Whitney

by ANDREW J HICKS

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"I wanna smoke a pile of rocks THIS BIG!"

My generation contains a subset of dorky guys who like girls but have a love for the cheesy adult-contemporary and pop hits of the ’80s and ’90s. I’ve got a friend — loves pussy, loves Michael Bolton even more.

Me, I’ve got musical guilty pleasures out the ass, but I have a special fondness for the Hot Diva Pop of the Reagan/Bush/Clinton years. Music that makes you look gay from women you’d love to fuck. I’m talking about early Mariah, Janet, Vanessa Williams, Paula Abdul, Madonna and, yes, Whitney Houston.

So when Whitney was found dead in a hotel room at age 48 last Saturday, it was a cause for mourning and reflection. There were also many crack jokes involved also. Because, let’s face it — it’s funny.

A coworker complained to me that Whitney was no great legend, that she only had like 6 popular songs. I told him I could name 20 Whitney Houston songs that charted. He didn’t believe me. I rattled them off: You Give Good Love, Saving All My Love For You, Greatest Love of All–

Another coworker interrupted: “How many can you name that don’t have the word ‘love’ in the title?”

I got to 19 Whitney songs and blanked. My general manager, who had arrived around the time I listed Song 13, chimed in, “What about [singing] My Name Is Not Susan“? And I had my 20. How could I have forgotten about the WORST Whitney song ever played on the radio? I started singing, “My name is not Bobby, but my husband’s name is.”

Later, I remembered Whitney’s 1991 live version of The Star Spangled Banner at the Super Bowl. It was released as a single at the height of combat operations during the first Gulf War. You’d better believed it charted. A fourth coworker told me, “You know, at the time, no one had any idea that Whitney lip synched that Super Bowl performance.” I’d had no idea. “Yeah, he said, “saw that one on E! about 6 years ago.”

The weird thing about famous people dying young is, it brings the living closer together, if just in a minor way, for a short amount of time. Whitney, I respect your achievements. I love about 15 of your songs. I even watched your movies. And my coworkers and I had fun remembering you. Rest in peace.

2012 Celebrity Death Picks

by BUDDAH ESKEW
edited by ANDREW J HICKS

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Dick Cheney has one thing to say to the Grim Reaper.

Almost a year ago, I posted my 2011 Celebrity Death Picks. I certainly missed the mark, but don’t ask Liz Taylor. (Liz “famously said, ‘A world without Michael Jackson just isn’t worth living in.’ I agree, so get out!”) There were the obvious misses, like Amy Winehouse, Andy Rooney, Harry Morgan, Betty Ford and even Heavy D. But Randy “Macho Man” Savage? Who saw that coming? And Dr. Jack Kevorkian? May I just say, “Bahahahaha!!!”

Also, Dick Clark still lives. He has proven to be an elusive bastard indeed. I give up, Dick. You will live on forever, even if no one ever understands another word you drool.

So here go my 2012 predictions:

• Muhammad Ali — All of Ali’s weights are now considered Shake Weights. Even Michael J. Fox has a shot at knocking out the champ.

• Wilford Brimley — The Cocoon jig is almost up, Willie. We have all bought enough insurance, denture cream and shitty cereal based on your endorsements. Now move over. Dick Van Dyke needs the work.

• Dolly Parton — Insert “big titty” joke here.

• Kirk Douglas — Last year, I picked Michael Douglas and blew it big time. Damn you, cancer cures! If I can’t have the son, I’ll take the father.

• Zsa Zsa Gabor — For chrissakes! She has died three times in the last five years. Can a brother get a decent coroner?

• Kelsey Grammer — Just a hunch…

• Fidel Castro — When Fidel drops, my 1959 Castro dictator rookie card will double in value. And to think, the Cubs just hired Fidel as their new hitting coach.

• Andy Dick — I’m calling it right here! Suicide by April 1st. No fooling.

• Tito Jackson — Tito is the Frank Stallone of his family. He will never hit more home runs than his brother Reggie or win as many championship rings as his cousin Phil. So I forsee a sporting goods accident around mid-summer. Sleep well, La Toya, you may be up next year.

• Joan Collins — I masturbated to Dynasty-era Joanie C in the early ’80s. Here’s a clue: Linda Evans in the library with the candlestick.

• Dick Cheney — Sorry, no hunting accident, just a good ol’ fashioned heart attack.

