Your Captain vs. the Volcano

In the passing fleetingdom of websurfing one day this weekend, I came across an MSN.com headline that said,

"WHY CAN'T WE JUST FLY UNDER THE VOLCANO CLOUDS?"

And, as I read this and pondered it a little bit, I thought to myself, "Wow-- now if that isn't a sentiment that accurately expresses what it's like to be an American, then I don't know what is."

Besides, maybe, "Give me back that fillet of fish."

By the way, you can have that as your ringtone. Just thought I'd mention it.

Anyway, I wasn't going to write about the volcano, because it's just all over the news, and as I think you know, I try my best to eschew whatever is all over the news, or all over the place, unless it's my dog's feces on the kitchen floor. I mean, that there's good blog fodder. Seriously, if you're ever feeling creatively cramped-- get a puppy. You'll suddenly have lots to blog about.

So, right, I wasn't going to blog about the volcano, because it's kind of hogging the spotlight and I don't think it especially needs another ounce of attention from me. Besides, its name is fucking impossible to spell, and my wife, (sometimes in conjunction with fellow reader/blogger Colleen) edit(s) these blog entries in her/their spare time so I don't want to give her/them too much of a challenge, especially when I'm always spelling "occasion" and "synagogue" wrong.

But, this headline made me think twice about blogging about the volcano. It struck such a negative chord with me-- such an unctuous, self-important, bratty statement. It was as if an angry, American child had its arms folded in front of its pouty chest, its face contorted in a butt-ugly frown whining,

"Can't we just fly UNDER the volcano smoke?" Immediately followed by, "I HATE you! You never let me do anything FUN!" The culmination of this tirade is the angry American child running upstairs (being sure to stomp on each step) and violently slamming his/her door before throwing him/herself onto the bed in the trademark "prone moan" position (this is opposed to the "supine whine position" favored by terminal ICU patients and Chinese prostitutes.)

I'm pretty amazed at how this particular volcanic eruption is being treated in the media. Far-off volcanoes are reported on with a mixture of awe and seriousness, especially when they kill or threaten to kill great numbers of people. Pompeii, anyone? This one is being treated in rather the same way as a fatal accident on a major highway during rush-hour is treated by traffic reporters: as a big pain in the ass.

I sometimes pray that, if I am to die in a car wreck to let it occur on some untravelled back road at around 2 o'clock in the afternoon. That way, my untimely death might be treated by local news reporters as the shocking tragedy that it is, and not an annoyance to sweaty, Nutrigrain-chewing cubicle jockeys who are lip-synching to "Like a Virgin" inside their used Acuras.

I want to be a little more in this life than an inconvenience. That isn't too much to ask, is it?

Well, this poor volcano is being treated that way. It's just a big pain in the fucking ass to the flying public. I get it-- you have places to be. Your mistress is waiting for you in Galway. You have a Looney Convention in London. You need to visit your sick gram-grams in Napoli.

I understand. Thank you for your patience. Your call cannot be completed at this time. Go fuck yourself.

See-- the thing is, Volcano, we're Americans. And we have somewhere to be. You're lucky you're a volcano with big goddamn smoke plumes and ash and shit and not just a big dirt hill, or we'd all just get in our SUVs and drive the fuck over your dump-ass. You know, on Day One it was like, Oh, cool-- a volcano. That's pretty decent. But then, on Day Two, we Americans were starting to get a little sick of your bullshit. I mean, Alyssa Milano's got a new show on ABC, and she's fucking hot. You're hot, too, Volcano-- but not in the same way Alyssa Milano's hot.

And now it's Day Five of your macho, I'm-gonna-spew-big-goddamn-smoke-everywhere-and-fuck-up-your-vacation-plans. And it's like, okay, we see you, you're really cool.

But we Americans are cooler. And, if this is some kind of pissin' contest, Volcs, whip it out and let's duel. I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours.

I Know How to Be Famous

I used to think I wanted to be famous. Then I realized that you don't need a lot of money, cars, noteriety, and ceaseless blowjobs from skinny, anonymous blondes to be an obnoxious asshole that nobody likes.

My decided lack of fame doesn't haunt me nearly as much as it did when I was a frustrated early twentysomething and I had delusions about being a young, dapper Andy Rooney, whose rapier wit propelled the country into a new enlightened age of superior elocution and elevated thought. I mean, Andy Rooney has existed for around eight decades, and we're all still basically retarded.

