Friday, November 28, 2003
None of your business.
Posted by jg @ 05:49 AM PST []
Sunday, November 23, 2003
I see y'all peepin' round the henhouse, all frisky-like, and I'm a-warnin' you to stay away from the brown sugar, boy. I see you gettin' all sweaty and nervous, and I know what that means—you want to git yourself some more of them exotic molasses thrills, them sweet chocolate delights. But you better not cross them tracks and get yourself some brown sugar, boy, or I'll tan your hide.
I'm warning you not to go down to the dark side of town, where Nigra men offer their wives, mothers, and daughters to the nearest white boy with a two-dollar bill and a gleam in his eye. You can catch the baby crabs and the screamin' mimi's from these Nigra women, boy. Or they'll bop you on the head and take all your money. And some of them ladies of the evening ain't no more than big buck black men wearin' a dress, and where would that leave you, boy?
I agree with ya—some of them Nigra women can be mighty easy on the eyes, at least the light-skinned ones. But nah, mixin' up the races can only bring strife and heartache. No good can come of it. Every time it happens, God sheds a tear.
Posted by jg @ 11:27 PM PST []
Saturday, November 22, 2003
The winter months usher in the Cozy Season, and as I sit here curled-up in my PJs, wearing my Bart Simpson slippers, sipping on my egg nog, and swaddled in a comforter, I can't think of a cozier man on the whole fucking planet.
I told this chick I know that I was going to write about being cozy, and she snapped, "Oh, didn't you write about that the other day?" and I was taken aback by her outburst. Why's she gotta be a hater? Snuggling and coziness are NOT the same thing. First of all, you need another person with whom to snuggle properly, while coziness can be achieved in the quietest depths of solitude. And you can snuggle on the warmest spring day, while coziness implies that you've found sanctuary from hostile elements.
All living organisms strive to be cozy. Out on the plains, seeking refuge from the pounding rain, the beasts of the field huddle under trees and retreat into caves, searching for one thing:
Coziness.
You're darn tootin' I like bein' cozy. The world would be a better place if everyone was a wee bit cozier. It's a free country. I'm gonna get as cozy as I can stand it, and there ain't a goddamned thing that you or your military-industrial complex can do to stop me.
Posted by jg @ 10:00 PM PST []
Friday, November 21, 2003
...
Posted by jg @ 11:49 PM PST []
Thursday, November 20, 2003
Look at you over there. Just look at you. My, my, you're a big fat ball o' cute, ain'tcha? It's like it took a whole cute factory full of cute elves to make you. If you were any cuter, we'd have to stuff some of you in a space capsule and send it to Mars, because it'd be too much cuteness for one planet.
I wanna cover you in whipped cream and get myself a spoon. I wanna hold you to my throbbing breast like a newborn baby and make high-pitched cooing sounds at you. Who's the itsy-bitsy baby goo-goo? Who's the teeny-weeny little baby who could fit on the head of a pin and still have room to build a condo?
Let's canoodle and nuzzle and allow one another's spicy-sweet vapors to roll over our torsos, hardening our nipples and strengthening our will. Let's order out for Thai food and tip the nice brown boy a dollar.
Anybody in here besides me feel like snugglin'? Who wants a heapin' helpin' of TLC? I'm hosting an all-you-can-eat buffet of huggin', and I'm handing you a ticket to get in free.
Posted by jg @ 10:55 PM PST []
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
It's been over twenty years since I've had an epileptic seizure. In the first half of my life, there were some spiteful bumblebees buzzing in my skull. My convulsions always came while snoozing, and people who were able to observe me asleep—from parents to siblings and finally to girlfriends—often told me how I'd thrash and sweat and howl. (I remember nothing of these night tremors.)
But now, there have been more than two decades of relative quietude on my brainscape.
And being the morbid, fatalistic, paranoid sack o' oatmeal and bitterness that I am, I stab myself with the fear that it's been TOO quiet. I dread that I'll get slammed with one Big Seizure that'll either kill me or render me a vegetable who poops in his pants and then sits in it.
You have a nice day, people.
Posted by jg @ 11:40 PM PST []
Tuesday, November 18, 2003
I was watching this show on the cable TV, and it said that this guy had written some book that said throughout history, people in power have done things which have harmed the disadvantaged.
