Long.

.
A unit of measurement spanning the length of an entire John Silver.










Avast!

Quick.

.

Back in America’s Old West, men were enterprising, women wrestled bears, and guns had surpassed Indian rape as our nation’s most cherished past time. Firearms were all the rage, and conflict resolution without the acrid scent of gunpowder was considered an insult to the intelligence and vital organs of every man, woman and child. With such heavy artillery abounding, the Old West was soon home to just two types of folk: the Quick and the Dead.

.

Unbeknownst to most historians (see all historians) there was a brief period of time (circa 8:15 am) when the Old West was inexplicably pulled out of circulation and replaced with “New” West. There are no available records to give us any insight into the reasons for this. We here at British Balls managed to get a hold of an EP release on the subject, but all it contained was a phonograph recording of Saturday Night Outhouse that skipped in the middle.

Whatever the reasons might have been, the only thing historians (see nobody) can agree on are the unfortunate results; disenchantment rapidly set in with the “New” West formula. This was chiefly due to an unforeseen shift in the population from the Quick and the Dead, to the Slow and Undead.
.


Fortunately, the free market (or, in those times, the free tobacee squat-hole) responded with its usual course correction. The undead devoured the Slow, leaving the Quick to starve the Undead, allowing the Quick to turn on each other and create a fresh pallet of just plain Dead.

This was rebranded as Old West Classic, or “Classic West.” .

Today, its fiercest competitor in the market is Cowboy Zero.

Drum.

.

Do you hate someone?

Does that someone have kids?

Do those kids have birthdays?
.


…that’s right.

Request.

.

Same as the first quest, only the items aren’t where they used to be, and death mountain has moved from Spectacle Rock to some random-ass wall.
.

Hipster.

.

Here’s a wee test…

True or False: I bought an iPhone thirty seconds after it hit the stores, yet I still dress as thought my last meal was a tin of baked beans and a fire-cured railroad spike.

True or False: My Scarface poster puts me on the cutting edge of hanging things up on walls.

True or False: Also, my poster of Travis Bickle.

True or False: I got that ink on my arm because (insert pathetically weak and benign story that reveals a shocking ignorance of other cultures and their spiritual customs).

True or False: I am a Mac.

True or False: My glasses have dark plastic rims, reminiscent second wave Marxists.

True or False: My individuality is best nurtured by enclaves of like-minded, similarly dressed individuals (preferably located somewhere off the Brooklyn L train in Bedford).

True or False: That homeless guy who used to live in the newly refurbished apartment building I live in now is so cool, man.

True or False: Cocaine is in? I was just using it to help me stay up nights and finish my novel (it’s about my life growing up in Greenwich Connecticut).

True or False: I know about record labels.

True or False: Adam Sandler’s first ten movies were awesome, then they just started getting old (Billy Madison… classic!).

True or False: I wrote a song yesterday.

True or False: The average time it takes me to come to a moral resolution about whether to sleep with my best friend’s lover is somewhere between three to five years after I’ve gone ahead and done it anyway. (trick question! this applies to everyone in the world!)

True or False: My idea of the perfect arcade game is one in which I get the simulated experience of murdering deer in the woods without the hassle of leaving my urban surroundings.

True or False: I so totally remind myself of Tyler Durden from Fight Club. Matter of fact, I’ve been planning to start my own fight club, because that’s totally something I’d be great at, I’ve just been busy with my song and my novel, you know… Paper Street Soap Company!

True or False: Suffering is beauty, but my anti-depressants make me feel better.

Bonus Question: If I could be any animal, I would be (a) carpenter ant, (b) song bird, (c) nurse shark, (d) worker bee, (e) my parent’s money.

If you answered True to any four of these questions, congratulations! Put on your trucker hat, don your aviator sunglasses, allow patches of unsightly hair to grow on your face, and hold onto that one black friend you have with all your might!

Quest.

.

An epic journey of brogdignagian challenges and near devastating self discovery for those who are strong of body and true of spirit.
.




Conversely, the painstakingly complicated act accomplishing the most rudimentary of tasks for those who smoke pot and have prominent upper gums.
.



Choose wisely.

Represent.

.

A Republican with massive reserves of bitterness.

(see Conservative)

Demagogue.

.
A liberal who needs to keep his eyes to himself.

(best if that’s where he keeps his opinions as well)

Xylophone.

The second most popular export of the English alphabet’s most twenty-fourth letter.

