Tendering My Resignation

To Whom It May Concern,


Thirteen years. Thirteen interesting, rewarding and ultimately enjoyable years as a writer have passed, and with them a sense of regret. A lack of fulfillment, some may say, but I say otherwise. In all lives, great change must come to do great things, and I have come to the realization that day is today.

As of this day, August 30th, 2011, I am no longer performing duties as Administrator, Editor and Writer for the weblogs "Weathering the Storm" and "Delicious Caek," effective immediately and indefinitely. This is not a retirement but instead an opportunity for personal growth and reflection.

Should I return to writing, I will not be doing so on this site. With this page I've gone about as far as I can go. So with this, in the spirit of literary metaphors I close one chapter in order to open the next. Thank you all for reading, you have my deepest thanks.

Sincerely,

Patrick "Rey Fawkes" Owens

Bill Bratton: Will He Spoil Scotland Yard's Broth?

Bill Bratton, NYPD commissioner, LAPD chief and all-around supercop has been considered for the honored position of commissioner to New Scotland Yard and the London Metro Police. But, is he the right man for the job?

Well, is he?

This writer has been following the Britain riots for quite a while now, trying in vain to pinpoint what exactly brought about such societal cannibalism and have since been dragged down a wild and roundabout path. A path so winding and double-sided that it encourages one to utter the age-old American axiom "not my problem." Being better than that, of course, my attention was drawn in like a barracuda (or gold-digging wench) to a shiny object when the name of Bratton was uttered recently.

The saying "too many cooks spoil the broth" come to mind when the facts are considered. Given his background in events such as these and subsequently, having been consulted periodically by Britain's law enforcement professionals, it would seem as though it was a no-brainer. Unfortunately, the fact that an American is even remotely entertained as thought for a prospective commissioner has UK Home Secretary Theresa May's "knickers in a bunch." This is by virtue of the fact that he is, quite obviously, not a citizen of the UK though there are no legal stipulations making this a requirement.

What about the fact that adding an extra hand to bark already inefficient (by virtue of the fact that the riots are still raging) orders may spoil the proverbial "broth"? Is this a ruse? What exactly is going on across the pond that would warrant such an action? Perhaps we should stop asking why things are broken, and instead deduce precisely how they were broken in the first place? Why such reluctance from May on the case of Bratton's help? Will he expose what brought this about in the first place and in turn disgrace the government officials who may have an unseen hand in this?

An Open Letter To That One Nutritionist (Who's Name I Can't Remember)

Dear Nutrition-Fascist,

Hello, it's Rey, the guy you said shouldn't be in such good shape given the fact that he smokes, drinks and puts gravy on everything? The fella who can (and will) smoke your ass in sprints or any other physical challenge you throw at me?

Yeah it's me, and I've got a proposal for you...

Normally, I'd tell you to eat a dick, but this time I've got something special cooked up. Cooked up especially for you; it is bacon. Yes, cut-from-the-hog, thick-cut, applewood-smoked bacon. An entire plate of bacon, from me to you, bitch. I wish to force-feed you bacon through a funnel. Like bacon water torture (bacon-boarding?)

Lets be honest, I didn't like meeting your ass that morning while I was on that business trip. I enjoy business trips, and you tried to wreck it for me. This affront to my business-trip happiness will not go unanswered. Especially considering you are, to put it lightly, overweight. Pardon me if I may seem rather untoward and vociferous, but I am confident in the fact that you'll understand my next question, since I know I'm not too "ghetto":

How in the fuck a fat bitch like you thinks she can roll her jello-ass in and tell me how to eat? I should have cut some bacon off your back for that! Seriously, what makes you think you're even fit (no pun intended, well, maybe a little) to do so? Were you the butt of a joke? Did you lose a bet? Did you not think someone besides myself would react this way? That's like a Victoria Secret model lying face-down,ass-up with no pants on at Tiger Woods' house and expecting NOT to get fucked!

...'cause she's getting fucked, no way around that...

