No one has ever approached me after a gig and ranted and raved about my guitar playing. Well, no one who knew what the hell they were talking about anyway. That’s because honestly, I’m not very good with a guitar. I get by well enough to support my voice and make sounds where there are supposed to be sounds while I’m pretending to be the guitar player in a band.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t spend a lot of time on sound and set up with my instrument. It also doesn’t mean I don’t know anything about guitars, on the contrary, I have a pretty decent collection of git-boxes that hang on my wall and they all get played occasionally. I kinda pride myself on knowing a good deal when I see one and jumping on it, so I have many in my collection.

Me and my beloved Frankenstrat on the right.

I haven’t had an attachment, and by attachment I mean a relationship, with a guitar since my first love. She was a hideous concoction of pieces parts I bought when I was 19 years-old with the first real mad money I ever had. I was pouring molten iron at Idaho Falls Foundry and Machine and I received a $600 Christmas bonus my first year there.

I marched down to Chesbro’s music store the very next day and purchased the guitar that would become affectionately known as the FrankenStrat. A Stratocaster neck bolted into an aftermarket Explorer ash body armed with two Dimarrzio humbuckers controlled by aftermarket Telecaster guts.

Frankenstrat!

I learned to actually play on that guitar, spending countless hours in my bedroom running through rudimentary licks and chord progressions and dreaming of one day being a rock star. At the time I never thought about owning another guitar. Ever. I fucking loved that guitar,it was a part of my personality, an extension of who I was.

Eventually, I graduated from playing in my bedroom to performing in bands, and although I never really made it above a bar room level, I was a rock star in my mind every weekend and life was grand. Then, on October 31, 1990, I came home from work while living in Las Vegas to find my house empty. Everything I had worked for all my life had been stolen, including my Frankenstrat.

I had insurance so all my shit was replaced. I even got a brand new shiny 1990 American Standard Stratocaster Plus. But I never loved that guitar, in fact, I never loved another guitar again. After losing the Frankenstrat, I couldn’t let my guard down and love an instrument the way I loved the guitar I spent so many countless hours learning to play.

Like a man who lost a great love and just drifted from girl to girl, I did the same thing with guitars. I had a good job and money so I bought guitars, just like the guy who has emotionless one night stands with drunk barfly’s, trying to fill an emotional need that  couldn’t be filled.

Les Pauls, Telecasters, Stratocasters and a plethora of other brands that were just meaningless purchases. I was unwittingly searching for my Frankenstrat to no avail.

My latest flame-The Electromatic by Gretsch.

Then, in 2007, I bought my very first Gretsch. I got it used off Ebay for next to nothing. The Gretsch line was normally way out of my price range, but they opened a factory in Korea and began producing the Electromatic line for guys like me who couldn’t justify dropping $4000 on a guitar.

The second I plugged it in I was inspired to write new songs and play new lead progressions and change my whole sound. It was like that girl you meet and the sex is so depraved and physical and emotional that you walk around in a daze for weeks.  Yeah, it was that good.

But that love, that emotion that only time can solidify and make real, was slow to come. I refused to get attached to another inanimate object after the Frankenstrat loss. I just wouldn’t let myself feel it.

So today I was pounding out some new material and I realized something. After 22 years of loss, and with much drilling and butchering and remaking this Korean built Gretsch into the unique monstrosity it has become, I can truthfully say, I fucking love this guitar.

It is Clarence Worly. It is my sound. It is a part of me.

All I can hope for is that my beloved Korean built butchered Gretsch Electromatic doesn’t get totally destroyed or stolen again.I know that’s a very real risk. If it does, I’m confident I can get past it and move on. But for now, it sure feels great to be in love with a guitar again.

To confirm: both still dead.

I don’t know if you folks have heard the news. Whitney Houston is still dead, like a door knob. But rather than bash her memory like the main stream cynics, or squirt big alligator tears like her throngs of fans because it was “such a tragedy to lose her,”  I’m here to take my hat off and say, “Whitney, you were one badass crazy bitch!”

Anyone that knows the difference between an A and a G chord knows Whitney Houston was nothing more than a singing clothes rack fronting  the evil corporate music conspiracy that has been sweeping over America since the late 70’s. She was pretty, she could sing, she got chewed up and spit out… nothing to see here folks, just move along.

