The argument is that it changes nothing. The war in Afghanistan will still go on. And that joy is not how we should react to death. Even though Osama deserves it, it has been said, to react with the jubilation that thousands of Americans (perhaps more) have reacted with is disgusting. That taking joy in his death reduces us to his level, as he took joy in the deaths of the countless lives he tore from the world.

I’m here to call bullshit on that.

And the reasons? I’ll open by exhibiting a few of Osama’s own quotes.

“In today’s wars, there are no morals. We believe the worst thieves in the world today and the worst terrorists are the Americans. We do not have to differentiate between military or civilian. As far as we are concerned, they are all targets.”

“The ruling to kill the Americans and their allies—civilians and military—is an individual duty for every Muslim who can do it in any country in which it is possible.”

“Our terror against America is blessed terror in order to put an end to suppression, in order for the United States to stop its support to Israel.”

“There is no dialogue except with weapons.”

“Every Muslim, from the moment they realize the distinction in their hearts, hates Americans, hates Jews and hates Christians. For as long as I can remember, I have felt tormented and at war, and have felt hatred and animosity for Americans.”

“I’m fighting so I can die a martyr and go to heaven to meet God. Our fight now is against the Americans.”

Osama bin Laden was evil incarnate. He believed in the obliteration of entire peoples for no reason other than they were different from him. If you’re American, or a citizen of a nation allied with America, or homosexual, or Christian, or a Jew, or hold any belief that isn’t Islamic, even if you’re a moderate Muslim that doesn’t heed to his strict, deluded interpretation of the Qur’an, in his mind you would be deserving of having your life ended by any means possible.

The ravings of Osama harken to many other lunatics throughout history. Nathan Bedford Forrest, Adolf Hitler, Benito Mussolini, Joseph Stalin, Charles Manson, Idi Amin Dada, Rulon Jeffs. Not only did he suffer from the same delusions as these men, not only did he believe in his own superiority and the necessity of eradicating anyone who dared to have a unique thought. Not only was his mind so horribly warped, so unyielding and unsympathetic that he was effectively a serial killer with an army. But he also believed himself to be a divine weapon of justice, enforcing God’s law upon the earth. He believed in dying a martyr and that he would go to heaven and claim his seventy-two virgins, because women are property to be given as trophies in the afterlife. And as he used his wife as a human shield against the Navy SEALs that would finally kill him, nearly ten years after he orchestrated the attack that killed over three thousand people, in addition to how many others he’d already killed, he believed himself dying a hero’s death.

What chord do these beliefs strike within you? How do you feel to know that such a mentality existed? Now how does it feel to know that the man whose brain produced the quotes listed above, the man whose brain produced such wicked, villainous, psychopathic delusions, the man who longed to kill as many as he could and succeeded in killing many, is now dead? Not only is he dead, but he was killed by SEAL Team Six. Basically the same ass-kicking warriors, the highly trained brother-in-arms badasses that were the Spartan 300, only this version bleeds red, white, and blue. This version is American. These are the toughest motherfuckers on the earth. These are the most badass gentlemen this side of history. And they’re American. There were probably some Christians, maybe even some Jews, in SEAL Team Six. And they killed Osama bin Laden in the same year that gays have finally been allowed to serve openly in the military. Hopefully you can see the poetic justice in the muscle that’s being flexed here.

Go ahead and parade through the streets, acting like we just won the World Cup. Because we did. This is Armistice Day. Sure, we’ll stay in Afghanistan. For how long? Who knows. Probably as long as its citizens are threatened by fascism. But the death of Osama bin Laden represents everything that it means to be human. It’s the same philosophy that lead Quentin Tarantino to cinematically masturbating his philosemitism in “Inglourious Basterds” by having Eli Roth shoot Hitler in the face over and over and over before setting fire to a theater filled with Nazis and then blowing it up. Twice.

The way of the world is not suffering and sorrow and nice guys finishing last. The way of the world is badass. It’s badass, and it’s sexy. It’s the forces of freedom triumphing over the forces of fascism. The badass defeating the evil. People are allowed to be different. We can have different opinions, different religions, different colors of skin, different sexual orientations. And it’s all okay. Should we approach the death of Osama bin Laden with reserved solemness because he was the one behind September 11th? Fuck no! We should celebrate the death of this asshole who tried to impose his will upon the world. Celebrate our differences, and the fact that we’re allowed to be different. This is the way that the world should be. This is the way it ought to be. This is the way it will be. This isn’t the Dark Ages anymore. It’s the 21st Century. The crooked wits of tyrants is crumbling and will be washed away with the tide. Wrap yourself in the flag and drink some American beer. Lift that bottle of Samuel Adams and toast to liberty and happiness and being different and having ideas and not having to fear the armies of evil because we have the armies of badass on our side. And history sides with the badass.

(Also: I apologize for not doing anything with my “Yeti Hunting in Siberia” series for a while. Truth is, I have literally no idea where the story is going. Once I get that figured out, I’ll get back on it.)

“OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN,” Trent was openly sobbing, “HALLOW BE THY NAME,” I started stuffing hunks of debris into the blunderbuss, hoping Trent would be adequate bait to lure one of the yetis just close enough so that I could blow its head off, “THY KINGDOM COME, THY WILL BE D-”

A yeti smacked Trent, ripping him right in two as the yeti sped past. I frowned.

“Didn’t even get a lock on the bastard,” I muttered in regards to the yeti that had just killed Shad’s secret (and evidently Catholic) gay lover.

“THERE HE IS!” a familiar voice shouted over the carnage, then added “GET HIM!!”

It was Karson, riding on the back of a heavily armored, giant axe-wielding yeti. All garnished up and acting like the prettiest girl on the squad, I gathered this yeti to be the yeti general.

I pivoted, following the line Karson’s finger was pointing. I saw the Head Guard, the man whom had sentenced us to hang, scrambling for his life. The yeti general let out an earth-shaking roar and they all charged after him.

“Well, all’s well that ends well,” I smiled, watching the Head Guard being ripped to shreds. “Am I right?” I laughed, nudging Shad in the ribs.

He looked at me with an expression that said “Seriously? You’re still doing this, Professor? I’m deaf, God damn it.”

“What?” I asked. “You got somethin’ to say, kid?”

He punched me square in the mouth, which is a bold thing for a young man to do to a man brandishing a blunderbuss. I fell backwards off the gallows, landing in a snow bank. This made me giggle, and I started a snow angel.

Karson leapt down off of his command yeti and walked over to me. “Hey, Professor, what are you doing here?” he asked calmly.

“Saving your life,” I responded, spinning onto one knee and firing the blunderbuss into his yeti’s armored torso.

The yeti laughed.

I screamed.

