Next up in Seattle: Taxing sex due to increased respiration, C02 output?

Who knew environmentalists were cannibals. They’re now eating each other in Seattle, so to speak.

One would think that the endangered species known as the Republican in the region would be a bit more sane when it comes to environmental moon-battery, but alas … tis not the case.

State Rep. Ed. Orcutt recently entertained the idea of taxing bicyclists because they emit more CO2 when they’re out on the road.

Representative Ed Orcutt (R – Kalama) does not think bicycling is environmentally friendly because the activity causes cyclists to have “an increased heart rate and respiration.” …

“You can’t just say that there’s no pollution as a result of riding a bicycle.”

Mr. Orcutt then followed up with the community to acknowledge how scientifically bankrupt his point was, but that bicyclists should pay for the bikes-only road improvements they desire.

“[O]ne aspect of the Democrat tax plan that has merit is their proposed $25.00 tax on the purchase of any bicycle $500.00 or more. I am willing to consider this because I’ve heard requests from members of the bicycle community that they want more money for bicycle infrastructure. The idea of bicyclists paying for some of the infrastructure they are using is one which merits consideration.”

So Democrats in Washington want to tax Democrat-cyclists more for roads that they already pay for … and Republicans in Washington want to go along with it because they hope people are dumb enough to fall for it, and because exercise increases CO2 output. (Or not on the CO2 thing because people weren’t quite that stupid — this time.)

One way to cut C02 emissions would be to kill us all, which may be an option for politicians somewhere down the line. In the near future, perhaps you’ll be charged a tax every time you have sex, because that increases your respiration rate, and thus C02. Politicians can install cameras in our homes and watch the bedroom cams until people have sex, at which time they will ring up another green tax.

In all seriousness though, as much as I like bizarre news, this story out of Seattle is just depressing. While I don’t mind paying taxes for any number of things, and I’ll sit idly by as I’m taxed for ideas I find preposterous, eventually a culture reaches the point of no return. I have a feeling that the officials in Seattle would pass a law that would allow them to cavity search a man if they thought he was holding out on them for a “pedestrian tax” or a “coughing-fit tax” (we all get sick from time-to-time, and thus expel more CO2).

I propose a progressive stupid-tax to pay for Seattle’s roads. The dumber you are, the more you must pay. Politicians would inevitably bearing the brunt of the load.

Obama’s rich pals attend Inauguration; voter asks for more methadone

The good doctor is in —back from an extended stay in an Australian methadone clinic that ended badly, primarily because I had to come to grips with reality: Barack Obama or Mitt Romney would be president in 2013. Who was I to vote for: the rich guy who spent most of his life running for president (rather creepy, don’t you think?) or the guy who pretends he hates rich guys when he really, really loves them? A lot. Especially if they donate to his causes and especially more than you.

Joel Kotkin writes for the New Geography:

Apple, Google, Facebook, Amazon and Microsoft are far from “the workers of the world,” but closer to modern-day robber barons. Through their own ingenuity, access to capital and often oligopolistic hold on lucrative markets, they have enjoyed one of the greatest accumulations of wealth in recent economic history, even amidst generally declining earnings, rising poverty and inequality among their fellow Americans.

Last year the tech oligarchs emerged as major political players. Microsoft, Google and their employees were the largest private-sector donors to the president. …

An even greater beneficiary of the second term will be the administrative class, who by their nature live largely outside the market system. This group, which I call the new clerisy, is based largely in academia and the federal bureaucracy, whose numbers and distinct privileges have grown throughout the past half century.

Even in tough times, high-level academics enjoy tenure and have been largely spared from job cuts. Between late 2007 and mid-2009, the number of U.S. federal workers earning more than $150,000 more than doubled, even as the economy fell into a deep recession. Even as the private sector, and state government employment has fallen, the ranks of federal nomenklatura have swelled so much that Washington, D.C., has replaced New York as the wealthiest region in the country. …

Like empowered bureaucrats everywhere, the clerisy also sometimes reserves a nice “taste” for themselves, much as the old bishops and upper clergy indulged in luxury and even prohibited pleasures of the flesh. Just look at the lavish payouts accorded to Orszag and Treasury Secretary-designate Jacob Lew, who, after serving in the bureaucracy, make millions off the same Wall Street firms that have so benefited from administration policies.