The one thing Whitney Houston was not was a fucking poser. You didn’t hear her prattling on about all the drugs she had done. Yes she did drugs, she did drugs to the point it killed her. That establishes street cred in Clarence Worly’s book of “Who’s a poser douche bag and who isn’t.”

Why??? Why did they let her out in public without a paper bag over her head? And to confirm: still dead.

Wanna know who else wasn’t a poser? Amy Winehouse (I actually had to Google British chick overdose rock star; I forgot her name that fast). I know she performed some decent music, but we’re not here to critique, we’re here to separate the posers from the real stars.

I remember a few years back when VH1 did their piece on that shitty has-been band Motley Crew. Nikki Sixx and Pamela Anderson’s Ex were bragging about overdosing and what  badass’s they thought they were because they didn’t die. I was struck by the fact real rock stars always die. Posers just talk about it.

Jim Morrison? Badass, although he did die in a tub; what self-respecting man willingly wallows in his own stink? He must have been really hammered.

This guy was a badass. He drowned in his own puke. That is how real rock stars go.

Bon Scott, Keith Moon, and Jon Bonham all drowned in their own puke, making them all totally fucking badass. Drowning in puke is the only real way to get full street cred in the Worly book. Any dickhead can shoot up too much smack and stop breathing, it takes a pro to suck vomit into the lungs and be so fucked up you don’t even notice it. If I had been around I would have advised those guys to sleep on their stomachs. It’s hard to suck in puke when you have gravity working for you, physics and all.

Michael Jackson? Sorry, having a doctor shoot you full of shit don’t count. MJ always was and always will be a poser. Period.  And an all-around creep just for the record.

Hank Williams died in the backseat of his Cadillac when was just 29. He basically just blew up. Hank Williams was a badass.

Elvis? Badass.

OMG just die you fucking freakish monkey-faced old-ass poser!

The guys who claimed to be music’s hardest partyer’s, guys like Ozzy and Steven Tyler and Keith Richards,  are now pathetic old men who didn’t have the balls to deliver the goods back in the day.  If they really hit it that hard, they’d be dead. Dead like Jimi Hendrix or Sid Vicious or even sweet little Janis.

And now they’re out there talking shit.

Ozzy snorted ants? Big fucking deal, my bulldog snorts ants.  Keith Richards has been a junkie since 1964? Bullshit. He just looks that way because he’s English, and all those assholes are hideous after they hit 40. Steven Tyler? God… break a hip and die already you disgusting old fuck. None of these posers even party anymore, gets in the way of their old folks home workouts and Ensure milkshakes and reality TV appearances.

RIP Country Dick

The best music story of drunken drug related craziness has to go to my personal hero and part time friend, Country Dick Montana, drummer and front man for the legendary Beat Farmers out of San Diego. Dick was infamous for showing up two hours before a show and drinking enough tequila to kill an elephant with his loyal fans, yet still being coherent enough to put on a great show. His drinking abilities might have had something to do with the mountains of coke he used to snort on a daily basis.

The Beat Farmers were doing a show in Whistler BC at the Longhorn Saloon when, in the middle of “The Girl I almost Married,” CD’s heart gave out and he keeled over his drum set and died on stage at 40.

THAT is the way real rock stars go. Country Dick Montana will always be the biggest badass of ‘em all in my book.

It’s Valentine’s Day, the day reserved for amorous exchanges between lovers all across the Christian world. And if you’re reading this thinking, “Oh shit, I forgot its Valentine’s Day,” you are seriously screwed. Nothing pisses off a spouse or BF/GF more than being forgotten and taken for granted on the most romantic day of the year.

Forgetting the person closest to you on Valentine’s Day is like saying, “Yeah, I know we’re doing each other, but I really don’t think about you on a daily basis, and to tell the truth, it ain’t all that good anyway.” So when I say pisses off a spouse or BF/GF, I mean hurt. Maybe that isn’t what you meant to do, and maybe you even feel like an unappreciative asshole, but trust me, if you blow today off, it will come back to haunt you.

As a public service, I’m here to throw out some last minute gift suggestions for the 2% of the gals out there who forgot to get their men something, but more importantly, the 78% of the guys who will be on the drive home after work and think, “Oh shit, I forgot its Valentine’s Day.”

Get a bowling ball at the Youth Ranch and promise to get it sized and engraved with your gals name before you hit the lanes next fall.

