pie crust

Johnny Bosco, my long and lean tomcat, was curled around toaster, coffee can and some mysterious gadget Beloved must use to make homemade bread. A clumsy human, my ungraceful moves awoke JB from his cat dream. He looked through me with bottomless green eyes. In that moment I understood mankind’s greatest delusion is accepting as fact our divine superiority over the animal kingdom. Because of my rude intrusion JB made me fumble for his Fancy Feast before reloading the Bunn with life saving Uban.

Speaking of buns, Sarah Palin’s cable television self-promotion is shredding viewers, losing 40 percent of last week’s audience. I have no idea why viewers decided to opt out, but its well within the range of possibility that voyeurs were disappointed Hootie Belle wasn’t topless or no High-Definition beaver close-ups were included with gratuitous moose and squirrel. I guess her clown-punching admirers forget that she’s a Christian and it’s cold in Alaska. Exposing the state’s natural beauty without wearing Carhartt finery is physically risky, even if zooming in on our next president’s chilly nipples jutting out like crimson birthday candles honors everything real about America. Although it’s probably incongruous with TLC’s mission statement, producers might consider filming Hootie Belle mud wrestling Eskimo drunks should ratings continue to plummet. True, it’s an extreme interpretation of dramatic license to sell the idea that a sociopath rolling around with Nanook is educational; but keep in mind Vince Neil will soon be showcasing his athletic skills on “Ice Dancing with the Stars.” I can’t wait until the “rock legend” cuts a frozen rug to “A Rat like Me.” Snookie’s weak ankles and malt liquor addiction made padding her impressive resume with spectacular pratfalls impossible. Fortunately, ABC will soon feature the orange bombed-shell and Joe the Plumber in “Tennessee Williams for NASCAR Fans.” An anonymous source told TMZ that network executives were pleased with production costs, since both would be performing “A Streetcar Named Desire” in their street clothes.

Babs Bush went out of her way to set her eldest son straight about his riveting glass-entombed fetus story. I thought the macabre encounter was George’s first experience with delirium tremens. I’m not sure why the fetus was in a glass jar, unless Babs was bored with collecting shrunken heads and found a creepier coffee table objet d’art. Or maybe George Senior kept the floating curio in his office to taunt his son.
_________________________________________________
Little Spike has more brains than you ever will. Now quit drinking my Old Spice! And if I ever catch Jeb wiping your ass again I’ll have you lobotomized, not that it would make much difference.
_________________________________________________

Since tomorrow portends a solid month -- and then some -- of Holiday Cheer, I’ll save time and publish the annual Chow Acre year-in-review Christmas update.

Dear DNA,

If 2011 is anything like this last hellish abomination, I’ll make some “family” happy and put a gun in my mouth. (You know who you are, assholes). On second thought, maybe I’ll take a few of you out with me. What? Not laughing now? Remember, I know where all you pikers live.

Dear Friends,

Ho, Ho, Ho...Chi Minh, NLF is ‘gonna win!

I could blow smoke up your butts about how well Gomez is doing in school, how Beloved is off the anti-depressants and how I’ve found inner-peace through complete, cynical indifference, but you know better. Just be glad I haven’t asked for more money. Believe me; I’m as tired hearing about the shitty economy as you are of saying it. I’ll remind everybody, once again, that supporting the arts isn’t just writing checks to PBS. Kind words and smiles are nice, but they don’t pull any coin at May’s City. And so I’ll expect enhanced Christmas cards. And yes, I do accept Visa and Mastercard. (Frank, you were MIA last year; I know for a fact that you inherited your Mom’s Wal-Mart stock. Be a sweetheart and step up to the plate).

And please, just don’t assume that I prefer tequila over vodka. I don’t.

Crown Press toiletries

Two books recently found their way to Chow Acre; I did not order them: “Life”, Keith Richards’ memoir and “Decision Points” by Ranger Cod Piece.

Madame Rosa plucked Richards’ remembered open G felonies while looting Sam’s Club. She thought that I’d enjoy “Keef’s” international dope adventures. The other book arrived via UPS. It was sent by my sister-in-law, who has quietly gone insane. Two years ago she made the case for why Sarah Palin and sliced bread were indistinguishable. The long distance pitch disturbed Beloved so much that she immediately embarked on an eight hour road trip to try and talk Gretchen down. We both agreed that she was either sampling test tubes from her vintage Laboratory Technician Chemistry Set or thirty years of breathing Texas Panhandle dust had finally clogged up nine generations of German Lutheran engineering.

Beloved phoned home the next afternoon, relieved that her oldest sister’s dementia was the result of lengthy metal church exposure. Gretchen expanded on her Palin for Queen Ester spiel with discomforting angel jabber, and offered to exorcise my demons for free -- provided Beloved return home with a puppy from Turbo’s latest litter. My Charm convinced Gretchen that I was beyond saving grace -- whether amazing or bug fucking nuts -- and returned to Chow Acre sans pooch. I thanked Brigantia by spraying recycled gin near the late poodle’s favorite lilac bush.

Oh, the books. I leafed through “Life” and will donate “Decision Points” unopened to Mr. Yellowman’s environmentally friendly outhouse for more productive use.

corporate empathy

Christine O’Donnell has every right to be pissed: She whipped popular Congressman Mike Castle in the primary, bravely faced down elitists who ridiculed her fifteen minutes of fame playing Bill Maher’s second banana and was honest about being ashamed of her own pussy. And to top it off, she doesn’t even have a job. What does it take to be a United States Senator? Considering that the Koch Brothers threw a few million dollars of loose change into Sharron Angle’s campaign, Christine should have received some of their daddy’s oil money. Had Rove’s undisclosed cash flow been diverted into Christine’s open tip jar, who knows? It’s not like the electorate was actually paying attention.

Adding insult to injury, Fox News doesn’t appear interested in offering her employment. Surely Roger Ailes has figured out that her car is a mobile home. If the cable channel can give Juan Williams two million bucks to play Sean Hannity’s Stepin Fechit, surely there’s enough coin for Christine. She’s prettier than Greta, and from what I can tell has a bigger rack. I’m sure she’d even dye her hair blond to fit in with Murdock’s strict adherence to “Fair and Balanced” journalism.

I’m beginning to think Compassionate Conservatism only applies to those who don’t really need it.

before the deluge

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that tweet sounds like twit. The Germans figured out a long time ago that vowels are easily manipulated to create audio vibrations frequently associated with body waste removal. Stand outside any German language class and you’ll swear constipated Visigoths are vocalizing a mass dump. Romance languages, on the other cheek, are deceptively suggestive. Leslie, a brief college squeeze, spoke fluent French. I loved it when she lapsed into breathy frog-speak after draining a bottle of vintage codeine, inflaming my little corker with visions of awkward debauchery. Call me a sallow opportunist but banging an unconscious blond beats wearing eternal bird feathers.

The last time I saw Leslie she was wavering dazed behind JC Penny’s jewelry counter. For a moment I felt the urge to rescue her narco-soul from retail’s fluorescent hell. She looked so vulnerable next to flawed diamonds and base metal watches. An insistent voice broke the spell. Leslie pitched forward as if propelled by invisible puppet strings. I watched her glassy green eyes contract in distracted focus. She retrieved a future pawn shop sparkle from the display case. Ten minutes later I bought heavy leather hiking boots -- not because I hiked but because all the cool guys lumbered to class like Frankenstein. Tossing the Frisbee around was a joke.

Tomorrow portends to be a bad day. Always prepared, two fresh jugs of Gallo await, along with Styron’s “Darkness Visible” for light comedic relief. It would be keen if Mr. Yellowman could shake himself free from Little Bohemia and deliver fresh eggs. Fresh eggs are code, of course. Use your own god damned imagination. My back is sore from carrying the load.

skoal

Halloween is not my favorite holiday -- if Halloween is actually considered a holiday. For many years my mother dressed me in a hobo/bum outfit, with stubby candy cigar and cork-smeared beard. Sister Poop Pot mooched her little Snickers dressed as a ballerina. Today she’s an accomplished dancer and I’m unshaven, drinking Old Crow and chain-smoking cheap ass cigarettes. Decking me out as a pint sized cardio-vascular surgeon never crossed Mom’s mind. It could have been worse. Danny Fletcher always spooked around as some kind of knife-wielding goon and now he’s doing serious time in Leavenworth for mail fraud.

I’m officially nominating Clarence and Ginny Thomas as Juan Don’s Couple of the Year. Last year’s winner, Mr. and Mrs. David Vitter, have yet to acknowledge that they’ve received their prize. Maybe Dave hasn’t fully recovered from stomping out the flaming paper sack of recycled Johnny Bosco tuna. Then again, Mrs. Vitter could have been the lucky one who performed an impromptu front porch fire dance, and assumed her diapered dandy hadn’t paid Pauline’s Pussy Palace for services rendered.

I see where Murdock is paying Juan Williams two million bucks to hang around Fox “News.” And, yes, I’d let O’Reilly fondle me for that kind of money. God knows what’s in Mara Liasson’s contract. But I hope it involves Bill Kristol’s butt, Doocy spooge and a straw. I can’t wait until Christine O’Donnell gets her own show, “The Flying Numb.”

TO HELL WITH THE HOLIDAYS

A flint-skint spark lit
on a dark step. I was just
passing by. According
to the papers
it was nothing. Nobody was born
or died. Nobody was elected
or impeached or assassinated.
No wars were declared. No
treaties were signed.
The banks and bars were open.
The mail ran. The toast
was just “Cheers!” Cursed
with neither calendar
nor wall to tack it to,
I was spared the chore
of marking down
the day when nothing happened
to me alone.

pre-night out with Beloved

Political Science: The difference between Democrats and Republicans is Democrats offer bread with their circus.

Americans have been conditioned to watch literally anything that radiates through a television screen. A majority of Americans believe what they’re watching is real. While America is occupied with television, Wall Street, Chamber and Commerce ransack the family room. The irony is that many viewers own Chinese burglar alarm systems. Frank Cannon, also known as “Fat Man”, says this is called “creating a diversion.”

People in Hell really do want ice water if God speaks through Glenn Beck.

I’m no longer comfortable using the word evil to describe evil. The good thing is I’m aware that evil exists -- and it’s out to get me. Later today I’ll decide to replace evil with paranoid after combining a clove cigarette with deep breathing exercises; otherwise known as a near-death experience.

Johnny Bosco is smart. He’s learned that incessant pre-dawn yelling does not always produce the desired result. Now he positions himself directly atop my face and extends his claws into the loose skin around my eyes. And so my first taste of consciousness is pure primordial terror. Well trained, I pry Johnny Bosco from my eyelids and open a can of Fancy Feast before fully appreciating the pain.

