Do You Feel Lucky?

(and feel free to comment! My older posts are certainly no less relevant to the burning concerns of the day.)

Wednesday, July 30, 2014

The Theology of Gettin' Laid! (warning: not a professional theologian. Not authoritative theology) (Pretty much never gets laid)

Basically, this is more questions, at least to begin with. We all know the Jews. I tell you, Samson was one consecrated motherfucker, and in consequence, he was rippin' doors off towns' walls, bashing in Philistine brains with an ass's jawbones, ripping lions to pieces with his BIG, BEAR HANDS, and a number of other amusing feats. All the while he was fucking up a storm, and I don't mean just Delilah. This, by the way, just after the time of Israel's Kings, in the time of the Judges - and certainly in a time when Mosaic law was already very highly developed. So at what point did fucking get on the DO NOT list?

The Jews in those days were an earthy, earthly breed, very much in the mode of full gratitude for this gift of all the natural. They didn't turn their nose up at ripping each others' clothes off and FUCK FUCK FUCKA FUCKA ALL DAY NIGHT ALL AROUND THE TENT - naw. No way. When did fucking get on the "Thou Shalln't" list?

It didn't.

Oh, come at me with your epistles, bro. Maybe you will be glad you did, because guess what, "good news!" - and you know what else, fuck all these JUDGYPANTS PRUDES. They ain't even nigh Christ's mighty throne of judgment, let alone fit to sit on it. All these dirtbag gnostic duelists fighting to the death with the material on behalf of the spirtual - LIKE THE SPIRITUAL NEEDS THE HELP OF THESE CLOWNS! - totally convinced MATTER BAD, Spirit Good!

Palestine and indeed, all the Roman realm in those days was thick and lousy with varying stripes of these 'fraid of their own genitalia material/spiritual dualists, and they all spelt one thing: reject the garden. Because you know what? It's still a garden here, holmes. It's just we have to garden it ourselves now. And I am a constant gardener.

The taint of gnostic dualism so rife at the time of Christ and of Christianity's rise could not help but creep into the early church, whispering like a snake this bad news: "Reject the gift of life God gave. BE ASHAMED OF IT. The material world is VILE. Why, you'd be better off CELIBATE than FUCKING!"

Guess fucking what:

Good news.

Nothing natural is shameful, friends. Diogenes. And also: God, who if you recall, was not in favor of that fucking dopey-looking fig leaf merkin Adam felt so all decked out about. OF COURSE ADAM WAS ASHAMED OF THE NATURAL! He'd just eaten the Fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, and after the indigestion passed he found he had practically no better ideas than before! The only thing he really became sure of after eating was that he'd chosen to prefer his judgment over God's (kind of implicit? In the act? NO MAGIC FRUIT REQUIRED?). Adam knew that much: he knew good and evil now, just like God knew good and evil (BUT REALLY, DUDE? TO THE SAME DEGREE? INFINITELY?). So first thing, he picked a biggest fig leaf (overcompensating), slapped that thing over his dick all proud, thinking "MAN - when God sees this sweet fig leaf he'll SHIT! He doesn't even KNOW I know I'm naked!"

Eating the fruit of a tree of a knowledge of good and evil doesn't suddenly transform your fucking ASH DUST ASS into an organism that can metabolize that fruit - let alone into anything like omniscient. You will not have remotely the means to judge. Adam knew the shit now and called the shots - but he was out of his league now, out of the garden. Out of the gardener's hands, into his own - his choice! Yours too, if you care to check it.

Eve's too.

Everyone's. Unanimous; ask around.

Not at all in control, or even in comprehension of all this nature, and so he feared it and was ashamed of his own body. Of course he was in fear, of course he was ashamed. These natural things he once owned, 100% covered and maintained and understood - well, the understanding of a guest at a resort, at least. What once was simplicity itself, now - come to find out his body, his mate's, the fruits of the land and the beasts and the fish in the sea - a total mystery to Adam.

Adam felt very much like "I don't really understand jack SHIT about how to manage this." Perhaps he should of eaten from the Tree of the Knowledge of How to Get Shit Done, but don't worry - we found that tree, and ever since have been feasting off it.

They talk about the fall of Eden, and all human misery that came following in attendant upon that one decision: to prefer one's judgment over God's. But what they always try to snow you about is this: all this was not punishment. It was consequence. Natural consequence, at that. Well of course the land won't feed you. Of course you have to till it - no shit! God took care of that shit before, and you preferred your own devices. Your fig leaf.