Swing into Smith’s Food King and get one rose, a six-pack of PBR, and a box of Trojans ribbed for her pleasure.

Download a bunch of girl on girl porn on her laptop so you can share it in bed after a big bottle of Barefoot Merlot and a couple Hot Pockets.

Stop by Cal Ranch and get her reloading dies for your .444 Marlin and take her out shooting once she gets a couple boxes done.

Give her a hand written gift certificate good for one free house cleaning, starting next spring of course.

Take her to Carl’s Jr. for a Western Bacon Cheese then top it off with some yummy bladder tap wine at Vino Rosso.

March into Karnations and demand a 3” Valentine dildo for your gal. Anything bigger is only gonna create problems later.

For you gals, get him an all day spa treatment with lots of cucumber face masks and pedicures. Guys love that shit.

Sweep her away to the hot springs at Heise. Nothing says “I love you and you are special” like screaming kids and urine contaminated water that reeks of rotten eggs.

If you’re reading this in the morning, take the day off work, call in a pizza, have a few beers, and greet her at the door drunk, naked and holding a rose in your mouth when she gets home from her job.

Whatever you do, do something. Drop the kids off at the folks and go to dinner. Make a nice meal at home a share a good bottle of something. Make an effort; let your other half know you’re not a complete romantic imbecile. You never know, if you play your Valentine cards right, you might just get lucky tonight.

The Woodside Inn-Pine Junction Colorado

My favorite watering hole used to be the Woodside Inn, a roadhouse type bar in Pine Junction up in the mountains a few miles west of Denver.  It was kinda like Pond’s Lodge, but with attitude.

One Labor Day, after an exhausting session of drafting a fantasy football team and sucking down body shots out of stripper’s belly buttons, I insisted our DD stop off at the Woodside on the hour drive home from Denver to have a few more drinks. The DD didn’t protest too hard since there wasn’t a car in the parking lot and he figured we would be in and out like a bunny.

He figured wrong.

As we hit the front door I exclaimed “Holy shit there’s a band tonight!” Sure enough, there was a three piece rockabilly band playing to the bartender and they were absolutely kicking ass. Turns out it was the Hillbilly Hellcats outta Denver. I was smitten, I had a killer band all to myself and I got to party overnight with Hellcat Chuck Hughes, one of the best guitarist/front men in the business and a personal hero of mine.

I can recount many stories like this from my years spent in Denver, basically, seeing mind blowing bands and musicians who played to no one in dive bars, because killer bands in big cities are like big fake tits in porn, they’re dime a dozen.

As a musician who played the circuit in Denver, as well as Vegas, along with many shitty gigs in So Cal (played the Whiskey a go go once, worst hour of my life) I know what it’s like to rehearse for months on end only to lug gear all over BFE in an oil burning Pinto and play to half a dozen hipster dicks who would rather swap hair gel secrets than listen to real music performed by a good band.

When I moved back to Idaho Falls I figured my music days were behind me. I’m a guy who only knows three chords and likes to sing Johnny Cash and Joe Strummer tunes at 200 beats a minute, same shit I’ve been playing since 1986, and definitely outdated by hipster standards. But recently, by pure chance, I’m back playing again, playing with friends, and performing material that I (we) really love. Whoda thunk I’d meet a bassist and a drummer with the same taste in music?

The best part about being back in it is the lack of cross-armed big city assholes who think they’ve heard everything, and unless one of their douchbag cronies tells them what’s cool to listen too, everything sucks. These guys don’t know shit from shinola.

The friends we’ve had take time to come out and to listen us have been fantastic and accepting. There is nothing worse than playing and having shit thrown at you and being booed because the Buck Owens or Ramones you’re playing isn’t considered “in” anymore. Trust me, I know.

I’m SO fucking glad I’m playing in “un-hip totally out of it” Idaho Falls I could simply shit myself. This is an area that doesn’t get many underground up and coming acts, but that makes Idaho Falls cool by default. We aren’t jaded by nightly bombardments of seven bill techno-punk-trance-country-screamo-death metal-hardcore line ups at DB’s or The Gator.

Jesus, we’re ecstatic just to have a band to listen to. Any band. And when the band plays, we dance. And when the song is over, we applaud and we cheer, all the while drinking beers and shots and being happy that someone took the time to entertain us. When I see a band that’s what I do, and so do all my friends.

