Grit Your Teeth: 3rd Annual Year Under Bitter Scrutiny

This essay represents the eighth post of The Angry Czeck Century Series, a thought-provoking collection of penetrating harangues of rancor leading to the Angry Czeck’s 100th Post. You are currently reading Post 95.

As I assemble The Angry Czeck’s Third Annual Year Under Bitter Scrutiny, details of Benazir Bhutto’s assassination continue to steadily drip onto Internet news services. The death of Bhutto and the ramifications that will follow appear to be the last offering of 2007. Does Bhutto’s murder underscore this year’s theme of violence and disappointment? Or is this a heralding event to what’s in store for us in 2008?

Who can say? But hey, good news! Violence is down in Baghdad, which is supposed to make us believe that storming Iraq was a terrific idea. I’m glad there are fewer suicide bombers, kidnappings, tortures, and beheadings. Good for the people of Iraq! Now we can begin to enjoy the fruits of our great success!

What? Troops are not coming home? Well, okay.

Bin Laden is still alive? And he’s coming out with a fresh video? Damnitt.

Pakistan is more unstable than ever? We’ll, at least they don’t have a nuclear program like Iran.

Huh? I got it backwards? Fuck!

Okay, but at least gas prices are declining.

Nope, again! Just like the Angry Czeck so brilliantly predicted, gas is forging ahead to $4.00 a gallon. Somewhere in Saudi Arabia, a cadre of jolly sheiks are drinking expensive Scotch and saying, “Let’s make it $120 a barrel! HA HA! Those American suckers will pay it!”

After his defeat at the hands of Hulk Hogan,
the Iron Shiek joins OPEC to wage his terrible revenge on America.

Meanwhile, Dan Fogelburg is dead but the entire cast of Grey’s Anatomy still clings to life. In fact, recent reports suggest that Sandra Oh, Katherine Heigl, and TR Knight are more alive than ever, which makes the Angry Czeck cringe like Frank Gifford after receiving an advanced script to Kathy Lee’s latest Christmas special.

How fair is it that Patrick Dempsey is alive and well, but Evil Kinevel is dead? My only comfort is that Barbaro joined Boxer at the glue factory. Don’t get all upset. You wanted that poor damned horse to go through painful infections and countless surgeries just so you could feel good about it being forced to fuck for the rest of its limping life.

Human compassion for animals…in action!

Get some perspective! It’s a horse some rich guy bred to run fast around a big circle, not some girl who fell into a dried-up well.

Al Gore wins Nobel Peace Prize but he still won’t go away.

I think The Onion framed the whole situation best: Al Gore Wins Nobel for Slide Show.

Listen, I believe in global warming, and I still came away from An Inconvenient Truth feeling like I just sat through a campaign video. I especially loved the scenes of Al touring his father’s million-dollar farm, thinking about the Earth and stuff.

Recently, I read a headline that suggested the Al would once again seek office, provided that the office was oval-shaped and located in The White House. Hysterical Democrats started cutting out paper hearts in appreciation of the news, totally forgetting that Al has hugged so many trees, he has actually become wood. (For my fireplace, I don’t buy a cord of wood. I buy a “gore.”)

Al Gore, seen here frozen in “condescending mode.”

Sit this one out, Al. Please. You had your chance, and you couldn’t even out-charisma a man whose command of the English language rivals Fabio’s. I’m not tazing you, bro. I’m just asking you to leave the politics to the people who are more than 50% robotic.

Somebody had to replace Karl Rove.

Looking back, it would appear to the more moronic reader that the Angry Czeck has been tazed one to many times and become Republican. After all, in 2007 alone I championed Larry Craig, defended the war in Iraq, slammed a government bail-out, seriously assessed the worthiness of Republican presidential candidates, announced my emancipation from Sean Penn, defended Southern heritage, advocated increasing the legal drinking age, lampooned Democratic presidential candidates (in a skillfully illustrated cartoon), and implored the Nation not to vote for Hillary Clinton under any circumstance.

Maybe I’m not the Angry Czeck. Maybe I’m George Will.

No! Psyche! I’m still the Angry Czeck, and mine remains the rancor that singes ingrown nut hairs and boils sterile the Dentures of Freedom. Still, even I began to wonder if my mighty loyalties had been challenged by Nancy Pelosi and John Kerry one too many times. Damn you, Democratic Congress! You haven’t done one thing you said you would. Not one.

Fortunately, I only have to close my eyes and think of Dick Cheney wearing a parka, and then my GOP chubby melts away.

God temporarily missing from the pages of the Angry Czeck.

Of course, this is not a furious retaliation from the Vatican in response to my July post blasting the Catholic Church, but rather the result of my own laziness.

Regular readers of AC are familiar with the animated Angry God who occasionally makes cameos on a number of celebrated Angry Czeck posts. Rather than simply cut and paste Him onto my desktop for multiple, royalty-free uses, I simply tagged the web site from where I stole Him. Despite a furious search, Angry God had vanished from the entire Internet! And it was you, loyal and bitter reader, who paid the horrible price.

Like Job. Or Moses.

