When in Rome, what Do YOU do?

The people of Paradise are revolting. Paradise, Brasil….not Paradise, Mujahedeenistan. You would have a tough time finding a virgin over the age of 12 here. And most women are Grannies by the age of 40, the year most Cosmopolitan ladies are starting their hunt for a sperm donor…and won´t that anonymous, cash strapped, progeny oblivious spanker be proud that his Playmate fantasy by-product will leave the legs of PalmPilot Punani and spend the next several years learning the names of the smorgasbord of female immigrants that will rotate through her home while occasionally remembering that her Mother actually has the same color skin. But let us return to paradise cause Consuela has to take the baby to Yoga practice.

I only landed in Paradise by chance, which is always how Paradise need be found…just ask Gilligan. Some general guidelines in locating your own personal Eden: Find a city on a map that is barely legible, on the coast, has no paved roads or airport (use the legend, not of the pillaging Jew with Horns but the other definition), and most importantly…it is not mentioned in a guidebook. When chancing upon a beautiful sounding locale in a tourist publication that begins with ¨You will just adore this hidden little paradise with cute little boutiques and a well-hung African man known to many as BoBo¨ then you better realize that your not the first person to discover the island of Jamaica. Paradise never allows its name to be published, until Donald Trump´s sister-in-law discovers it. Then you will be able to get a lovely ocean view condo starting in just the low 7 millions.

But Paradise always has a native population. And they don’t exactly like outsiders. Just ask the Israelis. My guide to Paradise´s backdoor was François, an incredibly sweet, well-meaning woman who escaped the repressive regime of Belgium. If your fatherland only made three products, but three of the finest quality products in the world, three things that every human should require to survive merrily….Beer, Chocolate, French Fries…..would you really want to leave? Perhaps it was complete shame of the constant reminder that Jean Claude Van Damme was her paisano. Belgium…Belgium…wait, yes…I know a Belgian, Van Damme…God damn, Jean Claude is from your country. You rock. And I sympathize. Your from New Jersey…New Jersey…Oh yeah baby, Bon Jovi is from Jersey. You know Bonjon. He friggin´ rocks. But c´mon ya disgruntled Belgies, Arnold Schwarzenegger (who knows how to spell that thing?) is the ruler of America´s largest Colony, and people are STILL moving there in droves.

François not only adored the orgasmic coma inducing scenery, but also the small native population that occupied the hamlet. They were your typical inhabitants of a naturally rich, governmentally poor locale. The men fished for what they needed to eat. The kids swam naked all day in the calm turquoise waters, until they got impregnated. The mothers gathered by the river to wash clothes together and gossip about Bobo´s latest conquest. They were without formal education, basic health necessities, or a local government. Which means, they were basically happy.

But François saw things differently. The lack of clean fresh water and sanitary bathrooms were a serious health detriment. The absence of electricity meant that fisherman couldn’t preserve their catches for market days, and that women were suffering without the famed Brasilian telenovelas. And could you disagree with Françy? The availability of the these things would mean longer, healthier lives. So the Belgian Bon-Bon bought one of the only available homes and starting kicking ass, Van DamYou style.

She organized the locals, protested daily to the government, and fundraised from her fellow chocolatiers. And within two years, the small forgotten Paradise had a fresh water well, running water to every household, electricity, a cultural center, a library, and a small clinic. All of these aids to finer living were the direct result of foreign intervention. The Brasilian government never tried to help. The Brasilian people never tried to help. Only one woman yielding a large Freedom Fry.

And now the mutiny is beginning. Town leaders, who have only recently emerged, have convinced the locals that a Foreigner is trying to take over their land, their customs. A certain government official, masquerading as an environmentalist is grooming leaders so that they can both reap the financial rewards of government funding in the form of Park Reserve status. Instead of being a saviour, and she didn’t ask to be anointed, Françy has become the reason for every imaginable problem. Your kid is studying rather then fishing, blame François. You can´t take a dump in the woods like the ole days, blame François. In this tropical haven, where Ms. Belgica once found tranquility, she now finds a threat to her very existence.

Is this scene any different then Iraq? Conspiracy theories abound from America´s glutton desire to obtain more oil to a jaded Richard Cheney who wanted revenge after his coital advances were rejected by both Tariq Aziz and Ussay Hussein, who reportedly gave the best head on this side of the Euphrates, that side of the Tigris. Despite the bullshit lies of Mass Destructing Weapons, why it so hard to believe that U.S. wanted a more democratic, less terrorist friendly Iraq. Was Maddass Hussein not a threat to the whole Middle East? Was an economic powerhouse, free society Iraq not an inspiration for other neighboring countries to overthrow repressive governments (except Saudi Arabia, our good friend and marketer of fine women´s fashion….did you check out that new Mohammed Armani Full-length Black robe for Fall with the really cute shear lace full face black ninja mask)?

