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).
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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.”
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.


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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