No More Mister Nice Guy, Part Two

In honor of my deciding not to be a Nice Guy anymore, I’ve decided to offend as many people as I can with this entry.
When did we become so afraid of not keeping everyone happy? Remember when Super Bowl commercials were funny? Remember when they might possibly be misconstrued as offensive? Remember when we cared less what everyone would think and more about getting our point across? This rant is going to go all over the place, so hang on.
Today’s rant is about the thin-skinned pussies who can’t take a joke. It’s about the conservative minority that thinks it knows how everyone should act. It’s about the loudmouthed, overprotective, parents who think “time-out” is an effective alternative to a good old-fashioned spanking. It’s about all the people who have turned America’s youth into an uncontrollable bunch of savages while trying to prevent it.
I’m sick of everything being politically correct. It’s flat out retarded. For example, why did the term African-American come to exist? What the hell is wrong with the word “black?” I don’t take offense to being called white. I don’t insist on minorities referring to me as an Anglo-American. Last month, in a rare bout of news-watching, I saw an anchor refer to a black English (as in U.K.) person as an African-American. WTF? It raised a question in my mind. Do the British blacks insist of being called African-English? African-British? If you want to complain about people calling you black, I insist that you first complain about rap stars calling each other “nigger.” If they start saying African-American, then so will I.
I’m sick of people protesting the content in today’s entertainment. These people scream bloody murder over the idea of sex in a video game. I’ve got a news flash for you people. Your kids have already seen it all. By the fifth grade, most kids know how sex works and have probably started a stash of porn that they will hide in the tree-fort. Perhaps instead of spending all this energy fighting the manufacturers, you should spend it raising your damn kid.
We have raised generation of children who have been told that nothing is their fault. If they overeat, it’s because the fast food industry offered too good a deal on upsizing their lunch combo. If they take a gun to school, it’s because Hollywood made guns seem too glamorous. If they turn to drugs, it’s because they didn’t get enough attention at home. Wait, that might actually be true. In fact, it’s so true that I think that explanation can cover everything they do. If you want to shift blame from the children, then shift it to the parents.
I was spanked as a child, often. My father actually made a pattern that he used to carve out new wooden paddles because they went through them so fast. I will never say that my parents beat me, though. A spanking is a far cry from a beating. I never played with my father’s guns because I knew that he would tan my hide if I did. I ate a moderately healthy diet because my mother (God bless her) stayed home and cooked us dinner every night.
Maybe the problem is that mothers decided they didn’t want to stay home anymore. Or perhaps some woman’s group decided it for them, and they went along with it. Don’t mistake this as sexism, though. I think a woman can go out and make the money while the father stays home. My point isn’t that women need to stay home and raise their kids. My point is that SOMEONE needs to stay home with them, and that someone better not be afraid to spank them.
So how did Superbowl commercials lead me into this rant? Because last night was probably the worst batch of commercials I’ve seen on Superbowl Sunday yet. There are only four commercials that I remember. The bug-zapper doctor, the night-flight encounter, the backyard football game with the girls, and the colt pulling the Budweiser wagon. (And the last one wasn’t even funny. It was sappy junk, geared towards female drinkers.)
Whatever happened to the “Wassup?” guys at Budweiser? Oh yeah, someone said they were “targeting an African-American audience.” Of course, that led to a moderately funny series of spin-offs, such as the Italian “How ya doin’?” guys and the Ivy-league “What are you doing?” guys. The real question, though, is what is wrong with targeting a specific audience? You think Colt 45 malt liquor doesn’t have a target audience? You think those hideous rims on the Caddy Escalade didn’t have a target audience? (Yeah, be offended. I don’t care. Those rims were ghetto.) Rather than bitch about the commerical and how it offends you, how about you just not buy their product? Your wallet will speak more effectively than your mouth, and I get to see funny commercials again.
Did I miss anyone? Let me know, and I’ll try and piss them off next time.

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