"Why Jon Stewart Is Better Than The State Of Nevada"

The Daily Show with Jon Stewart has helped me survive the last four years of insanity and stupidity. I know some of you out here are like me. Maybe you don't have a close-knit core of people to complain to, or maybe your mouth is dry and your throat is hoarse from bitching about the thousands of decisions and failures of the Bush administration. Jon has been there for all of us. Plus, he's just damn funny. There are few places left for smart comedy and we all know it. It's not welcome in a lot of corners of America anymore.

They call it liberal and left. But I know what it actually is. It's Correct. It is Awake. It is that spirit of the country that always hums underneath the tones of overt patriotism and the worship of myths and intangibles. It is smart-ass and sharp. It is my home and where I feel the most welcome.

Then, you have the blistering hellhole that is Nevada.

I drove my family through that bleached desert expecting the vistas of the America southwest to somewhat resemble the Road Runner cartoons. I was as far from Road Runner as Charlie Sheen is from being funny. It is certainly a desert; I don't want to misrepresent the area by comparing to a dump or a landfill. (Although the state has oodles of them around.)

No, what I saw on the way to Las Vegas was an absence of life. It was death. The mountains were gray and the land was crackly and dry like your lips in December. I immediately compared it Florida, where we driving from. Of course I'm no fan of the Sunshine State, but there is some green-ness there. Plants, grass, trees and bushes. Nevada was nil. Tiny scrub brush was all I could see aside from dirt and sand. No cool cacti either.

I have to lotion my hands just thinking about it.

Jon Stewart even gives equal time to the guys he lampoons. Both sides of the aisle and from states of both colors get to come on the show. I usually avoid the interviews, to be honest. I'm in it for the first two segments where the show really shines. In his heart, Stewart is a comedian and his job is to present America with things that are funny and the things that are so bad and so wrong and so unfair that all we can do to process them is to laugh at them. It is therapeutic. And with such gutless comedy (and art, for that matter) these days, I am always confident Jon Stewart will deliver the bad news with a teaspoon of sugar and a punch to the groin.

Speaking of punches to the groin, I've been to Vegas.

Again, with a fist full of cash and a few grown-up friends, I could have had fun. But that's not the point. Everyone knows Las Vegas is a wild place for adult fun. However, there is a push over the last decade to make this town kid-friendly and a family destination. Look, nice try, Vegas. I'm from Orlando and I've seen this work pretty well for them. You shouldn't even bother. There's more skin on the billboards than mouse ears in the entire Magic Kingdom.

You can't walk two steps out of your hotel without blinding lights, hundreds of creepy drunks and some greasy guy handing you hooker flyers. Every third sign is an ad for strippers or sex for a fee. Yeah, all kids would pass over a chance to ride Space Mountain for the chance to hang out next to Cinnamon with Hepatitis C.

And, I'm sorry Vegas, but the poker floor is the single most depressing place I've ever been aside from a funeral home. Retirees and tragically obese tourists slumped over machines. Squatters, barely mobile at blackjack tables, wait for some elusive spark of fun to remind them that they are still alive. Pensions and social security checks just float down a dusty, shitty river to billionaire casino owners.

Plus, there are hookers all over. "Hey kids! This one doesn't have fake nails!"

I can watch Jon Stewart whenever I need a boost and I feel that I'm isolated from others who can see clearly. Vegas is fun for some, but I have to keep my kids away.

Nevada could meet me halfway and plaster 100 million solar panels across the state and power the Pacific Coast. There's nothing to see anyway, and you'd be doing us a huge favor. That would show you're cool.

News Whine, Part Two - "Why I'm Not Up For Debate"

I am trying very hard not to "blog" on this blog site but I have to give a little background info before I can get going. And you aren't the boss of me, so stick it.

I was raised in a giant can of black olives and shaving cream with my brother Matthew who was born with an elephant's trunk where his left nipple should have been. My father was the late George Carlin. He taught me everything I knew about expressing my thoughts, remembering to bake it in a delicious fruit pie and bake at 450 degrees for one hour. And swearing. He taught me lots of swear words.

When he was on the road, I'd have a few guys keep me company so I wouldn't get lonely. Eddie Murphy was there at the beginning, but he grew tired of being funny when I was around 15. There was Sam Kinison who screamed, and Bill Hicks who loved conspiracy theories. I learned about Pryor and I watched David Letterman at 12:30 am, hardly realizing there were naked girls on Cinemax at the same time.

The point is, I worshipped comedians and how they thought. I delivered my thoughts the same way I do now; for your entertainment. I have to do it. If not, there is only frustration, tears and…choose an unhealthy addiction. My opinions are wholly mine but my intent is not to prove my point. Usually, I want to make other people comfortable or just laugh. When I am getting serious about something, I feel as if my oxygen supply is slowly turning off. I need to desperately take a breath and lighten the hell up or my head will burst like that blackhead the morning of school picture day.