The United States, like Belgium in Paradise, is guilty of one thing --- Not understanding the local culture. Further, these well intentioned interlopers are really guilty of not understanding the human condition within societies. Basically, people don´t like strangers telling them what to do. You want to tell your brother he´s a fat bastard and he better lose weight if he wants to get laid before he turns 50, then go ahead. But if a stranger tells your brother that in a restaurant, you´ll kick his/her ass. If you’re a black person in America and decide to critique your community, people will listen. They may not act, but they won´t try to lynch you. If you’re a white folk who moves into a black neighborhood, and tries to change the lifestyle, you’re a stupid honky bastard who should stick to your own kind. If you’re a government that helps a nation with financial aid, they will stop looking for solutions and keep their hand out asking for more. And when you cease the grants, or start charging interest, you’re the enemy. You can tolerate your co-workers, but everyone unites in acrimony against the Boss.

So what happened before part of the world developed a humanist conscience (or a guilt complex, afterall how do you think Western countries got to be wealthy in the first place)? Before the formation of nation-states? The people blamed GOD. The greatest single marketing phenomenon of All-time. That´s right Mattel. Fuck you. Cause Barbie is still a distant second. Got no water. Blame GOD. Your kid died mysteriously. Its GOD´s way. An unknown person set your house on fire. It was GOD´s method of saying we need a house, honey. G-d doesn´t have national borders. god doesn´t have two 110 story office buildings jutting out the center of his cranium. God doesn´t have a doorbell, and its not because it can´t figure out The Home Depot Do-IT Yourself DoorBell Fixing HandBook.

Ok. Ok. Many people are foaming at the mouth asking how many wars have been fought in the name of God. 14, 320….14,321…wait, another just started in northwestern Mozambique. A lot. But that is only because there are competing Gods. My God is better then your God, kind of Gods. I am leading a journey that will take our planet back to a system of one God, indivisibly championing justice & tragedy for all.

Before the presentation of a revolutionary, world changing program, let the screen jump back to Paradise. We want to find out how to maintain happiness and peace. Clearly, people are less prone to fight when there is no outside party to blame, and the population all credits the same God for their fortunes, their misery. The other facet impeding joy, learned in Eve´s Garden, was education. Many esteemed people will preach incessantly about the values of an education. Defined as the learning of reading, writing, mathematics, and science. And maybe Home Economics, if the School Board didn’t cut it. What a strange name…was the intention to teach people how to have a Bake Sale?

Here´s what I witnessed in the changing climate of Paradise. A few adults had decided to study. And a couple of teenagers. Since most locals stop studying at 11 years old, this concept was rather unique. So instead of kicking a football on the beach, or splashing in the water, or dry-humping a chicken, these select few were questioning life? Trying to answer questions that only God could answer. And in the process, were making themselves miserable. Take the group of young girls doing arts & crafts, giggling throughout the entire process. The one, slightly older girl, who began to educate herself in the ways of Plato was the only person who DID NOT appear happy. She actually had an appearance of disdain on her face. Clay figures, that is so dull. Doesn´t anybody know what Goethe said about clay figures? There was the restaurant shack owner who started an adult higher learning program. Every night who would appear in a button down shirt, and a serious demeanor, eager to show me his notebook on quadratic equations. Meanwhile, his other co-workers pranced around shirtless laughing at anything their other friends would say.

Don´t you see, Sir? Paradise is an incubator for some of life´s greatest riddles. You have a small homogenous population untouched by modern society until very recently. So the affects of all introduced concepts can be measured. I would really like to find out if that Six in One kitchen knife really makes life easier. And at the heart of this incubation machine, are the principal tenets of humanity---Happiness and Peace.