“Pretty good joke, Professor,” Karson chortled nasally. “Hey, there’s Darien!”

“Hi Karson.”

“Hi Darien! Hey is that Shad?”

“No it’s not,” I said, “He’s deaf.”

“I feel like I should be offended,” I heard Darien ponder behind me.

“Hey!” Karson cheered, “I’ve got a great idea! Why don’t you guys come with us back to the secret city of the yetis?”

I stroked my chin. If I could find this location, I could one day come back with a heavy arsenal and a platoon of warriors. “Sure thing,” I grinned wickedly. “Sure thing, Karson.”

“COME ON, THEN!” Darien shrieked, shaking his fists, “HAVE AT THEE, YOU BORSCHT-EATING BASTARDS!”

A Cossack grabbed him by the head and pulled him up onto his horse.

I laughed.

But Trent and Shad didn’t seem to share my appreciation of the situation’s humor. They were preoccupied with the whole “angry Russians riding horses around us” thing.

And then we were tied up and riding back to the Cossack camp, prisoners of war.

“We’re so cool,” I grinned to myself. “I wonder if we’ll be able to pull some kind of ‘Great Escape’ shenanigan? I call dibs on being James Coburn.”

“Ix-nay on the escape-ay,” Trent cautioned, jerking his eyebrows towards one of the Russkies.

“Ah, don’t worry kid,” I said, “These dumb vodka-suckers don’t speak English, and we’re lucky enough that our translator’s gone deaf.”

“Really?” Darien sneered, “We’re lucky? You’re saying that we’re lucky that our translator, the guy on our side who can actually speak this heathen language, is deaf?”

I thought it over for a bit, than nodded. That was exactly what I was saying.

The Cossack camp was a grand spectacle. Drinking, dancing, smoking, gambling, displaying feats of strength, womanizing… Every Russian stereotype you could imagine was embodied here.

“My kind of place,” I smiled wickedly.

“ZAVALI YEBALO!” One Russian shouted, finally boiling over. The whole ride to the camp I had been doing what I do best – bugging the crap out of some unsuspecting (and probably totally innocent) asshole. Over the course of the ride, I had focused my energies on the man who now finally snapped, and shoved me off of my horse.

“Owee,” I whined after my arm broke, tied behind my back.

“Jesus Christ,” Darien winced.

For some reason, the horseback riders kept moving. I let out a defeated sob as I sat and watched them meander off.

“You bastards!” I cried. ”You goddamned, cockjuggling, skullshitting MEANY FACES!!!!”

I looked around, writhing in pain. “HEY! RUSSKIE!” I yelled at one of them. He bobbed around to look at me, moving like a confused puffin (which he also looked like). ”VODKA!”

“Shto?”

“YEAH, THAT TOO!”

I had managed to find a spot, sitting in the mud, where my pain was minimized. Still prevalent, no doubt, though slightly diminished. “You gonna bring me that vodka or not?” I murmured. The puffin-man most not have heard me, or maybe my presence offended him, because he waddled back around, turning his back on me.

“Professor!” Darien came running up to me, a Cossack Guard in hot pursuit, “Professor, let’s get out of here!!!”

I made no effort to move, instead retorting as disinterestedly as possible, “What do you want now, Darien?”

The Guard tackled him into me. Which wasn’t the most pleasant feeling in the world. In fact, I would now rank it among the top twenty most painful experiences I’ve ever had the misfortune to experiencize.

But I was soon gathered with my comrades in the command tent of the Head Guard. I had been given some sort of medicinal tea shit that tasted awful but took away the pain. Which confused me, because herbology is bullshit. As I pondered this, there was a sudden thud. I looked down at my feet. My broken arm had been painlessly lopped off by one of the henchmen in the room. I frowned.

“What the hell…”

“Keep drinking tea,” the Head Guard smiled, “New arm grow. Like lizard, da? Will be stronger than weak one; will not break.”

At the prospect of having an unbreakable arm, I chugged the remaining scalding, awful tea.

And there it was.

I flexed it. Indeed, it was stronger than the other one. “Impressive…”

“NOW THEN!” the Head Guard boomed, “Let us down get to business. You Americans?”

“You kiddin’ me?” I chuckled. “We’re the most flag-waving, Canadian-strangling, bald eagle egg-eating men who have ever walked the world.”

He looked at me like I was crazy.

“Yes,” Darien spoke up, “Yes, we’re American.”

“Hmmmm,” the Head Guard pondered this. He then turned to his closest henchman and shouted “GUILLOTINE!”

“Lolwut?”

And then we were all being dragged out of the command tent and up wooden stairs as the Cossack civilians gathered around, cheering. The executioner kept pulling the rope, over and over, causing the blade to rise and fall, rise and fall, menacingly. It wasn’t lopping any heads off, and I gathered from the executioner smiling at us like a brain-dead monkey that it was all in the spirit of intimidation. Which I could respect.

Going up the steps, I inhaled deeply, bringing the frozen, Siberian air into my lungs. I then began my speech quietly, volume steadily rising, as my group approached the guillotine machine. “It is a far, far better thing I have ever done… It is a far, far better rest that I go to… AND BY THE POWER OF GRAYSKULL,” I snatched the blunderbuss from a guard’s hands in one fluid motion, leveled it at the executioner, and cried “I HAAVE THE POWERRRRRRRR!!!” before unleashing a blast that sent him flying through the air.

It was at that precise moment that the yetis attacked.

“SHAAAAAD! SHAD, YOU SNIVELLING COWARD!”

Gunshots rang out, firing from the floor above through the ceiling.

He was awake.

“You’re awake!” I cheered, and met him at the stairs. I looked up at him, seething from the second story hallway at me. “Bonjour!” I greeted in Russian. After all, he was my Russian tutor.

“What’re you doing here, Joke?” he growled, lowering his Glock as he moved down the stairs towards me.

“I need your help,” I answered, stamping my foot for emphasis. “There have been Yeti sightings in Siberia, and the Russkis are forming a scientific investigation to hunt the bastard down.”

He looked at me incredulously, and sneered “So?”

“So we’re gonna help ‘em out,” I bobbed around as I answered.

“We’re gonna look for Yetis?”

“Yup! And then we’re gonna shoot ‘em. Right through the head.”

His brows perked up. “Is that legal?”

“It’s not illegal,” I shrugged. “Come on, Darien’s waiting in the hummer. We got some badass weaponry in there too. Anything you’d imagine killing a Yeti with, we got. Not even kidding, broheim.”

He looked at me, looked at his feet, then looked at me again. “It’s four in the morning, you realize.”

“Hey, Yetis don’t sleep,” I lied with a shrug.

“You lyin’?”

“No.”

He sighed, then asked, “You want me to translate, don’t you?”

