If you ever find yourself forced to make small talk with wacky cult leader and would-be-Messiah Charles Manson, it’s probably best not to mention the Beatles unless you’ve got the time to hang out for a while.
"Can You See It, Man? Can You Dig What It Says When You Take The First Letter Of Each Song On The White Album And Put Them Together? No, Man! It Doesn't Say 'BDGOWTWH MIBPRDWIJ BYMESHL RHSCRG!' It Says 'Get Charlie A Sandwich, And Not So Much Goddamn Mayo This Time!' It Also Says, 'The War Is Coming; Piggies Die!'"
On those occasions when you manage to bluff someone into telling you something by acting like you know more than you really do, and then he asks you, When did you find out?–resist the temptation to be the smirking A-Hole who says, Just now–when you told me! After that bush league play, he won’t tell you shit.
The best responses run along these lines: We’ve known almost since the beginning. Your opponent will spend the next few moments trying to figure out where he got careless and screwed up. Meanwhile, you can follow with, “But there’s just one or two things I don’t understand.” You’d be surprised at what he’ll tell you.
"But You See, Mr. Johnson, I Didn't Know Until Just Now. I Followed You To This Remote Cabin Without Telling Anyone To Trick You Into Confessing. Now Please, Let Me Borrow Your Telephone. The Police Will Be Here In 20 Minutes."
For fans of historical reenaction and other loveless shut-ins who spend their days pondering what would happen if Adolf Hitler and Genghis Khan united in an anachronistic super-villain team up, this is as close as you’re likely to get.
Give Them Points For Effort At Least: “Führer” Is Hard Enough To Pronounce With An American Accent.
The other villagers are said to be searching desperately for a way to gently shepherd these confused young men into accepting some uncomfortable, yet indelible, truths.
Race has always been a contentious topic, never more so than in today’s overcharged, media-driven fishbowl. Issues of cultural heritage are similarly sensitive. A longstanding and often-fiery debate continues over the question of whether the cultural properties of a race are best kept within the purview of that specific culture, or whether these formerly cultural properties be adopted by the greater culture at large to reach their full significance, thereby risking dilution.
If You Find Yourself Asking, "Why Do Dreadlocks Look Great On This Guy, But Make Me Look Like An Asshole?", Take A Few Deep Breaths And Do Your Best Not To Swallow Your Own Tongue. Promethean Times Is Here To Help.
There are no easy answers to this question, and we will not attempt any here. Instead, can we all agree right now that blond guys need to stop wearing their hair in dreadlocks?
It Should Not Be. How Can A Loving God Let This Happen?
Promethean Times fails to see the appeal in going through life with a filthy piece of macramé clinging to your scalp. It would appear that nature agrees with our dim assessment of the hairstyle’s aesthetic value, based on the dubious quality of the soupy pool from which these bipedal lhasa apsos are forced to choose their mates. There are certainly more hygienic ways to attract a mate, and lacking a hairstyle that readily identifies you as a douchebag greatly increases your potential to perform intercourse with a partner who has both an established pattern of bathing and at least a nodding acquaintance with a razor.
At Least These Two Aren't Spreading Their Aberrant Chromosomes Among The Normals.
There is a danger here more insidious than simply looking like a dickhead. Although cultural watchdogs are particularly vigilant against cultural theft, no one is guarding against the danger that more insipid elements of white culture will find their way into black culture. Witness this disturbing back-door attempt to introduce the mullet into Rastafarian culture:
Curiously, Smaktakula Feels In No Way Hypocritical In Wanting To Beat This Punk's Lily-White Ass.
No blond man, no matter how good-looking, has ever been anything other than a pitiable clown buried under a snarl of dreads. Anyone who thinks that he might be the blond Philosopher’s Stone, gifted with the miraculous ability to transform shit into chic, is dangerously deluded. Unfortunately, until these misguided souls accept that cool-looking dreadlocks are forever denied them,* the rest of us will have to suffer these flesh-and-blood Raggedy Andys.
*And you can forget about not looking like an asshole while fast-dancing.
In the tradition of such illustrious space-wasters as Brian “Kato” Kaelin and Kevin “K-Fed” Federline, unctuous pimp Michael Lohan has managed to keep food in his belly by crafting a persona famous for being semi-famous. Lohan, no doubt a subscriber to the maxim, “All Roads Lead To Branson,” evinces no embarrassment that his appropriated “career” is supported only by clinging pathetically to his out-of-control offspring with all the tenacity and class of a Calcutta fare-dodger.
Lohan: Not A Homosexual, But A Massive Gaywad Nonetheless.
With Lohan’s bottom bitch in rehab following a short stint in jail, the talentless remora’s earning power has been drastically curtailed. Typically, a cockroach will exhaust all means of escape when caught by surprise on a brightly lit kitchen floor. Periplaneta lohanis, a rare but particularly unpleasant sub-species, displays a markedly perverse tendency to do the opposite. Rather than flee, Lohan is attracted to anything bright and shiny, scurrying from spotlight to spotlight in a desperate effort to wring every last drop from his fifteen minutes of unearned notoriety.
