swerve responsibly

Never the most optimistic Yaqui sorcerer on decent flying days, seeking signs that 2010 will be an improvement over last year has yielded the slimy glimpse that we’ll be seeing more of Newt Gingrich on Meet the Press; that’s what chicken intestines tell me. Maybe you have a better way of divining the future. At least a chicken can be fried and served with mash potatoes after the serious work is done.

Although loath to make resolutions, I have decided to ignore online senility and NO SMOKING neon. Consider my public pipe smoking a version of going Galt. When Missouri becomes civilized and allows nicotine-addicted drunks to flaunt their firearms, tobacco teetotalers had better watch their step. Because I’m a lousy shot, the Mac 10 is an ideal weapon. Gun nuts tell me that the lightweight machine gun is great for drive-bys and spontaneous crowd control. Besides, spraying collateral damage honors a holy God-given Constitutional right. I’d be more inclined to kill animals if taking careful aim wasn’t considered a sport. We’ll know the last trace of liberalism has finally been eliminated when Field & Stream features an article on flame throwers.

Assuming that a neutered health-care reform bill meets Joe Lieberman’s approval, my guess is that Tea Baggers will turn their short attention span toward education. Who knew teaching evolution would morph into America’s first black Hawaiian president? Reading between the lines, I suspect that’s why Sarah Palin is still hanging around. She knows her scripture. Pictures in the official Alaskan Assembly of God Bible depict Adam and Eve looking like fully clothed Scandinavian campers. Education is a terrible thing. Jesus and Paul Butler wept after reading Paul Teverow’s op-ed that blasphemed “It’s a Wonderful Life” with leftist Ph.D. propaganda. Perhaps locals much closer to the Lord than the out-of-state historian can pass the collection plate and buy MSSU before another international studies vacation corrupts Heather Dawn’s sporadic rendezvous with underarm deodorant. I worry that reinstituting a ban on shellfish will cripple Red Lobster’s business. Executing abortion providers and waiters serving lobster dishonors the ‘murder by necessity’ defense, as it infers that both fetus and lobster share the same homarus americanus classification. Because dark magic gives me an edge, I can see Anson Burlingame solving this dilemma by suggesting parents name male offspring Shrimp and girl babies Crabbie.

Fully rested and well stocked, Juan Don looks forward to sharing his exposed toes wisdom with those bold enough to crawl away from Caldwell’s Corner. Assuming there is no more dirty laundry to wash, I’ll eat some sacred fungi and see if I can find Cary Randolph Fuller. My spirit body enables me to sneak into Nello’s without appropriate jacket and tie.

pretending to appear busy in a vain attempt to avoid shopping with Beloved

One thing is certain: There will be no public option. But that’s not surprising. The country remains right-of-center, regardless of recent electoral victories. Thirty-plus years of branding political conservatism as both morally and economically superior to progressive populism has created an atmosphere where the very mention of publicly funded health-care blasphemes the Christian righteousness inherent in unregulated capitalism.

Abetted by media personalities, pushing a daily dose of Founding Father fables, the self-appointed stewards of Formica America grant themselves immunity when their excuses for maintaining the broken status quo are exposed as nothing more than fear mongering distractions. It’s impossible to take Roy Blunt seriously when he expresses anxiety over Medicaid’s future as his principled objection against socialism. Try as one pagan might, I can’t find where the legislator/lobbyist championed a single taxpayer-funded program that directly benefits low-income citizens; misusing taxation’s ill-gotten gains in such a manner only encourages the poor to think medical care is a necessity, rather than a privilege.

(I must give credit where is credit is due. Anson Burlingame’s “Is Rationing Reasonable?” is a hoot. I nearly spilled my brandy reading about the gang member and his gun shot wound hypothetical. Who in their right mind would want to pay an imaginary thug’s hospital bill…forever? Not me; no way, Jose. If I may offer some deconstructive criticism, Grandma “hitting the limit” is a tad maudlin considering it’s “the most wonderful time of the year.” But since Grandma is fictional, I’ll play along and give the old gal a dollop of hope).
_______________________________________________________________________
After Me-Maw’s “fund” ran dry, her favorite granddaughter clutched the family jewels in Little Theatre agony. A Libra by birth, Margie lacked the ability to make decisions. More than once an angry mob had pushed her car away from Wendy’s drive through menu. Just as Nurse Mew was “pulling the plug”, Margie’s on again-off again Virgo lover rushed in with enough batteries to “keep her going.”
________________________________________________________________________
Merry Christmas,

Juan Don

stromming the thurman

Dear Erstwhile,

You’ve really done it this time. When will you learn that responding to The Man Called Shirley is fraught with peril? It’s not beyond reason to think that “Big dog” might sniff out your home address and gift you with burning Yuletide turds. Heaven knows what “local yokel” has up (or down) his overalls. (The Man Called Shirley supporters offer few clues as to their gender, leaving an old acid head wondering if “little bo peep” is “Joe Schmoe” bitching in film noir era panties). Exposing Joplin’s favorite pill pusher’s fondness for straw can only lead to charges of “hateful arrogance” and “2nd grade pettiness”. Tempted to ape Anson’s rare online anonymity, I tried to join in on a little masked mob fun as “fuck me running”. But for some reason, “fuck me running” was denied his First Amendment right of free speech; dittos for “always squirting spooge” and “roy blunt”; too bad. Had my lengthy, scatological-scented drivel been accepted “writes” would need to step-up his/her game, or risk becoming just another “Farmer Ted”. Pray like hell that after the 2010 elections real Americans will be free to hide inside “Pelosi's pussy” without fear of “libtard” outrage.

And now I must get back to my reading. I can’t wait to see how Sarah escapes from the Garden of Gethsemane. (Because global warming is a hoax, maybe she splits on Todd's Artic Cat).

Juan Don

roasted on an open fire

The “War on Christmas” is as seasonal as spiked egg nog. On cue, before Bud washed down the last Turkey Day leftovers, 21st century cable television Torquemadas began bitching about liberals besmirching Santa’s milk and cookie transubstantiation. The predictable media uproar appears contrived. A registered Democrat for some time, I’ve never heard of pro-choice pagans interested in protesting publicly-funded nativity scenes. Call me Ishmael, but wouldn’t Slomo’s donkey and Buddha’s beautiful belly provide novel additions to the usual suspects surrounding Baby Jesus? Including Spider Man, SpongeBob SquarePants and Mickey Rourke as manger staples could go a long way in broadening Christianity’s cultural appeal. I’m kidding: Rumors concerning SpongeBob’s swishy sexual orientation guarantee local mullahs would never sanction homosexual animation so close to straight plastic figurines.
______________
Years ago I barely escaped excommunication for trying to replace “Silent Night” with Little Baby Jesus fighting Little Baby Devil. The Gruppenpastor did not think an altar melee a proper Christmas Eve dénouement…breaking the hearts of two four year old boys. Thanks to blind dating, my ideas for “Easter in Space” were embraced by Unitarians, leading to a short-lived stint in rehab, followed by an even shorter marriage. I’ll always wonder why I insisted on Jesus wearing roller skates during the “He is Risen”(sic) musical number. In my defense, the clinical psychologist playing Jesus wasn’t upfront about his bad ankles. Grady’s less than graceful tomb exit was not the effect I envisaged. If the Unitarians had been blessed with Saddleback’s bank account, I’d have affixed my clumsy Jesus with a wire harness, a la Peter Pan. This type of clever staging is known in religious theatre lingo as “more cowbell.”

Even though “Easter in Space” had its spotty moments, phaser toting Uranthians beaming down into traditional “Passion Play” fare remains the highlight of my directing career.
_____________
I have yet to read where Pinochet Christians donate proceeds from their war profiteering to charity. You’d think Sarah Palin might relax her $15.99 per personal photo policy. After all, this is retail shopping’s holiest month. I guess a real Christian, raking in millions selling dime store diva values, believes receiving is better than giving; it’s not like Trig would go without shoes if Sarah waived the photo fee. Gifting rural bachelors with suitable icon-cum-pinup material displays the true spirit of Christmas, and gives her male fans something special to ogle when engaged in private root cellar ho, ho, ho. Had the half-term governor hawked Lynn Vincent’s fiction in green bra and red panties, squeezing a little extra juice from Joel’s Army is understandable -- especially if strategically placed candy canes are involved.

Adler is on record saying that should the book tour bleed over into January, Sarah will be swinging from a pole. If so, color me gone.

Juan Don

the advent sweater

Before too long Glenn Beck’s live version of "The Christmas Sweater" will become a cult classic. He works up quite a ‘sweat’ during his one kook performance. I doubt if Charles Dickens needed to change shirts during his famous reading of "A Christmas Carol." But then Victorian hams were considerably less demonstrative in public. There is every reason to believe that Glenn would’ve been clubbed straight to Bedlam Hospital’s notorious rubber room if unleashing his pseudo-autobiographical poltergeist upon old London Music Hall patrons. Although Victorian middle-class propriety is considered repressive by our more flexible social mores, there is something to be said for keeping the mentally unstable locked away from ladies and small children.
__________________________

I refuse to opine about Tiger Woods’ poor driving skills. As someone known to take rather wide turns, it would be hypocritical of me to throw stones. My one and only comment about the affair is that I’d be tickled pink if a comely young woman used synonyms for large to describe my rusty pecker.
__________________________

Thanks to Anson Burlingame, I’ve rekindled my affection for the quotation mark. Taking timeout from an unauthorized Burl Garvin biography, I killed several minutes experimenting with Anson-esque prose. The initial attempts were so-so. Here are a few examples:

Sometimes I think I “know” things and other times things get “gooey”, especially in the “bathroom.”

I “posted” a reply to Duane Graham. His “take” on “stuff” is irritating as hell. How do we “pay” for health care? Let’s get “real”. If somebody is too poor to get “sick”, tough periscope. Who said life was “fair?“ I knew a guy who had back “trouble” and received a welfare check every month for just sitting around on his “ass." Liberals believe this is “good." It’s not! It’s “bad”, just like the guy who claims he “weed-eats” around my pool but doesn’t.

Perhaps brandy and a pinch or three of Jack the Ripper is required to fully explore the style’s creative possibilities. This morning I incorporated finger gestures-cum-quotes to explain why the dishes weren’t “done."