So believe me when I say, fuck the big city, I’d rather play for my friends in Idaho Falls anytime.

This morning Alabama asked me if I was still on my period. She is of the opinion that I have been in a state of depression for some time now. She cites my sudden negativity and overall disgust with everything around me as proof the old serotonin levels aren’t what they should be.

After reviewing my last few blogs, I’ve concluded she must be right. I’ve been bagging on everything from religion to music to politics. To what end?  I’m never going to convince anyone their religion is bullshit or the music they listen to sucks or Ron Paul should be locked up in Blackfoot South.

So in an effort to rid myself of all this stinkin’ thinkin’, I’m gonna list a few of my favorite things about living in Southeast Idaho,  turn my  frown upside down,  and try to give everyone around me a warm fuzzy, because let’s face it, nobody wants to hang around a sullen dickhead who shits on everything he sees.

Clarence Worly’s list of Good Things:

I no longer have to do a 90 minute commute just to get to work; I’m there in 5 minutes.

We have the best fishing in the continental US just 30 minutes away.

We have Grand Targhee at our fingertips as well as Big Sky and Teton Village.

I can drive for one hour in almost any direction and not see another living soul.

We have Alive after Five all summer long.

We have the Teton No Motor, Drive-In Movie Night, THE Halloween party, and now, Lebowski Fest !

We have a developing downtown district that is showing signs of big city coolness.

We have a 7 mile Green Belt loop around an amazing river.

We have the Bowlero on Sundays and The Elks on Saturdays for winter bowling.

We have Smitty’s and Scotty’s and The Gator. These places kick ass!

I can walk anywhere in town and not really worry about being murdered and robbed.

We have a baseball team and a killer stadium.

We have the 4^th of July thing that rivals any celebration in the country.

We have the best camping opportunities in the west.

We have BeerFest!

Most importantly, I have an amazing group of friends that make living here a weekly adventure.

So with those blessings counted, I’m gonna STFU for a while, focus on the happy things, like beer and friends, and stop acting like a whiney little depressive bitch.

Clarence Worly circa. 1979

I got a friend request on Facebook last week. I can honestly say I have never turned down a friend request on Facebook. I liken internet social networking to the folks I used to meet back in my rock & roll road band days. I’ve always figured if someone is willing to look beyond my bullshit and extend a hand in friendship, who am I to say “up yours- I’m too cool to be your friend.” I’ll be friends with anyone, unless they prove I shouldn’t be.

This request came from a gal who knew me in high school and she messaged me with a detailed account of all the things we used to do together. Parties, classes, and people we both knew… it should have been a regular class reunion except for one problem. I had no recollection of any of her related stories nor did I have any fucking idea who this person was. So out came the Bonneville High School yearbook from 1980 and I looked her up.

Nope, still absolutely no idea.

I wrote a ballad a few years back with the lines “I got a pot gut, and Swiss cheese, for the brains left in my head.”  Well that’s no shit. I responded back with the courtesy “good times,” but seriously, I still have no memory of her whatsoever.

When I had the yearbook out, I went through a few of the comments my friends and classmates had written almost 32 years ago. I wonder what kids write in yearbooks today, or if they still have yearbooks. This was way before shit like “Yo Dawg” and “chill” and “word” and “sick” and “sweet” became part of the rural American vernacular. I had to chuckle when I read some of the stupid shit my friends wrote.

Luckily, I don’t have to worry about being ridiculed about my comments in other’s yearbooks; I couldn’t functionally read or write when I graduated from Idaho’s District 93 school system, so I had that going for me, in that all I could do was make my “mark” next to my picture.

Idaho! We haven’t been ranked in the bottom 5% of the American education system since 1890 for no reason. We’re a state lousy with gun-toting Jesus-loving rightwing fanatics and our lack of quality education proves it. Hell, even our elected State Superintendent of public schools has a fucking mail order degree from a fake on-line university he picked up a couple weeks before he was elected.

Idahoans just don’t think fancy schoolin’ is worth funding with our tax dollars. Don’t like it? Fuck off you dope smokin’ liberal hippie freaks!

Anyway, I thought I’d share a few choice 1980 yearbook snippets. Now that I’ve read through them a second time, they aren’t as funny as I’d originally thought, but hey, very few things stand the test of time:

“Hey you wasted bastard. WHAM! I guess we all got fucked up this year. May you eat a cunt that has the clap and get rotten lips. Glad I got to know you and we will get together this summer to party up!”  - Super classy, never heard from or saw this guy again.

