While waiting for a screening of Mean Creek to begin (i'd walked up to the theater, intending to buy tickets for The Brown Bunny but at the last minute i decided vincent gallo's recently relentless self-promotion has been enough to turn me away from what might actually be a pretty beautiful, difficult film. i kind of can't applaud a man who spends half of his generously granted interview time whining about audience members being idiots if they see this movie for a blowjob scene, and the second half of his interview time talking about the self-designed 60-foot billboard depicting that very same scene.), I got to hear my first extended taste of the new Bjork album, Medulla.

I read the New Yorker piece, so I knew the album was almost exclusively scored by human vocal sounds. Some of it is really beautiful – the single, "Oceania," and a couple of other tracks. However, these are interspersed with really, amazingly unlistenable songs featuring the sound of heavy smokers wheezing and sputtering. I couldn't help feeling like Bjork was playing a prank on her critical supporters, wondering how far they would be willing to bend backwards to make the "genius" moniker hold. And I do appreciate Bjork's musical curiosity, but not enough to be voluntarily assaulted by the sound of her trilling over an explosive coughing fit.

P.S. Mean Creek is not very good. Not even a single frame dedicated to blowjobs.

Disgruntled Puerto Rican Lady With A speech Volume Disorder On The Uptown 9 Train this morning, thank you for your candor and your wisdom. When you were screaming to your friend – seated 6 inches from your face – about the injustice of being "visited" by your company's "undercover spies" and then described one of the female spies as "total fucking butch, you know," you could have left it at that, and you might be forgiven for your anger.

But you're better than that, DPRLWASVDOTU9T, because you immediately followed that vitriolic accusation with a disclaimer. "I ain't got nothing against gays, you know. I used to be gay. I was gay for, like, two years." Your honesty reminded me of the period, for six weeks in the summer of 1993, when I was a Cherokee Indian. And, of course, spring break 2001, when I was made of shaving cream. And now, I got nothing against shaving cream. Not a fucking thing.

I find that ladies (and formerly gay men) like this always have the most assured opinions, and it makes me feel somewhat envious. For instance, after she ranted about her momentary lapse of heterosexuality, she went on to complain about people telling her "what to do." Her friend agreed that, no, people gots no right to tell her what to do. DPL thanked her for her agreement and then pronounced, "THE ONLY THING I GOTTA DO IS DIE, MOTHERFUCKER!"

I am far too indecisive to make a statement like that. I tend to look at both sides and consider the many things I might have to do in addition to just dying, motherfucker. Like my laundry. I have to do my laundry today or I'll be naked, motherfucker. And I have to eat food so I won't feel tired and hungry, motherfucker. And, probably, if someone asks, I'll feel like I have to do a little bit of work here and there so I can save up enough money to die.

There was something about this briefly gay woman that liberated her from a normal sense of obligation or rumination. Perhaps that "something" is self-confidence, or perhaps it is a tumbler of blended rum for breakfast. Either way, I'm glad for it, because without women and men like this we'd never have great expressions like, "YOU SNOOZE, YOU LOSE, ASSHOLE!" and "LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT, BITCH!" and "GOD BLESS AMERICA, COCK-STRANGLER!!" And that's a whole lot easier to get behind than a statement like "YOU SNOOZE, YOU PROBABLY LOSE, ALTHOUGH THERE IS CERTAINLY EXCELLENT VALUE IN BED-REST. JUST MAKE SURE TO MAKE THE MOST OF YOUR DAY WHEN YOU WAKE UP, UNLESS YOU'RE NOT FEELING ESPECIALLY WELL, IN WHICH CASE RENTING A COUPLE OF MOVIES COULD BE FUN, CRAM-HOLE!"

I was walking to work, enjoying my last few moments of feeling Not Entirely Crushed Between The Cogs Of Industry™, and I passed a fellow wearing what I presume he believed to be a very politically-charged t-shirt. It was an image of Gollum, the spindly creep from Lord of the Rings, digitally altered with George W. Bush's facial features. Bush as Gollum. No further explanation provided.