• Jerry Lewis — This guy has blown up so big, I swear I saw him floating above the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. Time to pop, Jer.

• Andy Griffith — My lone holdover from last year. I just know 2012 is his year.

• Adam West — Holy embalming fluid, Batman! POW!

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SIDEBAR NOTE: I was all set with the great, obscure, dark-horse death pick of Francine Hurd Barker of Peaches and Herb fame. I’ll be damned if Francine didn’t one up me in 2005. R.I.P. Peaches.

Fun With Bill Collectors

by ERTEL GRAY
edited by ANDREW HICKS

A stunned Ertel receives terse words from a deceptively smiley, multiethnic lady named Nancy. Image by Eric Dohman.

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[DISCLAIMER: The following conversation between me and a debt collector literally just happened. As I was on the phone, I was furiously typing away on this porno/typewriter thing I call the Internet. The rest I filled in from memory. Some I may have even embellished. So sue me… wait, don’t sue me. Forget I even mentioned that.]

NANCY: Hello, this is Nancy with [insert bullshit collection agency name] and am I calling in regards to an overdue bill, on your account with [bullshit business name] Am I speaking with Ertel Gray at the moment?

ME: Yep. You sure are.

NANCY: Mr. Gray, I am calling on behalf of [bullshit business] in regards to your outstan–

ME: Yep. Listen, Grace, we’ve established that.

NANCY: It’s Nancy.

ME: I am who you’re looking for, and yes I owe [bullshit business] [X amount of] dollars. Congratulations, you’ve tracked me down.

NANCY: We can offer you, if you’d like to settle this debt today, by check or credit card, no service charges whatsoever.

ME: Well, that’s awfully generous of ya to waive a three-dollar surcharge if I pay today, Shelley, but I have like no money on my bank card until payday, so I’m gonna have to pass.

The Majesty of Karaoke

by ERTEL GRAY
edited by ANDREW HICKS

Karaoke: Where the world's most attractive people huddle together and scream beautifully into a microphone.

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“For every failed singer in this world, there is a karaoke DJ eating his weight in hot wings by dim light.”
-Voltaire

The ancient Japanese art of karaoke has never really seemed to hit its zenith in America. Even today, every bar you go to has at least one karaoke night on its chalkboard schedule, nestled between $2 Pitcher Tuesday and Thirsty Thursday.

So what’s the appeal? For every Joe Average, maybe it’s the dream of wooing a lady friend with a mystical version of Peter Frampton‘s “Baby, I Love Your Way.” In reality, the alcohol involved always seems to transform Frampton’s ode to loving a female’s way into a horribly off-key, off-rhythm “‘OohbabeeILove…’ where am I? The damn screen’s moving too fast. Where’s Brenda at? Get up here, y’whore! ‘WannaTeeellYou…'”

Karaoke, at its crux, is basic good fun. No one’s there to judge your performance. Oh sure, that guy who just threw up on his shirt sorta looks like Simon Cowell, but remember: you’re wearing beer goggles. I lied about the “no one’s judging you” thing, actually. If you’re singing, you should be aware that I am judging you based on pitch, vocal range and choice of material. I am your own… personal… Cowell.

But you’re not going to win a recording contract and/or make millions with me. I’m judging you solely because I don’t want to make the same mistakes you do. Recently, I made plans to go out with a girl (yeah, I was surprised, too) who absolutely loves to sing. And apparently displays the same lack of shame that I do. A keeper? After tonight’s debacle? Right? (Right!) You’re bloody well right!

Cardinals World Series Memories

by ANDREW HICKS

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David Freese ties the game for the eighth time in Game 6 of the 2011 World Series.

I was 4 when the Cardinals won the World Series in 1982. I have one vague memory of being babysat by my grandma while my mom and grandpa were at the game. We spent all nine innings trying to spot them in the audience shots.

When the Cardinals played seven games against the Royals in the ’85 World Series, I was 7. I have spotty, nonspecific memories of that matchup. I barely remember the infamous blown Don Denkinger call at first base in Game 6 and the drama that ensued when Denkinger was home plate umpire for Game 7. Checked out some Wikipedia just now. Turns out that, after Denkinger ejected pitcher Joaquin Andujar and manager Whitey Herzog were from Game 7, Andujar “smashed a toilet in the Cardinals’ clubhouse.” Herzog smashed a dozen White Castle sliders.