Juan Don

dashing through the blow

It's been awhile. November has never been a good month for me. The short days and long nights exacerbate my tri-polar mood swings, unleashing an unhealthy compulsion to haunt the dark side of the moon. December is no picnic. Not even the prospect of wearing my soiled Santa hat offsets the dread of yet another family encounter so soon after Thanksgiving's dressing noir. "Tis the season" would be almost bearable if compressed into a tall bourbon glass: Ho Ho Ho. Oddly enough, rescuing Baby Jesus from Black Friday or Branson's Away in a Manger Savior Stampede USA! isn't high on Randall Terry's hit list. Suicide rates might level off if sensitive types didn't have to endure an extra month of retail holiday cheer. But since I don't make the rules, I'll lapse into offline mode and await the screams of little dears when they find their $2.50 Newton's Jewelry gift card buried beneath packing peanuts.

How about melding Thanksgiving and Christmas into one cheese ball? Jesus wasn't born on December 25th; Lord knows when Squanto shared his gourd with starving Europeans. Wal-Mart, always exploiting the true spirit of Christian capitalism, should buy both holidays and transform Pearl Harbor Day into the mother of all cross-marketing extravaganzas. Although it would take time for Target employees to feel festive about wishing customers Merry Wal-Mart, eventually they'd come to appreciate the brutal simplicity of squeezing Mary's miracle into a box of Pilgrim's Pride. And assuming that real American shoppers find the merger amenable, the bidding war for Easter might resurrect Lou Dobbs' cable television career. I'm rooting for Target. Jesus performing back-flips from his cave/tomb in flashy footwear is certainly more up tempo than anything the Bentonville mob could imagine. Having first-hand experience dealing with Sam's spawns (and the rectal scars to prove it), my educated guess is that roll back pricing would take on new meaning.

It's a given that the traditional nativity scene needs a make-over. Adding Pilgrims, Wampanoags, pumpkins, turkeys and woodchucks to usual manger fare is the equivalent of Emirile Lagasse's "Bam!". True, metal church congregates will complain that Captain John Smith standing next to Wise Man Number Two is a tad too Mormon for non-denominational taste. But this is easily assuaged by replacing both Pilgrims and Indians with Kenyon witch exorcists.

Of course, New Year's Eve is sacred and must be kept holy.


*****************************
Sarah Palin, the heart and soul of modern conservatism, has stitched another patch onto Bill Buckley, Jr.' s Cold War quilt. A veritable treasure trove of "Desperate Housewives" insight, the half-term governor's ghost-written pot boiler is selling well with patriots who usually limit their book buying to paperbacks featuring Fabio's shirt-less torso. Beating the Christmas shopping deadline didn't allow proof readers the luxury of thorough examination: Mistakes were made. But so what if a quote from John Wooden Legs was attributed to John Wooden. Who hasn't confused the left-leaning Native American activist with UCLA's legendary basketball coach?

Juan Don

waiting for the red phone to ring

Today’s the day Michele Bachmann marches tea baggers through the halls of Congress. In anticipation of this historic charade, Democratic Party representatives have agreed to stand before their desks naked from the waist down. Actually, only male representatives will be airing out their boys: tea bagging female traitors is physically impossible. An imaginative loon, perhaps Bachmann has developed a contingency plan so as to include the fairer socialist sex. Judging from the wild-eyed siren’s previous patriotic stunts, it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that girl Democrats could be assaulted with the red, white and blue Endocervical Specula ’O Liberty. We can only hope and pray that Barney Frank feels rough, populist tongue and cold stainless steel, preferably at the same time.
______________________

My pharmaceutically enhanced happiness took a hit yesterday after reading the Family Tamko has $250,000 to burn. It must be a burden to have so much money lying around. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to help. And so I offer this remedy:

Dear Humphreys,

After hearing of your cash infestation problem, I feel compelled to offer my assistance. Because Beloved made me shovel out the garage, there is approximately 200 square feet of unused floor space. Too small an area for the average libertarian to stretch his or her legs, it can easily accommodate a quarter million dollars. Assuming the money is packed in boxes, I’m guessing that the relatively clean area can handle five, maybe six million bucks. In fact, why not just back the Brinks truck up to the garage door, and I’ll take it from there.

A huge fan of asphalt,

Juan Don

spooky canine tooth

Here’s what I did last week while high on serious pain medication:

Devoted two days studying the Republican’s health-care plan

Phoned in a pizza delivery order to Freeman Urgent Care

Tried to make my wife a Halloween costume out of Shoe Goo and electrical tape

Set the sticky black wad on fire in a plastic trash can

Looked on helplessly while my wife galloped about trying to contain the toxic blaze

Invented a new chili recipe that doesn’t require beans, ground beef or conventional seasoning
_______________________________

Tomorrow’s election results should provide ample piles of blog material. Because I still have two serious pain pills left, I am going to clean out the vial. Dangerously close to glimpsing Limbaugh’s “American exceptionalism”, perhaps another 1000 milligrams will provide the final push.

Juan Don

without partial

Squealing about the price of Fruit Loops and moo juice, Dianne Slater is back again to say boo. The scary Chicago street thug is spending money like a California conservative. Waddle for your lives, the African Marxist wants to give her two hundred and fifty bucks! Hell’s bells, Miss D, that extra cash could keep you supplied in cereal for at least another month, maybe two if you stopped swallowing handfuls while watching Glenn Beck imitate Mr. Green Jeans going through angel dust withdrawal. Not to be picky, but how did George W. Bush pay for the invasion of Iraq? Maybe I missed the local Americans for Prosperity garage sale that raised…a trillion dollars.

Bitching about the First Couple enjoying an occasional date night, I assume Miss D is cool with GW Bush expending 857 days of his presidency on vacation. It’s amazing that he found the time to defeat Terror and preside over unparalleled economic growth. Small wonder the previous president is making over $3,000 a minute motivating the morally prone.
___________________________

Ollie North is advising Congressional Republicans on foreign policy. Rep. Mike Pence (R-Uranus) wanted Sarah Palin for the job, but she hasn’t had time to purchase bigger binoculars. Ollie’s expertise in selling weapons to America’s sworn enemies is beyond reproach. I suspect the Taliban would trade poppies for Stinger missiles. Ollie could then persuade his international drug connections to convert the further processed poppies into legal tender. All politicians like slush funds, especially the covert, untraceable variety.

I’m going to go out on a limb and predict Ollie believes President Obama should order more troops into Afghanistan before launching a preemptive strike against Iran, the UN and Chicago’s south side.
___________________________

House Republicans are pushing for a resolution to honor tea baggers. Hearing the news, Gunston “Gunny” Krumpler, founder of Not Those Kind of Hershey Kisses, is upset that his organization is getting the shaft.

Firing off an email from his French Lick, Indiana headquarters, Krumpler let Rep. John Boehner know his disappointment.

Mr. Minority Leader,

As a lifelong libertarian and practicing Objectivist, I must object to reports that tea baggers are being singled out for special commendation. Described by friends as ‘loose and goosey’, I’m cool with consenting adults doing whatever floats their boat. Although sipping testicles is not my cup of tea, the activity appears popular with overweight whites who share grammar issues.

To the point: What about throwing a bone to liberal-hating gun-lovers who find pleasure in kissing and tonguing butt? Had Dick Armey thought it through, he would have realized that there are more anti-Obama ass kissers than tea baggers. Instead of a measly 70,000 marching on Washington, my organization could have fielded an additional twenty or thirty from the northern Virginia /D.C. area alone. And not to toot my own horn, but I designed a killer logo that never fails to generate media controversy.

You could prove that the Republican Party is inclusive if including anally-fixated anti-government patriots.

PS: Please don’t confuse Not Those Kind of Hershey Kisses with the George Soros funded Rectal Rangers. I don’t believe an explanation is necessary,

Hi Ho,

Gunny Krumpler

An hour later Krumpler sent another email.

Dear Mr. Minority Leader,

Imagine my shock and embarrassment when discovering that the tea baggers in question…well, I hope one day you and I can share a good laugh.

If I may offer a small defense-as-question: Why do they call themselves tea baggers? As an educated man with 23 hours of community college under his belt, I don’t think I’m alone in thinking that there was a sexual component involved. But since there isn’t, I fully understand why you wouldn’t want to add my organization into the mix.

Although NTKOHK is perfectly legal with nothing whatsoever to hide, I would consider it a great favor if FBI personnel weren’t dispatched to my humble office. I’m going through a rather nasty custody battle with my ex-wife, and I know she’d use a federal investigation against me in court.

PS: I have an autographed photo of Speaker Gingrich.

Very Sincerely,

Gunny Krumpler

Juan Don

Pre-Op Ritual in E Minor

Senator David Vitter (R-LA) has been slow to question Tangipahoa Parish justice of the peace Keith Bardwell’s resolve not to marry mixed raced couples. Bardwell, known to sing Jubilation T. Cornpone after blushing brides officially become patrilocal property, doesn’t believe black-on-white breeding produces show quality pups. Bayou Bob Maggiteaux, Bardwell’s barber, is pretty sure Keith’s ugly encounter with his neighbor’s Dalmatian caused an aversion to spots.

“You’ll never see him wear polka dot shirts or enter a circle drive,” said Bayou Bob.

When asked if racism plays a role in the justice’s refusal to follow state law, Bayou Bob replied, “As far as I know he’s never been to the dog track.”
_________________________

I wrote Senator Claire McCaskill an e-mail asking her to please contact Anson Burlingame. I’m sure that his Red Team collection of north side Joplin conservatives could provide her with invaluable insight as to why they’re still sending Jim Talent money.

Preternaturally helpful, I’d like to offer Anson a few suggestions should he decide to re-name his blog. There’s nothing wrong with Shaker simplicity. But a splash of color is always refreshing. Approaching winter’s promise of monotone blues can always use a little orange peel to pucker the soul.

Please keep in mind that I’m on my second or third post-brunch Bloody Mary; Muse is still encased in wool toe socks. Up periscope:

Brace Yourself

Ding, Ding, Ding: Dive! Dive!

