Last Call for Vitriol

It's vacation time here at roundseventeen.

Time to put down the keyboard, ease up on the diatribes and recharge the batteries with a new year's worth of cynicism and misanthropy.

Where am I going you may be wondering, but probably are not.
Camping.

To the high deserts of the Sierra Nevada, home to Mt. Whitney, the California Black Bear and the great uneducated masses of meth-fueled white trash.

Next week you'll find some of my favorite old R17 entries reposted for your amusement.
Or derision.

I won't mention the exact dates when I'm going because even though my home is rigged with security cameras, a visiting house sitter and special surveillance by the Culver City Police Department, the truth is I don't trust anyone who reads this blog.

Particularly you.

Have a Happy 4th of July!

H2Ohhhhhhhh

I don't own this T-Shirt.
In fact I don't own any T-shirts that succinctly express my personal philosophy on life.
But if I did have an upcoming birthday, this shirt in XL, would make a lovely gift.

Nowhere is this sentiment -- Hell is Other People -- more self evident than in the swimming pool.

I don't like swimming with other people. They're hairy. They're noisy. And some of them have weird hygienic issues. Either they don't shower often enough. Or they use some perfumed soap that leaps off their body, coasts on a water molecule across three lanes and makes its way up my nostrils.

"Dude you smell like a French whorehouse."

Not that I know what a French whorehouse smells like, the only time I was in France I was accompanied by my wife.

Neverthless, Jean Paul Sartre, who came up with the quote, "Hell is Other People" was from France and I suspect he knew what was talking about. Or that he was an avid swimmer.

This is why I find myself considering an Endless Pool. I don't have the yard space, or my wife's approval, to put in a full size Olympic Pool. Or even a skinny Lap Lane. But there is space for this:



It's a pretty ingenious machine. And though not inexpensive, it would allow me to swim in my own backyard. As I often tell my daughters, with any large purchase, it helps to list out the pros and the cons.

And so I did a little research.

The cons are significant. In addition to the maintenance, there's the cost. Powering up the machine to generate enough current to fight back my considerable girthiness would require a bit of electricity. Plus I'd feel less like a shark gliding through still waters and more like a salmon hurling myself against a relentless cascade of water. I'm getting tired just thinking about it.

On the other hand, there are the pros. As the T-shirt and Sartre aptly put it, if "Hell is Other People" then "Heaven is No Other People."

Attica, Attica

It's June 26th and I almost missed this month's entry for People We Need To Kill.

But Jerry Sandusky was just found guilty of 45 counts of child molestation and I think we can all agree that adults who use minors  for their own sexual gratification deserve a little Jeffrey Dahmer justice.

Well, almost.

You see that's an easy position. And I could go off on Sandusky, his soapy shower games, his cavalier attitude and the integrity-challenged Penn State Administrators who looked past his indiscretions. But that road has already been travelled. By pundits much more scholarly than me.

Today, I'd like to come to the defense, that's right defense,  of a child molester, Megan Crafton, a perky 22-year old cheerleading coach from Shelbyville (which the more astute of you will recognize as the adjacent town to Springfield, home of Homer Simpson).

According to an article in the Huffington Post, Megan is accused of going downtown with an Indiana high school basketball player. Normally it is not a problem for a cheerleader to encourage a player to work the low post, however in this case the baller is only 17 years old.

This story raises questions on so many fronts.

First, why didn't I go out for the high school basketball team?

Second, what kind of idiot goes running to the authorities with the news of an ill-gotten hummer?

And finally, how does this posting qualify for the People We Need to Kill?

I can't answer the first two questions, but in my mind the legal eagles in Shelbyville, Indiana who have recklessly shirked their fiduciary duties and now want to put Megan in an orange jumpsuit should certainly be thinned from the herd.

Eating Disorder

Lately I've been seeing a lot of commercials from Taco Bell. They're pushing the idea of late night snacking via something called the FourthMeal.

I am intimately familiar with the FourthMeal. Not because I'm chowing down Chalupas just before bedtime, but because I came up with the idea.

Before you start questioning my creative credentials you need to know that I had nothing to do with the way FourthMeal is currently being executed. I suspect narrow-minded, skinny white guys fond of logo emblazoned polo shirts and crisp khaki pants had everything to do with that. (Those of you who have worked on the Taco Hell account know exactly what I'm talking about.)