In a recent interview Lohan gushed, “I definitely blame myself and take responsibility for where my daughter is.” It is extremely unlikely that Lohan would be so quick to take responsibility for his daughter’s actions if doing so carried with it any consequences. However, since soul-searching self-recrimination costs Lohan nothing, and is unlikely to deprive him of his freedom, he can use it as a sop to the five or six people who have somehow managed to convince themselves that this leering cretin has in any way his daughter’s interests at heart.
Bonding With The Progeny: Bitch Better Have My Money.
It is certainly true that Lohan, abetted by his despicable ex-wife Dina, was a thoroughly shitty parent, and Promethean Times would like nothing better than to assign to Lohan the blame not only for the ruination of his own daughter, but also for such varied disasters as the kidnapping of the Lindbergh Baby, the Challenger Explosion, and greenlighting New Coke.
Moreover, you can bet that no one holds Michael Lohan more responsible for the former starlet’s wretched condition than does his daughter, who has demonstrated a nearly sociopathic refusal to accept responsibility for her actions. Nonetheless, it must generally be agreed that at some point a 24-year old woman is responsible for her own disastrous choices. With only two or three years at most left to live, Lindsay would be well-served to spend her remaining days judiciously. Although such an outcome is unlikely, the younger Lohan can be thankful at least that her father cannot live her life for her.
Reminiscent Of Kapra's 'It's A Wonderful Life,' Lindsay Is Given The Opportunity To See What Her Father's Life Would Be Like If She Had Never Been Born.
Despite his staggering lack of either merit or talent, Michael Lohan stands head and shoulders above the teeming legions of Hollywood hangers-on. It’s no feat to be hated by your ex-wife, and neither does the animosity directed at Lohan by his own offspring set him apart from rank-and-file deadbeats throughout the world. Rather, it is his perverse compulsion to share with the world through the miracle of the 24-hour news cycle his complete and utter failure as a father, husband and human being that catapults Michael Lohan into stratospheric company among the world’s elite paragons of cretinous douchebaggery.
Not telling your Facebook friends about Promethean Times is tantamount to admitting you don’t really have any friends.
Now that Promethean Times tweets, Twitter is culturally relevant. Follow Promethean Times on Twitter.
The cruel remark about not having any friends if you don’t spread the Promethean Gospel applies to Twitter as well, in the unlikely event that there remained any lingering ambiguity.
"Jesus, Fred--What Does 'I Wish I Could Quit You' Mean, Anyway? Look, We Both Knew This Wouldn't Be Forever, Right? But What We Had, Man--It Was Real. Just Promise Me Something, Fred. Promise Me You Won't Let This Make You Bitter."
The piece of Phelpsicana included below, the Westboro Baptist Church’s earliest slogan, helps to shed light on Phelps’ bizarre devolution:
No Reason Was Given For The Slogan's Change During The Winter Of 1952. Apparently, Phelps Thought "God Hates Fags" Just Sounded Better.
The Olive Garden has been crapping out adequate fare for nearly thirty years, all the while striving mightily to frame itself as the workingman’s access to continental dining. Targeting those customers for whom the Red Lobster is too provincial, the Olive Garden aspires to bring the charm of an idealized Old World Italy to such unlikely spots as Lexington, Kentucky or Elko, Nevada.
These Ample Eaters Are More Representative Of Olive Garden Customers Than Are The Beautiful People In The Commercials
No one begrudges Olive Garden’s right to pass off its inedible fare as authentic Italian. Americans have long been tolerant of such culinary bastardizations, preferring them in most cases to the authentic ethnic dishes from which they came. However, as understandable as Olive Garden’s right to make a profit from the insensate palates of gastronomically-benumbed Americans may be, their commercials venture into the realm of the unforgivable.
One familiar commercial features a laughing group of family members engaged in spirited non-stop conversation about the food set before them, thrusting lightly with their forks at one another’s plates, merrily sharing food.
Any real gathering of an American family that doesn’t include drunken recriminations and acidic passive-aggression is a sham. Moreover, in the current climate of bacterial paranoia coupled with orgiastic overeating, anyone foolish enough to attempt snatching food from a neighbor’s plate is most likely to end the encounter with a fork jutting from the back of his hand.
Another commercial features a similar assemblage, this time a group of upwardly mobile, physically fit and improbably racially diverse friends. Like the aforementioned family, the hot young pals can think of nothing better to discuss than the fine fare at Olive Garden, until one asshat kills the conversation by declaring his intention of “doing the alfredo.” Outside of their boorish behavior, these people bear very little resemblance to the mouth-breathing hominids one is likely to encounter within the stuccoed confines of this craptastic eatery.
Olive Garden’s most memorable campaign is also its most odious. It should be familiar by now: an unctuous voice, oozing with manufactured warmth, intones at the close of the commercial, “When you’re here, you’re family.”
Really? Unless it’s a tacit guarantee that the meal will be free, promising to treat the customer like family is cynical glibbery of the lowest order. It’s doubtful that many people will recall Mom charging $14.95 for a lackluster plate of spaghetti with the promise of unlimited salad and MSG-encrusted bread sticks.
And last is this commercial, which informs us breathlessly that “At Olive Garden, ‘generosity’ begins with a G,” clearly ignorant of the fact that the word also begins with a G throughout the United States and many parts of Canada. However, the unconvincingly accented narrator goes on to remind us that at Olive Garden, generosity ends “when you are happy,” which sounds a lot like this Chinese massage parlor that Smaktakula knows about.
Now that 
Promethean Times 