“Well, sure, that,” I nodded, “But we also want to utilize your propensity to violence, that’s for sure.”

After a pause, he finally nodded. “Okay, whatever. Just as long as I get to kill a Yeti.”

Somebody appeared at the top of the stairs. I had no idea who it was, which infuriated me. Somebody who exists without my knowledge, after all, also exists without my permission. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“We’re gonna go kill some Yetis, Trent,” Shad said over his shoulder. “You’re welcome to come along if you want.”

I frowned. Bringing your own guest to someone’s Yeti hunt? How rude.

“Sure, whatever,” said the man, whose name I had gathered to be Trent. I also gathered that he and Shad were gay lovers, a claim that they denied vehemently, saying they were just roommates because it’s “cheaper” since they get to split the “rent” and the “living expenses.”

I know, right? Worst cover ever. But, I let sleeping dogs lie. It’s not the 1950′s anymore; they didn’t have to be secret lovers, but if they’re so damn paranoid about it, I figured that was their business.

“Why do you guys want to kill Yetis so bad anyway?” Trent asked as Darien piloted the spy hummer, in helicopter mode, over the Bering Strait.

“Didn’t you read the article I linked to in mine and Shad’s conversation?” I shot back. “Researchers think it could be a separate branch of human evolution. It’s like hunting gorillas, only if they were covered in snow and people didn’t believe in them.”

“Now, Professor,” Darien spoke, “You don’t believe in witchcraft even though you’ve been attacked with spells many times. You often claim to not believe in God, even though you’ve met the guy and declared a personal vendetta against Him.”

“Son of a bitch cheated at poker,” I grumbled. And by poker, I meant Go Fish, but I never told anyone that fact.

“Right. But you don’t believe in Him?”

“Oh, no, not at all.”

Darien sighed, and nodded. “So what makes you so quick to believe in Yetis?”

“Don’t you see, Mister Campo?!” I yelled, tears in my eyes, a southern accent creeping into my speech very quickly, “In this life, in this world, is it not apparent? A man’s gotta believe in somethin’, son! Be it a bea’ded man in tha sky, or a Russian snow ape, a man’s gotta have somethin’ that he can look at an’ say ‘I AM NOT THAT THING OVA THEH!’”

“Umm… what? Do you honestly believe that nothing else is separate from you except Yetis?”

“IT AIN’T ABOUT WHAT A MAN BELIEVES, IT’S ABOUT WHEH HE STANDS! A MAN’S GOTTA STAND FOH SOMETHIN’, OR HE FALLS FOH ANATHANG!” I grabbed him by the throat. “DON’T YOU SEE, DARI’?! IF I AIN’T GOT THIS YETI TA KEELL… I AIN’T GOT NOTHIN’ ELSE LEFT IN THIS WAHLD!”

And with that, the spy hummer crashed into a snow bank just past the Russian shoreline.

A silence fell over the cab.

“Way to go, Darien,” I sighed.

“God damn it, Darien,” Trent agreed.

“Shut up, Trent,” I groaned, and unbuckled my seatbelt. It sent me tumbling onto the headliner. That’s the car word for ceiling, in case you’ve never been in a car. And in case you’ve never been in a house, the ceiling is normally above you. We were flipped upside down is what I’m getting at. “Roll down the windows, Darien.”

“I… I can’t.”

“And why not?”

“They’re already broken, sir.”

“Oh is that so?” I laughed. “Lookit this dumbass over here. Thinks he knows things. What a dumbass. Am I right?”

“YEAH!” Trent cheered.

“Shut up, Trent. Am I right, Shad?!”

Silence.

“Shad?”

Again, silence.

“SHAD! SHAD! SHAD! SHAD! SHAD! SHAAAAD!!!!”

“It doesn’t matter how loud you are,” Trent said as he unbuckled his own seat belt and came toppling onto the headliner too. “He can’t hear you anyway.”

I looked over at where he had been sitting, directly behind Darien in the backseat.

“OH MY GOD, HE HAS NO HEAD!”

“What?” Darien said, craning his neck to see him. “Oh, for cripe’s sake, he does too.”

Shad looked at Darien with a vacant expression.

“Hey Shad, can ya hear me buddy?” Darien asked.

He didn’t seem to understand what Darien was saying.

“Oh, man, he’s not deaf is he?” I rolled my eyes. “What a drama queen.”

And with that I crawled out of the crushed spy hummer.

The others soon joined me, and we stood looking around at the Russian landscape.

“What are we gonna do now?” Darien asked.

That’s when a band of Cossack soldiers rode over the nearby hillside.

I took a moment to absorb the scenario, before delivering my commentary on it: “FFFFFFUUUUUUUUU-”

Smashcut to black. Title screen reads “Yeti Hunting in Siberia,” subtitled “A Professor Joke Adventure.” Next screen reads “Fools Russian.” Credits run to this song:

And thus ends the first episode, brought to you by Fake Sponsor. Use Fake Sponsor in the bathroom, in the boardroom, in the nook! Use it wherever the hell you damn well feel like. Fake Sponsor, only available at FakeSponsor.org/ThisIsaFakeSponsor!

Which, admittedly, would be a great story in and of itself. But just as I typed out the words “I woke up,” intending to follow them with “to the sound of another one booming down the hallway at me, it’s shrieking robotic cries of  ’54-40 OR FIGHT, 54-40 OR FIGHT’ interrupted by systematic whirring smashes as it destroyed my apartment.” That’s when Darien called, and I realized there’s a more interesting story to write about.

‘A’ Week. The internet’s week to promoted atheism. Or, as it has been called on Twitter, #aweek11. Because that’s how they talk on Twitter.

“Hey, Professor,” the phone said, “Just wondering, um, you said that you be making videos all this week.”

“Get to the point, kid.”

“Wh-… That is the point,” I don’t even know why anything I say catches him off guard anymore. “You said you would, uh, for ‘A’ Week, and, well, you haven’t.”

I barked into the phone loudly to voice my distress.

It was met with silence.

And then, “P-Professor?”

“Yeah, something you have to understand kid,” I half-mumbled, popping open a tallboy of Guinness (it was 8:30 AM, or as I like to call it, “Beer drinkin’ time”), “Is I’m just not used to this level of committment.”

“Excuse me?”

“WHOA, SLOW DOWN BUDDY!” I called out, “A whole week of making videos? Don’t you know who I am?”

“Oh. …Right. I don’t even know why I thought you’d follow through with it.”

“IKNOWRITE?!” I laughed. “Look, kid, I’d love to keep talkin’ with ya, but actually no I wouldn’t,” and I hung up.

With a slight burp I tossed the phone forward onto the ruins of the James K. Polk cyborg. It made a funny sound. I laughed and beer came out my nose. So I laughed again. Then I sat down to watch ‘Maury.’