Its not that I don't care. I care too stupidly much about everything. I'm just not wired to take on Stephen Douglas in Illinois. (Look it up, for Chrissakes.)

The great ones: Pryor, Carlin and later, Chris Rock brought messages to their audiences. They made connections and they were there to express something. But if you weren't laughing at them, they failed. Sure, most comedians are only there to make you laugh and I agree that should be at the top of their priorities. (Especially for what they charge for a ticket.) But the really good ones were making a connection to you via fart jokes. They give you some of their humanity. Also, you could remember some of the lines and tell the guys down in the lunch room the next day and they'd find you hilarious. Its brutal, sad and painful presence was the real reason you remember the show.

This is also why Jerry Seinfeld kinda sucks.

Debating is such a heavy game played by too many amateurs. Most Americans haven't the perspective or breadth of experience or knowledge to know what the hell they're talking about when it comes to major issues. It's impossible. These aren't opinions, this is debate. A hundred years ago, only the sharpest and strongest of us even attempted. The average person knew they couldn't swing with the big boys in the Major Leagues of public discourse. They said their peace and that was it. They had the sense and dignity and respect for the Big Ideas to muddle it with limited knowledge of the facts. It was logical and fair.

Today, debate is bickering and whining. I won’t join in. Nah. Not good enough.

It took me years to figure this one out. I lingered under the delusion I just didn't believe in my ideas enough to have at it with someone who didn't agree. I was wrong. I just don't care that much. I'd rather goof off and get them to tinkle just a little from laughing.

And so on.

Marvction Comics Presents An Origin Story: "The Elitist"

Born Archie Darwin somewhere in downtown Chicago in the mid-seventies, the man who would come to be known as The Elitist did not begin his life heroically.

While just an anonymous boy in fourth grade, young Arch was mercilessly picked on by a small group of classmates. They dragged their knuckles and furrowed their brows at Arch's comments about the validity of technological savvy in an expanding marketplace an that state lotteries were for suckers. They grunted and jumped him just after lunch. After extracting his briefs from his ass and digging his backpack out of the dumpster behind the school, Arch knew his future lie somewhere else.

He would lie in bed and stare at the ceiling every night. He thought about the teachers who hated his slacker attitude even though he earned A's throughout high school. He wondered why he couldn't make the football team (in an attempt to impress a blonde cheerleader). Arch had great speed but he fell out of favor with the assistant coaches when he corrected their grammar, re-drew their plays to make them effective and pointed out that the school mascot's costume looked more like a Short-Toed Eagle than a Bald Eagle.

After receiving his diplomas in Psychology and English, he finished his Master's Degree in Finance to look attractive to potential employers. He had several college girlfriends who made bids for his time, but Arch was always focused on his work or…something else. It was the elusive question in his life. Then, after the 2000 presidential election, he had an epiphany.

The once mild-mannered, east-coast educated, 156 IQ-ed, liberal, pro-choice, anti-gun Archie Darwin would adapt an alter-ego: The Elitist!

His first mission came straight from the newspaper. A high school in Lexington, Kentucky was going to ban classic literature in the library and force their teachers to teach creationism as fact. Arch knew he had only one choice: To act!

The morning after the school enforced its rule; the principal's staff came to work the next morning to find a spray-painted hallway that read: READ A BOOK, IDIOTS.

Archie wasn't much for action. It's not an Elitist's forte.

But soon he learned that he instead needed to take on the villains directly. He needed to strike at the enforcers of small mindedness, who manipulated traditions and ideals to gain influence and power. Those were the true criminals. He had to take on the ultimate conservative syndicate: Red Force!

Uncle Clem, the mastermind of Red Force, who guards the secret compound somewhere in the hills of Wyoming. Or Mississippi. (Not sure, it's secret!)

Brazen Man, the brawn behind the crew. He is willing to say and do anything to accomplish is goal; no matter how embarrassing, untrue, outdated, petty, unfounded, ridiculous, homophobic, racist, retarded and dumb.

Shirley Cupcakes, the den mother/vixen of red Force. With her plastic smile, porcelain skin and sensible footwear, she is the temptress that seduces with the scent of chocolate chip cookies and mini-van interiors.

The Duke, the man of action and The Elitist's fiercest foe. Mentally unstable and suffering from delusion, the Duke dresses in the garb of John Wayne and like the former star, has no real hero credits other than pretending to be a soldier an a cowboy. But he sticks to his guns! (Seriously, he had them sewn to his hips. Very painful.)

And of course,

Johnny Reb Six-Pack Shotgun Jesus Freak McXenophobe. Well, take a guess.

The Elitist battles these scourges of the human intellect every night, in the small towns where real Americans live, and even in the big cities where most of them live.

Catch the action, today!

(Does anybody know how to draw?)