Which is fine.

The natural world is still an INSANELY GREAT heritage. We just gotta work it work it a bit more, well ok.

Anyway!

Now jump back, kiss you'self and get down with your bad goodness! Fuck, if you wish, your god damn brains out you crazy beautiful human beings you and can I possibly get an amen? Come forth and multiply! Or, as you prefer, don't.

It's natural to respect one's own preference and inclination in these matters.

Friday, July 25, 2014

Ask A Question Get An Answer #10: How Do You Put Your Pants On In The Morning?

I don't know!

I've tried myself to observe this phenomenon several times, but the subject has proven too elusive and wary. I'll lay out the dilemma - let me know if you get any ideas!

What's known for sure is this: every night, when I go to sleep, I am either wearing A) comfy sweats with underdrawers, B) my comfy soft breathable shorts with or without underdrawers, C) underdrawers, or D) none of the above. Every morning when I wake up, I walk straight to the sales support office and refill my big ol' cup of coffee (my attempts to dislodge more hot coffee by smacking the back of the upended cup into my FUCKING LIP are usually what awakens me in the morning) to find that I am in there, filling my coffee and fully dressed - usually in dark blue, green, charcoal or khaki khakis or else a smart pair of jeans (10 out of 12 it's jeans, to be more accurate), and with a sharp-ass laid-back combination of upper-body garments, which can include any sort of item like a blue, zipperfront pullover (for you Englanders or Commonwealthies, I understand this is what you might call a "wooly jumper") and a blue t-shirt underneath, a polo or other button-front short-sleeved shirt, a full long-sleeved collared button-down shirt of more-or-less classic make, but generally leaning more towards darkly bold or deep color for emphasis rather than any sort of jazzy or dressy cut, gloss, or accents. If a button-down shirt, I may or may not be wearing one of the coolest fucking ties you ever saw. If I'm wearing a sharp blazer, jacket of other kind, or the dark orange sweater, I may just opt for a TEE shirt as the foundational shirt - though you can better believe I'm looking fuckin' good by the time I notice.

But how did it happen? Again, investigations are ongoing. What's really needed here is a research assistant, someone who can be on-site to observe continuously, and make a detailed video record of everything that happens. Everything that happens to happen. The problem is - will the subject behave the same way with a research assistant there, in intimate proximity? The sleeping area is not very large. If the research assistant is a male, will the subject react as if in the presence of a competitor or an aggressor? Or - if the research assistant is a female, won't this too alter the natural behavior of the subject?

It's quite like the ol' uncertainty principle! Can't measure how the subject is putting his pants on, except by introducing a measuring element whose impact or influence may well prevent him taking them off in the first place - and/or present an obstacle to them ever being put back on. At least, not on anything like the timescale we've inferred from observations of the uninterfered-with subject.

I'm not sure what the next step can be, realistically.

I'm going to go get some more coffee.

The Power of Ambiguity? Or: Disclaimers that Fail to Disclaim

"...and I mean that exactly as you're meant to take it."

I Like To Write Online Poems. Anybody Like Online Poems Pt.2?


~ Re: "succinct" - today's most recent poem, and a triumph of concision! ~

I have to admit, I'm happy with the outcome but I wish I could have gotten anything about "concentrated in meaning" or similar in there, but there just wasn't room. It wouldn't fit, I couldn't see any place to stick it or force it in, I mean, I totally could have and the poem kind of cries out for it - how can you write a poem about concision without making reference to the incredible delirious overloading of concentrated MEANING that clamps down on you as an inevitable consequence of making it your priority to take the tiniest possible opening and cram as much as you can in there - "using little to say much," as it were? The poem fucking CRIES OUT for that, for at least some of that, because the point is - by implication at least, that's what the poem's about. The power of a perfect and minimalist composition where every line, every curve, every dip and every swell TELLS. Every. Word. Tells. But at some point, you can't go in like that and just blatantly POUND OUT what the poem is so clearly crying out for, because: that meaning is already part of the word concise. You don't HAVE to force it in!

Anyway, I wanted to - at least just a little of that, just a taste, even just a foretaste you know? I like to abuse the literal sometimes I guess, but there just wasn't any place I could see where I could stick it and make it fit, not without causing some kind of injury to the delicate tissues and sensitive surfaces of the poem's inner essence. You know what I mean?