Auction War Storage Hunters

by ERTEL GRAY
with ANDREW HICKS

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”]I am an addict. Step One is admitting you have a problem, and that’s why I’m here. I’ve recently become extremely obsessed with the ever-expanding glut of TV shows about storage unit auctions. You know, those C-level reality shows where people haggle over one-of-a-kind items with pawn shop owners, and/or people rummage around in dilapidated barns and garages, finding rusted-out treasures that I’m told are high-dollar items.

A 19th-century steam-powered vibrator? $300. Thomas Jefferson’s giant granite dangling-cross earring, yanked from Mount Rushmore after fierce protests from Quakers? Four thousand bucks all day. A rare acetate demo of John and Yoko’s blistering 22-minute version of “I’m Henry the VIII, I Am”? Actually, there are 2 million copies of THAT garbage, but I’d still pay at least three grand for the chance to own it.

This is all my fault. I’m addicted to junk. For those who remain uninitiated to shows like “Storage Wars” and “Auction Hunters,” the premise is this — every day, thousands of unclaimed storage lockers are put up for auction. Bidding is fierce, and rivalries develop instantaneously over these storage lockers, which just might be chock-full of rarities and untold riches. It’s the ultimate in Ponzi* schemes, the rule being “buy low, sell high.”

Oh sure, there’s storage units that turn out to be a bust. Apparently, SOME people don’t feel that a damp, 8′ x 10′ concrete storage locker is the best place to keep their priceless copies of Action Comics #1 and miscellaneous Aztec artifacts. But the rule of thumb in the “Storage Wars” world is, if something has intrinsic value, you put it in a glorified carport and lock that shit up with a high-school-locker Master Lock. Then forget you owe $400 for the past four months’ rent and lose your padlocked carport altogether.

Meanwhile, think of how many actual archaeologists have given up scouring the actual ruins of some long-forgotten city whose name Indiana Jones couldn’t even pronounce correctly. Honestly, you can’t blame them. Spending months at a time in some dense jungle, amid the constant threat of attack by large primates and bot flies that lay eggs in open wounds — not to mention the oppressive “jungle stench” — doesn’t help morale. Especially after you’ve spent several months with a Maybelline rouge brush, carefully and intently brushing the faint traces of dirt, layer by layer, from a couple of shards of clay pottery. And it’s Christmas Day.

Take any archaeologist who’s been inspired to unlock the mysteries of Indy movies past, and ask that archaeologist if he or she now feels cheated for having taken that career path, and I’m almost positive the answer will be a resounding FUCK YEAH. (“I’ve been out here in the jungles of Costa Rica for four MONTHS now, and not ONE fucking Nazi! No crystal skulls!  It’s bullshit!”)

What the budding archaeologist fails to realize when he sets out on an Indy mission is that most of the good treasure has already been looted and sold on the black market. Now it’s somewhere in an 8 x 10 storage shed that’s in default of payment, waiting for some hulking behemoth of a man with head tattoos and Oakley shades to slowly bid it up to roughly $1,200 American.

So, in short, to any and all of you potential treasure seekers out there who might be reading this, give up dreams of Custer’s Gold. Put away the maps of Oak Island, and don’t even THINK about going near Fort Knox.

Bid on a storage unit.

You may end up with Lincoln’s personal stash of bukkake tintypes. Or, you might just end up with a fuck-ton of Tupperware. Either way, you played the game.

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*Given our fascination with combining celebrity couple names, I can only conclude that — somewhere along the line — Potsi Webber and Arthur Fonzarelli, both of “Happy Days,” had a brief, albeit torrid sexual affair. The offspring, carried in Potsi’s butt for three trimesters, was the now-famous word Ponzi.

Woo Stands Erect In Solidarity With Occupy Wall Street

by CHRISTOPHER WOO

Lesser-Known 2012 Presidential Candidates

Editing and artwork by CHRISTOPHER WOO

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Contributors: T. Allan Christopher, Michelle Dee, Andrew J. Hicks

Klan Kalls it Kwits?

by CHRISTOPHER WOO

K3 recruitment drive starts at the top!

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LITTLE ROCK, ARK. – Today, the Klu Klux Klan announced that it will be going through a bit of an identity change. Spokesman John “Chilli” Mac issues this statement, “After some bit’a consideration, we come to think the youths of today don’t find us hip enough to join up with.”