That’s when I heard something that was the most frightening sound I could ever here. From across the city, the booming call of “54-40 OR FIGHT, 54-40 OR FIGHT!” as screams and crashing metal slowly made their way to my apartment. I rushed to the window and saw the giant, steampunk James K. Polk robot trailblazing through the city straight at me, leaving a path of destruction behind it.

It tore the top five stories off of my apartment building, and looked down through the gaping hole where my ceiling used to be. I, in turn, looked up at it. It’s lifeless face, constructed to resemble that of our eleventh president’s, seemed to be smiling wickedly. Its jaw mechanically lowered and shot out steam.

When it was done, I said (in my best Steven Seagal impression) “Just had to let off some steam, huh?” and I made a mental note to use that pun when I stood victoriously over it and crowds had gathered around us.

“54-40 OR FIGHT!”

It raised its fists as high as it could, locking its targets straight on me.

I squinted, and whispered (again like Steven Seagal), “Let’s do this, Final Boss.”

But, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about that. Anyway, when that was all over, I noticed my computer was still on, which was odd considering every square inch of the rest of my apartment had been destroyed. I stood on the only remaining bit of flood I had, and stared at the words “I woke up”

I sighed. It made me think to myself, “What have I done today? What have I achieved?”

When I realized that I had in fact achieved nothing, I figured I owed at least some kind of explanation to you guys for my failures as a video maker. Well, not really “failures,” as I am perfect and have no flaws, but just….. “inconsistencies.” But that’s okay, because that quirkiness is what makes me endearing.

“Is that what you really think?” the therapist asked. “That this is ‘quirkiness?’ Do you really think it makes you endearing?”

“Man, I ain’t never told a lie in my life,” I lied to him.

“Professor,” he sighed, “You are a… how can I put this mildly?… You are a hyperviolent, delusional psychopath with no clear understanding of reality.”

“Get outta town.”

“No, you,” he smiled, pointing at me. “Nah, just kiddin’, Prof.”

We both laughed.

I asked, “This session’s free, right?”

“Well of course!” he practically cheered, “Anything’s free to Professor Joke, the man who defeated that James K. Polk robot, thereby saving the city and winning the hearts of millions!”

Then I made this face:

“So, Professor, do you wanna smoke some righteous bowls?” asked the mental health professional, pulling a wicked bong out from behind his desk. “I’ve got enough weed in here we can smoke ’til next Saturday!”

And then I made this face:

And that, my friends, is what I did today. That is what I achieved.

So just cram it about me not making ‘A’ Week videos.

“Dobraye utro,” he pronounced it clearly for me. “That’s ‘Good day.’ It’s basically like saying Hello, only you can only say it… uh, during the day. Dobraye utro.”

“Guten tag,” I repeated it for him.

“What?”

I hesitated. “…Guten tag? That’s what you said right?”

“No. No it isn’t.”

“Shad, you ham-headed bastard,” I sighed, then looked down at the bottle. “This must be, like, Armenian vodka or somethin’, because it just ain’t helpin’ me get it.”

“I understand, sir.”

“What happened to you only speaking Russian when you’re around me? When did you decide to ignore that rule?”

He clenched his jaw and rolled his eyes.

That’s when Darien entered.

“Hey, Professor, I was just wondering if I could have the rest of the day off.”

“What?” I snapped, then added ”Fuck you.” After a slight pause, I felt the need to ask ”Why?”

“It’s Ostara. The vernal equinox. My friends and I were going to hold a ritual.”

“What the hell,” I heard Shad mutter under his breath.

“Yeah, okay D,” I nodded, standing up. “But only on one condition.”

“Please don’t say it’s that you come with me, please don’t say it’s that you come with me, please don’t say it’s that you come with me.”

“The one condition is that I come with you.”

“Damn it,” Darien looked at his feet dejectedly.

“Hey, Darien, why don’t you cast a spell to make him stay here?” Shad sneered, “Why don’t you use some potion to change his mind or something? Oh, that’s right, there’s no such thing as magic!”

I turned to Shad, and commanded, “Russian.”

He glared at me.

“You stay here, Shad. Give you some time to think about what you’ve done. Let’s go, Darien.”

“What I’ve done?” I could hear Shad’s confused voice ask himself as I closed the door behind me.

“Oh, cripes, not this asshole again.”

“Can it, Steve,” I ordered. Steve was the Wizard-in-Chief of this casual coven. My enemy. We went way back. “Where’s your wife?” I asked, looking around for the buxom red-head.

“She’s closing up the shop, she’ll be here,” Steve more or less growled at me. I had forgotten that this ritual place was in the backroom of a shitty occult bookstore that Steve and his wife ran.

“I don’t care for your attitude, Steve,” I told him, “And one of these days, I’m gonna cut it out of you.”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s been drinking a lot of vodka,” Darien intervened to diffuse the situation.

“Speaking of witch,” I punned, while turning to a fine-ass blonde witch trying to walk past me without my noticing her, “Do you guys have any more of that stellar stout? Best tastin’ brewski I ever had,” I smiled, reminiscing.

“No,” she said coldly and walked away.

I frowned.

A door opened and the red-head entered across the room. I wagged my tongue at her provocatively. She averted her eyes from me as she walked across to her husband.

“Damn,” I whispered to Darien, “These witch bitches ain’t havin’ none of it.”

“Alright, let’s get started,” Steve said.

I sighed and slumped back against the wall to watch the unusual proceeding unfold.

Their altar was decorated with all kinds of crap that I didn’t understand. At the center of which was a plant. “I could kick that plant’s ass,” I mumbled to myself reassuringly.

“May the powers of the One, the source of all creation;
All persuasive, omnipotent, eternal, may the Goddess,
The Lady Moon; and The God, Horned Hunter of the Sun;
May the powers of the Spirits of the Stones
Rulers of the elemental realms; May the powers of the stars above
And earth below. Bless this place, and this time,
And I who am with you,” they said.

“BO-RING!” I called loudly, hoping to get a rise out of these people. I got a couple dirty looks, but for the most part it didn’t seem to break their concentration.

They continued, “Great goddess, you have freed yourself from the icy prison of winter.
    Now is the greening, when the fragrance of flowers drifts on the breeze.
    This is the beginning. Life renews itself by Your magic, Earth Goddess.
    The God stretches and rises, eager in His youth,
    and bursting with the promise of summer,” at which point the group, one by one, reached out to the plant, each touching the plant, feeling it. Observing its energies, I guess. Or, whatever. I started fumbling through the cabinets. They had to have some bottles of that awesome witch-brewed stout around.

After awhile of looking for beer and finding only books, candles, and other stuff that only witches know about, I sighed and turned back around.

They were still messing around with the God damn plant.