I don't usually bag on past ideas that should have been bought.
Or could've been bought.
Or would've won a Gold Lion at Cannes.
That's an exercise in self-pity that leads to nowhere. A self-destructive path that starts with a few fingers of Maker's Mark and quickly descends to Costco-sized bottles of Early Times, polyester-blend clothing and a house made of cardboard.

The truth is, I could fill these pages a thousand times over talking about good work that never saw the light of day. Every copywriter and art director in the business, could.

But the other truth is, no one gives a shit.

That said, I'd like it noted for the record that my take on FourthMeal was decidedly different.

I wanted to treat the notion seriously, albeit with a tongue planted firmly in cheek. FourthMeal was going to be the brainchild of a noted faux nutrition doctor. With his own book, a talk show and a mountain of conjured up evidence detailing the benefits of late night grinding. The whole campaign was going to be written in a National Lampoon inspired style catering to 16-year old stoners.

You know, the Taco Bell target audience.

Besides feeling contrived, the current iteration of FourthMeal with the four menu items representing Crunchy, Spicy, Melty and Grilled, doesn't even make sense. It has no relationship to the Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner conceit.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised. This is the same team of marketing genii who witnessed five years of wildly popular advertising, millions in increased sales and the emerging pop culture status of a little chihuahua and said, "No Yo Quierro."

Sorry Marty

My buddy John says I suffer from excessive schadenfreude. 

That is, I take too much pleasure in other people's pain.

I'll give you a good example. Last week, Ad Age reported that WPP Chairman Sir Martin Sorrell had to sit through a humiliating meeting with shareholders and board directors who voted down his proposed $20 million pay package. This must have been excruciating for Sir Martin, particularly in light of the recently released financial numbers that reflected a 7% increase in worldwide revenue.

My heart goes out to Mr. Sorrell. After all it's not all that unusual for an employee who feels he or she had a direct impact on the company's bottom line to expect a little appreciation in the form of a raise or a bonus. That's only fair, right?

Not exactly. 

You see 10 years ago I was working at Y&R, one of the agencies that falls under the WPP umbrella. In the first 18 months of my employment, I managed the team that was responsible for the highest US Jaguar sales records. Ever. And this was when they were putting out crappy vehicles like the rebadged Ford Mondeo, disguised as a poor man's Jag. 

I also spearheaded the effort to win the El Pollo Loco account and bring the agency an additional $3 million in revenue.

I thought, as Sir Martin obviously did, that my efforts would be rewarded. They were not. 

On a Friday afternoon in October of 2003 (when the economy was in full recovery mode) I was told there was a freeze on raises and bonuses because the agency (and the holding company WPP) was tightening the belt. 

The following Monday, on the front page of ADWEEK, there was an article detailing a new 5-year pay package for Martin Sorrell to the tune of $120 million. In other words, My belt had to be tightened so his could be loosened.

There's a good chance Sir Martin didn't take any personal pleasure from my raise denial.

But that's not going to stop me from enjoying his.

On my reading list

Last week I found myself working at my alma mater, TBWA Chiat/Day. A lot has changed since I first entered the Creative Department on April 27, 1990. I believe two of the new Art Directors were actually born on that very day.

One thing that has not changed however is Lee Clow. He's still there, albeit much more sporadically. He's still sporting the cargo shorts. The T-shirt. And the flips flops.

I was fortunate enough to run into Lee. And though it has been many years since I worked there on any regular basis, I was also fortunate enough that he didn't call me Brian.

Two weeks earlier the agency released his new book, leeclowsbeard. It's a collection of pseudo-Lee aphorisms that have been tweeted since 2009. Still fresh from the excitement of having a new shiny, published book, Lee insisted I have a copy.

Moreover he took the time to personally inscribe the book.

Not with anything mushy like, "Remember the time we pitched the ABC account and won? That was fun." 

Or, "Wasn't it great when we leased a private Lear Jet and flew in and out of Tampa in one day?" 

Or even, "Brian, you were one of the funniest writers to ever come through Chiat/Day. I hope you'll enjoy this book as much as I enjoy reading your blog everyday without fail."

No, as the consummate boss always trying to extract as much as possible from his employees, even his ex-employees, Lee wrote, "Rich, You owe us something for free. Love, Lee."

Well according to Google analytics, a page view on this blog is worth .00003 cents. And his book retails for $24.95. Which means I'm still in the hole for $24.94997.

