Bluff Daze

I was advised by Dr. Benway to take it easy. The past several weeks have been rough on Hop Ling, my hovel boy and liquor gofer. Transforming the office into a shoddy imitation of Empress Alexandria’s mauve boudoir, I’ve convalesced in what can best be described as pre-revolutionary torpor. It has been a trying time. Physically unable to drip orange juice into dark rum, I fear the improper amount of citrus impedes my ability to fully appreciate Glenn Beck’s patriotic race baiting. Yesterday, I lapsed into restless sleep before the third Gold Line commercial, dreaming that I was an Egyptian slave chiseling Rush Limbaugh’s likeness atop a towering limestone vial of Oxycontin. To add insult to injury, later in the day I thought Roy Blunt was disguised as the Pizza Hut delivery driver out to settle an old score; my sincere apologies. Thanks to Allen Shirley’s tireless devotion to low cost, privatized health care, expensive yellow pills magically transform Mark Levine’s squealing rants into buttery offal before drifting off into pharmaceutically induced oblivion -- where I’m pretty sure Peggy Noonan and I slow dance.

Allowed only a few moments of internet access each day, I have to carefully edit my browsing. Addicted to the Globe’s daily editorial, Geoff Caldwell’s dim corner is relegated to the same existential fate as Stephen Baldwin's blog: There just isn’t enough time to taste the full array of online cyber-fruit. Usually in complete agreement with whoever writes the editorials, I was chagrined by the wishy-washy tenor of Tuesday’s offering. Of course, Officer Crowley had every right to arrest the uppity Gates. However, just cuffing the mouthy black agitator on his front porch was entirely too lax for the crime in question. The cop had every right to tase the perp; maybe administer an official kick in the ribs or two. And because Gates was armed with a cane, he’s damned lucky shots weren’t fired.
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In honor of local radio pitchman Mark Kinsley’s decision to enter the political fray, I’m loosening Hop Ling's wrist restraints. It’s the least I can do.

Juan Don

Prince Kurbsky

Bastille Day is a weeklong celebration at Chow Acre. We forgo bathing, shaving and toenail grooming in preparation for liberte, egalite and fraternite. After staging a mock surrender to Fritz and Trudi Kipplinger, my Charm and I cap off our Bourbon bender by committing random acts of Gallic insolence. We’re the pungent couple who make mid July nights at Applebee’s Neighborhood Grill & Bar a living hell.
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Allen Shirley’s love letter to Oligopoly Insurance is based entirely on “objective study”. To those who aren’t familiar with “objective study”, it’s interchangeable with “they said” and “somebody told me”. I can’t wait to thumb through Shirley’s long awaited memoir. Published by Granny Shaffer Press, autographed copies of “A Little Birdie Told Me” will soon be available…next to the toothpick dispenser.
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I must concur with Duane Graham’s observation concerning local Beck wannabe Mark Kinsley and the goon from Missouri SOS. Up much earlier than usual, I accidentally caught their heavy petting on my Dollar Store radio. Although I’m usually tolerant about steamy man-on-man interview action (less so about man-on-beast), I was tempted to call the station and denounce the public violation of my post-Lutheran family values. Assuming the hovel was blessed with two legged children, the prurient propaganda seeping through my Chinese import could have wreaked havoc on our lambs’ chances for developing sexually acceptable kindergarten mat time behavior.
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Taking a page from the ‘birthers’, I’m scouring the internet looking for proof Sen. Jefferson Beauregard Sessions III was the boy playing the banjo in “Deliverance”.
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Mr. Yellowman’s Word ‘O the Day: Melonite n. Small particles of breast perspiration found in discarded AA coffee cups

Juan Don.

signs of cultural demise

Savannah Samson is bemoaning the lack of decent dialogue and compelling plots offered to adult film stars. Her complaint is echoed by other entertainment specialists, disappointed in flaccid scripts that fail to exploit the full depths of their acting abilities. As proof of our declining culture, Ally Katt and Monty Crisco are no longer required to emote; the pony tailed guy holding the video camera isn’t trained to capture the crisp northern light so Ally’s full back tattoo shimmers like octopi ink against pale Posturepedic. Although my porn library is small enough to ditch on a moment’s notice, I have, on occasion, found myself bemused by an obvious story line flaw.

During my stint mailing in unsolicited movie reviews to The Carterville Slag, I penciled this critique of “Yankee Doodle Candy”.

Far from achieving a satisfying heureux denouement, director E. Z. Duzzit’s latest offering lacks his previous attention to detail. It stretches the limits of verisimilitude when Candy’s Ford Escort leaves Los Angeles and arrives in Manila without stopping to refuel near Talofofo, Guam. Had she wheeled a Honda Civic across the Pacific, then I might have forgiven the logistical faux pas. Sadly, the flick’s climactic money shot misses the mark because of Duzzit’s unfamiliarity with that particular model’s lousy gas mileage and poorly sealed windows. Yes, I’m picky. But damn it, driving from LA to Manila in a car incapable of making the trip insults my intelligence.