I walked over. “Seriously?” I asked Steve’s wife. “You guys are taking forever.”

She shushed me.

I grabbed the plant and took a bite out of it defiantly.

This sure did piss them all off. Amidst Steve’s hollering in my face, I smiled, and said “Mission accomplished.”

He stopped and looked at me quizzically. “What?”

“Mission accomplished,” I repeated, then turned to his wife, “Lookit this jackass,” I grinned, jacking my thumb at Steve. “Freaks out easy huh? Is he psychotic or something? You shouldn’t attach yourself to such a dangerous man. Nothing more than a hyperviolent fluffy bunny, if you ask me. See, me, I’m always calm. I mean, lookit me, I jus-” All of a sudden I got blasted against the wall. “WHAT THE FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCKK!!!” It seemed like an appropriate response.

I could only stare in horror at Steve, who had pointed his wand at me. And by “wand” I mean a stick. Not a euphemism for his dick.

“It’s time for you leave,” Steve said. I could tell he was trying to lay down the law, or something.

I tried to spit in his face, but only sputtered a cloud of saliva.

“You know,” I said after recollecting my dignity after the pitiful attempt at defiance, “It’s kind of silly that you have to focus your magical energies out of the end of a stick. Tell me, Stevie Boy, are you magical or is it your little toy there?” I smiled at Steve’s wife so she could enjoy the fact that I was winning.

“No, see, you don’t understand,” he started. Lucky for me, the exhaustive explanation he dove into unfocused his energies and I was soon free of his grasp. I walked over slowly, so as not to alarm him, and then when I was in a prime position to, I smacked the wand out of his hand.

“BAM!” I cheered, then turned to the red-head. “Advantage: Professor Joke.” With a wicked grin I watched Steve fumble around trying to pick up his magical doohickey.

I looked around. Nobody was cheering me on.

“Okay,” I nodded, heading to the door. ”I get it. Steve gets home field advantage. Y’all don’t like it when the away team wins? Fine. I’m gonna head back to the office, Darien, you gonna stick around with this lardass?” I pointed at a bitter-looking Steve.

“Yeah…” Darien nodded, “I am.”

“Your loss. What about you, honey?”

Steve’s wife ignored me.

“Alright, later bitches. Have fun with your goofy little game here. I’m-”

“JUST LEAVE ALREADY.”

“Kiss my bender, Steve,” I said pleasantly, then turned and left.

When I got back to the office, Shad was gone. “Oy vey,” I cursed in Russian. The vodka bottle was enemy too.

I raised my fists to the heavens and let out a bloodthirsty call of vengeance. ”CURRRRSSSSE YOOOOUUUUU SHAAAAAAADDDDD!!!!!!!!!!!!”

“Huh?” he stumbled in from out of another room.

“Oh, hey, how’s it goin’?” I asked.

“Good,” he nodded drunkilly, “Howwas thuh witchtown?”

I looked at the kid that wasn’t talking in Russian at me. But I decided not to bring it up. I’d had enough conflict in the day to call it a good day. I walked over to my desk and lifted the bottle of Jack. “Want some Old Number Seven, kid?”

“I fink my livva’s guhna die.”

“Suit yourself,” I shrugged, and took a swig from the bottle, sitting down at the desk.

Yep. Today was a good day.

Richard Dawkins has taught me to appeal to the dimwits.

You see, there’s an old saying that goes “Learn from your mistakes.” Or, somethin’. But I also believe that we should “Learn from others’ mistakes.” That’s how I stay ahead of the competition in natural selection. Or, how I would, if the human race wasn’t so intelligent and separated from the natural world.

I have witnessed a popular sentiment on the internet. Words I hear to describe Richard Dawkins are “arrogant,” “abusive,” “abrasive,” and “clever” (they meant “clever” with a negative connotation. Perhaps they should have said “sly”).

This has opened my eyes to something.

Take this particular Dawkins quote:

The God of the Old Testament is arguably the most unpleasant character in all fiction: jealous and proud of it; a petty, unjust, unforgiving control-freak; a vindictive, bloodthirsty ethnic cleanser; a misogynistic, homophobic, racist, infanticidal, genocidal, filicidal, pestilential, megalomaniacal, sadomasochistic, capriciously malevolent bully.

Rather eloquent. Yes, that’s how I would describe this quote: eloquent. That is how all book-learned students of sciences and letters would describe it, I feel. Even if you didn’t agree with it. All it takes to understand is knowing the definitions of the big words he uses. Trust me, “eloquent” can be used negatively as well as it can be used positively. You could say that his eloquence is to cover the fact that his argument is weak or something along those lines. Point is, it’s well-written.

Now you have to understand something; I come from a blue-collar background. Farm work and mill work are in my blood. Well, not so much “in my blood” as “in my upbringing,” but we’ll discuss the Nature vs. Nurture argument another day. As much as I want to dismiss fallacies attributed to genetics that have been rather detrimental to the perception of the role of genes in evolutionary sciences.

God damn it! See, it’s that shit that I precisely want to avoid.

This is what makes this whole situation a sad and perplexing one for me. Have I become so far removed from my roots that I can’t recognize plain old-fashioned arrogance?

Surely we can make some kind of intelligent argument without having to wax on using flashy words dripping in egomania. How about this – “Faith is believing in something you know ain’t true.”

Well, okay, that’s a Mark Twain quote. So what if he beat me to it? Let’s try another one – “If there is a God, He is a malign thug.”

Again Mark Twain. But “malign” is an old word, you can tell Twain wrote it back when he was writin’ stuff. When was that, the 1300′s? Hell, I don’t know; I ain’t no nerd.

We have to make our argument hip, jazzy, edgy. Our brief and to-the-point argument must be founded in modern sensibilities….

HERE WE GOOOO!!!!!!!! YEEEAH SON!!!! AMIRITE?!?!?!?!

Seriously… am I right?

Was any of that cool? 50 Cent and skateboarding? Kids eat that shit up, right?

Well, maybe not. Do we really have to appeal to the lowest common denominator of human interest? This is truth we’re striving for, unrestrained scientific thought in the search of a deeper understanding of reality. This is plain for all people.

So does it really matter what side your on? Does it matter if you believe in a god or don’t? Or if you’re a New Ager that basically just calls The Tao god? Or if you’re a Wiccan that believes the dumb crap Wiccans believe?

All that matters, in all instances, is the search for the truth. So what if this search leads different people to different conclusions; that’s what being a part of society is all about – meeting people with different ideas and beliefs than you.

The search for the truth is the promoter of civil discussion; the foundation of religions is killer of it.

So who cares if a few dumbasses calls the most eloquent writer of your belief arrogant? So what if other people call your holy texts fiction or ignore your unequivocal proof that you are right? To quote Friedrich Nietzsche (because I am in fact a cliché) “There are no facts, only interpretations.”

