I've noticed something over the last few months.

You know those ultra-hip yellow Livestrong wristbands that Lance Armstrong has marketed for cancer research? I dig 'em. I like what they stand for, and I particularly like the fact that they're stylish withoug being trendy (or pretentious). Teh fact that the money from each purchase goes straight to cancer research is a huge plus with me. So yeah, on the whole I really like them, which is probably why I own one (along with half my office).

However, have you noticed that while these things pull off the unthinkable by making banana yellow cool, they don't look good on fat people at all?

Now, by "fat," I don't mean someone who has a small gut, beer belly, or even a paunch. I'm talking about the so-called "morbidly obese" that seem to be growing in both per capita population and waistline each year. They really just don't look good on these people. At all.

I first noticed this one night two months ago down at the gym. I was going through my routine when this fat kid comes in. He's maybe 6' and change, but is clearly overweight. The first thing I noticed (besides his size) was how young he was. Probably no more than 14 or 15. The second thing I noticed was that he was doing every single exercise wrong. I tried to help him, but he maintained that he used to lift and knew what he was doing. Nearly two full months later, he's not only still doing them wrong, but he's brought down the weight to make it easier. The third thing I noticed was his Livestrong band. They do stick out because of their color, and also because it seems like everyone owns one now. But it really didn't look that hip on him.

It just looked out of place, like it accidentally found its way onto his wrist. Of course, this was all compounded by the fact that the kid is a total chump. But I have noticed these items on other grossly overweight individuals, and they just don't look right.

It is therefore my assertion that, on a purely subconscious level, seeing a Livestrong bracelet on an extremely overweight person is not aesthetically pleasing. On a subterranean level, your mind tells you, "What business does someone that size have promoting health through his fashion statement? From the look of him, he should be wearing a wristband that promotes hunger strikes, because his belly is promoting Wendy's late-night drive-thru window."

Well, maybe only my mind tells me that last bit.

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

The Pope wants me dead.

Now, I'm not Catholic. Those of you who know me are aware that I'm a Greek Orthodox Christian, so I've never had a reason to pay any attention to the Pope. But that's not why he wants me dead. He doesn't event want me dead because I'm not Catholic. There's a far deeper reason for the Pope's loathing for me.

You see, back at Skidmore, I auditioned for a sketch comedy troupe appropriately named the Sketchies. Although I never was a full-fledged member, I was an extra in two skits, the first of which was "Varsity Green." This was a take on Varsity Blues that juxtaposed football with Ultimate Frisbee (the average Skiddie/Hippie's sport of choice, commonly played on the campus green, hence the name). My role was that of a nameless walk-on player. Harmless stuff... it's the second skit that really fired up Juan Pablo Dos.

"The Adventures Of Popeman And Cardinal."

This was a take-off on the old Batman TV show with Adam West and Burt Ward. Considering how campy and kitschy the original product was, you can only imagine what the parody had to offer.

Popeman and Cardinal live their lives as average everyday Christians, and spend their days watching televangelists and PAX. But when sin is on the horizon, they receive a call from the Commish.

Jesus Christ.

That's right. The Sketchies set up a phone with a little light-up plastic Jesus that would flicker when the phone rang. On the other end, a dirty hippie named Gareth with long hair and a fake beard posing as the Lord, our Savior.

I'm so going to Hell for this.

So J.C. plays the part of Commissioner Gordon, instructing Popeman and Cardinal to jump into action when all that is good and holy is in danger. After He wishes His boys good luck ("...And may my Dad be with you"), these two mild-mannered Bible-thumpers become the Dynamic Duo, the Papal Pair, Popeman and Cardinal. Popeman adorns the massive Pope hat that we've all come to know and love along with a white tunic, and a large red "P" on his chest a la Superman. Cardinal, on the other hand, sports a red tunic with a small yellow "C" encased within a black circle, and wears a black mask in the style of Robin or Kato.

