T E N S I O N

You know something. You know something I don't. You know something nobody else knows... and everyone knows something you don't know.

In the theatre of our shared lives, this iteration creates tension.

Some of these things you can communicate - many of them; so many that were you to begin speaking and never stop, your physical body would deteriorate long before you were able to accomplish such a semiotic ritual.

You might draw them, but still - there is not enough space in the universe to contain the infinite complexity of a human life.

Sing them, record them, dance interpretively through the passing of your mortality, and broadcast your every waking moment, and there will always be a basic inequality between information you know and that which you can express.

In silence, sometimes you can hear the truth that you already know everything, though.

Only in complete honesty do we have a chance at understanding.

But is honesty in its purest form even possible? Are there secrets that burrow so deep we hide them from ourselves? When you look into the reflection of your own eyes, is it you at whom you are staring?

We have built our selves so carefully because the truth is dangerous. We have named and affixed to ourselves these kits of identity because we know that underneath it all there is no core upon which it is based.

We are not circles. We are triangles. At the boundaries of the self, we gather and tessellate, each holding together like otters at sea to protect ourselves from the void below.

But this forms a shadow. The shadow of the self. The shadow that, while comforting, means that we are blocking the light.

Through sharing our tension, we give each other the tools to destroy one another - and only by being deconstructed can we see through to what lies beyond.

Be silent. Pay attention. Read. Read the walls and the city, read the strangers who stand next to you. The degree to which things appear random is the degree to which we are unable to see the pattern that lies underneath.

It is there, though. This strange attractor that calls to us in fitful dreams and inebriation, these memories we look in upon through cracks in the wall, the voice that speaks to us in our loneliness... it is the singularity of shared experience, and it is the light.

And it is the tension.

I will not give in to the fear of being broken.

And so we have both the presence of absence and the absence of presence. Is there a difference? When you open the garage door, and you see that your spouse's car is not there - that is is the absence of presence. However, when you open the garage door knowing that it will not be there already - that is the presence of absence. Both contours of reality exist simultaneously - as you perceive, and your pattern-recognition software makes predictions, such data as that which fulfills a pattern creates a presence in the mind. Expectations of that pattern set up a binary - there/not there. When you perceive that a pattern is not met, or expectation fulfilled, you have the absence of presence - the notion and feeling that something is missing. But a pattern that tells you there is inherent incompleteness, something that you know cannot be there, that you would like to exist or be true; there is the presence of absence, the void, the abyss. So it is with god and the self.

Because in order to really create something, something significant and objectively meaningful, you have to die. Perhaps an artist's death can be the greatest thing for their art; we've all seen it happen - but before their physical death, every creator has to undergo their apotheosis. You begin by questioning everything - yes, the foundations of your society - and arrive at a point where you believe you have finally discovered the world for the cannibalistic incest-rape that it actually is: and then you can begin. You begin to deconstruct yourself, your every past life and interminable moment of rumination, and the causes and effects and identity kits of your wants and needs and desires and fears, and you start cutting. You rip away at yourself, an ouroboros of pain addiction, tearing sinew from flesh until you find that at the heart of it all is nothing. There is no bottom, no core, no foundational truth upon which you can rely - cogito ergo cogito: there is no sum, all is tautology. Then, the iterative recursion of perception, and then, the iterative recursion of self-perception, and then, the recursion of iterative perception, and then the humming eternity. Through this background noise, you collapse into the singularity, and you die. The realization that you have always been dead is not lost upon you, but seems unworthwhile in exploring when you arrive at the place where there is no time.

If there's one thing that I've learned, it's that everything is exactly as much bullshit as you think it is. When you see, read, or hear something and decide it's not for you, then you have drawn a line that separates you from it: that's okay to do. However, you have to own that line. Everything has something to do you with you - physically, emotionally, institutionally, or even in that sense when you close your eyes and recognize the contextual nature of your identity and know the interconnectedness of the human experience - there is nothing that has nothing to do with you.

Bozo: A Short Story

Bozo: A Short Story

 

[for Jacob]

 

                The steel wasn't nearly as comfortable as the wood, but he rode it the same way, flat-bottomed and staunch, the magic marker rubbing into the divot it had cut after years and years into his left buttock. Were one to touch it, they'd feel a groove in the skin and a knot on his bone where the pressure had built up calcium growth, like a Muay Thai kickboxer's shin. They hit themselves with branches and pummel tree trunks, drawing out the blood and sweat like demons, the dark bruises coalescing over the point where the skin breaks, the crusty scars healing over and over and the tibia growing thick and knotted like an oak.

