The Terr Says Hall Of Fame

Terrorists are such arrogant people; they can never admit defeat. It must be insufferable playing chess with the leader of Hezbollah...

"YOUR JEW BISHOPS HAVE NOT DEFEATED ME. THIS IS A HISTORIC VICTORY FOR ALLAH."

"Uh, check."

"ONLY A JEW SAYS 'CHECK.' A LOYAL JIHADIST PRAISER OF ALLAH SAYS 'CHECKMATE'"

"Yeah, well you can't move there, Sheikh. Your king would still be in check."

"MAN IT'S FUCKING HOT IN THIS TURBAN. HOW ABOUT HERE?"

"Yeah that's fine."

"THIS IS A GREAT DAY FOR ISLAM. A GREAT VICTORY FOR ALLAH."

"Checkmate."

"I WIN."

"No, you lost, Sheikh."

"PRAISE ALLAH?"

"No, Sheikh. No praise Allah. Listen, good game, but I gotta go. Later."

"I KNEW THAT YOU WOULD ADMIT TO YOUR CRUMBLING DEFEAT AT THE HANDS OF HEZBOLLAH. HOLY HAMAS! THIS TURBAN IS MAKING ME SO SWEATY. WHY DOES THE HOLY LAND HAVE TO BE A FUCKING DESERT?"

"Okay, bye Sheikh."

"YES, BYE FOR NOW."

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Recently, I was very displeased to learn that Ann Coulter is not only still alive and breathing, but her skeleton hands can still operate a computer keyboard. She has just released yet another book about her undying love for liberals. For those who aren't aware, a liberal is a person who has ever disagreed with anything Coulter has ever said.

One particular section of Coulter's book has sparked a lot of reaction from the media. That is, Coulter's claim that a group of politically active 9/11 widows are overjoyed that their husbands died in the terrorist attacks and are "enjoying their celebrity status." (By the way, the fact that these women are not big fans of President Bush, who in Coulter's mind rivals Jesus in terms of holiness, has nothing to do with this). Coulter says that these women, or "harpies," are "using" the deaths of their husbands to get media attention and have "political bias" and "nobody is allowed to respond to them" while also pointing out that maybe their husbands were about to divorce them.

Good points Ann! I'd even take that a step further and ask how we know these women didn't fund 9/11 themselves? How do we know one of them isn't Osama bin Laden in disguise? Just because these women were married to their husbands for many years, just because they had children with them, we're supposed to believe that they actually loved them? That they're mourning their deaths? Yeah right! They obviously have just been waiting for them to die for the last 20 years so they could finally appear on CNN as big celebrities. Finally my annoying husband is dead and I can be interviewed by Wolf Blitzer!

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Comedy Central bombards its viewers with the message that Mencia is a cutting-edge politically incorrect independent rebel that nobody can predict, so much so that he's even a huge legal liability for the company. This is made evident by one of the show's taglines: "Carlos Mencia is speaking his mind. We're hiring extra lawyers." Lawsuits must be flooding in from all directions with Mencia daringly delivering jokes like...

[imitating a woman] "Do I look fat in this dress?"
[responding as himself] "No, you look fat... in EVERYTHING!"

You probably heard in the news about the class action lawsuit, The National Association of Fat Women versus Comedy Central.

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Here’s a little riddle for you: What do you get when you mix a fat aging prostitute with a giant helping of bullshit and sprinkle it with emphysema?

Give up?

Sylvia Browne, of course. Enjoy her beautiful face for a moment.

Browne is a world-renowned “psychic” who you may have seen before on such gripping television as The Montel Williams Show. Browne normally appears on the show every Wednesday, serving as a medium through which people in the audience can communicate with dead relatives, learn the fate of sick or lost loved ones, etc. From her site, www.sylvia.org, you can also buy a psychic reading from her. But she’s not charging you $700 for a 20-30 minute phone call just for the money. Like her website proudly proclaims: “Everything Sylvia does is by the grace of God.” I’m not sure whether or not that includes the time she committed securities fraud in 1992 (19 years after she began doing psychic readings), but we’ll leave that open to debate. We’ll also leave open the question of why she didn’t use her powers to simply and legally play a winning lottery ticket if she was so greedy and desperate to add to her well-deserved fortune. And if you’re curious why she didn’t foresee the indictments handed down to her, it’s because—oh wait, Sylvia just telepathically asked me not to tell you. She said you can find out by purchasing her book, Adventure of a Psychic, available on amazon.com right now. She also said that she spoke with God, and He would prefer it if you buy the hardcover version.

Another popular TV psychic, John Edward, is just as bad as Sylvia, and says he knew what Terri Schiavo was thinking while she was in a persistent vegetative state. Schiavo was evidently fully aware of her surroundings and what was going on. Looks like the stupid medical "professionals" screwed up again. By the way, don’t ask John what you’re thinking. He only knows what you’re thinking if, like Schiavo, you are physically and mentally incapable of telling him that he’s wrong. What’s even worse about Browne is she sometimes goes as far as to give medical advice to people, regardless of the fact that she is completely unqualified. My medical advice to her is to stop waking up at 3AM to gorge her fat ass on deep-fried vanilla frosted donuts wrapped in bacon and chocolate-covered sausage links dipped in a warm mixture of sour cream and melted butter.