I see a lot of this. Every liberal, moderate, or non-ultra-conservative (so wait? who likes bush right now?) seems to be taking swipes at Bush these days, and for good reason: HE'S A DUMMY!! (sharp political humor.) But I think the messages are getting confusing. Bush as Gollum? I don't get it. When degrading the President's image, make sure the metaphor fits. Otherwise, it's an arbitrary character assassination or, in the case of the gentleman I saw today, an excuse to wear a Gollum t-shirt and feel sort of like an activist. If your George W. Bush-as-Other Thing metaphor requires any explanation beyon the simple image itself – for example, "You see, the oil in the Middle East is like the One Ring and Saddam is Sauromon, and I guess that makes General Tommy Frank that guy with the red beard and um, Bush, you see... – you've probably chosen poorly.

In fact, if you're thinking about putting George W. Bush's face on a t-shirt and feel like a simple red slash across his face or a "BUSH LIES" message beneath it just don't make your point salient enough, here are some Do's and Don'ts for depicting our current President as a villainous character on a t-shirt, beer cozy, sombrero, etc..

DO DEPICT GEORGE W. BUSH AS

• Rambo
  
• Forrest Gump
  
• The Sling Blade guy
  
• Hagar The Horrible
  
• A Persian cat
  
• Little Lord Fauntleroy
  
• A chimp on a toilet, confounded by toilet paper
  
• the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz
  
• Alfred E. Newman
  
• Dig Dug
  
• Predator (from Predator 2 only)
  
• Napoleon
  
• Udo Dirkschneider, lead singer of heavy metal band, Accept
  
• Vincent Gallo
  

DON'T DEPICT GEORGE W. BUSH AS:

• Hitler (The sentiment is appreciated, but the analogy is a bit misguided. Save it for former NYC mayor Rudolph Giuliani and my dad.)
  
• A Playboy Bunny
  
• Cobra Kommander (or Destro)
  
• the Queer Eye for the Straight Guy experts
  
• Baby Huey
  
• Doctor Octopus
  
• Alien (unless it's the Alien from Alien 3)
  
• A Chelsea Boy
  
• Howdy Doody (not relevant)
  
• Wendy Carlos (not mainstream enough)
  
• The Hee-Haw Donkey
  
• Ming the Merciless
  
• King Koopa
  
• Eggplant Florentine
  
• A half-tank, half-futuristic ninja experimental weapon
  
• A sentient truck
  
• A Half-and-Half single serving plastic cup resting in a puddle of blood
  

Holy crap if you think about it you'll understand immediately that is amazing wordplay because this post is about makeup and even though it has nothing to do with relationships or the termination of them you have to at least admire that "makeup" shit I did up there. I feel strangely refreshed.

I was summoned upstate to aid in the production of my nephew's fifth birthday party. Most of the friends I made post-high school don't know this about me but as a young man I was a bit of an artist. (read: faggot) I drew and painted and did little else when I had some free time alone. In grade school, classmates would beg me – absolutely beg me –  to draw Garfield and Odie, and I would oblige. I could draw just about anything, except girls. I could never draw girls. Isn't that odd? I drew Sinead O'Connor once, but there was a time when she could be mistaken for a boy. (read: faggot)

Now, the only people who remember my passion for art are my own immediate family. As such, they're always trying to get me to push my boundaries as an artist. In this case, they asked me to travel to Albany and do face-paintings. Mais, Oui.

I've never painted faces before and when I arrived I found the tools provided for me to be, in a word, UNACCEPTABLE. For one thing, there was no yellow makeup and, besides being the color of friendship and valor, yellow is also the color of Spongebob Squarepants. And without yellow, these kids would be without Spongebob. Face painters have been hobbled for less.