Okay! Okay! Sixty Percent

The Dromophobic Flaneur

I'm Not Paying for That (Not that I do Anyway)

Pruning the Nodical Hydrath

Country Club Cracknel

Damn this Thing!
__________________________

And now I must wash thoroughly before my two O’clock laparoscopic hepatic resection. The nurses become edgy if I wander into surgery in sweat pants and Bugle Boy pullover.

Juan Don

posey

Freedom

Does Terror wear yellow or red?
Perhaps a burnt umber?
The color of dead wedding guests
becoming one with
an uninvited drone’s
debris.

God
moves the joystick with deliberate
finger -- just a flick --
and His extension returns home in
time for dinner.
_______________________

Tea Bag

It could be Intelligent Design
or a game show koan
encased in sheets of plastic wrap;
wound too tight with piss and moan
like driving Sarah Palin home.

________________________



Of Rust: Ev Maddox

It struck me today,
while trying to explain to
a student how he should
go to hell, that all
my languages are rusty.

My French for graduates,
my old Latin minor, my
Berlitz German -- oh
my Esperanto’s hopeless.

All my Englishes, too,
Old, Middle, Modern,
Pidgin, Basic. In Paris
I asked for a room
dans douche. I can’t get

clichés straight: Does
water flow under the dam
or over the bridge?

How will I ever manage to ask you to come
back to me in a sentence with so many
to’s in it?

My fans must be confused
(me too) because “If gold rust,
what will iron do?” (Chaucer).

Somebody said the best
words, in any order,
were Alone in bed. E.g.
In bed alone. In alone
Bed. Bed alone. But
I think the best words
are In bed with you, and
the best order is
In you with bed. Rust

has its uses: They make
old beds out of it,
like ours you painted
white. I remember too
one winter dawn (this was
before we met), some
friends and I, loaded, drove
the wrong way up a hill

in the fog, and stopped
to hear a small mystery:
birds, creaking like hinges,
saying, it seemed to me,
just what they meant.

feathery spines

Scrolling through comments lurking beneath news that Liz Cheney will skip Rachael Maddow’s invitation for Sean Hannity’s tender offer, this barb caught my eye: "She's a dumber version of Tonya Harding."

Ouch. But there is a resemblance. Assuming that her latest elbow thrown into national discourse fails to bruise Obama’s ribs, there is potential for another heart-warming (or wrenching) reality show featuring the two blond bombers. Actually, elbow should be elbows, as she has joined talons with fellow Belt Way bird-brain Bill Kristol. Stapling together another tax-exempt Freedom Works, the beneficiaries of fortuitous birth are determined to defeat Terror and other insidious nouns. Calling their foray into further nepotistic teat suckling Keep America Safe, the calumnious couple obviously decided Keep My Daddy out of Jail a tad too aboveboard for neo-conservative taste. After daring media Marxists to prove her rants wrong, Maddow gamely retrieved Daughter of Dick’s gauntlet. Alas, Liz has opted to puss out. It’s only fitting and proper that she rattle her plastic saber with an equally insufferable patriot-cum-pussy. Juan is still eagerly awaiting Hannity’s promise to prove waterboarding isn’t really torture -- otherwise known as Hell freezing over.

Of course, Liz or Bill* will never rake their fear-mongering chicken emissions atop Rachael’s garden. Real Americans struggling to read Glenn Beck’s latest comic book are up to speed (or meth) on MSNBC’s chalky connection to The Blackboard Jungle Conspiracy. As chair bound commando Geoff Caldwell knows, the only cable infotainment outlet not haunted by Mao’s chubby ghost is found inside the Fox hole. Who knew the last bastion of pristine capitalism would be owned by an Aussie billionaire married to Wendi Deng? Mrs. Deng-Murdock must not be a communist or her name would have appeared on Beck’s ever-expanding hit list.

*Debra Burlingame is the third leg of the neo-con’s latest publicity stool. Although I have no reason to believe that Debra is related to Anson Burlingame (Joplin‘s favorite rhetorical question conservative), I can’t definitively dismiss any familial connection because there is no full-time research staff available to link curd to whey. That’s how Beck was able to establish President Obama is a direct descendent of Magog.


Juan Don

Voices

I prefer to think the vast majority of Joplin Globe op-ed participants are seventh graders struggling to complete a homework assignment. Because the paper’s online edition doesn’t provide photos or biographical background, it’s impossible to determine if they’re old enough to date. Not that age should be a determining requirement for submitting opinions. Carterville’s Wild Kyle Hole fathered twins before his twelfth birthday. His preteen peers -- saddled with lower levels of testosterone -- gaped in awe at Wild’s full beard; eyes were wide watching him shower after gym class. I’ll never forget the morning he jumped out of an opened third story window, nor can I erase Miss Drum’s reaction to such unexpected dare-deviltry. (Before she regained consciousness, Wild had scaled the slick bricks and was back in his seat enjoying Nurse Melvina’s frantic medieval resuscitation techniques).

Although it’s rare when twelve year olds are subpoenaed to testify in divorce court, at least three prepubescent Cartervillians were entangled in unsavory paternity suits; ten year old Bobby “Billy” Sackley was the target of late night pot shots fired by jealous truck drivers. There is strong evidence to suggest lead poisoning played a role. However, Kyle’s thick proliferation of pubic hair and freakishly abnormal sexual development can not be pinned entirely on severe plumbism: three generations of Holes all bore marked similarities to the mythical Yetti. Spending a disproportionate amount of their meager income on shaving cream and straight razors, natives gave the Hole family a wide berth when they rushed The Shamrock Café, tearing a new one in the popular Carp Tuesday buffet.

Colleen Hole, Wild’s youngest sister, could light matches off her chin stubble while being breast fed.
,
Unfamiliar with strip-mining’s toxic reach, perhaps a few lucky burgs were spared heavy metal contamination‘s dreadful assault on the orbital frontal cortex. Personal experience dictates that maternal relatives living on farms far removed from Carterville’s consumptive moonscape displayed greater facility with fireworks, as they never pointed Roman candles directly at family members or rolled M-80s beneath the picnic table where skittish great-aunts had gathered to escape Black Cat’s sulfuric machine gun pop. (I’m convinced that my youthful Independence Day indiscretions were never forgiven. While cousins received cash after completing rehab, I cornered the market on travel-sized Brut and military recruitment paraphernalia).

Once again, I’ve lost my train of thought.

Wait, something, something free-market…nope, it’s gone.

Juan Don

gawd's personal foul

Close but no cigar.

KSDK radio in St. Louis reported that Rush Limbaugh has been dropped by the bidding group negotiating to buy the Rams. “Dave Checketts said that while Limbaugh would have been only a limited partner with no role in the Rams’ operations, his involvement had been a distraction.”

I’d substitute distraction for disaster.

Tomorrow’s foray into broadcasting back country should be interesting. I’m confident his sheeple will call in offering conciliatory twangs and hooting outrage of gummy disgust. Reverse racial discrimination victims can share their horror stories of African Marxism, which, no doubt, has kept them from owning aluminum trailer skirting.

Feeling sprite, I might peek in on my Red State pards and see how Erick Erickson’s Trike Force is handling the news. So pissed off at Sen. Olympia Snowe’s traitorous behavior that they’re sending her…rock salt…in protest, who knows what bagged oddity awaits Commissioner Goodell: peat moss?

Juan Don

he doth protest too much

This musing is follow up to comments posted on The Erstwhile Conservative, Duane Graham’s ongoing contribution to Joplin area political dialogue.

Duane,

I’m curious as to whether or not Rush Limbaugh is serious when threatening to take legal action against those he feels have maliciously impugned his reputation. Limbaugh, who has made a fortune under the First Amendment’s wide protective net, is treading on thin ice when accusing critics of crossing the line.

The onus to prove criminal defamation is on the plaintiff. I find it hard to believe that after two decades of broadcasting racially insensitive remarks anyone would need to fabricate evidence of his congenital prejudice against minorities. Media Matters is just one website with myriad examples of the talk show host’s deleterious commentary.

Limbaugh’s defense when cornered on an especially intolerant remark is that he’s first and foremost a satirist. As an acknowledged expert in Limbaughnics, you know he has always played this card if caught exposing too much leg; it’s his perpetual enemies who don’t get the sophisticated drift because they’re blinded by liberal indoctrination. Of course, only like-minded conservatives have evolved beyond identity politics and are freed from bigotries divisive pull. He is merely using ‘humor’ to prove his point that it’s the Democrat Party that is obsessed with race. Why else would liberals bemoan such hilarity as “Barack the Magic Negro?”

Closer to the issue in question -- Limbaugh’s interest in buying a piece of the Rams -- was this ‘satirical' jibe he made in 2007: “The NFL all too often looks like a game between the Bloods and the Crips without any weapons.”

It’s strange that Al Michaels hasn’t stolen his brilliant quip. At least then Limbaugh could claim plagiarism.

Thinking about libel brought up memories of Oscar Wilde’s tragic case. Trevor Fisher's: Oscar and Bosie: A Fatal Passion is a fascinating read detailing the sad consequences when plaintiff becomes respondent. The upshot is that one should never sue when guilty of ‘slanderous’ accusations. Although Limbaugh’s behavior isn’t criminal (neither was Wilde’s: Victoria’s England shares striking similarities to Inhofe’s Oklahoma), losing in court wouldn’t be in the propagandist’s best interest -- how can one besmirch a reputation that doesn’t exist?

Juan Don

Tuesday's Weld

Needling online comments stacked beneath Allen Shirley’s doggerel suggest the serial bore fails to impress locals with internet access. You’d think the paper could find a fresher mule* to haul stale trumpery. Slater’s god only knows what water hazard Shirley laps from before scrawling thick pencil marks upon Big Chief’s pre-lined tablet.

Oh well. Perhaps a bidding war between The Globe and The Big Nickel will entice Shirley to replace his divots inside another publication. Should The Big Nickel win (and why not?), savvy used car shoppers could amuse themselves with Short Bus Soliloquies before getting down to more serious business.

