Friday, December 28, 2007

The Good. The Bad. And the Royal Jelly.

Ladies and gentlemen... I have a confession to make.

Usually, when reflecting upon past experiences, I steer away from the awkward moments... focusing on the triumphs and very little on the tragedies. But in doing so, I think I've kept some wonderful life-stories away from you good folks; stories that could teach you, inspire you, make you laugh, make you cry, or appreciate life a little more.

And that is why I've decided to open up and reveal a few stories about...

My early sex-life.

This may be shocking to believe, and if some of you have to take a deep breath before and after you read the forthcoming statement, feel free to do so. We'll wait on you.


I wasn't always the Golden-God of sex that I am at this very moment.

Exhale. Deeply. Relax... think happy thoughts.

Shocking, right? I'm sure many of you expected me to have skills from the day I popped out of my mum's jelly roll, but... my dear readers... I am only human. Mortal. If you prick me, I bleed. And, in my journeyman days, if you touched me, I came. Immediately.

But those stories will wait. Instead of saving the best for last, I've decided to save the best for FIRST. I'm unpredictable.

Today, I'm revered for my oral skills. Indeed, cunnilingus is truly one of my favorite Sunday afternoon pastimes. And if you talk to any learned girl of the world, they'll tell you that if the guy truly doesn't know what he's doing, it's a pretty shitty experience for the receiver. It doesn't take much to bring a guy to that climax, obviously.

Up down Up down Up down, start, B. Orgasm. "You Win!" *ding ding ding* "boom shacka lacka lacka!"

But women? Their glimmering bottle openers are as complicated to operate as a nucleur reactor... and sometimes just as dangerous.

This is the reason that I bloviate (look it up, pervs) about mah skiiiiillz.

But it wasn't always that way.

Nah suh, I had to earn my chops just like every one else.


Well, I watched a lot of Jenna Jameson girl-on-girl action as a teenager. I took notes. I studied. I did other stuff that's not relevant to what I'm trying to say. But the point is that her educational videos gave me the general idea of how to work that finely tuned instrument. My experiences in the flesh didn't prove to be as successful as the Jamester, but I learned a little more with practice and experience.

My moment of supreme glory took place with a married, black girl who instructed me. Indeed, if we were to use wrestling terminology, she and I stepped inside the squared circle and gave quite the slobber knocker, though not in front of a sold out crowd hanging from the rafters. I was good. I knew it. I found my magic.

But my next opponent wasn't quite the same... caliber... as the Master of the Mocha.

She was... well... sensitive. Very, very sensitive. So when I went for the chow, I did so with the starving sensation of a starved marine entering the mess after 24 hours of slugging through the trenches, and she reacted with the predicted scream of the marine's enemy combatant 24 hours earlier before meal time. Killing makes a man hungry. So do catholic school girls.

I took the hint and slowed down. Gently. Gently. Like rocking a fucking baby to sleep. Like Paul Newman eating that last 10 hard-boiled eggs in Cool Hand Luke. I was trained by a black tiger, damnit, and I didn't have time for this tomfoolery.

But I stayed in the game. I'm not a selfish person when it comes to pleasure.

A few minutes pass when, suddenly, the headlights of a car flash quickly past the window, the sound of a car pulling into the driveway.

Jumping up and off of my parents bed, I scrambled for the front door to make sure it was locked so that, if it was them, it could spare some time for fuckin' Emily Litella (dated SNL jokes rock) to get her panties back on and out of the pit of Parental anguish.

But luck was on my side, kids. The headlights were from a car turning around and using my driveway as a pivoting point. Suddenly, I turned towards the bedroom and shouted that everything was okay... that Papa Bear was coming back to the cave of sensitivity. But as I walked (hard) towards that door, my eyes narrowed... my hunger grew... and my mission was clear. I was going to make this girl like my style. Why should I have to be like Rocky in Rocky II and fight right-handed just to throw Apollo Creed off guard? I may not be a southpaw by fist, but I was a natural-born cunnilingus killer, goddamnit, and she wasn't going to stop me!

I shoved the door open. I stomped my foot like a bull and I charged.

And tripped.

On a towell.

And my mouth, wide open, teeth glistening...

hit her...


on the clitoris.

And as I rushed her to the emergency room, I reflected upon the tragedy and learned a hard lesson.


Never leave towels out when you plan to stampede towards a woman's guardian of forever.

The end.

- J.

A Young Politicado's Prayer To God

Dear Lord, how are you? I know we haven’t spoken in awhile and things have most likely have been busy for both of us. I know I have been. Finals have been ridiculous and you have had to deal with the fact that your chosen people are killing each other off at an alarming rate in the sand….not to pass judgment or anything, but can you maybe get all that shit under control? I mean, they have been at it for more than two thousand years. You would think that you would maybe push them in a direction that we can all enjoy, but I digress. I really just want to talk politics.

Now, I have just recently got into this whole game and I find it really fascinating, but I have to say…shit is getting shabby. Our intelligence agencies have more holes and leaks in them than a Taiwanese brothel, our courts are fighting over things that have no bearing on our day to day lives, and our political hierarchy is a punch line. Once again, if this is supposed to be your favorite nation, which according to the very reliable source, Pat Robertson, it is, you would think you would have a hand on the wheel, so to speak. I know you have been tied being omnipotent and everything, but seriously, you have got to get your fucking ducks in a row, God. That is where my request comes in.