Tonight, in front of the Board, I will present a program to bring these two coveted gems to every human possible. Before I begin, I want to mention that I have been forced to remove my initial plan due to certain legal constraints. Following in the esteemed footsteps of PolPot, mass genocide of the intelligentsia seemed appropriate. Intellect is dampening happiness, and spreading like the children of Wilt Chamberlain. You don´t believe me…well, look at those people screaming at the Football match, the audience laughing at Sinbad or the Sunday Comics, the addicts of Reality television, the supporters of Keanu Reaves, the members of the KKK. These people don´t have advanced degrees. They don´t know theory from Thor. They are just looking for the little things. And they always seem to be having a good time. But the academics…..have you seen these people? They would rather spend their time figuring out the three thousand two hundred and eighty third position behind the decimal point in PI. They choose reading Descartes rather then enjoying the Reggaeton at their neighborhood street festival. They wear black turtlenecks in summer and think that spilled paint on canvas represents man´s struggle against the forces of nature.

Hey Englebert, I´m going to grab a burger, and then go have some cold one´s with the boys down at Freddy´s. You comin´?

James. Friend. Brother. If all my Tchaikovsky was unceremoniously engulfed by flames, and the only man left to keep me company was that classical fraud, Philip Glass, I still would not accompany you and your ignoramuses on your adventure in imbecility.

Bro. Take it easy. Get out of the house for once, and come get loaded with the gang.

Thank for your gracious invitation, but no Thank You. I have better things to do with my life. For instance, this re-issue of Homer´s lost work, ¨Syphilis with Oedipus¨, is absolutely begging for my attention.

The more degrees you have the more miserable your life, and those you invariably infect. How many times have your heard an educated person wish he didn’t know anything. That he was naïve like those guys on the construction site. That he didn’t question religion. That essentially, he didn’t know anything. Wouldn’t his life be easier, less complicated? Is naiveté really Bliss?

Besides, no one votes a smart guy for their leader. Most Dubya Bush supporters cite his ability to seem ¨normal, like one of us¨. What they are really saying is that he is stupid. And people like a leader who seems ignorant and poorly spoken. People didn’t elect Kerry because many said he was an elitist, a flip-flopper. What they really meant was that Kerry was intelligent, a person willing to debate, and change opinions after learning more facts, and that scared the public. The largest human voting bloc on Earth (Should we count the chaotic land of India?) is proof that we might as well kill these intelligent types.

And really, to be fair to the Ph.d´s and their overwhelming college debt, there were others who I felt should be part of this Genocide. Rebels, Artists, Teachers, Lawyers, Sidewalk Preachers and anyone else questioning civilization.

Unfortunately, and I really do apologize for my failure to complete my Genocide plan, I was unable to figure out the logistics of murdering hundreds of millions of people. Maybe it was because I lack German blood. Or perhaps it was my dismay over Mercedes refusal to sponsor the project. You may think its easy to find Large Ovens but think again. The great Oven Builders of 1940´s Rhineland have all disappeared into the depths of Argentine society, forsaking their great artistic trade for leather tanning. I tried getting Angola to donate the land for the massive gas shower complexes, but they said that because they rejected the initial settlement of Israel, it would only be fair to reject this proposal. They expressed sincere regret since they acknowledged the money making tourist site the chambers would become, and were even willing to accept Grohe´s claim to national sponsorship. Some government officials went as far as creating mock tourist brochures to visit the well preserved Gas Chambers of the Great Intellectual Disappearance with all tours including a natural lunch of sustainable organic manioc and a 25% discount on their next Grohe purchase. We welcome your visit to the great African nation of Grohe. But, in the end, I have been forced to remove the proposal.

In it´s place, I present a more feasible plan of de-educating the population, while simultaneously introducing One GOD.

Schools are banned. Immediately. Close them all. Convert them into housing for those in need. And keep the lunch ladies for mascots.

Television only shows Cartoons and Soap Operas. The News is banned. Whenever an accident or a miracle happens on TV, the reason is God, who is now referred to as Godo, so as to create a new image.

All religious institutions are officially changed to the Universal Religion of Godo. There is no sacred text, only hymns that sing the praise of Godo, and acceptance of his calamity causing outbursts.

Vegans eliminated. Miserable people with a misplaced superiority complex. When you give the date and duration for how long you have been part of something, you either have a fatal disease or belong to an outlawed cult. The genocide rule will be relaxed here because of the fear that Vegan misery may spread to the general populace. Happy populations eat burgers and dogs. And keeping butter and eggs out my double chocolate chip brownie is criminal. You have no place in an carefree thoughtless world. Now go milk the cow, dammnit!!

Consumer Products are free. You can take as many rice crispy bars as you need, and drive as many Hummers as necessary. Your neighbor will no longer have what you want. Since you can get all the stuff you desire.