Membership is down over 85 percent since 1995. Mac blames this on the rapid growth and popularity of the Internet.

“Seems with all the message boards and social media to express your views on, the kids today are much more independent racists. Hell, my own 10-year-old boy would rather shout racial slurs into his Xbox microphone than come to a meet-up,” Mac stated.

With these things in mind, the decision came to re-brand the Klan. It seemed a natural fit to give it a new name, in the style of a web 2.0 business.

“From here on out we’re to be known as ‘K3: The Klan.’ The kids love it, ‘cuz you can make a K and a 3 with your hands. My kids run around hollerin’ “K3 Represent” and tossin’ the K3 sign up all the time.” It seems the irony of the hip-hop ‘gangsta’ culture seeping into Klan life has gone over the head of Mr. Mac.

Along with the name change, K3 has realized its sense of fashion is seriously outdated. Mac says, “We discovered that wearing our bedsheets out, especially after Labor Day, is just not hip at all.”

9 Demons of the College House Party

By PAUL LAO and HIS UNFORTUNATE EXPERIENCES
edited by ANDREW HICKS

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"If you're white, lemme hear ya say 'HOAHH!'"

At its best, a party contains abundant drink, music, laughter, possibility, magic, literal fire, humor and conversation. But parties are more often destructive than constructive, and they’re like a storm — you can predict the time, the size and the location, but you can’t predict the severity until it’s too late. These are the nine demons of the college party:

1. The Host
You cannot have a parasite without a host. The Host is essentially the brood mother or party summoner. One thing The Host doesn’t have to be is the owner of the location. Simply, The Host is the walking green light that says, “Hey guys, it’s okay! Come over here, and we are going to fuck shit up!” And if The Host is renting the house or apartment, rest assured he doesn’t care about getting his deposit back. The deposit could be his life and that of one innocent person. It doesn’t matter — as soon as he has the keys, they’re both gone. To the party host, a deposit is just the cover charge for some good home demolition.

2. The Libation Peasants
In the old Warcraft game, you have these little peasants who collect resources for your army. They are the work horses who drive the campaign, much like the beer runners at a party. Often, these alcohol hunters will settle for the cheapest and least-passable sensory-dulling libation to pour down the mouths of babes. But, surprisingly, what they lack in beer sense, they make up for in the quality of their hard liquor and weed. Nothing’s quite as strange and glorious as the party combo of Johnny Walker Blue, Arab Diesel Kush and a 30-pack of Natty.

Why Wrestling Is Awesome

by EMILY TOOPS
edited by ANDREW HICKS

A handful of WWE beefcakes Emily Toops would do naughty things with. Not pictured: Diversity.

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Let me start this confession of sorts with a brief disclaimer that is common knowledge to those who know me personally: I am basically a 13-year-old boy on the inside. I adore fart jokes, monster truck rallies and the first two Transformers movies. I secretly wet myself every time I see trailers for upcoming Oscar-worthy tour de force of cinema Cowboys & Aliens. I don’t mind admitting any of that. But what I am about to tell you, I am almost never willing to reveal to friends and acquaintances without some pretty insistent prodding simply because I know it’s meant to be a guilty pleasure, not a dark obsession a la Dexter.

But to hell with it, I knew my cool kid act would never work on you people, so I’m going to come clean: I am a fan of the WWE. A big fan. Like, so much so that I have Alberto Del Rio’s theme as a ringtone on my phone. I watch Smackdown every Friday night on SyFy and Raw every Monday on USA. I yell at the screen when things don’t go my way. I went to a WWE event in Champaign, Ill., this past semester and cried tears of fan-girl joy at the realization that I am not the only girl under 200 pounds in Central Illinois who screams when she sees The Miz in person.

Great Dates in U.S. History

by ANDREW HICKS and WE’RE NOT FUNNY
edited by ANDREW HICKS

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Paul Revere was the only Founding Father who had his own genie.

1773 – During a fierce intercontinental orgy, Paul Revere first shouts his signature phrase, “The British are coming!”
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1776 – Signing day for the Declaration of Independence, and no one brings a pen. An enterprising Edward Papermate sells his first 12 pack of crappy disposables.
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1792 – After years of horrible dry-mouthed hangovers, Eli Whitney scraps his original “cotton gin” project.