Every day I try to finish six pages. Twenty minutes before noon I stagger back into the inner-sanctum and edit yesterday’s output. Here is what I was able to salvage from Chapter XXIV:
_________________
Slowly, ever so slowly, Prince Elmer wiped his massive sword across the slave girl’s gleaming black bottom, honoring an ancient warrior tradition with each deliberate pass. As his muscular forearm glistened like a young penguin’s back, Prince Elmer’s blank expression turned fierce remembering Lady Fisch-Leigh’s eye-stinging treason.

The phone rang.

(I was tempted to leave in the ensuring conversation between my hero and his mother, Dowager Queen Shelly Belle, but decided to save it for less serious creative writing -- like this blog or tax forms).
_________________

Juan’s take on “A Pledge to America”

After Nosan and Jerri von Kreppler’s teenage son, Nosan Junior, drove the family car into Lake Byrd Emulsion for the fourth time, Nosan Senior finally put his foot down. Nosan Junior’s driving privileges were suspended until he exhibited signs of responsibility. Jerri felt sorry for the boy. She persuaded her husband to let Nosan Junior write a pledge promising never to drive into Lake Byrd Emulsion again.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I pledge never to drive your car into the lake. And I really mean it!

Satisfied, Nosan and Jerri waved goodbye to their son as he sped off. Forty five minutes later they watched in stunned disbelief as the same tow truck driver returned their wrecked, wet vehicle. Nosan Junior dashed upstairs. A few minutes later he handed his shaken parents a note.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I pledge never to drive your next car into the lake. And THIS TIME I really, REALLY mean it!!!

All Kooky on the Eastern Front

Richard Iott, tea bagger patriot and Republican candidate for Ohio’s 9th Congressional seat, goose-stepped around in a Nazi SS uniform. Richard didn’t confine his unique hobby to private, indoor bier fests; no, Richard (I’m going to rechristen him Dick) is a Nazi re-enactor;think goofballs who sport itchy costumes and play Civil War on weekends. Dick and fellow spooks fight make-believe Bolsheviks when not murdering Jews, Gypsies, tramps and thieves with unloaded MP40s. When photos of Dick in his authentic SS Wiking wear surfaced, he had a perfectly reasonable explanation: Father and son bonding.

Sure, why not. Donning Nazi outfits and eliminating Slavic sub-humans is more creative than fishing or coaxing a 1972 Beetle back to life. I image that Dick was surprised when little Heinrich asked him, “Vater, would you join me in reprising the glory days of the Third Reich?” Perhaps the pale Bursche was unnaturally shy and spent too much time in the basement torturing stray cats, and Dick, desperate to connect with his odd offspring, jumped at any opportunity to get Heinrich some fresh air. I find myself struggling to bond with Gomez. There are times when I feel guilty sharing vodka and unfiltered cigarettes with my nine year old. But I do have my baseline bottom. Should Gomez ever ask me join in on a costumed-torchlight parade around the synagogue in Waffen SS Totenkopfe, I’d refill his glass and quickly change the subject.

Its doubtful Dick’s extracurricular activities will negatively affect Ohio’s sock monkey twirlers. Immune to cognitive dissonance, admiring a guy who lurks about public parks dressed like Sergeant Shultz is compatible with Obama-as-Hitler comparisons. Maybe a few paunchy patriots will have La-Z-Boy recliner epiphanies, but the chances are slim. Since the likely gaggle going to Washington next January will be a homemade quilt of “real” Americans, Dick strutting around in Wiking gray will blend in nicely with comparable Confederate finery. White sheets always stand out, of course.

Sweet Jesus

Note: Juan Don is still missing. And so another excerpt from Anson Burlingame‘s blog, “Inside the Call for What?”

WHAT IS WAR?

Summarizing from my last blog, for damn sure two Presidents have not unleashed the necessary “dogs” to kill ALL able bodied men to dismantle the government of that country. Bush said it very clearly: If someone shoots at our troops, blow up the house if possible. War is not a surgical instrument. If we blow up one house but others keep shooting, build BIG POW camps to house the bad guys, women and children if necessary. BUT NEVER sacrifice a single AMERICAN in this “inhumane” war.

Now think about this: When we truly unleashed “hell” with nuclear weapons, the intellectual definition of “kicking around” was sometimes referred to as “low intensity conflict.” But the loss of life was essentially minuscule. Of course the CIA agent in some remote country that had his throat slit by the KGB might think otherwise. Frankly, in my view destroy the whole damn house, then move in and “take out” the village after the fact.

Isn’t it really that simple? But, But, But you say if we follow all of the above we have “mucked” around with uncertainty. YES it is brutal, but all war is engagement and treasure, at least in money. But let’s not get distracted in the more subtle thoughts of “war.” Let’s simply “unleash the dogs of war” and “go there and shoot that”, etc.

Now let’s move to the last part of Clausewitz: “Massive force sometimes picks the “dogs” to be sacrificed.”

To me the answer is pretty clear. I must now get somewhat “technical” in military or strategic terms. We must defeat AFGHANISTAN and ALL of its people. Just like Germany, or the South, or Great Britain, or whomever.

So more to come folks, if you have the stomach to read further. See my next blog, WHAT DOES A “GLORIOUS” WASTELAND LOOK LIKE AND WOULD CONRAD HEID VACATION THERE?

vivid green vacation

PART ONE: LOOK HOMEWARD DIPSHIT

The return journey from Honduras was trying. Still wavering between Technicolor hallucinations and Disney jungle animation from the all-you-could-vomit Bill Burrough’s Yage Team Adventure buffet, the pilot hauling me and Jock Goldstein from Corozal to a private airfield south of Mexico City looked like an eleven year old extra from “The Mission.” The only sensible thing to do was inhale tequila and pass out. Jock declined my invitation to abuse the bewitching stench. He thought Ricky, our diminutive, boxed aeronautics professional, might need assistance reaching the pre-Kennedy administration Piper Apache’s rudder pedal.

A violent drop hurled my spinal column back into gravity’s complete control seconds before rubber melted with runway gravel. Aside from chain-smoking purple Guatemalan, Ricky was fond of unleashing unexpected 1,500 feet aerial swoons to pass the time. (I learned this from Jock, who is convinced his genitalia suffered permanent tissue damage from repeated attempts to seek sanctuary just below his throat. Luckily, I was unconscious from acute alcohol poisoning during all but a tiny snippet of the three hour horror show).

Shaky but surprised to be alive, we crawled into the back of a panel van and jostled forty miles or so to airplane numero dos. Our new pilot gave me the chills. Deep wear on the wooden handle of his machete was disconcerting. On the bright side, he was tall enough to legally careen around Space Mountain. Jock rifled through his duffle bag and found a handful of anti-anxiety pills leftover from a stab at delivering mail. We washed them down with what the locals mistakenly think is water. While our new pilot went through his pre-flight check -- kicking tires and bouncing atop each wing -- Jock and I contemplated making a run for it. But where would we go?

Before we could decide on whether or not to simply dash for the clearing and become seriously existential, the pilot wandered over. My Spanish is strictly retail, just proficient enough to pay $100.00 dollars for landfill curios.

“What did he say?” I asked.
“If we need to take a dump, the outhouse/terminal wouldn’t be his first choice,” said Jock.

We contemplated the pilot’s advice in silence.

COMING WHENEVER, PART TWO: CHICHUACHUA DESPAIR

Fun with cut-ups.

Note: Juan Don is currently out of the country taking part in the annual Bill Burroughs 1953 Yage Team Adventure reenactment. Thus far the only contact with Juan has been a rambling phone call expressing disappointment that his spirit guide is the lady in the Progressive car insurance commercials. Replacing Juan is conservative Republican Ray O. Hackler. Ray O. writes editorials for a small market newspaper and donates every other Tuesday morning giving Taser demonstrations to elementary school kids.
______________________
Ray O. Hackler says,

I’ve known Juan since 1983. Although a typical liberal fuck up artist, he does have a few redeeming qualities. Last year after Juan returned from Central America he spray painted all of his shoes metallic gold and added long haired domestic cat to his arsenal of “animal” languages. No, those are not counted as redeeming qualities. I can’t think of any at the moment. But basically he’s harmless.

I’m doing this as a favor. Don’t even ask. A man of my word, I promised I’d fill-in while Juan’s eating drugs with freaks. Instead of presenting my own material, I’m recycling the best of Anson Burlingame for those who may be unfamiliar with Joplin’s best anti-liberal scribbler. Enjoy.
_______________________
Inside the Call for What?

“Girding myself for battle, I ran into a buzz saw of sorts. I responded accordingly thereto, and did my usual routine. So here I go again, back to first principals in an absence of force. No force and we all do as we choose; accordingly when NO force from government is involved liberals simply protect their butts in carrying out their duties. This was EXACTLY what happened once OPA gained control over Emma’s money.

Look at income taxes (since 1917 or so). Now don’t even try to point to something like Obamacare as such an attempt to “regulate” “labor” at the federal level. THAT is not freedom. Now go listen to the tea parties. Forget the stupidity of those that use that venue to promote hate and 'distain' like calling whoever she is a Nazi, etc. Far too soon to tell if tea parties are a strong, vibrant and needed addition to American politics. But I sure as hell am listening and like some of which I hear now but not in the “early days” when Our Founders hammered the hell out of others, not just the “rich”. Talk about monkeys and footballs!!!

Outrageous liberals will say, “kobble de kook” and conservative reaction will create an uproar for sure, one way or another. But after all, who is really in “charge” of the discussion? Is it possible to “go over the cliff” we asked ourselves? What will it “look like” if we do take the plunge? We weren’t sure, we concluded, but it would not be PRETTY at all. Dreams bring us back to some form of disagreeable reality. Consider the Dark Ages as an extreme example. “WHEN IS ENOUGH, ENOUGH?”

Go think about it.”

Barely hanging on in this sulfuric atmosphere

I had to open the widow. Keisha, our loveable old rottweiler, released a massive dose of methane. These silent assaults are impossible to describe; one has never experienced the sudden rush of overpowering hell until they’ve had their entire being traumatized by her beastly rectal vapor. I’m sure it’s purely coincidental, but she is infamous for slaying us while we’re eating. Her farts actually penetrate food, literally turning ham salad on wheat into a shit sandwich. At least fifteen minutes must pass before the Hovel Goddess and her lame burden can smoke without risking terrible death.

Newt Gingrich and his latest spooge receptacle are determined to avoid honest employment. Fronting a Muslim bashing flick so disgusting Preacher Jones fears years of diligent brainwashing is at risk should his tank-topped cult view the abomination, the Sid and Nancy of vicious fear mongering are determined to squeeze America’s tea baggers dry before Glenn Beck. Like a Clive Barker character, Newt lurks about in dark, unspeakable damnation until summoned by the lure of easy election year PAC money. I take it his blond succubus must be a Mel Gibson Catholic.