The government only exists in the form of a military whose job is to make sure that every family takes care of their kids and refrains from committing acts of violence. The government provides hospitals and free ironic t-shirts with your favorite iron-on. Limit one per family per week.

People do not have to go to work, and are encouraged to raise or hunt their own food. If they can not raise or hunt, then one of inferior quality will be given to them.

This program will be implemented on a global level. Nobody will want to leave their people/their nation when all the fascinating products they see on TV are available at their local Free-Product Pick-UP Store. Governments will have no more corrupt power since there is no reason to steal since money no longer has value. Unless your a traveling hippie who wants to make necklaces out of discarded coins and trade them for hemp brownies. Oh, you know what..fuck nations, its all one big global enterprise of peace and happiness promotion, under the auspices of the Homeland Security.

Oh…I didn’t mention that. No more dough. Its all free. And who creates the products in this libraryless, schooless, religious-sectless society? The Martians. No, No silly. The people are required to work at a factory of their choice on a rotating schedule. No more then two shifts are allowed at either the chocolate factory or the vibrator factory.

Ok. so maybe the enforcing military will end up changing things and everyone will leave in fear of getting shot, or put on a plane to Harvard.

You got a better idea?

It´s not fantastic. But it´s a start. America is already trying out this program, but we must try harder. Until humanity can lose its capacity to question, and learn only how to survive, and until our great race recognizes one mysterious, unseeable force as the reason for everything that happens....then Earthlings are doomed to mental purgatory.

Although....I hear there is this new religion spreading rapidly across the world. They have even recently opened up shop in Paradise. Their team call themselves EVANGELICALS. They purport that their God is one for all the people and they take all of your money so that you don´t have to worry about finances any more. They even support the popular U.S. president. Check out a service near you.

You may not have to travel to Paradise, after all, to get your own peace and happiness.

What I did for my Summer Vacation

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Finding A Believer, by L. Ron

The new president of Bolivia ran a campaign built around supporting the coca growing industry. And unlike the winner of the U.S. 2000 election, he was elected by the majority of voters. Which means.....Bolivia should become the Amsterdam of South America. For cokeheads. I´ll take the roasted chicken ceasar, light on the onions, and an eightball of that Bo-Lee Blow-Bo you have on special.

The landlocked (thanks to the joint generousity of their brotherly neighbors > Chile & Chile Minor, peru) AndeanAmazonian nation is renowned for its large welcoming indigenous population, jaw dropping & dropping further scenery, and unbelievably low prices. They absolutely will not be undersold. Despite this fine triumvirate of nomadic hobo paradise, I wanted to find out what the people thought of their new Chief Commander Coca. Would he simply pose for opportunistic photos in the coca fields, or was he prepared to open up those large Indian nostril cavities and snort his country´s fine product until his deviated septum fell off into his morning bowl of quinoa & beef hearts.

Sorry to disappoint you gawky gringo, but our president only supports the beneficial use of the coca leaf, and not its chemical derivative, Cocaine. Apparently, the coca leaf can cure everything from upset stomachs to solving the unsolvable crisis of Allah & his loyal guardians battle for hot market real estate. The coca leaf has been used by native people for thousands of years, and is still used today to ward off hunger for Bolivia´s legion of underpaid workers. But, what about the mountain of bananas on every corner, surely there is enough food that they don´t have to chew bitter leaves all day? Hey, back off buddy, the coca is our national crop. And the 20 billion tons of overproduction that the nation can´t consume, I assume that will just become fertilizer to grow more bananas. That´s not really our concern.

Evo Morales. Its hard to find someone here who doesn´t love the guy. South America´s first indigenous president. He´s spent his life fighting for worker´s rights. No connections to big business, and actually his first move as President was to nationalize the Petroleum industry, and share the profits with citizens rather then balding foreign CEO´s. He cleverly initiated this controversial progam on May day, a national holiday and worldwide day of worker´s celebration born in the U.S. that the caring government of America decided to move to the first Monday in September so that Macy´s could sell off its overstock of Docker´s khaki shorts, both traditional and new capri style, and therefore reward hard working laborers with an opportunity to spend their credited money on clothing that they can wear in 9 months. God Bless America. Please.