Before you carelessly use the excuse that you're "recovering from food addiction" as I was recently informed, let me just say that I have seen the face of addiction. I've known alcoholics who would boil down aftershave to get at the sweet alcohol that lay within, and heroin addicts who shot up in some of the most incomprehensible body parts (here's a hint: their fucking cock!). When you don't care about the quality of what you're getting so long as you get it, then you're "qualified" to call yourself an addict. I don't see you fishing around a dumpster to get at a Big Mac, so please spare me that load of bull.

I hope this letter speaks to the part of you that know's to hold itself accountable, or drives you to the brink of sanity; either/or.

Sincerely,
Rey Ignatius Fawkes

The Only Exception

"American Exceptionalism," the very phrase that adds an air of mystique to U.S. culture and politics. But just what exactly constitutes such exceptional qualities that sets our nation apart from all others? Apart, of course, from the fact that we're on the Western Hemisphere?

According to Wikipedia's uncommonly comprehensive entry on the very subject, American Exceptionalism has gone by several different definitions by several different personnages throughout history, but the theme is still the same; it is merely a theory. No different from the "American Dream," it is a thought-up, made-on-the-fly and ham-handed pretense for our successes and in this century, our failures; much in the same spirit as the term Manifest Destiny, which (unironically)is mostly responsible for the virulent propagandist mantra that nearly wiped out the indigenous Americans of this country. But is such an abstract concept a detriment to the mindset of the American public?

I set out to analyze the theory of American Exceptionalism in lieu of how often it had been bandied about by political pundits, and have since been sorely disappointed. To my findings in this, it amounts to little more than a rhetorical formula not unlike how Pascal's Wager (in the realm of lame excuses) is thrown at religious skeptics like an impotent spitball at a granite wall. A reason to "not play ball," an idea that had only been enforced over the centuries by people who are not even American-born, but still hold in awe the potential strength of our nation.

So, can it be said that other nations see that there is so much more the United States are capable of than we ourselves can see? Perhaps so, as our nation's credit rating immediately tanked, as foreign investors are wary of the nation that used to produce but produces no more. The country that went from being the world's supermarket, to the world's police precint, to the world's hospitality suite in our growing role as a "service-based economy." It is no wonder to this writer that foreign investors have pulled out.

Instead of this flimsy pretense for not accepting our respective roles as world citizens, perhaps it's time to accept our spot in the global economy as an alternative to barking back and forth across the aisles? Or, do we keep drinking the Kool-Aid of American Exceptionalism?

You know, this stuff is starting to taste more and more like Nationalism as of late.

Representing More Than a Law School Reunion

If you were watching the informative and decidedly left-wing hilarity of Real Time with Bill Maher (aired Friday, 8/5/2011), you undoubtedly noticed the presence of Dr. Neil deGrasse Tyson and a rather astute observation he made.

The observation regarded the fact that from 540 current members of Congress, 236 hold law degrees (58 Senators and 178 Representatives). That means 44%
of people in congress are, essentially, lawyers by trade. He went further to ask "Where is the rest of life?" or why more scientists, economists, entrepreneurs and basically people from other areas of expertise don't take on postings in public office; people that can give a more rounded representation of the American public's goals and necessities? To paraphrase Dr. Tyson's remark, given the nature of law and the courts it is an arguer's forum. He whose arguing skills are superior will win the favorable ruling and not the one with the superior argument. Therefore, the facts are null and void unless in hands of the appropriate, purple-faced loudmouth with a law degree.

Long story short, he made me think.

Precisely why is it that more of the aforementioned scientists, entrepreneurs and economists don't apply their expertise in a leadership role? A role so significant, a "second pair of eyes", that can provide insight on how the government can better serve the public? Are the able, decidedly, unwilling to participate? Is it acceptable to stay in their positions as academic leaders, but not political? Ain't that a damn shame?

With the recent drop in the U.S. credit rating, despite all the valid and pertinent facts that the Democratic party argued, 98% of the debt deal sided with the Republican Party's wishes. Now, suppose actual businessmen who know that to make money you must spend money, made up the greater majority on both sides? Even if there was a compromise, would it not have been a 50/50 split? No one can say for sure, but given the actual result, would it be so wrong to have a different type of professional in congress? A more diverse base of knowledge from which the decisions that shape the future of the nation could function?

Well? What's so bad about that?