It’s impossible to dwell upon vicious fear mongering without mentioning Hannity. I thought he was going to cry last night when Karl Rove spoke poorly of Delaware’s Miss Spooky Panties 2010. A Republican speaking ill of a Republican candidate on Fox is akin to pinching off a loaf atop St. Peter’s Baldachin Altar during the televised Christmas mass; poor Karl. The first time in 34 years he tells the truth and even his buddy Rush Limbaugh blows out a Cochlear implant yelling at him…so much for Big Tent conservatism.
___________
Hannity: What’s so wrong with Christine O’Donnell that you can’t support her?
Rove: She’s mentally retarded, Sean.
Hannity: Now that’s a lie, Karl!
Rove: No, she has Down syndrome.
Hannity: Her mother could be Asian! What’s wrong with Asians! Can’t Asians be good Obama-hating conservatives! Wait, hang on. Governor Palin’s on the line.
____________

I do not have a Twitter account, cell phone or ski equipment. I don’t want anyone to ever accuse me of making shit up.

Rumors that I was deported from Great Britain are kind of true. It’s complicated. Let’s just say that I was strongly advised to leave in a big hurry.

PS: Tomorrow is Beloved's mother's XXXXXXXXVI birthday. Upcoming festivity conversations are conducted in Latin. The dress code is toga casual for men; tunic casual for women. Chariot races will be held regardless of weather conditions. I'm hoping for a muddy track, as sloppy turf neutralizes Reidicus' superior driving skills...and the fact he's using a horse, while I'm whipping the Old Hide to shake a leg.

chelsea's revenge or karma's bitchslap

Dear Juan,

This question has been bothering me for a long time: Is Geoff Caldwell retarded? I can’t tell from the little photo on his blog. Not that it makes any difference on how I plan to vote. Just because someone is retarded doesn’t mean they can’t love their country and hate Obama. Am I even supposed to use the word retarded? Or will liberals take offense? My husband thinks the paper has a program where “special needs” people can pretend they're writing something.

Curious in Granby

Dear Curious,

Sorry for the delayed response. The Old Hide and I have had one hell of a time finding a school for Gomez, the mail carrier’s youngest son. Only teasing. Even though Gomez has red hair and green eyes, I must keep believing that there’s a Leprechaun squatting somewhere in the Don family chaparral. Because three clinical child psychologists labeled Gomez a “chronic pyromaniac with homicidal tendencies,” we can’t find a kindergarten teacher willing to roll the dice. Unless there’s an action junkie in our immediate future, it looks like Gomez is learning his ABCs from “Deadwood” DVDs.

I’d need to watch Caldwell bowl or operate a hot charcoal grill before pronouncing him retarded. It’s hard to tell from the photograph. Perhaps his dense expression was caused by an accidental exposure to reality seconds before the picture was snapped. But his angry, confused prose is obviously the work of a maladjusted mind. Caldwell’s muddled cognitive dissonance is common among people classified as slow. The slow (or Hannitized) can’t understand basic cause and effect scenarios, such as taxes generate governmental revenue or borrowing Chinese money to invade the wrong country is a poor expenditure of limited capital. Those afflicted with this particular mental defect are unnaturally drawn to authoritarian figures. This explains why Dittoheads believe outlandish fabrications from dissimulating grifters. A recent study conducted by the Cleese Institute revealed that long term listeners to talk radio can hear dog whistles, while those engaged in productive activities were deaf to high-pitched frequencies. Unfortunately, the research was discontinued: An alarming number of Dittoheads suffered serious spinal cord injuries from repeated attempts to lick their junk.

To answer your question, no I don’t believe Caldwell is retarded. I’d go with Hannitized.

Because I’m from Carterville, using the word retarded to describe someone is often considered a compliment, so I’m not up to speed on what liberals consider an appropriate, politically correct designation for the mentally handicapped. I’d experiment with variations of developmentally challenged. Or you could make up a word. My father was fond of skeeterbrained when explaining my childhood peccadilloes to annoyed neighbors.

Don’t quote me, but I’m pretty sure the paper received a generous Koch endowment that stipulates all editorial writing must be attempted by locals with certified Intelligence Quotient scores no higher than 90 and no lower than 65. Rumor has it the Chamber of Commerce threw a ruckus after their candidate failed to meet the minimum requirement.

a single ray

I’ve found that maintaining a perverse sense of humor about the demise of democracy keeps alcohol consumption down. While it’s tempting to attempt Bill Faulkner’s self-medicinal regimen, my meager literary output is insufficient to garner Beloved’s benediction. It’s one thing to overlook a Nobel Prize winning writer’s bourbon-enhanced sabbaticals, it’s quite another when the sloshed reprobate is yours truly. And so I maintain a hazy, semi-conscious peephole, rather than complete oblivion’s sweeter scenery.

Today was a pleasant diversion from the usual dreary bullshit. Joplin Globe blogger Duane Graham (whose writing is accessible in the right hand corner) spanked the nuts off of Geoff “Ro” Caldwell (whose atrocities are not accessible in the right hand corner). Rarely does a dull Dittohead receive such a public horse whipping as was applied by The Erstwhile Conservative. I have no idea what possessed the hack talk radio transcriber to slither from his quiet crawlspace, but I’m glad "Ro" exposed his ass to more than the two or three buffoons who share the same repugnant politics. Of course, I couldn’t resist the temptation to tease.

Further laughs were had later when Anson Burlingame (Caldwell’s partner in bad English) rubbed salve on his buddy’s bleeding butt: There, there my little patriot. Graham is an intemperate ideologue, incapable of love for country or playing the mawkish victim. Be strong; be strong for me. I need your strength so I can continue posing as a right-of-center conservative.


Had I not been overcome by a wave of nausea, I’d have commented: Decorum invisible tank lovers. Please, get a room!

And so a brief respite from the systematic breakdown of America. Yet without another refreshing glass of bye-bye juice, I fear my soiled tissue will circle closer to the drain.

the shape of things

Dear Juan,

I hear a lot about the benefits of small government over big government. Is it a size thing? If so, why wouldn’t petite government be preferable to small government? Petite has a better ring to it. When somebody describes a woman as petite, I immediately draw a pleasing mental picture of Audrey Hepburn in “Roman Holiday.” But if a woman is described as small, I envision Linda Hunt in “Dune.” Basically, petite is almost always cute and small can range from mildly disconcerting to physically deformed. It’s like someone saying their female cousin is big. What does that mean, big as in fat or big as in volley ball spiker?

Brandon Bravo
Carterville, Missouri

Dear Brandon,

It’s a small (or petite) world. I knew your father. Back when Junior’s Tavern pushed the envelope of irresponsible drinking, he was known as Rio. Your pop was the mastermind behind replacing cars with riding mowers as the vehicle of choice for avoiding intrusive interest in our blood alcohol content. After an ample supply of Jim Beam, Rio was a genuine problem solver. On any given afternoon the pitted parking lot was full of corroded Snappers. If Junior Madden had maintained sobriety long enough to master small engine repair, he’d have left Birdie Lu financially solvent. I was considered a showoff because I owned Carterville’s only John Deere, complete with working headlights and adjustable seat. The Deere was a family heirloom, the crown jewel of Grandpa White’s estate.

I’ll always remember the August afternoon Marshal Dickman put the kibosh on our unlicensed means of transportation. The day before your father instigated a mass mower exodus. He’d heard Billy Hardy had installed an in-ground pool behind his double-wide, thanks to a fortuitous insurance settlement. So off we went. There were probably twenty mowers snaking down old Route 66. Because we were drunk, the progress was rather disorderly. And then, out of nowhere, the Marshal’s Dodge zoomed past our caravan with lights flashing. Eventually everybody found park, and we idled in place wondering what the fuss was all about. Long story short, we were holding up Mrs. Sample’s funeral motorcade -- and had been for ten blocks. Alas, mowers don’t come equipped with rear view mirrors. Although it wasn’t funny at the time, Jack Cooley, Carterville’s last in-house mortician, was forced to pull his ’64 Caddy hearse into Pearson’s gas station and phone the Marshal into action. No doubt the solemnity of the occasion was marred by an uninvited and intoxicated lawn mower escort.

Because Mrs. Samples died a Baptist, the Marshal saved the colorful tongue lashing for later. Ironically, Billy Hardy didn’t have an in-ground pool. All we found was a shitty Western Auto above-ground. But then what should we have expected from someone who hit pay dirt after having their head aerated by a brush hog? It wasn’t your father’s fault that Billy Hardy blew Liberty Mutual's money on chinchillas. Rio was always the romantic type. He deserved better than cashing out in a wet crawlspace. At least he left this vale of tears doing what he loved best. The Rio I knew would have been pleased knowing he was laid to rest in a sheet metal casket.

Concerning big or small government, who cares? As long as there’s enough electricity to keep the ice machine working, Carpe diem.

freudian baba ghanoush

Dear Juan,

I’ve been having nightmares. It’s awful. I dream that I’m lounging by the pool reading a Christian mystery novel when Terror Babies surround my recliner. Some are wearing sombreros and have bushy El Guapo mustaches, and others look just like bin Laden. The hairy little fiends shout dreadful things. I'm not sure, but I think they rape me. How can I stop these nightmares?

Suzy Hungerford
Galena, Kansas

Dear Suzy,

Have you tried killing a quart of Yukon Jack before bedtime? Several years ago I was tormented by the same reoccurring nightmare. Without going into specifics, my unconscious mind plopped me naked into a hot tub with Matt Drudge, Joan Rivers and the late Martha Raye. The inexpensive Yukon Jack therapy guaranteed a good fourteen hour coma. Just make sure smoke alarms have fresh batteries. The amber-colored medicine induces what Ozark Mental Health professionals call “dead drunk.” I’ve found the only downside is a propensity to polish off unrecognizable refrigerated green stuff. Play it safe and get rid of all Tupperware containers. Although Yukon Jack neutralizes the green stuff’s toxic assault on natural stomach juices, finding an empty plastic tub from last year’s office Christmas party wedged between your thighs is always a rough way to start the day.

As for the particular baby demons disrupting dreamy poolside reading, I believe buried deep inside your subconscious is a sexual attraction for the “other.” Why these unfilled desires take the form of dark-skinned hirsute babies is troubling, but then I’m only a dabbler in abnormal psychology. Maybe if you fantasized about George Lopez and Sunjay Dutt playing grab ass in the pool before putting Jay Leno out of his misery, the “Terror Babies” could morph into pleasurable recreational sin. Instead of suffering from nightmares, REM sleep might replace your shower head’s adjustable spray nozzle.

cold hands, patriotic heart

Dear Juan,

I see you’re a cavity search consultant. I’m assuming this is some type of government job. Do you work for Homeland Security? If so, I salute your contribution in the fight against terrorism. The reason I ask is because my wife and I are taking a trip next month, and a persistent personal problem prohibits me from walking without difficulty. The fact that I’m eighty one years old doesn’t help. Do cavity search professionals profile passengers based on ethnicity or awkward gait?

Roy Rickles
Shuffleboard City, Arizona

Dear Roy,

I retired from my life’s passion due to a rare olfactory disorder called Doocy‘s Disease. Life isn’t fair. My current occupation doesn’t hold a flashlight to the exciting challenges I faced as a cavity search consultant. The brave men and women who probe, poke and occasionally extract contraband don’t receive enough credit. Thanks for recognizing the Rubber Glove Brigade’s service.