All I am asking for, as a young man, is a competent administration this next time around. No more fake wars, No more wire taps, and no more fear of our government. I just want a political scene that I am not embarrassed as hell of. I just want a president that I can say that I am proud to be behind. Hell, I guess I am really wanting is hope. I know you can do it for not only me, but for everyone. Be a pal, God. That’s all I am asking.

P.S. Sorry about all the swearing…

P.P.S. Oh yeah, great job on getting Saddam hung. That was fucking sweet.

P.P.P.S. Sorry about the swearing again…

In The Name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost,
-J.Partridge, The Enemy

Post-Op: The Wisdom Teeth Ordeal

Post-Op: The Wisdom Teeth Ordeal

Ok, I do have to say that it really wasn’t all that bad. As a matter of fact, the things that are the real bitches are the things that you have to do afterwards. Anyway, what follows is a day-by-day rundown of the entire thing. Hope you enjoy my pain, bloodsuckers.

The Procedure

I wake up, bright and early, after a night of uneasy sleep. I leave everything that I have that is worth stealing, which is really nothing, behind and get shipped off to my grandparents’ house. When I get there, I am really fucking hungry, but one of the stipulations of the process is you can’t have anything to eat past midnight the previous day, to make matters worse my grandma is a food wizard. So, I have to smell and feast my eyes upon a counter-full of delicious breakfast food, that I can’t fucking eat. This is going to be awesome…

7:45 rolls around and I pile into the truck to go get things cut out of my head. When we get to the office, we are greeted by the cast of “Chico and The Man” minus Grandpa Joe. Also, their son is crying his damn eyes out in the operating room…what a bitch. I sign some papers, ditch my coat and shoes, sit down in the dentist chair of doom, and get to it. I allow myself a diva moment and request that Bob Dylan be played while I am waiting. The first time around I saw that the quack had some cd’s in his room; Gordon Lightfoot, Cat Stevens, and Dylan. The nurses, God bless them, complied and promptly started to gas me up.

Have you even seen Little Shop of Horrors? Well, for those of you that suck, let me explain the reference. In the movie, Steve Martin plays a sadistic dentist that abuses laughing gas. I have never had laughing gas and had always thought that the performance was just an exaggeration of the effects of the stuff. I was dead wrong, dear readers. As soon as that wonderful concoction of chemical wonders hit my lungs, I knew exactly why people get arrested for having tanks of this stuff in their house. I even inquire to where I could purchase some…the question was quickly tossed aside. The only thing that worried me was the fact that my entire right side started to twitch violently. Upon seeing this, I asked if it was normal. The answer that I received was less than satisfactory: “Oh…not really…but different people have different reactions to the gas”. Fantastic, I am going to Belushi on laughing gas or better yet twitch myself onto the instrument table.

By this time, I am I.V’ed and am starting to go under. I am under for the better part of an hour and a half. At the first consultation, I am warned that I might be conscious through the last part of the operation, which, of course, happens. The only thing I really remember about that is the fact that Dr. Farr was talking to me, essentially giving me a play-by-play of what the hell he was doing to me. And he kept calling me “kiddo”…yeesh, there is nothing creepier than someone calling someone kiddo while they are asleep.

After all is said and done and my mouth resembles something akin to the opening frames of a CSI episode, I am told that I am free to leave. I remember only bits and pieces of this, but what I do remember is trying to reason with the doctor about why I didn’t need a wheelchair and that I was “well damn able walk to” (the quote, by the way, is verbatim because a nurse told me about it when I went back of a follow up check-up). I also remember trying to laugh when I accidently spit blood all over the front desk, waiting for my mom to sign some stuff. Laughing directly after oral surgery is something like someone jabbing your back gums with white hot knives…not pleasant.

The Aftermath

Now, I was home, all iced up, and with dumb looking fucking socks tied around my head. I had taken a few aspirin and was told by my doctor that, if stronger meds were needed that there would be a prescription waiting. I took four ibuprofen and realized about three seconds after taking them that I needed way stronger pills (Like I was going to say no to free pills?). So, the next few days were spent watching random ass movies, getting mellowed by the Blue Wonders, and eating more pudding and soup than any man of eighteen ever should. I did have a notebook and pen by my bed at all times so I could write down anything I just thought of. Here are some golden nuggets from this experiment:

“I wish I could detach my face”

“Pain is playing a fifteen song set in my skull”

“Light me on fire soes my teeth will stop.”

Isn’t modern medicine fun?! Well, that’s it, dear readers. I would like to thank all my wonderful friends for putting up with my bitching during those days and a big fuck off to some for not visiting. Be back later, kids with something else for you to chew on.

Going Gonzo,
-J.Partridge, The Enemy

Thursday, December 27, 2007

the good die young...

I awoke this morning to the news of former Pakistani Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto's assassination and I was stunned and deeply saddened. I passed up an opportunity to see her speak at MSU in 2002 and I regret it now more than ever. She may have been the last, best hope for Democracy in that region, and what happens now is anyone's guess. What's certain is that the world lost an amazing human being, and the more time I witness pass before my eyes, the more I realize that genuine leaders of her quality are dangerously rare.

"Finally, turning toward home, I wave good-bye to Lincoln, whose bronze statue stands in the dead center of the square. Then I nod at Gandhi, whose bronze statue stands on the square's western edge.

They shot him too."