*Please note that just one lame drug dealing inference was exploited by the soiled sweats wearing eccentric.** There is no reason to assume that a professional pill peddler would break the pusher’s cardinal rule: Never get high on your own supply.
_______________________

Extending the ’getting high on your own supply’ tangent for a moment, I’m listening to El Rushbo explain why his storied career in race-baiting should not be misconstrued as blatant bigotry. Because the shrinking gasbag never, ever talks about himself, media attention has focused on his interest in purchasing a piece of the St. Louis Rams. His connection to the bidding syndicate in question would have come out sooner or later, but it was Fuzzball who first broke the story -- the kook can’t control his impulse to remind sheeple how much money he’s parked offshore.

(Without besmirching Graceland’s holy allure, I’d wager 13 pesos that dittoheads will one day stand in line to visit Limbaugh’s lush Palm Beach compound. Dumbfounded pilgrims gazing in opened mouthed amazement are a fitting tribute to dope-induced American exceptionalism).
_________________________

I wonder if Fox News will point their impartial horse whip in Gov. Rick Perry’s general direction. A sordid drama involving arson, capital punishment and dead children should be right up Glenn Beck’s alley. If you can’t huff Vaporub and cry over burnt babies, what can a patriot pretend to bawl about? Let’s take a moment and review the list of conservative Republican politicians the cable channel has skewered over the years.

……………………………..................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

All apologies if I left some out.

**Normally, eccentric is preceded by reckless -- as in ‘the reckless eccentric fucked up another riding mower’.

Juan Don

The Naked and the Wet

Be still my beating heart. Various sources are saying that Levi Johnston will pose nude for Playgirl magazine. Good for Levi. He might as well join his estranged almost in-laws and cash in the time sensitive Wal-Mart gift card. A glossy spread featuring Levi’s johnson is sure to warm the bristly cockles of Andrew Sullivan’s gay Tory beard.

I’ll treasure the pin up. There is a marred ocher space awaiting the photo in the hovel’s small trophy room, where other Scotch-taped mementos silently absorb the Peterson’s blended emissions.

…after an appropriate pregnant pause…

Double dog drat. Levi is not going to air out the todger. A semi-modest stud, he’ll limit public nudity to bare butt cheeks. This is a major disappointment. Although I’m reasonably sure Levi is blessed with hard marbled ass, thanks to ice hockey’s strenuous physical demands, D list celebrities dropping ‘trou’ is common fare. I believe Andy Dick’s website is nothing but digital pics of late-night moon shots.

Should Sarah Palin and Michele Bachmann agree to reprise classic black bra and panties catfight for free-market wampum, I’ll tape their titillating shoot next to Betty Page‘s hallowed shrine. Human Events could use the ensuing buzz to broaden the rag’s appeal.
______________________

The mad howling you hear is Fox News’ reaction to President Obama winning the Nobel Peace Prize. I wonder how Dianne Slater will celebrate our Kenyan-in-chief’s unexpected honor. I gather from her recent published acid reflux she won’t be joining Democrat/Nazi party members goose-stepping about in flaming torchlight salute, draining steins while unedited Bibles smolder atop other leather bound bonfire fodder. I’m guessing Ms. Slater’s plans are more subdued: attacking bacon/cheese ball with mephitic gusto.
_______________________

Because of an unexpected splash of splendid weather, Adler suggested we accompany our canoes down to Dino’s this afternoon. He’s certain that no federal funding was allocated to ensnare tipsy water rats. Always erring on the side of paranoia, I’ll bribe Hippy Jim with appropriate contraband to be my designated paddle. This way I can fully appreciate the ride without worrying if sneaky creek cops are lurking behind impromptu tree dams. Securely strapped to the sturdy Coleman cooler, I know Adler will waste no time coming to the rescue if Coleman is swept into the surging brown current. He is nothing if not level headed.

Juan Don

probably not taught at OCC

I see where embryonic eyes have discovered that the blog has a convenient e-mail attachment. This design flaw is unfortunate. However, I have very recently discovered that I can preemptively delete incoming stink bombs. If only the litter box was as sophisticated as Google software.

Because I have nothing better to do, I’ll respond to one critic who obviously shares my unhealthy fascination with unfocused malaise.

Yes, I know Paul was not an original disciple: He arrived after the Summer of Love was corrupted by crass commercial exploitation. Casting away his old square self after a particularly powerful trip, Paul made up for lost time by collaborating with Peter and Mary. (Did you know that Peter, Paul and Mary released an album with Andrew? The succinctly entitled PPM &A produced one top ten hit, “Leaving on a Fast Ass”). Alas, Paul’s misogynistic behavior became too much for Mary. During a tense pre-gig sound check Mary finally confronted Paul over what she suspected was his repressed homosexuality. Paul erupted and grabbed Mary, inadvertently yanking off her long hair extension. Shocked and embarrassed, Mary fled the stage in tears. Peter, looking for an opportunity to ditch the volatile Paul and reform the group as a duo, took swift action. Although Peter vehemently denied using Paul’s suspected sexual orientation against his band mate, Pharisee Records founder Mannie Goldberg’s homophobia was well known among the Judea folk/rock community. Citing creative differences as the impetus for Paul’s sudden exodus, the March III A.D. issue of Rolling Boulder magazine published their label’s brief press release:
____________________________________________________________________________________

• Pharisee Records spokesman Abe MacAbee confirmed reports that Peter, Paul and Mary have cancelled their “Too Much of Nothing” tour.

“There is no truth to rumors that internal dissension played a role in the breakup. The decision to disband was amicable and the result of much soul searching. Sadly, situations beyond their control have made concluding the tour impossible.

Paul Tarsus has long expressed a desire to pursue solo projects. Peter and Mary wish him well on his next artistic adventure, and offer their full support.

Peter and Mary will perform under a new name, Zager and Evans".
_____________________________________________________________________________________

The rest is history. Paul moved to Corinth and discovered a knack for writing fiction. Known today as the Jewish Proust, his work is widely regarded as the model for late 20th century situational comedy.

Juan Don

The Better Jesus

This is interesting. A group called The Conservative Bible Project has decided that the word of God is too liberal and in need of cutting edge societal evolution. Because there is no severe weather alert, the devil’s workshop is open for business.

****The new and improved conservative Jesus****
_________________________________
And The Lord spoke at great length on the evils of progressive taxation. When He finished, Thomas raised his hand. “But Master, didn’t you say render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s?”

“Thomas, Thomas, Thomas”, said Jesus. “Would you be party to liberal media lies? You know how the Jerusalem Times likes to reprint my parables word for word, and then accuse me of hypocrisy and falsehoods. Haven’t I told you, each of you, about how ideologically pure propaganda works?”

The Lord pointed toward Luke. “What’s my current accuracy rating?”

“Ninety eight point seven percent“, said Luke.

The Lord smiled and lighted a nice cigar. “Okay, who’s up for a quick round of golf before supper?”
_________________________________

And The Lord was on a roll. After teasing Paul for wearing girly sandals, He gathered his disciples about him.

“Look, you all know how I feel about queers. There’s no greater abomination than man lying with man. It’s no different than lying with dog, sheep or ass. Why is Paul laughing? Come on, I’m trying to be serious. It’s just creepy. What? Speak up, James. How do I feel about woman lying with woman? You know, for some reason that doesn’t bother me.”
__________________________________

Jesus led myrrh baggers into the olive grove and blessed their signs. Many brandished spears and this pleased The Lord. He told the myrrh baggers that illegal aliens could not enter the Kingdom of Heaven and warned of socialized medicine defiling sacred capitalism. To strike home His point, The Lord only healed those able to pay in cash.
___________________________________

John informed Jesus that Lazarus had died again (he was accident prone) and said the family was anxious for Him to repeat another miracle. The Lord listened quietly. While turning water into an excellent chardonnay, pausing occasionally to swirl the fruity wine, He replied, “Do I look like a co-dependent?”

Juan Don

in with the new

Don Imus has been disinterred and placed inside another cable television studio. Relocating the corpse makes sense for Murdock’s infotainment empire: Display faux cowboy as waxy prop atop faux business channel.
___________________________________________
Ray Downen would prefer “different” faculty members replace current MSSU employees. Assuming that Ray is part of the re-hiring process, I trust he finds my unique credentials an improvement over prevalent liberal infestation.
**********
Last week I went to the library, hung around the basement for awhile, and eventually limped over to the coffee shop/lounge. Wearing my gray herringbone sport coat, I made my best effort to appear professorial. Although pipe smoking is forbidden, I sucked on my unlit Peterson anyway, hoping the herringbone and Irish briar combination might entice a lovely lass to think I was the newest English Department rake. (Had I planned the excursion with greater care, I’d have tucked my fake beard into the cracked leather satchel. An exact replica of George Bernard Shaw’s, the flowing gray whiskers strike the perfect balance between artistic asceticism and cocky nonconformity. Through trial and error, I’ve learned not to combine turban with fake beard. This particular affectation does not bode well if swerving upon a late-night sobriety checkpoint. But that is a different story*).

I did have my vintage English tortoise shell glasses. Pretending to read “The Old Devils”, pausing every now and then to gaze about in absent-minded bemusement, I hoped to attract the attention of a literature junkie with unresolved daddy issues. Whether it was the florescent lighting playing hell with my failing eyesight or the link that I had muffed an hour earlier finally gaining on breakfast gin, I thought several young ladies were sneaking peeks in my direction. Because I needed another latte refill -- and my wounded right patella cannot withstand prolonged right angle immobility -- I hobbled away from the table and toward one of the young ladies in question.

“Ah, excuse me,” I said in my best Monty Python accent, “would there be a tavern within close proximity to campus?”

The comely raven-haired co-ed replied, “No”.

“I see. Let me rephrase the question. By close proximity…”

“Look, I’m busy”.

“Sorry to bother you. I’m unfamiliar with the area and…”

“I don‘t know your name but I have seen you in the Blackthorn."**

Her icy stare (eerily similar to the one perfected by my mother-in-law) immediately doused the charade in bracing water, leaving me no recourse but to beat a lurching retreat.
Stuffing Kingsley Amis back into the cracked leather satchel, I fled the coffee shop/lounge -- assuming that cripples can adequately approximate the act of fleeing.
**********

*The short story can be found in “This Isn’t Good: Gruesome Tales of Motoring Mishaps and Bail Bond Miscues”.