But I definitely wanted to be famous when I was younger, though I didn't really know why. I suppose, more for my own benefit than for society's, in spite of what I might have said in the above paragraph. I mean, really, who does fame really benefit besides the famous? I haven't especially found my life improving since Rachel Ray got her own TV show and cloying catchphrases.

Fame, more than anything, though, seemed like an awful lot of work when I was younger. You had to move to New York City or Los Angeles, plaster the walls of your shitty apartment with photographs of yourself taken from plays or concerts, forsake every living friend and relation in favor of your own narrow, obsessive pursuit of personal glory and eat nothing but pizza slices for two years while busking your soul away in some subway alcove while nursing STDs given to you by some unwashed, 108-pound groupie with black eyeshadow and a spiderweb tattooed on her whaletail.

You know-- until you get "discovered."

For a lazy little shit like me, who expects adulation and recognition to be inserted into his bloodstream via a Ron Popeil flavor-injector enema, that seemed like rather a lot to go through for no actual promise of victory.

I straddle the tenuous divide between unabated arrogance and unmitigating self-doubt. On the one hand, I was convinced that there was absolutely no need for me to go to college-- that every talent I possessed, whether it was a knack for the written word or a remarkable penchant for embodying another skin on a stage, was perfectly honed and would in no way benefit from advanced instruction. On the other hand, I was also convinced that I would never amount to anything and that God would make my dick fall off in a gangrenous heap because He wouldn't be able to bear witnessing me procreate and bring into the world another talent-free wretch.

So, I guess I never fully believed that shooting for fame was a worthwhile pursuit. And maybe that's a good thing. I still can't articulate what I learned in college, except that 20-year-olds shouldn't be allowed to have their own radio shows, that unmarried sex with Catholic girls isn't worth it and ditto on the unlimited meal plan.

Of course, it's tempting nowadays to rethink the whole idea of being famous, since it's changed so much. People like Paris Hilton have taught us that you don't need any talent whatsoever in order to be famous, and hundreds of other slackjawed morons, unwatchable dunderheads and irrepressible himbos have followed in her wake to solidify that notion. We are no longer a society that rewards talent, we have turned into a mass of idiots that obsess over... well... I don't even know what it is exactly that we obsess over, what facet of a person's personality or ass that we can't get enough of in pop culture. But, whatever it is, it's usually several phyla removed from talent.

And I don't mean to pick on people like "The Situation," Lord knows. Take a look at the publishing industry. It used to be you had to have studied/fake orgasmed under Norman Mailer just to get a publisher to look at your manuscript. Now, people like Julie Powell and the chick who wore a brown dress every day for a year, and the guy who lived like Jesus for a year, and the family that bought nothing from China for a year, etc, etc, etc are turning into authors. All it takes is 365 days, a blog, some angst, and you're all set!

Now, this newfangled way to get famous has been tried and true tested over the course of the last couple years and it's pretty fool-proof-- and I have to admit that, for such an obsessive blogger as I, it's pretty tempting. I mean, I could eat nothing but turnips for a year and write about that. Or, I could walk around with my fly down every day for a year and blog about people's reactions-- I could even wear a hidden camera and snap pictures of their aghast faces and post them on my blog instead of actual words-- lots of bloggers just put up pictures and get away with it; why couldn't I?

I could do it. Because I know how to be famous in 2010.

Please, Stalk Me

I recently read a discussion post on www.20sb.net about "blog stalkers."

Like most discussions that take place on this board, replete with enticing, hard-hitting topics like "Longest You've Gone Without Sex?", "How Ugly Are You?", "I Want to Discover More Girly Blogs!" and, my favorite, "Should Canada's Anthem Become Gender-Neutral?" I was definitely moved and intrigued by a discussion on the burgeoning phenomenon of "blog stalkers."

I have to go on the record at this point and admit that I'm not sure I understand the term. I mean, I know there are people out there who read my blog every day, and they make comments about the things that I write-- personal stuff!-- and some of these people even go so far as to "follow" me.

I mean, skeevy times, right?

Here's the thing: I thought that's what bloggers... wanted.

Maybe I'm wrong, but don't we obsessively self-promote, self-adulate, ardently seek the approval and consistent praise of total strangers? Don't we welcome them into our lives by opening ourselves up like a mid-March crocus? I mean... I thought that's what we did.

So I got to thinking, because no one on that particular discussion board was able to adequately elucidate exactly what a blog stalker was-- what is the difference between a blog follower and a blog stalker.

