Blast from Winter Past (or old file housekeeping)

Jane,

Damn it was pleasing to watch you verge through the frozen pasture in pink chiffon. Seeing you sleeveless, hopping over ice clumps in open-toed pumps, is the closest thing to hope this hovel has experienced since Adler biked over his famous Sudanese brownies: I ate them like an ex-con at an all-you-can-eat sorority buffet. I don’t know how you stay so young, so fresh and vibrant in our republic’s darkest hour. You ARE the light in Debbie Boone’s life. Don’t let Deb’s occasional pregnancy fool you into believing she shares space in her father’s Blue Suede universe. My best snitches are from the LA area. They’ll confirm that she slow dances barefoot inside M. Etheridge’s flannel walled Villa Del Poon. There, I’ve used ‘you’ six times in one paragraph; it’s time for a smoke.

I thank Ras Tafari that our Boy Rush never ceases to amuse. Flinging empty pill bottles at apostates who voice public blasphemy against Gawd’s favorite sex tourist has obvious pull with dim white men: Woe to the serious conservative who challenges the movement’s most grumous pant load. On his B game when besieged by belligerent info-babes and sobriety’s harsh glare, it will take more than one dart (or tart) to bring him down. As long as the Cheech to Buckley’s Chong still has a stash, pies will be thrown. Mr. Yellowman, always the voice of reason, has postulated the theory that Boy Rush is just another gay man trapped within the movement’s drab homage to Spencer Tracy. El Rushbo did seem excited at the prospect of bending over and taking Obama’s socialist spear. But would he take it like a real man or a Hollywood liberal?

No one can accuse your old flame of cavorting with show people. Dick LaNear is a rock, literally. Back again to pin poor cash flow on Bill Clinton’s tender chest, I can understand why the affair ended badly. You deserve better. If not occasionally conjoined in wedded bliss, I’d be all over you like a cheap suit.

“I realize that I now will be called a racist”, scribbles the bathetic dittohead. Alas, Dick’s desperate stabs are not racist. There are other, more “salient“, words to describe his crackpot economic fables: Moronic, imbecilic, knavish and dumb come to mind. It’s a shame that he wasted his shady charm blowing smoke up young butts. Open collared and sock-less, smelling of Clubman and crisp sawbucks, I can see how he oozed his way into your hebetic heart. All of us have, at one time or another, been seduced by sweet talk. Every time I peer out cold porous glass I’m reminded of the night a slick Lothario plucked all the feathers off my innocent little chicken.

I’ve temporarily put aside childish things. President Obama’s inaugural address made an impression; all work has stopped on revitalizing the fake poop industry. Yesterday was spent wondering where Jessica Simpson gained her additional seven pounds. Uncharacteristically optimistic, I divided the seven pounds by two and awarded each breast an equal amount.

Give Vinnie a squeeze,

Juan Don