                He was called "Cheeky" by the other riders, from when he used his ass to open a stubborn bottle of years-old hooch, pressure from inside holding the cap on so tight naught could free it from the container. All they saw was the crouch, though, then heard the seal break. He felt it give from the weight of his body, a slow torque that can only be applied with the aid of abdominals and gravity - he reached down, finished it with a little application of manual dexterity, and raised the bottle to his mouth to show it was clean to drink.

                "L'Chaim!" He cried, the bubbles in his throat popping with the bitter aftertaste of cheap fermentation, passing to his right and stumbling backwards when the tickle touched his brain.

                "That was cheeky." The voice called out from the several, nobody sure who said it, and yet he knew whose voice it sounded like.

                It sounded like Bozo.

______________________________

                Things were better in the seventies. Food tasted cleaner, the hookers more honest, the young kids - bad as they got - still stopped just short of cutting you over the last bone in a pack of smokes, but they'd make damn sure you split it even. Life was fair if you didn't lie, cheat or steal. That was then, though, back before Bozo left them.

                Trains cross over the land because they have to, but riders do it because they want - he paused, the magic marker burning to find the last word. He put the cap back on as the whistle blew, Stockton's 4:12 going ahead down the inland track toward its next stop, probably Bakersfield. Eight minutes of walking to the China Grove, where Theseus would hand him the joint and they'd catch up on times and lives. The last word would be written. Or it wouldn't; he smiled as he saw it out of the corner of his mind's eye, knowing the angle had just passed where he could've turned to look one last time, and he realized right then that it didn't even need one. The face was his, and everyone else's, the brim of the hat showing forever, the oval of the face framing a countenance that didn't say anything at all: this was how they'd know it was a message from Bozo.

                "How's the eye?" Theseus blew smoke at his face.

                "Fuck you too, man. How's it hanging?" Cheeky laughed, taking the spliff and suckling at it, wincing with his left eye, the world reducing down to a slit and starting to make sense again.

                "Same as it ever was," came the old reply from the Greek, his talent for killing rattlers responsible for his road-moniker. "Jane's dead."

                This shook Cheeky. He stopped mid-exhale, choking a little on the acridity of it, and then instantly accepted it as the necessary fact that it was. "Shit. I see. You alright?"

                Theseus looked down into the dirt, the grove home to a colony of gophers who left holes to dot the grass, one of which he stared into like he was about to burrow into it himself if he were only small enough. "I guess. I ain't seen her since January anyway, so..." The half-truth collapsed and his throat tightened. "I fuckin' miss her, though." He inhaled on the marijuana cigarette, fighting back the tears by way of a rictus wall through which he gritted his near-black teeth, what was left of them, the smoke billowing out through the gaps like a steam-engine. "She's in a better place that this shithole, right?"

                Cheeky nodded, his right arm reflexively drawing up to where he could rub his old wound with an extended index finger. "You betcher ass so, Thee. You bet your ass."

                "Mine ain't worth half what yours is, though." Theseus snickered. Both men chuckled, the birds overhead echoing the sound with a series of crackling caws.

                It was a knife fight, Theseus recalled, staring at the wound unapologetically. "Hey, do the trick one last time for me - cheer me up, yeah?" Cheeky frowned.

                "Really? One last time? Is that your story now?" He prepared for it by knocking a fist against where his right eye used to be, opening up the passage from his sinus and feeling the dull ache that started the endorphins, his heart racing already a little from the weed. "I'll do it 'cause you asked me, you don't gotta justify it."

                He grabbed the joint and drew a mighty breath, almost swallowing before thrusting it back into Theseus' eager fingers, his own reaching up to either side of his eye-hole, pulling them open to expose the long-dead orifice, the nerves having given up on sending signals anymore. He froze solid and quivered a little, pushing with his abdominals like he was trying to take a dump. "You see it yet?"

                "Not quite - wait, there's a wisp, keep going." Theseus's hand limply dangled as he held the lit ember behind him so as he could see the full effect, his grin a child's now.

                The smoke started to billow out of the eye-hole, rising first like a thin trail of vapor until it poured, milk-like and ropy, pluming toward heaven, and Theseus started to laugh.

