Okay Death. It's time you get your due. You've taken a lot of shi-stuff from a lot of people over the years. Not many people want to meet you. A few seem ballsy enough to put shotguns to their faces in the hopes of escaping a world ruled, well, by you. You've got Africa sewn up like a hungry little ball of malnourished Ethiopian stomach lining, and Bono's not happy about it. Basically, you've made a LOT of people angry over the years.

On the other hand, Alan Ball seems to have a little gay-boy crush on you, based on his HBO and Cinemax shows. And dictators apparently worship you like an old Mexican diety, based on how many countrymen they send to you to keep their measly thrones for a few more wretched years. And hell, even the King of Peace himself, President Obama sends you a gift wrapped Yemeni every once in a while from his Golden radar-defying drone Eagles. So it seems you do have some fans after all.

But let's face it, most of the world hates you.

You know why, though. It's because you're damn good at your job. You've taken everyone from Methuselah, the oldest dude known, to infants who have yet to breathe the smoggy air of our planet (nice going with "climate change" BT DUBS, you are a LONG-TERM PLANNER) to the Son of God Himself, albeit the last for only three days or so, after which He was like "Later fools." Though he wouldn't say fools, b/c then He'd be in danger of the fires of hell.

People hate a winner. They love a winner every once in a while, but a winner who NEVER loses? That's not something people can take. It's like, roll over, give someone else a chance.

Let's not forget how creative you are. As of our unofficial tally, there are 19,177,839,361,873,290,100,274 ways in which you have performed your grisly duties, and while some of your works are marvelous and others are pedantic, all are truly final, and indeed, no artist has yet to truly emulate you, much less capture your essence. And in the end, you swallow even them into your ever-crowded maw.

Yes, people despise your presence in the home and on the battlefield, and they decry you and hold useless ceremonies to mourn your horrible work, but each of us knows in his and her heart that you do meet us, in the end, and there is something amazing about that punctual consistency. It's so rare to have someone so dedicated to their craft.

So we here at Cultural Imperialist say, it's your turn. Death, you've inspired so much invention, been the engine behind countless tortures and ailments before reaping all living things like some amazing Ultimate John Deere Harvester of Existence. You have waited patiently as old men expired with labored breath. You've been there when Serbs and Croatians mercilessly slaughter each other because who the Frak knows why anymore. You've clipped your fingernails while watching Rome burn, along with its inhabitants who came screaming to you at the end of barbarian lances. You, sir, are a force of nature, and for that, we cannot deny you Cultural Imperialist of the Week.

He's played a kindly convict, Nelson Mandela and even a mop-pushing God. On the other hand, the world was obliterated by a comet under his presidency. Yes, Morgan Freeman's record is decidedly mixed, yet we still look to him for comfort and authority in a topsy-turvy world.

But for his latest movie, we should bury Grandpa Gravitas' film career like the directions to Zihuatanejo that Tim Robbins left him in the sex orchard.

"Dolphin Tale" is a blatant piece of propaganda designed to brainwash the impressionable masses into believing that history's greatest sea monsters are not only their BFFs, but also inspiring cripples.

Dolphins have never lacked for savvy PR, making high-priced lobbying shops on K Street look as bloated, ineffective and glitter-strewn as Newt Gingrich. From Flipper, "the aquatic Lassie," to overblowholed stories about dolphins saving stranded sailors, these warm-blooded wankers have captured the imaginations and consciences of Americans too dumb to realize that permanent smiles are creepy, not cute. Slight chance that your tuna sandwich has bits of dolphin in it? Just convince the tuna industry to adopt a much more destructive fishing method!

Far from paragons of virtue, dolphins are closer to your average Oakland Raiders fan.  The motherflippers are known to gang rape both male and female dolphins and have "perfected the art to a degree unseen in any other species." They beat up porpoises, allegedly because they're "sexually frustrated," and according to a documentary about the social structure of dolphins, they would challenge humanity if their more charismatic leaders were freed from captivity. Any animal that arouses Harry Connick Jr. or fits R. Kelly's requirements for a wingman should immediately be placed on an FBI watch list.

Westerners need to get over their boner for hyper-intelligent animals, from the Ted Bundys of the ocean to Andy Serkis. The latest Science Loser Who Doomed Us All is even trying to establish "real-time two-way communication" with dolphins, to tempt the blubbery buggers into squeaking their sick fantasies at us. Here's a suggestion on getting a dolphin's interest: Log into MySpace as TweenageDream and post a request to meet "open-minded grownups."