Of course there was that one time we checked into the Ritz Carlton in Atlanta for an Earthlink meeting. Lee got the last vacant room. And I was forced to sleep on a broken cot in a cavernous banquet room.

How about we call it square?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After paging through the book, I have spotted my favorite faux Lee maxim:

The art of compromise includes knowing when not to.

Oh if only that were true.

Tell me where it hurts

Not that anybody notices these things or that anyone even reads these entries, but last week there was a running theme here on R17. Each post last week was based on something unusual I has seen and saved for perpetuity with my iPhone camera.

I wasn't planning another one of these type of posts anytime soon, but that was before I spotted this guy at the corner of Jefferson and Sawtelle. I argued with myself for a moment but knew in a nanosecond that if I didn't get a picture I'd regret it.

So I pulled into the parking lot at the Toys R Us across the street, grabbed my iPhone and bolted for the corner before this guy was replaced with an arrow-spinning condo salesman.

When I asked this guy if I could take his picture he balked at first.

"Come on man, you gonna be making fun of me?"

I must have had my irony-laced, sophomoric-blogger face on because this guy pegged me right away. So in service to this blog I lied.

"Why would I make fun of you? I'm a college professor doing a report on modern day dental practices."

He bought it. And for good measure, smiled and did a 3/4 over-the-top, double fakie, swivel turn, one of the more difficult moves amongst the giant arrow spinning crowd.

So now let's get to the meat caught between the molars of the matter. There's something very wrong with this picture. Can you spot it? No? Well, here it is: Why is there a phone number on the board?
It's not necessary. It is counter-intuitive to the whole impulse dental surgery purchase.

Think about it.

You're driving home from work. The nagging pain in your lower incisor refuses to go away and you refuse to spend more than $800 to attend to the matter. Well Mr. I'll-Point-You-In-The-Right-Direction is Johnny On The Spot. He's literally pointing you towards the marginally board-certified dental clinic. If you have to write down the phone number, there's a chance you'll go home, do some research and put it off for another day.

Or worse, drive by another corner where an arrow is announcing dental implants for $699.

I've said it once, I'll say it again, this generation of marketing whiz kids may be up on all that digital crap but they have all given up on the craft of advertising.

A Counter Encounter

I am an unusually good tipper.

I often leave 20% for the waiter or waitress. And have been known to go as high as 25%. Why? Because I spent a better part of my youth in the food service business.

As a cook. As a bartender. And as a food server. It is not easy work. And there are many pain in the ass customers who simply have no right to walk into a restaurant. Those people often have their food spit upon. You'd be shocked to know how much spitting takes place behind those closed kitchen doors with the porthole windows.

Shocked.

Last night my wife escorted my youngest daughter to a postseason volleyball party. That left my oldest daughter and I to fend for ourselves. And so, after a lengthy discussion of dining choices, we ended up at The Counter on Ocean Park Blvd. We've had many pleasant meals there before and come to expect nothing less.

When we arrived the waiting list had grown quite long. We opted not to wait for a table and dine right at the counter which was sporting several vacant seats. No sooner had we sat down than an older gentleman saddled up beside my daughter. And no sooner had he seated himself did his hacking cough make itself evident. Not only was he coughing, Typhoid Murray was also sneezing. Granted he was sneezing into his sleeve but it knocked our collective appetites down a peg or two.

That was only the beginning.

The waitress behind the counter proceeded to serve me a Diet Coke that had as much life in it as Coptercat before he got his propellors. So I returned the flat soda and told her I'd rather have a pint of their Stella Artois on tap. Well, that was equally fizzless. And tasted like it had been drawn from the Salton Sea.

When I returned that, and mind you I was as jovial as possible, making light of the situation at every turn so as not to make my daughter uncomfortable, I asked for a bottle of Corona. After two unsatisfactory drinks, she reached in the cooler and pulled out a Corona that had already been opened and was sporting a lime wedge. She said it was a mistake.

I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and assume it had just been opened, but it too was flat, much like the EKG would have been had you hooked electrodes up to this woman's brain. But my daughter was feeling embarrassed and I didn't want to exacerbate the situation.

We put in our order for a couple of burgers and a platter of their signature fries/onion rings. The burgers arrived 15 minutes later but the platter of fries/onion rings did not. Turns out our rocket scientist of the food service world forgot to put that part (which some Counter aficionados would argue is the most important) of the order in.