1812 – Some war is fought that future generations won’t know shit about.
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1833 – At Strom Thurmond‘s Super Sweet 16 party, Strom yells at his dad for getting him a Mexican slave as a birthday gift. (“But Dad! I said I wanted a black one! You’re ruining my life! This birthday sucks! I HATE YOU!”)

1863 – One hour after awakening from a wicked bender, Abraham Lincoln is heard to scream, “I freed WHO?!”

1865 – Despite a very promising horoscope, Robert E. Lee realizes today is NOT going to be a good day.

1906 – Orville and Wilbur Wright each eat five grams of psilocybin mushrooms and REALLY fly.

1929 – America is plunged into a Great Depression. For a decade, America lies on the couch in sweatpants all day and night, with curtains drawn, getting no enjoyment from everyday activity.
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1938 – The automobile is given a back seat, leading to a population explosion.
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1963 – Ralph Kramden is arrested for domestic violence after finally sending Alice to the moon.

1969 – While walking on the moon, Neil Armstrong retrieves a dazed Alice and brings her back to Earth.

1981 – Wham! is formed, and American/British relations become very gay.
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1984 – Nancy Reagan tells America’s youth to “just say no” to drugs, while Ronald Reagan orders the CIA to infiltrate the nation’s ghettos with a shit-ton of crack cocaine.
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1985 – No cure for Parkinson’s disease is found.

1989 – Release of comedy classic Look Who’s Talking. We just love that movie. It’s Bruce Willis doing the voice over for a baby — come on, what’s not to love?

‎1995 – Monica Lewinsky gets private lessons on how to smoke a cigar. With her vagina.
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2001 – Michael J. Fox takes the Delorean back to 1985 to find a cure for Parkinson’s disease.

‎2009 – The socially disturbing documentary Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia is released. Virginia, which politely asked West Virginia to leave 150 years ago, now files for a legal separation.

2011 – Comedy website We’re Not Funny celebrates its 200th post on July 5.

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CONTRIBUTORS: Jeff Bailey, Eric Dohman, James Draper, Buddah Eskew, Ryan Krause, Saracakes and Lola Tucker

Our Favorite Presidents

by ANDREW HICKS and BUDDAH ESKEW
edited by ANDREW HICKS

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Every U.S. president (Not pictured: The black guy)

George W. Bush — Just kidding.

Gerald Ford — You’ve gotta love the fact that this guy never got elected, which means he didn’t have to make promises to voters, corporations or party allies, and he still pissed off a ton of people with all the shit he didn’t get done.

John F. Kennedy — There are five main reasons we love JFK: because he banged Marilyn Monroe, because he banged Marilyn Monroe, because he banged Marilyn Monroe, because he banged Marilyn Monroe and because he banged Marilyn Monroe.

William Henry Harrison — Due to the fact that he caught pneumonia at his own inauguration and died a month later, Harrison will forever be known to history as Funniest President Ever. What a joker!

Andrew Jackson — Twenty dolla bill, y’all!

Abraham Lincoln — Freed the slaves so that we may enjoy what is known today as the NBA. Also, Abraham Lincoln was a good old man / He hopped out the window with his dick in his hand / He said, “Excuse me ladies, I’m doin my duty / So pull down your pants, and give me some booty.”*

James Madison — Enforced something called the Non-Intercourse Act, which sounds like a law we would absolutely hate, but Madison’s wife Dolly could make some wicked snack cakes. Bonus!

Richard Nixon — Promptly at 4 pm every day, Nixon had a dainty tea party on the White House lawn with the voices in his head. We like tea, and we LOVE schizophrenics!

Ronald Reagan — His presidential accomplishments sometimes overshadow his body of acting work, but allow us to say: Reagan’s performance in the 1991 surfer crime caper Point Break was a trickle-down of pure brilliance. He shot Keanu Reeves, for chrissakes! And, if you pay close attention, you can spot Reagan in the original Contra game for the NES.

Franklin Roosevelt — In 1932, after a particularly shitty hand in a poker game, FDR jokingly requested a “new deal.” The rest is history.

Teddy Roosevelt — Had a vision of passing a law that would make it punishable by firing squad for any man to walk into a Starbucks and order a Soy Mocha Coconut Frappuccino® Light with non-fat cream and cinnamon sprinkles. You get coffee and bacon, dammit!