**Evidently, I’ve been in the Blackthorn on more than one occasion.

Juan Don

with a whimper

I turned 52 Saturday. Growing older is the easiest thing I’ve ever done -- all you have to do is not die.

Fifty was traumatic. Because Hallmark needs to keep baby in shoes, the Big 5-O provides make believe social drinkers with an array of overpriced party favors. There was more than a tinge of disappointment when Preparation H was missing from other loosely sacked crap. I thought butt itch pellets were required protocol. Instead of letting this faux pas pass go unnoticed, I made a big deal about not getting suppositories. Quietly, Beloved snuck away, drove to May’s City and upon her return flung the yellow box at me, delighting the blotto social drinkers and adding a touch of short-lived reality to the pirate-themed affair.

Even I can’t imagine how sordid a Big 6-0 gathering of reprobates must be. Instead of brand name analgesics, does the lucky stiff get a used colostomy bag?

However, there’s nothing wrong with slowing down. In fact, I’m beginning to grow fond of short-term memory loss. Hopefully before long I won’t be able to remember names. Everyone will be Buddy or Sissy. Beloved will think long and hard about sending me off to Wal-Mart; (In my prime I was often disorientated when it came to purchasing the correct feminine hygiene product). Eventually the State will determine that my driving skills have deteriorated beyond all hope. Saddling unfortunate family and friends with the onus of ferrying me to Happy Hour, Mr. Hootie Coot will no longer be bound by the social contract. Keeping Buddy or Sissy busy at the blender, deaf to pleas that I please stop drinking, Karaoke lovers can expect to endure a very choppy rendition of “The Ballad of the Green Berets” or an equally haunting “D-I-V-O-R-C-E”.

Of course, it’s fuzzy house shoes and soiled sweats from now on. I’ll become a limping Philip Larkin poem and finally fulfill a particular high school guidance counselor’s prescient glimpse into my future.

Juan Don

casting the first stone

Gadhafi and almost full term governor Sarah Palin should go on tour.

Earlier today I threw chat at the dime store diva but, once again, R. Duane Graham beat me to Snow Ball. That’s what I get for not web surfing before committing another keyboard atrocity. And I had this tangent going where Palin prepped for her first paid overseas publicity stunt by watching “Mulan”. Just as well. The flautist enhancing her foreign policy credentials through Disney animation had a Tim Burton feel to it. A Guy Davis man myself, Burton is a sophisticated reach for someone who just yesterday figured out LOL doesn’t mean…well, an abomination. Now I know why I had trouble keeping an online spades partner -- that and going nil while holding the ace.

It remains a mystery to me why conservative Christians find Palin appealing. I have no choice but to believe that they’re fine with pathological liars. Sarah Palin lies, and she lies a lot. What kind of value system ignores blatant disregard for truth? In a profession known for playing fast and loose with veracity, Palin’s consistent falsehoods are serial and glaring.

Political ideology aside, what Christian attributes does Palin possess that Barack Obama does not? Have right-wing evangelicals become so obsessed with abortion that they automatically exonerate politicians from further moral scrutiny just because they adopt a pro-life stance? The list of “family values” conservatives caught in all manner of tawdry vice is lengthy. Tom Delay has compared himself to Jesus Christ on at least three occasions. I’ll freely admit that I spent my youth fighting to stay awake during the Epistle lesson. Yet while perfecting inattentive eye contact, I remained cognizant enough to know that Armageddon will be a spectacular clusterfuck if Delay and Jesus are sharing the same white stallion.

Let us pray that Delay’s dirty dancing doth honor the Lord. Let us further beseech The Almighty that Sister Sarah rakes in more Neiman Marcus sheaves, Brother Newt does not hog the confessional booth and Deacon Sanford finds the strength to keep his Argentine whore away from his wife’s upcoming inspirational book tour.

Play ball.

Juan Don

nearly caught in the act

Oops. The rush by Congressional Republicans to punish ACORN resulted in weaving a wide legislative net. Check out http://www.contractormisconduct.org. I guess pimp and ’ho undercover journalism has lost its edge since Starsky & Hutch were forced into early retirement. Andrew Breitbart should have trusted his gut instinct and sent two assholes wearing gorilla suits into ACORN’s heart of darkness. Everybody knows the typical black commie is a sucker for the old “hey, how can a couple of apes illegally house underage Honduran prostitutes and steal Maurice Filson’s money, all at the same time?”

Gads! Beloved’s import careened into view. I’d better grab a snow shovel and look busy.

Juan Don

this drought will never end

The slab is quiet. Radio ranting has been replaced by birdsong and the occasional plea from Beloved to make galley floor cat-sick go bye-bye. Nothing if not facile, I’ve learned to remove greenish Fancy Feast vomit with nursing home efficiency. Roi’s frequent in-hovel shat requires more attention to detail: he is French and can’t help himself from nibbling on Miss Puss’ moist meal. Choice of cleaning equipment is dependent on where Roi has decided to squirt organic Van Dyke brown. When he dribbles on the bed, disposable wipes are rendered obsolete. Contrary to pernicious gossip, I have not yet reached the point where lying upon Roi’s primitive olfactory art is an acceptable option. No, when this occurs I drag the sheet outside and wait for rain.

Random thoughts post-talk radio:

If I owned a pharmacy, I’d call it Gateway Drugs and pay myself to play air guitar. Jamming away sans instrument is smart advertising, especially if targeting motorists who prefer Demerol refills over coffee.

Congressman Roy Blunt distinguished himself at the Values Voter Summit. Inserting the always funny monkey joke as comedic segue into Village Idiot pander, Roy’s stand up prompted an amused snake handler to drop Eve’s deceiver atop Michele Bachmann’s expansive hair helmet. Nonplussed by the slithering serpent, Michele calmly freed it from Aqua-net's gooey grasp and offered table mates an impromptu opportunity to test their faith. Surprisingly, the five wide-eyed Nazarenes declined her generous offer. Sensing that video cameras were rolling, Michele began babbling in tongues and flinging the dizzy copperhead about like a scaly boa. Rexella Van Impe tried to cut in but was ignored by the twirling public servant. After she collapsed in spent spiritual climax, Blunt thanked the Congresswoman for leading the charge against Hoot-Smalley.


Noticeably absent from the VVS’ staple of Rapture-inspired doomsday mysteries was Sen. Larry Craig’s “Peter Platter” series. A non-discerning reader, I’ve found lumping hard-boiled pulp fiction in with repressed homosexuality a refreshing alternative to James Patterson’s formulaic pap. Every chapter has Platter (Larry’s effeminate private dick) sniffing around for clues in public toilets. Although the sleuth’s unorthodox method of gathering information strays from the genre’s usual terrain, replacing dimensionless broad-in-sack with anonymous men-in-stall gives the “Peter Platter” mysteries greater latitude for developing the darker side of closeted fast food managers -- a tangent never fully explored by Raymond Chandler.

Juan Don

a certain song from "South Pacific"

Out of habit, I began pecking yet another jab at Rush Limbaugh. For twenty years I’ve lampooned the slimy prick. But no more: Fuck him. Whether it was full blown epiphany or clogged artery inexplicably expanding, I don’t know. Regardless, the urge to do meaningless battle with the toxic fraud just wasn’t there.

Maybe I’ve reached the tipping point. Wasting effort rehashing tripe is not a productive way to spend one’s leisure time. If Obama haters decide to grow up and engage in constructive dialogue on how best to keep the American experiment from imploding into nihilistic farce, I might rejoin the fray. Your basic liberal, I’m not clever enough to know when Nazi means Nazi and when it means nigger. It is asking a lot to think that someone who can’t spell diaper has mastered the subtle similarities shared between Chicago community organizer and German Gauleiter.

I’m going to take a long, hot shower.

PS: I forgot Glenn Beck: Fuck him, too.

Juan Don

quill, candle, wax and seal

RDG,

“Darwin’s Wasp” is an exceptionally good post. It’s fitting and proper that the new movie about Darwin cannot find a US distributor. We are, after all, God’s chosen people. If forced to choose, I wonder who the Almighty would pick as his BFF: the USA or Israel. Who knows why the God of Moses was more actively involved in day-to-day affairs? I’d take Glenn Beck seriously if he parted the Great Salt Lake with a tear-stained hankie. Perhaps God has found another planet to awe, leaving the decedents of Adam to Brother Huckabee. Because I’m an atheist, conservatives’ hog-tying religion to secular politics has always chafed my inner thighs. I’m certain that George Washington would strip James Dobson down to the waist and whip his back with hard leather for even suggesting that the original rebels were theocrats at heart. Dobson would dig the attention, each lash reminding him of mommy’s girdle, the metal straps biting into his skin with a deliciously kinky kind of love. The freak probably writes his sadomasochistic “child psychology” encased in latex…with a well-watered gourd crammed up his poop chute. Then again, I might have Dobson confused with Randall Terry.

Not surprised that Geoff Caldwell thinks Jimmy Carter is a racist. At least he didn’t rip off Limbaugh and call the former president a “hemorrhoid”. I hope he’s saving “Herr Hemorrhoid” for President Obama’s next dark homage to National Socialism. Geoff is “semi-liberal”, after all. Comparing Carter to Norma Desmond was certainly a novel twist. Look for Anson Burlingame to applaud the Olsen to his Johnson.
_____________________________________
Geoff,

Great use of Gloria Swanson. Check out my blog where I compare Carter to that actress who boiled the little girl’s rabbit.
_____________________________________

Ah, it appears Beck’s coup against ACORN has taken yet another turn. To liberally paraphrase AC/DC, “Who Punked Who?”

Enjoy the Arizona sunshine. Joplin has morphed into Seattle -- sans fresh seafood.

Juan Don

catching up

Dearest Marta Hari,

Receiving your e-mail turned another dreary day into late June. What has it been, twenty five, thirty years? Good lord. No longer the lanky buck that haunted The Jounce and Cheek with starry-eyed ebullience, time and poor choices have done their low work. I use a scooter to grocery shop. It’s unbearable. Last week I nearly came to blows with a fat woman over Wal-Mart’s last electric ride. Fortunately, another fat woman defied gravity and relinquished her scooter before the pitiful scene could bloom into physical folly. I’m positive that punching an obese diabetic goes against all things Zen, and guarantees my next incarnation will be spent dodging fly swatters.