So who loses in the new order? [T]he biggest losers likely will be the small business-oriented middle class. Not surprisingly Main Street, far more than Wall Street, harbors the gravest pessimism about the president’s second term.

Newsflash: “Too big to fail” is even bigger. The debt is bigger. The spending never stops and the federal government runs its finances in ways that would get us thrown in jail. Meanwhile, there will be roughly 1 million people who descend on Washington, DC tomorrow to watch the president pretend as though he cares for them.

The difference between Mitt Romney and President Obama was never that one was overly concerned with “the rich” while the other one cared about “the middle class” (What is that, anyway? How do you define “middle class”?). The difference is that President Obama likes to pick winners (e.g., Google) and losers (e.g., oil companies) while Mitt Romney had the big-brass Mormon balls to say he wanted them all to be winners.

And so, that is why my addiction to opiates continues to bear down on my chest, like that big-boned prostitute in Poland. Was it that time in Warsaw, or was I really in Prague? That whole European excursion is a blur…

Regardless, I am back in the nation’s capital for a week, perhaps two, depending on how the social scene pans out. There are a lot of parties with wealthy Democratic (female) donors, and many of them are just as generous with their bodies as they are giving out other people’s money.

You have not lived until you have bedded a leftist member of the Beltway elite, particularly if they’re dumb. As they’re about to drift off to sleep I whisper in their ears:

• “CAFE standards are bullshit.”
• “I would have let GM go bankrupt.”
• “The Department of Housing and Urban Development is a joke.”

Sometimes there’s a momentarily flash of concern on their faces, as if they’ve just given up a bit of their soul to someone who isn’t one of them. The truth? Who knows what I am. I don’t even know. But I do know that the vast majority of politicians — including the Great Obama — are pretenders. Unlike actors and musicians and drug-addled bloggers, they have the power to craft and enforce the law of the land.

And without further adieu, I return to Dr. Bizarre’s secret chest of magic analgesics.

Obama re-election ad: When creepy adults exploit children

Is there a special place in Hell for adults who exploit children for political purposes, stealing their innocence to pimp ideology onto voters? We don’t know. Regardless, it’s pretty darn creepy to ask kids to put a forlorn face on while singing about “fixing” gay people.

Campaign season tends to bring out the worst in people — of all political stripes. That’s why I, Doctor Bizarre, love it. It’s a great opportunity to chronicle the depths politicians and their acolytes will go to in order to sell their brand to the public.

So where did the “The Future Children Project” come from? The San Francisco Gate has answers:

The award-winning ad team that brought you “Got Milk?” and some of America’s most iconic ads have created a touching, memorable — and, yes, slightly terrifying — new spot that stars America’s children. Just in time for Election Day, it’s selling a striking message — about the country’s future.

Jeff Goodby and Rich Silverstein, whose SF-based Goodby Silverstein & Partners ranks among the country’s most celebrated ad agencies, just released the new spot for their Future Childrens Project — and it’s sure to make some waves.

While it’s encouraging to see the giant red bar of dislikes the video has received on Youtube (also known as the lightsaber of death), it’s still worth noting that men with power and influence are often inclined to use tactics preferred by every infamous authoritarian regime known to man in order to get what they want.

Take a look at some of the lyrics for Goodby and Silverstein’s ad, and then ask yourself whether they are men or monsters for stuffing election year propaganda down the mouths of children. Also, ask yourself what kind of parents would sell out their children for the ad in the first place.

Imagine an America
Where strip mines are fun and free
Where gays can be fixed
And sick people just die
And oil fills the sea

We don’t have to pay for freeways!
Our schools are good enough
Give us endless wars
On foreign shores
And lots of Chinese stuff

We’re the children of the future
American through and through
But something happened to our country
And we’re kinda blaming you

We haven’t killed all the polar bears
But it’s not for lack of trying
Big Bird is sacked
The Earth is cracked
And the atmosphere is frying

There was a time when adults tried to protect the innocence of children. The early years were something to be cherished. Kids were not meant to be political pawns, and disagreements between adults were kept at the big table. While it seems as though the majority of Americans are still repulsed by efforts to use our most vulnerable citizens as philosophical cannon fodder, their are efforts like a strong undertow by men like Goodby and Silverstein to make everyone “fair game” in the battle for public policy supremacy.