Straight to Hell, do not pass Go, do not collect $200.

In this week's episode (which is the only episode to date), the malevolent Dr. Polygamy, a rogue monk entrenched in a harem of wives, is planning to rig the Annual Papal Awards in hopes of pecoming the new Pope. Along with his wicked wives and his illegitimate son, Bastardo, he will wreack havoc on the Roman Catholic Church!

In case you're wondering where I am in this mess, I was one of the wives. Yes. I dressed in drag. Once. It was not a pretty sight. I've seen more attractive people at the burn ward. Do your best to erase the image from your mind. You'll thank me later.

Anyway, Popeman and Cardinal arrive on the scene to thward Dr. Polygamy's plans only to be confronted by his harem. Cue your standard cliched Batman-inspired climax/throwdown, replete with fisticuffs and theatrics. Only the "Bams!" and "Biffs!" have been replaced with more... pious exclamations. A punch is thrown and "Bible!" flashes across the screen. A wife grabs Cardinal in a rear waistlock, and the Altar Boy Wonder nails an incoming sinner with a double kick to the midsection to the tune of "Psalm!" You get the idea.

Long story short, the pair are overcome by the wives and taken prisoner, left to the devices of the Devilishly Darwinian Evil-Lution. Basically an excuse to put a guy in a monkey suit. Naturally, the good guys escape, and arrive at the Papal Awards just in time to stop Dr. Polygamy (posing as Antonio Sabado, Jr.) from accepting the Papacy from this year's presenters (Steve Martin and Goldie Hawn). Everyone good lives, everyone bad dies or goes to jial. Life is sweet, cue the dance routine.

For participating in this sketch, the Pope is making me pay from beyond the grave. See, I work for a company that specializes in collectibles. Model cars, elegantly bound books, commemorative sports novelties, etc. My dividsion deals with the philatelic side of things.

Translation: I work with stamps and coins. Yep. I bust my ass and drive over an hour to work every day so some wishy-washy no-life shmuck can have a collection of decorative panels featuring coins minted from FDR's presidency and commemorative stamps in honor of the signing of the Federal Deposit Insurance Law and the like (I'm not making this up), all packaged in a "handsome" limited edition deluxe collector's album with vinyl sleeves to keep the coins and stamps (which are already encapsulated in acetates) in mint condition.

People wonder why I drink a quart of turpentine when I get home from work every night.

Well here's the thing... my division underwent a massive changei n operation when Princess Diana died several years back. Now we make a good portion of our bread through memorial programs for beloved public figures in lieu of their deaths.

So you can imagine that when J.P. II took a trip to the O.R., our creative department was already developing art for an upcoming program in honor of his great life. When he bought the farm on Saturday, I knew that Monday (and the week to follow) was going to be hell in a hand basket.

I come to work before my assistant manager arrives (as always) and find out that I have to order 7 million unites of marketing materials (letters, brochures, etc.). That 7 million quickly jumps to 7.5 mil. As I write this, we're at 10 mil, and that's just what's been estimated in 2 days. I'm sure that as the masses that flock to His Eminence's corpse increase, so will my workload.

The irony of it all. The Pope, perhaps the holiest man known to the world, is now putting me through hell. All because of that Goddamn skit.

I just cringe to think at what he'll do to the cat in the monkey suit.

Goodnight and have a blessed tomorrow.

The more I look at what’s going on out west, the more convinced I become of the theory that the entire L.A. County District Attorney’s Office must be suffering from one brutal case of collective brain cancer.

Because you’d have to be sans that many brain cells and smoking that much pot to drop the ball on so many brutally obvious celebrity convictions.

Seriously, what the fuck is going on in California? As if I weren’t already praying for its inevitable descent into the Pacific courtesy of the San Andreas Fault, I’m forced to watch justice perverted on a regular basis at the hands of inept prosecutors and muckraking scumbag defense attorneys.