I couldn't believe it. I became enraged, flabbergasted, and perplexed all at once. I am going to send an e-mail to my congressman about this. I'm going to get involved on a grass-roots level and work for positive change. I'm going to become a small grass blade straining toward the sun and pulling all my brethren and, um, sistren up with me.
My name is Jim Goad, spelled just like that. I am a reasonably muscular creature of this earth with a voice that screams for decency and fair play. I am opposed to all forms of injustice, exploitation, forced servitude, meanness, and practical jokes. I am appalled at the suffering that powerful human beings have inflicted upon the weak for millennia.
I cannot account for how society initially became stratified this way—with the strong on top and the weak on bottom—nor whether it had anything to do with aptitude, merit, and biologically innate inequities, but I know in my bones that it is wrong. I have no idea how to change things, but change them I must. I must stab in the darkness at this evil which I fail to comprehend.
Posted by jg @ 10:54 PM PST []
Monday, November 17, 2003
As a wee baby Goad, I was taught that miracles were so commonplace as to be non-miraculous. They told me that Santa Claus brought gifts, the Easter Bunny came with chocolate eggs and marshmallow chicks, and the tooth fairy left money under my pillow. The Catholic faith of my youth was the most miracle-laden religion this side of Hinduism—I grew up with old women chanting rosaries to stave off nuclear war, with holy water poured on tumors, and with stigmata-sporting masochist lunatics.
Yet as the sun sets and my balls hang lower, I find it hard to believe in miracles. First reason is, well, the concept of miracles is silly, but another good reason is the generally poor intelligence of people who are always having miracles happen to them.
I believe that God will not allow us to peek beyond the iron laws of physics to which he has shackled us like a pair of cosmic handcuffs. I believe that miracles are possible, but that only God and his cronies enjoy them, almost always at our expense. If God allows us to experience miracles, it is only to fuck with us in the long run.
Posted by jg @ 11:13 PM PST []
Sunday, November 16, 2003
A fellow Oregonian sends congrats for what he perceived as my victory in a recent street scuffle:
I saw y'all fighting. You kicked that dude's ass...after he started some trouble that he could not finish.
He provided some other details, and I was obviously not the street hooligan he saw thrashing some poor drunkard's hide. I haven't been violent with anyone in...well, let's just say a LONG TIME. Except for a couple trips out of state, I haven't even been out of the house to socialize in months. But this incident involved someone who LOOKED like me so much that someone sent me an e-mail assuming it was me.
And that's what creeps my already pale flesh. To some degree or another, everyone has heard a form of the doppelgänger myth—that we all have a double somewhere—and I sense that many of us believe it. One version says that we all encounter our double shortly before we die. Dostoevsky's early novel The Double, where a meek Nowhere Man's life is gradually annexed by his doppelgänger, is a bottomless bummer.
Now some understudy of mine is out committing crimes. I feel like beating him up.
Posted by jg @ 09:17 PM PST []
Saturday, November 15, 2003
Lovers of spicy South of the Border cuisine are dropping like flies all over the western Pennsylvania landscape. An outbreak of Hepatitis A, believed to have originated in green onions served at a Chi-Chi's restaurant northwest of Pittsburgh, has killed three people and infected an estimated five hundred more. The numbers are expected to grow, since most people don't develop symptoms until nearly a month after being infected. It is already the largest Hep-A epidemic in our fine nation's history.
There is one somber lesson to be learned from all of this: DON'T EAT MEXICAN FOOD. It's filled with germs, insects, and several types of dirt.
I was at a Mexican restaurant in North Portland where they had a gumball machine filled with Peanut M&Ms. Ants swarmed inside the glass globe and all over the candy.
It's disgusting! It's like these people don't even bathe or something!
I hate Mexican food, and sometimes I'm not too crazy about the people.
Posted by jg @ 08:49 PM PST []
Friday, November 14, 2003
Earlier this evening, I was walking up a dead dark cold late-afternoon street looking for people to maim and kill so I could get a bowl of soup.
Across the street, a haggard, tattered, battered man fell off his bicycle, which had been pulling a wagon holding a case of Old Milwaukee beer. Cans were scattered across the dirty street. He picked up a can, pulled off the tab, and was met with a geyser of foam. FUCK! He scooped up another can and threw it hard onto the street, where it sprayed like an abandoned garden sprinkler. THE WHOLE CASE IS RUINED. IT'S FRIDAY NIGHT AND I'VE WORKED HARD JUST SO I CAN DROWN MY FUCKING BRAIN CELLS IN 24 CANS OF CHEAP FUCKING SHIT BEER, AND NOW I HAVE TO GO HOME AND STARE AT FOUR WALLS AND TRY NOT TO THINK ABOUT THE FACT THAT I HAVE A REVOLVER IN MY NIGHT TABLE.