My brushes were crude. I specifically requested a range of brushes, all different gauges, including a very expensive ($5,000.00) single-hair paintbrush for the application of finer details, such as the veins in the feathers of a chorus of seraphim I had hoped to paint on one of the youngster's cheeks. Instead, I was provided with a couple of Revlon eyeshadow applicators and a piece of sponge. I made do. (read: I kicked over a bridge table and punched a hole in my nephew's birthday cake...for art!)

I must confess I wasn't really familiar with children's most beloved comptemporary characters. The Ziggys, the Snuffy Smiths, the Dagwoods, the Shoe's, etc. So, instead, I just went with my instincts. I painted each child up like an expensive (read: $200 francs) French courtesan. I streaked fiery color across their lids, applied beauty marks by the dozen and, truthfully, these kids looked sexy. Much too sexy to be eating pizza and sitting in filth, anyway.

Sadly, around mid-party the skies opened up and it began to rain. With the makeup streaking down the party-goers faces in thick wet tendrils, the kids all looked like someone just broke up with them. It was really quite beautiful, and I didn't mind that I wasn't able to paint my seraphim. Perhaps for my nephew's sixth birthday, when he's old enough to appreciate chiaroscuro.

I was in a bathroom stall earlier today, making dirt, and someone else's cell phone rang. The ring tone was a MIDI version of Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger." When the phone's owner picked up the phone – because of course he picked up his phone in the bathroom – this is how he answered it: "TALK TO ME."

Even if he never picked up and let the call go to voicemail, I could have told you that any man with "Eye of the Tiger" as his ring tone is also a man who answers his phone, "Talk to me," providing he's able to remove the phone from his belt clip first.

I'm willing to wager this guy also owns a very inexpensive humidor and has masturbated at least once to a Maxim bikini shot of James King. And good for him.

[full disclosure: my ring tone is "Memories" from Cats: The Musical. i own a travel lint roller.]

This image should be the new American flag.

Fuck you, Urban Outfitters, for making me feel like a phony. It's not news that UO (that's the cool way to write. WHATEVER, ho!!) has co-opted every real and phony novelty t-shirt design in the history of America. But I've noticed lately they've done it so well they've effectively blurred the lines between ironic and earnest, and between real and fake. Sometimes I can't tell at all, like with this one. The sheer volume of designs and messages is staggering, honestly. They've aggregated this amazing projected-nostalgia arsenal where past and present have come together on your back and boobs, and thirft store serendipity is cut completely out of the picture. I've always found it fascinating how UO perfectly understands the good feelings associated with those "ah-ha!" thrift store moments when, after digging through piles of crap on Saturday afternoon, you chance upon the perfect pair of faded Lee jeans or a "Foxy Lady" t-shirt. Then, UO totally undermines or marginalizes those feel-good moments simply by mass-producing them. Now everyone's lucky, and no one is.

I don't categorically dislike the t-shirts at UO but I must confess they make me sort of defensive. They give me that "hey, you can't fool me" feeling, like I'm a member of the local news team's "Scambusters" crew.

For instance, I remember seeing David Cross co-hosting the Jimmy Kimmel show one week, and he was wearing this really excellent t-shirt, printed with two poorly rendered African-American faces surrounding the words, "A Touch of Class." I kind of loved it. Then, two days later, I saw that exact same t-shirt at Urban Outfitters, multiplied across every size and a couple of colors. It made my penis go soft. Now, admiring that "Touch of Class" t-shirt was like admiring someone's Old Navy cargo pants. Just another commodity. But a fun commodity, I guess.

The UO cute t-shirt takeover has even caused me to doubt the veracity of certain items in my own wardrobe. This t-shirt, for example. I love the shit out of this t-shirt and, to the casual observer, it could have been some carefully concocted ironic statement direct from the UO design floor. Is HI-LIFE BURGERS even a real place? Or just the product of some F.I.T. grad's imagination, culturally sampled from an assortment of other roadside images and type treatments?