So we ate our cold burgers and shielded our plates from our hacking neighbor. When the waitress brought the check over, she didn't apologize. But she took the time to point out that I wasn't charged for the flat Diet Coke or the equally lifeless Stella.

Had I my druthers she wouldn't have charged me for the cold burgers and the influenza as well.

The total came to $26.93.
And I did what I never do.
I stiffed her.
I could have left nothing but I thought taking the trouble to give her 7 cents made more of a point.

I also gave her a piece of vocational advice which will serve as the snappy ending you've come to expect at the end of all my personal rants...

On the Pole

I often make fun of my own skills as a photographer but today I am patting myself on the back. Not only for spotting the Secret Pole Dance Studio in Culver City, CA, but for deftly and ironically sandwiching it between the Winchell's Donut House and the very popular Honeybaked Ham Store.

But the best news is that, even though we are a good eleven months away, I have already figured next year's gift for Mother's Day.

That Truck has left the station

Spotted the other day in front of TBWA Chiat/Day where I am now doing a short freelance gig.

I haven't sampled Mr. Schmuck's pastrami or his knishes or even his creamed herring and frankly I don't intend to. I've never really bought into the whole food truck concept. Though I know it's big with the kids.

To me, they will always be Roach Coaches.

Perhaps it stems back to the time when I first moved to California and took a job driving a forklift. It was at Brownell Electro on the south side of Gardena, just on the outskirts of Compton. I, like all the guys in the warehouse wore blue jeans to work, thus preventing us from frequenting any of the nearby restaurants which were all officially in Blood territory. So when noontime came around we had no other choice but to eat from the trucks.

The food was awful.
Thankfully, the portions were large.
And the ptomaine was free.

Fortunately my life took a different trajectory and I did not make a career in the lucrative world of electric cable and motor parts distribution. But while my vocation changed, my attitude towards food trucks has not.

I still don't like the idea of meals on wheels.

Nevertheless there was a time when my wife and I seriously talked about leaving the world of advertising, rolling up our sleeves and redesigning a Winnebago into a rolling restaurant. Ironically enough we discussed NY delis. I wanted to recreate the famous delis that are our first stops when visiting the Big Apple: the Stage Deli, Second Ave. Deli and of course Carnegie's.

But I couldn't summon the matzo balls to make this huge leap.
And now Schmuck With a Truck already has.
I guess that makes me the Putz With No Guts.

Williamsburg West

I live a block away from a bar, the Backstage Bar to be more specific.

This never used to bother me as the bar was always just a quiet hangout populated by barflies and tired movie executives who could walk there from the old MGM studios. It's been rumored that Humphrey Bogart and Clark Gable used to frequent the Backstage, though not necessarily at the same time. On the bar's website it is noted that the Munchkins from the Wizard of Oz were regular customers.

Now however the bar is a hipster hangout.

Meaning the men and the midgets who used to stop by for a whiskey and a Heineken have been replaced by douchebags, fond of wearing head socks, sporting barbed-wire tattoos and drinking luke warm Pabst Blue Ribbon. I don't know what bothers me more, the occasional late night noise from up the street or the tidal wave of pretension that can't be contained by the four walls of the "best little dive bar in Los Angeles."

Yesterday I was walking my dog past the Backstage --I try to encourage her to pee in their vicinity-- and noticed this new sign by the front door.

Maybe it's just me getting older but when I was 16 and sneaking into bars it never occurred to us to bring alcohol in. They had plenty behind the counter. That's why we were there. To buy it. To drink it. To vomit in the parking lot. And to go back in and buy some more.

Or maybe it's the economy. When I was going to bars, a buck would buy you a decent beer. A buck fifty would get you a decent import, and by import I mean something trucked in from Canada like a Molson or a Moosehead. And five bucks would get you a full pitcher.

Today, you'll need that 5 dollar bill to tip the old dude who sells gum and hands out paper towels in the men's room.

Here's the thing, if you've got to sneak alcohol in to the Backstage Bar because you can't afford a cocktail at the best little dive bar in Los Angeles, maybe you should spend less time drinking and more time scanning the Help Wanted ads.

Polish that knob

Last week we took our annual family outting to REI to load up on supplies for our camping trip.

That's right I said camping. If you were a regular reader of roundseventeen, you'd know that camping was the very first in my very popular series of Things Jews Don't Do. So please try to contain your surprise because it only tells me that you're here because of the scantily clad French Maid.