Sarah Vowell, Assassination Vacation

Friday, December 21, 2007

The Pastry Gang War of 2007

We had to spend most of the morning hauling chairs and bleachers from several of our WF locations, and about an hour ago, as I was following the truck, we had to come to a sudden stop. Why? Because two gangstas, in separate cars, were stopped... side by side... in the middle of the road... arguing.

I'm not gonna lie. I started to get scared. I hate to seem racist or stereotypical, but downtown Wichita Falls isn't exactly the most respectable area of the city... and I was almost sure one of them was going to pull a "gat" and "pop" the other one right there in the middle of the road. Even worse, I feared being hit by a stray bullet.

Well... one of the gangstas DID pull something out to use as a weapon...

It was at that point when Gangsta #1 screamed "fuck you, bitch!" and launched a HUNNY BUN... yes, a tasty, glazed pastry... at Gagsta #2's car. Then Gansta #1 sped away with his enemy on his tail.

I was laughing at the absurdity of the whole ordeal but then I had a thought.

Wouldn't it be great if gang members put their guns in the ground and used honey buns instead? Or better yet... if they all lived in harmony, finding peace at the center...

the center…

of a tasty, glazed pastry?

Think about it.

- Justin Dudley

Sunday, December 16, 2007

It May Sound Cliche, but I'll Do It Anyway

"Go placidly amid the noise & haste, & remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly & clearly; and listen to others, even the dull & ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain & bitter; for always there will be greater & lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity & disenchantment it is perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue & loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees & the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever our labors & aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery & broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be careful. Strive to be happy."

This is a letter found in old St. Paul's Church, dated 1692. It was addressed to Desiderata. I first saw this letter hung on the men's bathroom wall at the small church I attend. Once at an estate sale, I found a copy of it for sale and now is displayed on my wall for those entering my home to read if desired. It's a letter of wisdom and advice. I would like to follow this doctrine on a daily basis, but keeping to any kind of ethics or schedule is difficult for any person. "Do not distress yourself with imaginings." I find myself thinking too much. Another quote I admire by a former professor of mine, Laura Jefferson; "Don't avoid thinking, but think in ways that produce action." This quote was in reference to acting, but I can relate it to life. I sit most of the day thinking and dreaming how things would be if this happened or that happened. I do not focus on the present and what could be happening.

This letter has great wisdom to offer. Life is too good to waste thinking without moving.

I Like Cupcakes...

BUST-A-MOVE is a good game. I was doing well, until Waldo stepped in. It doesn't matter what I do... he does it better.

Say something, Ashley.

"Ummm... Mike Adame's passenger side car door doesn't work. I had to crawl through the driver's side. Ummm... we should have some apple cider... hot. hahaha... "

Is that it?

"I don't know... is it?"

Riveting. We shall now commence with the enjoyment of many cider-ed beverages. Mainly apple.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

"You look at me in disgust and all I see in you is potential!" - Frodrick Q. Roosevelt

Allow me to post a strange little text message conversation with a girl whom I’ve been Myspace friends with for nearly a year and whom I’ve met, in the flesh, only once. A meeting, I might mention, that I believed was a success in that we had a good time. Shortly after, she began ignoring me. By “ignore”, I mean that I called a few times, sent a couple of text messages, and didn’t get a response. And that, literally, is that.

Me: hey, kid. i’m sorry if i’ve been a pest lately. i hope i’m not too deep into your shit list.

Her: …my god.U didn’t do anything.U piss me off bc u wont get off my ass calling,texting,and messaging all the time. i dont like people bugging the shit out of me.

Me: This is where youre being dramatic. A text every other day and a call a week can hardly be classified as how you describe it. If youd like me to take the time to prove this then i will.

Her: Thats a lot when i dont respond and obviously want space. I dont know any other way to put it.

Me: That would make more sense to me if we had anything more than a bizarre, casual friendship. Weve met once and you already need space? Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? Perhaps its even more ridiculous to care but I take this bullshit personally.

Her: I dont need to prove shit. I need u to quit being a weird ass.

Me: Calling me weird in this would be funny if it didnt offend me. Youre being unreasonable and cruel, kid. But whatever. merry christmas anyway.

Now, it some cases I’ll admit that I have come on strongly in the past to other girls, but this particular relationship (if it can be defined that way in any classical sense of the word) is exactly how I’ve described it. She’s an interesting girl, and I won’t insult her or trash talk her on a blog, but I felt I had to post that conversation because it’s the strangest thing worth mentioning that’s happened to me in… well, the last 20 minutes.

And now for something completely different.

The idea for the J.D.C. (the physical phenomenon, not the blog) came to me as an epiphany after being dumped by someone I should’ve dumped first (and tried a few times unsuccessfully). For a short 45 minutes, I found myself depressed. That weak, un-manly trait soon gave away to bitter resentment. And in this state of mind, I set about a new philosophy. Soon thereafter, I determinedly sat down at my computer and posted a sort of mission statement on my Myspace blog.

You can read it here.

In it, I made a vow to myself that I would accomplish goals that I should have set and followed through on a LONG time ago.

Among them...

  • to find a better paying, more fulfilling job
  • get back into school
  • find a WOMAN on my level

But most importantly, these would be caveats in a large, grand plan.

To make this century MINE.

And with the accomplishment of the first vow (which I shall call Project Lightening Claw, to give it a James Bond-ian feel), I can report confidently that my plan is going exactly how... I... um, planned.