Well, I thought about this for a long time, and I came to the conclusion that there are a lot of similarities, and only a couple differences.

SIMILARITIES:

Blog followers & blog stalkers...

* read your blog obsessively

* comment frequently

* tell their friends, acquaintances, neighbors, comrades-in-arms, postal inspectors about your blog

* are almost always female

* have a vested interest in what you have to say

* can't squeeze out their morning loaf until they've read your blog at least three times

* more often than not read your blog at least semi-nude

DIFFERENCES

* Blog followers give you positive attention, blog stalkers give you negative attention

* Blog followers may sometimes end their comments with "I love you." Blog stalkers may sometimes end their comments with "Mo' cut you."

If there are other things that set blog followers and blog stalkers apart, I couldn't figure out what those traits might be. Maybe I just haven't had enough experience with blog stalkers. I once had a bunch of people get mad at me for a negative review I wrote about the band, "Hoots & Hellmouth" but they forgot about me after the next time they got high.

I sometimes have followers of My Masonic Apron write me 20sb messages or g-mails about this or that, and they sometimes mention feeling guilty about coming off "stalkerish." And I have to pretty much laugh that off until one of them shows up on my doorstep wearing a masonic apron with my picture embroidered on it and bloody pig's head as a facemask. Because, really-- the internet and the blogosphere has very much blurred the line between fan, follower, friend, stalker and everything in between. These designations just aren't as clear-cut as they once were. My creative writing teacher hiding in J.D. Salinger's bushes wearing camouflage make-up and eating tinned tuna for three weeks? Stalker. I mean, come on-- that's easy.

Someone in Alberta checking your blog four times a day? Maybe they're just a fan with O.C.D. Who knows, right? And maybe I'm a reverse-stalker for checking my blog stats so much. Maybe I'm fucking stalking YOU! Well, folksies... what are you going to do? Bust out a cyber-restraining order against me? That I can't come within five thousand IP addresses from yours? Tell it to the judge, sweetheart.

Do me a favor, though, in the meantime: get me some more stalkers. Or followers. Or whatever. I could use the attention; positive or otherwise.

On This Day...

I love Facebook.

More importantly, I love Facebook Apps.

Like "Which Muppet Are You?" (Kermit-- duh! Even got the legs to prove it-- and I'm learning the banjo!)

I'm also a big fan of "Name That Anal Fissure," "What Percentage of My Friends Are Nazis Or Cran-Apple Juice Drinkers?" and the ever-popular, "What's Your Offensive Negro Minstrel Character's Name?"

Hi. I'm "Watermelon Jones."

I'm particularly fond of "On This Day, God Wants You to Know..." an app that gives randomly-generated heavenly tidbits to the online masses, as a convenient, cyber-drive-thru substitute for time consuming things like church and what have you. So I thought that, in honor of my firm affection for this applicious appity-doo-dah, and in honor of this day and, indeed, in honor of you, that I might try my hand at an "On This Day" myself.

After all, God speaks to me, you know. Oftentimes it occurs in the shower-- but we don't need to go into that right now.

Anyway, without further proboscis, I give you, My Masonic Apron's version of...

On This Day, God Wants You to Know...

* that you are a real disappointment. You know, He spent all that time picking out your eye color and deliberating for hours upon hours on the exact coordinates of the mole placement on your back, and you've just gone and lost your fucking job again. Nice work, shittit.

* that you look really good in those pants-- you know the ones He means-- the black ass pants that you used to wear to the frat parties but that you think are somehow still acceptable to go to work wearing. Seriously-- the Risen Lord is getting mighty hot and bothered over the way your ham-pies rest inside that polyester and rayon mix. Sexcellent.

* that every time you say "Goddamnit" an angel gets assraped in the laundry facility at the Heaven State Correctional Facility. And the agonized cries the angels make-- they're one of the high-frequency sounds that only dogs can hear.

* that those "Visualize World Peace" bumper-stickers make your car look really gay. Especially if it's a Prius.

* that reading "My Masonic Apron" is tantamount to marrying a donkey. But you pretty much knew that already...

* that cars with the gas tanks on the passenger side were created by Satan.

* that, contrary to popular belief, He prefers small-chested women to large-breasted women. I mean, don't get Him wrong-- He doesn't like chicks looking like eleven year-old boys, but a nice 34-B is plenty for Him-- you know, just enough to palm comfortably, but still looks good under a sweater-set standing behind the copy machine at the office-- n'yah mean?