“You slut, it was great getting to know you. We are going to have to get together this summer and party it up.” - Never heard from or saw this guy again.

“You are really a neat guy. It was fun knowing you this year. Don’t party too much this summer. I hope you have a good life.” – I never saw this gal again either, but I tried to friend her on FB.  She didn’t respond.

“How is the partier around town? We are going to have to party down heavy this summer and go skiing this winter.” - Never heard from or saw this guy again.

“You are really a cool guy and I can’t believe how funny. You guys were making us laugh our guts out in Government. Wasn’t Bateman so funny?  Well you stay cool and you’re a super pal. I’ll see you around.” -I still do things once in a while with this gal and her husband.

“Big Joe Graduate! You are one neat alcoholic and acid freak (just kidding). I’m really going to miss you next year.  What am I going to do without all your tight hugs? Be cool this summer and party hardy.” -This chick had the reputation as the school slut, although I’m pretty sure she never did anything worse than a few Saturday night blow jobs. She’s a FB friend, married and divorced a few times with umpteen grandkids. Age has a way of making hot girls seem sad and pathetic.

“Hey dildo! It’s been a hell of a rowdy year. So what we’re graduated, let’s party more!!!” – This guy is a Mormon bishop now. He’s still a friend and a cool dude.

“This year has been rather excellent. We have had some good times together. We have a few good parties to attend this summer. Good luck in everything you do.”- Never heard from or saw this guy again.

“How’s it growing? About 12” huh? It’s been nice but don’t get in too much trouble. If you’re ever out stop by, take it easy, see ya later.” – Never heard from or saw this guy again, but I can’t help but wonder if he might have been gay…

“You’re a hunk of a man and I love you. You’re great and I don’t want you to ever forget me. When you’re done with college write me sometime and tell me how it’s going. Well stay sober some of the time and maybe you’ll like it. Don’t ever change, well maybe for the better. Stay rowdy and don’t ever let me down by getting hurt. Maybe one day I will drink (water).” – I didn’t really know this gal when she wrote this, but after the heartfelt yearbook message, we wound up dating for the summer. I remember she had a rich Dad, she was 15, and had 36DD’s. That’s about it. God youth is wasted on the young.

“We had a hell of a year. Good luck at Boise State next year. We’ll see each other enough this summer. Take it easy and be a S-T-_-_-_-R! PS: Fuck off.”- We ended up getting thrown in jail together, haven’t heard from him in 20 years. I guess we had to sensor ourselves back then when we used racy terms like “stoner.”

“Well it looks as if we have passed just one of many milestones we will face in life.  We have had some pretty excellent times getting fucked up. I just want to say thanks for being a friend. And always remember, if you don’t eat your meat. You can’t have any pudding. How can you have any pudding if you don’t eat your meat? Be careful and don’t kill yourself you crazy bastard. Try not to OD (without me).”-This was from my best friend in school. We still stay in touch and although we’ve drifted apart, when the password question comes up, “What is your best friend’s first name?” It’s always his.

I should note I had a GPA of 0.05 at Boise State, turns out if you can’t read or write, college may not be for you. Perhaps why Idaho still has the highest college drop out rate in the nation?

Clarence Worly circa. 2011

When I sit down and think about it, I realize just how old I am in calendar years. Most the folks I hang out with now were busy getting born around the time I was in high school.

In my defense, I was mentally around two years-old when I got out of high school and my behavior proved it. These days I would be locked up for the shit I got away with in the 70’s. But that’s how things work, somebody has to break all the rules and fuck it up for everyone else.

That somebody was me. And you’re all welcome.

Only in America can a beautiful woman fuck herself out of porn and into legitimate business endeavors. That is what makes this country great!

With 2012 officially off and stumbling headlong towards the ultimate demise of our species here on the big blue marble, I’ve been reflecting back on how I managed to wind up another year older without really taking away any lessons learned, or even mildly valuable tidbits of knowledge, that I could stash away in my nearly empty bag of half-century old mental wisdoms.