That's just disgusting, dude. Knock it off.

I Like To Write Online Poems. Anybody Like Online Poems?

Anybody here like the short ones? I prefer the long ones myself, long and lean but I know that it takes all kinds and frankly, I have the skills to crack each different specific niche where anybody might feel the need and fill it to the hilt, if you know what I mean. I mean poetry, and from what I understand, some of you like the short ones for some reason. This one's



"succinct"

close in compass,
compact in scope,
brief in form,
and tightening down:

concise

essentially,
she is.

To closest fit
a given noun
that's just a bit

extravagant

to be precise.


Tuesday, July 15, 2014

More About Me Pt.2

This post is a Part 2. There was also a Part 1!

Hello, my name is Joe but people around here often call me dogimo (pronounced either doh-GEE-mo, dog-EE-mo, DOG-'im-oh, DODGE-'im-oh, or DODGY MOE), dogi (pronounced lord knows how) or "Dodgy." Someone sent me a t-shirt once that says "Dodgy." Big huge letters.

What can I say? She knows me well.

Another thing I - hey! Hi! What can I say? I'm a good guy. I'm pretty nice. You should know that. Probably.

I used to hate that - being called "nice." I took it as an insult on how bad-ass I wasn't - but that's a balls ass move, come the final analysis. Is "the final anal" a decent abbreviation for the final analysis? Regardless: a balls ass move, to take umbrage at being called nice! What's wrong with nice? I am nice! My nice is alll-rite. Nice is a damn nice thing to be, or it can be - and I'm living proof! So I'm at peace with nice, now. Sure I'm nice. You said it. Well-observed.

That's nothing people really need to know about me, though, or at least, I don't care if they do or if they don't. It's really none of their business frankly. I mean, if they pick up on it themselves - I won't deny it! I won't hide it, but they can form their own conclusions on that without my help. Like I said, no longer am I afraid or ashamed how nice I am, but supposing someone concludes that I am or I'm not, I could give a shit you know? I'm not here to convince you. "Sorry."

No offense, but how I seem is not my problem. Seem is in the eye of the other guy, I refuse to be beholden to beholders over what they see fit to conclude over how I seem. Who gives a thought to stuff like that? How many thoughts should you spare per person, over how they see you? Seriously. Do you have any idea how many people there are who see you? Just from a practical standpoint, don't waste your fucking energy - it's a losing effort! But even beyond the practical, it seems a bit seamy or unseemly to me, those whose concern is how they seem. How others see them. How they might come across. WHO CARES? How would you even KNOW? What are they going to TELL YOU? - what, are you going to ASK them? How would you even KNOW how you seem? Right? Then don't worry about it!

Shoot. Anyway, somebody tells you how you seem, how do you know they're not just lying about how you seem? Frankly, isn't it a little suspicious that they seem to think you care or should care how they think you seem? Who do they think they are! Isn't it their problem how you "seem" to them? Let me ask you this - do you control how you seem, to others?

Dude. If so, that's some kind of bad ass psionic superpower and I hope you don't abuse it. You don't seem like the type. I'd be disappointed in you, but at least if you do control how you seem to others, you've got no problems in that area and can safely skip the entire previous section, if you also happen to be precognitious. Why not? Once you break the fifth-sense barrier - collect them all!

Anyway, hey folks. I'm dogimo.

Someone once told me I have a way with wayward words, or words to that effect. Another one once told me I have a command of the language, but I drive the troops too hard. But get it straight either way, though folks: I mean it.

Don't confuse yourself on that score.

More About Me Pt.1

Hi everybody. I've had a lot to go on, in my life. Sometimes I draw the wrong conclusions, or people find me amusing, or misunderstood. Let's call it even - I'm prone to the same problem on their behalf! But I'm a big pizza eater, I sing out softly in the grocery store when the song's right, I'm a beer slut (lites, stouts, reds, blondes, ambers - I POUND THEM ALL) especially when good times come a-runnin', but let me tell you I enjoy a gin cocktail when it's time to talk some serious shit with my fellow inhabitants of the universe! And wine, wine is more when I want to be at one with the something or other. It's a merger into unity of the allness of things, a cosmosis, if you will. Wine is. As opposed to beer. Beer drinks you deeper into this beautiful moment, and gin - which pleasantly fuzzes you out of it, has you side-phasing over gently into the giniverse.