To answer your question, of course profiling occurs. If you’re wearing a beard and turban, bend over. Depending on complexion, men in pointy Middle Eastern shoes have a 75 percent chance of ‘dropping trou’. The odds of attractive Columbian women and male interior decorators undergoing enhanced pre-flight scrutiny hovers around 83 percent. The few who request a cavity search are almost always obliged. We call these volunteers “practice dummies.” Sean Hannity, a persistent volunteer, inserted raisins up his rectum to keep us on the ball. It just goes to show that someone doesn’t have to be in uniform to help keep America safe from evil.

It was my experience that Caucasians over sixty were rarely probed.

There was one CSS (Cavity Search Specialist) who was unnatural suspicious of older white women. Eventually reassigned to the Seniors Administration on Aging after Cloris Leachman barely survived an unusually vigorous examination, he is now in the nursing home industry.

Last week a nice sounding young man contacted me expressing interest in exploring cavity search opportunities. He arrived visibly intoxicated, stumbling about the front porch with a bottle of Blue Nun and Bette Midler records. Needless to say, I didn’t let him in. I just can’t put my finger on why it still bothers me.

rose is a rose unless she's a rhonda

Dear Juan,

Are skag and skank interchangeable? I say skag is descriptive, as in Rhonda has skaggy hair. Skank, on the other hand, is definitive: Rhonda can have skaggy hair and not be a skank, but a skank is a skank regardless of skaggy hair. Am I right?

Cy Risk
Septic Creek, Colorado

Dear Cy,

I believe you’re trying to imply that skag is an adjective and skank is a noun: A skank can have skaggy hair, but it’s grammatically gauche to say a skag has skanky hair. However, it’s hello Holiday Inn if I said, “You look skanky” to my ball and chain after her mane has been freshly mowed. The insult is immediately recognized, and I’m scouring the dusty dresser looking for clean underwear. At this point grammatical correctness plays a secondary role to nicking her credit card amid the ensuing melee.

To be on the safe side, do what I do and appropriate innocuous words or phrases in lieu of apparent affronts. Judging from your interest in this specialized area of offensive slang, I suspect you’re not known as the George Clooney of Septic Creek. Unless you prefer auto-eroticism over interactive coitus, utilizing a more imaginative vocabulary might charm the moo-moo off some lucky gal who finds the comb over hot. Years ago I replaced fuck with baby doll as my loud reaction to missed four foot putts. Even though screaming baby doll hasn’t improved my stroke, I’m no longer on the course marshal’s dook list. You’d be surprised how people respond when told to go baby doll themselves, especially when said in a soft, effeminate voice.

Give it a shot. Retool skank into sweetie pie or the common honey. There’s a sense of empowerment in maligning women without their knowledge. Look how far Rush Limbaugh has gone. Who knew switching bitch for Feminazi was a gold mine? A trophy wife may not be in your future, but you can enjoy the next rum & Coke without worrying where cocktail waitresses insert the lime before serving.

Aqua Buddha

Dear Juan,

Maybe it’s nothing but lately I’ve noticed my dog’s penis tastes funny. Is this weather related or should I take Barker to the vet?*

Shelly Skibbe
Cape Girardeau, Missouri

Dear Shelly,

That’s up to you. If you decide to see the vet I wouldn’t elaborate on why you’re concerned about his todger. I’d say something like, “Barker scratches a lot down there” or “Should his thingy be that red?” Obviously you’ve had enough oral intimacy with the pooch to discern a difference in flavor. I’m not sure what “funny” means, but whatever change has occurred must not be a mouth watering treat.

Going out on a limb, I’d look into what you eat or drink before sharing downtime with Barker. Are you taking prescription medication? Maybe this might explain the unwelcome tang. I’d give it some time before seeking treatment. While I’m remarkably open-minded, there are those who would recoil in horror if your abnormal display of affection became public. In fact, I hope Shelly Skibbe is not your real name. There are times when seeking the cover of anonymity is a wise decision. A dog lover myself, I prefer mundane physical contact, such as ear and belly rubbing. Barker may consider these examples of less amorous affection tame by comparison, but keep in mind the odds of catching weird diseases dramatically decrease when limiting contact to hand-on-fur.

My craving for cocktail shrimp has mysteriously disappeared.

*Thanks to fellow Buddhist, Garry Shandling.

dedicated to the divine Ms. Slater

Dear Juan,

I’m hoping you can help me win a bet. I think Obama is a colored Stalin. My co-worker is convinced he’s the Anti-Christ with a little Hitler on the side. An educated man, I’m pretty sure the Anti-Christ has to be either Muslim or of French Huguenot descent. Help me out. There’s a topless photo of Dr. Laura on the line.

Maury Gory
Duckbutter, Kentucky

Dear Maury,

Good question. It’s highly unlikely Obama has any Der Fuhrer seed. Even though Hitler funneled his homicidal impulses toward Jews and Slavic sub-humans, he wasn’t keen on Negroes. Physical characteristics prized by Aryan fabulists during the Third Reich’s mass murder spree were in no way compatible with the Jesse Owens look. Ergo it’s dubious to believe Hitler was suicidal -- at least not before April 30th, 1945. Indiana’s Mike Pence is a near-perfect manifestation of Hitler’s goose stepping ideal. If Obama possessed Pence’s vacant blue-eyed stare and flat Nordic forehead, then your co-worker would be on the right track. As for comparisons between Obama and Stalin, I don’t see the connection. For one thing, Stalin killed an estimated 20 million Russians. And he wore a mustache. Because Obama is an incompetent “man-child” it’s hard to imagine him coming close to Stalin’s impressive tally. You’re giving Obama too much credit. About all Obama can pull off is whacking a gaggle of sick seniors. Not to be too critical, but his “Death Panels” are thin soup when spooned up against Stalin’s extensive, well organized gulag operation.

As for the Anti-Christ, I would lean toward French Huguenot. Although swarthy, they blend in better than the average Arab.

Sorry I couldn’t help.

PS: If you’re the owner of the topless Dr. Laura photo I’d like a copy. I’ve abused my Sarah Palin-in-jogging-shorts glossy beyond recognition.

Dear Juan

Dear Juan,

My wife thought it was odd that Rush Limbaugh’s wedding included a color guard. Is it?

Dick Indabar
Hell, Oklahoma

Dear Dick,

Hiring a military color guard is unusual, especially since Limbaugh was conspicuously absent during Vietnam. However, fourth marriages are granted more creative license. Although it is not uncommon for previously married couples to redo the traditional church wedding, most opt for less formal ceremonies. When my cousin Dink tied his fourth or fifth knot (he wasn’t sure if number three was legally binding in the States), both bride and groom staggered into Snorky’s Hi-Ball wearing matching ‘I’m with Stupid’ tee shirts. They requested invited guests pay their tab in lieu of lottery tickets.

Because I don’t care, I’m not sure if the former country club caterer was previously married. If not, perhaps she was fulfilling a grotesque childhood fantasy. It’s not unreasonable to assume Limbaugh was stoned on goofballs and thought the garish affair was just another narcotic-induced hallucination. Rumors abound that he has no memory of the wedding and freaked after finding out Mrs. Limbaugh IV paid Elton John an extra $375,000 to croon “Better Off Dead” as their special song. Photos of “The Doctor of Democracy” humping John’s sequined leg were retrieved by security before Dick Morris could reach his National Enquirer connection.

So, all things considered a color guard was probably the least bizarre affectation.

Juan

beaned burrito

Duane,

Because of rattled brain cells, I must protect the few reasonably stable ones that miraculously dodged Wild Bo Campbell’s fastball, circa 1970. A squeaky clean Boy Scout at the time, Wild Bo’s erratic attempt to brush me off the dish resulted in a dramatic personality change. Two days after Doc Gregory pried the baseball from my forehead I was smoking L&Ms with neighborhood delinquents and brazenly challenging Daddy’s authority.

Liberating a big brass pot leaf belt buckle from Webb City’s original head shop exacerbated the budding oedipal drama, leading to years of musty basement exile. Isolated from family interaction, I escaped into a fantasy world where Pink Floyd provided the soundtrack and Penthouse intense pleasure every thirty minutes. Thanks to my sister’s kindness, the damp cell’s drippy ambience was eventually enhanced with hot plate, lava lamp and cast iron washtub. The protracted oedipal drama reached its climax in ‘73 when Daddy bought me a teddy. Convinced this would shame me into sitting still for Cousin Lenny’s flattop clippers, he was traumatized when I arrived late for Faith Lutheran’s Der Ring des Nibelungen -- what Episcopalians call Easter Sunday -- working the comfortable lingerie. Herbal planning went into accentuating his gift with cute Cleopatra sandals and roach clip earrings. The lack of panties was an unintentional fashion faux pas. I found out years later that Frau Waldbesser blamed me for her husband’s subsequent battle with acid reflux.

But I digress. Here at Chow Acre Burlingame occupies the same crawl space with Caldwell -- the dullard he thinks is “General Patton.” Lord ‘a mighty. Lacking your ‘generosite d’esprit’, I’ve reached a dead end with Joplin’s Ted Baxter. Although I have conversed with inanimate objects in the past (thanks to the Zip Wyatt Treatment Center abusing aromatic hydrocarbons is now a swirling blur), I fear a relapse if tempted to refute bunkum from someone whose grip on English is similar to the average 13th century Hungarian double amputee. It’s tough to stay engaged when his comments read like Steven Wright: “I bought some batteries, but they weren’t included.”

Maybe there is a little liberal buried deep inside Burlingame that’s dying to get out. Visions of the movie “Alien” come to mind.

And now I’m going to retire for the evening and dream about Billy Long jerking off the stigma of one party rule.

practice makes perfect

The lady standing next to Gary Nodler (who I presume is his wife) gazed up at the chunky corporate tool with an expression of earnest adoration as he endorsed his campaign commercial. Alas, her eyes darted toward the camera moments before the touching scene reached completion. I suspect lack of preparation played a role in this unfortunate miscue, ruining another classy conservative homage to traditional family values. Nancy Reagan had this staged scene down cold. Her wide Precious Moments eyes were always boring into the side of Ronnie’s head like carbide-tipped drill bits. But then Nancy was an old MGM/GE trooper trained to ignore adverse conditions, such as stinging sleet or what Daddy calls “dog pecker gnats.”

Because I had nothing better to do, I e-mailed Gary with suggestions on how to improve this stale media affectation. Presuming he wins the Republican primary and continues his quest to avoid employment in the private sector, the promotions need tweaking.
______________________________________________________

Dear Gary,

Before I put forward ideas on how to avoid further media miscues, let me commend you for owning one suit. Whether or not wearing bright baby blue threads is by design or lack of wardrobe, the color definitely attracts attention. It’s always savvy marketing to brand an image: Think Colonel Sanders and Matthew Lesko. If tempted to buy another suit, consider canary yellow or hugger orange. Avoid pinks and pastels. Billy Long telling butt pirate jokes isn’t worth the fashion risk.