Question: How many takes did this commercial need before it was in the can? How long did it take for Goodby and Silverstein to get their child actors to look as though someone had just killed their parents backstage before forcing them to sing their President Obama re-election jingle? Inquiring minds want to know.

Messrs. Goodby and Silverstein, you are scum. You are more miserable than Gloria Allred. You are even lowlier than Donald Trump, which I didn’t think was humanly possible. Your efforts on behalf of the president have already backfired, and if he loses his bid at re-election you will have played a very small, but noticeable part in pushing independent voters towards Mr. Romney. Congratulations — you are both officially idiots.

 

‘Piss Christ’ returns to NYC; ‘Piss Mohammad’ still missing

It’s official: I will be going to New York City on September 27 to see the return of … ‘Piss Christ’!

On September 27, the Edward Tyler Nahem gallery in mid-town Manhattan will host an exhibit, “Body and Spirit: Andres Serrano 1987-2012,” that features Serrano’s “Piss Christ” piece; it shows a crucifix submerged in a jar of his own urine. The exhibit ends October 26.

The taxpayer funded (in part), award-winning crucifix dipped in urine has long been on my list of “must see” attractions, up there with ‘Piss Mohammed.’ Sadly, Andres Serrano has not been able to urinate since 1987.

Given the violence in the Middle East, there are rumblings in the art community that the “courageous” Serrano might not be as courageous as he’s been made out to be. Critics argue that despite his inability to pee and refusal to use a catheter, he has made use of his own blood and semen for other pieces of “art.”

Thankfully, Serrano has broken his silence:

“My muse is stubbornly silent when it comes to Islam. I tried ‘Pubic Hair Mohammed’ and ‘Diarrhea Mohammed’ but they just didn’t speak to me on a deeper level. I keep them from the light of day not because I fear reprisal, but because I fear letting down my fans.”

The New York Times is predicting that thousands of Christians will storm the city on Friday, September 28. The FBI reports that they will be carrying rocket propelled grenades, AK-47s and molotov cocktails. The Honduran ambassador to the United States will be in New York City on that day, but as of yet no further security precautions have been taken.

Yours truly, Dr. Bizarre, will be on the scene to report on the chaos. I also plan on asking Serrano how he has not urinated for decades. His kidneys must hate him.

Ryan’s rock hard abs lose Romney a big voting bloc: Fatties

Congressman Paul Ryan maintains 6-8 percent body fat by doing P90X. By doing so, he has lost the fat vote to President Obama.

You’ve heard pundits on both sides of the ideological divide discuss why Mitt Romney’s decision to pick Congressman Paul Ryan, R-Wis., was either the greatest move of his campaign, or the proverbial nail in the coffin. Conventional wisdom says that really old people living high on the hog in Florida will not want to take a chance on a politician who says cuts to Medicare won’t affect them. Personally, I think conventional wisdom has a spottier track record than most people want to acknowledge, but that’s besides the point. If Mitt Romney loses in November it will because of one voting block: The fatties.

By now everyone knows that Paul Ryan has abs like an action hero. He does the infamous P90X — but he really does it — as in, he’s not one of those people who bought the product, tried it for a few days, and then went back to his normal routine. The man is living proof that if you put your ass through the wringer … you’ll have a nice ass. This does not sit well with fat people, particularly during the height of an “obesity epidemic.”

Before continuing on, in full disclosure I must admit: In an attempt to contract the obesity virus that plagues the nation, I have bedded more overweight women than I would like to admit. Some of them even coughed and sneezed on me during my experiments, and yet I still maintain a weight the federal government has deemed healthy. While I have not been able to contract any form of fat virus, I yield to the experts’ advice — and apparently my own eyes. There are a lot of fat people out there.