Carpetbagger

(And now for a preview from my upcoming book "Carpetbagger")

CHAPTER 1: F.Y.P.M

It was a frenzied crowd, the congregation of dazed onlookers and city emergency personnel packed the streets. Rubberneckers one and all, but who am I to criticize? I'm a journalist, that's who. Jeremiah Price, to be exact, and without my camera crew, about to make a written report. A written report on a man who I later learned was the, until recently, personal assistant to Roy "Minister of Offense" Boyington. I had every right to rubberneck, and every intention of getting a quote from Mr. Boyington himself. Boyington intrigued me; he was something out of an Ayn Rand novel, and something out of hell, which I know can be touted as being one and the same. Still, no one real estate or business giant could compare to Boyington, the Liberal "Donald Trump." Which of course if you did compare Boyington to Trump, he would have you killed, vice Trump merely swearing at you. In many ways, they were much alike. Both of which were born into a vast real estate fortune and were both business geniuses. However, Boyington was a supporter of civil rights, the Democratic Party and a widely outspoken "Cold-Blood Liberal." He'd shaken the hand of President Obama several times, and refused invitations to dinner events with President Bush several times more during his administration. As a man, you really couldn't tell Boyington anything without facts and information that supported your claim. He was not an "objectivist" but he looked at the world objectively and took every good idea into account. Boyington would seem like a rather likeable character, but he wasn't. As the crowd grew larger, someone noted that Boyington was also in the crowd with some of his aides, including Amy Park. Park was a shrew of a woman and a strong-willed over-achiever from a prominent Korean-American family that had no sense of humor when it came to making money. She was brushed aside when first looked upon as an assistant to Boyington. However, right about now, Park was glad she had been. Park stared up at Boyington's previous assistant, standing on a ledge about to take the proverbial "plunge." One couldn't help but wonder what drove him to the brink of such a horrifying act? I wondered this, elbowing my way through the throng of downtown Pittsburghers, several of whom called me a "jagoff" but I brushed it aside. I was willing to get trampled to get the oratory gold that was veined in the mouth of Boyington. Never had anyone ever encountered such an outspoken businessman and anything he said was news-worthy; if not to inform than to entertain. Squeezing through my last group of suicide spectacle revelers, I made it to Boyington around the same time a plain-clothed police officer approached him. I remained silent as the police officer, a short and slim man years past retirement in a cheap gray suit, asked "Mr. Boyington, I know you know this man. We called you down here in the hopes that you could possibly talk some sense into the boy." Boyington, taking a swig of his iced tea after a mouthful of popcorn, replied. "No thanks, let him jump."
"Can I quote you on that?" I shouted to Boyington. He nodded, saying "sure," with a disinterested shrug as if I'd asked him if he wanted french fries with his burger. The old police officer stood in dismay, still trying to hand the megaphone to Boyington. Boyington looked at him with a paternal gaze of disapproval, somewhere between pity and being sick of him. "Well I can't make you do this, sir. Just thought you had some more respect for human life." Boyington, growing slightly annoyed, said "I respect human life. That man, on the other hand, is a grabasstic piece of human wreckage who almost cost me a fortune. He was problematic, and he couldn't make coffee to save his fucking life. I mean, who does that? Who in fuck's name can't make a decent goddamn cup of coffee in addition to his other mistakes? So yeah, I respect life and trees and shit, but not him." Turning to me, he said, "Off the record, but that kid can eat dicks in Hell for all I care!" Behind me, amidst the chaos, I heard a small female voice screaming "Do it, faggot!" I whipped round to see a small blonde who introduced herself as Christine Wagner after I asked about her seemingly "personal" acquaintance with Garrison. As it turned out, Wagner was an intern who was consistently hounded and bullied by Garrison for everything from her work ethic, to her tacky shoes. "Fucker even said he wouldn't date me even if he was straight; the bastard." Giving credit where it was due, I did note to myself that her shoes were indeed tacky. "Were you trying to pursue something with him?" I asked as innocently as one could ask such a question. Wagner scowled at me, saying "No, why would I? With that big ass Jew-beak he calls a nose?" I frowned at the sexist and racist intern before asking "So, may I quote you on any of this?" Wagner shook her head, apparently a closeted racist/homophobe, and replied "Well, there is one thing that I'd like people to know about him, that Garrison was always afraid of someone stepping on his toes. He got jealous real easy. Nobody liked him anyway, he was a douche bag and he always got in my ass about 'taking too much initiative'." Wagner took a brief moment to screech "Jump" at the top of her lungs. She then turned to me, saying "The way I see it, don't get butthurt at me for having the testicular fortitude to take the initiative you apparently could not; you know what I'm saying?" I nodded, taking note of her massive metaphoric "balls." I noticed that after Wagner, everyone began to chant "jump-jump-jump." It was a group dynamic effect, whipped into a fever pitch. I can almost swear I saw a firefighter mouthing the words "jump" and as I turned my gaze upward to see the silhouette of Garrison against the overcast sky, he dove. Screams, cheers, jeers and noise erupted from the crowd as they watched Garrison. As if he had a second thought, Garrison's arms and legs flailed wildly before coming to terminus on the pavement below. Boyington raised his arms in triumph. Turning to me, he asked "Do you think he heard the 'thud' he made before he died? Because you know he's dead!" Boyington laughed boisterously; Park chimed in. "It was more of a pop if you ask me, I can't tell but I think his skull probably got busted open!"
"I swear to fuck that kid bounced; that was awesome." I couldn't help but stare at Boyington, rejoicing in a private victory or so it seemed. I couldn't help but wonder if a little part of me had just died inside. I pondered this, while simultaneously hustling over to get a quote from him as the rest of the media closed in on him. But Boyington pointed to me as the rest of the media gathered round him. He said "You, the short fella, you get to ask me the first question; I like your style." I smiled in acknowledgment. Hurriedly, I asked Boyington "How do you feel about the outcome of this?" Boyington shrugged happily. "Everything went better than expected." Another journalist, a redhead in a crummy red blazer raised a hand. Boyington pointed to her, asking "Yes, Red?" The redhead cleared her throat, obviously perturbed by his remark, then asked. "What makes this a victory? If it is indeed a 'victory'?" Boyington shook his head bitterly. "Garrison was a stoolie and selling our organization's secrets to the highest bidder; bidders who would like nothing more than to see me go under."
"What kinds of secrets?" One young journalist asked. "Well if I told you then it wouldn't be a secret, Einstein." The young journalist clammed up, his eyes downcast in a sort of "no, duh" shame that only a rookie can feel. "Will there be a memorial service, and who will be holding the service?" yet another reporter shouted. Boyington shrugged and replied "I dunno, his family I guess" with earnest apathy.
After fielding a few more questions, Boyington unceremoniously left for his car, escorted by his security. In the hustle, I managed to get the attention of Park, who looked me up and down bitterly. I smiled, making a vain attempt to put on the charm and asked "Will Mr. Boyington be attending the memorial?" Park shook her head and replied "According to executive scheduling, we are always having better shit to do anyway." With that, she brusquely turned and followed Boyington into his car.