I am now a proud employee of the Wichita Falls Boys and Girls Club. My position is that of a membership coordinating assistant, dealing primarily as the "heartbeat" of the organization's administrative department. The pay is excellent (for THIS particular area), the benefits even more so (because they're FREE, my babies!), and the opportunity for promoting higher in the organization is promising. I doubt this will be my life's career, but it's most certainly a positive step in the right direction. For the first time in a long, long time... I'm excited about my future. I'm excited about a goal accomplished. And I'm most certainly excited about MY century.

As for the remaining two goals?

Operations Flaming Indoctrination, and Findapussy are currently in progress.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Pre-Op: The Wisdom Teeth Ordeal.

Son of a bitch…

I am really not looking forward to this. I found out, on Tuesday, that all four of my wisdom teeth are going to have to come out…on FRIDAY! Now here is the thing, I have never had any kind of major surgery at all, like none whatsoever so the prospect of me getting an IV injected into my arm, to put me in a state of “semi-consciousness” (not sleep..Semi-consciousness!) To have some crackpot, fucking Wonka-esqe oral surgeon rip out four things that were, until recently, parts of my goddamn mouth!

Here is how it all went down: I rushed into my 12:45 appointment at Dr. Farr’s office for a consultation and found my mom waiting there for me. The paperwork had all been taken care of and it was off toward the back. First off, what is it about dentist’s offices and subsequent work-spaces that just scream “people have died here…the wrong way”? And secondly, why are all dental hygienists just always pissed off? Oh yeah, they are dental hygienists…their job is to chumscrub all of the plaque and terrible mess off of people’s teeth and gums. They are the deckhands of the dentistry trade.

So, I get sat down in the really ominous/goofy chair and I was told to roll up my hoodie sleeve so she can take my blood pressure. Fucking why? I really don’t see the correlation between things that I EAT with and the blood that pumps through my veins. I smell a scam; I remind myself to keep alert. So blood pressure is taken and I stare at the monitor for a bit…there is nothing more terrifying than any kind of EKG machine. Period. After getting told that my O2 levels were low, this is just another way of saying that I am grossly under athletic, the dentist comes in.

Ok, I am sure Dr. Farr is a great guy, but I get a real Willy Wonka vibe from this cat and when I say Willy Wonka, I mean a guy who rides around in a truck with a camper in the bed that has “free ice cream” spray painted on the side with a jar of Cloro-kid in the seat next to him at the ready. The way he talks is even creepier. After every other word, there is a smacking sound that is made with his lips. It is extremely off-putting. Here is an example: “So, right now (smack) what we are really (smack) trying to do is to (smack) try and weigh the (smack) risks involved with (smack) the procedure like this against (smack) the pros. (Smack)” Imagine actually considering a man that talks like that performing any kind of surgery on you. This guy should be pushing a fucking broom at some school and jerking off into the boiler, in the basement after hours.

So, we take some x-rays and check me teeth. My lips were also Vaselined, to “keep my lips from chapping.” Holy shit, I now know what medical care is like in Africa. This, as you can already tell, added considerable creepy points to this guy. All in all, it was a basic (I think) wisdom teeth consultation, with the cap off of the whole affair being the scheduling of the operation, which I really didn’t want to be that soon. I needed at least a few days to prepare, but Dear Readers, I am thrust into it and I must walk the road to the end.

This will most likely be my last entry for awhile. I shall return for a Post-Op update and resume my musing posthaste. I hope that you all will miss me and give me tons of sympathy in my coming time of hardship in pain. If not, I shall embark on a revenge spree that would make Sweeny Todd’s razors look like mere pocket knives. Until next time, my friends.

God, I better get some great fucking pills after this.

Out On Highway 61,

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

News and Notes

CENTURY update:

I don’t want to jinx this by giving away too much or making it sound like a complete, done-deal… but I may have found the perfect job! Two months ago I applied for it and had an interview that went very, very well, but unfortunately the organization ended up going with someone else. However that someone left a few weeks ago after being offered a much higher paying position elsewhere, so the job opened up again. After interviewing again, I seem to be the front runner and I’ll know something definite by the end of the week or early next week. Pray for me, my friends. After such a long time of languishing between dead end jobs and temporary assignments, God may be finally rewarding me. THE Justin Dudley CENTURY appears to be getting off to a wonderful start!

As for THE Justin Dudley CENTURY blog, things are starting off nicely. Special thanks to Mr. Partridge, The Corn-man, and .mathr. for contributing thus far. Look for something great from the Representative of Estrogen as soon as she finishes her finals. A splendid time is guaranteed for all.


I’m a lover of lists. Especially “all time favorite lists”, and I intend to showcase a few of them over the next few weeks, including books, songs, and movies. But right now, allow me to present…

TOP TEN LIST OF PET NAMES… that Abby Lee and I call each other on a daily basis.

1) kitten (her)
2) puppy (me)
3) sweetiekins (her)
4) sweetie pie (me)
5) sugar nipples (her)
6) lovah (both)
7) sugar booger booboo nuts (me)
8) snooky wookem dumpling buns (her)
9) snippy whippy love poodle (me)
10) little lady cheesy puffy (her)


It’s not my intention to make this blog an outlet for my political views like I did with my last blog, but I will from time to time pop in to share my current opinions and update those of you who care on the ever changing political news stories of the day. One of the reasons I’ve asked my friends to participate with their own material is to politely give you, the reader, something to gnaw on if you find yourself not giving a shit about… well… things that matter.

You’re welcome.

