I Got Lance in my Pants!

Last weekend, I travelled to the far off land of Mary-land. My friends Josh and Meghan were throwing an engagement party of sorts, and were kind enough to drag me along. It was on the whole a very excellent time. I drank to excess, met some reasonably cool folk, argued about God, and played Scrabble and kickball. Good times, good times.

I also learned, much to my excitement, that I am on the terrorist watch list! While the ticket-counter person said that most likely it was someone else with my name on the list, I have my doubts. Sure, there are probably half a dozen ex-IRA guys that share my moniker, but I believe my names presence on the list is a direct result of warrantless domestic wiretapping. I have had many a telephone conversation denouncing the policies of the current administration and see it likely they have decided to viciously respond by slightly inconveniencing me. Damn them! Damn them to hell! A harsh letter is in order, most certainly.

Is it just me, or is putting "I got Lance in my pants!" on the back of your truck strange? It's just such a weirdly strange innuendo that I don't really see any possible benefit from its use. For one thing, if I ever actually see a Lance snack product I am going to be wondering "Who's pants have these been in?" and I doubt I would be at all comfortable consuming said product. Perhaps in the Deep South of Maryland this is acceptable, but it deeply offends my Northern sensibilites. It appears another harsh letter is neccesary.