When We Were Soulja's

or

How I Learned to Stop Hating My Country and Stick Up for its Very Existence, Part 1

Part One of the 1 Tuff Place Road Show

This is not enough. You've heard it here first kids. This day in, day out existence of carousing, and womanizing. Moonshine and Marinade mixed in with press releases and headsets during the day. I think we all realize that 1 Tuff Place is the start of something big. A shining beacon of creativity and thought tied together with some sick Adobe Photoshopping and some damn fine beats. With that in mind - my fateful editor-in-chief has given all of us the charge of going out in the world and conquering. We need to somehow put ourselves on the map, to establish our supremacy over all those also-ran websites and blogs assembled by whiny people that hate SUV's and love extra firm tofu. This is our time!

Unfortunately - I don't have time. My aforementioned employment keeps me firmly seated in a lumbar supported chair, while I stare out my window, 30 stories in the air, looking back towards my apartment (which is visible from my perch) daydreaming about doing nothing, but in a more comfortable setting. Yet, I have a confession to make. Please, let's keep this between ourselves, as many of my superiors are not aware of what is about to happen, and when they find out it will certainly shake them to their very core.

I'm giving it all up. The rat race, the monotony and discomfort that comes in wearing a tie everyday for no apparent reason other than to degrade yourself to the level that all other working men must lower themselves. Do you understand the history of neckties? They were first used as showy regalia by a Croatian army defending the French throne. They stayed in fashion for the sole purpose of covering hideous neck sores and goiters that Europeans were prone to have centuries ago. They are despicable creations, and while I smile a sadistic smile, thinking of Patrick Bateman every time I put on my blue Hugo Boss suit, handing a person my business card gives me the same feeling. Maybe if fancyboy handshakes replaced the traditional digit lock in the business world, I might have the heart to keep this career thing going.

I digress. This rant simply means that I need more. I am a patriot my friends, an undying spirit that bleeds red, white and blue. I feel the burning need to defend our country, all the while turning a hefty profit for myself and extolling the virtues of Flava. I am becoming a freedom fighter, a bounty hunter. It's about time to take my knack for disguise and my low center of gravity, and put it to use.

You don't understand where I'm going with this, which is understandable. Allow me to explain. Since September 11, George Bush has gone after Al Qaeda, Afghanistan, the Taliban, Iraq, Saddam Hussein, Moqtada al Sadr, the French and gays. This has led to the killing of militants, infidels, men, women, children, and several herds of goats, while Rosie O'Donnell still roams the earth, free as a bird. What do we have to show for all this? Well... nothing really. Unless you count exorbitantly high gas prices, and an entire region of the world that hates us.

In the great words of Jack Nicholson, "This war needs an enema!" So send me over. I'm ready to crawl into the bowels of the Pakistani hills and pull out Osama...if only so I don't have to hear Jimmy Fallon and his giddy, childish impression of the cold blooded bastard. Let's face it, if I don't do it now, you know the Republicans are going to pull him out right before the election, like a serial killer out of a hat. I can picture it now, probably happening concurrently with the final presidential debate. Here's the scenario: John Kerry is 10 percentage points up and it’s late October. They're debating back and forth, and Kerry is kicking some serious ass. Apparently, he's the best debater in modern electoral history, seamlessly melding Ferrell’s blackout moment in Old School and Billy Madison’s industrial revolution speech. He's confident but not cocky, compassionate, but not bleeding-heart. He's beginning to learn how to smile, and just for a little while, people are forgetting that he looks like a stoned cross between Andrew Jackson and Herman Munster.

As the debate winds down, and Bush's confidence has been traded for that cokehead-in-the-headlights look, moderator Jim Lehrer hits him with the final death blow.

Lehrer: Mr. President, your opponents argue that you have grossly misjudged your stance on Social Security. As baby boomers begin to retire by the millions, many feel that our Social Security system needs a dramatic overhaul to support the nation's retired citizens. You have argued that the system should be privatized. Would you care to elaborate on this issue?

Bush: That's a good question Jim (lightly sweating). I believe if you give a man a fish, he eats for a day. If you give a man a fishing pole, maybe a net, some light tackle, he can fish for several days. You see what I'm saying?

Lehrer: I haven't the foggiest. Would you care to clarify?

Bush: I think if you know what you believe, it makes it a lot easier to answer questions. I can't answer your question (now sweating profusely). What I will say is this, WHAT THE HELL?!?!? SWEET JESUS!

At which point, Dubya does his best David Blaine impression and pulls Osama, chained and wearing one of those idiotic orange jumpsuits, from underneath his podium. Bin Laden looks melancholy and sedated, a defeated man who has probably been held for some time in a maximum security fortress deep in a West Virginia coal mine; right next to JFK's actual killer, and the real Ralph Nader - as the one roaming the country in his JC Penny shoes and Today's Man slacks is an impostor, sent up by the Repubs in the summer of 2000.

Lehrer is shocked. Kerry passes out, falls, and cracks his head on the floor. John Edwards gives a rousing oratory on how Bush and Osama should be tried together for crimes against humanity, while doctors work around the clock to bring Kerry out of his comatose shock, all to no avail. Election over. Bush wins by a landslide, and Kerry is relegated to teaming up with Bob Dole for Viagra commercials, and living off his wife's ketchup money.

With good faith in humanity, and a little help from the 1 Tuff Road Show, this scenario will never come to fruition. What people may not know is that while we are all currently holding down day jobs, continuing our educations, and painting fences, all members of the soapbox crew have also been clandestinely training in the back alleys of New York and the fields of Long Island. We are now skilled in the ways Shaolin Kung Fu and Ninjitsu, Masters of disguise, PhD's in criminal psychology and foreign diplomacy, and I have also become fluent in Arabic, Kurdish, Persian and Pashto. Today my friends, we survive as soldiers of fortune. If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find us, maybe you can hire… the T-Team. (cue theme music, and if you don't get that reference, you spent too much time watching My Little Pony and not enough GI Joe).