*Shoot everything indoors. While outdoor locations are popular backdrops for pale politicians seeking to convey the impression of sporadic outside activity, you appear uncomfortable surrounded by nature. At least you weren’t on a horse, farm tractor or holding tools commonly associated with manual labor.

*Perfecting the doting-wife-staring-in-hypnotic-fascination-at-husband’s-gourd requires eyelid and neck muscle memory. I suggest she spend several hours a day staring at your head. Hire an assistant to distract her with loud noises and water pistol. This will either improve concentration or garner unwanted attention after she files a restraining order. Remember, there is a fine line between unblinking devotion and the less attractive deer-in-headlights glare. Use the time-tested trick of taping her eyes open if blinking detracts from the desired effect. Just make sure the tape isn’t visible. Some people might mistake the campaign ad for a trailer announcing another Tim Burton movie.

Another fool in paradise,

Juan Don

Gouge for Congress

Hello, my name is Gale Gouge and I’m running for Congress. A lifelong conservative, I believe in faith, family, no taxes and our God given right to carry concealed firearms in these venues: churches, schools, libraries, tractor pulls, movie theaters, family reunions, Little League baseball games, Wal-Mart and hospital emergency rooms. However, I do not support concealed firearms in businesses where alcohol is served. A personal tragedy involving my older brother has convinced me that assault rifles or large knifes provide a safer, more effective deterrent against sneaky ex-husbands unable to let go of the past.

Here are some of the things I’m against: government, taxes, Democrats, liberalism, welfare, Islam, Marxism, dope, environmentalism, homosexuals, workplace safety, MSNBC, public school teachers, NAACP, unions, low fat milk, little cars, Mexicans, cats, beards, trial lawyers, Communism, seat belts, hunting permits, Hollywood elites and Barack Hussein Obama.

Here are some of the things I’m for: conservatism, capitalism, corporations, Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, guns, police surveillance, Rush Limbaugh, endless war against Muslims, no taxes, off-shore drilling, global warming, Fox News, Sarah Palin, shoes with Velcro straps and deer chili.

I’ve listed a lot more on my website, www.gougeagainstgovernment.com.

Here’s a little personal history about me and my wonderful family.

Gabby and I have raised two beautiful daughters, Melody and Gale, Jr. Melody is a Health and Beauty Aides professional at the Monett Wal-Mart and Gale, Jr. is a stay-at-home mom with two special needs children. Her husband, Pick Scriven, is the owner of a successful funnel cake concession and enjoys doing volunteer work at the Barry County jail. Gabby is a tireless prayer leader and plans to continue her education online at Glenn Beck University. A freak back injury after high school has left me at the mercy of SSI disability checks. Praise to Jesus, Brother Bill Lingle has managed to partially heal the S1 and S2 vertebra. Thanks to the Holy Spirit, I can now operate the riding mower without too much pain and help Gabby water the tomatoes.

Because I’m not part of the local Republican Party establishment, our fund raising efforts have been slow. If you want to send a real American to Washington and make America the Christian nation our Founding Fathers envisioned when they defeated the French back in 1861, vote for me.

And if you can spare a few dollars check out my website for information on where to mail the money.

God bless America,

Gale Gouge

Outsourcing

I’m not really a movie reviewer. I get nervous sitting in the dark with strangers. The last movie I sat through featured Joan Blondell. Back when cigarette smoking was socially acceptable in hospital nurseries, I made a good living writing lurid crime stories. Call me sentimental, but what passes as sexy today can’t hold a candle to grainy black & white photos of half naked dames getting whacked with a claw hammer. The dames weren’t really getting whacked. Bud Ossen, the Ansel Adams of erotic masochism, was a genius. Photography lost a true visionary the night his ex caught him off guard walking across the Dark Yodeler’s parking lot. If her Rambler hadn’t stalled out, who knows how many times the crazy bitch would’ve backed over the poor bastard. I tear up staring at faded Confidential Detective covers. Those were the days when high art was appreciated.

Had I stayed away from bourbon, unstable bottle-blonds, bookies and slow ponies, my so-called Golden Years might be a different color. I’m a happy man if I can get through the day and not go ten rounds with aluminum wrapped suppositories. Whoever said, “Old age is a blessing” never spent an afternoon sprawled on the bathroom floor in a desperate attempt to shove a little metal torpedo up their ass. It ain’t pretty. Did I mention that my prostate gland and the eight ball are identical twins?

[It was at this point Dane Paste, the Joplin Globe’s senior copy editor, realized Clifford Hanger’s first submitted movie review wasn’t going to make the Sunday edition].

Pre-Palin Vault Bones: Antichrist alert of '08

I was relieved to read that Jerry Jenkins, the Abbott to Tim LaHaye’s Costello, doesn’t believe Barack Obama is the Antichrist. “I can see by the language he uses why people think he could be the Antichrist, but from my reading of scripture, he doesn’t meet the criteria. There is no indication in the Bible that the Antichrist will be an American”, said the popular pulp fiction writer. No longer using the Book of Revelation as inspiration for my occasional stab at mixing the action thriller genre in with Armageddon (I prefer lifting passages from Nelson DeMille‘s “The Hammer of God“), I’ll defer to Jerry’s expertise and cross Obama off my list of possible Antichrist candidates. But after revisiting old notes, I was shaken (but not stirred) to find the Antichrist shares striking similarities to Auric Goldfinger. If I detect any mysterious whiff of Pussy Galore within Revelation’s gory prophesy, I’ll fire my flare gun in the general direction of Jerusalem -- the official high sign for Hagee’s Military Warrior Support Foundation to look busy. The sooner we find this Antichrist character, the better.
**************************

Odd that Karl Rove may have met with Georgia’s Mikheil Saakashvili several days after Dr. Rice’s July 9th private dinner with the comb-challenged president. Bush’s “brain” sure gets around. Attending a conference in Yalta with Saakashvili, Juan wonders what Bush’s nefarious election strategist was doing so far from home. Perhaps Diebold is selling magical voting machines to Eastern Europe’s fledgling democracies.

Sifting through mainstream news this morning, I found Matthew Mosk and Jeffery H. Birnbaum’s piece in The Washington Post exploring Randy Scheunemann’s connection with Saakashvili. Scheunemann, McCain’s top foreign affairs hack, was receiving hefty checks from the Georgian government until March of this year for lobbying services rendered; I’m sure that had no impact on the Maverick’s command decision to dispatch Joe Liebermann overseas. Good thing the other half of what Wolcott calls “The Sunshine Boys of Cold War II” is the perfect candidate to report back an unvarnished assessment of the situation. Meanwhile, professional neo-cons were rolling atop shag carpets with glee over the prospects of instigating WW III a few days ago; but now a silky radioactive mushroom cloud of doubt hovers over Krauthhammer’s black leather-lined study. Alas, the Russian bear has pulled back, dashing hopes of an all out shooting war between Blackwater goons and Putin’s KGB before Labor Day.

Pressed to clarify what he meant when saying, “In the 21st century nations don’t invade other nations”, McCain deftly ignored his support of the preemptive invasion of Iraq and recited a prepared statement condemning Russia’s swift military response to Georgia’s attack on Ossitia. I’m sure the Maverick’s bellicose disconnect tickles he feathers of ignorant war hawks; however those of us seeking escape from Cheney’s bunker tend to reach for more gin and tonic.

That’s a serious hint, Adler. It’s time you blessed the hovel with more English liquor and fresh limes.
***************************

Thanks to one particularly disturbed acquaintance, I have Jerome Corsi’s heavily researched tome detailing the life and times of Barack Obama. I’m not sure what to do with it, so I’ll place it next to the slab’s meat grilling device and wait for inspiration.
****************************

Does Pete Peterson work full-time or part-time for Hallmark? I’d love to have a collection of his quotes to replace my outdated calendar featuring Tarzan’s famous quips.
*****************************

Juan is going to a pool party this afternoon. He promises not run, carelessly misuse glass containers or engage in horseplay with women half his age.

September 26, 2007

Trolling through the paper’s on-line comment section, I decided to visit Andrew M’s discussion room. It would appear as though Andrew M is confused about the Bible‘s lack of specificity regarding Cain’s better half.

Andrew M: “At that point in the bible it (is only) states that Adam, Eve, Cain and Able (sic) were on earth, it says nothing of no other people on the earth. So where did Cain’s wife come from?”

As luck would have it, I know the answer:

Cain’s ex-wife is the former Holly Sally Butts, oldest daughter of Charles (Chuck) and Wanda Strickland Butts. She was raised with her two sisters, Wendy Dawn and Hannah Anna, on the outskirts of Nixa, Missouri. Active in band, she typed competitively for Nixa High’s FBLA chapter. Holly divorced Cain, alleging serial spousal abuse. She is currently married to Dustin (Dusty) Hole. Sadly, Holly attached her maiden name with Hole, via unfortunate experimentation with the hyphen. Although Cain's lack of a surname never exposed Holly to possible local ridicule, her last name greatly vexed her original in-laws and added even more stress to the shopping season we celebrate today as Christmas.

To those curious about Old Testament mysteries, e-mail me with questions on Monday and Thursday: I don’t shave and tend to drink more than usual.

Whispering past the cemetery: Febuary 2008

From The Hairdresser, Party Lines’ unofficial Washington D.C. correspondent.*
******************************************************************

Dear Juan,

Sorry I couldn’t talk last week when you called. You had obviously been ‘working’ hard that day and I had endured a lengthy Happy Hour ‘conversation’ with a booth-full of soused, overpaid ‘health-care’ lobbyists. I suspect that they’re penciled-in to receive the first fresh liver available after their organic filters permanently ferment. Proximity to power does have its privileges.

From your last rambling missive, I can’t tell if you think Giuliani will go the distance or suffocate beneath his self-promoted 9-11 hero mythology. I can tell you that he’s certainly got the juice. The same fat cats who financed George W. have written big-numbered checks to his campaign. No question that Bernie Kerik poses a problem. Judith Regan, the woman scorned, probably did make secret tape recordings. It’s very likely Murdock’s legal army is busy creating firewalls in case the Feds decide to follow the money. Although it’s no secret Murdock’s Media Empire is backing Giuliani, it certainly gives the other candidates an opening to cry foul when Fox News lackeys drool in near-orgasmic delight at the very mention of his name. McCain and Romney have already taken their shots, questioning Giuliani’s judgment for sponsoring somebody with Kerik’s checkered past. It’s Helleresque ironic that he turned down Bush’s offer to become the Homeland Security czar over fears his scandal-rife career would generate too much negative publicity -- and then suggested Kerik as a splendid replacement! I’m starting to agree with you; maybe the entire White House vetting process was/is run from Karl Rove’s Blackberry.