This melodic and gleefully tympanic instrument has baffled philosophers for centuries. For while it is spelled xylophone, it is pronounced zylophone, leading us all to gaze into the heavens and ask: whylophone?

We dunnoaphone.

Peace outophone!

Bear.

In economics, bear is the adorable euphemism given to a downward spiral in the market. Investors, traders, and other a-sexual types then become timid, frightened of further investment, and quick to retreat in an orgy of selling, thus doing their patriotic duty to “protect themselves” (italics mine).

This should not be confused with the bull market. Named after the bear’s natural enemy, the bull market is referred to as such due to the bull’s innate tendency for aggressive buying, unique understanding that what is best for the individual is best for the whole, and its instinctual disdain for regulation, the capital gains tax, and moral clarity.

Some have often wondered at the respective labels for two such conflicting market trends. Bulls are aggressive animals, famous for goring matadors, and turning romantic picnics into occasions of life threatening hilarity with the mere flick of a crimson table cloth. Bears too are agressive animals, known for tearing the guts from any man it sees coming through the woods, and turning romantic picnics into occasions of life threatening hilarity… watch out, egg salad!

The similarity between the icons used to explain such disparity might well seem arbitrary. This random symbolism might even make an especially astute observer wonder at the wisdom of trusting the free market as the cornerstone of our vibrant democracy.

But fear not, gentle reader (Carl).

We at British Balls have a comprehensive and masterful knowledge of the market, including the NASDAQ composite, the ALL 'DAT composite, the DOW Jones, the INDIANA Jones, the MRS. Jones, the S&P 500, the INDY 500, as well as the INDIANA S&P JONES 500… with some construction paper and a few ordinary straws, we can also make a little hat!

To further help our readers/sea captains fully appreciate the seemingly bizarre and arbitrary nature of Bear vs. Bull market iconoclasm, we now hand the reigns over to one of the kings of Wall Street; a genius of the dismal science, who’s intuitive business savvy and analytical acuity have made him a cornerstone of the global economy… our very own J.R. POWERCASH.

"SHIT! SHIT! FUCK! SHIT, SHIT, SHIT! OH, GOD, DEAR FUCKING GOD WHAT THE FUCK! WHAT HAVE I DONE!!?? I WAS SUPPOSED TO TRUST THIS GODDAMN NONSENSE!!! WE WERE ALL SUPPOSED TO BENIFIT FROM OUR COLLECTIVE GREED!!! IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE GOOD!!!! OH, SWEET JESUS, NO! GOD, NO! NO! MY PORTFOLIO! MY RETIERMENT! MY SON’S FUCKING OXYGEN MONEY! WHAT WAS I THINKING!!!? OH, GOD, IT’S OVER! IT’S ALL OVER, THIS IS IT!!! END OF THE ROAD! END OF HUMANITY, OH, CHRIST!"

Bear can also be used in reference to an area that no longer holds, if it ever did, anything for anyone. Kind of like Old Mother Hubbard. That dog sure wanted a bone. It really did.

Pitch.

…OK, here it is. You listening? ‘Cause here it is. OK…



So we begin, opening scene, OK? Dark street, middle of the night in Robot City. A dump truck backs up into an alleyway. What’s it doing there? What’s in it…?



GARBAGE! It comes POURING out, all over the ground. So right away, we’ve got mystery, suspense, PLUS… A comment on environmentalism. OK? So we start to move in on the pile of garbage, and we hear the voice of our hero, SPECK BRICKTASTE. And we hear him, we hear him say:



“I never thought I’d be the same after that night. What I didn’t realize was that I wouldn’t be the same. Not after that night… not after the night I woke up…”



And BANG!!! Smash cut to the title screen:





And we’re back to where we left off, only now, there’s a LOBSTER. In a fish tank. Or a lobster tank, depending on whether we want the budget to go into the billions. Anyway, we see the lobster. OK? Let’s call him Archibald. ARCHIBALD COX! There he is, just floating around, filling in the paperwork for last week’s Case Of The Missing Friend…



…And that’s when SHE walks in.



Now, I’m thinking Paris Hilton. THAT'S what I’m thinking. But for the role of the woman, I’d like to get Jennifer Garner. RIGHT? We know she’s alive, and we know she appears in movies, so that’s half the battle right there.



So this woman – let’s call her Archibald. Archibald COX! Archibald the woman walks into the lobster tank (I know, I know, not till we get the OK from Spielberg), and says: “I hear you’re a man that knows how to find things.”



