I hope it all works out, but maybe bring a helmet just in case. Ooh, and some sandwiches.

Aaron R. Davis lives in a cave at the bottom of the ocean with his eyes shut tight and his fingers in his ears. You can contact him at samuraifrog@yahoo.com