And so, it is my assumption that the nation is not ready to have a serious conversation about its gluttony. Every time Paul Ryan appears on television his chiseled physique reminds us that self-discipline, restraint and hard work can have an amazing effect on the body. Sure, he seems like a gregarious guy, but underneath that smile and taut, tight skin is a fat man, crushed to death under pounds of muscle.

Paul Ryan wants to starve the poor just like he starved his inner fat man. He wants people to work just like he works his abs and gluts, quads, hamstrings, back, biceps and triceps. That may sound good, but it’s bad news to people who really, really, really enjoy eating.

War on women? War on minorities? War on gay people? Why debate any of that when Paul Ryan’s war on fat people is the firefight that will determine the outcome of the election.

A nation that willingly strives to give itself Type II Diabetes will not allow a fitness buff like Congressman Paul Ryan to reform Medicare, Medicaid and Social Security. If President Obama is re-elected, Democrats will have one constituency to thank, and one constituency only: The Constituency of Fat.

Europe wants to pay me to party and get sick. Who am I to deny the offer?

Next year, I will get lost in the fabulous foam of an Ibiza nightclub. I will wake up the next morning hurt and sick and injured. And then, I will get to do it all over again because Europe’s high court says I’m entitled to a sick-free vacation. Life is amazing.

There’s a stretch of beach in Ibiza I like to call my own. I do this not just because I love the endless white sands and the beautiful people, but because like an animal I left my mark there after getting sick on little pink pills you can only get from the Mediterranean party girls — dangerous little daisies who have never been disciplined by a Catholic nun, or the Oklahoma dad who always had his “switch” just a quick trip to the shed away.

I’ll be going there much more often these days, as Europe’s high court has ruled that its citizens are entitled to “do overs” if they get sick on vacation. The Grey Lady reports:

For most Europeans, almost nothing is more prized than their four to six weeks of guaranteed annual vacation leave. But it was not clear just how sacrosanct that time off was until Thursday, when Europe’s highest court ruled that workers who happened to get sick on vacation were legally entitled to take another vacation. …
With much of Europe mired in recession, governments struggling to reduce budget deficits and officials trying to combat high unemployment, the ruling is a reminder of just how hard it is to shake up long-established and legally protected labor practices that make it hard to put more people to work and revive sinking economies.

Sure, I just got back from China, but this … this is gold. I’ve been hesitant to disclose such information until now, but I have dual-citizenship with a certain European country that will remain nameless for the time being. (The story involves the tiny hamlet of Crookhaven, Ireland, German prostitutes, the French Foreign Legion and a great man known only as Phillipe.)

In America, we work. We work, and work and work and work and … then we die. In Europe, someone else works and works and works … and dies, so that I can go on vacation and get “do overs” if I get sick. I live in the best of both worlds.

In America, I work really hard for an anonymous angel investor who believes in the need to explore the more “bizarre” enterprises of life. In Europe, I have a “job” doing something similar, although most of it is done remotely and what I turn in is usually shoddy because they can’t fire me. Phillipe once said that I’m too busy living to be too busy working, or some such psychobabble… It’s crazy and stupid and unfair, but oh so right.

Regardless, I want you to think long and hard about the European high court, its decision, its implications and what it means — not just for drug-addled guys with dual citizenship or full-fledged Europeans — but to honest, hard working Americans like you.

Maybe it means something. Maybe it means nothing. Regardless, I’ll see you in Ibiza, where adventurous souls laugh at Las Vegas claims to the ‘Sin City’ mantle.

Jon Stewart and his erotic lubricant made from hundred dollar bills

It’s come to my attention to Jon Stewart has mocked Mitt Romney for his wealth. I find this odd coming from a man who could throw countless hundred dollar bills into a specially made vat that turns U.S. currency into erotic body lubricant, lather himself up in it just for the heck of it, and then call it a day knowing that it didn’t even dent his bank account.

We only get one life, and there’s something a tad distasteful about men who made their millions suddenly mocking others who have done the same, or somehow insinuating that although their American Dream came true that it somehow isn’t in the cards for you — Mr. Average Joe.

Question: What does President Barack Obama, Willard “Mitt Romney, and Jon Stewart all have in common?

Answer: They’re all filthy stinking rich.

