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