Granted, I’ve got enough problems with the American legal system to begin with. And I’m talking well beyond the current cast of Law & Order. I think we have way to many legal loopholes that keep felons out of jail and convicts on death row. I also think the rules of evidence need to be restructured because too often, there are extenuating circumstances that require evidence be plucked from somewhere besides the area designated in a search warrant.

But I’m not here to talk about that. I’m here to talk about how these dimwit prosecutors dropped the ball on Robert Blake, an obvious psychopath, and how they’re inevitably gonna drop the ball on Michael Jackson.

Yeah, I know, I lambasted him earlier this month. I still think the man is guilty. By that same token, I’m convinced that the prosecution is gonna do what it always does in Hollywood: they’re gonna build a case on a foundation of circumstantial evidence, fail to establish a clear motive, and glide through like they’ve got an easy win.

And you know what? They really should have an easy win. They should’ve had an easy win with Blake. And with O.J. And with John Landis. You get the idea.

Seriously, have you heard Blake since his win in the courtroom? If I were a juror for that case, the first thing to cross my mind when hearing his press conference would be, “holy shit, we just unleashed a madman into society.”

And it’s hardly the jury’s fault; they’re selected because they know nothing about the case to begin with. Another fatal flaw of our legal system, but I digress. It’s the duty of the prosecution and the defense to convince the jury that the defendant is either guilty or not. It just so happens that prosecutors in California haven’t been able to do this since Charles Manson.

Seriously, they let off John Landis in the Twilight Zone case. For those unfamiliar, this was a film adaptation of the popular Rod Serling TV show done in an episodic fashion, each segment with a different director. Long story short, there was a helicopter sequence in Landis’ portion of the film in which a pyrotechnic blast was overloaded, and it wound up taking the helicopter down, causing it to land on actor Vic Morrow and two child actors, killing all three. First off, Landis was in the wrong by having the two younger actors work late nights (child labor laws, folks). Secondly, he packed the explosion to the nines for a greater effect; an item he bragged about openly on the set. Now, I loved Animal House, but the guy is clearly guilty of negligence. Yet the prosecution failed to follow through on its intent to convict.

As I said, this is the same thing that happened with O.J. and Robert Blake. When it all adds up, odds are Mikey’s gonna get off. On kiddie porn. Then he’ll be acquitted of all charges. So it goes.

Maybe a lot of this has to do with the strength of your average celebrity attorney. These guys could sell you a Pinto and have you thinkin’ it’s a goddamn Beemer. I’d love to know what law school they attended to acquire such vile talents when it comes to manipulation, but I seriously think it’s time someone carpet bombed that institution. We got enough lowlife lawyers out there to begin with. Only difference is these guys are priced too high for anyone without a seven figure income.

Some of this rumination on my part may have been brought about by the passing of Johnnie Cochran. I heard about this on the radio tonight, and I nearly breathed a sigh of relief. I’m not a cold person when it comes to untimely deaths, but that is one guy that I will not miss, nor will I shed any tears for. I can’t respect a man who made his living—a robust one at that—by “unproving” the obvious guilt of so many piss-poor human beings. Honestly, did he ever do anything else worth note or merit? The man was a scumbag, plain and simple. He thrived on deception, diversion, subterfuge, and the overall softening of the human brain. God be with his family and friends, but quite frankly, the world’s a better place without him. End of story.

In the meantime, I seriously think it’s high time that California’s prosecutors up the ante and get aggressive when it comes to celebrity cases. These Goddamn cases are so high profile, so larger-than-life that when a clearly guilty celeb is acquitted, it makes our nation and our legal system look bad. I’ll never vindicate someone for their poor deeds just because they landed People Magazine’s “50 Most Beautiful People List” (Jude Law, I’m lookin’ your way. I know about the illegal cable hookup. And the baby seal you clubbed. Your number’s up, chump). I look at them as I would any other felon when it’s clear they’ve done wrong. But in the eyes of the court, I do believe prosecutors should look at them differently. Don’t view them as just people, especially when it comes to heinous crimes. Go for the fuckin’ throat and don’t let up until they cry uncle or their bank account dies. Make an example of these pompous, cocky bastards for the rest of the lot.

