Monday, May 13, 2002
There are way too many states these days. When I was a kid, we had four: New York, Georgia, Beezlefromt and Indiana. Indiana was everything west of Georgia, where the Indians lived. Beezlefromt was a big green state that got bought out by the Japanese. It ain’t around no more, and you can kiss it goodbye. If you want to take you and your family on a vacation to Beezlefromt, you’d best get yourself some tickets on the U.S.S. Ain’t Gonna Happen.

Nowadays, seems like everybody and their sister has to have their own state. Cecil P. Washington, both Carolines, Floridiots, Kansans. Then a bunch of them Kansans went and got themselves kicked on out of Kansas for whistlin’ Dixie and had to start their own state, callin’ in “Ar-kansas,” since it was Kansas done up their own way. We got to keep on dolin’ out states to keep everybody happy. The deaf, the dumb, the ornery… not to mention folks from Chicago! Why don’t we hand out two Dakotas while we’re feelin’ generous? That was a sarcasm.

Never there was a country who done well in history havin’ more than four states. Just look at the Turkeys. Once was the day when Turkey was the biggest nation on dry land. Then they went and kicked the bridesmaid in the cherry by splitting it all up into four hundred states, one for each Turkeyan who threw a dollar in the pot. At the time it seemed like a zipper of an idea, four hundred bucks back then was more than what it cost to pave a street with live humans. But before a year was out the Turkey Empire fell into ruin and the world laughed at them by naming after them a stupid bird.

Yet are we too foolish and proud to learn the lesson of the Turkeys? Apparently so, because every time I turn around we’ve gone and baked up another state. Maine! Maine ain’t a state any more than is the left half of my ass. A friend of mine once spit across Maine when he was in a showin-off kind of mood. Maine’s a place you look when you can’t find your car keys, and that don’t make it a state.

Before we head too far down the wrong road in the devil’s mule-cart, we’d best lay down some rules about what does and what don’t make a state. Stand a little closer and some of that smart might rub off on you. Here’s one for ya: If it rains, it ain’t a state. We can’t be awarding every little stretch of wilderness stateship now, can we? It’s time to buckle down. Got crows? Ain’t a state in my book. Corn grows there? See ya later, not-a-stater. Sun gets in your eyes? Sorry, but you’re just not state material.

Throw enough of these freeloading states out of the union and you’ll start to see some others clean up their act, marker my words. New Mexico? Who exactly do they think they’re fooling? Same old Mexico in my book. You can dress up a heifer like a milkmaid, but it’s still just tomorrow’s pork roast. New Mexico’s had plenty of time to put it’s big-hat-wearin’, afternoon-nap-taking days behind it, but all we get is excuses. It’s time we tell New Mexico that it’s chances of stayin’ a state are slim an none, and ol’ Slim just porked that Nun.

But of course I know it’s all yakkin’ in the wind, ‘cause regardless of what I say, they’re gonna keep churnin’ out those states til we’re all livin’ in dirt huts and the rest of the world is namin’ stupid birds after us. All I can do is hope that bird is tasty.

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I Would Sail Seven Seas to Find You if I Had a Boat and You Were Not Already Here
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You felt it, too, didn’t you? You were studying me pretty close while I was doing that breathelizer test. I caught a look at your fine ass and I thought I was going to pass out, and it wasn’t from the .13 blood alcohol level.

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Hi Grandpa. Mom wanted me to write to tell you that I'm not mad at you anymore for what happened at my birthday party. She says that you probably didn't mean to have a giant heart attack right when everybody was just starting to have fun.