                "Fuuuuuuu - that is so goddamn awesome!" Theseus bellowed as the last remainder staccato-ed out past the dead nerves, his one ace in the hole for barroom bets and boxcar wagers. They'd have surely called him Smokestack if it hadn't have happened after he already had his moniker. Besides, he didn't really draw smokestacks too well anyway, not that he had to, but his design was set in stone after the beer bottle, his dog-face always starting with the rounded humps of a gluteus maximus before adding the tongue - it was a visual joke, and he loved to tell it over and over to anyone who'd listen.

______________________________

                "First, you draw the butt - like a 'w,' but rounder and wider." The transaction had begun. Bozo was wearing a "Vote for Reagan" button through what looked like his shirt, but revealed the dried blood-stains of a fakir's wound underneath when you looked closely. He'd had it on for about a week since the election, and Cheeky found it almost hard to keep focused on showing him how to draw his moniker without being distracted by the faint smell of pus from the infection. He took a swig of jungle juice to help with the nausea - it was proportionally good.

                "Okay." That's all Bozo would say during the exchange when it was his turn to listen and learn. People seemed to know how to teach him, going in small steps and waiting for his feedback - oftentimes, they didn't even realize themselves how to draw their names on the boxcars, but almost all of them gave it up when they had the opportunity to give to the collector.

                "Now, here's the thing - you start with the tongue next. Thin enough to poke out like a shit coming through... and then you wait. Bozo chuckled, nodding slowly. "Right. Now, and only now do you put the line in the tongue and add the nose by drawing a circle that touches the crest where the two halves of the 'w' meet. Then the nostrils. Then two big loops for the eyes, making the pupils underneath. Then you add the skull with an arc, loop down for the ears, and you close it off with the whiskers." He stopped, looking over to make sure it was sinking in. Bozo was a sponge. "It's just a dog, man, what did you think?"

                Again, Bozo laughs, a deep redolent basso that bounced back off the train to bathe Cheeky, who involuntarily smiled and handed over the marker. Price paid. He was about to learn the meaning of life.

______________________________

                "You sure you can't teach me?" Theseus didn't ever whine, but this was as close as he ever got.

                "I think you know the answer already." He searched his friend's eyes with his one. He suspected everybody knew the answer already, but most people didn't really know it. He didn't know he knew it until a rusty switchblade found its way into his right ocular cavity, severing the occipital nerve and popping his eyeball like a water-balloon. He'd never forget that feeling, the juices and the smell in the back of his nose by his throat. He threw up almost immediately, the sounds coming from him pairing with the squeal of the crowd who didn't expect him to go through with it. He'd tell people later it was a knife fight, but those who were eye-witnesses would tell a different story.

                Hell, I'd give my right eye for a swig of Hennessy right now.

                No, you wouldn't.

                Bet your fuckin' life I would.

                Prove it, then.

                Alright. Do it. I dare you. But you don't got any Hennessy in that flask and I'll fuckin' kill you.

                You don't wanna do this, man.

                Don't tell me what I want to do and what I don't want to do. Do it. I dared you once, you want to make it double?

                You're too drunk.

                Bullshit - I drank myself sober three hours ago, and I need some goddamn Hennessy to get me straight again. Are you gonna do it or not?

                It was that quick, and the conversation burned behind his right eye-hole. It would never leave him. It would form the foundation for everything else he ever had to say, in truth. Anything worth saying, at least. He only realized it after swallowing the last bit of bile, that he could see now. It took one eye to find the other, and it took both to see the truth. But you don't know what the truth is until you lose it, and then you know you had it all along. That was the secret that Bozo reminded him of, and what he couldn't ever tell anyone. He'd just have to write it on a boxcar and hope they got the message. The ones who were listening to it instead of looking at it - they did.

                "Why do you always say that? You know I don't know it, or else I wouldn't be asking." Theseus sat against the tree, staring at China Grove. That's what they called it anyway, the story going something like an old Chinese miner died here a long time ago. It sounded like bullshit anyway, so nobody ever told much of the story except that part. The trees were different, though - each one had a strange mark on it, and for a while they even had some arbologist come out to study what it was that made it happen - some ergot or tree-aids or something, he had suspected, but nothing ever came of it. Just the way they grow in Hyena Falls.

                "You do know, though - you just forgot." He felt the heaviness start - it came on him like a ton of rocks whenever he started talking too much, and stopped him.