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

Y’know, if I ever decide to become a child molester, I’m gonna make sure that I have the best-selling album of the decade before I start dipping my pen into the Romper Room ink pool.

That would appear to be what Michael Jackson did, and it’s done him well thus far. After all, despite a purportedly overwhelming amount of evidence against his cause, he still has a legion of religiously devout fans, as well as more celebrity friends than are listed in Johnny Carson’s old guestbook. And both groups are avidly supporting him with the incoming of this trial. So not only does he have the moral support of his fans, but he has character witnesses willing to take the stand for him.

Of course, when your character witnesses are a guy who was on trial for rape and a woman with nearly ten marriages to her name, you gotta wonder if Mikey’s defense isn’t asking them to kindly back off. Then again, you gotta be kinda loopy to represent a guy like Jackson in the first place.

I am convinced that Michael Jackson could commit atrocities against humankind that would make Osama bin Laden shit himself, and he’d still have hundreds of people flock to him like vultures to a pasty white corpse with no nose. And it didn’t take this trial to make me aware of this fact.

Lemme set the stage for ya: my radio show at Skidmore was basically a hard rock expo peppered with commentary, observations, and sage truths.

Just imagine this blog with a soundtrack. That was my show in a nutshell.

The slot I had during the first semester of my senior year was from 6 to 8 in the evening. My lead-in was an hour-long show entitled “Off The Wall: A Tribute To The Jacksons.” The hosts were a boyfriend/girlfriend team who were both Jackson fanatics, and their on-air content consisted not only of tunes by Michael, Janet, and the 5, but also “impressive” solo work by Germaine, Tito, Marlon, and LaToya. There was also Jackson Trivia, holiday songs, “This Day in Jackson History,” etc., etc., ad nauseum (or just plain “added nausea”). Top it all off with the fact that the female half of the team shelled out a whopping $300 and change to see the Michael Jackson Tribute Special back in 2001, featuring Michael, Britney Spears, Justin Timberlake, Usher, and a veritable cornucopia of $&B stars and Pop Tarts.

First off, how late were the program managers up at night to have an all-Jackson’s program as a lead-in to a balls-out hard rock show? Then again, it is Skidmore, so it’s likely that between alternating bong hits, beer funnels and Esperanto’s Dough Boys, my show would’ve sounded like a great lead-in for an all-polka show.

Wait… that was my junior year… sonuva…

Secondly, this led me to two rock-hard, undisputable truths:

1 – Jackson fans are absolutely rabid. You really have to just forsake all reason and love the hell out of this man if you’re willing to purchase Tito Jackson’s solo records based solely on the fact that he is Michael’s sibling.

2 – The female half of this crew had to give the most amazing blow job known to man, because I do not know a single red-blooded American male that would fess up to liking Michael Jackson in this day and age, let alone sit beside his girlfriend and profess said fandom on a radio show.

Seriously, how can you doubt that this man is beyond fucked up and has an unhealthy obsession with children? That ol’ boy ain’t right, folks! It’s as plain as the fingerprint on the kiddie porn. A lot of us don’t want to believe it, and I understand that. Maybe to some of us, Michael is one of the last truly magical characters in the world that has yet to be debunked. Rank him up there with Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy; it seems to fit the idiom he’s crafted for himself.

Look, I ain’t rankin’ on the guy for his odd behavior or his appearance. At the core if it all, it may not even really be his fault. It’s purely a psychological thing probably brought about by his childhood and all the shit Big Poppa Joe put him and his sibs through. The saddest part is that, in his mind, Michael really doesn’t know that what he’s doing is wrong. Chalk that one up to legal insanity, folks. It’s the same reason that Jeffrey Dahmer was killed in a prison riot and not by lethal injection. Because he thought that putting post-sodomized human entrails on the menu was an OK thing to do.