Happily, the Angry Czeck was made benefit of a miracle when, while compiling this post, I made one last effort to locate God. Behold! I found Him and immediately stole Him.

Sing my praises, bitches!

The Mighty St. James Davis is still without his nose and nuts, I presume.

Fresh news about St. James, his uni-thumbed wife, and his shifty chimp Moe has been difficult to come by in 2007. Loyal readers of Angry Czeck will remember the well-chronicled plight of St. James and his immortal battle with the Monkey Insurgency. For many of you, it was here, on these sizzling-hot pages, where you discovered the awful truth about monkeys.

They want to eat us.

President George has too easily fallen for the simian plot by dispatching our fighting men overseas to battle freedom-hating freedom-haters when the true threat has already infiltrated our nation’s zoos. If you value your dick and your digits, you’ll follow the Angry Czeck’s excellent example and stock up on monkey repellent and protein bars in preparation for Monkey Armageddon.

“Let’s have Charlton Heston for lunch!”

Despite early reports, the Angry Czeck was not named in The Mitchell Report.

Fury is my steroid. Rancor is my HGH. Suspicion has followed my career for years, but I assure you that the Angry Czeck is clean. My record for condemning the use of steroids is well documented since the early days of the Angry Czeck. Besides, you can tell by the way I clumsily combine sophomoric adjectives with questionably selected nouns that my skill as a blogger comes naturally, and not through performance enhancing agents.

However, I do wish more “bloggers” would enhance their performance with something. The so-called blogosphere is contaminated with so many “random thoughts” and “random musings” that I slip into a roid-like rage every time I make the mistake of punching the Next Blog button on top of the Angry Czeck’s handsome masthead.

Come on, people! Have you ever heard of “concept?” “Theme?” “English?” Nobody wants to know that your damned cat, Sprinkles, thinks she’s human, nor do they care if you’re sorry you haven’t posted in three months. If you have nothing to say, keep it in your face. For all of us.

The Transformers Movie was a piece of shit.

I’m not sure what amazed me more: the disdain Michael Bay has for coherent movie direction, or the number of people who have come out in praise of this celluloid cancer.

How Bay got Spielberg to produce, I’ll never know. But I have a hunch he wasn’t made privy to the final storyboards. Can you imagine Spielberg green-lighting a scene were a robot “pees” on John Turturro? Or approving a script where “happy time” is the biggest laugh of the movie?” Can you see the creator of Jaws and Schindler’s List endorsing a stroke-inducing sequence of unrecognizable shots that somehow ends with a dead robot?

“Question? Why doesn’t this box weigh a trillion tons?”

Spielberg wants you to soak in his vision. Bay wants to insult you with some motion blurs and pass it off as action. And have his main characters making-out inside of a robot in the end. Ewww.

By contrast, Spiderman 3 was much better than you idiots say it was.

Yes, the script was cornier than my 9-month-old’s poops. True, the plot featured too many villains, too many storylines, and not enough super-fights. And yes, Harry’s butler should have been fired (from a cannon) for waiting until his employer’s face got blown off before revealing the crucial piece of info he had apparently been sitting on for months. But you don’t watch Spiderman for Shakespearean plotting and dialogue.

From my vantage point (atop a dormant volcano), the biggest complaint I heard centered around Peter Parker’s goofy descent into evil – the Disco Scenes, as they were dubbed. Listen, Peter Parker is a nerd. A dork. A geek. Therefore, Evil Peter Parker is a nerd, a dork, and a geek. Except instead of applying his smarts to the benefit of mankind, he devotes it to messing up his hair, buying new clothes, and giving hot chicks the Two Finger Point (of which the Angry Czeck is a master).

Only Peter Parker could be this evil.

Furthermore, if you haven’t envisioned humiliating your ex-girlfriend by bringing a hot date to the jazz club she sings/waitresses at and electrify the joint with some crazy-cool dance moves, then, well, what can I say? You’re gay.

The guy who invented cars died in 2007.

Apparently, he was also President of the United States in the 70’s, too. His name was Gerald Ford, and he also invented the assembly line. Seriously, how many times do you think, during one of those events where all the Living Presidents attended, that Jimmy Carter leaned over to Bill Clinton and chuckled, “They forgot to invite Jerry again!”

Dumbledore gay? Who’s next? Liberace?

After reading seven Harry Potters, the last volume arriving in 2007, I must admit that not once did I consider that Dumbledore frequented the Magic Wand Club on Rainbow Row just off of Diagon Alley. Sure, Dumbledore spent a great deal of time alone with a boy named Harry while wearing nothing but a robe, but still, I never saw it coming.

Gay? No way!

On another note, I’m glad my Harry Potter nightmare is over. Would Harry live? Would he die? Would Snape be vindicated as a hero (yes!). Would Dudley Dursley receive the spin-off series he was entitled to? Would Ron eat a house elf? Would Hermoine appear on Witches Gone Wild? Would the Leaky Cauldron be busted by the vice squad for selling butter beers to under-aged wizards?

All was mercifully revealed, moments before I received the Harry Potter-induced stroke I surely deserved for thinking about this way too much.

China makes poopy products.