(Coming Soon, tell your chums)

So You're Stuck in A Disaster Area?

With Hurricane Season around the corner, flash floods in the Southeastern U.S. and the Japan Megaquake, it's clear that we all have to prepare and stay prepared for a disaster. Water, food, a change of clothes and a change of underwear when aftershocks strike are only some of the things you'll need in the event of an emergency.

Unfortunately for most of us, especially our readers from the U.S., complacency is rather commonplace and foresight to some is "fo' suckas." But rejoice, you slacking-assed slobs, Rey has the key to your salvation! Here are five protips for staying alive, the Fawkes way.

1. ARM YOURSELF!

You've just left the shelter of wherever it is you cowered like a girl while everything you loved was swept away by the fury of an uncaring Mother Nature; congratulations! You're one of the few either too unmotivated (or cash strapped) to evacuate and your very survival is an affront to natural selection; you da' man! Unfortunately, looking out over the dilapidated horizon, a shadow of its former glory, what should you happen to find but minorities! Or worse, WASP's with a sense of self-entitlement and your ass is starting to look like opportunity!

One must remember that in the event of an emergency, your fellow man will revert to his base instincts and attempt to dominate you, sometimes sexually, in order to maintain his status quo and quality of life, however fragmented it is. To survive in this wasteland until the authorities show up, you'll have to key into your instincts as well. That means being well armed. Because the only way man managed to surmount the odds and control his environment was through brute strength, cunning and violence.

