Decrees for My All Encompassing Dictatorship

Decrees for My All Encompassing Dictatorship: No Harmonicas

On my way to work this morning, my iPod shuffled its way to a live version of “Mirror Man” by Captain Beefheart. Great, I thought, I like this song and I haven’t heard it in a while. Then, about a minute in, the good captain busted out a harmonica solo, whereupon I hit the skip button. It was too damn early for me to hear a harmonica solo.

Harmonica is so bad it ruins songs I like.

Harmonica shall be banned because it is the harbinger of the worst music in the world: the blues. I don’t mean the blues as it was played 50, 60, 70 years ago, when it was an vibrant musical genre that reflected an actual living culture. And I don’t mean something that has bluesy influences, or bluesy overtones, because that would cut out pretty much all rock music.

I’m talking about the bone-chilling, teeth-rattling sight of someone playing four-bar blues in sunglasses and a fedora. That should have been banned by the Geneva Convention. How can we let that go on in the 21st century?! I fear for my children.

Harmonica shall be banned because of this natural human reaction: when you see somebody pull out a harmonica and start playing it onstage, 99% of the time you want to punch that person in the face.

Harmonica shall be banned because of this:

bluesbros.jpgAnyone who knows how to play harmonica when my Benevolent Dictatorship begins shall be grandfathered in and permitted to continue to play. However, they must register with the local Harmonica Office and inform their local Harmonica Officer if they plan on traveling within 500 feet of a live microphone.

Continuing education programs will be instituted to make John Popper employable. However, there is probably no hope for Bruce Willis. Nor should there be.

I have spoken.

Politics Schmolitics

Giuliani Knows You’re Cool With That, Right?

giuliani.jpgHey, thanks for lettin me crash at your place, guys. I’m goin through a really rough patch with my old lady and you saved my bacon. You guys really did me a solid, and I won’t forget it, man.

And no worries about the whole ‘bein gay’ thing. You do your thing, I do my thing, we’ll all be cool, okay? Live and let live, that is my mot-to.

‘Course, in a coupla years, I’m gonna be runnin for higher office. Maybe senator, maybe governor–who knows, maybe even La Casa Blanca, know what I’m sayin, bro?

Point is, I’m a Republican and all, so I gotta play the game. You know how it is. Hey, look I’m talkin to–you guys probably gotta pretend to be all not-gay just to keep your jobs!

Anywhoozle, I’m just lettin ya know I gotta say some shit that might rub ya the wrong way. Not for real, of course–just stuff that’ll play in the sticks, you know? Like, I gotta say I “hate” gay marriage and that hetero marriage is a “sacred institution”.

Man, I gotta practice sayin that–I can barely get the words out without crackin up! I mean, I been married three times already and cheated on my last old lady. And I wasn’t discrete about it either. I kinda did it really, really publicly. All the time.

Oh, and I used city money to go visit my girlfriend while I was still married. Hey, nobody’s perfect, bro.

But don’t worry, it’s just gonna be shit I say to climb the ladder, know what I’m sayin? Once I’m in office…well, then I probably gotta pass some laws against gay marriage it because I’ll totally be indebted to the guys who got me elected on that platform.

Don’t you worry, though–that civil union thing, totally safe. No one’s touchin that on my watch! Unless they pressure me to repeal that, too. Then all bets are off, know what I’m sayin?

But hey, just wanna letcha know, even if I strip away all your rights and keep you from being with the one you love, just know this: I don’t really mean it.

So we’re still cool, right?

Seriously? We’re still cool? Awesome. I knew I could count on you guys.

You guys got matches? I’m gotta use the little boys’ room and I plan on cuttin mud for 25 minutes minimum.

Decrees for My All Encompassing Dictatorship

Decrees for My All-Encompassing Dictatorship: No More Waves

I attended my first Real Game at CitiField this weekend, after many unofficial sojourns a few weeks ago. It was hands-down the most enjoyable game I’ve been to in a long time. A textbook pitcher’s duel. Johan Santana not allowing a runner to get as far as second base. A Mets run scoring on a series of unfortunate events (for the Brewers). A shutdown bullpen actually shutting things down, including a game-ending strike-em-out-throw-em-out DP.

However, one thing must always emerge to sully a wonderful experience. In this case, it was The Wave.

I suppose there’s a time and a place for The Wave, but most of them remain in 1987. In a joyous, blowout game, The Wave wouldn’t bother me. However, some numbnuts decided to start up a stadium-wide wave in the 8th inning, with the score 1-0, one out, and JJ Putz on the mound. It was like I had an entire stadium of 12-year-olds with their hands in my face, saying “Does this bug you? Does this bug you? I’m not touching you! Does this bug you?”

I hate to pull out the I Pay Good Money Card, but here it is: I pay good money to go to baseball games. I do so because I like to watch guys like Putz (Closer 1-B to K-Rod’s Closer 1-A) mow down the opposition and preserve the slimmest of leads. I don’t go to baseball games to play Simon Says with 40,000 overgrown kindergarteners.

The Wave is the sports equivalent of heckling the band at a concert. You are trying to take the focus of the crowd away from what the crowd is there for, and place it squarely on yourself. If you really wanted to get thousands of eyes on you at once, you shoulda stuck with the guitar or spent some more time in the batting cage. Wow, you made other people stand up! Congratu-fucking-lations! Maybe you can win the World Championships of Mother May I!

Under my Benevolent Dictatorship, Wave Promoters shall be severely fined. If they start a Wave during a critical moment in a close game, like someone did on Sunday, they shall be horsewhipped in public. They shall also be banned from attending any sporting event for one year, and sent to Fan Reeducation Camp, where they learn how to conduct themselves at a public sporting event so as not to ruin the enjoyment of others. They shall also be given extensive courses in reading a scoreboard so they can tell the difference between a close score and a non-close score.

I have spoken.

A potentially explosive collection of verbal irritants