He didn't say those things, of course. But I could tell he was thinking them just by watching him pedal away.
Posted by jg @ 09:43 PM PST []
Thursday, November 13, 2003
I don't care if you feel like crying, I want you to grit your fucking teeth right now and SMILE. I want you to smile even if it makes you sick. Even if it makes your lips bleed and cracks open your skin all the way back to your ears, I'm warning you to put on a happy face and fucking KEEP it on until I tell you otherwise. Smear thick globs of Happy Paint over your repellent sourpussed mug. Cover every goddamned square inch of ugly skin on that sad face of yours with newer, better, faker, thicker, happier skin. Staple on that happy face with a fucking nail gun.
Keep your sorrow hidden from the world—we don't want to know about it, we don't want to hear about it, we don't want to think that it exists.
Grey skies are gonna clear up.
And then you're gonna die.
+++++++++
Here's the color cover for the upcoming Trucker Fags in Denial comic book. (Artwork by Jim Blanchard)
Posted by jg @ 11:09 PM PST []
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
I've spent the last hour feeling queasy. I've spent the last ten minutes vomiting every morsel of food I ate today into my kitchen sink. A chunky orangey swirl of my gutpaste now sits in the sink, but seeing as I only have ten or so minutes to get a diary entry in today, I'll clean it up after midnight.
I still have that shaky awful headachey weak post-puke feeling, and I could probably use some stuffy sneezy achey coughing so you can rest medicine. I wish you were all here to cradle me in your arms, sing me a lullaby, pour a room-temperature ginger ale for me, and tell me I'll be alright.
And then, as soon as I started feeling better, I'd tell you to leave.
Posted by jg @ 11:50 PM PST []
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
BUTTE, MT—It was just another day on the film set for Jeremiah Thunderbreast (pictured), a gay porn star and civil-rights activist on behalf of Native American causes. Then, suddenly, as he was shaving his anus in preparation for a grueling sodomy marathon under hot camera lights, he found a cufflink matted to some of his rectal hairs.
"I'd been missing that cufflink for nearly three weeks," Thunderbreast told this reporter as we huddled together in his small dressing room moments before the filming of Anal Injuns Vol. 23. "I've been looking for it ever since I was Best Man at the wedding of my brother, Cochise Thunderbreast. I guess what happened is that I was getting ready for the wedding and was running around naked after showering, and the cufflink must have fallen onto a chair or something, and I must have sat on it accidentally, and it got all tangled-up in my butt hairs."
An impromptu medical exam revealed that Thunderbreast was not injured in the mishap, although the cufflink suffered minor damage.
+++++++++
Here's something I wrote about men who love to force-feed women.
Posted by jg @ 11:15 PM PST []
Monday, November 10, 2003
One of my childhood's sweetest memories is of a Saturday afternoon when I was four or five. I had been snoozing on the couch at my brother's apartment in Mt. Holly, NJ, during a mid-winter freezedown when the daytime high was only 5º F.
I awoke as a demolition derby blared from the TV. I'd never seen one before, but my groggy twilight-state mind thought it was the funniest thing I'd ever seen. As the cars swirled around a mud pit, slamming and crushing and finally dying, I couldn't contain my childish giggles. Each brutal smash only made me laugh harder.
The idea of my li'l peachfuzz self sniggering at all the violence and destruction has always stuck with me. Perhaps all children naturally enjoy such things and have to be weaned away from chuckling at carnage.
Either that, or I'm a freak.
Posted by jg @ 11:28 PM PST []
Sunday, November 9, 2003
Sometimes you're oblivious to how much tension has built up inside you until it starts to split your skin open.
Sometimes it's only when you begin waking up that you realize how far you've fallen behind.
A lethal stew of boredom and disappointment and cynicism is bubbling inside my leathery exterior, a restless desperation that will either lead to grand creative feats or another soul-battering round of trouble.
But things can't stay the same. Something has to give. I can feel it. I can taste it. I've been flatlining for too long.