Some with you will advise you to help those in need, those distressed, hurt or hungry. Do NOT listen to them, for they are testing your resolve. If you help someone, your survival party's members will take your kindness for weakness and elect a new leader. Then, you will find yourself deposed by blunt-force proxy to the skull. Still, you must ensure that you are well-armed and ready to do battle with any survivors who wish to take what few stores you have until FEMA shows up.

...whenever that is...

Ensure you have a main weapon in the form of a hunting rifle, assault rifle or for those of you in an urban area, a shotgun in addition an accurate sidearm. The Beretta M9, is a heavy piece of shit, but it gets the job done and can be held by any idiot with opposeable thumbs (special care must be given to keep this out of the hands of chimpanzees as they are particularly trigger-happy.) If you should happen upon others with superior weaponry, avoid them or steal their weaponry; which leads us to the second part.

2. START LOOTING!

Your food stores won't last forever, and sooner or later your comrades will start to look like lunch (especially the fat one.) DO NOT EAT PEOPLE! Eating people will make you worse for wear and destroy your nervous system. You're not quite ready for hunting either, and you're going to suck at catching food. But even though it is only a shallow husk, it's still (mostly) civilization. Scavenging will become as American as apple pie and a favored pastime when disaster rears its ugly, gnarled head.

...as if it weren't American enough as it is...

Empty houses and old abandoned supermarkets will be the first choice for you and your fellow leaders. If you can find one, garrison that bitch up before anyone else gets to it. The first few days of finding and dominating supermarkets and food stores will be like playing capture the flag in hell and tantamount to guerrilla warfare. Do not hesitate to cap some fools in order to maintain your survival. Your reward: sweet sustenance and the hard-earned right to see another day. Small unit tactics will be key in this dark period in your hitherto insignificant life.

Speaking of insignificance...

3. PREY UPON THE WEAK!

Human evolution has been hindered by the fact that no matter how stupid, ugly, fat, out-of-shape and generally weak you are, some tool bag will stroll in and save you from your pathetic self. You will live again to tell the tale and your voice will rise in joy, a voice that so offends the ears of Darwin. Unfortunately, if yohttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifu can be lumped into the above category, you may as well stop reading and await the arrival of violent death from a stronger and therefore, better, force. But if you've got the killer instinct and the will to survive there may yet be hope.

In any ecosystem, the strong prey upon the weak. Even in our civilized society, there is always one more powerful who will consume the lesser beings without an afterthought. You may not be the biggest or most powerful, but as long as you avoid the stronger, you can prey upon the weak too! The best time to do this is at night, or in areas that don't provide a lot of cover, especially when its you and your survivor party against one or two. Stealing from the strong also helps if you're the weakest in your neighborhood. In which case, once again, it is best to operate at night. But if you're smart, you'll have some place to store your loot, so make sure you...

4. FIND SHELTER!

The elements are harsh and cruel. You witnessed their cruelty after (insert disaster here) wrecked your super-sweet, double-wide trailer. However, given this fact there's always the local Red Cross Shelter, right?

WRONG! You are so wrong! I want you to take a moment to slap yourself for entertaining such a foolish thought; I'll wait for you...

Now then, those shelters are merely watering holes for the antelope of society, waiting to be run down and savagely mauled by the urban lions that await nearby. When the feces hits the A/C, you'll wish you listened. The best shelters are abandoned homes. Homes that were abandoned in the suburbs typically, as they are large and easy to remain concealed within.

Another option is farm houses, but again no, because haven't you ever seen Deliverance? Your best bet is to take a cue from my favorite children's novel "The Girl Who Owned A City" and convert your old high school into a super-fortress, where you will rule! No more getting towel whipped in gym class for you; you're the Prom King now, dawg!

SUMMARY:

Congratulations! If you've followed this guide to the letter, you're now the most powerful person in your bombed out and depleted husk of a town. When emergency services finally arrive, they will bow to your might and resourcefulness. Do not be surprised if they beg you to return to civilization to share your wisdom and noble savage leadership; most likely at a new-age fitness center.


-FAWKES OUT-