I guess what I’m trying to say is the exact same thing I said in my aggressive critique of the documentary “Food, Inc.”, only applied to religion: Live and let live. Do what you want to do, believe what you want to believe, and allow others to do what they want to do and believe what they want to believe. I’m an atheist; I would say that the phrase “There is at least one deity” is a false statement. But that’s me. Other people would disagree with me and say that the previously mentioned phrase is true.

I’m not arguing against arguments. That would be hypocritical, to say the least. I’m just saying that people are people. We can’t be sure if there’s a god or not, we can’t be sure if there’s an afterlife. So let’s just live the best lives we can while we’re here on earth, because it might be all we have. And if living honestly and being a good person isn’t enough for god to let us into heaven; if our failure to accept him as our lord is what damns us for eternity; if the governor of the universe is so vain, so spiteful, so filled with hate, vengeance and fury that he’d damn good people for no good reason, then I know that at least I would be content in going to hell over spending eternity alongside him in his kingdom.

But, again, that’s just me.

That’s when my phone rang. As always, I ignored it. Thankfully Karson had showed up at some time because he answered it.

“Hello?”

Surprised at his sudden appearance, I spun around already in full-ninja mode. Then I stopped when I saw it was just my greatest and best student, Karson. He also had a few cardboard boxes full of my stuff in front of him.

“Oh, hey Darien,” he said.

“Wait a second,” I interrupted, “What the hell are you doing, friend?”

Karson looked at me. I motioned to my shit.

“Oh, this?” he looked down, “It’s my birthday tomorrow. Remember, last weekend, you said I could have literally everything you own for my birthday present?”

I paused, recollecting. “Oh yeah,” I recollected, turning back to my video, “Just don’t go into my room, bro. Place is booby-trapped all to hell. It’s like a freakin’ Indiana Jones movie in there.”

“I’ll remember that. Okay, now what do you want Darien? …A WHAT? …Oh, yeah, one of those things. …What was it called again? …Maybe I should Google that, because I have no idea what word you’re speaking at me.”

“I don’t have a computer,” I lied to him.

“Well,” Karson sighed, “Darien’s saying something about a tsunami, I don’t know what to make of it.”

Being the fan of destruction that I am, I was instantly up with the phone in my hand. “Darien?”

“Uh, yeah?” the phone said.

“Tell me all about this tsunami. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, b-”

“Damn it.”

There was silence.

“Hello?” I said.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I could sense bitterness in his voice. “There was a huge earthquake, an 8.9er-”

I interrupted him an impressed “Mhmm.”

“Uh… In Japan.”

I frowned. Across the room, Karson manhandled my TV off of its stand and carelessly dumped it into an empty box. I could hear it smash.

“And it triggered this tsunami,” the phone voice continued, “that basically swallowed the entire country.”

“Good,” I sneered. “Remember Pearl Harbor!”

Again, there was silence on the other end. And then, very suddenly, “Are you fucking kidding me, Professor? The Pearl Harbor bombings were in 1941. We fought the Japanese because of it and then bombed the shit out of its cities, even dropping two ATOMIC BOMBS on it. Go to a fucking library: over the course of the war, about three million Japanese people died, whether as soldiers in battle or in cities that we bombed, and by comparison the United States lost about five hundred thousand. So, Pearl Harbor was ‘repaid’ if you’re into the vengeance business. You don’t need to show joy in the deaths and losses the Japanese are currently suffering because of some outdated battle. And even if we hadn’t gotten ‘pay back’ or whatever, do you seriously think that all the Japanese people, for all of history and all of the future, are responsible for that attack? God punished all of mankind for what two fucking people did, and considering how much you’re into Bible-bashing, Professor, I wouldn’t figure that you’d like to have the same mentality at the God that you consider your personal enemy.”

He was right; I do consider God to be a personal enemy of mine. ”Hey can you help me with this?” Karson asked, trying to pull a box full of stuff out of my apartment door. I held up a finger to silence him, as Darien had not yet stopped using the phonespeak at me.

“Japan is one of our closest allies now. Any modern technological development, you might as well thank Japan. You have, what do you have, a PS3?”

“Fuck you, buddy, I have a Gamecube.”

“There you go, that was made by a Japanese corporation.”

I gasped.

“Not to mention how many developers are in Japan, did you ever think of that? And we have troops stationed in Japan. American troops are stationed in Japan, being affected by this tsunami as much as any Japanese citizen. This is because Japan is one of our closest damn allies. America, as a nation, is going to take a huge hit because of this disaster. Nearly every industry is going to be impacted. Cars, radios, televisions, video games, clothes. The list of what all Japan has given us goes on and on and on.”

“But Japanese cars suck.”

“Hate to break it to ya, but they kick the shit out of American cars in nearly every aspect. Fuel efficiency, safety, reliability… Have you ever rode in a Pinto? Most terrifying experience of my life, thanks to the Ford corporation.”

I have to admit I was taken aback. I had never known Darien to have such a fire in him.

Across the room, Karson fell backwards through the doorway, spilling the box’s contents all over.

“Good job today, kid,” I told the phone, “Tell ya what, every class of mine you ever take again, and the one that you’re in now? …Pass. Whatever you do in it, you pass. Instantly. You do nothing and you pass.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Awesome!”

“Yeah, whatever,” I said and hung up, hurrying over to help the birthday boy haul all of his presents down to his truck.

<><><>

Thanks for reading today’s blog. I wish that the “Remember Pearl Harbor” part was an invention of my own; something so ridiculous and malicious that only Professor Joke could say it. But, unfortunately, it’s not.

The fact that #prayforjapan is the top trending topic on Twitter does fill me with hope for the human race, but shit like this just hacks away at it. Here’s a link to the original post on scienceblogs, where you can see the collage bigger, and at a higher resolution. Also, where you can read all the people’s un-blurred names better (y’know, if you’re in the habit of trolling, or whatever).

In the meantime, I reckon I’ll spend my day playing Harvest Moon, a game that promotes the pleasantness of living in a Japanese village. My thoughts go out to the people of Japan, and I only wish that I really was as secretly wealthy as Professor Joke so that I could send some kind of donation. But in all reality, I’m just a broke student, with no money at all (let alone money to give).

That being said, I’d also like to wish my good friend Karson, the guitarist of the mock-rock group The Pizza Guys, a very happy birthday. Love ya, bro.

私の友人にお別れ.

This was when Darien walked in.

“Hey, Prof? Can ya help me with something?”

“What’s the dealio, McSkillet?”