But it IS a real place, in South Pasadena. And, thanks to a friend of mine, I have eaten there, and enjoyed the shit out of one of their burgers. And I love the t-shirt, mainly because it shows that Hi-Life, like many independently owned fast food restaurants, is more focused on their food than producing up-to-date, cutting edge fashion. I also love the shirt partly because, well, I love burger meat in my meat-hole.

Unfortunately, whenever I wear this shirt I feel like I have to provide an extremely long explanation detailing its genuine sentimental worth, to pre-emptively expunge any concern that I'm being ironic or false. And for this I blame Urban Outfitters. (and, to a lesser extent, Abercrombie & Fitch, for dumping their bold, almost fascist, preppie pride for cheap bandwagon t-shirt irony. A&E has lost their sense of self-assuredness. that's no way to start a master race, guys.) Because UO has rendered personal style, integrity and luck useless. They've made irony too easy and being earnest far too exhausting. I mean, just look how many words I wrote just to have permission to wear my hideous Hi-Life Burgers t-shirt.

Because I don't perform stand-up every night of the week – I am what serious comics might call a "tremendous pussy" – my successes onstage seem much more precious and my failures much more more viscerally painful. The nice thing about attacking the stage – any stage, really – with great frequency is that it makes your heart all tough and leathery. (like Run DMC) In my case, it might also serve to remove some of the "ums" and "likes" from my delivery. (I used to think that constant stammering was part of my charm, but I realize now I was deluding myself completely. Jesus, sometimes I sound like Porky Pig onstage.)

The point of all of this is that sometimes, because getting onstage is still very fresh to me, the audience is treated to something they didn't expect. In the case of a show I did last Thursday that something special was A COMPLETE NERVOUS BREAKDOWN, amplified through a microphone. It was pretty extraordinary, actually. I had a set of material – mostly jokes and stories I've done before and about which I am generally confident – but something weird set me off that day and I decided (well, "decided" is a strong word because it sounds like it was actually within my control rather than a forced act, at the mercy of misfiring synapses) I would put aside my material and improvise five minutes of material about how ugly, fat, and stupid I felt that day.

I wish I were kidding. I started with my hair ("aggressively, unapologetically jewish"); moved quickly to my filthy glasses ("they look like i just picked them up off the ground after a two-hour game of 'Keep Away' from the elementary school kid with a cleft palate and corrective shoe"); spent a few minutes on the tremendous pimple on the side of my nose ("it is so big it's threatening to secede from my face"; "i am a grown man with grey hair and acne - i look like i just stumbled out of a broken time machine"); then finished up by talking about how I was so fat my t-shirt didn't fit me ("you can see inside my bellybutton through it") and, out of self-consciousness, had to borrow a t-shirt from a female friend of mine. In case that wasn't enough negative information for them at the top of my set, I supplemented it with an unprecedented level of uncertain stammering while I fiddled with the microphone in a manner that would suggest, depending on the audience's point of view, either the sad effects of an intense obsessive-compulsive disorder, or an impression of a Good Vibrations employee at a free customer seminar demonstrating how to massage the penis shaft while never forgetting to playfully handle the scrotum.

They say you should make the audience like you. I gave them every reason not to. Eminem used this technique to excellent effect in the finale of 8 Mile but the difference was he got to walk offstage when he was finished. I had to spend another five minute with this audience, trying to convince them I have a couple of funny jokes, too.

It's crazy. The audience really did want to laugh. They were kind and generous and, on the few rare occasions where I did tell them jokes, they responded well despite all prior indications that they shouldn't. And I could have bailed on my vigilant self-criticism early and segued right into my material, to spare the audience the ordeal. I knew what I was doing, and why it was failing, but here's the thing: I couldn't stop myself. It's like dropping into a tailspin. You know you have pull your nose up but at a certain speed of descent that becomes impossible. I turned a very good show into the world's worst open mic room in 8 grueling minutes. It was a miserable but fascinating experience, honestly, especially since my peers (other comedians) had to witness it.