Which I will now explain.

As we exited the 405 South onto Rosecranz, I spotted a hand drawn sign taped to the light pole. There, in very legible type was an ad for HOT BIKINI MAIDS. Will clean anything. Had there not been so much traffic behind me and my wife and daughters beside me, I would have stopped the car and snapped a picture of the sign.

Of course as experience has taught me, pictures (like the one above) do a much better job of wrangling in readers than funny photos snapped on my iPhone. But I did take the time to research the Hot Bikini Maids, a company that offers conventional cleaning services delivered in the most unconventional manner.

The website clearly states that while the maids are beautiful and willing to wear any outfit of the customer's choice, there will be NO hanky panky business whatsoever. They will vacuum and scrub, tease and titillate, but the only happy ending they offer is a clean apartment or a clean house.

Now I'm quite familiar with the full range of human sexual enjoyment and have indulged fantasies of my own involving catcher's masks, hip waders and imported German compression socks, but that's neither here nor there. However, I am having the hardest time wrapping my head around any kind of sexual gratification that might stem from watching a woman break out the brillo pads, the 409 or the dual-speed Oreck vacuum cleaner. OK, maybe the vacuum cleaner.

But here's the most troubling part.

Tomorrow, Mrs. Fernandez, a stout, fifty-something woman from Guatemala will be making her bi-weekly visit to clean our house. Now with my curiosity piqued, I'm going to have a very difficult time not picturing Mrs. Fernandez in a string bikini as she removes the errant bread crumbs from the Black & Decker Toaster Oven.

And as you might have guessed, I would pay money not to have that image in my head.

Jock for a Week

I'm not given to exuberance.

Just yesterday, in this same space, I was exorcising some vocational angst that happened well over 4 years ago. As a friend of mine put it, I never let a good grudge go to waste.

That said, I'd like to gloat about the last 7 glorious days.
And take in some refreshing positivity.

I just completed my symbolic swim across the English Channel. 20 miles in one week. Considering my age -- and we don't need to get into specific numbers -- that's quite the accomplishment. I've run the LA Marathon (and these days who hasn't) three times but this was even tougher. And thus, more rewarding.
Not to mention the fact that we raised more than $3500 for the Wounded Warriors, a worthy cause if ever there was one.

I also enjoyed 10 days of not working. Usually there's some despondency after a job ends. But no sooner had I completed one job than I got the call booking me for the next one. And any freelancer will tell you, time off between projects is heavenly.

Excessive shoulder pain and minor sunburn notwithstanding, last week was about as good as it gets.

I slept late, needing all the rest I could get.
I read, plowing through Laura Hillenbrand's Unbroken.
I watched the NBA playoffs.
I took daytime naps in my hammock, again getting more rest.
And I ate.
Throwing calorie counts and carb restrictions to the wind.

In other words, for a week I led the life of Olympic swimmer Michael Phelps.
But today I am back at work, sitting at a desk, watching what I eat and figuring out how to pay this month's mortgage.

This week, I'm back to the life of Michael Phelps' mother.

The Douchebags with No Names

Last week my long gig at RP& came to a conclusion.

As long gigs go, it was one of the best. In the 10 months I was there, I helped launch the new RDX with several national TV spots and a host of digital banners. A new batch of smart dealer spots. A dozen radio commercials. And a direct mail campaign that turned out surprisingly well.

Long gigs are great. Not because I get to produce a lot of work (that is rare) but because they are long. Meaning I don't have to smile and dial.

And my wife will attest, I'm terrible on the phone.

A few years ago I was hired by DIRECTV to be their interim Creative Director. I had no idea what I was signing on for but I soon discovered the somewhat limited possibilities for creative expression. They simply wanted me to oversee the production of their retail newspaper and POS material. It was no brainer kind of work involving Google stock images, bad punny headlines and lots and lots of volume.

But since I had long since mothballed my ego and they were paying a full day rate and I was given an office with a closing door, I was more than happy to oblige them for 5 months. I would have ridden that gravy train longer but the brass had an epiphany and decided to move all the in-house marketing work to NY.

They even hired a team of hotshot (in their minds, no one else's) Creative Directors to spearhead the move to the Big Apple. I was asked to help transition them and give them the layout of the land. But these two boneheads wanted none of that.