Here's a hilarious video clip you can't miss. Another home run for Sylvia.

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Born out of childhood dreams and fantasies pelted and shattered by the fierce pointed weapons of concentrated mass societal aggression and suppressed by a hovering machine of demonic dimensions, rising from the smoldering ashes of visions and truths once known, of alienated wisdom heeded not by the fools with swords that surround us, emerges the lush, eternal sound of my new indie band, The Aaron Terr Project.

Without music, I would be a foul, worthless, unhappy man. What I call my body would be nothing more than a pale, frail, slightly animated corpse. Music is everything and everyone. Music is voice. Music is beat. Music is rhythm. Music is melody. Music is life. Music is mystery. Music is revolution. Music is madness. But most importantly, music… is music. Music is the vibrational invasion of a lingering guitar chord, spewed out by the weather-beaten, chapped hands of a tortured being whose soul leeks out of tender scars in the form of warm red liquid that we so often call blood.

As an average middle-class kid from the suburbs who grew up with all the basic necessities of life and a few luxuries, and having excelled academically and gone on to study at a prestigious college, I know the true meaning of suffering. I am the supreme master of the gauntlet of emotions that tighten the figurative clamp around the jugular of humanity. With each of my songs, the listener is given a unique dose of my never-ending struggle on this cold, indifferent planet that floats in a dark, domineering abyss of death and destruction known to you as the universe. Here is a sample of my lyrics from the song "Blood and Asphalt":

i’m torn through by grave misfortunes of unwieldy souls
my blood pumps slow (slower than your conscience).
elevated dreams are consumed in nightly desires
you said “yank my spirit from the heavens”
but the sun won’t rise
tomorrow.

make your pact with the devil
signed with my blood (i bleed with every breath).
stitched up scars that break through time
this is my last call
my heart grows stronger with every fall.

so wrap up this world and put it in your pocket (your Levi’s spoke death)
and remember my words in vain
"heavy blood falls fast"
but my freedom came last.

Check stores soon for our debut album, Erratic Hearts Out Yonder.

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Things We Hate

When someone continues to call you by the wrong name, to the point where you don't care enough anymore to correct them and just start going by "Harold"

When you didn't have a pen or pencil in class, and the nerd sitting next to you said he didn't have one to lend after pretending to look in his bulging backpack where there were actually 18 spare pens neatly wrapped in rubber bands inside of a zip-up bag.

When your teacher was "home sick" and left a shitload of work for you to do while the substitute read a magazine and fondled his balls at he desk. I always had an urge to write "Screw you, I'm not doing shit" all over the papers before handing them in to see if my teacher really checked them.

How some people seem so averse to flushing a turd down a toilet in public restrooms. If you have the time and energy to blow a monster loaf of shit out your ass and then use half a roll of toilet paper to wipe, I think you can take the extra step of pushing down a small lever with your index finger.

When someone is boring the shit out of you just rambling on about something, causing you to completely zone out as you continue to unconsciously deliver a series of responses such as "mmhm," "yeah," and "uh huh" that would seem to indicate that you're still paying attention, and suddenly you realize by the pause and look they're giving you that they just said something that may require a more specific response from you, yet you have no idea what they've been talking about and still try to get away with "yeah definitely."

When somebody asks you "what's going on?" and you reply "good."

Guys who dump multiple bottles of cologne on their bodies before going out. Yeah, now you'll get all the girls you fucking rancid pine tree. I only ask that you be a bit more subtle with the application of your aromatic blend of citrus, jasmine, and lavender.

Having to make one extremely difficult payment of $59.85 instead of three easy payments of $19.95

Ancient people who use the phrase "years young" instead of "years old" when stating their age. Sorry madam, your developing wrinkles, new grandson, and lack of perk in the bustal region seem to indicate that you are indeed 62 years old.

Talking to someone who has some debris on his face. You either don't bother to tell him, just trying to ignore the piece of broccoli hanging out of his nostril, or you try to help him out. But whenever you try to direct someone to where a parcel of food is on his face, he will always suddenly lose his sense of direction and logic. You can either keep saying "up a little... no up... wait not that much" for five minutes until he finds it by pure chance, or just flick it off yourself.

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Here's a fun thing to do when blessed with lots of snow: Find a snowman that other people built and completely annihilate it and piss all over its remains.

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When asking Miss Boulton, organizer of the Stream Team cleanup crew, if she would be willing to sit down with me for an interview, she replied, “I've already done like a million interviews. Fuck off.” But with some keen diplomatic prying, self-emasculating flattery, and a substantial monetary bribe, I was able to get three minutes with her. Boulton's comments truly convey the essence of volunteer work. "I've gotten thousands of dollars in scholarship grants. I love doing community service. It really gives back," she says.

Indeed, Miss Boulton is redefining community service for a new generation. Her unique attitude towards volunteer work poses an intriguing question: Why should anybody be expected to help out their community without receiving cash, fame, and free passes in return?