I forget who said it, but one reported likened Michael Jackson to Howard Hughes. Now this is not the Howard Hughes depicted in The Aviator. This is the whacked-out germophobe version. The guy who was such a hugely public figure that when he all but vanished, people’s already-unhealthy infatuation with him rose tenfold. The unsettling part of this analogy is that while it may be accurate to a fault, Michael’s eccentricities have, like the times themselves, grown more disturbing and frightening.

And it’s hard to deny that. Some folks are eager to cry “conspiracy” to defend Michael’s name, and to be fair, any conspiracy theory may have an element of truth to it, if not too far-fetched. Example: The U.S. government’s watch over and eventual deportation of John Lennon was initially regarded as just wild conspiracy theory. Today we know it to be fact. But the shortcoming of the Jackson theory is this: what would anyone have to gain by setting the man up? I mean, hey, I hated Moonwalker as much as anyone, but I wouldn’t frame the guy for child molestation to get my kicks.

No my friends, this one is sadly very much a reality. We gotta accept that. For many people, this may be the equivalent of discovering that wholesome, likeable J.F.K. cheated on Jackie. Or learning that Mickey Mantle was a massive alcoholic. It’s a sad truth that diehard fans have to learn to deal with. Coming to Michael’s aid isn’t going to help him. Maybe in terms of morale, sure. But it’s not going to be able to sway twelve jurors. That’s what his attorneys are attempting to do. Please leave that job to them.

And please leave college radio alone. Just… just stop dipping into my Kool-Aid, will ya?

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

So last week, Howard Stern dropped the "bombshell" (I use quotation marks since it's been expected for some time) that a committee in the House of Representatives has OK'd a bill that gives the FCC the power to fine individual broadcasters up to $500,000 per offense for crude or indecent content on the public airwaves. The bill passed by a margin of 42-2.

This is gonna be an angry one. Strap in.

I tell ya, this really pisses me off to no end. I cannot believe the government is this up in arms about indecency. It's such a ridiculous, absurd thing to harp on when there are infinitely larger problems at hand.

And yeah, I'm biased as all hell because of my background in radio. If they were cracking down on everyone this bad when I was in college, I'm not so sure I would've gotten those 12 collective months at WSPN under my belt. I don't even think I would've considered it.

Because I wouldn't have had any fun.

People ask me quite frequently if I ever consider returning to radio as a full time career. I suppose it's because I wax poetically about it ad nauseum, but the answer is always an emphatic "no." Why? Three reasons.

1) It is incredibly difficult to get by with a career in radio, no matter how talented you are. I know, there are some guys out there who rake in millions of dollars. But those guys, the Howard Sterns and Don Imuseseses of the world, represent a very slim sample of the entire broadcasting population. They are in the top one percent of all radio personalities, and it took them more than 20 years to reach their respective pinnacles.

The fact is that they and every other schlep in the business got their start by breaking their balls on the weekly overnight. From Monday through Friday, they earned their wings by broadcasting at hours even Dracula and hookers think are nuts. I'm talking from midnight 'til 6 in the morning. This is where you start. And if you miraculously manage to weather that task for, oh, 3-7 years, you may get bumped up to one of two prime drive spots: from 3-6 in the afternoon or from 6-10 in the morning. That's when everyone is listening, really. That also happens to be where the heaviest competition is, especially in the morning. Stations fight for ratings like kids from a fat camp on a field trip to the Hostess factory on a day when they're passing out free samples.

But if you're lucky, you may become one of the top morning guys in the county or state, and even that's a big "if." I'd say on average, the typical radio DJ can't make much more than $20,000 a year, if that. In a nutshell, it's ten times the ladder you'd have to climb in the corporate world.