You can’t imagine how thrilled I was when Timothy Beep mentioned your agoraphobia had abated. The last I heard you were raising chinchillas in Gotebo. At first I assumed chinchilla was code for pot, but later learned that you were actually in the fur trade. (Come to think of it, I don’t remember pot ever being called chinchilla. Maybe I was reading too much Harold Pinter at the time). It’s a good thing you have an unlisted number. A late night phone call inquiring about the price of chinchilla would have sparked an awkward exchange if quarter ounce was mentioned.

There has been a lot of water under the bridge since I last stuffed bills down your G-string. Sadly, my small fortunate is gone. Although I haven’t graced a gentleman’s club in many years, I don’t believe the dancers would appreciate an old cripple trying to insert loose change. Bar conversation now revolves around so-and-so’s latest medical misadventure. I counted four canes and two portable oxygen tanks at the last Table of Failure confab. Suffice it to say, exotic artists at The Stoned Crow would have to carry a defibrillator; Clorox would come in handy for the less bathed regulars.

I look forward to seeing you at Mr. Yellowman’s retirement bash. If you’re unable to recognize me, I’ll be the very slow moving Jay Silverheels with bad haircut and botched plastic surgery.

As always, peace, love and Bobby Sherman,\

Juan Don

The Golden Pole

Mr. Yellowman is retiring. He’s throwing off the yoke for well deserved respite. He’ll soon be free to pursue his passion for photography with unrestrained abandon. Known as the barnyard Mapplethorpe, his black and white prints featuring sultry fowl have replaced the painted handsaw as cutting-edge country kitchen art. Exhausting the common goose’s sensual potential in “Coquettish Quack”, Mr. Yellowman’s contribution to pestiferous coffee table clutter is one of Lawrence County’s better kept secrets. No longer chained to time’s ponderous anchor, the gifted shutterbug can now complete what many believe will be his crowning achievement. Without giving too much away, let’s just say that when finished the chicken’s underappreciated sexuality will finally receive its due.

This momentous event cannot go uncelebrated. The True Realizations’ indoor gardening committee is planning a blowout worthy of the occasion. Providing the perfect soundtrack for disorganized line dancing, The Brush Hog Five or Six will set up shop in the ancestral cow barn; for those who prefer to trip the light fantastic with less hay, Patty Liner’s digeridoo tribute to Buffy Saint Marie is sure to raise neck hairs, and allow those with orthopedic issues an opportunity to bunny hug without bending their knees. Ask to read from “Disremembered”, a collection of prescription strength cough syrup-induced clerihews, I’m still in negotiation with party organizers. Convinced my clerihews pack more poetic punch sans partial, the organizers do not share this sentiment. Hopefully, the impasse will be resolved without one of my artiste fits. But I wouldn’t bet on it.

There’s a rumor that Marta Hari’s agoraphobia is in remission. If true, the legendary bon viand’s presence would be icing on Mr. Yellowman’s retirement cake. The Madame Curie of the modern lap dance, her prowess with flaming pasties is still regarded as the cusp of pre-Reagan era titty bar entertainment. She is a goddess. I plan to plant my lawn chair firmly in the path of her precious talent.

Juan Don

don't drink the yellow tea

I’ve retired ‘tea baggers’ for ‘tea tards’. It is unfair to lump the genteel art of testicle sipping in with Beck’s rancid brew. Tempted to adopt ‘tea turds’ as the new moniker for vapid white trash backlash, I recalled that turd was already taken. Some years ago I rechristened Kurds into Turds, as I enjoyed telling dinner guests that Beloved had prepared a delightful Turdish dish. Besides, it would make no sense for millions* of ‘tea turds’ to protest Affirmative Action’s highest achiever.

I’ll admit that I haven’t read Beck’s fiction. Although it is biased of me to assume that he shares Newt Gingrich’s larval creative writing style, I believe there is a Constitutional amendment guaranteeing my right to literally piss on stuff just because I can. Of course, I have to exercise this God-given autocracy standing up. To do so in a squatting position would mock Old Testament patriotism and belittle rigged-market capitalism. This may be the reason why our Founding Fathers believed that only humans born with a penis had the unalienable right to vote. An enlightened lot, they made no distinction as to size, which probably explains why each state has two senators. Alas, the human-as-chattel penis was black balled and denied the various “pursuit of happiness” activities that European Homo sapiens assumed were intrinsic privileges. Due to an overemphasis on Colossians 4:1, African slaves weren’t considered “we the people” when Tom Jefferson was mounting young Sally Hemmings. While it’s tempting to fantasize about owning slaves saddled with the onus of maintaining Chow Acre‘s Gothic ambience, I fear their daily productivity would cause Beloved to question the necessity of maintaining an in-hovel poet.

Had the original Sons of Liberty broke open chests of East India tea and soaked the leaves with freedom’s golden flow, today’s Million ’Moran’ March* would be a pungent affair, indeed. The appropriately named Dick Armey firing off the inaugural yellow salvo against white oppression is an inspirational image. Always the savvy merchandiser, I’m sure Beck would offer female bigots affordable “9-12” strap on bottles to squeeze at the next town hall putsch. It goes without saying that women peeing ala roadside ditch mode does not create visually charming propaganda. Perhaps Sarah Palin can take time away from writing “Pageant Walking with Flute” to practice upright pissing. Well known for her athleticism, the almost full term governor might be able to approximate the average Bubba’s streaming arc, further endearing herself to shirtless dip shits and the gals who love ’em.

*Dick’s army fell about 960,000 illiterates short of reaching one million. Better luck next apocalypse.

Juan Don

stupid is as stupid blogs

I grabbed my long handled flashlight and ducked into Caldwell’s Crawlspace. As expected, his homage to Paleolithic cave paintings was just another caterwaul down Sore Loser Lane: Self reflection is not his forte. Because I have better things to do than teach a stone to speak, I won’t squander my pre-Alzheimer cocktail time engaged in fruitless debate with someone who displays the symptoms of severe Attention Deficit Disorder. A cruel bastard, I do have droplets of common decency left over from my brief stint in the Peace Corps, so I won’t mention Hollerin’ Joe Wilson‘s association with the Sons of Confederate Veterans. (Even though the villagers never experienced the thrill of flush toilets, I left the Kangamora Tribe feeling better about themselves, secure in the knowledge that some white men can’t find their ass with both hands or keep their pants dry after a surprise machete hazing. I’ll always remember how their laughter mingled with my screams after yet another language miscue found me volunteering to separate mating baboons).

I guess a black Marxist, Communist, fascist, Kenyan/Indonesian community organizing Messiah scares the holy shit out of Caldwell and his tea bagging confederates. Good thing Glenn Beck is on the ball.

By the way, Joe Wilson has taxpayer funded health-care, courtesy of Uncle Sam. I feel warm all over knowing that I’m helping provide the prick with weekly prostate exams.

Juan Don

Pop Quiz

1. The complete collapse of late 20th century conservatism is due to:

A: Ergot poisoning
B: An Australian billionaire
C: Home schooling
D: Internet-accessible gay porn
E: Retired postal workers

2. President Barack Obama’s political ideology is best described as:

A: Black Panther Marxism
B: Black Post-Colonial African Marxism
C: Full Monty Communism
D: Ivy League careerism
E: Something so horrific Mark Levine is reduced to squealing in Porpoise

3. Conservatives believe socialized medicine will:

A: Kill Momo & Popo
B: Arouse God’s Old Testament wrath
C: Unleash an army of zombie whores
D: Make abortions wildly popular
E: Besmirch the breast implant industry

4. The difference between Mormonism and Scientology is:

A: Mormons own a Mountain West Conference football team
B: Will Smith can become a Scientologist
C: Joseph Smith never owned a yacht
D: Mormons frown on women marrying brother-husbands
E: Roughly 100 billion dollars in off-shore accounts

5. The United States Census is:

A: Diabolical
B: Insidious
C: A form
D: Che Guevara’s dissertation
E: Practical joke played on young libertarians by ACORN-funded welfare queens

6. If Glenn Beck’s rectum had the power of speech it would:

A: Yodel
B: Become Candies’ spokes-rectum for abstinence only sex education
C: Travel the world with Sarah Palin as her Ed McMahon, shouting “Hey Oh!”
D: Recite apocalyptic free-verse beat poetry while Glenn provides weepy bongo drum accompaniment
E: Sell gold







7. Conservatives believe torture is:

A: Sacred Cheney family tradition
B: Stevie Nicks singing “O Holy Night”
C: Daytona 500 rain delays
D: Filling out the dreaded census
E: Great sex

Bonus: What is the name of former South Carolina Board of Education member Kristin Maguire’s most recent online pornographic short story?

Hint: Think “The Colonel and Mavis” share a hot tub with Roger Stone


Juan Don

in the eyes of the beholder

Anson Burlingame’s use of Justice Scalia to finger paint ethical and legal ambiguities regarding what defines torture is a major league cop out. Scalia has often referenced fictional television character Jack Bauer when pressed to provide cover for the Bush-Cheney Administration’s lawless disregard for long standing protocol concerning the treatment of incarcerated individuals, whether detained by domestic law enforcement personnel or captured on the battlefield. Pretending there are no guidelines that clearly define what is and what is not torture plops into the bezonian horse shit corral. If Scalia cited Dr House’s addiction to pain killers as the casus belli for insisting that all sarcastic physicians undergo mandatory drug testing before treating patients, I assume Anson would find the Justice’s unnerving disconnect applicable when opining about his jarring experience with a caustic urologist. Personally, I’m fond of appropriating the ‘Jethro Bodine’ scenario, especially if engaged in serious conversation about the security threats inherent when cross-dressing hillbillies are allowed to impersonate Army officers and/or drive tanks down public streets.