                "You always say that too. Man, I don't know what you get out of that stupid old tradition anyway." Theseus narrowed his eyes to two slits. "I ought to take that other fuckin' eye out."

                "Don't say that. This tradition is all we got, Thee - and I know you haven't forgotten that at least." Cheeky cleared up, the anger starting to boil. People got frustrated when they realized you know who Bozo is, and that you've met him and traded names. It drives some to rage. Some to despair. Some to murder. He'd seen it before, men getting caught drawing Bozo's sign on a side-car and just getting killed right then and there - it wasn't just a cucuy story they told to keep people in line, he'd literally seen it with his two eyes one night, the man just came up behind and strangled him to death. Scared him into sobriety for three days straight, and made his soul cry out. He figured that's why he met Bozo so many years later, because he saw what could happen if you tell the truth to the wrong person, and after he remembered what the truth was, he could have it explained to him. Life's funny like that.

                "I know. I know. I'm sorry, Cheek, I just don't understand." Theseus handed over the bottle, taking in return the jungle stew. There was half left. Perfect.

                "Okay." He quashed Thee's hopes by continuing. "That's just it. There ain't nothing to understand." Then the heaviness collapsed him and he woke up the next morning, Theseus long gone and a magic marker in his hand, dry as bone. That's when he knew he was finished.

______________________________

                "You sure you're ready?" Bozo smiled, taking the marker, his eyes soft. This part was always hard because he never knew how people would react. So far, he hadn't gotten murdered - at least he hoped he hadn't - but there was always that random chance after they realized that they knew it the whole time and it was just that no one ever gave them an explanation. It was stupid-easy to draw, after all, and it wasn't until they knew how to draw it from him that they realized why they could tell the reals from the fakes. It made him nervous, the doubt that one day he'd draw a fake, but then he reminded himself how impossible that was, and he smiled, continuing once more to teach the truth.

                "Please." Cheeky said the magic word. They all did, it seemed, even if it was a different one for each student.

                "Okay. Here goes. You start with the hat." He drew it. "You know what that is?" He couldn't tell him, and he stopped and waited.

                "I... that's an infinity sign, right? That means everything." Cheeky felt a little dizzy.

                "You got it. Now, the head." He made a circle through the middle. "What did I just draw?" Again, he waited. This was the test. It sure felt real.

                Cheeky swallowed hard, a tear starting to form. Some men cried when they realized it, and some laughed. "It's a zero. That's nothing." The tear dropped down and hit the top of his shoe. He saw it for the first time again. "Nothing. Over everything."

                Bozo nodded. "Yes. That's right. It's okay, Cheeky. You got it."

                Cheeky laughed, and Bozo laughed with him. They stood there by the boxcar, the moon above also laughing, and the Earth trembled, a great guffaw echoing throughout the land and the sky, and the whole goddamn universe. Bozo walked away, knowing that someone else knew, and that was all he needed to keep going. Cheeky kept laughing, softer and softer until it was just a persistent wavelength radiating in the background of his brain.

                He would never stop laughing.

 

Why They're Winning (or, The Last Thing I Ever Hope to Say About This Whole Stupid Chick-Fil-A Issue)

Posthuman time is a funny thing. The theory was that the "information superhighway" would make us all totally informed of every up-to-the-minute important event across the world, and we'd be like virtual threshing machines, separating the rich wheat of media from the chaff.

Actually, I can see the resemblance.

What we forgot to account for, apparently, is the fact that the practice of critically thinking about all those tasty news-grains headed down our eye-throats (this mixed metaphor is becoming disturbing) has become about as popular as reading the ingredients on a can of soda before you drink it, and all that quickening of time amounts to little more than the point being lost that much faster.

We are consumers, first and foremost, and what we often forget to realize is that what passes for "debate" in contemporary rhetoric is often a purposeful conglomeration of manufactured sound-bytes and talking-points which aim to do nothing more than re-frame a burning issue within the context of whoever is trying to control the topic.

Sorry, Colin, but if you're going to make it in this town, you better spice that prose up. And blame more protestors.

Thus, we have the Chick-Fil-A "debate."

See what they did there? Clever. Totally inaccurate, but clever.

Now, if you woke up yesterday and suddenly decided to check in on that story you heard about an entire month ago, or maybe recently stirred from a coma, then I can sincerely understand how you might be confused about the recent claims regarding the "anti-free-speech" efforts of the Chick-Fil-A boycott.