I think I'll go jump off a building and try to fly.
Posted by jg @ 10:56 PM PST []
Saturday, November 8, 2003
Wouldn't it be nice to have an eraser...
that would fit inside your pocket...
that you could whip out any minute...
and erase people you don't like?
Wouldn't it be fun to use that eraser...
on those who've caused you harm...
on those who've lied to you while smiling...
or even those who get in your way at the supermarket?
If I had such an eraser...
I'd use it as a tool for good...
I'd rub out the undesirables...
as I define them.
Wipe them away
from head to toe
leaving a small pile
of dirty rubber squigglies.
Posted by jg @ 11:09 PM PST []
Friday, November 7, 2003
When colon cancer picked my father's bones clean in the New Wave summer of '79, me and the surviving Goads sat in the front pew at Holy Cross Church in Springfield, PA, for his funeral mass.
The parish chose a Father Jones to recite the mass. The man pictured at left is not Father Jones, but he looks sort of similar. He's fat and bald and wears glasses like Father Jones did. I've altered the image so it looks more like Father Jones than the original priest pictured, who may have been a swell fellow for all I know. Or he may have been a child molester—I couldn't tell you.
Father Jones, who was always hugging you and mussing your hair every chance he got, had a Barbasol smell to him that could have been alcohol vapors. He ran the local Catholic Charismatic Renewal meetings, an odd 70s movement where ex-hippies, drifters, and even normal fat church people would play folk guitars and speak in tongues and fall to the ground under the bitchin' force of the Holy Spirit. They used to hold their psycho glossolalia-fests in an old building on the cemetery grounds where my father was about to be buried.
But this was a standard funeral mass, and the time came for Father Jones to deliver his eulogy. I don't remember specifics, but the essence of his sermon was that Al Goad was not a good man. For what seemed like ten minutes, he hammered on the idea that my father was a despicable weasel.
We Goads sat in our front-row pew, incredulous. This was possibly the rudest thing I've ever witnessed. If you didn't think he was a good man, let your stupid God decide. This dumb fucking ritual is for the family's benefit, not yours. As we rode to the cemetery in our rented limo, my sister Chris was crying and cursing Father Jones, while my brother John stared angrily without saying a word.
There were two funeral processions at the cemetery, and my father's auto convoy was much shorter than the endless string of cars at the other funeral. I felt bad that dad had died unpopular.
Later that day, I punched someone.
At dad's wake ceremony the night before, more than one co-worker of his from Gulf Oil Co. came up to me and said things such as, "Well, you know, your father wasn't the easiest guy to get along with," and "Al was kind of an asshole, you know."
My father was a dick—allow me to enter that on the record—but I don't know if he ever did anything as bad as Father Jones did to him that day. Even Dear Old Dickish Dad seemed to deserve something a little better than this.
So the best and most realistic eulogy I could give my father, dead for nearly a quarter-century, is to repeat what brother Johnny said about him years ago:
"Good man, terrible father."
Amen.
Posted by jg @ 11:19 PM PST []
Thursday, November 6, 2003
Bobby Hatfield, the screechingly high-pitched half of criminally overplayed blue-eyed soul devils the Righteous Brothers, has been found dead of an apparent heart attack in a Kalamazoo motel room, and all I can say is: RIGHTEOUS!
Now, I'm sure that ol' Bobby (the wide-eyed, spaced-out, chipmunkish one on the left) probably has surviving family members who are experiencing tremendous pain right now, but that's not the reason I'm happy he's dead.
I'm glad because it provides me partial relief for all the torment his music has caused me over the years.
"You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin'" is said to be the most frequently played radio song in, like, the history of the universe or something, and Hatfield provided the nails-on-a-blackboard castrati wails which make that gaseously overblown tune such a crime against humanity. But it is "Unchained Melody" (Ohhh, my-y-yy-y looove....my dar-ar-lin'...) on which Hatfield pranced to center stage and delivered the most pussy-whipped, ball-free male vocal ever set to wax. You need her love? No, you need a set of nuts, mister.
I saw the Righteous Brothers live at Madison Square Garden in 1987 after winning free tickets from a NYC radio station. They played an oldies supershow along with Mitch Ryder, Tommy James & the Shondells, and Blood, Sweat & Tears. As the Brothers took the stage and started burpin' out the hits, a pathetic music geek seated to my right looked me in the eyes and announced that they were "one of the ten greatest acts in music history."