Since all of us want different things in life and all of us will die, I don’t begrudge someone who makes boatloads of money, provided they did it through legal means. Why should I believe that Mitt Romney rubs dollar bills in his armpits like it was deodorant each morning because rich guys are all freaks and only care about money, but then contend that President Obama — a very, very rich man who has shown he is very, very ambitious — is somehow different?

Personally, I don’t care about money. I haven’t made it a priority to try and get rich. I like to hang out in the seedy areas of town, under overpasses, and drink cheap liquor with homeless guys and runaways. I like to tell drunk stories over a burn barrel with complete strangers, and then laugh as the night wears on and someone inevitably pisses into the flames, kicking up embers with a stream that sizzles off the hot metal.

To me, that’s worth more than all the royalty checks President Obama will ever cash for one of his two biographies (or the third and fourth once he leaves office).

I won’t ask for Mitt Romney or Barack Obama’s money if they won’t take away my rights to get into all sorts of debauchery with grizzled old men and rebellious youth on the wrong side of the tracks.

Which of the two candidates is more likely to mess with my life? New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg is the type of guy who would ban me from giving a homeless guy a sandwich … so I guess I’ll be voting for the guy who least reminds me of Mayor Bloomberg.

In Kubla Khan Barack Obama loved me

I just got back from a trip to China. I go there sometimes, because there are places where the opium dens of old still welcome road-weary Westerners like myself. I follow the trails of men (better men than I) like Samuel Taylor Coleridge and romantic poets in search of kindred spirits. Along the way I wind up in the deep, dark places on the other side of the globe where I can entertain the bizarre side of me that’s just a little too extreme for home, with the little town adjacent to a corn field, where each house has a basketball hoop and no one would ever put up a little sticker in their doorway that said: No Solicitors Allowed.

In China, a country that is infamously controlled by a Communist regime, for the right price you can do just about anything. In a sick and twisted way their corruption grants me the kind of freedom that would be hard to come about stateside. But I digress.

Imagine the surprise upon my return to find out that the president had endorsed gay marriage. It reminded me of a dream I had after a drug-fueled bender, where Chinese prostitutes (or were they North Korean dissidents who were sold into slavery?) patted my head with damp cotton towels and cared for me while the drugs worked their way through my system — it goes without saying I tipped them well.

In my dream the year was 2008. President Obama found me in a dimly lit room, worrying about this and that and any number of things that keep a man up late at night. He ran his fingers through my hair, rested his hands on my cheeks and whispered into my ear that everything was going to be all right. He placed a kiss upon my lips. There, in Kubla Khan, I gave myself up to him. And as I stood there in my most vulnerable state, naked, he talked about unemployment and debt and wars and torture and all those problems that would come to and end if I just stayed in that special place with him forever. He was black and white and gay and straight — young, but not too young, old but not too old — and I decided right then and there: I love this man.

And then I woke up. The wars still raged. The detention centers were still open. The national debt was worse, and millions of Americans were out of a job. I then remembered why I went overseas, on an airline that still allows men to smoke on planes because sane adults know that looking out the window at 30,000 feet as you take a long drag is like nothing else you’ll ever experience.

Airport security is good, but apparently customs doesn’t check to see if you’ve been going old school on opium … yet. I collected my bags, but before I did I caught the news from one of the televisions hanging above a departure gate: the president supports gay marriage. The announcement came during election season. He still believes it’s an issue to be decided upon on a state-by-state basis. Unemployment is over eight percent, and no one seems to notice that the price of peanut butter is outrageous these days (I eat a lot of peanut butter).

I gave myself to you in Kubla Kahn, Mr. President, but it was all just a dream, wasn’t it? It was all just an illusion. A good one, mind you, but an illusion nonetheless. Well, I don’t like pale imitations of the real thing and I won’t get burned again.

Does anyone out there have some opium?