* that, if you don't change your Brita filter constantly, there's basically no fucking point.

* that premature ejaculation is a compliment, ladies-- for Christ's sake.

* that snacking is no different than praying, and snacking with a bag of Doritos or any Frito Lay product is essentially equivalent to emitting Gregorian chant.

* that there is a good reason you are on the terror watch list at all international airports.

* that He is sick and tired of people using the Holocaust as a justification for why there is no God, or why there is a God that allows terrible things to happen. I mean, He knows that the Holocaust was bad and everything, and that He was kind of asleep at the wheel, but can't you move on and find another example of some travesty to point to when pontificating about His existence or lack thereof-- like the Mumbai terror attacks or "Jersey Shore"?

* that people who have religious email addresses are going straight to Hell on the express flight with twin torpedoes crammed up their asses.

* that He's seen Michael Jackson's winkle recently and it wasn't anything that He ever had anything to do with.

* that matzah wasn't His idea.

* that you really, really look fucking unbelievable in those pants. Gargh! Mmm!

* that the Mayans don't have a Goddamn clue. He's ending the show two days after Betty White dies.

* that His Offensive Negro Minstrel Character's Name Is "Lawdy, Lawd, Lawdy!"

My Voice Is My Passport: Verify Me.

If you're an incredible spazz who is stuck blissfully in the not-too-distant past, you will know that the title of this blog post is taken from the super balls-awesome movie "Sneakers," a film that boasted some incredibly cheesy music and a bangdaddy cast that included Sidney Poitier, David Strathairn, the late River Phoenix, Dan Aykroyd (whose last fucking name I can never spell right without help), Robert Redford, and Sir Ben Goddamn Kingsley.

It's an incomprehensible combination of technology, humor, thrillerism and snappy dialogue. It was one of the most quotable movies of the 90's, but only if you're a total fucking dork.

"...Well, we could wrap you in a full bodysuit of Neoprene heat-resistant rubber, or we could just raise the temperature in Cosmo's office to 98.6 degrees, which is probably what we're going to have to do because the Neoprene would suffocate you."

And yes, that's not from IMDB. That's from memory.

Go ahead-- un-follow me. Just make it quick.

I was thinking about "Sneakers" today because of an article I barely read in the New York Times (aren't I special?) about passwords people use ostensibly to protect their privileged information online. We've all got approximately ten thousand eight hundred and eleven different passwords to different things-- our Shutterfly accounts and our bank accounts, our online veterinary tech classes as DeVry University, our cellphone companies that have a death-grip on our wallets/genitals, fucking Facebook-- I think I might have written a blog post about passwords a while ago, but I can't remember.

Lily will probably remember, though.

An elephant never forgets.


Anytwee, the article I read claimed that, in 2008, the most common password for chicanery and surfology used by Americans was "12345."

"No shit!" you say. "Shit," I say.

It seems, however, that Americans are, in this age of security-consciousness and identity-theft, smartening up. The most popular password for 2009?

"123456."

Other super-pops passwords were "iloveyou," "Michael," "Ashley," your dog's goddamn birthday, and, the perennial favorite: "password."

I have a great idea for what I feel should be, and hope will, be the most popular online password for 2010:

"stealmyidentitydrainmybankaccountandfuckmeintheasstwice"

I know, it's a little long and unwieldy, but I think it has its merits.

Most of you know that, every morning, almost against my will, I watch "The Today Show" for 1/2-an-hour, scoring some intense cuddle-muffin time with the missus on the sofa, sometimes while she snoozes with her head thrown back and her mouth open. God, I love her. Anyway, in between pretending that TMZ is a reliable source of information and presenting Meredith Vieira as someone you shouldn't want to stab through the neck with a Dixon Ticonderoga product, they love to present stories of down-on-their-luck schlubs from middle America, seated at their kitchen tables, pouring over mountains of bills, tapping on a calculator while an earnest voiceover talks of how they were scammed by hackers and other assorted internet prowlers who "somehow accessed their personal information online, destroying their lives."

Well, that's sad and all. But, seriously-- if your password is "123456" I won't be shedding much of a tear for you.