In what sort of horrible world, I thought to myself, could such a thing possibly be true?
Now one of them is dead.
And I'm glad.
Posted by jg @ 10:15 PM PST []
Wednesday, November 5, 2003
Apart from the fact that they were all insane, every woman I've ever dated has shared another curious trait: a sexual attraction, almost always beginning in childhood, to Jim Morrison, Jack Nicholson, and Bill Murray.
The Jim Morrison fetish is by far the most prevalent and pathological. It's unanimous—every girl I've ever so much as kissed has wanted a piece of the Lizard King. Candlelit bedroom shrines and poster-plastered walls and English-class term papers and memorizing even the worst poems of this bad, bad poet. The obsession seems to flare up most often in the early teen years and then, thankfully, it fades, because I might have to start peeling caps if I'm ever exposed to "An American Prayer" again. Funny—I remember a woman in L. A. telling me she slept with The Doors' stoned songbird while they were both taking a film class in the mid-1960s, and she complained that he was decidedly less reptilian than she had hoped. Even funnier—I remember being arrested for shoplifting a Stones album back in 1980 or so, and as the cops took me away in handcuffs, I pretended to myself that I was rock 'n' roll outlaw Jim Morrison being hassled by "the pigs."
Jack Nicholson, pictured here in perhaps my favorite American film, Five Easy Pieces, is almost toxically charismatic. His appeal is simple—he has a piece of the Devil in him. Accordingly, les jeune filles is always wantin' to jump on Jack's jock and jiggle with his joystick.
Ladies love comedians—the gals' hearts melt and their panties moisten for a funnyman, and I've never met a skirt who didn't have a soft spot for fuzzy Teddy-bearish funny fella Bill Murray. Although he ain't much in the looks department, he makes them laugh, causing their vaginal muscles to loosen and permit easier entry.
Honorable mentions go to Elvis Presley, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and (no kidding) Andrew "Dice" Clay. All of these solid peckerwoods have surfaced in the clit-buffin' fantasies of multiple blessed maidens with whom I've shared my sexual juices.
All in all, I approve of their choices. It's further evidence that chicks who are attracted to me have good taste in men.
Posted by jg @ 10:22 PM PST []
Tuesday, November 4, 2003
Something happens in Portland every year around mid-October.
The sun disappears.
And it doesn't come back until June.
The temperature right now is one lonely degree above freezing. Frigid winds barreled into town a week ago, reminding me of everything I hated about winter back East....the steely daytime lighting, the face-slapping cold, the muscles sore from shivering, and the long, dead nights. Part of me always dies in the winter, just shuts down entirely.
This cold snap is unusually extreme, and soon enough it'll get ten degrees warmer and start rain, rain, raining for months. Since I do all my work at home, my apartment becomes a warm, cozy igloo. I'm a bear in a cave, a butterfly in a cocoon. Alright, maybe not a butterfly...
I could ignore the cold, close my eyes, and sleep for 24 hours straight if I wanted. Or take a hot bath. Or make some more oatmeal. It's too cold and wet and grey to go outside, so maybe I'll just boil up some tea and inhale the steam as it rises from the cup.
With all the bleakness, dread, and dulled senses that come with the Dark Months, I also slouch into a sort of solar-deprived narcotic bliss. There's something soothing about winter's finality. Right now, Cookie's cuddled up near a wall heater, snoring away. I'm sort of depressed, but also too listless to care about it. It isn't a bad feeling, really. I'll be happy when spring comes, but for now this is kind of nice.
Posted by jg @ 11:56 PM PST []
Monday, November 3, 2003
MONTGOMERY, AL—In a startling development which may set breakfast-condiment relations between the races back a couple of generations, the nation's two most successful and outspoken black-female maple-syrup mascots have declared a boycott of all white people's pancakes "until complete and final racial justice is achieved in America."
"No justice, no syrup!" shouted Aunt Jemima Greene before a mob gathered in front of Shuckey's Dixie Waffle Hut, which in 1982 became the South's last pancake house to allow racial integration. Aunt Jemima, 92, lives on a modest retirement pension while the makers of the syrup bearing her name are worth hundreds of millions. She has vowed—even if it means being jailed—that she will avoid being poured upon Caucasian hotcakes "until every poor black child can eat a pancake in peace and not feel like a damn fool for doing it." Mrs. Velma Butterworth, a poor Alabama sharecropper's daughter who likewise languishes in semi-poverty while the white and Jewish men who hawk her flapjack topping are living it up with fine cigars and whitewall tires, joins Jemima in the embargo. "I ain't spreadin' myself over no cracker's johnnycake until I get PAID!" howled Butterworth over a megaphone to a crowd of hooting fat black ladies.