An associate who works for the Dark Side has a friend with close ties to the Thompson campaign. The news from Shady Rest isn’t good. Thompson looks bad. Celebrity stalkers and Republicans praying for Reagan’s return have to stifle a gasp whenever he shuffles into view. Thus far he’s failed to generate any momentum (or money); he will probably fade away before Valentine’s Day. Romney, who will win in Iowa and New Hampshire, is the one benefiting most from Giuliani’s close proximity to the Kerik mess. Assuming that Giuliani’s mob problems provide rightwing evangelical mullahs the brass knuckles needed to serious cripple The Weekly Standard’s favorite neo-con, then Romney’s Mormonism will be overlooked as long as he recites verbatim from the Dobson Book of Common Prayer. Robertson’s endorsement doesn’t pack the same wallop it once did. In fact, it’s a sign of how far removed Giuliani’s people are from the conservative Christian movement that they thought a brief sound-bite from Robertson would redeem Rudy’s unconscionable pro-choice position. Nothing succeeds like success. A slew of early primary victories will put the Romney camp front and center, and leave John McCain (poor bastard) and Mike Huckabee staring in glum silence at a map.

Republican mavericks and libertarian-leaning independents have found a new horse to ride in Ron Paul, leaving McCain stranded in some dimly-lit church basement, muttering to himself that his Faustian deal with Bob Jones III was a bit premature. Huckabee’s poll numbers have been trending upward (he doesn’t have to pretend born-again ‘bona-fides‘, since he ‘are’ one) but he’ll never tap into BuschCo ’Pioneer’ cash or persuade Wall Street that he can keep the global Ponzi scheme afloat for another four years. Beltway consensus is that Huckabee is positioning himself to be on the VP shortlist. He would certainly be a friendlier face than Tom Tancredo or Duncan Hunter. Both have hinted that should Bill Richardson win the Democratic beauty contest, they will demand INS agents poke him back to Mexico at gunpoint. (Strangely enough, they seem to like Dennis Kucinich. Howard Kurtz believes it’s because he has a hot wife).

It will be interesting to see how long Republicans can pretend Hillary Clinton is the incumbent president. After holding the House and Senate hostage for years, the latest GOP slogan is VOTE FOR CHANGE! The joke going around Zengo’s Lounge is sometime next spring House Repubs will try and push through a bill declaring Bush a Democrat. I’m sure you enjoyed hearing that they demanded an apology from Pelosi for suggesting that the needless Iraq occupation will eventually cost $3 trillion. I see their point. Fiscal conservatives can live with $2 trillion but anything higher than that is an outrageous affront to common decency.

Now go and super-glue your teeth back in!

Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em,



(Name withheld for national security)

*Funny how some things never change.

flushed from c drive

Adler came over for Juan's famous Great Value canned chili. My nonchalant method of turning on the burner gives the dook-colored feast that little something extra. Adler swears area jails have nothing on tibio puercos banquete. And what is the perfect post-para los puercos dessert? Yes, the delicious banana.

Because of wet weather, horse tank-side cocktails were swirled in the hovel’s constrained spa. Too small for conventional pleasantries, such as heated pool and relaxing sauna, the spa can only accommodate a steam iron. While sipping Black Market brandy and taking turns squirting each other with jarring blasts of hot vapor, our conversation soon turn to politics.

But I wasn’t in the mood. Feeling queasy from the entree, banana and cheap brandy, I was ready to watch fat people exercise for cash prizes. Adler realized I was fading.

Worn out? He asked.

I guess. The drive to buy smokes took it out of me. I couldn’t have gone another mile.

What is it? Two, three miles?

At least. And I was wearing steel-toed Red Wings. With my atrophied legs it was like driving in diving boots.

Why were you wearing steel toed boots?

I don’t know. Perhaps I was trying to impress the girl at the counter. She looks like the type who appreciates a man who actually works for a living.

Tattoos?

Just one that I know of.

Is it becoming?

As much as any indescribable bluish-green glob is on a skinny girl’s neck.

Teeth?

No glaring empty spaces. But she doesn’t really smile. It’s more of a strained grin.

Pause. A siren wailed. More creek trouble down at Holly's Haven.

I’d better split before Beloved comes home. Ever since you blamed me for breaking the Bullet blender, I get the death stare.

She learned that trick from her mother. If Trinity Lutheran decides to spice up the bell choir with Dracula-in-drag, Scary Frau tinkling “A Mighty Fortress is our God” is the next YouTube sensation.

Twilight: The rain was over, replaced by foggy swirls of humidity. Adler kicked his old Norton to life. The roar was deafening. I could hear the British bike rumbling east, long after beatnik and machine vanished from sight.

Several hours later, mentally drained from staring sphinx-like at network television, I curled up with the cats and daydreamed about winning a lifetime’s worth of disability checks.

Rando Redux

After Shelly Dreyer beat a hasty retreat from the Club 609’s small town trendy décor, Anson Burlingame spoke quietly but firmly into his wallet-sized tape recorder.

Impressions of the trial lawyer: Good judge of character; perfume subtle, didn’t smell like a Guam Goochie girl; obviously a right-wing ideologue; shitty at math; flimsy grip on science; didn’t compliment my beard or Hawaiian shirt. This bothers me, even though no signs of ‘butchiness’. Maybe she’s far-sighted.

An hour later Bill White, Shelly Dreyer’s opponent in the Republican primary, sat opposite his interrogator, staring down into a pile of overpriced romaine lettuce.

Anson: Here’s the scenario, Bill: You and a young Japanese guy are marooned on a desert island. Months and months go by and still no rescue ship. The Japanese guy’s hair is getting longer and longer. And because he’s oriental, he doesn’t have any facial hair. Let’s say he’s found a flimsy dress while looking for coconuts or whatever. One day you notice him walk by and he’s wearing the dress. You think, ‘Shit fire, from the back he looks just like a girl!’ Later on the beach…
White: I’m not sure where you’re going with this or why.
Anson: Bill, as I explained during my last scenario with the terrorist, power drill and ticking time bomb, I’m exploring the depths of your flexibility.
White: You do remember that I’m running for state representative?
Anson: Of course! And I want to make damn certain how the person representing me in Jeff City would handle themselves with a young Japanese guy wearing a dress on a desert island. You’re a Republican, so I’d expect you to look after my economic self-interest! What I want to know, Bill, is what’s going to happen to the Japanese guy.
White: Alright, the answer is an emphatic no.
Anson: Even after two, three years?
White: Still no. Can we change the subject?
Anson: Just one more. I call this my ‘Illegal Mexican/Red Dawn Scenario’. You might want to pay close attention, Bill; this baby gets real tricky in a hurry.
White: (Fumbles for his ringing cell phone). Hello. Yes. Right. Okay. Anson, I’m very sorry but I’m needed back at the office. Something about residency requirements.
Anson: Too bad. You’d have really enjoyed the last brain teaser.
White: I’m sure. Thanks for the lunch and the interesting conversation. Maybe some time I can give you more details about my plan to entice bigger poultry plants into southwest Missouri.

While the waitress removed the plates, Anson spoke quietly but firmly into his wallet-sized tape recorder.

Impressions of Bill White: Not as wimpy as first thought; would drill terrorist's knee-cap but wasn’t as gung-ho about slicing open his nut sack with a K-Bar. Didn’t bite on the Japanese guy who looks like a girl on desert island scenario. Seemed a bit jumpy when I asked him if he favored nuking the entire Middle East. Wanted to know if Israel was included in my plan for total victory. Good point. Doesn’t think Obama is a true Marxist, but could be if he wins a second term. Fingernails were a bit too long. Doesn’t appear to get outside much. Will declare winner during spur of the moment epiphany while watching “Hannity.”
Mustard way too spicy.

Rando

Rando,

Well, the mysterious case of ‘Just Who the Fuck is Shelly Dreyer?’ has certainly taken an interesting turn.

Since Anson failed to include questions and answers from his “interviews", I thought I’d have some fun.

Showdown at the 609 Club, featuring Anson Burlingame and local hack politician, Shelly Dreyer. The intrepid submariner is not about to let her pull the wool over his eyes. One tough son-of-a-bitch conservative, Anson has spent twenty minutes concocting questions that will determine whether or not Shelly, a god damned trial lawyer, can survive his brutal but brilliant interrogation without dissolving into a puddle of piss. There won’t be any quarter given, no sir. Keen beyond any reasonable definition, only Anson can determine if Shelly is a true Republican or just another liberal pussy pulling a fast one.

Anson: Okay, Shelly, what’s the square root of 137?
Shelly: What?
Anson: Come on! You heard me. I thought trial lawyers were smart. Let‘s go, I have a dozen more “nukes” waiting in the wings! (Snaps his fingers).
Shelly: I don’t know.
Anson: I figured as much. Okay, Shelly, so tell me why I shouldn’t think you’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing?
Shelly: Why would you think that?
Anson: Hey, I’m asking the questions here! You sue doctors, don’t you?
Shelly: Wow, you’re the toughest cross examiner I’ve ever met.
Anson: Really?
Shelly: Swear to God. Did you practice law?
Anson: Hardly, I was the captain of a nuclear submarine.
Shelly: Holy cow! Now that’s impressive!
Anson: Damn straight! So, if you aren’t a wolf in sheep clothing, are you a traditional Jasper County conservative ideologue?
Shelly: Yes.
Anson: Hmmm. You sure?
Shelly: I’m just your typical gun-loving, tax-hating, Christian conservative who is firmly convinced that liberalism poses a greater threat to our freedom than Muslim terrorists.
Anson: Fair enough. Okay, how old is the Earth?
Shelly: Really old.
Anson: You’re going to have to do better than that.
Shelly: Millions and millions of years old?
Anson: Wrong! (Pounds fist on the table) It’s four billion years old!
Shelly: Okay. (Looks at her watch). You know, I’d love to spend more time talking with you, but I have to give…I mean take a deposition. I have to say that I’m really, really impressed with your questions. I can see why you write such great editorials.
Anson: And my blog?
Shelly: Blog?
Anson: (Narrows his eyes ). You haven’t read my blog?
Shelly: I’m sorry, I don’t spend much time on the internet.
Anson: Well, that’s unfortunate. I write a damn fine blog for the paper. Carol said it should win an award.
Shelly: I can see why, if it’s anything like your editorials.
Anson: One last question: Paper or plastic?
Shelly: Plastic?
Anson: Good answer! That was a trick question. Had you said paper, I’d know you’re an impostor!
Shelly: Amazing! Perry Mason has nothing on you.

pinch

The bad news is the economy may never regain any semblance of financial stability; the good news is a giant asteroid hasn’t entered the Earth’s atmosphere. After pinching myself hard enough to reluctantly reenter this disheveled time/space portal, I immediately remembered the opening lines from Woody Allen’s, "My Speech to the Graduates": “More than any other time in history, mankind faces a crossroads. One path leads to despair and utter hopelessness; the other to total extinction. Let us pray we have the wisdom to choose correctly.”
***************************
I missed Bristol Palin’s acting debut because I haven’t gone completely insane; not yet, anyway: I’m saving that for Ryan Franklin’s next mound appearance.
***************************
The Summer of My Discontent: The other day George the tom cat and I bitched about the rottweiler for a good fifteen minutes before we both realized that my weak meowing vocabulary severely limited the conversation’s potential for ferreting out why Keisha likes to repose in the hovel’s narrow hallway, blocking egress to his favorite sleeping nest (atop Beloved’s fleece pullovers) and the only working toilet. Developing a fondness for shitting indoors at an early age, I don’t relish doing my business in the backyard. But I will if I have to, even though there’s a very good chance the doctor’s wife (my gamey neighbor) will bear witness to this necessary act of nature. (Babs has an unnerving habit of training her high-powered binoculars on my backyard). It’s fortunate that she thinks I’m a Native American. During one our semi-frequent patio slab Shiraz taste-testing binges, the Australian grape prompted her to slovenly inquire if pooping alfresco was an ancient Peoria ritual. While flattered that I felt comfortable performing this scatological ceremony through her pricey SkyOptics, she was curious as to what an offering of feces signified. Caught flatfooted by her question, I fingered a greasy bottle of Banana Boat tanning lotion before concocting a suitable reply.