However, if you've been paying attention, you should be able to see through the smokescreen to what's actually been happening: a classic case of misdirection.

Abraca-free-speech-a-dabra: Voila! My homophobia has disappeared!

Here's a brief timeline of the debacle:


July 2: Reports emerge that CFA donated millions of dollars to organizations that seek to make same-sex marriage illegal.

July 16: Dan Cathy (son of CFA founder Truett Cathy) publicly reaffirms his company's stance on "traditional marriage."

July 18: The Jim Henson Company decides to stop selling its toys through CFA in order to prevent their money going to support anti-gay organizations.

July 20: Boston mayor Thomas Menino attempts to ban CFA from opening any new store locations in his city.

July 23: Mike Huckabee organizes "Chick-Fil-A Appreciation Day" to defend their "right to promote Christian values."

July 25: CFA posts disinformation on its restaurants claiming that they recalled the Muppet toys due to "reports of children getting their fingers stuck in the holes of the puppets," and creates a fake facebook profile to provide further "back-up" to this false claim (although I guess the model for Stock Photo's "Pretty Redhead" could have been one of their customers).

July 25: Chicago also attempts to block a new CFA from opening, making up for the questionable decision to allow that weird face-spew monument.

July 26: San Francisco joins the ranks in promising to prevent CFA from operating in the city. "Wow, how shocking," said absolutely nobody ever.

I haven't seen this many people confused
about what they're voting for since Florida, 2000.

August 1: The proverbial feces hit the fan when thousands of people actually show up on "Chick-Fil-A Appreciation Day" in defense of the company's.... free speech?










Of course, part of the problem rests in the fact that there is no "definition of marriage" on record in the U.S. Constitution, and thus those who are trying to limit it to "between one man and one woman" have a much easier job to do, message-wise: their thesis is right there in the main argument. Just reiterate it with a bunch of false threats to "tradition" and slap a kid on it, and you're done.

That poor child, being forced to learn about the basic equality of human love. Fortunately, those glasses will blind him in about fifteen minutes. Then his literacy level will also be level with biblical standards.

For those who are trying to oppose this attempt to make the U.S. constitution into a footnote from the book of Leviticus, it's not so easy. What can you say that won't play into the fears that the "gay agenda" is trying to turn our kids into miniature Paul Lyndes, flitting about and queering up the place?

"Yikes. That's even too gay for me."

Furthermore, how do you not wind up sounding like you're trampling on the rights of religious folk to express their constitutional freedom of speech?

 

You shift the topic back. That's how.

The Chick-Fil-A debate is not actually about who should get married to whom. It's not even about who believes what. It's really about corporations, and their influence on politics.

You want freedom of religion? Done. Freedom of speech? You got it. But when you start using your absurd amounts of left-over capital to secretly influence the government, you're not talking about anything that's in any constitution I've ever seen - you're practicing a different kind of "redefinition:" the definition of democracy.

...At least the last time I checked.

So, what really happened is that Chick-Fil-A had a forced outing - they're gay for corporate influence, and they unapologetically love being in bed with political institutions which seek to change America's laws so that they match their own particular agenda. That's the problem.

This is what Christian persecution looks like: note how instead of
protesting, the lion is eating his face. Betcha he wishes Rome would just boycott.

The day that a company starts using their funds to support the banning of churches in America, I will boycott it. When Ronald McDonald starts calling for America to institute Sharia law (all that make up makes me think he's hiding something), I'll protest alongside my friends of different faiths (and non-faiths) in defense of the very same constitution that provides for all of us to be treated equally.

Because political influence is something people have. Not corporations.

But as long as companies like Chick-Fil-A keep us trained on the distraction of who's allowed to say what, they'll keep winning the war of who's allowed to buy what - and if we're not careful, our rights will go up for sale.

Capitalist Combo #10 (Hold the Hate)

It's time we stop pretending that there's a private sector and a public sector. Nobody's buying it, anymore - and it's the only thing we're not buying. Look behind the curtain in the control-room of just about any major corporation, and you'll find that they're using the lucre they have wrought from the hands of their unsuspecting customers to finance and support all kinds of crazy platforms and positions that very few consumers would otherwise support.

Nobody ever expects Charlie Chan.

