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Hate CANíT CURE Hate!

 article about I hate everything about you

This article belongs to In Search of Laughs! column.


(The Comic in Red Shoes wrestles with mankind's heavyweight dilemmas)


Resolved: It's always been my judgment that others have a right to what
they believe. By recognizing everyone can, and will believe anything they choose to, I've QUID PRO QUO-ED myself. Thereby I, also, have a right to believe what I believe. Dawg, ain't LOGIC a sunmabitch?

Self-examination has shown me, I hate ventriloquists!
I never wanted to be a hater, so I raced for a dictionary to help
understand my feelings. Checking my bookshelf, I looked past Hoffman's
Steal This Book and The Bhagavad-Gita. Past my Koran and Bible. I
thought I left Funk & Wagnall's right next to Leon Uris' The Haj,
but no! Finally, I saw it behind The (Ken) Starr Report and my NASCAR
play station game. In it, I found the following definitions:

HATE: an intense hostility or aversion.

PITY: a sympathetic sorrow or compassion.

CURE: a relief or remedy from disease.


Is hate a mental disease? Seeing what I've seen and knowing what I
know, I'm vaguely sure that there is no cure for how I feel about
ventriloquists. So, if you can spare the time and have the inclination,
please pity me.

A flood of feelings and questions came over
me. Do I hate individuals or other groups too? Well, I don't care for
snakes, be they reptilian, human, or Zendi, so I avoid them. I've never
wasted my time on those who are racist or religiously intolerant. I
figure their God, your God, my God, or any God will settle all his
scores in each's individually predicted afterlife. So much for hate.

If I think about suicide bombers, I realize I do pity them. Que se puede hacer! Spanish for: "What can you do?" I'm
not sure a cure is available to those who take innocent lives. I'm not
sure I'd give them the cure, for a while. First, I'd make suicide
bombers ask their victims for the cure and be guided by that, then I
would let all the victim's loved ones administer the cure. So much for
pity and cures.

If I think about the racists, I don't hate
them, I realize I pity them. I pity the racists and wish a cure for
their racism. Kinda like I pity people who do karaoke. I'm not sure
racism or karaoke singers can be cured. Check with Senator Robert Byrd.






Anyhoo, I reserve punishment by my ridicule for any who fails to
respond to reason. When reason fails me, you can bet the next thing out
of my mouth will be a snarky, sarcastic analysis like:

"You-you-you- it's all about you, isn't it?" or "Gosh, gee, Your life is hell, isn't it?" or the always effective: "Copernicus proved the world does NOT revolve around you!" It's
not much, but it does get me invited to parties. I do love my fellow
man, but that doesn't mean I have to take any guff from him.


Ben Franklin is one of my heroes. One of his heroes, a supposedly
devout man, said he didn't want to leave a room until he had done a
good thing. I attempt to mimic that in my words. It's my fool's errand,
but there I go. I take the serious in life and wash it in something
funny. I want to offer the world some options - options people haven't
heard yet. I gots some good news, I gots some bad news, I gots some
funny news. What've you got?

There's an old comedy maxim: If they can't take a jokeÖF**K Ďem! I remind all the reverse is also valid: If they can't take a f**kÖJOKE'em! Maybe it's true.

I remind the whole world now: If you don't like America's elected officials:

You should see the people that put Ďem in power!

Sneering at The UN, President Bush nominates the biggest prick he could dig up!

If Prince Charles can marry Camilla, then Ellen can marry anything she wants to!

Martha Stewart, for her probation, will have to re-decorate the entire state of Alabama!

Michael Jackson is being accused of leaking Grand Jury testimony. Believe me, of all the various things Michael Jackson could LEAK, Grand Jury testimony is the ONLY thing I would ever want to hear about!


Quebec had a 4.3 earthquake. Seismologists calculated the epicenter to
a comedy club, where an improv group attempted a nuclear joke. Over
thirty mimes were wounded.

I live in Los Angeles. Here, a 4.3 earthquake is like no big deal. Rain, however, is a completely different horse.

I heard of a cemetery that's installing a speaker in the buried coffin, so loved ones can still talk with their deceased. I want to do that in reverse! When
they put me six feet under, and start tossing dirt on my face; a
recording of my act will activate, with all my favorite jokes. It'd be
real funny for me, and I just might get a standing ovation.

If hate can't cure hate, then maybe, laughter can cure hate! Isn't it worth a try?



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