And Archibald the lobster replies: “Blurb blurb, blub, bloob.”



To which our leading lady says: “Oh, I’m afraid I like my whiskey in a glass.”



Back to Archibald the lobster: “Bloob, blurb, blurb, snip, snip.”



Lady: “If I can’t pay with a check, how do you expect me to bounce?”



Archibald the Lobster: “Blorb.”



Now just picture the look of pure heat, the sultry fire in our leading lady’s eyes as she promptly dies from water inhalation.



GENIUS, I KNOW!



And there we have it! For the rest of the film, our lobster hero searches for her killer… or possibly KILLERS? WHO KNOWS!? THAT’S the mystery we have on our hands here, that’s the catch that’s going to bring in our demographics between the numbers of one and ten, and THAT is what I came here to do.



Best of all, hold on… are you holding on?

*SNIIIIIIIF*

Best of all, you’re going to love this, now… we already have the poster:







….What do you think?

Spanish (not really)

So once again - I'm branching out the British Balls. I'm not smart enough to write an entire piece on the attributes and funny misunderstandings of a word, so in honor of our recent return from the great country of Mexico, I just wanted to take a moment to reflect on lessons learned.

1. "Gracias" can and should be used in excess. Just continue to say it and you can pretty much get yourself out of or into any situation.

2. "First Class" - unless you are a 40-something businessman, people will assume you are famous, particularly if you keep your sunglasses on at all times. Even if they don't know who they think you are, they will respect you and gaze at you with wonder. This effect can be used to get laid but we at British Balls frown on such practices.

3. "Bruce & Becky" - if you run into a couple with these names who are large and boisterous do not engage in any type of competitive activity. They will always win.

4. Insulin will boil if left in the Mexican sunlight and should not be injected into the human body unless you are into that sort of thing...

5. If an illustrious pop icon dies unexpectedly (boiling insulin?), you will be informed within 32 minutes.

6. If a beloved t.v. star dies on the same day no one will care, even if you weren't in Mexico.

7. Do not attempt to decipher whether that fucking towel creature is a dinosaur or an elephant - such debates never end well and it has been documented to cause the end of 391 marriages every year.

8. No matter how much you pray in advance Chad Krueger will probably not be playing a secret show at your hotel.

9. That 19 year old you shouldn't be looking at, may be in fact be even younger, but her grandmother is probably ready and willing.

10. Drinking beers in a car is as much fun as it sounds.

Perambulate.

There are not many left alive who know the mysteries behind this word’s dark and sordid history. Of those knowledgeable individuals, only a few are prepared to divulge their precious information. In turn, only a select handful are willing to do so without some sort of massive compensation. From that small sampling, only two meet the required criteria as members of the human species. And only one of these brilliant and sesquipedalian duo could be said to be something other than a severed head floating in a pie pan of brine and gravel bits.



The last remaining authority on the subject, it should be forewarned, is a six-month old girl. In addition, the only means of communicating her wealth of perambulatory insight is through a complex and encoded system of primitive sign language and lighting sticks of dynamite, then hurling them at passing cars along Route 66.



This form of communication is known in ancient circles as “Dangerously Criminal Activity”.



Despite the fact that Baby Disturbia’s enchanting, baroque ritual is a practically extinct art, there are still a precious few who are able to interpret these circumspect explosions and languid gestures. Of these few, however, only half are still on this planet. Those left behind, quite frankly, are not very good looking. Of the two or three who we might even consider sleeping with, only one of them really seemed to enjoy our clever and timeless anecdotes involving our varied encounters with celebrity garden hoses.



And she, in turn, was promptly blown to a thousand pieces while driving along Route 66.



At which point, we broke for lunch.


As luck would have it, our waiter was Noah Webster. Along with informing us about their delicious Crêpe Suzette, he further went on to explain (in bizarre, rather halting verse), that Perambulate was a:


transitive verb

1 : to travel over or through especially on foot : TRAVERSE
2 : to make an official inspection of (a boundary) on foot.

We told him we were pretty certain it had something to do with assigning hearsay to a fellow named Ambulate, and maybe he should just go ahead and get us our dessert and coffee.

Mr. Webster then promptly set himself on fire, earning himself a twelve percent tip.

“Come on, Folks!” Someone joyously declared. “Let’s Perambulate on out of here!”