This Evo dude is unlike most politicians. Because he doesn´t seem like a politician. Which means he seems honest and capable of an erection. And he´s given hope to a population that´s been perpetually screwed since Pizarro first landed his entourage of pig lickers nearly 500 years ago. The people of the street have immense faith in this man behind the Coca. Yes, it was used for Coca-Cola. That´s how good the raw shit really is. Señnor Morales is attempting to bring socialist (of the none hammersickel variety) tendencies back to a nation that is continually raped of its natural resources by foreign enterprises. Sounds legit. But somebody must hate this guy besides the Fruit of the Doom wearing stiffs at the U.S. State Department. Rich people. I had to befriend a member of Boliva´s elite society. Not an easy task considering the population of Jupiter has more residents. The mission morphed. Coke using people who don´t support a Coca loyalist. Get the doctorate ready.

The Brasilian embassy introduced us. She silently occupied my starboard side. Long, dark, sultry Latin hair. Back straight. Tall heels glimpsing athletic calfs and a lickable birthmark. So, do you come here often? Alexia chuckled, a delicious little chuckle, until she asked me to repeat what I had said. Are you a rich coca using chick who hates socialists? Huh? Oh, I said, My name is .....(editor´s choice) . Alexia was awaiting her Brasilian babysitting certificate that she was due to obtain after a two year stint in Brasil, presumably winning the Rio de Janeiro 24 hour Don´t Drop My Baby While You Samba Contest She hoped the officially sealed paper would help her land her dream job as an American nanny. ´I think they call it, Opair´, she said excitedly. Maybe I was meowing up the wrong pole, cause rich people shouldn´t want to take care of other people´s kids. How Gross!

Then her mom showed up. And my pessimistic wonderings were quickly suffocated. Botox had apparently made its way to Bolivia. As did routine chest augmentation. Her excitement over her plastic surgeon brother, and positive vacation experience in Boca Raton only cemented the trading floor speculation. To protect her identity, I´ll call her BoBo.

Alexia and I left the embassy entranced in a deep intercultural exchange.

I really liked to live in Brasil. They are more fun then here in Bolivia.

Yeah, they´re fun, but you´ve got some good people here in Bolivia.

Yes. Yes. This is true. But I really don´t like the men here. Or there. You can not trust them. Really. You can not. They always lie. And have many womens.

That´s terrible. American men aren´t like that. You should probably look for an American man. Or Greenland. They are also nice.

I not know Greenland. But that is my idea. I don´t like Latin men. Yes. Yes. I think an American man would be nice.

I´m American. You saw my passport.

Yes. Yes. I know. And the women. Brasil women are also so crazy. Really. They sometimes want compete with mens. They always have so many men. I don´t like.

Many Men. Wow. That is....that is, that is not nice. What kind of woman does that? You know, I am going to Brasil next week. I’ll have to investigate more.

What?

Alexia treated me to a fine meal of 15 cent salteñas, Bolivianized empanadas. She seemed unopinionated over the Presidency. But she was a budding feminist, and claimed the movement responsible for desperate child craving, relationship salivating, workaholic 42 year old women was spreading to her corner of South America. The days of a male dominated society were over. And she bought me a 15 cent empanada to prove it. Alexia would prove herself as an expert baby handler in America, warding off concerns over the baby´s skin difference with the dexterity of a stain removal salesman. She would then ride that feminist high to Brasil, where she would professionally guide beach seeking tourists to southern Brasil´s best shores. She may even give massages, she noted later. So WHAT? Were you a wealthy brat who hated populists? I´d have to wait for an answer.

I enthusiastically told my new Norwegian friend, a by-product of VikingVodka lust, that we would be meeting two gorgeous women for a night out on the town. Like a good Norse, avoiding the gates to Valhalla, he smiled a big fat CHEESE. I didn´t mention the ringleader was a feminist.

Me and No-Whay were told to take a bus to the south side of the city. My South Side conjures images of the inebriated kids of plumbers running over black babies with their 1978 Trans-Am. This South Side proved that feminism wasn´t the only degenerative American concept to spread down to Bolivia. We were in the suburbs. As frigid and souless as a Whispering Pines near you. And just like Uncles Sammy´s suburbanites, the wealthy of La Paz love their McMansions.

Alexia´s friend was none other then her mom, BoBo. And our hot double date was a drive through La Paz´s forgotten wonderland, Coca Bluffs. The tag-team of We Have This and We Have That went back and forth showing us empty streets and large stores perfectly mimicking America´s fine dining pantheon of Applebee´s, Friday’s, and the Olive Garden.

As they fought each other to point out the latest Starbucks-esque coffeshop, I felt some relief from the affects of Globalization as I looked over to see No-Whay biting back his laughter. Apparently, Lief Erricson´s descendants have really sanitized Outer Oslo.