In the very first meeting, before the warmth of the first introductory handshake had dissipated, these clowns were ripping on the "work" I had done in the past few months and started pontificating about how they were going to make it better. This was followed by the obligatory name dropping of big agencies where they had worked and the casual mentioning of awards they had won, including if I recall, a couple of Tellies for a mattress store in Brooklyn.

We were all so impressed. Mostly by their lack of decorum. At one point the woman who had hired them looked at me and rolled her eyes in disbelief as if to say, "I have to pay $3000 a month to live in a 500 square foot studio apartment in Chelsea and work with these two ass-bags. Help me."

I, somewhat uncharacteristically, shut my mouth and let the wunderkind foam at the mouth.

I won't mention their names because doing so would be small and vindictive. And right now because my daughter just got accepted into next year's AP Chemistry class, I'm feeling proud and magnanimous.

But I will tell you this. I got 5 months of a full day rate for that gig. They flew back to NY and 'got quit' from their newly minted Executive Creative Director position after 8 short weeks.

And last week I ran across one of those newspaper ads.
HEADLINE: Order DIRECTV and Spring into Savings!

Make My Day

Months ago, a roundseventeen reader sent me a backhanded compliment. He said I had a knack for writing about nothing. And making it entertaining.

Today qualifies as one of those days. But I make no promises regarding any perceived entertainment value.

You see last weekend I purchased a new power washer. The one I had owned for 10 years finally called it quits. Power washers are a lot like dogs in that one year of their life is worth 7 of ours.

Unlike my dog I have no emotional connection to the old Power Washer. It was finicky. The heavy duty wires were always getting tangled. And it would short out every 20 minutes. I suspect that's normal for a machine that magically runs on electricity and water, which go together like homosexuals and North Carolinians.

And so a trip to the Home Depot was in order. I returned home with the CleanForce 1800. As its name indicates, it puts out 1800 pounds of pressure per square inch. That's a 10% boost over my previous washer, which on a good day, put out 1600 psi.

Now I get a big kick out of all the late night male enhancement infomercials on TV. I particularly enjoy their frequent use of euphemisms to skirt some FCC ruling that they cannot say the word penis. And though I have no want, or need, for their magic stamina-inducing pills, I like to think of this new power washer as my own personal male enhancement.

The simile is not that big a stretch.

With my power wand in hand and 1800 psi at my disposal I am the alpha male of my own domain. I quickly established my dominance over the lesser inhabitants and took out a hornets nest dangling from one of the eaves. I marked my territory, scouring the driveway, removing years of built-up gunk on the dining room back entrance. And I served notice to my back patio, laying down the law with my new zero soot tolerance commandment.

Don't f*ck with me, flagstone.

That's what I love about my new CleanForce 1800, in addition to water it gets my testosterone flowing.

Stupid Old Jews

Maybe you missed it last week.

It certainly didn't get the media airplay as the North Carolina pastor who suggested we build a huge pen for lesbians and gays. But a bible-thumper from Kansas, Curtiss Knapp (as in rhymes with crap) literally suggested that the government round up gay people and KILL them.

My uncle is gay. And there are times I want to kill him. Not because he's gay but because he can be so damn obstinate. However using the bible to call for mass murder seems a little un-Christian. Not to mention a little un-American.

And in fact it is both.

The law calling for the death of homosexuals comes from Leviticus. Written, foolishly I might add, by my people. Of course that matters little to Pastor Knapp who is under the belief that the Bible, Old Testament and New, is the word of God. And as such must be observed to the letter.

Of course Pastor Knapp conveniently ignores some of the other statutes listed in Leviticus.

From the King James Bible, Leviticus 11:12, Whatsoever hath no fins nor scales in the waters, that shall be an abomination to you.

By the pastor's own standards and his unyielding commitment to the commands of the Flying Spaghetti Monster...er, God, the government should be cleansing us not only of people who enjoy same gender sex but also those who crave Red Lobster's Batter-Fried Shrimp Jalapeno Poppers.

Because the government doesn't have better things to do with its money, I suggest the federales work in conjunction with the management team at Red Lobster and arrange for a sting operation. Maybe on Tuesdays, Red Lobster becomes Pink Lobster with heavily discounted prices for gay shellfish eaters.

That way we can round up two abominable groups in one clean sweep. Then we can ship them off to death camps in Kansas and North Carolina. And of course those camps will have to be built and that will create jobs.

It's a win-win-win situation.
As the right reverend Knapp will tell you, Jesus does provide.