If you really want to fool hackers, come up with some really weird shit that they'd never think could be the password of some house-marm in Des Moines, or a blogger in suburban Southeastern Pennsylvania. Come on, people-- you've got to work at this-- get really creative. Your online identity is at stake here, and you don't want some industrious, highly-intelligent, high-school drop-out hacker getting his grubby digits on your money. So, you need to think of some pretty crazy passwords to outsmart these fuckers. Here's some ideas to get your brains working in the right direction:

"hackersrgay"

"mythumbsmellslikebutt"

"olivianewtonjohnishot"

"inailedtiger"

"montanaismadeup"

"iwaxmytaint"

"tasemebitch"

"ihavenomoney"

"sirwhoresalot"

"mrapronissexy"

and, your number 1 ticket to online security:

"ihateblackpeople"

Remember: your online identity is precious: protect it like it was your little bitch.

BAN IT! BAN IT!! BAN IT!!!

No, this isn't a post where I am celebrity-endorsing BAN underarm deoderant. Though, if they asked, I might do it. I mean, it's something I actually use. Unlike Sally Field who probably doesn't use Boniva.

This is a post in which I put out to my readers that we band together and unite in a concerted effort to

BAN THE USE OF THE PHRASE "LOL!"

Please, comrades. Join me.

I think I just read it one too many times. You know how it is-- camel's fucking back and everything. I don't know about you, but I'm pretty goddamn lol'd out. First of all, I can't remember the last time I read something over the internet that made me laugh-out-loud, let alone smirk derisively, and I read some funny shit. You should know, some of you out there are writing it.

The thing is, whether you're laughing-out-loud or not, the question you have to ask yourself is, do you care enough about that audible giggle or guffaw to report it to the internet, and, on that subject, do we care?

Probably not, my loves. Probably not.

Also, you know that, if you are, in fact, ringing the air with your melodious peals of laughter, I have no doubt that you, with years of formal schooling under your belt, can think of a better way to express such an expression of funny-bone-ticklin' than with a juvenile, beaten-to-death-and-beyond internetism like "lol!"

Seriously, you can do it.

Sometimes I look over Mrs. Apron's shoulder while she's on http://www.craftster.org/ and I read some of the things people write about their craft projects, and my insides curdle:

"This finish is cracking a little bit. LOL!"

"I couldn't decide whether or not to cinch the waist or add princess seams. l.o.l.!"

"i just finished making a onesie for my little nephew. it's got a bird on it. lol!"

It's got a bird on it-- lol? Are you kidding me? What, exactly, is there to lol about concerning said onesie and said bird?

That's riiiiiiiiiiiight: nothing.

If you think that's funny, go straight to the bike-helmet classroom. Do not pass "Go."

While we're on the subject of banning things, here's another coupla things I'd like to banish from the face of the earth:

* Snowflake sweaters.

* Irish step-dancing.

* Bladder dysfunction.

* Junk mail.

* Call-in radio.

* My aunt and uncle's house.

* Life insurance banner ads featuring crying children in graveyards.

* Football.

* Pimples for those of us who have successfully surpassed the age of 20.

* The Pontiac Aztek.

* Andrew Lloyd Webber.

* People who shit on each other during sex.

* Hedges.

* Airshows.

* Commercials featuring Sally Field.

* The word "ointment."

(Notice how there are no books on my list? See? I'm a reasonable guy.)

What to Do About Binge Drinking?

On July 1st, the New York Times ran a shitload of letters to the editor about what to do about binge drinking on college campuses. I don't know if they appeared in the print edition of the NYT, because I'm not one of those snobbish Philadelphians who feels the need to pay a ridiculous sum to get some other city's newspaper, but I read these letters online.

You can too!

I was actually pretty surprised that these letters ate up a whole editorial section of the paper. I was surprised that people had so much to say about this particular topic, but I guess it shouldn't really be all that surprising: it's a hot-button issue. Well, I have something to say about it, too. And I guess that's not terribly surprising.

It's a hot-button issue because stupid people love defending their stupid behavior. Once they're sober enough so to do, of course. Once a 20-year-old dies at a frat party with enough alcohol in her system to kill twelve elephants, her mother will pick up flag and carry on the march-- blaming the college, the campus police department, the beer distributor, perhaps even the beer manufacturer. The frat house will be shut down, which probably isn't such a terrible idea, but it's misguided blame. Fraternities are a fucking joke, and the people who continue to justify their existence because they "help charities" are living in a seventy-year-old dream world where college lads slicked their hair back with brylcreme and took their hats off indoors. But that's another blog post.

Here's the cold, hard fact: binge drinking is fucking stupid. Funneling copious amounts of alcohol into the fragile system that is a young human body is fucking stupid. If you do it, then you're fucking stupid. Fucking stupid people need to take responsibility for fucking stupid behavior, even if it kills them.