2) The world of broadcasting has become almost entirely engulfed by the corporate machine. This has killed any legitimate exposure for budding artists through this once-great medium, and has also killed all the fun. Big conglomerates like Clear Channel really do make a difference as far as what gets put on the air. And it's sad, because there's so much truly great music out there that goes completely unheard. I'm amazed that smaller bands such as Thursday, Wilco and Franz Ferdinand have been able to make as much of an impact as they have in a world chuck foll of Matchbox 20's and Sugar Ray's. But they're still a small percentage of the overwhelming number of bands that don't receive adequate exposure.

I heard an ad on K-Rock earlier this week with Hoobastank in which they wax sappy about their root, saying that before all the huge sellout concerts and platinum albums, you heard them on the radio. The only reason that's accurate is because their sound is streamlined to the point where the suits are just comfy enough with them as a hard rock act. You rarely hear a band like, say, From Autumn To Ashes get the kind of airtime Hoobastank does, because FATA is infinitely harder and more aggressive than Hoobastank. There's no longer the element of surprise in radio; the deck has been fixed for a long time, and we're forced to deal with the shitty cards we're dealt.

3) The FCC has a brutal vice grip on the entire industry. In fact, the aforementioned conglomerates are bending over backwards to avoid being fined, resulting in even more lukewarm airplay. Not only are the companies backing down, but with this new legislation against individual broadcasters on the horizon, on-air personalities are now raising the white flag as well. That's the saddest part for me. No one, save Howard, is really making an effort to buck the system and stand up to the FCC. I understand it's hard to fight the government--nigh impossible, if you will. Nevertheless, these DJ's are so petrified, they won't even mention those three cursed consonants on the air. This reticent surrender leads to... you guessed it. More piss poor broadcasts.

Y'know, I've always had issues with the FCC. The only time I think I've ever agreed with them is during last year's SuperBowl fiasco (I refuse to use the term "wardrobe malfunction" like every other shmuck with a mic), because yeah, that incident was uncalled for and inappropriate. I'll give you that.

It was also an isolated incident. One that has never happened before. Be that as it may, the FCC treated the situation like an omen of things to come. To them, Janet Jackson's breast offered poison milk that would impact our impressionable youth, corrupt us, and lead to vulgar, violent, promiscuous behavior across the nation.

Gimme a fuckin' break.

This is where I draw the line with the FCC. I give 'em credit for investigating, but for treating the incident like it was a riot or coup d’etat is outta line. Moreover, they're handling the incident as if they were crossing a minefield.

Two perfect examples. This year, there were two commercials for the SuperBowl that were slated to air. However, things changed quickly.

First off, there was a Bud Light commercial which made light of last year's halftime show. Apparently, there's this one thirsty cat backstage at last year's sporting extravaganza, and he has a hankerin' for some Bud Light. However, not having a bottle opener handy, he uses Janet Jackson's bustier to get that pesky cap off his brew. In doing so, he damages the clothing, and even the most inept genetic defective can pick up on what is being implied.

The other ad that got cut up just before getting the axe was the immensely popular GoDaddy.com ad featuring Candice Michelle. This one is not as overt as the banned Bud Light ad, but it features the strap to Candice's top snapping, and her struggling to keep it on. The three noteworthy things about this ad are that to begin with, the term "wardrobe malfunction" (God, how I hate that phrase...) was initially included in the dialogue, but ultimately removed. Secondly, the ad was slated to run twice during the 'Bowl, but only made the rounds once early in the first quarter. Lastly, the ad has now been pulled from the airwaves altogether.

A word of advice to the FCC: you cannot undo that which is already done. It happened, it was nuts, move on. Chopping up ads that simply try to parody the incident is not going to mystically remove it from television history.