It’s not like there are no precedents that clearly spell out codes of conduct:

United States Bill of Rights (1789) Article Eight
Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948) Article Five
Geneva Conventions (1949) Article 99. Third Convention
American Convention on Human Rights (1969)
UN Minimum Standards for the Treatment of Prisoners (1957) Rule 31
UN Declaration on the Protection of All Persons from Torture and other Cruel,
Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment (1975)*
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*”No state may permit or tolerate torture…Exceptional circumstances such as a state of war…
Or any other public emergency may not be invoked as a justification of torture or other cruel inhumane or degrading treatment or punishment”.
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Going after the grunts who followed orders and tortured captured “enemy non-combatants” has all the elements of a show trial: God forbid the suits that created the insidious framework should be held accountable. How could Chris Wallace do his job as a journalist if Dick Cheney wasn’t around to remind all the Little Bo Peeps that committing war crimes kept their sheep safe? Of course, there is no proof that torture and murder deterred another 9-11 from occurring -- not that it matters to rock-ribbed conservatives.

I guess some think its okay to torture… just to be on the safe side. And it’s not like we torture native Christians who murder abortion doctors in cold blood. That would be wrong.

Juan Don

Rainbows are for socialists

Duane Graham’s quicker reflexes beat me to the punch line. I’m left wondering who Congresswoman Lynn Jenkins thinks has the palest stones to enter the ring. Because I’ve been drinking, distracting yet another hangover, Chuck Norris is my choice to KO the reigning champ. Putting the sexy back into dyed facial hair, Walker’s the karate-chopping orangutan to Joe the Plumber’s shaved marmoset. What frumpy patriot lugging grammatically-challenged cardboard can resist Chuck’s orange chest hair? An effulgent forest of Day-Glo Liberty Trees, his pelt can spark spontaneous “Remember the Alamo!” squeals and sporadic bursts of gunfire. I’ve always thought psychedelic orange a patriotic color. Alas, freakishly bright orange pants on Caucasian men of prostate trouble age rarely grace the average tea bagging scene. Too bad men in Wal-Mart cargo shorts aren’t blessed with John Putnam’s acute fashion sense. (If I’m not mistaken, he’s fond of the bold bare ankle look during warmer weather, switching to sensible knee-high waders after the first hard freeze. To give credit where credit is due, I tell prospective employers that wearing plastic thongs with tube socks is my small attempt to show support for Putnam’s crusade against environmentally unsound lap dances. I find this testimonial breaks the ice before inquiring about drug testing policies).

One thing is certain: Michael Steele and the preternaturally tanned John Boehner would need expensive dermatological treatment to qualify as “great white hopes”. My guess is that Lynn’s McDreamy is cooling his heels in Idaho.

Juan Don

full of mist and vapor

Anson Burlingame cracks me up. By design or personal initiative, he has become the Globe’s online multifaceted sprinkler system. His fertile spray reaches every corner of the cyber-garden. No opinion is denied a squirt from his omnipotent nozzle. Should the paper decide to include a blog about dog grooming, Anson’s hose will eventually douse Shear Tails with insightful droplets, moisturizing canine nail trimming tips with comments about his harrowing misadventure with Joker, the left-leaning Filipino chiropodist.

I’m just kidding; if Anson wants to reprise the role of Falstaff, so be it. But when he takes issue with opinions that favor the public option playing a role in health-care, I have a bone to pick with the right-leaning ex-submariner.

First of all, Anson’s income and health-care is taxpayer subsidized. Unless his political aversion to socialism has caused him to renounce inflation-adjusted US Treasury checks and free medical care, echoing Republican talking points demonizing “Big Government” is pure hypocrisy. Of course, Anson would cry foul when labeling his perks as socialism-in-action. He has earned his retirement benefits, via military service; placing his iron rice bowl in with the thirty percent of Americans already receiving government provided health-care is an apples and oranges scenario: A few, like Anson, deserve their subsidized ride, while the rest fall into the ‘un-American’ welfare queen category.

Let’s assume that instead of working on a submarine Anson worked for the Submarine Sandwich Company. After twenty-odd years of faithful service, he becomes the victim of corporate downsizing. To make the scenario dicier, let’s say that his 401-K investment lost fifty percent of its value in the past year. To really rub salt in the wound, Anson’s wife is suffering from a chronic illness that requires expensive medication. Because losing your job means losing employer provided health-care, the $500 dollar per month pharmacy bill is now an out-of-pocket expense. Anson, fifty-something and unemployed, is hard-pressed to find a job in the Joplin area that comes close to matching his previous salary. He takes the tax hit and cashes out what’s left of his 401-K. Putting pencil to paper, he figures that he has maybe two years to pay his monthly bills, plus the $700 dollars for COBRA, before facing a very uncertain future. Luckily for retired naval officer Anson, he’ll avoid this all too common quandary thanks to that terrible monstrosity known as the federal government.
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Yep, it must be fun to champion the righteousness of free market capitalism when sucking off the public teat. Anson never has to worry about Emerson’s hobgoblins when pressing thumbs to keyboard. His blog needs an updated title. I suggest, Do as I Say, Not as I Do.

I assume from what local conservatives espouse, hard luck stories are self-inflicted wounds. Like automatons, they repeat back everything Rush bellows as gospel truth. Eagerly swallowing blatant lies manufactured by insurance company shills, Burlingame & Friends revert back to championing fiscal responsibility only after their party is out of power. To be lectured by such ethically challenged frauds on the ’true’ intent of The Constitution is beyond insufferable.

I guess America will finally become a Marxist Utopia when everyone gets the green check in the mail: I don’t know, do you?

Juan Don

Part 1.5: This Backside of Paradise

Adler says I’m beating Trigger when musing about AM talk radio’s disingenuous intrusion into issues of grave importance. His point is taken. Instead of harping on the obvious, he recommends asking this question: Why do journalists replant their straw men on turf that was once reserved for reasoned analysis? That is the 64,000 peso question. I don’t think I’m goosing hyperbole to say that forty years ago Brother Theodore would have sued Glenn Beck for plagiarism, and yet Beck’s hillbilly homage to macabre performance art has seeped into what should be serious conversations about how best to deliver affordable, inclusive health-care. It does seem strange that Hitler’s ghost is haunting town hall shout-ins. Who knew that Obama’s hidden agenda included the murder of ailing seniors and babies with Down syndrome? No wonder theocrats are packing heat. Although Thomas Jefferson is dead and unable to join Dick Armey’s guerrilla war against tyranny, I gather that assault rifle enthusiasts believe the very late Virginian would join them in screaming “Death before universal health-care!”; nothing says “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” like faceless private insurance bureaucrats denying coverage because of a pre-existing condition. I’m tempted to call Blue Cross of Siciliy and demand that they extort more money from my offshore account: If paying an extra thousand bucks will stop the Black Panther strain of National Socialism from building tiny electric cars, count me in.

Who over the age of 50 doesn’t have a pre-existing condition? Years of extreme Table Rock tubing has turned my body into knots of gnarly cartilage. The few working internal organs I have left are what Dr. Benway calls “museum pieces”. Stretching the grape’s cardiovascular benefits way out of proportion, my liver is currently overseas…traveling with a French passport. Alas, a playful slap on the butt would send me to John McCain’s version of universal health-care -- otherwise known as the emergency room. Did I mention that my bad cholesterol is batting .329?

Because of head injuries suffered during family reunions, I’ve lost my tricycle of thought. When this happens, I assume a secret identity and fling comments to the Globe’s online landfill. Risking impertinence, I think Little Bo Peep has lost more than sheep. Man, that Dr. John Cox has some nerve to insert facts into his op-ed! Since when are physicians allowed to opine about health-care? I thought Allen Shirley was the official expert, trudging up from his basement/laboratory every now and then to sell provincials the straight dope. If the paper’s not careful, a real economist could accidentally expose the dated sentimentality that drips through Richard LaNear’s macro-fiction. It simply won’t do to have scattered bits of substance ruin Joe Schmoe’s four hour morning constitutional. Subscribers aren’t cool with reporters asking ‘gotcha’ questions. We wouldn’t want Roy Blunt admitting that older Canadians do have access to hip replacement surgery. The socialists at The St. Louis Post-Dispatch crossed the line and researched Blunt’s claim, forcing the perennial politician to apologize and promise never to repeat the lie north of Nixa. The Post-Dispatch staff needs to take a cue from southwest Missouri journalism and limit their queries to Blunt’s eye brow grooming techniques.
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I’ve enjoyed Duane Graham and Jessica Schreindl's conversation concerning the nuances between libertarians and garden-variety Republicans. My advice to young libertarians with a crush on Ron Paul is this: Put down “Atlas Shrugged” and slowly back away.

Juan Don












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part one: paradise lost

There’s no doubt that the current conservative talk radio format would cease to exist if for every hour of Limbaugh or Beck or Hannity or Levine or Gibson or Thompson or Ingraham or Savage or Miller, etc., the station had to allow opposing voices equal time: Twenty minutes of Beck alone would generate an entire week’s worth of rebuttal material. The packaged syndication deals would soon collapse if rank amateurs were allowed the use of ex-public airwaves to exercise their First Amendment right.

Make no mistake, the conservative talk radio heavyweights are nervous; their gravy train will derail if the Fairness Doctrine is reinstated. The elimination of the FCC rule that required stations provide free airtime to controversial opinions opened the door wide open for ideologically driven propagandists to ply their trade. It’s no accident that Limbaugh was routinely fired before finding safe haven in Sacramento, where he honed his anti-liberal shtick before going national in 1988. Freed from accountability, Limbaugh was the first to exploit the potential of launching unchallenged attacks on political opponents. Pretending that the Fairness Doctrine was a liberal conspiracy designed to keep conservatives silent, Limbaugh and his ilk continue to complain that the so-called mainstream media (everything but right-wing radio and Fox News) is in the tank for liberal elites. Of course, the rash of hard right monologists, dominating what were once regulated airwaves, offer nothing but the unvarnished truth to rural, mostly under-educated whites. Like the John Birch version of Radio Free Europe, they keep the cross of ‘American Exceptionalism’ burning behind enemy lines, ever vigilant for signs of cultural diversity and godless communists guised as the ‘Democrat ’ Party.