What to do about binge drinking? Um, how about "nothing?" I don't think we should do anything. I think we should stand back, with our hands clasped behind our backs and do absofuckinglutely nothing. Why? Because there's nothing to do. Why try to protect people who don't want to be protected, who chafe under authority and paternalistic rules? Why bother with them?

I say, if they want to put on tube-tops and black ass-pants and drink themselves until they go into cardiac arrest on some sticky floor in a basement somewhere, and the last thing they see is some thick-necked frat asshole in a sleeveless t-shirt and mesh shorts vomiting on a tye-dyed Bob Marley wall-hanging, then that's just fine with me. And it should be fine with you, too. You know why? Because it's natural selection, folks. You can go cry all you want about peer pressure and social loafing and easy accessibility of alcohol and all that other horseshit, but you can't argue with the fact that stupid people do stupid things and that there are dire consequences, and society at large cannot and should not be responsible for standing in the way of stupid people who want to off themselves by doing stupid things.

Go ahead-- go binge drink. You're only killing yourself. What the fuck do I care? I have to pay my car payment like a real adult. Don't bother me with this horseshit.

The problem, of course, is drunk driving. If you want to go drink yourself into oblivion, awesome. Rock on, step right up. But, if you want to get into a car afterward and mow some poor old grannie-grans who's standing on the corner waiting for the bus with nothing between her and your Daddy's out-of-control Nissan Maxima, well, then we have a problem. Fortunately, most binge-drinkers are too fucking blitzed to even remember they have a car, let alone get out the keys, find their car in a parking lot, get in and drive it anywhere. It's the shitheels who hit the bar and have one-too-many and then try to drive home that need to be body-slammed by The Law.

But, college binge-drinkers? Who gives a shit about them? Let them choke on their own vom. They're only hurting themselves. I would love it if our society spent more time and effort trying to protect people who actually want protection, and can benefit from it.

Like people who are in favor of jumping out of planes buck-ass naked without parachutes over the White Cliffs of Dover. I wonder what kind of laws we can pass to help them.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, You Fucking Morons.

Happy St. Patrick's Day.

It's such a pleasure to see so many people out and about, honoring Irish culture.

Makes you proud.

I particularly admire the way people comport themselves on St. Patrick's Day. At a time when Irish culture is trying desperately to contain outbursts of violence from a hopefully bygone era, it's nice to see so many folks out there displaying their Irish pride.

Such displays of appropriateness.

Such good taste.

What I love most about St. Patrick's Day is that nobody goes outside their house looking like a total d-bag. People know that this is a holiday to celebrate and honor a troubled people, and they behave accordingly.

Americans especially.

Americans love St. Patrick's Day, for some reason. You might argue on the comment portion of this blog (go right ahead) that Americans love St. Patrick's Day because there are so many Irish immigrants in America. Well, that may have been true at one point, but I think Americans love St. Patricks Day because we love to get shitfaced and, in America, St. Patrick's Day is equated with massive alcohol consumption, which, as we all know, is totally cool!

It's interesting to note that the Irish Independent News isn't exactly headlining with St. Patrick's Day.

"Ireland Hit Worst By Recession" the headline blares.

Beneath that are two terrible stories of death, one involving three brothers who perished together in a house-fire, and another piece about two men who got killed in a "roadway horror smash."

Wait a minute-- where are the leprechauns?

Where's me Lucky Charms?

Since the overwhelming majority of St. Patrick's Day celebrations have absolutely nothing to do with St. Patrick, I have a new idea for this "holiday."

Let's call it "St. Poseur's Day."

This is a day where you can happily roam the streets pretending that you're something you're definitely not. Put on some green. Try on a retarded accent-- see how it suits you. Get totally shitfaced in honor of something you know nothing about, denigrating a country you will never visit, and getting on the jaun of a people you will never understand. Honor the great and most revered St. Poseur of the Ancient Isle of Fakery, who once crashed a Passover seder wearing a huge false nose.

Hm.

Speaking of which, why do other cultures never seem to glom onto Jewish holidays? Why aren't there "Yom Kippur Parades" in New York City? Street vendors could sell cheap, black felt hats and false beards and even Jew noses to the goyim poseurs of the world. What about "Kiss Me, I'm Jewish" pins? People could get shitfaced on Manischewitz by the jugful and call each other "Putz!" and "Schmendrick!"

Come join us, world. Let St. Poseur and the Jews unite at last.