He blinked at me. “Uhm, well, I know we here at Blog 9 keep vials of blood of every animal on earth…”

“That’s true,” I nodded, taking off my glasses, “Even the extinct ones. Say, that gives me a dandy idea,” I said, then grabbed a sample of mastodon blood and poured it into my coffee. “Why?”

“I need to get some tiger blood.”

“Oh really? What for if I may ask? And I may, in case you wondering.”

“Oh I wasn’t,” he answered, “And a few friends and I are going to hold a séance to cure Charlie Sheen.”

I laughed. “You know, I once knew this kid named Carlos Estevez, son of this fella who was in the ‘Catch-22′ movie. And ol’ Carlos, he swore he was gonna become an actor just like his pappy. Said he’d use Charlie Sheen as his stage name. Wonder whatever happened to that crazy son of a bitch. I bet he’s dead. Anyway, what?”

“Some of my witch friends and I are going to cast a spell to heal him, and we need some tiger blood, I was wondering if I could use some of ours.”

I shook my head and laughed. “Jesus Christ… Okay, whatever,” I grabbed the vial of tiger blood and stood up in one quick motion. “Let’s go. I’ve been dying to meet some real witches. Or… Some people who think they’re real witches. Either way.”

Darien seemed nervous to have me tagging along, but just sighed and mumbled “Okay.”

I stood in the corner, taking a drink from a bottle of some kind of witch-brewed beer. “Damn,” I nodded, “For a bunch of loons, y’all make a damn fine stout.”

The head warlock stopped what he was doing and glared at me.

I belched at him.

“Alright, let’s get this show on the road,” he spoke, rubbing his hands together. He pivoted to the cauldron, now holding a spell book. Darien and two fine-ass witches were already standing around it, and all four of them wore goofy black-and-red hoods. “Ready?” he asked to them.

“You bet,” I nodded, pitching the now empty bottle over my shoulder as I waltzed up to the opposite side of their magic pot from him. “Let’s do this thing,” I smiled, sending a wink the way of the red-headed witch.

She shuddered.

I frowned.

The head warlock cleared his throat and began to read from the spell book. The rest of his mini-coven joined in on his chant instantly, and they didn’t even have spell books. I wondered exactly how the guy that needs a cheat-sheet got the spot of head warlock. Hell, I could do that shit if I had the book in front of me. And as they chanted, they dumped the ingredients into the caldron. All the while I stood there, looking as disinterested as possible. Except when one of the fine-ass witches glanced at me, then I’d fake mumbling along.

“Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark,

Root of hemlcok digged in dark,

A healthy liver to make his sick one grow,

The complete second season of his CBS show,

Eye of newt, and tongue of ewe,

A VHS copy of ‘Hot Shots Part Deux,’

The star of  ‘Platoon,’ Charlie Sheen, is in trouble,

Fire burn and caldron bubble!”

And with that, Darien tossed in the tiger blood. An explosion of smoke burst from caldron, taking the shape of the face of my old buddy Carlos Estevez.

I’m not really sure what happened next, but I do recall me screaming and dumping the pot over. And then I was flying through the air, spinning and swinging, my limp arms whipping back and forth as fierce winds swirled about.

“I SAW GOODY OSBURN WITH THE DEVIL!” I shrieked, “I SAW GOODY GOOD WITH THE DEVIL! I SAW GOODY PROCTOR WITH THE DEVIL!”

When I noticed that giving up random names and falsely accusing people I’d never met of compacting with the Devil, I decided to repent entirely.

“I AM A FALSE PROPHET, GOD IS A SUPERSTITION!” I cried at the top of my lungs, “I AM A FALSE PROPHET, GOD IS A SUPERSTITION!”

But evidently it wasn’t Daniel Plainview I needed to repent to. I had run out of cultural references though, and I didn’t know who exactly it was that real people normally repent to, so I just kind of hung out like it was carnival ride until the witches were done with their nonsense.

“So, what now?” I asked, dizzily sitting up.

“Now Charlie Sheen gets better,” the head warlock spoke over his shoulder at me from across the room.

“And?”

“…Um… He goes back to acting.”

“Well, woop-dee-doo,” I rolled my eyes, turning to the witch to my immediate left. “What, you guys really want a ‘Major League 3′ huh?” I laughed. “No, I’m just kidding. Hey, why don’t you show me how you guys brew that fine stout?” I added with what I hoped would be received as a charming smile, “We could brew some together, it’ll be great.”

She looked at me and sighed. “We buy it from the liquor store.”

Needless to say, I was taken aback. “Bullshit.”

I guess she didn’t have anything else to say, because she left.

I layed back down, the witchcraft concoction bubbling all around me. It wasn’t hot or anything, just bubbling. I didn’t quite know what that was about.

“Ready to go boss?” Darien asked me.

I lifted my head and looked across the room at the red-headed witch. “You think I got a shot with her?” I gestured.

“She’s married to Steve.”

“Who the hell’s Steve?”

He pointed at the head warlock, who had disrobed to reveal baggy jeans and a Phish t-shirt.

Steve looked at me, then at Darien. “Don’t bring your Professor friend anymore, kid.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to that asshole,” I muttered, standing up.

“Excuse me?” said Steve.

I flipped him off. “It ain’t over between you and me, you twisted warlock fuck. Let’s get outta here, Darien.”

And then badass music played as the two of us walked out and it faded to credits.

<><><>

“How’d you make it fade to credits?” Karson asked me.

I looked at him. “Don’t worry about that.”

Darien came into my office, carrying a cup of coffee. “Here you go, sir.”

“Thanks, D,” I nodded, taking out my flask with one hand and reaching for the coffee with the other.

In a move that, had it happened just one day prior I would have blamed on Darien’s ignorance, the Starbucks cup was suddenly flying through the air, spilling its foul, hot liquid across the room and splashing into the mini TV on the corner of my desk. It went tumbling to the ground, and last thing it ever played as it smashed to bits were the Lakers spanking the Nuggets on the NBA Sunday Showcase, ONLY ON ABC!!!

I sat dumbfounded.

“Holy crap,” Karson said finally. “You just got witchcrafted.”

The absolute truth of it began to dawn on me. I flung back in my seat and cried to the heavens, shaking my fists in the air: ”STEEEEEEEEEVVVVE!!!!!!!!!!!”

“God damn it,” Darien muttered, “How many random pop culture references are you gonna make in one day?”

I reflected on it for a moment. “Well… I suppose you’re gonna sue me for plagiarism now too, huh?” I said with a sneer as I turned back to the court documents on my table. “Get outta here, kid.”

So let’s hop to it.

#5 William Howard Taft.

That’s right, the dude who’s longest lasting achievement was being a total lardass.

All these years since his presidency, the only change we’re taught he made to the office of the president was needing a bathtub so big you could play two-on-two basketball in it.