“Babs, aside from revealing an appreciable amount of sun baked skin while jiggling atop your riding mower, the reason we’ve formed a bond is our shared fondness for getting hammered before “Days of Our Lives” momentarily transports us into a world where everybody, even the villains, have healthy, pink gums. I could tell you why my people take the occasional outdoor dump, but to do so would defile my mannitoo-oo. There are aspects of our complex and seemingly incoherent spirituality that pale faces will never understand. I’ll be honest, someone from your gene pool pinching off a seat-less loaf is an affront to the Noble Savage’s sensibility. Maybe it’s the graceless way Europeans squat, I don’t know. Regardless, the sacred bowel movements that you’re honored to zoom in on represent eons of thanks for having a butt hole. Let’s leave it at that.”

Babs raised her wine glass and slurred a toast to an area of the human body that seldom receives its’ just due: Here, here, indeed.

Several hours later I drug Babs home. After placing her listless body in front of the garage the doctor uses to house his gleaming black Tahoe, I staggered about the creek bank in an approximation of unresolved purpose.

Jeepers Creepers

Let’s see, forty five days have passed since my last act of bloggery and…

Crude is still gushing into the Gulf from a broken oil well that nobody -- not even James Cameron or Kevin Costner -- can fix: So much for Hollywood elites. Whenever a nuclear weapon is being bantered about as an alternative to golf balls and mud, it’s safe to assume that the final scene of this nightmarish fuck up will feature John Cleese running away from a vicious, oil-encased rabbit.
___________________________________
Plumber: “Juan, I’m afraid I can’t stop the toilet from leaking.”
Juan: “Well, that’s not good.”
Plumber: “Don’t worry. I have a small A bomb in the truck. I’m guessing two, possibly ten, square miles will cease to exist. Trust me; after I set this bad boy off you won’t be worrying about the crapper.” [Plumber laughs while Juan ponders how he should inquire about his homeowner’s nuclear explosion liability without arousing State Farm’s suspicion].
___________________________________

Anson Burlingame continues his obsessive quest to avoid discussing progressive taxation as a possible revenue source.

Sarah Palin has enhanced her presidential stature by denying rumors of a boob job and ass tuck.

I feel better knowing that a large stash of lithium has been discovered in Afghanistan. But that’s just me. The prospect of scoring affordable Librium means that I can make it through another season of “Celebrity Apprentice”. Yes!

Because I know too much about Beck’s latest ghost written pap, “The Overton Window”, I’ve been singing:

Founder’s Keepers
Where’d ya get those peepers?
Founder’s Keepers
Where’d ya get that…eye?

I’d like to think that the newest Mrs. Limbaugh’s prenuptial agreement includes free rectal reconstruction surgery.

bottom of the ninth

Sarah Palin has amended “drill, baby, drill!” to “pray, baby, pray!” And all this time I thought she was an expert on containing the various ecological disasters inherent when sea water and crude oil collide. I’m glad Dr.Staib, my dentist and borrowed precious metals fence, doesn’t substitute Novocain for prayer. Call me a cynic, but I doubt if prayer can thwart the looming nightmare awaiting Louisiana’s coastal wetlands or quiet shrieking nerves.

Rush Limbaugh, who would burst into flames if haunting holy ground, hasn’t petitioned the Lord for divine intervention. Decidedly more nimble than the movement’s painfully ignorant poster-saint, he pondered the possibility of politically motivated sabotage. Because it’s impossible for an offshore drilling platform to blow up, environmental ‘whackos’ must have planted explosives. This plausible explanation, eerily similar to Michael Crichton’s plot line in “State of Fear”, should improve his accuracy rating once the eco-terrorists are caught hiding under Nancy Pelosi’s desk.

It’s comforting to know that the dynamic duo of post-toasty conservatism treat catastrophes with such somber gravity.
__________________________

Our planned trip to Arizona is on hold. Every summer Beloved and I visit the Grand Canyon on our way to see Uncle Hans and Aunt Dot. Usually by July I’m a leathery Cordovan brown. Fond of wide brimmed sombreros, the odds of being stopped have increased dramatically now that a non-Aryan-looking eccentric traveling with a white woman is considered sufficient cause for police intercession. Adding to our apprehension is the state’s latest effort to crack down on those who can’t speak English without an accent. Ever since I was cursed with the option of wearing a dental partial or finding work in Branson, I sound like Peter Lorre playing Zorro. While this oral misfortune ruined a budding Little Theater career, it comes in handy throwing bill collectors off the trail.

Gnarlatious Revelation

Glenn Beck is receiving instructions directly from the Big Kahuna. While less blessed holy men struggle with sacred texts for spiritual guidance, Glenn is getting his dope straight from the horse’s mouth. Who needs printed paper when the audio version is piped in for free? Think of the relief fading eyesight would receive if Stephen King, his New England accent emanating from somewhere deep inside your brain, eliminated the need to shop retail. Of course hearing King recite “The Stand” from beginning to end does limit the lucky recipient’s ability to concentrate on other things. And depending on the volume, getting a good night’s sleep could become problematic. Maybe this is why schizophrenics often turn to drugs and alcohol -- especially if the voice is Mark Levin squealing the same Hardy Boys mystery twenty four hours a day. I vaguely remember enjoying “Hunting for Hidden Gold” when navigating my way through fifth grade, but Levin’s continual internal narration of their wild adventure is as good a reason as any to get down with Grey Goose.

History is sprinkled with prophets claiming a close relationship with the Big Kahuna. The more successful prophets’ spawned monotheistic religions that can’t figure out who listened to the one true Hodad of all Bomboras and who listened to George Burns. In terms of seniority, Christianity has a 600 year edge on Islam, and the Jews have both beat by roughly 1,700 years. Perhaps Glenn is the prophet who will bring all three religions together, forever ending the bloody infighting between Abram/Abraham’s descendants. But because Glenn’s been vague about what his supernatural chats entail, I’m not awaiting in tingly anticipation over what the Big Kahuna eventually reveals, via His Vick’s VapoRub huffing buddy. However, working in Glenn’s favor is the fact Limbaugh’s talent source chose a dry drunk with a history of dummy dust addiction over the average sheet metal worker; it does follow the “mysterious ways” motif. And it wouldn’t be the first time the creator of airborne pollen threw mankind another screw ball. Molding a “rodeo clown” from bullshit makes sense when you consider Sister Sarah grossed $12 million last year.

I’m going to be disappointed if “The Plan” (what Glenn calls his latest gag) turns out to be a celestial-seasoned sales pitch to buy gold and/or “survival” seeds.

Manning Up

I seldom haunt the garage. It is not my happy place. Crowded with strange smelling boxes and shadowy objects, the dank space is a shipwreck of flea-market flotsam. Every now and then I’m ordered into this hellhole to retrieve an item for Beloved. Yesterday she assured me there was a box of rags somewhere within the mice infested maze -- and she needed them pronto.

I’ve learned from previous beatings not to ask where something might be lurking. Ye gods forbid I should question the crap's very existence. Stalling for time, I offered to glean through my closet of business/casual attire and find tattered cotton suitable to replace the generic rag; but no. For reasons unknown Beloved collected real rags (as opposed to faded shards of Ralph Lauren’s retail empire) and now was the moment of their liberation from cardboard bondage.

Blessed with what military professionals call “shithouse luck”, I eventually located the box sans panic attack and bouts of nausea that usually accompany my rare garage explorations. Because Beloved cleverly marked my grail in big, black letters, she was presented with her wish within the hour. Exhausted -- but flushed with victory -- I retreated to the patio and repeatedly toasted success with fermented grains. Had the sun burned brighter, I would have anointed my ablated flesh with oil and presented the goddess Cerridenwen with sacrificial nail clippings.

All in all, it was a rather typical Friday afternoon at the hovel.

Hen House Call

Hello.

Is this Juan Don?

Could be. Who’s this?

I’m Phoebe Nutt, Dr. Sutterer’s office manager. Mr. Don, our records show that you still owe 3,587 chickens.

Damn, that’s a lot of chickens for condyloma acumination surgery. The best my wife and I can handle is nine at a time. She drives a compact and I drive a small convertible. If you relaxed your policy of only accepting live chickens, we could pack our trunks and deliver a few more.

Why would the doctor accept dead chickens as payment?

Good question. Here’s another: Why does he want live chickens? Dr. Dookley was always eager to take McNuggets.

I’m not an accountant, Mr. Don. If transporting chickens is a problem, I suggest you contact Malan Brothers Fowl Emporium. They specialize in bulk live chicken delivery.

I know. My wife called them. They barter large caliber ammo for chickens. Believe it or not, we’re short on large caliber ammo. Look, I know where I can liberate some goats, maybe a cow or two…

I’m sorry, but the doctor doesn’t accept hoofed animals as legal tender. The practice is strictly chicken-for-services rendered. Hello. Mr. Don?

____________________

Inspired by rum and Sue Lowden, the Nevada Republican running against Harry Reid. Additional inspiration by lime and Dr. Sutterer, Joplin’s favorite compassionate conservative physician.

patio intellectuals

Adler and I were not in a serious mood yesterday afternoon. Blame it on Rio. After partaking generous amounts of Rio, he recounted a conversation overheard at one of Joplin’s classier dives. The eavesdropping involved a young man’s poor attempt to entice a young lady off her bar stool for some “Fear of Flying” backseat car sex. After more Rio, we drained the remaining sunlight concocting terrible pick up lines. And the least disgusting winner is:

Excuse me. I couldn’t help but notice that you could really use a good, hot shower. My parents have a roomy walk-in, with little seats on each side and three flexible spray nozzles. Mommy likes the convenience of sitting down when cleaning out her dirty place. What say you and I go lather up?

pale faces

Silly me, I forgot sore losers were gathering to protest tax cuts. Because an unfortunate seven iron-to-bald spot mishap triggers strange bouts of memory loss, I missed out on an opportunity to show off my carefully lettered sign and Old Glory poncho. Wordy when wielding a Magic Marker (I really like the way they smell), mine says: Although my grandparents are dead, they’d never live to see their only grandson master screen patio door repair now that ‘Obamacare’ has debauched our glorious, God-given health-care racket…free kittens to good homes.