As if my recommendation would make a lick of difference, right? That disgusting, formless, saggy boob has given the FCC a leg to stand on and a loaded gun. The only problem is that their aim is not focused, and they're shooting a lot of innocent bystanders. How do you fine Howard Stern for something he did three or four years ago because Janet Jackson had to be a shameless publicity whore? Nearly a year after the massive fines began to hit, I still don't get it.

Of course, it's not just Howard who's at risk. Pretty much anyone broadcasting at a few thousand watts is dead set in the FCC's crosshairs, and that's the scary part for so many folks in the industry. Being a DJ used to be fun, but now many broadcasters will tell you that they risk career suicide every time they put on a pair of headphones. From what I understand, this new piece of fascist dogm--I mean, legislation, doesn't even offer lenience in the way of extenuating circumstances. In short, if a DJ is on the air, and someone alls up, says "fuck," and it somehow makes it onto the air because the button-pushers aren't fast enough to bleep it, that DJ is at fault, not the caller.

If'n that ain't exquisite bullshit, I don't know what is.

So with this mountain of insanity and irrationality the FCC is making everyone climb, it's easy to see why I would never consider getting back into radio. Don't get me wrong, under nominal circumstances, I'd love to get back in the game. Hell, with Internet radio still around and the advent of Podcasting, who's to say I won't some day? But for right now, terrestrial radio is, as Howard Stern puts it, dead. Period. You can't tell me otherwise. With the exception of college radio and satellite, the art form has been completely demolished. This is why Howard is going to SIRIUS satellite radio, and you know what? Good for fuckin' him. I love it. You'd better believe I'm saving my pennies for my SIRIUS setup. And no, Howard is not the sole reason I'm getting one. I've listened to the product before, and the range of programming is absolutely fantastic. It's all the great stuff you won't hear on contemporary FM, minus the commercials. Stern is smart to get behind this, and I'm fairly certain that in due time, more and more radio personalities will follow hot on his heels. See, because it's a service that the people pay for, the FCC can't touch it. As long as SIRIUS charges a monthly fee, it is completely exempt from any sort of fines. For reference, just look at what HBO can get away with as opposed to basic cable networks.

Look, I'm not gonna twist this into an over-the-top political rant, but I will say that as a former on-air DJ and fulltime radio enthusiast, this legislation is a slap in the face of free speech and the First Amendment. You cannot argue that. The FCC is basically trying to amend an amendment, and that's just plain stupid. Certain government bodies have been lobbying to restrict forms of free speech for years now. Remember when Mortal Kombat came out and all of a sudden Congress was trying to stifle video games? Going back even further, there's the Parent's Music Resource Center, which came up with those wonderfully lame and completely ineffective "Parental Advisory" stickers. (And to all my Republican friends who label me too liberal, the PMRC happened to be founded by Tipper Gore, wife of a Democrat. And political party notwithstanding, I still think it's a bunch of horseshit. Now could you kindly get off my case, already? Thank you.)

This may seem miniscule at this point in time, but to me, it's always about the grand scheme of things. This sort of thing worries me in that it has the potential to set a nasty precedent. It may start with radio and television, but where will it stop? Music? Cinema? Art? Literature? Hell, I've already gone into detail about that *ahem* wonderfully progressive library in Mississippi that pulled the Daily Show book. You don't have to stretch things to see how this could snowball into societal censorship.

And yeah, maybe I do have a small problem with authority which leads me to these opinions. But more so, I have a strong appreciation for freedom of expression and ideas. And believe me, not every attack on free speech involves Larry Flint or Howard Stern. There are many more that go unnoticed because the victims are of a much smaller public stature than the aforementioned "smut moguls." Be that as it may, not every attack has to involve free speech of a sexual nature.

The sad thing is that with this much momentum following "nipplegate" (another term I loathe), the FCC doesn't look to be letting up anytime soon. And while it's great that Stern is giving them a nice big "fuck you" by going to satellite where he can't be touched, it's a shame that people should have to pay for free speech.

Only in America, folks.

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.