GOP clowns in bayou eye contest with clown-president

The most interesting thing about the Republican primary process at this point isn’t the fact that it’s still going on, but that the top two candidates actually think the general population cares which one of them gets the nod. Rick Santorum won the bayou state last night, to the sound of crickets chirping. And yet, his main rival still found time to send down some clowns to cause trouble:

But Romney aides were on the job Saturday night. In Green Bay, a Romney spokesman, Ryan Williams, showed up at the bar where Santorum was holding his election-night event, to make a few disparaging comments and put the Romney campaign’s spin on events. “This is the saddest, most pathetic victory party I’ve ever seen,” an AP reporter quoted Williams saying. “Where are all the supporters?”

Not long after, Santorum campaign manager Mike Biundo asked Williams to leave, which Williams did. “I didn’t think it was appropriate,” Biundo said later. “They keep wanting to write this race off and say that it’s done, yet they keep sending surrogates to our events to spin the press.

So the guy with the lead has top advisers who refer to him as an Etch-n-Sketch, and the guy in second place continuously takes the bait from news media that want to cast him as a social conservative whack job (e.g., he actually made ridding the America of pornography a priority in a country with $16 trillion in debt). Then, each of them find lame ways to cast the other guy in a negative light and they wonder why there isn’t any enthusiasm on the right side of the fence. Bravo.

In the other corner we have President Obama, who is so politically tone deaf that he can’t even pass a bill that would create an oil pipeline. During a time of high unemployment and sky high gas prices, the guy who went around the country talking about the need for “shovel ready jobs” put his foot down on…digging a massive oil pipeline from Canada to the Gulf of Mexico. Again, Bravo.

Clowns to the left of me, clowns to the right…here I am. Americans deserve better. Or maybe they don’t, since they keep electing clowns.

Political Gatherings: Meat Markets in Disguise

Young people at CPAC get drunk and hook up dressed like the Founding Fathers. Young people at the Democratic National Convention hook up in clothes inspired by whatever foreign culture is en vogue. This season the Old Navy keffiyeh scarfs inspired by Palestinian militants will probably get you lucky well before closing time. It's just a shame more people don't experience both.

CPAC, the annual gathering of Conservatives—where beautiful women instinctively flock like the Salmon of Capistrano—just ended. I, Dr. Bizarre, go there every year, just as I plan on attending the Democratic National Convention this fall. Why? Because I love idealistic beautiful women of all political stripes. While most media cover the surface stories (e.g., What does everyone think about Rick Santorum’s chances of finishing off Romney’s campaign?), your good Dr. goes where others fear to tread. Well, I guess a few others went there:

Elise, better known by his handle “Juggler” from Neil Strauss’ notorious pickup memoir The Game, was offering advice to attendees at conservative mega-conference CPAC on how to improve their dating game. Remember that old VH1 reality show The Pickup Artist with that lanky host called “Mystery” teaching people how to insult girls then hit on them when their self esteem is shattered? This is one of his top rivals, charging upwards of $5,000 for a one-day private session…

“The problem with conservatives on dating: we’re too uptight!” he said. “Liberals have the reputation for being fun, we have to go on the date and have fun without smoking pot.” …

At the very least, the session was an opportunity to acknowledge one of the less discussed dynamics of CPAC. Unlike most conservative gatherings, which often resemble Bingo night at the retirement home, the annual conference is usually dominated by college Republicans who bus in en masse. That means the dating scene is sizzling.

Here’s the truth: political gatherings mean nothing. No one’s mind is made up at these events, because their mind is already made up well beforehand. The old people go so they can catch up (and have sex) with their old friends, and the young people go so they can have sex with new friends. At Republican conventions, well-dressed young men who can garble a few passing platitudes about free markets through a drunken stupor end up sleeping with really attractive women. At Democratic conventions, well-dressed young men who can garble a few passing platitudes about diversity sometimes get to sleep with two women at the same time (e.g., a young Rob Lowe). Libertarian gatherings? Well…I can’t say what goes on there because I have at least a modicum of decency—but I highly suggest you find out for yourself. There’s no need for a wing man if you speak English and can pronounce the name “Ron Paul.”

The moral of this story? We’d be a lot better off if we settled arguments by having sex with our political adversaries. “You want to pass H.R. Bill 2357, Nancy Pelosi? Let’s see how long you can filibuster…in bed. PS: I have a gavel in my pants.” I guarantee you Congress would get more done.

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