Poisonous dog food. Toys dipped in lead. Killer tubes of toothpaste. What did we expect from a country that treats toxins, pollution, and pig poop like an underappreciated food group? Can you imagine the foreman of a Chinese factory receiving a list of product standards from an American corporation?

CHINESE FOREMAN: No lead? No asbestos? No pig poop? And the Americans still want their dog food to be under 5 cents a bag? Fuck that! Cho! Li! Pry open another vat of mercury on the double!

Well, there you go, Big Business. Sure, you can stamp out Legos cheaper in Beijing so long as you don’t mind your 5-year-old customers croaking from toxins six months later. I suppose the Chinese are slapping their foreheads right now and are paying their factory workers an extra dollar a week to carefully pluck the human fingers out of the deviled ham now that their American consumer base is freaking out. Maybe in about 50 years, the Chinese will cume up with a word for “FDA.”

It pays to have big, out-of-control hair.

Sadly, another Angry Czeck prediction came to fruition this year: Phil Spector got away with murdering Lana Clarkson. Somehow, a jury found the Defense’s argument totally plausible – that Lana hooked up with Phil, took his gun, and shot her head off.

Apparently, the defense’s strategy was to dig up a “blood splatter” expert who refuted the findings of the prosecution’s “blood splatter” expert. Do you think Angry Czeck’s court appointed attorney would bother with such a strategy? Do you think the Angry Czeck’s modest salary could foot such a fee? This is the difference between Phil Spector being charged with murder, and the Angry Czeck being charged with murder.

Alec Baldwins’ arm pit avoided prison in 2007.

I don’t need to have John Edwards stroll out of his trillion-square-foot mansion to tell me that there are two Americas. I just watch Court TV. Do you think OJ is going down for his stab at armed robbery? Forget it.

A sensational murder-trial exploited Lana Clarkson,
so I prefer to remember her like this.

Speaking of OJ why doesn’t anybody ever talk The Juice out of doing the bizarre stuff he does? Who counsels him? How do a bunch of forty and fifty year-old men think, “Hey! The Juice wants to get some guns a steal his autographed jerseys back! Count me in!”

It also pays to be a big dork.

It took hundreds of billable hours and the addition of yet another thick folder for Mrs. Angry’s Divorce File, but 2007 proved to be the year that The Angry Czeck finally tasted fantasy football victory. I just feel so lucky to have had the company of my friends and the opportunity to compete.

Aw, screw it.

The Angry Czeck is the best! The best ever! My powerful fantasy football acumen crushed, emasculated and humiliated without mercy! You are now all my defeated foes! HAHAHAHA! Your woe is my pleasure! Eat it! Taste the rancid milk of chagrin, chumps! Kiss my ass, losers! I tased you, bros!

Exactly 1900 people appreciate the Angry Czeck.

In six months, the Angry Czeck received 1900 hits. Those aren’t exactly eBay numbers. According to Google Analytics, The Angry Czeck receives about 9 hits per day. The Czeck received a whopping 43 hits on May the 8th. Exactly one month later, I got three.

One of my more educational activities is to examine the “key words” people insert into search engines that ultimately lead them to the Angry Czeck. It’s an amusing and disturbing peek into the murky minds of the online community. Here are some of my favorites:

Whopper Combinations
Clarkson Torture
Barbarian Queen Torture

Dr. Ben Dover

Homemade torture rack

How to steal a wallet

“barbarian queen” dungeon
catfight to the death”
“chest hair implants”

zagarino” shirtless
“her leather panties”

lana Clarkson” and kegels
ron jeremy driving a school bus”
“suck himself porno”

anal shit happens

angry mistress canes hard
are nose bleeds caused by horny thoughts?
Barbarian queen on rack

Barbarian queen on the rack

Barbarian queen rack pictures

Barbarian queen too tight

Barbarian queen topless torture

Befriend a monkey

Black people getting mad overseeing hillbillies

Buying monkey nuts

Czeck boobs
Czeck boys naked gay
Czeck gay
Czeck pussy
Czeck tickling
Dan Quayle bazooka

Disgusting husband

Doctor take off my pants
Don the Dragon Wilson shirtless

Douche mustache

Easy sexual positions for a fat guy
Enjoyment machines

Gay dog sex

Gay men and nosebleeds

Hammer ball testicle torture

Hot hoots

Hot hungry assholes

How did Ricardo Maltabon die?
How to get monkey sperm

How to spell strength in French

Mulva sucks
Men wearing tampons

Naked girls wearing tampons

Porno actress do anal surgery relieve the pain?

Pro wrestlers with a big bulge

Sex butt nugget

Sex porno
de moustache
Sexual positions if your man has a fat belly

Tittie freedom
Why do “black people” “park backwards”

The numbers prove that the people demand gay Czech torture porn rather than penetrating political and social insight from a man who’s a quarter Czech. It was also amusing to learn how many people spell Czech like me – Czeck.

For those of you seeking wisdom rather than porn from The Angry Czeck, I thank you for visiting. Remember, I don’t write for you specifically, but for people like you. Or sort of like you.

Or maybe like a pale facsimile of you, I haven’t figured out my core demographics yet.



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