When I tell people I perform stand-up comedy sometimes, they invariably tell me they could never do it. I realize they say that because they imagine being in a situation identical to the one I placed myself in last Thursday. Given how crazy I felt and vulnerable I felt that day, putting a mic in my hand was like handing a clinically depressed person a handgun loaded with Never Miss® bullets.

[this post was meant to be a formal apology to the audience that evening, in case any of them were tremble readers. however, it occurred to me that most of them will probably never read this site again after witnessing me that night.]

You know how sometimes you're eating a carrot muffin and you're thinking, "holy mother of christ this is the greatest muffin I've ever had the privilege of eating," and it's all going along fine and well and you think you're probably going to finish it off instead of leaving a couple scraps behind like you usually do out of guilt or shame or some other things your therapist is helping you define? And then, just as you crack the bottom – because fuck that shit of course you're going to eat the top first, especially when it's one of those crunchy tops encrusted with large sugar crystals that wink back at you when they catch a sliver of light – yes, just as you get to the soft bottom and you're wondering if maybe you should just throw rules to the wind and get down with your mouth and belly and greedy hands right on this beautiful muffin and, my lord, why is the bottom so moist – that's when you realize the source of the moistness and possibly the source of this well-above-average-tasting carrot muffin is, in fact, a secret piece of fresh plum baked right within. Your eyelids flutter a little bit and then you just want a 3-ton safe to fall on your head so you can die right here and now, inside a perfect moment, without having it compromised by smelling hobo pee or hearing a taxi horn bleat or seeing a Puerto Rican guy grab his girlfriend's arm really hard or missing a train or getting the train and finding it crushed with people or any of the million other details about New York City that lie in waiting, set like traps designed to sabotage your nice day.

You know how that happens, with the muffin and the plum and the inverted death wish? Well, that's what my morning was like. And this is just to say I'm sorry I bought the last carrot-plum muffin which was sitting on a tray in a coffee shop, and which was probably intended for you. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, OK? You'll have your carrot-plum muffin, too.

Sometimes a simple act can become extraordinarily complicated by the addition of an onlooker. Making coffee, for instance, has recently become a brow-wrinkling, palm-dampening nightmare for me. One of my clients is in possession of a tremendous espresso machine. This is not one of those $89.99 KRUPS bitches; it’s a professional barista model with multiple single and double-baskets, manual settings, a water trap, steamer wand, conical grinder sidecar with single-pull tamping arm, 27-inch chrome rims, real chinchilla fur lining, and a flatscreen LCD panel and DVD-player built into the side of each accompanying espresso cup. It is capable of producing a fully pimped-out, and very gay thumbleful of espresso.

Unlike my own French press coffee maker, which is simple enough to leave even the most severely retarded barista bored and restless and searching for exposed wires to lick by the third cup, my client’s ESPRESSISIMO 3000 FALCON LE is like a coffee-making dungeon crawl, with the potential for peril around every corner. It involves grinding, apportioning, tamping, brewing, steaming, cleaning, massaging, praying, holding both triggers down while tapping up, up, down, left, start, and, providing everything goes according to plan, drinking. I was trained on the machine and, left to my own devices, I think I could eventually produce a mediocre to slightly-better-than-mediocre cup of espresso with it.