VODKA? Fuck, don't even make them call the COPS. Point is, hi everybody. I like the cops! I like Jews, I like people who believe in ghosts but I don't believe in ghosts. I mean to say I don't believe your fucking CONSCIOUS IDENTITY hangs around moaning in your HOUSE just because you had a to-do list when your ticker quit on you. That's ass-balls nuts. But I honor those who believe that shit. Hey, I can't disprove the paranormal! Not my job! You got the wrong guy.

I'd more tend to assume that if shit like that's going on, its not the actual remnant of the dead distraught one, but rather more a residue of the emanation of regret, longing, terror, or other strong emotion which was seared into the ("haunted") environment by the sheer force of the living person's living (or dying) aura broadcast. Either slowly, over a life lived in drawn-out regret and woe (woe seems to be better at working its way into a house for some reason! You get very few happy joy hauntings), or suddenly in one traumatic burst, for those of you ax-murdered and such. Who cares? I ain't scared of no Ray Parker Junior BULL SHIT. But I enjoy a little ambience, same as the next guy. Go ahead and clump echoing foot steps down the wooden upstairs hall! Slam shut a door or two, time to time. Go ahead and moan. That's kinda hot!

So yeah, I wouldn't call myself goth, but there's no doubt I'm a bit of a barbarian at heart. I'm just not into gargoyles and forced perspective. Hi!

I was wondering if anyone else here had any particular ideas about Chicklets? It seems like the world's not doing enough with the form. So rounded-square, so crunchy-chew toothsome! They should be far more prevalent. Is it their marketing team? Who yanked the support on these?

In The Offseason, When Our Minds Are Clearer: An Examination of Football's Relative Importance

If you think football is meaningless, I can't help you.

Or maybe I can? I can at least testify! I must at least try. My passion for football is greater than my passion for all the world's painted or sculpted art. And I have devoted years of study and practice to that - and I LOVE ART. Art expresses not just humanity's yearning to stamp one's fleeting self upon the eternal, but also humanity's ability beyond all boundaries to see one person's work, and to recognize in it: ourselves. Even in a work that comes down to us from a across great gulf of distance and time. Still, next to football - come on. No comparison.

Compared to the NFL, compared even to individual teams - compared to the Dallas Cowboys, compared to the Philadelphia Eagles - I would say that many, many things are (RELATIVELY) meaningless. Politics is meaningless, by comparison. I am actually quite passionate about issues, if not parties. I do believe that most who devote their lives to public service in the political sphere are committed to righting the world - and I do *NOT* believe their cause to be utterly hopeless! But still. Next to the NFL? Come on. Naw.

Religion is meaningless, by comparison. Religion is politics applied to faith, with various trappings of ritual thrown in. Compared to the Dallas Cowboys? Come on! Even as a way to God - I will seek and find God through the intercession of a well-played NFL game with a far greater accuracy and immediacy than an afternoon spent in a bible college library poring over theological tomes, or gawking in some cathedral while the gigantic heaving pipe organ massacres Bach under an eager deacon's all-too-human hand.

And don't kill me on this one, but folks? Compared to NFL football? BEER IS MEANINGLESS.

It goes without saying that in all the above comparisons, it isn't as if there's any conflict or dichotomy forcing us to choose between. What we're after here is merely a clear-eyed assessment of the relative importance of different important aspects to life. Have a beer, think it over a bit. You'll see what I'm getting at. Football!

The only major element of human culture that can even hope to stand toe-to-toe with professional American football on anything close to an even footing is music, specifically: rock music. And really, even that's only due to the contributions of a small number of standouts.

I can't help it if everybody has everything wrong, priority-wise. In terms of life's meaning and purpose. The theologians have nearly everything entirely wrong, as do the evolutionists, as do those who say the universe is deterministic but purposeless. It may or may not be deterministic - but it is definitely not purposeless. If there is a God, God's purpose in creating the universe was not to provide a place for us to come into being and create one's self through one's own free perception, contemplation and action. No: God's purpose in creating the universe was to foster an environment wherein FOOTBALL could come about, and be played to the highest standards of professional excellence! Evolution is no mere undirected accumulation of mutations selected for survival benefit. No: evolution has been a long road of every organism on earth, blindly yet unyieldingly yearning and striving to bring life towards a form most perfectly suited to suit up, and get a game on!