But, for you caring, intelligent individuals out there, enjoy this informative diatribe that I’m about to bring foreward.

If you’re as avid of a 2008 election follower as I am, then you’re probably aware of the top two stories coming out of the primary states at this very moment.

Obama and Hillary locked in virtual tie in Iowa

Following Obama’s terrific performance at the Jefferson-Jackson dinner in October (arguably his finest speech since his breakout address at the 2004 DNC), Obama has finally caught up to Heir Clinton in all of the major polls leading up to the crucial Iowa caucus, a mere three weeks away. And thanks to sister Oprah’s help in the campaign, his Audaciousness is now only just a few points behind in New Hampshire and South Carolina. If the "big mo" (momentum) continues, then this race... already promised to be a dramatic one... will be a true nail biter.

I for one, can't wait. I try not to make predictions but it's hard for me not to do so with this much interest and hope vested. This race could go any way, and while I am fascinated that I can actually type that (because, really, who ACTUALLY thought Hillary would have ANY competition a year ago?), it makes me all the more nervous. In any case, I'll give it my best and pray to God that I don't jinx anything in doing so.

I think Obama is going to win Iowa. It'll be close, but he's going to take the prize. In doing so, Hillary's air of inevitability will evaporate completely and the win will push the esteemed Senator from Illinois into the driver’s seat of the front-runner stockcar. From there, Hillary wins New Hampshire but by a razor-thin margin. She’ll claim a huge victory but anyone with a real instinct for the political game will sense that it is only a token win. Obama cleans up in South Carolina in a blowout that no one could have predicted two months ago and it’s smooth sailing from there as he the voters scream “FINISH HER!” and Barack “Kano” Obama punches Foreward, Down, Foreward, B, A, B, Foreward, Start into his Super Nintendo control pad and rips Hill’s still-beating heart out.

He then goes on to become the next President of the United States of America.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, there! Hold your fuckin’ mule, Mr. Dudley!”, you say. “What about the Republican nomination? Hmmm?”

Well, that leads me to the second biggest election ’08 news story.

And my views on the matter may actually surprise some of you.

Mike Huckabee, front runner?

It's really astounding to me how my political instincts seem to grow keener as the years pass; my predictions more accurate. When I was 6, I predicted that George H.W. Bush would beat Dukakis. In Junior High, I predicted from the outset that Bill would beat Bob (though I proudly had a photo of Senator Dole displayed in my locker). And, of course, who could forget my excited pimping, on my old blog, of Barack the night of the 2004 Democratic convention?

Well, as far back as last year, I was telling my political-savvy friends to keep an eye on the former Governor of Arkansas, and I wasn't talking about Bubba.

Friends, I've been following the 2008 game since the DAY after the 2004 election, and one thing I noticed at the very beginning was that the Republicans didn't have a clear front runner.

Three candidates were, at first, considered in the "top tier"

* John McCain - the maverick war hero who gave Dubya a run for his money in 2000 until the Jesus-loving Governor of Texas, along with his Mark Hannah-ish political hitman Karl Rove destroyed him in South Carolina by spreading rumors that he was the father of an illigitimate black child. Republican historical conventional wisdom said early on that he would be the favorite this time around (since Republicans have a history of nominating "who's next"), but his anti-Bush actions post 2000 and the hot water he got into by trashing Pat Robertson and Jerry Fallwell soon proved too much for the man to take on. He will not get the nomination. No, Mr. McCain will only go down as one of the great "what if's?" of presidential election history.

Rudy Giuliani - I'll admit that I was once a fan of Rudy. Less than a year ago I included a picture of him on my Myspace heros section. Even though I find him harder and harder to like as the election season rolls on, I still find that I have a soft spot for him. I guess after Katrina and the numerous other Bush Administration screw ups, I find that anyone who can manage a crisis correctly still deserves a measure of respect. But, aside from Pat Robertson... who shockingly endorsed him recently (showing that the old fuck is just losing it), seeing the christian right line up against a pro-gay, pro-choice, and anti-gun ex mayor of New York City would be like living in bizarro world. To put it simply: it ain't gonna happen. And if that ain't gonna happen, then I have my doubts as to whether he can win the nomination OR the general election.

Mitt Romney - that other pro gay, anti-gun, pro-choice ‘publican (until recently when he had a change of heart… ie: decided he wanted to be President). There are FEW Republicans I LOATHE more than this bastard. Not counting my opinion that he's just a slimy, bigoted hack, this guy's flip flops make John Kerry look like Harry Truman. Say what you will about George W. Bush but at least HE has a spine. At least HE has conviction. Mitt Romney has neither. His problem with the religious right, who he's desperately trying to court, is that he's a Mormon. I realize that what I'm about to say may be rightfully interpreted as bigoted itself, but any Christian faith/cult that believes the Garden of Eden was in Missouri is... quite simply... INSANE. To justify this petty remark, I need only to quote Woody Allen. "I'm a bigot... but for the Left."

Not only did the Republicans not have a clear front runner, but the primary voting bloc... the religious right... seemed to be without viable options as well. Who on earth could the evangelicals unite behind? There was Sam Brownback, an ardent pro-life Senator from Kansas... but with the personality of a carp, I didn't really see his campaign going anywhere. No one else, it seemed.

And then I learned a little about Mike Huckabee. On paper he sounded like a heavyweight. A successful two-term governor of a southern state who also happened to be a former Baptist preacher. Filing his name away for future reference, I kept tabs on him but never considered him to be a top-tier-worthy candidate. But nearly a month after first hearing about him, I stumbled upon a speech from him on C-Span.