And so we did, happily abandoning the shambling Noah Webster and his futile attempts to douse the hungry flames with his own, tortured tears…




.


.


Happy Bastille Day, One and All!

Epiphany.

.
.
.
.
.
.
…Oh.
.
.
.
.
.
... Oh, SHIT!
.
.
.
.

Axe.

Axe – An easy ten points in Scrabble.



Axe – To inquire; a substitution for the vulgar and unnecessarily long “ask”. Popular among urban youths and middle-aged bailiffs. Scientists have known for well over a decade that using axe in any formal situation will never, under any circumstances, result in getting a job at NASA. Use it wisely.



Axe – A crude and unfair term for being “downsized”. Short for “getting the axe”, this unbelievably narrow-minded colloquialism is predicated on the notion that being “let go” is akin to a tree being violently severed from all that keeps it fed, grounded, and alive. It is these same “axed” rabble rouses who then go on to complain that their kids “died from lack of food, shelter and health care”, rather than the far more appropriate “got a case of the bunnies.”




Really, the nerve of some people…



Axe – When burying the hatchet just won’t do. Especially when it wasn’t a hatchet you buried in your ex-lover’s head, but an axe. Hence, the old saying, Never bring an hatchet to an axe fight. Also, never bring an axe to a bazooka fight, but that bit of wisdom has always been considered to be a little on the nose. Try bringing a bazooka to a potluck sometime. Or some pot to an axe fight. Whatever. Just tell Jason Voorhees that all of here at British Balls are sick of hearing him say axe instead of ask.




Axe – A deodorant body spray from Unilever, targeted towards males who swear they’re into women. While some might contend that Axe’s body spray is highly toxic due to several unsafe and dubious chemicals, including Hydrofluorocarbon 152A, we at British Balls disagree. To us, Axe body spray has the alluring and sensual bouquet of lilac, violet and chrysanthemum… all planning to date-rape a drunk sixteen-year old at a frat party.




Axe – Grind one shortly after some sickening act of betrayal. Then just sit back and rake in the cash.


Axe – As in the Axe Man. If you drive a car, he’ll axe the street. If you try to sit, he’ll axe the seat. If you get too cold, he’ll axe the heat. If you take a walk, he’ll axe your feet.

Not that funny, but most certainly proof that the Beatles should have held off on politics 'till after their first encounter with bangers and acid.





Goo-Goo G’Joob !

Discourse.

In the words of Glinda, the Good Witch of the North:


“Why, British Balls! You don’t need to give a definition of Discourse. You’ve been doing it all along!”


Still, we here at British Balls remain skeptical of sugar-coated platitudes doled out by weird floating broads appearing to us in the form of ball-lightening.


Call us persnickety.


Perhaps Glinda would have us ignore the granddaddy of all discourse, the brilliant and grape-leaf devouring Socrates (b. long ago, BC – d. slightly less longer ago, BC). Truly one of the great thinkers of Ancient Greece, Socrates’ greatness sprouted from an unflinching understanding that man’s quest for knowledge is contingent upon the realization that he is, in fact, ignorant of all that he knows or will ever come to know. This is best summed up in his famous dictum “Man, I don’t know SHIT!”

… or something to that effect.


The uncomfortable truth is, while Socrates was clearly an evolutionary leap forward for philosophical discourse, we have no real evidence as to his vocabulary, elocution, or cadence. Socrates was notoriously fickle when it came to writing down his thoughts, or anything for that matter. It was not uncommon for him to head down to the market, stand in the middle of aisle five with his empty shopping cart (or shopping Crete, as was the fashion amongst Laconophiles), and just stare at the olives for hours on end.


It is only through other people’s works that we have come to know Socrates. Most notably, it was Plato who brought the mysterious Philosopher into the pop culture mainstream. Sadly, Plato’s insecurity and desperate need of anonymous affection led him to present a more easily accessible Socrates to the ignorant masses. Unable to stomach the emotional daring of a one-man show, Plato circumvented Socrates’ dense and rambling discourses by turning them into anecdotal, easily digestible vignettes; most famous for their “Socratic” dialogue.