No stray dogs. No street vendors. No city noise. No colonial architecture. Only a monolithic monstrosity of cement and tinted glass. The apartment had that familiar sign of third world wealth.......immaculate fake antique furniture, a generic Whispering Coca Pines layout, and random adornments of brass and gold. And, well, of course, a servant. But were doing her a favor? What did her people do for her?

After a 45 minute tour of every item in the apartment (that´s our older television from our dining room in the west wing, but we will get a new one), No-Whay and I were invited for a dinner table conversation accompanied by knock-off Chocolate chip cookies, and Coca tea. Ah-Hah!

The conversation started fairly banal, as we exchanged the typical exclamations of job, age, and social status. Then, I decided that my research project was being derailed, and a turn of talk was in order.

Simón Bolivar was a real hero. He seems to be the last great leader that South America had. He only wanted to liberate and bring the continent together

BoBo gave me a look as if I had just puked on her Chinese made Oriental Rug.
He was a Gay. A Gay.

What? Are you kidding me?

Alexia jumped in the fray.
Yes. Yes. He is a Gay.

So what, he kicked the crap out of those pillaging Spaniards. Who cares if he was getting his rod sucked up and down the Andes?

What. I don´t care. He was a Gay.

I couldn´t believe what I was hearing. And the normally Barbie like BoBo was pissed. And then a moment of silence followed as No-Way and I gave awkward glances. Then, to shatter our converational disbelief, Alexia piped up:
A fag. Is that right, Mom, He is a fag.

A faggot, dear. He was a faggot.

Yes. Yes. He is a faggot.

Darling, He is dead. Remember to use the past tense.

Sorry. Yes. He was a faggot.

Berlitz was test piloting its new How to talk Hip with Your Kid in English series. But the onslaught of Gay hysteria night in La Paz would continue.

Well, what about Evo Morales, what do you think of him?

He is Gay too.

Yes, he was a Gay.

Really, he is Gay. Ask my husband. He is from Italy.

Apparently being from the great continent of Europe automatically bestows intellectual certitude upon its inhabitants.

But what about his policies, his idea to help the people, and the businesses.

He is no good. He will be like Castro. And we will move to Italy.

And least your not coming to Miami, we´ve already got enough arrogant commie hating assholes there.

I like Miami.

Figures.

And you know something, really, you know something, the ambassador of your country is Gay. And for Brasil and Chile too.

BoBo works intimately with the embassies in La Paz. I still can´t figure out if she is selling the coke or buying it.

So, we discovered that at least one member of the limited Bolivian elite are not supporting the overwhelmingly supported President. But only because he likes a little amyl nitrate with his coca and calls his wife, BoB.

The conversation only grew in character, as BoBo continued to demonstrate the value of a South American private school education.

Be careful in Brasil. It is very dangerous. Too many blacks. Really. It is bad. Especially in the north. Really. They are bad people.

Its ok. I live in a big American city with many black people. Its not a big deal.

And then, to the complete disbelief of all present at the table, BoBo launched into a ghetto black impersonation, despite the vacuumed face and strong accent. She left her daisy covered seat, and began to swagger across the large white tiled floor.
´Yo, my nigger, you need a ho. My nigger. I be a pimp, my nigger.

No-Whay and I were holding back the tears, but we had to get out of this place. We had enough of Rich Bolivia. Cause really, how much money do you need to afford real Chips Ahoys?

BoBo was proud. I do a good a negro. Yes.

Listen. What is worst? A black person or a Gay?

Black?

Gay. No Black. I agree with Mom. Yes. Black is worst?

Do you like Michael Jackson?

He has really nice voice. Yes. I like.

The taxi was on the way, and I never thought I would be so happy to return to an economically repressed trafffic clogged city.

The taxi is really cheap. So cheap, right. That is why I love my country. Really. Everything is so cheap. My daughter will come home from America and realize how cheap everything is. I can´t move from here. So cheap.

And with that closing line, my research project was or is, damn grammar, finished. The working class want to be able to say their country is cheap. The working class want a chance to have soulless towers in the sky, also. Maybe theyll avoid the brass, though. Its so 80´s. The wealthy don´t want to lose their cheap country. And if millions of people have to remain underpaid, and Gay Indian Coca supporting Hope Inspiring Presidents have to be terminated, then that is how the wealthy will keep it.

No wonder Ronnie Reagan was so popular in Whispering Pines, Phase I & II.