In fact, when I practice on my own I am pretty good at it. I’m relaxed and patient. I’ve achieved a velvety smoothness with regards to milk. And I rarely burn my tongue on the spout. (rule of three!) However, the last time I was in the kitchen fiddling with all the mechanics of the FALCON LE, a co-worker popped in and asked, “hey, can you make me a cup, too?” I seized up. The reason for this is simple – stagefright. If I mess up an espresso for myself I can live with it. I know it’s not good, but it’s all I’ve got. However, if I mess it up for someone else, it means he knows I’m a terribly incompetent person. Plus, he might drink the espresso I’ve made for him and think, “This guy has no idea what good espresso tastes like if this is the brown pee he’s drinking every day.” It’s like when someone invites you over for dinner, and has been bragging for months about how much they love to cook. Then you eat the dinner and it’s filled with bones. (and believe me, grilled cheese should have no bones in it) Or, simply, the food just ain’t no good – I mean the macaroni's soggy the peas are mushed and the chicken tastes like wood. You can’t help thinking this person is completely delusional about his or her expertise in the kitchen and, further, has no idea what good food tastes like. Well, maybe it’s not because your friend is a weak chef; maybe it’s because that person suffers from performance anxiety.

When I was put in the polite position of being asked to steam some milk for a co-worker, I did it all wrong. I was incredibly self-conscious and the milk bubbled and frothed and burned. As I poured it over his shot of espresso, I couldn’t help thinking the gesture was analogous to being asked to place whipped cream on a slice of blue ribbon-winning pie, and then shitting on the pie instead. I was basically being asked to RUIN his coffee because his presence made me nervous.

I do this in many types of situations. If I’m performing onstage and there’s someone in the audience I want to impress (Merv Griffin, for example), I will inevitably have the worst show of my life. My voice will escape me when I’ve got something important to say. And when I was a kid, I would lose control when I was playing a video game in an arcade and someone placed their quarter up on the machine, indicating they had “next.” This simple action would inject a sense of urgency into my game: It made me think I needed to finish quickly, or risk making someone impatient or angry. My sudden incompetence would increase tenfold when someone asked to jump in and play against me or, worse still, didn’t even ask. You can’t say no to a challenger; it’s a sign of your weakness. You can only glumly agree, then watch as a ten year-old Japanese boy beats you with a flawless victory.

These days I’m especially lame around teenagers, because they are a very judgmental demographic and I automatically assume they think everything I do is square or “for the birds,” as they are wont to say. Because of this inference, a simple gesture like buying an ice cream cone or getting my cock pierced is punctuated with all sorts of embarrassing actions and words. On more than one occasion, I’ve caught myself telling a teenage cashier, “catch you easy” or “two pumps of amaretto syrup would be def.” I should really just take a deep breath before entering into those situations, then confidently announce, “Hi, I’m a total faggot. Now let’s make a Frappuccino happen.”

I think it's nice when you can follow up a cynical post about U.S. Homeland Security with a celebration of star-spangled awesomeness. I was recently on vacation in a little place called America, USA – perhaps you've heard of it? Here are a few pictures; it's a diorama I like to call "Why They Hate Us and Why I Love Us."

click to enlarge

While Super Tuesday's Funtime Miracle Terror Alert was handled by New York's tabloid papers with typical aplomb – The New York Post's headline read, simply, "EVERYBODY DUCK!!!" while The Daily News took the high road with "TERROR IN THE BIG APPLE: STATUE OF LIBERTY INVOLUNTARILY LIBERATES OWN BOWELS" – only The New York Times bothered to dedicate even a column's width of attention to the fact that the reports behind the latest Special Ops-on-the-subway-armed-to-the-teeth were based on chatter that was THREE TO FOUR years old. In the area of geopolitics, a tremendous amount can change in that time. I mean, weren't we still fighting the Japanese in Vietnam four years ago? And didn't Afghanistan have paved roads and hospitals four years ago?