In a sense, Plato was very much the Quentin Tarantino of his time. In the same way that mealy-mouthed stoners who sit through Pulp Fiction would never dream of trying to navigate their way through the works of Federico Fellini or Jean-Luc Goddard, so too did Plato’s followers agree that Crito was:

“Totally awesome! Especially when Cepalus is all like, he who is of a calm and happy nature will hardly feel the pressure of age, but to him who is of an opposite disposition youth and age are equally a burden. And then Socrates was all, like, But I rather suspect that people in general are not convinced by you when you speak thus, before he goes on to add, you are rich, and wealth is well known to be a great comforter, before BLOWING his ass away and getting Marsellus’s suitcase… It’s so way fucking genius!” (Leo Strauss, Natural Right and History, 1950 – director’s cut)

Alas, Plato’s only remaining contribution to Western Civilization was the hyper-obsessive and overwhelmingly frustrating Platonic relationship; sure, they may be free of all sexual contact and excitement, but at least there’s no shortage of maddeningly chaste and topical lunch dates… Thanks a lot, asshole!

* * *

To add insult to injury, Glinda the Good Witch also fails to realize that the term Discourse did not enjoy widespread germination in the United States until January 5, 1961. It was this day in history that saw the debut of a wildly original sitcom centering around Adeimantus (son of Ariston) and his wacky but fruitless attempts to get Socrates out of the House of Ploemarchus.

The show was entitled Mister Ad, and was immortalized in its theme song, written by the Jay Livingston and Ray Evans:


A discourse, discourse,
Of course, of course.
And no one can discourse
Discourse, of course.
That is of course,
Unless discourse,
Is the famous Mister Ad!

The show remained trapped in the dark and muddy waters of syndication through July 2, 1961. It was finally picked up by CBS, set to premier on October 1 of that very year. However, Frank Stanton, president of CBS, was concerned that the highbrow premise might overshadow the capricious and horribly racist Amos n’ Andy show. After many acrimonious and bitter clashes between Stanton and creator Walter R. Brooks, a compromise was at long last forged.


Brooks would get full screen credit for the revamped show, while Stanton would assure the spirit of the original lived on in its new, Nielsen-friendly premise: a young architect by the name of Wilber Post goes stark-fucking-batshit-insane and, under orders from a talking horse, systematically destroys his life and the fragile relationships of those around him.


In a sense, this made Frank Stanton the Plato of his time. Making Quentin Tarantino the Frank Stanton of his time. Thus, once again, making Plato the Quentin Tarantino of his time, and effectively sending our discourse into a full, inescapable, never-ending nightmare of a Möbius Strip.


Unless, of course, we’ve had the power to go home all along…

Lost.

Oceanic flight 815, nonstop from Australia to Los Angles, crash lands on a seemingly deserted island in the middle of the ocean. The handful of survivors, once strangers on a plane, must find a way to navigate the dangers presented by this mysterious new terrain, each other, and, yes, even their own individually haunting and devastating pasts.

Critically acclaimed, with a cult following almost unparalleled in television history, Lost is, at its very heart, the story of a plucky little island and the whimsically bewildered inhabitants who love it so.

We here at British Balls recently sat down with The Island for a one-on-one interview, over lunch and some delightful macchiato. What we learned about this up-and-coming young land mass might surprise even the most ardent Lost fans…

BRITISH BALLS: Hello, Island.

ISLAND: Hello, British Balls.

BRITISH BALLS: How do you like your cobb salad?

ISLAND: Actually, I think it’s just a chef salad, but with bacon.

BRITISH BALLS: Interesting… and, what kind of dressing…?

ISLAND: …

BRITISH BALLS: What kind?

ISLAND: …I don’t wanna.

BRITISH BALLS: Come on…

ISLAND: No!

BRITISH BALLS: Say it!

ISLAND: STOP IT! GO AWAY!

BRITISH BALLS: SAY THE DAMN DRESSING!

ISLAND: (defeated, miserable) … Thousand Island.

BRITISH BALLS: I’m sorry, what was that?

ISLAND: (bravely, steadily) Thousand. Island.

BRITISH BALLS: Well, thank you for your time. I think all of us at British Balls can safely say we all look forward to seeing more of your work in the future.

ISLAND: (releases smoke monster).

BRITISH BALLS: Ahhhh!

* * *

- For a written transcript of this interview, please send twelve dollars to British Balls.

- For two written transcripts of this interview, please send two twelve dollars to two British Balls.

- Three written transcripts??? Seriously??? You must think we’re some kind of a JOKE!

Shamble.

Our story begins in Ancient France.