Bill Clinton’s impeachment circus not withstanding, the high water mark for the right-wing media monolith was reached in the months after 9-11. The genuine fear and paranoia that gripped the nation was tailor made for talk radio to exploit. Long standing civil liberties were quickly dismissed as dangerous impediments to defeating Islamic Terror. The Constitution, the sacred document Limbaugh & Gang claim to venerate, was presented to President Bush as his personal property. Elevating the commander-in-chief to unprecedented heights, the liberty-loving patriots found no irony in granting Bush dictatorial powers. Imagine Beck’s hysteria should President Obama issue a signing statement giving him the authority to arrest and indefinitely detain any American citizen he thought posed a threat to national security? Although it’s hard to believe, none of the freedom-obsessed broadcasting specialists were alarmed by the suspension of habeas corpus, nor were they incensed when Saddam Hussein’s arsenal of WMD failed to materialize. Once again, imagine the shrieks of outrage if a ’Democrat’ president had ordered troops into combat based on such faulty intelligence? Did Beck weep?
Did Hannity demand impeachment? And who knew that oral sex trumps unnecessary death and destruction as a high crime and misdemeanor in the mind of Long Island’s ‘Greatest American’’?
It’s safe to say that the AM genre has taken situational ethics into dark grottos never probed by Dostoevsky.

Because it’s late and I have to discipline our not-so-beloved squirrel monkey, I’ll get to health care v talk radio tomorrow.

Juan Don

Coddy Sill

Kenneth the Uninsured update: Kenneth Gladney, the 38 year old affordable health care protester brutally stomped by union thugs , does have insurance. Although unemployed, Gladney is on his wife’s policy. In another strange twist, the wheel chair bound patriot came to the “rally” with his lawyer. Thus far, Kenneth the Insured has raised over $1,000 dollars in donations to help pay for his undetermined injuries -- or the upgrade of his home entertainment system.

Currently in the middle of starting a new government with three drinking buddies, I’m short on time. After we figure out a name for our libertarian Utopia and, most importantly, who gets to wear the official bath robe, I’ll expound on our break from Obama's tyranny.

Juan Don

prejudgment: it's catching on!

The New Majority, David Frum’s attempt to wrest conservatism from the flapping jaws of talk radio, is on my occasional reading list. Frum, former Bush II speechwriter and author of the infamous “Axis of Evil” speech, is unhappy Limbaugh has become the Republican Party‘s titular head. Frum's afraid that overwrought mobs replacing hallowed corporate boardrooms will taint the spirit of true conservatism. Offering non-tobacco chewers uncomfortable with armed rabble an outlet to salvage what’s left of Reagan’s Shining City, Frum is facing a daunting task. Judging from the comments (similar in tenor to the Globe’s online hecklers), he’ll be lucky to escape with his Blackberry before real Americans chase him back to Canadian socialism. Tempted to offer Frum encouragement, I’d rather inspire Fred Thompson to rise from the recliner and reclaim his rightful place as America’s laconic Crockett. Okay, I’m just dying to wear my coonskin cap. The cap and authentic Peter Tork fringe jacket is a dashing ensemble, especially if limping about in a pair of beaded Petro moccasins.
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I see where someone from Sarah Palin’s staff updated her Face Book account with a plea for civil discourse -- this after she panted about Obama’s ghoulish intentions to murder baby Trigg. It was asking a lot for Sarah to contribute sensible input regarding the health care debate without first committing an act of political burlesque. Obviously, she has access to people who can write a complete sentence. The danger of hiring a Face Book ghostwriter is alienating her adoring cult. Suspicions will arise should the ghostwriter accidentally mention recently read newspapers.
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Kenneth Gladney, a young tea bagger protesting government funded health care, was shoved by an SEIU thug, and is asking for your help. Because Gladney was recently laid off from work, he has no health insurance. A man of principle, he would rather solicit funds from complete strangers rather than take one single cent from Obamacare. Hiring a trial lawyer, Gladney is suing the union goon for committing a hate crime. Because both accused and accuser are black, this falls under the double reverse discrimination clause. Although video shows Gladney suffering from no ill-effects after the push, ‘lawyer whiplash’ is well known for its delayed reaction time. Americans United Against Health Care is unsure how to exploit the young man at spontaneous brouhahas. Uncomfortable with Kenneth the Uninsured, Lacy Sheets, former claims denier and current spokesperson for the non-partisan special interest group, is confident that a catchy moniker can be created before the media loses interest.

Juan Don

talent on loan from carbonite

It was a given that Rush Limbaugh and the other 1,348 imitators were going to give Barack Hussein Obama the business. The very notion that somebody named Barack Hussein Obama had a shot at winning the White House was enough to send rich radio blowhards into the kind of wild panic usually associated with flying coach. In six short months, Obama has become the Messiah and the Anti-Christ, with a little Chicago street thug thrown in for added color. My personal favorite is “post-colonial African Marxist dictator”. I know; it’s confusing. I’m sure Dobson didn’t plan on Black Jesus returning in leopard skin sash and pimp hat, handing out copies of “Das Kapital”.

Although I’m not fond of using clichés, Fox Nation has called President Obama everything but a white man. And he has another three and half years left in office. That’s a long time for Glenn Beck to stay on his "Common Sense" suicide watch. (Beck likes to pretend he’s the flip side of MLK, Jr. He may not get to the truck stop with fellow tea baggers, but he can see the flashing neon sign). Mark Levine should have paced his pot boiler with greater care. I’m barely into the third chapter of “Barry’s Death Panel” and the mendacious anti-hero has euthanized Sarah Palin’s baby. What’s planned for the climax, diplomatic relations with Iran?

Foreign Affairs: It was a terrible thing for Bill Clinton to facilitate the release of captured environmentalists. G. Gordon Liddy is livid. I agree: Dealing with the North Koreans is a sign of weakness. Liddy, the toughest ex-con on Wisteria Lane, once bit off both middle fingers because the prison vending machine was out of Twix.

Speaking of National Socialism, Charlie Rose is the perfect candidate to convene a meeting between corporate media tycoons and determine the fine line between real Nazis and dumb, white psychopaths. The slur will soon lose its sting if guidelines for usage aren’t clearly defined. To be fair and balanced, angry affordable health care opponents shouldn’t draw swastikas on their placards when “townhalling” public discussions. Sadly, the original Nazis permanently trashed whatever good vibes ancient Hindus had in mind when they were arranging bent right angles. The tea baggers should stick to old fashioned Know-Nothing mob sensibilities and hang offensive Democrats in effigy.

Cursed with chronic empathy, I’ll cut “The Doctor of Democracy” some slack and stack his bull shitting rant comparing President Obama to Hitler atop an already voluminous pile. The meat head is well known for playing fast and loose with historical accuracy. Like Woody Allen’s Needleman, he may well believe Hitler worked for the gas company. Hell, America’s Anchorman can’t wrap his trussed mind around the fact that it was Mussolini’s Black Shirts who attacked labor unions. Maybe there’s someone at The Heritage Foundation who can walk him through the definition of fascism. Odds are good that he’ll find it appealing.

Juan Don

A Whiter Shade of Pale

Although Mr. Yellowman’s French-Italian Waldensian genes produce swarthy skin and facial features common among Milanese street artists, he is classified as a Caucasian. My ancestry is northern European, even though my paternal ancestors were fond of christening male offspring with names like Orlando, Ishmael, Streeter and the occasional Murray. Lucky for me, my father was named in honor of his maternal great-uncle. The original Johnnie Raymond Blackburn survived the Civil War, but was done in by a poorly sawed oak tree five months after Appomattox. Had my mother not dug in her heels, I would have greeted my first grade classmates as Harry Nutt*. Fortunately, I was saved from a life of petty crime thanks to a last minute compromise.

Mr. Yellowman and I are often mistaken for brothers. Sharing the same dusky features and vacant stares, we inadvertently frighten bank tellers when wearing our matching bandoleers. Last week, three patrol cars zoomed into First Star’s parking lot before we could coral the darting loan officer. Forced at gunpoint to produce identification proving our European credentials, the situation relaxed after an observant officer noticed we were pleading in muffled Ozark twang. Admonished for scaring the staff, we were strongly advised to do our banking in less eccentric clothing. Since neither of us want to be squeaky wheels, we agreed to leave our bandoleers in the Ranchero. After due deliberation, we’ve concluded the bandoleer/sombrero combination may explain why simple liquor store transactions often become tense encounters.

Because I have no idea what constitutes white culture, it’s impossible to know when I’m committing a faux pas against Gingrich’s “American Civilization”. Judging from local antipathy about Barack Obama’s election, I assume voting for half-black politicians is as bad as voting for black-black ones. And there must be something about Puerto Rican women serving on the Supreme Court that is anathema to Old Dixie sensibilities. Senator Sessions, who is obviously white, was appalled at the prospect of Sotomayor’s promotion. In fairness, Sessions’ objection may be based on gender issues stemming from psychological trauma suffered at the hands of a discernable Mobile hooker. (Projection does seem to be a common trait shared among the pale Confederate Republican base. It’s unfair to let them have all the fun).

Putting our Cimmerian heads together, Mr. Yellowman and I have created a ten point plan that we hope will allow us to blend in with fellow southwest Missouri Caucasians.

1: Attend Ernte Fest each year, drink fifty beers, and then make a point to pee in public, preferably on somebody’s leg. Unsure if indecent exposure during the chicken dance crosses Bavarian propriety, our best guess is that unleashed Teutonic bratwurst receives mild Lutheran rebuke, while dangling Hispanic chorizo gets tased.

2: Write letters to The Joplin Globe demanding that the Democrat Party leave Medicaid alone because government involvement in health care will kill grandma.

3: Down shots of Old Crow whenever our favorite NASCAR driver is on fire.

4: Assume communism, fascism and socialism are one in the same. Accuse liberals of combining all three into an ACORN funded conspiracy against segregation.

5: Become apoplectic when liberals suggest taxing millionaires; spew ambiguous Bible verse to support torture and homicidal maniacs who murder people in their church.

6: Protest the global warming hoax by pumping an extra five gallons of gas into Kum & Go’s handy trash can.

7: Bowl.

8: Automatically exhibit a knee-jerk reaction against higher education.

9: Gain eighty pounds. Develop class envy against dittoheads issued handicapped license plates without first contracting diabetes.

10: Go Galt by stockpiling machine guns in preparation for Glenn Beck’s tweet confirming Moroni is hanging out around his hot tub.
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*Harry Flynn was Pop’s Navy buddy. Sadly, Harry was gunned down by Osaka vice cops in 1953. Nutt was my great-grandmother’s maiden name.

Juan Don