But Taft actually kicked a whole lot of ass as president. You know how Theodore Roosevelt is called by many (especially me) to be The Trust Buster? Well Taft, in his presidency, busted 43 trusts. Which is quite a bit. How does it compare to Teddy’s?

It nearly doubles it.

Theodore “Trust Bustin’” Roosevelt only busted 25 trusts in his presidency. Taft took down 43. (Probably by sitting on them.)

So Taft was the real ultimate defender of the Average Joe against the horrific armies of predatory corporations. He also passed the 17th Amendment, which gives us the right to actually vote for senators, instead of them just being appointed.

And all of these accomplishments were dwarfed by the size of his massive girth.

#4 Warren G. Harding.

Next up is a man Taft would have eaten for lunch. Or at least would have tried to and then spat back out because he tasted like tobacco, booze, and corruption.

Warren G. Harding is so often hailed as being the worst president that it’s no longer an issue of debate. Warren G. Harding was the worst president. It’s no longer a subjective opinion. It’s a concrete fact.

He slept around on his wife, he made so many executive decisions in smoke-filled backrooms after long nights of playing poker and drinking (at the height of prohibition) that “smoke-filled backrooms” is now quintessential vocabulary in the art of trashing a politician. His cabinet was totally corrupt from the lowest position to the most powerful, a fact that he was totally clueless to.

In fact, the only reason he was ever nominated by the Republican party was because he was just a bland populist that compromised on everything. He was a safe bet, a middle ground between radicals.

So why is he on my top five? Because he’s so damn unpopular, and I’m so damn hipster.

#3 James K. Polk.

Polk is a president that no one seems to have any opinion on whatsoever. Taft might be remembered for being fat, but hell, at least he’s remembered. When it comes to Polk, I don’t even have any clever pictures to put up, because nobody gives enough of a shit to make clever pictures of him.

So here’s a cat with a melon on its head.

The only reason why James K. Polk is remembered by me, is because of an awesome song by They Might Be Giants, in which his accomplishments are all explained to the Polkapathy-inflicted youths of America. Accomplishments that include,

“In four short years he met his every goal
He seized the whole southwest from Mexico
Made sure the tariffs fell
And made the English sell the Oregon territory
He built an independent treasury
Having done all this he sought no second term
But precious few have mourned the passing of
Mister James K. Polk, our eleventh president
Young Hickory, Napoleon of the Stump.”

And since I am Oregonian in birth, blood, and heart, Mr. Polk’s achievements are especially dear to me.

Too bad he’s less memorable than a cat with a melon on its head.

#2 Abraham Lincoln.

What can I say, he freed the slaves. He preserved the union. He kicked the shit out of a bunch of backwards, hillbilly racists.

All the praises I could sing about him have already been sung, because he’s the exact opposite of James K. Polk. So here’s a bunch of awesome pictures.

#1 Theodore Roosevelt.

Fact: Teddy Roosevelt was the man.

He might not have busted as many trusts as Taft, but there’s a reason that he’s remembered as being THE Trust Buster, while Taft isn’t.

Because, as I mentioned earlier, Teddy Roosevelt was the man.

He spoke French and German fluently. He studied at Harvard, and was a boxing champion. He became the youngest state representative in New York history at the age of 23. His wife and his mom died on the same day (Valentine’s Day no less) prompting him to move out west, become a cowboy, and get into a few ass-kickin’ bar brawls. He eventually went back to New York and became police commissioner, and, while he was commissioner he continued to do undercover work and took on corruption in the department like Serpico combined with Gary Oldman from “The Dark Knight” and Leo DiCpario’s character from “The Departed.” He charged up San Juan Hill on foot. He settled strikes, he settled wars (winning a Nobel Peace Prize for negotiating the Russo-Japanese War), he built the Panama Canal more or less behind Congress’ backs, famously saying “I took the Canal Zone and let Congress debate; and while the debate goes on, the canal does also.” He got shot before delivering a speech, declared “It takes more than that to kill a Bull Moose!” and delivered the two-hour speech anyway. He created the Roosevelt Corollary, which gave legal international standing to his philosophy “speak softly and carry a big stick.” He explored the Amazon rainforest, where he discovered a river and named it the Rio Teodoro. He did all of this while being afflicted with asthma and some pretty bad nearsightedness.  And then he rode a moose across a river.

We know of all these accomplishments because he made damn well sure we damn well know about them.

While his successes may not have been the most grandiose in the history of the presidency, he himself was the most grandiose president. And his machismo is the standard by which all presidents are measured. Teddy once said “Believe that you can, and you’re halfway there,” a quote that he fully embodied. By willing himself to do something, he did it, and he made sure everyone knew.

Fans of Barack Obama have started the website http://whatthefuckhasobamadonesofar.com/ to detail his successes.

With Teddy Roosevelt, he didn’t need any fans to detail his successes. Because he carved them all into the side of a Louisville Slugger and smacked them into you.

He proved his dominance in life, and as president he proved America’s dominance in the world. He even had a fleet of ships painted white and had them sail across the world, so every nation could only stare in awe at the will of America docking at their shipyards because they just fucking want to, and if you think that you won’t let these American ships into your port, then expect a moose-riding Theodore Roosevelt knocking at your door with a platoon of grizzlies behind him. If Roosevelt was president today he would hunt down bin Laden personally, and choke the life out of him with his bare hands for daring to stand up to America.

And what’s more, is he protected Americans. He went after exploitative businesses, he set up the FDA, he preserved more federal park land than any other president. You all know those dystopian sci-fi novels where the entire world’s a city? Because of Teddy, that will never happen.

He once said, and this is probably my favorite quote of his, “There is no room in this country for hyphenated Americanism… The one absolutely certain way of bringing this nation to ruin, of preventing all possibility of its continuing to be a nation at all, would be to permit it to become a tangle of squabbling nationalities, an intricate knot of German-Americans, Irish-Americans, English-Americans, French-Americans, Scandinavian-Americans or Italian-Americans, each preserving its separate nationality, each at heart feeling more sympathy with Europeans of that nationality, than with the other citizens of the American Republic… There is no such thing as a hyphenated American who is a good American. The only man who is a good American is the man who is an American and nothing else.” 

I might not be the most patriotic guy in the world (in fact I know I’m not) but Theodore Roosevelt makes me very, very proud to be an American. Under his watch, we got together as Americans and told the world “We’re gonna do what we want to do because we want to do it, we know what’s best, and we’ll knock the ever-lovin’ crap outta you if you try to tell us otherwise!”

Now more than ever we need another Theodore Roosevelt. Some leader who can stand up for America and stand up for freedom and liberty and not be afraid to take on big business or big countries. And to help drive this point home, I’ll close the article by putting up a bunch of badass pictures of the man.