Yes, there are some who would contend that, technically, there was never any such place as Ancient France. But rest easy. We here at British Balls have checked with our parole officers, and it seems that the state doesn’t pay them to settle historical disputes. Also, there’s a good chance that selling government secrets to the French isn’t in keeping with the terms of our release. We’re not entirely sure how our recipe for Bananas Foster constitutes a breach of national security. Yet even we must admit its alarming connection to the word in question.

Shamble.

Pronounced Shamblé, it is derived from the (ancient) French term Flambé.

Simply put, shambling is a side effect of dousing oneself in alcohol and setting one’s body ablaze. Why do this? To alter flavor and pain of one’s body. Why the shambling? Because, while the sugar in alcohol may caramelize at 320⁰ (Fahrenheit), the human body begins to feel pain at roughly my skin is on fire (again, degrees Fahrenheit). As a result, from the moment of ignition, one is reduced to a state of complete and utter shambles.

Don’t forget, cooking directions vary, thus do different flambés change the very nature of one’s subsequent shamblés. Some examples:


Bombe Alaska - A flambéed variation of Baked Alaska. While both are essentially representative of a typical Alaskan teenager’s state of mind (bombed or baked), only Bombe Alaska will give one a good and proper case of the shambles. Simply put: eat a scoop of ice cream, and cover yourself with meringue. Then, cover yourself in dark rum, and light a match (preferably a long, fireplace match – safety first!).




The fire should help firm the meringue, both insulating the ice cream in your body, while producing a frantic, agonizing shamble. An interesting fact about the effects of Dark Rum on one’s shamble: it hurts when you are on fire.

Crêpe Suzette - As the name implies, a crêpe (or Freedom Pancake)stuffed with generous helpings of sliced Suzette. This particular Flambé usually involves Grand Marnier, which is a form of Triple Sec , blended from several fine Cognacs. While this form of self-emulation is no less painful than any other, the fine, distilled essence of bitter orange will, at the very least, assure you that nothing out there rhymes with it… a truly original shamble, every time.





Bananas Foster – Australian for beer. While posting the recipe on this site is, apparently, a threat to national security, we at British Balls are well within our rights to reveal just what kind of shamble to expect from this exquisite, Louisiana dessert: up, up, down, down, left-right, left-right, B, A, start.

(When attempting Banana Foster in two-player mode it’s: up, up, down, down, left-right, left-right, B, A, select, start.)



Remember: in all cases, the best shambling occurs after the flames are extinguished and the skin has truly had a chance to achieve full oblivion. Our advice… don’t settle for third-degree burns in a first-degree world.





Shamble-lamba-ding-dong, FOOLS!

Flabbergast.

Being aghast at the site of one’s flab.

Followed by the process of riding oneself of flab though an intense regiment of Gastersizing®.

Not much to this one, really… just kind of blah, you know?

Tourism

Forgive us for not indulging in our usual lighthearted and picaresque mischief. But we cannot allow such a grave and momentous subject to fall prey to the mere whims and follies of cynicism and ironic detachment.


We here at British Balls believe that this excerpt from President George W. Bush's speech, delivered to all members of government on September 20, 2001, sums up all that needs to be said.







On September the 11th, enemies of freedom committed an act of war against our country. Americans have known wars, but for the past 136 years they have been wars on foreign soil, except for one Sunday in 1941. Americans have known the casualties of war, but not at the center of a great city on a peaceful morning.

Americans have known surprise attacks, but never before on thousands of civilians.

All of this was brought upon us in a single day, and night fell on a different world, a world where freedom itself is under attack.


Americans have many questions tonight. Americans are asking, "Who attacked our country?"


The evidence we have gathered all points to a collection of loosely affiliated tourist organizations known as al Qaeda. They are some of the murderers indicted for bombing American embassies in Tanzania and Kenya and responsible for bombing the USS Cole.



Al Qaeda is to touring what the Mafia is to crime. But its goal is not making money, its goal is remaking the world and imposing its radical beliefs on people everywhere.


The tourists practice a fringe form of Islamic extremism that has been rejected by Muslim scholars and the vast majority of Muslim clerics; a fringe movement that perverts the peaceful teachings of Islam.


The tourists' directive commands them to kill Christians and Jews, to kill all Americans and make no distinctions among military and civilians, including women and children.


This group and its leader, a person named Osama bin Laden, are linked to many other organizations in different countries, including the Egyptian Islamic Jihad, the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan.


There are thousands of these tourists in more than 60 countries.