Compounding this egregious oversight, newcomer Misty Hole’s distracting gum chewing spoils Duzzit’s most compelling intercourse scene since “Last Bango in Maris”. Assuming Miss Hole was sober during taping, blowing bubbles in the shower mocks the genre’s perfunctory assumption that the target audience is agile enough to attempt such slippery maneuvers and avoid an embarrassing encounter with paramedics. Fortunately, P. Kakes solo performance with ripe vegetables saved the video from tawdry camp and assures her status as porn’s least inhibited exhibitionist.

Ron Jeremy was, as always, an unpleasant intrusion into what had been a tender Sapphic moment between Candy and Chiquita, the flighty restroom attendant.

Juan Don

moving on

I had planned to opine on the military coup against President Zelaya. But the rash of celebrity deaths -- plus two governorship flameouts -- has kept corporate media busy doing what it does best: Ignoring real news in favor of tabloid-flavored sound bites. Thank God for the BBC and the few websites committing acts of journalism.

An unexpected visit this afternoon altered my agenda. Madame Rosa, back from outer Dade County, graced the hovel with her ‘libre esprit’. Because we haven’t spoken for some time, our conversation was centered on Sarah Palin’s hasty departure. (Madame lived in Alaska during the 80s, sharing cabin space with her ex-mountain man near Katmai National Park. She still keeps in touch with old friends and was the first person to fill me in on the abstruse Governor‘s pedigree, as Palin was completely off my radar screen).

J: Is she toast?
M: Yes, in terms of any future career in Alaskan politics. She’s lost the support of longtime Republican powerbrokers, and no candidate can win without their backing.
J: Was her resignation planned in advance or is it another example of her impulsive behavior?
M: Had her return to Juneau been a smooth transition from the national spotlight, I think it’s safe to say that she had her eyes on Lisa Murkowski’s Senate seat. But her disastrous performance during the presidential campaign emboldened her political enemies back home. The bloom was off the rose, and her clumsy, vindictive behavior toward the growing number of critics only hardened the impression that she’s psychologically ill-equipped to deal with hardball politics. In short, she doesn’t play well with others and probably never has. To answer the question, yes, I think she viewed her remaining months in office as a drag on future income potential. She knows that the clock is ticking, and if she’s to cash in on her appeal to the Christian right headlining fund raising rallies is her best, most lucrative option.
J: So it’s all about the money?
M: Of course!
J: What about the rumors that she quit before a major scandal is about to break?
M: There’s always rumors of a major scandal about to break in Alaska. The one that I hear about the most involves the costly albatross known as the Wasilla Sports Complex. Nosey neighbors believe the same materials used to build the overpriced hockey rink found their way to her big house on Lake Lucille. Then again, it could be a coincidence. If there’s an investigation going on, nobody’s talking.
J: Is she really Trig’s mother?
M: Please!
J: Just asking. Andrew Sullivan is very skeptical about it.
M: I would replace ‘skeptical’ with obsessed.
J: Okay. Final thoughts. Long ago I broke the old comedy rule about using the same joke more than three times with Palin. I’m ready to move on and harass Bobby Jindal’s inner demons.
M: Look, I blame John McCain. The decision to select a dysfunctional diva without giving serious thought to the consequences should be enough to exclude him from forever engaging in national political dialogue, period. She wasn’t ready and she never will be. The fact that Sarah Palin and her admirers still don’t get it is a testament to the combined power of magical thinking and unfathomable cynicism. If I was Ann Coulter, I’d be looking over my bony shoulders.

Adieu, Miss Sarah. It’s been weird.

Juan Don

((HERE CHECKERS!!))

If I thought for a moment that Sarah Palin was leaving the public square, I could find temporary beauty in her shoddy exodus. But I fear the latest publicity stunt is another disturbing cry for attention, another contumelious pity party moment. Waving bye-bye to the cumbersome responsibilities inherent in holding public office, she is now free to further the righteous cause of shameless self promotion, which appears to be her only real talent.
Move over Joe the Plumber, the American wasteland has a brighter star to transmit God’s esoteric mysteries.

I read the text of her farewell spiel. The similarity between her prose and local Bejezbuzz dittoheads is striking. It’s safe to assume that whoever is hired to edit her impending autobiography is… ((FACING uh “daunting” task!)). Since her special needs writing style is indistinguishable from the wordsmiths at Red State, I doubt if tea baggers buying their much maligned heroine’s memoir will mind the flurry of exclamations after ((SOCIALIST, LIBERAL, College EDUcATED, Big GOVERNMENT COMMUNITY oRGANIZER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)). I’m confident careful proofreading will catch the occasional split infinitive and slang reference to Steve Schmidt’s pickle.
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After seeing a photo of Grandpa Rock, I doubt if my sheer pastel sun dress, gold Cleopatra sandals, arrowhead necklace and coral pillbox hat would have caught the eye of local loons gathered to piss and moan about Landreth Park. Should another spontaneous ooze of pouting hypocrisy occur, I’ll need to experiment with creepy face paint. Adler, always the minimalist, is convinced camouflage and panty-hose-over-head is equivalent to the classic little black dress. I’m cool with the camouflage, but smoking becomes problematical when tight nylon impedes lips-to-lungs tobacco inhalation.
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Thanks to the three who e-mailed get well messages. There has been slight improvement this weekend. Although I no longer walk like Amos McCoy with serious prostate issues, my stride’s natural athleticism is marred whenever I drag my right foot.

Juan Don