I was immediately impressed.

I didn't agree with anything he was saying on the political issues of the day, but being a fan of great oratory, I was struck by his skill and almost addictive affability. That doesn't happen often, I think. Not to me and certainly not to anyone else I know. The only other candidate off of the top of my head that seems to have that same affect is Barack Obama on a few Republicans in my family. My grandmother, for example. She's hated every Democrat since Harry Truman, but she goes crazy for him. I found that surprising, obviously, but I couldn't relate... until I saw the Huckabee speech. Afterward, I started to tell people about him. "Watch for this guy. He's going to be huge. I'm not sure if he'll get the nomination, but I think he's most certainly the next Republican VP candidate", I stated in an email to my friend Matt several months ago.

Something strange happened, though. Actually, nothing happened at all. He languished... he stalled. Never registering above 6%, I began to lose hope. Not hope that he would be the next President, mind you, but hope that someone so decent could perhaps be successful in a party that I had lost all hope in. He continued to deliver great speeches and he continued to have solid debate performances... but... nothing. Even the evangelical community seemed tepid in it's response.

Then I figured out why. I watched a speech given by him to a major conservative convention, and in that speech, he spent most of the time talking about how Christian Conservatives should spend more time helping the less fortunate, feeding the hungry, and clothing the poor than gay bashing, tax cuts, and guns. Immediately after the speech, an interviewer asked a random group of convention goers their opinion of him and the common response was "he sounds like a damn liberal!"

What's astounding about that statement is that helping the less fortunate SHOULDN'T be a conservative OR a liberal position. Nor should it be a christian position. To me, it's a HUMAN position. Even more astounding is that Huck is most certainly a conservative. Aside from a few, modest and reasonable tax increases as Governor, he may have the most solid conservative record of anyone other than John McCain or Ron Paul. For those reasons, I can't vote for him because I don't share the same philosophical views. But I can share respect and admiration.

And it's because of this that I'm "tickled pink" about his sudden rise in the polls. After coming in a close second place in the Iowa straw poll a month or so ago (beaten only by Mitt Romney who spent millions in buying votes as opposed to Huck who could not afford to buy a single vote), and an impressive showing in the last CNN/Youtube debate, he is now polling first place in Iowa and gaining steadily in New Hampshire and South Carolina. The evangelical communities in these states are helping, though it's yet to be seen if the religious right nationally will rally in the same way. In national polls he still doesn't register highly, but the ONLY polls that matter right now are those conducted in the primary states.

So, where do we go from here?

That's as unpredictable of a question as the election process itself. Anything could happen in the next three weeks, and I'll continue to watch it closely. You should too. Whether you are as interested in politics as I am or not, this time in our lives is guaranteed to never be boring.

To the Undiscovered Country.

The Future.

- Justin Dudley

Alvin Lucier is s-s-sitting in a r-r-r-r-room...

I'm still turning this over, in my brain. How is it possible that this man's voice hasn't put me to sleep, yet?

If I ran into Mr. Lucier, on the street, my first thought might be to avoid any and all conversation. I don't think I'd even ask him for the time. I would likely be running late and anything he'd say would only make me much later. Still, there is something undeniably satisfying about hearing him speak. He doesn't strike me as the sort of loony you'd find among the ranks of such giants as John Cage and Syd Barret, but he's definitely among the more interesting and potentially prolific artists of his time.

Case in point. "I Am Sitting In A Room" is a 15 minute snoozer, in which Lucier attempts to remove his stutter. Nevermind the fact that he also embarks on an exploration of the amazing properties of resonant sound and frequency that will inspire generations of musicians, young and old, bent on pushing the boundaries of their own music to new levels of experimentation. Nope. He just wants to "smooth out any irregularities [his] speech might have." Nutter.


I Am Sitting In A Room (rar)

I Am Sitting In A Room (mp3)

BONUS!! UbuWeb has a page of downloads from Lucier. Be sure to check out the documentary, A Sound Waves Artist.

UbuWeb Sound - Alvin Lucier

DISCLAIMER: This post is likely not the sort of article that Justin prefers. It is, however, my immense desire that everything I have to say will be in stark contrast to the humor you might get, from this blog. Quite simply... I hope that it bores you to tears.


Monday, December 10, 2007

Paths of Glory: The Rat War of 2007 - Part 1

The following is the first of a two part essay involving my recent rodent dilemma. Special thanks to Justin Dudley for helping me edit and put it in essay/blog form.

October 15, 2007

I have a problem.

It doesn’t relate to drugs or alcohol; credit cards or pornography. Nor does it have anything to do with the IRS, though I have battled that organization of bastards in the past. My problem doesn’t consist of anything of a habitual nature, and for the first time in a long time… this plague of nuisance ness isn’t even human.

My problem… consists of two members of the Rattus norvegicus genus.


Last month, I was sitting on my living room couch when out of the corner of my eye, I saw something run across the floor. Then, a split second later, it was followed by something else, both heading in the direction of the kitchen. Jumping up, I followed in pursuit. I knew by the size of their tails what I was dealing with, but I unfortunately wasn’t able to catch them, for they instantly disappeared.

But they didn’t go far.

All night, I was kept awake by their scratching and scurrying. When I would hear what sounded like rummaging in my pantry, I would leap toward it, golf club in hand, only to find nothing but the usual contents. With one exception. Shit. Rat shit.