William Howard Taft — This dude was like all Three Stooges rolled into one. Lay off the pork rinds, fatty!

Martin Van Buren — Our eighth president only served one term, but sources say he was hung like a Clydesdale.

*Reference 2 Live Crew‘s “Nursery Rhymes”

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ADDITIONAL CONTRIBUTORS: Jeff Bailey, Ertel Gray and Woo

Why We Love America

by WE’RE NOT FUNNY
edited by ANDREW HICKS

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• 

  In America, we get our daily exercise by taking the dog for a nice, long walk.

  As a nation, we have been unbelievably tolerant of broads, negroes, homos and retards.

• A pound of fresh fruit costs eight times the price of a box of Kraft Mac-N-Cheese.

• We complain about gas prices while paying $6.40 a gallon for bottled water.

• We have Florida for a penis.

• They took away Milli Vanilli‘s Grammy.

• This simple irony: America is working hard to kill off its working class.

• America has successfully facilitated the three-way union of hillbillies, paintball guns and the TV show Cheaters.

• Personal anecdote: During a private fireworks display last Fourth of July, everyone was watching the fireworks in the sky. Everyone, that is, except the 637-pound gentleman sitting in a lawnchair about to explode from pressure, eating a plate of brownies. Your average plate of brownies might contain two or three brownies, but this dude’s PLATE OF BROWNIES held two or three dozen chocolate squares. The dark night must’ve been messing with his brownie-plate visibility, because he quickly ripped the glow-stick necklace off his son’s neck and ringed it around his paper plate, so he wouldn’t miss any of his chocolate delight. This is by far the most broadly stereotypical American thing any We’re Not Funny staffer has ever witnessed, and it still makes us tear up.

• We capitalize on unfortunate everyday circumstances — having a car or storage unit repossessed — and make them into killer cable reality TV.

• In America, we save water in our public pools. Recipe: Fill two-thirds, then add 10 McDonald’s-grease-laden plumpy fuckers. Then watch the water level magically rise to the top.

• We have Twofer Tuesdays. Try getting that in a non-American-speaking country like Mexico. ¿Dos por Martes? We’re not buying that for a second!

• We blame our iniquities on other cultures. Didn’t pay you for the bet I made? I welshed on it. Conned you into selling me your 2002 Honda for half of its value? I gyped you. Told you that you could have my CD collection but didn’t give it up? I was an Indian giver. Tried to haggle you on price? I was Jewing you down. I did something stupid? I’m a Polack. I knocked on your door and ran away? Well, we’ll leave that one out…

• Only in America would you be given every opportunity known to the human race, only to find yourself 50 years old, toothless, broke, living in a trailer park and proudly owning a Cadillac Escalade. We love American priorities.

• We get to make fun of everything we love, including our country.

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CONTRIBUTORS: Andrew Cline, Michelle Dee, Eric Dohman, Scotty Harris, J.Miz, Ryan Krause, Lola Tucker and Woo

America: Red, White and Awesome

by ANDREW CLINE
edited by ANDREW HICKS

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Ben Franklin looks so terse and condescending on the hundred-dollar bill, like "You're spending me on WHAT?!"

There’s an old joke that goes along the lines of “What’s black and white and red all over?” and the answer is, “A sunburnt zebra.” Well, guess what? No. It’s not. Even if a zebra somehow miraculously were to get sunburnt, the red wouldn’t show through its fur. That joke’s a crock.

A more appropriate joke would be, “What’s red, white, blue, and awesome all over?” and the answer would be “America.” More comedians should start off with that joke and stop telling racy stories about their unholy bedroom antics. But really, no, that wouldn’t work, because it’s not a joke. It’s the undisputed truth. America is awesome.

America, according to a recent survey, is the oldest and best country on Earth, and we didn’t get that reputation just because we invented the lightbulb, fundamentalist Christianity and Pizza Hut. We got it because we’re awesome at everything.

Did you know that the first rainbow ever appeared in 1647 in Springfield, Mass.? And that Ben Franklin coined the term “kickin’ it” in a 1736 edition of Poor Richard’s Almanack? Simple truths like these are what separate this country from third-world nations like France and Canada, whose respective languages don’t even have a word for “freedom.” And that’s just sad.

So next time you ever hear that old joke, “What’s black and white and red all over?” just smile and say, “A sunburnt zebra. And America’s the greatest planet in the whole universe.”