I'm not one to laugh in the face of potential terror – I drop to the floor, belly-down, when I'm asked and I try not to write the word "BOMB" when I'm on a cross-continental flight, even if it's a clue in my beloved TV Guide crossword puzzle. ("An incendiary device, or HOMEBOYS IN OUTER SPACE:") However, isn't mounting massive city-wide police action because of relatively ancient intelligence reports about as accurate as basing Homeland Security policy on the prophecies of Nostradamus? But the government can't make that kind of announcement, can they? Because citizens of the United States might be less willing to cooperate if Tom Ridge was quoted at a press conference, stating:

We have reason to believe key locations within the United States are being targeted for terrorist attacks. We've intercepted reports detailing the "coming of a brown-hooded serpentine destroyer, walking upright across the scorched land" who will "summon a fiery apocalypse upon a city of glass." The attacks will be severe, promising "mountains of smoldering ash stretching to the heavens and blackening the sky," as well as a "great lake of blood which, upon touching the parched lips of man, will boil forth furiously against the tongue and drive man stumbling back into the caves with a blinding madness." It is advised that residents of New York City, including the boroughs of Queens, the Bronx, and ancient Macedonia, remain in their dwellings until this serpentine destroyer is sussed out. We believe the attacks might have been masterminded by Al-Qaeda, possibly operating with the cooperation of the prince of the Mongols. However, there have been contrary reports linking this attack to a man named "Hister." We are currently investigating Hister's ties to Iraq and North Korea.

AND THAT'S THE TERROR ALERT BIT! Thank God that's over with.

You just emerged from a blackout. You are disoriented, slightly vertiginous, your skull pounding, the room barely in focus. This confuses you. Then, moments later, you hear the sound of a lone man's booming voice shouting, "IT AIN'T ROCK-N-ROLL IF IT AIN'T LOUD!!!" Everything suddenly becomes clear. You've just been kidnapped by Ted Nugent.

The most important thing to remember now is not to panic. Ted Nugent is a physically powerful man, yes, probably stronger than you, and likely armed with at least a Bowie knife, saltpeter, a velvetine bag of enchantments, and a lightweight crossbow, so do not try to take him down. Doing so will only end this on his terms.

Knowing the identity of your captor is crucial to your escape. First, this knowledge eases your state of peril, helping to dissipate some of the terror associated with believing your whereabouts are a complete mystery. That earned calm buys you time to plan an exit strategy. And this is where a little patience can really pay off.

Since you've been kidnapped by Ted Nugent, do not make your move until he starts playing "Wang Dang Sweet Poontang." This opportunity might not present itself until late into his set, possibly as an encore, and may require enduring several mawkish, remedially patriotic ballads. Empty your mind, and sit tight. Wait for it. Now, when Ted Nugent wonders, loudly, if there's "any sweet poontang in the audience," do not answer. This question is rhetorical. It is not for you, no matter how sweet you believe your poontang to be. Instead, use the question as the starting gun to your crawl to freedom.

Slowly, and with caution, proceed to the nearest EXIT sign. If you can't see any signs – if is a sackcloth bag over your head, for instance, or if your eyes are bound by a Damn Yankees bandana – just follow the scent of venison chili. This aroma will lead you toward the exit. On the other side lies the relative safety of the Kentucky State Division Three Invitational Chili Cook-Off that has organized Ted's concert. Do not exit yet. Wait a moment longer.

When Ted Nugent unfurls a giant Confederate flag in the middle of "Wang Dang.." – that's when you make your move. The crowd will be on its feet, saluting the flag, and you can use their natural cover as you inch toward the exit. THIS IS EXTREMELY IMPORTANT, and will remain the decision point standing between you and your liberation. If you leave too soon, TED NUGENT WILL KILL YOU WITH A FLAMING ARROW.

However, if you hold your position until the Confederate flag comes out – and it will come out – you will be able to stay low, letting the audience block Ted Nugent's sight line. Ted will not shoot at his fans, because he knows they will, in all likelihood, shoot back. Exploit this weakness to your advantage.

On the outside, use your environment as social camouflage. Grab some chili – the good kind, made by the Klan. Then, proceed to the parking lot, hotwire a Chevy (DO NOT HOTWIRE A FORD!), and drive to freedom. For Ted Nugent, the hunt never ends; for you, thank God, it just has.