When I was a dipshit kid in my late twenties and early thirties, I used to think there would be a point when I’d be like those old dudes in their fifties who stay home every night and watch Matlock or listen to some shitty classic rock station and drink three shitty Bud Lights before hitting the sack at 10:30. At least that’s how I had fifty envisioned, because 5-0 was fucking-A-old.

But now I’m here on fifty’s doorstep, and mentally, I don’t feel one bit different than I did when I was twenty-six. Mentally mind you, physically I feel like an inbred hillbilly wrapped a tow chain around my neck and drug me through ten miles of sagebrush with his jacked-up Cornbinder because I told his toothless sister/wife she had a lumpy butt.

Someone once told me it ain’t the miles; it’s the wear and tear. That’s no shit. I’m feeling all of about seventy-two as of late and unless modern medicine comes up with a way to perform brain transplants so I can get a new body within the next few years, and it’s funded through Medicaid, I’m as thoroughly fucked as Jenna Jameson. My containment vessel has lost a few too many heat tiles and I feel like I’m coming in way too steep for reentry. Maybe I’ll get lucky and the Mayan’s will be right about 2012.

Regardless whether the world ends this year, here are a few random things I gleaned out of 2011:

If you’re packing around an extra 50 or 60 lbs of weight with you everywhere you go it doesn’t mean you’re prosperous. It means you’re a lazy fat fuck who’s gonna develop diabetes or heart disease or cancer and drive the cost of medical care up,  bankrupting it for the rest of us. I know; I was one of those lazy fat fucks one year ago. Here’s a thought, put the fork down, stop shoveling that processed Wal-Mart sponsored Chinese made Soylent Green goo in your disgusting piehole, and go outside for a fucking walk before you wind up with a $250,000 hospital bill the rest of us have to help pay for. If you just can’t lose the weight, at least show a little American patriotism and have the courtesy to save our health care system by putting a .45 in your nauseating maw and pulling the trigger until it goes click.

Whoa… that sounded super mean! But seriously, die you fat fucks, die or move to an EU country where they don’t seem to mind going bankrupt. We just can’t afford your worthless asses.

If you have a cell phone and you use it to text or talk while you’re driving, I Clarence Worly, will personally run you off the road and cram that phone so far up your ass you’ll have to burp to dial 911. I’ve really had it with this shit; it’s like sharing the road with Amy Winehouse before she became another corporate record company casualty. Your text or phone call isn’t worth killing me or my family with your car, and if the bought-and-paid-for human garbage over in the state legislature doesn’t have the balls to stand up to the communication industry and do what’s right, I will.

All kidding aside, only a complete piece of shit drives drunk and the same goes for cell phones while driving. There were nearly 6500 highway fatalities last year because of cell phone use, don’t be a complete piece of shit, lose the phone while you drive.

After carefully considering all the possible candidates in the upcoming 2012 Presidential election, I have decided I’m the only person in the country, with the exception of Charlie Sheen, capable of fixing things. My first order of business will be rounding up all the Teahadist-Jesus-Freaks and the Godless-Occupy Now –Hippies, and deporting their sniveling asses to Cuba. It worked for Castro in the eighties; it can work for us today! Am I the only guy sick of the incessant whining? It’s super easy to leave if you don’t like it here, so just leave. But please, in the name of all that is holy, STFU while doing so!

I just had a thought on how to save $1 trillion a year in health care costs. We send everyone with a BMI above 30 to Cuba along with the whiners. They will be svelte and healthy in no time based on the fact there is no food in Cuba and to get back to the states, they’ll have to pass an endurance test; swimming 90 miles to Florida. But not the whiners, those fucks are out for good; let ‘em start their own country, they can call it “New France.”

I think the most important thing I took away from 2011 is this; after putting my mom in assisted living, I now know the meaning of “Hell on Earth.” After toiling away for a lifetime, the reward is to sit in a wheel chair and drool, while minimum wage losers feed you old folk goo and occasionally wipe your ass when you shit yourself. All this for the cool price tag of $3500 a month. I am definitely following in the footsteps of Hunter S. Thompson when the time comes. Unless of course, I can find a hot minimum wage loser with big tits to feed me old folk goo and wipe my ass, that would be awesome!

So with yet another nugget of inspirational positive energy, I look forward to 2012, and hope we can all come together and live as one in a country free from politically whiney cell phone yapping fat fucks headed for obscenely overpriced nursing homes.

Goddamn it’s good to be an American, Happy New Year bitches!