All night, I would hear them. They were mocking me. Partying at the expense of my slumber.

This unfortunate series of events plagued me the next night as well. By 2 in the morning, I had given up on sleep and found myself sitting on the couch… golf club in hand… waiting… waiting for the bastards to make a move in my presence. Once or twice they would do so and I’d respond by chasing them into the kitchen, only to find that they had craftily disappeared yet again. I was finally able to nod off by 6 in the morning when the sounds stopped.

The third night was spent in the exact same way. By 4 in the a.m., as I sat on the couch in my pajama’s, golf club in hand, I came to the conclusion that it was either the rats… or my sanity… and seeing as how I was getting low on xanax, I made the decision that the rats had to go.

This morning, I went death shopping.

I had many options. Poisons. Snap traps. Cage traps. Glue traps. These were rats, mind you, not mice. Mouse catching methods do not apply.

Though I had had three sleepless nights, I found that I didn’t harbor hatred towards my foes; just resentment. I craved sleep, not blood. Snap traps were out of the question. I didn’t want to snap the little guys necks in half and have their eyes bulge out. I also didn’t want them bleeding and pissing all over my new carpet, but that’s beside the point.

So I settled on glue traps.

Glue traps are advertised as the more… humane… way to kill things, and being the humanitarian that I am, whenever I plan on killing anything, be it animal… or human… I I prefer to do it in the most humane way possible. Humane as in: clean, slow, painful, and most importantly… clean. Not quick, painless, and bloody (un-clean, un-humane), but the more “humane” way: slow, painful, and clean.

I’m a very clean person.

An hour ago, as the clock chimed midnight, I hear the sound of chaos in my kitchen. Upon inspection, I see that a rat is stuck to the glue trap. Partially. Only his back legs and his tail were captured. Because of this, he’s able to do what the trap is intended to stop: move. To put it simply… he’s going apeshit. And not only is he going apeshit, but by the anger present in his eyes and his combative movements (including growling, hissing), it’s obvious that the little fucker is wanting a war.

And a war I was prepared to give.

Unfortunately, aside from the glue trap, I didn’t have any other weapons at my disposal. By weapons, I of course mean the typical, conventional weapons of war… M16 assault rifle, hand grenades, or a Kevlar Flak jacket. A badminton racket would have to do.

So as I’m searching for the weapon I intend to use, he apparently comes to the realization of what I intend to do to him and he manages to pull himself a short ways from the kitchen to the living room and onto my brand new carpet; a brilliant move, obviously, because now I can’t beat the holy hell out of him. Scanning the kitchen, I find a plastic box with a lid. Grabbing that, along with the racket, I move to the living room where I intend to use the racket to scoop him up and put him in the box, before he shits and pisses all over… the brand new carpet.

I move closer. The growling continues. I move closer. The growling becomes an almost roar of anger. It’s as if he’s a war-hungry rodent-marine, saying, in rat-a-nese, “you want a piece of me, fat boy? Bring it on! Hoo-rah!”

Reaching down, I prepare to slip the racket underneath him… but the sonofabitch counters this by firmly biting down on the racket. I try shaking it but he’s determined to take it away from me. The only way I can regain control is to yank it. The only thing that keeps him from flying off of the carpet and against the wall is the fucking glue on the trap which is now STUCK to my brand new carpet!

Having no other options, I pop him on the head, stunning him, and then quickly flip him into the box, the lid following. But now I realize that I have a new set of problems. What the hell am I going to do with the rat, a sticky trap, and the box? The only answer I could come up with is to throw him in the portable garbage dumpster outside of my house. So, I walk him outside, carefully, and then place him, carefully, on top of some garbage inside of my dumpster, making sure that the rat was stuck to the trap, inside the box, the lid closed tightly on the box, and resting ontop of the garbage inside of the dumpster. With a heavy sigh and a strong, manly feeling of victory, I reentered my house and got ready for bed.

It is now 2 in the a.m. as I sit writing this. Why? Because I cannot sleep. Why? Because my enemy is letting his bitter discontent be known by going apeshit inside of it’s plastic prison, only a few feet away from me. I have a strange feeling that this battle is not over… and that the real war is just over the horizon.

To Be Continued.

Saturday, December 8, 2007

Young Fundamentalists vs. Polar Bears or Stephen Colbert’s Wet Dream Comes True in the Bible belt.

(introductory guest-editorial by the esteemed Mr. Justin Partridge)

I want to tell you a story. It’s an epic story; a story as old as the people who told it to me. It’s a story about dumb vs. even dumber. That’s right kids; I am talking about The Golden Compass and the crusade of the 700 Club and the idiots that give copious amounts of money to it to derail the movie.

I feel though that I should give you a bit on insight into why I sit now at my trusty laptop with a big sweaty glass of Dewers, a half-filled corncob pipe, and a little Grecian boy rubbing my feet, writing this, soon to be venom spitting essay about a movie involving fucking talking polar bears.

Well, pull up a bean-bag and listen close.