For example, take a look at this list and try to imagine avoiding buying something that eventually doesn't trickle up to at least one of these companies. Sure, it's easy enough to hold off buying a plane from Lockheed Martin or resist investing through Morgan Stanley (because, you know, you're probably poor, statistically speaking) - but then you get to Time Warner. And AT&T. Angry at the Democrats? Sorry; but if you're using a Microsoft product, your money has already found its way to Obama. Annoyed with Republicans? Well, if you've shipped anything through UPS, you've tacitly funded that spangled elephant. This isn't some illuminati-type conspiracy, either - this is the economic reality of American capitalism.

The bright side of multinational corporate global domination: you feel at home everywhere!

That's why this recent kerfuffle over Chick-Fil-A is actually sort of a good thing: the brazen cajones of Truett Cathy (whose name belongs squarely in a Steinbeck novel) and his overt anti-gay-marriage advocacy has provided a well-needed bitch-slap to consumers across the country. We almost forgot that our money didn't just disappear behind the counter when we bought our uncannily and undeservedly popular boiled chicken sandwiches - we were forced to wake up and smell the ideology.

...And then give money to organizations that totally don't.

This leads to an obvious question, then: which companies contribute to what I believe in?

Well, the answer is pretty ugly: most of the big ones play both sides. You can find out here which ones are "leaning" in one particular direction or another, but the general rule is that it makes them more money to just contribute to the people who'll make them more money, regardless of which pesky little social policy they may happen to staunchly support. However, there are some that maintain a shred of integrity, and here's a short list of who you're actually partnering with when you make that holy exchange of currency for goods.

Not pictured: greasy politician's palms

We'll start with the Liberals:

1) Barnes & Noble

 

 
Although print-media is on life-support, B&N still manage to provide scholarships and donations to local and national programs which "focus on literacy, the arts or education"  (though apparently not the oxford comma). These organizations include local libraries, literacy programs, and schools, and are pretty much guaranteed to give a warm fuzzy to those bleeding-hearts who still think that society needs people who can read.

2) Google

While it's pretty hard to avoid using if you're trying to do, well, just about anything on the Internet, it's should be comforting to the left-leaning among us that Google has been providing money toward "education programs in science, technology, engineering and math; education for girls in the developing world; programs to teach tech skills to the underprivileged; and efforts to fight the global problem of human trafficking." You know. Socialism. The real bonus here is that since companies provide revenue to Google largely through advertising fees, you don't necessarily have to feel bad when that creepy marketing-banner pops up for a snuff-film company when you were just looking for a video from the Smothers Brothers - their murder-money is being redirected by Google toward providing a good education for the girls who managed to escape.

3) Polo - Ralph Lauren

As stodgy as a company that named itself after a group of folks who didn't think riding horses around a grassy field was quite elite enough and decided to add pretty outfits and lacquered wickets to the mix might seem, their record on campaign finance is utterly irreproachable: these effete equine aficionados are nothin' but Democrats, all the way. 100% of their political donations have gone to prop up that beleaguered blue donkey, and it's not just so they can climb on top of it and start whacking things with sticks. From Kerry to Schumer to Daschell, if there's a "D" next their name, Ralph Lauren will shell out a few bucks to support 'em.

4) Sonic

Something tells me they're not homophobic.

Even though their ad campaigns would suggest that their customers are severely developmentally disabled men who live out of their car and make a habit of throwing tater-tots through open windows, you can bet that slurping down one of their seventy-two-thousand flavors of iced syrup drinks will give you the kind of brain-freeze that only a Democrat can get. This burger chain hasn't contributed a single cent to Republican candidates, and it's pretty clear that while they make their employees cavort dangerously around a highly-trafficked parking lot on roller-skates, the conservative-fifties feel of the place ends there.

5) Costco

...And you should see the other fifteen departments.

It may seem counter-intuitive to imagine a company that requires you pay them up front to gain membership to their little cabal of discounted goods be left-leaning, but Costco apparently uses that money for more than developing a really good excuse to order a pizza while you shop. Co-founder James Sinegal donated a hefty chunk of change to the Democratic party in 2011, and they didn't even have to show their card at the door. That might be just the excuse you need to renew your membership and actually feel good about standing in front of a pallet of frozen burritos, trying to figure out exactly how to justify spending a significant amount of your income on late-night snacks. At least it'll make you feel better about filling up on the free samples, though.

And now, for something completely Conservative:

1) American Apparel

Note: to easily convert to advertisement,
simply add half-naked junkies.