People who think humanity is the pinnacle of evolution are stupid, short-sighted, misguided and plain wrong. The pinnacle of evolution is football. Football itself. All the animal world knows it! Have you seen those horses play? Holy goodness. Not to mention bears, lions, bengal tigers, all manner of birds and beasts - all are certainly aware of the situation, even if we're not.

Love's more important that football, of course. But just as love would never force love to falsehood, neither could love ever force love to a denial of what's true and important - or even and especially, a denial of what's enjoyable to the lover but essentially, trivial! The love that takes a triviality and says it outranks love, the love that says "if you do not aquiesce in this trivial matter, than you do not love me" - to do this makes love less than what is trivial.

Football is less important than love, it's true. I admit that's true.

Friday, July 11, 2014

OX OX OX!

I remember when one of my history teachers spoke of "the invention of the ox" as a milestone in human history (agricultural advancement-wise). I was like, what are you crazy? The ox was INVENTED? Picture some babylonian ROBOT OX. But I guess in the old days, the first time somebody got the idea to cut some poor bull's balls off, back then, that entitled you to the laurels of a genius inventor. Eureka.

It's kind of sad: poor bull, castrated to plow some field, but you have to admit - what farmer's going lash his plow to a couple of rampaging BULLS? That's going to get you some erratic rows! Fuck, in fact, THAT'S what they should make the matadors do - that'd be a real challenge.

Speaking of which, I realize the fact that all oxen are castrated bulls may in some people's view tarnish the romantic value of the classic "hugs and kisses" signoff "OX OX OX!" In the minds of some, perhaps the juxtaposition of the image of hugs and kisses and the pain and humiliation of a huge proud ornery beast getting de-balled rings just a little bit fucked-up. For these folks, once they've drawn that association, the next time they get a letter or a card where someone is throwing amorous symbolic oxen at them, they may struggle with it. They may have a hard time trying to see the ox as a bearer of love. But I say screw that - is functioning genitalia the sine qua non of love? Surely it cannot be. Cannot these wounded creatures, these poor beasts of burden, yoked together in their labors, pulling so strong in the same direction, always together in the same direction - are they not, in their own way, fit emblems and paragons of love? And in their own lives, can't they too find love, their own kind of love?

I say we need to be a little more open-minded. Ox Love. Why not?

Bulls with no balls, people. Bulls with no balls. People say "dumb as an ox," but when have you ever heard of anyone say "dumb as a bull?" Castration almost certainly doesn't cause intelligence to drop. I think what we have here is another case of humanity perhaps - not equating belligerence and violent strength with intelligence, per se, but definitely equating docility, compliance, peacefulness...with stupidity.

I tell you this, though. Whoever it was who invented the ox, he or she had some balls. Either before the fact, or after, or most likely BOTH. A simple process in conception, and the formula goes a little something like this:

BULLS
- BALLS
OXEN

Now what I want to know is: did Paul Bunyan do that shit to Babe himself, or WHAT?? I mean on the one hand, who the hell else could have?

And then on the other hand...when he was done, you better believe Paul Bunyan had some big ol' BLUE BALLS. But he probably had those anyway, his neck of the woods was a little short on women his size. The fact he decided to call his trusty companion "Babe" could be a tipoff, here. He probably had to make do with ox love.

My Mind's Not Sweating It.

My mind doesn't even have sweat glands. OR ANY GLANDS. Wait. Does the pineal gland count? No wait, fuck. No.

That's the brain.

The mind is a soap bubble the brain blows. Luckily it can blow an uncountable number of them.

Thursday, July 10, 2014

Thought of the day: Tolerance! Curiosity? Chinese Food.

I wish there was more Chinese food that tasted like ketchup and mustard. And hot dogs.

Thursday, July 03, 2014

Between the Sex Lines #5: Pay for Half?

Issues like this are convoluted, and a little insulting honestly. I'll give you an example of what I mean by that: I told my ex-fiancé that if she got a boob job, I would pay for half. So she went and got one done! She got half a boob job.

Then she was like "you can pay for the other half any time if you want!"