They are recruited from their own nations and neighborhoods and brought to camps in places like Afghanistan where they are trained in the tactics of tour. They are sent back to their homes or sent to hide in countries around the world to plot evil and destruction.


The leadership of Al Qaeda has great influence in Afghanistan and supports the Taliban regime in controlling most of that country. In Afghanistan we see Al Qaeda's vision for the world. Afghanistan's people have been brutalized, many are starving and many have fled.


Women are not allowed to attend school. You can be jailed for owning a television. Religion can be practiced only as their leaders dictate. A man can be jailed in Afghanistan if his beard is not long enough.


The United States respects the people of Afghanistan — after all, we are currently its largest source of humanitarian aid — but we condemn the Taliban regime.



(APPLAUSE)



It is not only repressing its own people, it is threatening people everywhere by sponsoring and sheltering and supplying tourists.


By aiding and abetting murder, the Taliban regime is committing murder. And tonight the United States of America makes the following demands on the Taliban.


Deliver to United States authorities all of the leaders of Al Quaeda who hide in your land.


(APPLAUSE)





Release all foreign nationals, including American citizens you have unjustly imprisoned. Protect foreign journalists, diplomats and aid workers in your country. Close immediately and permanently every tourist training camp in Afghanistan. And hand over every tourist and every person and their support structure to appropriate authorities.



Give the United States full access to tourist training camps, so we can make sure they are no longer operating.



These demands are not open to negotiation or discussion.




(APPLAUSE)

The Taliban must act and act immediately.

They will hand over the tourists or they will share in their fate.

I also want to speak tonight directly to Muslims throughout the world. We respect your faith. It's practiced freely by many millions of Americans and by millions more in countries that America counts as friends. Its teachings are good and peaceful, and those who commit evil in the name of Allah blaspheme the name of Allah.

(APPLAUSE)

The tourists are traitors to their own faith, trying, in effect, to hijack Islam itself.

The enemy of America is not our many Muslim friends. It is not our many Arab friends. Our enemy is a radical network of tourists and every government that supports them.

(APPLAUSE)

Our war on tour begins with Al Qaeda, but it does not end there.
It will not end until every tourist group of global reach has been found, stopped and defeated.

(APPLAUSE)

Americans are asking "Why do they hate us?"

They hate what they see right here in this chamber: a democratically elected government. Their leaders are self-appointed. They hate our freedoms: our freedom of religion, our freedom of speech, our freedom to vote and assemble and disagree with each other.

They want to overthrow existing governments in many Muslim countries such as Egypt, Saudi Arabia and Jordan. They want to drive Israel out of the Middle East. They want to drive Christians and Jews out of vast regions of Asia and Africa.

These tourists kill not merely to end lives, but to disrupt and end a way of life. With every atrocity, they hope that America grows fearful, retreating from the world and forsaking our friends. They stand against us because we stand in their way.

We're not deceived by their pretenses to piety.

We have seen their kind before. They're the heirs of all the murderous ideologies of the 20th century. By sacrificing human life to serve their radical visions, by abandoning every value except the will to power, they follow in the path of fascism, Nazism and totalitarianism. And they will follow that path all the way to where it ends in history's unmarked grave of discarded lies.

(APPLAUSE)

Americans are asking, "How will we fight and win this war?"

We will direct every resource at our command — every means of diplomacy, every tool of intelligence, every instrument of law enforcement, every financial influence, and every necessary weapon of war — to the destruction and to the defeat of the global tour network.

Now, this war will not be like the war against Iraq a decade ago, with a decisive liberation of territory and a swift conclusion. It will not look like the air war above Kosovo two years ago, where no ground troops were used and not a single American was lost in combat.

Our response involves far more than instant retaliation and isolated strikes. Americans should not expect one battle, but a lengthy campaign unlike any other we have ever seen. It may include dramatic strikes visible on TV and covert operations secret even in success.

We will starve tourists of funding, turn them one against another, drive them from place to place

until there is no refuge or no rest.

And we will pursue nations that provide aid or safe haven to tourism. Every nation in every region now has a decision to make: Either you are with us or you are with the tourists.

(APPLAUSE)

From this day forward, any nation that continues to harbor or support tourism will be regarded by the United States as a hostile regime. Our nation has been put on notice, we're not immune from attack. We will take defensive measures against tourism to protect Americans.

To sum up… words have been known to start wars.

Take two cyanide capsules and call us in the everafter.