Despite its reputation for being liberal, this bring-the-slave-labor-home-to-the-states company has actually donated to Republican candidates at a three-to-one rate. That means if you buy a three-piece suit, only one of them is even vaguely democratic (I'm betting it's the vest). So if you need some threads to attend the grand-old-party, you can feel free to ignore the taunts you'll receive by the other guests when they see you rocking the classic look advertised by budding porn-stars everywhere. Seriously, just look at one of their ads.

Inyo, eh? In yo' what?

2) Ritz-Carlton

Nah, the crown doesn't quite capture the whole "crazy-rich empire" feel... let's add a snarling lion.

Okay, so this one is probably no surprise. Rich people are more likely to vote Republican, and pretty much nobody but rich people are staying at the Ritz. But the surprising thing here is the sheer amount of cash they're forking over, and to whom, exactly, they are forking it: they gave a cool million to Romney's "Restore our Future" Super-PAC, and they're clearly in the position to give even more once they figure out a way to get all those bathrobes and towels back (which still aren't okay to steal, even if you disagree with their politics... unless you see it as some robin-hood-esque mission and give those luxurious pieces of cloth to homeless shelters, which would kind of be messed up when you imagine a guy spilling his soup-kitchen meal onto a Ritz-Carlton robe...).

3) Angel-Soft, Brawny, and Dixie products

I know - it's a three-in-one buzzkill for liberals looking to stock up for a night of party-rocking, but on the other hand, it's total win for a conservative frat. All three of these products (and more) are owned by the Koch Brothers, about whom you may have heard if you've been awake for the past year or so. These guys have openly avowed to donate tens of millions of dollars to virtually anything Republican, and could pretty much care less what other people have to say about it. So, if you want a quicker-picker-upper for the tears of your left-wing friends when Obama loses the election, then you need go no further than that totally-straight lumberjack with a come-hither smile.

4) The Coachella Music Festival

Diverse? Yes. Unwitting supporters of the GOP? Almost definitely.

This one might just make hipsters out of the young republicans, and a bunch of other people just cry. Yes, Coachella, the same festival that makes even those hippies who went to Woodstock cringe in disquietude at their utter disregard for hygiene is promoted by the Anschutz Entertainment Group (AEG), whose parent company is owned by a guy who gave $50,000 to John Boener's PAC. That's enough money for at least a partial hologram of Reagan to appear in the next lineup of bands - and his doo-rag would probably also be red.

5) Waffle-House

Like the Vampire, the Waffle House only achieves full-strength under the cover of night. Or drugs.

If you like your political opponents smothered and covered, and those opponents happen to be Democrats, then you'll find a tasty meal any hour of the day at your local bastion of the depravity of humankind that is the Waffle-House. Their CEO, Jim Rogers, Jr. griddled up a hundred grand for American Crossroads, the Karl Rove-run Republican Super-PAC which is sponsoring Not-Obama in the upcoming election. For Dems, that means a few more miles on the interstate until you can get to a Denny's - and for Republicans, it means having to face the difficult decision of supporting their local Waffle-House and actually going into a Waffle-House. Of course, if they do, they'll likely see the result of years of social-service programs being sliced into bits by conservative finance policy, and that might just make it worth it for them... if they can stomach it.

Thus, in the interest of providing much-needed transparency to the otherwise disingenuous flow of hidden monies within our corporate network of shadowy financial ties between private companies and public policy, I would like to throw my hat into the ring, and just make a chicken-sandwich company that is as utterly left-leaning liberal as is humanly possible. I will call it "El Pollo Homo."

Slogan courtesy of our PR Director, George Pizarro.

EPH will not only support gay rights, it will downright cock-fight anyone who suggests otherwise. By plucking up the what-must-be-thousands of employees from that other boiled-chicken-fillet-between-bread-joint, we will not only save money on training new employees, we'll also be raking it in as the only chicken-sandwich-based restaurant that is overtly pro-gay. Think about it - people are boycotting, not fasting, for heaven's sake - and where else are you going to go for a plain chunk of uninspired bird-meat slapped unceremoniously on a lukewarm bun? Plus, our balls-out gayness would allow for a very creative assortment of sauces. Delish, right?

Of course, there are those who are tired of this constant politicization of businesses and who would frown upon such an obvious agenda coming from an establishment whose job it is to just serve food to people without tacitly haranguing them into some two-bit ideological hogwash that makes them uncomfortable... and to them I say this:

Don't like buying a burger-and-hate combo? Try a local store.
They can barely stay in business, much less donate to people you don't like.