I was pretty much forced to, because I felt like the whole thing had been done to prove some point. And generally, when people do something outlandish pretty much just to prove some point, I feel that on some level, that's my influence there. My bad influence, even - me being fairly prone to making outlandish points, if not actually ever demonstrating the talent or inclination to prove them. It creates a "1 up ya" atmosphere. Intentional or not on my part, I can't dodge the obvious connection. I felt somewhat responsible.

So I paid for the other half, and was she at all grateful? (I emphasize, I was never the one bringing up this subject in the first place! She'd be the one who would be sort of hand-juggling herself, saying out loud reflectively, "I should get these done. You think I should get these done?"). No! Not a bit grateful. Her response was, why are you making this story up? I never got a boob job! We never talked about any boob job. You didn't pay for half of anything, and I don't appreciate being represented as someone who would ever accept money from someone for something that I'm going to do or not do to or for myself. And besides which! We were never engaged to be married! In fact, I never even met you. It's pretty likely I don't even exist. What's your excuse for yourself, what are you trying to accomplish inventing fictitious women to be humiliated in some obscure way by getting the better of you in some convoluted story that doesn't even seem to be trying to be funny?

But see, I couldn't agree with that; I thought she was being pretty unfair. Pretty convoluted. Pretty insulting.

Thought of the Day: Certainty

With certainty comes resistance to clear disproof.

Tuesday, July 01, 2014

America: A Meditation On Liberty For Justice

The U.S.A. is the great country ever, and the reason is America. We came and built this land of ours, on top of the land of theirs, and the greatness welling up from those now-widely-regarded-as-atrocious roots plus all the heritage that comes flying at you in gobs from all angles of the globe COMBINES, in a MUTANT-FUNK MIX, with just the right emphasis on those truths we all hold so self-evident, dear! SUCK ON LIBERTY'S PLUMP TEAT, FOOL!

Yeah okay it may be a bit tight and dry, but still plenty plump for a girl her age if you ask me. Maybe you need to buy her a drink! Or smoke a fuckin' peace pipe? Or use your right to demonstrate on the street! "Demonstrate" can mean almost anything, you could yell "hell no we won't go" or you could do a science experiment or something. As long as it proves something.

Some people, rather than demonstrate, prefer to "represent." Liberty is what makes it all good, whichever you choose! And emphasize that fact, to your local law enforcement officer. Oh say have you seen? By the dawn's early light? YOU BET I HAVE! SOMEBODY LEFT THE FUCKING FLAG OUT OVERNIGHT AGAIN, AND THAT BURNS ME THE FUCK UP! They're supposed to either take it down or put a fucking light on it, damn-it.

For traditional reasons, rocket's red glare is an acceptable spotlight substitute, long as it doesn't catch the damn thing on fire. Party foul.

Point is, who the fuck dares to put up their own country up against the BIG OL' U.S. OF US!??!! We just taught the whole world to sing and washed it down with a global Coca-Cola enema. To all the other world's nations, I say to you: "Hey, sailor." You know you want our sweet, sweet money and jobs. Well let's cut a deal - if you provide us with the cheap-rate manufacturing overseas we crave, maybe we can work something out! And laugh all the way to Wall-Mart, but good god-a-money somehow them sneakers still ain't too cheap.

America is a great big red-white-blue mixed up ball-of-wax paradox, people, but I can stand here proudly before you today to say: I DON'T CARE

I LOVE IT

I DON'T CARE

I LOVE IT

I know it seems out of character. Usually I'm so brutal and critical about America's problems. Comin' up short on the RIGHTS, lately, what with all the patriot act BULL SHIT?! Or for example, your dirty backroom dealings. Or: huge corporate profits! Putting the cart before the horse all the way to the glue factory! The homeless. RACIAL SHIT. And other problems, up to and including the patriarchy.

Sometimes, lord knows, I think it's my country 'tis of SUCKS. But my country knows that. My country knows I leave my foot jammed most of the way up its ass on these and other shortcomings just for the sake of convenience most times, but yet still, every now and then I have to cut loose from deep down inside and say: FUCK'S SAKE!! AMERICA! UH!! GOD BLESS MY KISS MAHSELF! AMERICA! WHOSE YO DADDY?!

Remember everyone, this July 4th coming up is your all-purpose excuse to spout jingoisms and nation-first chauvinism on behalf of YOUR country, too. Just don't expect it to stack up to ours, but it doesn't necessarily have to be all about America, even on that day of days! Beat the drum for Yemen, if you feelin' me all my funky Yemenites.