If we're going to indulge our whitebread fetish for something, let's make it multiculturalism and go dolphishing in Taiji, Japan. I'm sure Dick Cheney is available.

The world is changing around us, but you can always count on one thing to stay the same: Americans of a certain age suck at reading the Bible out loud. They tend to be the ones who know the Bible.

You’d think the nation founded by a bunch of prudes fleeing their less-prudish rulers, creator of the First Amendment equally beloved of pornographers and cults, would excel at speaking God's Word in public, mellifluous as a Bieber ballad.  Scripture is full of references to prophets, Jesus and even Satan quoting Scripture, unrolling scrolls and eating scrolls. Reading the Bible aloud in the days before G-berg, like my favorite waste of White House space in his Grammy-winning spoken word album, used to be your ticket out of sharecropping or refereeing a WNBA game.

Add 20 years of the information revolution and you have an entire generation that talks faster than Andy Dick and sounds about as coherent. This deficiency shows up most glaringly in Bible studies.

I don't doubt the sincerity of my fellow religionizers when they struggle to make it through two verses of a Gospel translated into English as understood in 1978.  They talk in vague but heartfelt terms about God’s provision in their lives, care for each other and show more tolerance of others than most pagans I know.  But hand them a book they’ve spent years reading on a near-daily basis and watch them butcher it worse than Christina at the Super Bowl.

“Now a man of the tribe of...Levee married a Leveet woman and ... oh wait … she became pregnant and gabirtoason when she. Saw that he was a fine child. She hid him for thirty months. Do I keep reading? Oh, OK. I got lost. (hee hee) But when she could hit him no longer, she got a paperous basket for him and coated it with tar … uh … tar and (squinting) oh, pitch! (hee hee).”

How the hallelujah did you make it through college?  Are you a University of Phoenix grad?

As the Apostle Paul said, a man who can speak in the tongues of angels, but has not love, is a resounding gong.  I would rather spend two hours with Rip Taylor, a gong and a decibel-activated confetti cannon aimed at my tuchus than listen to you speed-gurgle through Corinthians 13.

You are God's representative on earth, young, hipster Christian.  And when you don't bother to learn how to speechify 10-point font in a medium devoid of Megan Fox pictorials, it reflects poorly on those of us who bring skeptics to our gatherings to see God’s people without the media filter.

I'm not asking for a Toastmasterization of the pews -- just some basic coordination between eyes, brain and mouth.  Like your mother last night.

I have noticed an increase in the girth of my local post- men and women, their biomass inching upward and rivaling blue whales, underground mushroom colonies, and redwood fairy rings. I see them waddling down the street, like federal Stay-Puft marshmallow people.

How does the second largest employer in the United States and mover of more than 203 billion yearly mail parcels have fat employees? One only has to recall the most famous postal worker in recent popular culture, Seinfeld's Newman, who personified outsized evil, to understand the obesity problem facing our mailmen.

There was also the notorious Fat Bastard, a delivery man who liked his baby back ribs to excess.

In the real world, Son of Sam David Berkowitz was a Yonkers postal worker who, in addition to killing scores of people on the advice of a dog, also happened to be a paunchy, moonfaced nerd--not morbidly obese, but fat enough to prevent him from making a running escape from slightly less encumbered NYPD.

Are we getting the picture of America's mail men? And it's not just here. The Old Country's got its own Fat Bastards to deal with.

Lazy mail men (like Newman) have been not delivering mail, burning mail, and spending lavishly on Beef Wellington parties for years. Long gone are the days of responsible federal employees feared by dogs and loved by children and married women; today's paunchy postmen are husbands to cats and weird perverts who deliver their cross-country cartons sans clothes.

Unfortunately, there may be more at the heart of our corpulent corps of parceled communication than poor eating habits, lousy work ethic, weird fetishes, and genetic predisposition. The relationship between earnings and weight seem to correlate with the relative mass of a given postal worker.

With Michelle Obama as America's anti-fat Patton, you'd think the Post Office, which enjoys state and local tax free status and billions in reduced loan rates from the federal government, would have a program to help its larger members trim the fat. Given the targeting of school children for healthier lunches and breaks outside from slouching on the video game couch, and given the statistical likelihood that at least 4% of those children will grow up to be postal workers, it might be time to take back the night by taking it out of their asses--literally.