The other day I was perusing the sheet music section of my local entertainment depot, Hastings, and I saw a group of fashionable young kids start to swarm around the contemporary Christian music section. I knew right then and there I had to keep an eye on those ruffians; some of the worst crimes in history have been committed by people of this nature. Josh Groban? Yeah. You see my point. So, I am searching through a certain songbook and I hear a conversation start to unfold about The Golden Compass. My ears perk… because I am a fucking nerd. The damndest thing happens though…they don’t seem into it. What? This makes no sense to me. I mean…it’s a movie about talking polar bears. Who wouldn’t want to see that? Don’t these kids like those seasonal Coke ads with the cute and cuddly bears, just getting into precious situations that always end up with a Coke reward? This is pretty much the same thing…except they TALK and WEAR ARMOR! You can’t get much cuter than that in my book.

So, I start to listen closer and that’s when things just start to get goofy. Now what follows is a direct quote from one of the Young Lifers and it is no way a product of my design. This is proven by two things. One: it’s just too damn nutty to come from a sane person and two: if I had written it, I would be a staff writer on The Daily Show instead of slumming for this greasy mic’s blog. One of the future zealots of America was quoted as saying that he was glad that the movie was coming out because it gave “them something to fight against”. The crazy Jesus-train doesn’t stop there, dear readers, oh no…this gospel-fueled, gay hatin’ fiasco is just starting to take off. From what I could infer from the conversation, from a safe distance, of course, these poor, brain-washed young whipper-snappers where planning on standing outside of a local movie theater and handing out flyers that advertise their church (does God really have more shit to sell? What is he, Ron Popeil?) and ask people why they let Phillip Pullman kill the idea of God in the minds of children. It was at this point I had to stumble back to the cafĂ© and have a stiff swig from the flask before I hit the entire Jonestown High School graduating class of 2007 with a chair. To make matters worse, because it wouldn’t be a story about crazy fundamentalists without these nutballs, when I got home that night, I see that the 700 Club was having a weeklong series of segments about the entire His Dark Materials cycle because people “need to know about the evil about to seep into theaters”.

I see, because the evil that plagues the six o’clock news every night, in the form of drugs, rapes, murders, a meaningless war, government in shambles, and the fact that Chris Daughtry had a hit album just isn’t quite evil enough for people to know about.

Thanks Pat, I am really glad you opened my eyes!

Here is the thing; I have nothing against faith at all. I am not trying to put them down for what they believe in. But holy shit, that is fucking stupid. The movie is about a little girl with a bear and she has to get somewhere…that’s fucking it. The only thing that they can use against it is the fact that a church-like organization is the main source of villainy in the film and books. You know why? Because sometimes the church is fucking scary! You ever seen pictures of Vatican City at night?! It looks like Vincent Price’s dorm room. I am not trying to make a lot of waves here, but I really don’t see the rub. I read the His Dark Materials books when I was twelve years old and you know what I thought? I thought “Cool, talking polar bears that fight.” I read them a second time when I was fifteen and you know what I thought then? I thought “Cool, talking polar bears that fight.”


If you want to delve any deeper into the text, be my guest but don’t be mad when people find a meaning that differs from your religion of the week.

Oh and this is really the bitch of it…you ready for this? Phillip Pullman and C.S. Lewis, the creator of one the most beloved Christian fables, and yes I am counting the Bible, The Chronicles of Narnia, were FUCKING FRIENDS! That is the ultimate argument sinker of anyone dumb enough to look into this deeply. Mention that when you try to see Golden Compass and some pencil-necked, Bible-thumper gives you a God sales ad and you will see dreams crushed, faiths shaken, and lives questioned… all in the eyes of one church intern who just wanted to make a difference. To hell with that guy, if he can’t handle the cold hard facts of life then he should have stayed in the Sunday school classes that had to fast forward over all of the best parts of The Ten Commandments.

Its fantasy, kids. That is it. Fat Phil Pullman is a WRITER, someone who, by definition, makes his living telling stories and this story just happened to be read by people who found more in it that makes a bunch of people mad. All I am really saying is that everyone should just take it the hell easy. Just have a Coke and a smile and shut the fuck up about this whole religion-within-fiction thing, because if there is one thing that we can all agree on, it’s that Young Life chicks, though hot, will not put out and God hates chicks that don’t put out.

Giving a strong freshman effort,

J. Partridge.

I'd love to give the world a Vicodin

I was planning on opening this blog with a line like: "After a little more than a years absence, I have made my triumphant return to the world of blogging!", but such a statement would be deceptive. For example, using the word "triumphant" in any sentence describing the last year and my life would be quite a stretch. Alas, I cannot look at a single event in the last 341 days and claim a victory of any sort (except for a few sexual encounters that I am particularly proud of). Of course, an argument can be made that I haven’t tasted triumph in the 25 years that I have inhabited this planet, and it seems that every year I make a promise to myself (and my readers) that a change will come; a new course charted. Incidentally, I’ve become the boy who cried wolf. But I promise that 2008 will be different. I pinky swear. I swear on my great grandmothers grave. I swear on Barack Obama's audaciously righteous campaign (*awaits audible gasp from those who know me well). This blog will be a journal marking my progress. In addition, several of my more creative friends have volunteered to take part in this “blogazine”, providing them an outlet to express their views, short stories, essays, and rants. Whether the subject at hand is politics, movie and music reviews, rants on the downfall of society, sexual techniques, point/counterpoint debates, or strange, chemically-stimulated dialogue/conversational transcripts, our goal is to never be boring.

So welcome to THE Justin Dudley CENTURY!

Our Mission: to be - Insulting. Abrasive. Stimulating. Egotistical. Satiric. Spiritual. Melancholy. Caustic.

Let the games begin.

Keep on rockin’ in the free world,

- Justin Dudley

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