The makers of Log Cabin Syrup, noting that "Abe Lincoln built log cabins and liked black people," have declined to join the boycott but instead are planning to unveil their own black-female syrup mascot named Mamie Giblets.
+++++++++
(Based on my original presumption that Mrs. Butterworth is a Caucasian, this was going to be called "Things Get Racial Between Jemima & Butterworth," wherein the latter was described as "a white woman with a George Hamilton tan" who derided Aunt Jemima as "a slave hand trying to run a syrup company." But after asking a few acquaintances about how they perceived Mrs. Butterworth's ethnicity [most assumed she was black], and due to her bottle's brown glass, I'll conclude that Mrs. Butterworth is probably of Negroidal ancestry. There was one holdout who insisted that the grandmotherly voice which responded to Kim "Tootie" Fields's "I love you, Mrs. Butterworth" in the old TV commercial bore a white woman's inflection, but I argue that an elderly white syrup matron wouldn't be hanging around in a dangerous neighborhood with Tootie.)
+++++++++
Two readers living out in Big Turkey Country scolded me via e-mail that a "gizzard" is actually an internal organ and that the reddish saggy protruberance hanging from the throats of turkeys and some other animals is called a "wattle." Who knew?
Posted by jg @ 11:31 PM PST []
Sunday, November 2, 2003
The wild, exciting, cutting-edge, and sometimes-icky world of body modification and ritual scarification has recently gone bonkers over a craze whereby young hipsters are sporting gizzards as a sign of rebellion and individuality.
No longer content to merely puncture their skin with steel rods or implant ancient coins in their earlobes, today's most modern of Modern Primitives are having their throat areas elongated to resemble the blazing-red, boldly sexual throat area of Meleagris gallopavo, AKA the north American wild turkey. The new bod-mod cult of "gizzardians" equates one's sexual power with the size and garishness of one's surgically created gizzard.
The medical procedure itself is painful, expensive, irreversible, and sometimes even fatal. It involves a ritual strangling of throat tissue—starting with small clamp-like piercings and then, once the skin beneath the chin is sufficently loosened, an array of small nylon nooses—resulting in a sagging, reddened sac that resembles nothing so much as a scrotum with a skin rash.
"My gizzard symbolizes cultural transformation," beams Loki Gertner (pictured), a runaway teenager and bisexual panhandler. "The Africans over in Africa modify their bodies with the plates in their lips, which symbolize, you know, the communal plate, the shared plate, the plate where everyone in the community can get a bite to eat if they're hungry, and so, like, my gizzard represents the giant invisible American Thanksgiving turkey which stretches from coast to coast, an atavistic animal god which brings bounty and feeds the wayward children. Plus, a lot of skater chicks think it's really hot that I have a gizzard hanging from my neck."
+++++++++
Behold the 22nd installment of Trucker Fags in Denial.
Posted by jg @ 09:39 PM PST []
Saturday, November 1, 2003
General Wesley Clark ... Rugged, yet not afraid to be elegant. Feels equally comfortable on the battlefield or at the opera.
Governor Howard Dean ... Looks like he lays really smelly farts. And he's too chub for my tastes.
Senator John Edwards ... I guess he's cute if you like that preppy mid-80s Mark Harmon type—NOT!
Reverend Al Sharpton ... I'm glad he's toned it down with the Darth Vader helmet he used to call a hairdo.
Ambassador Carol Moseley-Braun ... I like what she's doing with the hair and the teeth. It's like her hair and teeth are saying, "I'm a strong, proud, confident, intelligent black woman's hair and teeth."
Senator Joe Lieberman ... Looks like a drunk koala bear. And a little Grecian Formula wouldn't hurt, darling.
Congressman Dennis Kucinich ... Eewwww! Too ugly to be president. Too ugly to be photographed. Next!
Senator John Kerry ... This isn't a presidential candidate, this is a movie monster.
Congressman Dick Gephardt ... The man has no eyebrows. The man has NO eyebrows.