Captain Putnam, garbed in what appeared to be a mismatched “Barry Lyndon” costume, obviously shares my penchant for exhibitionism. It’s not every day that someone with an English riding boot fetish can flash their leathery kink without attracting recusant looks from real Christian conservatives. At least the gentleman’s costume did not include black fishnet stockings. There is no tricorn hat in the world that can offset the unsettling image of Thomas Jefferson in drag. The very thought of Tom dressed as saucy 18th century strumpet is enough to curdle this pagan’s cream. I’m teasing, of course: the bespectacled emcee is not clever enough to meld Revolutionary War fantasies with Marlene Dietrich’s Weimar Germany. This is just a guess, but I suppose even gullible Beckerheads would have trouble keeping a straight face if the master of ceremonies conducted the confusing affair in ass-less chaps and “Don’t Tread on Me” nipple rings.

Yes, it’s true my invisible friend -- who is “conservative but smart as hell to boot”* -- Sarah Palin poured into ass-less chaps, her saggy mammary glands adorned with nipple rings, would most certainly entice me to shake my sock monkey. But then again, Beloved’s Lands' End swim suit teaser provides enough erotica to redirect blood flow to an area best described as the Dead Sea. Due to an unfortunate incident involving Victoria’s Secret and double espresso, my urologist suggested I refrain from opening mail unattended.

It was thoughtful of Jasper County Republicans to offer W. Cleon Skouen’s contribution to tinfoil origami. Although William Luther Pierce, author of “The Turner Diaries”, is a better writer, Skouen’s work is more compatible with Glenn Beck’s post-Dixie revisionism.

*Anson Burlingame occasionally commits an unwitting act of transparency.

sun burned in soft, white places

I’ve been busy doing other things now that spring has sprung. Genetically predisposed to practice paganism, my lucky neighbors are, once again, blessed to see a lot more of me since the post-Easter neon blue Speedo has arisen from its dresser drawer tomb. Past the age where worrying about physical appearance makes any difference, the ‘boys’ and I sway (and droop) with Newton County sangfroid; we’re oblivious to jeering motorist(s) or the Old Lady’s hairy eyeball. Because no suitable conical non la (leaf hat) is stocked within Wal-Mart’s cornucopia of imported sweat shop finery, I make do with a ratty Ping Panama fedora.

Although gentle folk seem to find my yard work attire (or lack thereof) lascivious from the eyebrows down, rest assured that my thinning pate is covered with country club straw. The affectation allows me to converse with the good doctor’s wife without straining the bounds of polite society. Perhaps it’s best that I cannot find a proper non la. Replacing Ping with Cong sun shade has the potential to strain outdoor tête-à-têtes, and jeopardize the fun we have recounting our embarrassing bikini wax miscues.

Mrs. DeBakey is convinced that I’m a shameless Peoria half-breed. I doubt if she would be as forthcoming with titillating spa gossip -- or her husband’s gin -- should a pointy non la create suspicion about my ethnic origin. A rather loose lady, her friendliness might wane should she believe I’m more Thanh Pho Ho than Gotebo. There is something about the Noble Savage that fading debutante’s find attractive. Always eager to please, I’ve made up fertility dances on the spot if it prompts Mrs. DeBakey to break out the blender. Last summer, overcome by gimlet and Gitche, she painted her toenails turquoise in honor of an especially moving impromptu patio stomp. Alas, the Old Lady’s unexpected appearance brought the blues to a potentially consciousness-altering experience, and left one fake brave sleeping off his afternoon drunk in the big dog’s teepee.

Speaking of Sarah Palin, I gather a gathering of wine and spirit distributors were not wowed by the former half-term governor’s act. In fairness, nuclear arms reduction jokes are an odd subject for partying Vegas conventioneers. Granted, someone supposedly running for president has to walk a fine line between what is and what isn’t appropriate stand -up material: Humor that’s too risqué runs the risk of offending religious hypocrites; and goofing on the evils of competent government only plays well where shirtless patrons consider lite beer an aperitif.

Fortunately for Palin, conservatives have wandered so far off the reservation it's considered patriotic to sing "Anything Goes". Anson Burlingame, Joplin’s official nuclear arms control expert, believes the former half-term governor is as qualified to discuss America’s nuclear arsenal as the president. It’s true, before she quit her day job Palin did preside over Alaska’s National Guard. President Obama, on the other hand, is saddled with the Pentagon’s spurious input.

Lord knows the world would be a safer place if America just surrendered to Israel.

we are stardust, we are golden

An undetermined number of Republicans are enjoying “Tea Party Woodstock”; placing those three words together just isn't right. Twelve years old when the original Woodstock spawned the porta-potty industry, my parents decided that I was too young to accept the freaky next door neighbor’s invitation to tag along. I fought back tears watching Shorty drive away in his camper-hearse.

Six years later, one of the hairier non-traditional students from my freshman orientation class captivated me and other pucca-shelled student union hipsters with vague recollections of his long weekend spent tripping on Max Yasgar’s farm. Mr. Mike compressed the iconic event into no food, hallucinations and mucky fucking. When asked about the music, he shrugged and shook his head.

The last time I saw Mr. Mike he was in the custody of campus security. But he looked happy.

Gathered outside Majority Leader Harry Reid’s hometown, Preparation H Woodstock has attracted top names in the pandering industry. Sarah Palin, fresh from helping shove John McCain’s reputation even further down the crapper, is flying in to shake her money maker. Sarah’s backup singers include Joe the Plumber, Andrew Breitbart and Newsmax sensation, Hannah Giles. Too bad Hannah’s partner is still sorting out his legal situation. I’m sure the mob would love to see James O’Keefe and Hannah reprise their classic rendition of “Moo Woo Woo” -- especially if wearing traditional Irish pimp and ’ho costumes.

Laura Meyers, a Las Vegas Review-Journal reporter, arrived early and filed this little peek into real America:
____________________________
Dave Alexander, a Las Vegas tour guide, was already selling souvenir T-shirts featuring a yellow-flag “Don’t Tread on Me” motto. It’s a Tea Party favorite.

“Sarah gave me the courage and the incentive to get off my La-Z-Boy recliner and stop cussing at the politicians on TV and start getting out and doing something,” said Alexander, smoking a cigarette and wearing a red, white and blue baseball cap. He said he would sleep on site in his Toyota Tundra double-cap pickup with a couple of friends. His lunch was spray cheese on Ritz crackers.

“We’ll be roughing it a bit, I guess,” he said.
______________________________

I almost forgot that Victoria Jackson is beaming in to share her social studies skill with Dave and fellow gourmets. The former SNL comedienne is best known for performing hand-stands while warbling. Oddly enough, this unique talent didn’t segue into silver screen stardom.

Cantor Banter

Last Thursday Rep. Eric Cantor (R-VA) announced that he was the victim of domestic terrorism. The Minority Whip said a bullet was fired into his congressional office. This shocking revelation, following numerous incidents of angry intimidation aimed at Democratic lawmakers, heightened an already tense environment. While Democrats complained of racial and sexual slurs, spit, faxed nooses, ad nauseam, Cantor upped the ante and insinuated that he had narrowly escaped an assassination attempt.

There is just one problem with his story: it was wildly exaggerated.

Several hours before the Minority Whip shared his chilling tale, Richmond police issued a report debunking Cantor’s claim that he was sniper bait. First of all, the unfortunate window was not attached to his congressional office, but to rental space he shares with three other lessees. There is no signing that indicates Cantor has any connection to the building. And about the bullet, it’s safe to conclude that Cantor was not the slug’s intended target. In fact, whoever fired the gun was pointing at the sky. The bullet, on its return flight, had just enough momentum to break glass, but couldn’t penetrate the window blinds. Essentially, Cantor’s “direct threat” was nothing more than a random act of careless “gun play” -- or spent celebratory brass from an Afghan wedding party.

Faced with defending (spinning) his boss’s fact-free rush-to-judgment, Cantor’s spokesman, Brad Dayspring, implied the congressman was relying on “information available at the time”. I guess neither Cantor nor his staff has internet access.

I like Steven Benen’s take: “But the defense doesn’t exactly make Cantor look good, either. The Minority Whip was so anxious to make it seem like violent threats are a problem for “both sides” that he, ahem, jumped the gun. He didn’t really know what he was talking about, but he nevertheless told reporters and America about a “threat” that didn’t exist. Many media outlets even bought into Cantor’s claim at face value, assuming that he wouldn’t say something like this if it weren’t true. For that matter, for a media desperate to characterize every ugly phenomenon as “bipartisan”, Cantor gave them what they wanted.

But it wasn’t true. Given the larger atmosphere, and the actual violence that’s already occurred, people in Cantor’s position have a responsibility not to be reckless with the truth. It’s a responsibility clearly and conveniently forgot at an important moment”.
_______________________________

I’m sure Glenn Beck will put his chalkboard to better use and provide his reclining army the straight dope.

sea change

The Hairdresser thinks I was too rough on Bart Stupak. After all, he did come around at the last minute and help push HCR past the finish line. Sorry. It’s not that I’m cold or stubborn (I'm actually a very malleable bundle of easy come, easy go) but coddling Bart’s particular religious beliefs should never trump the needs of Americans without health-care. Abortion is still legal in this country, contrary to what pro-life fetus defenders pretend. It’s not that I have anything against the fetus. I just follow the Constitution: a woman's uterus is HER OWN DAMN BUSINESS.
__________________________

I rarely laugh out loud, but John Boehner’s last minute pep talk to fellow House Republicans was a rare exception. Reminding them that a lot of people were watching C-SPAN, he cautioned his colleagues to “act like grown ups”. In other words: behave. One of the Minority Leader’s many responsibilities must be keeping class clowns in line. Maybe this is why Boehner chases Michele Bachmann around the Capitol with a paddle.

Yes, I know a net would be more appropriate.
___________________________

Several of the True Realization’s fellow travelers disagreed with my assessment that Tea Baggers were “Southern Strategy” Republicans in disguise; once again, sorry. The so-called movement’s incestuous relationship with Fox, talk radio and GOP funded front groups is too obvious. In fact, this is the last time I will ever write Tea Bagger. From now on every racial slur, every act of domestic violence and every glob of hateful spittle that comes from the mob’s mouth will be placed directly upon the RNC’s doorstep -- where it belongs. The days of 'plausible deniability' are over.
___________________________

It’s impossible to underestimate the historic legislative victory achieved by the president. The political wind no longer blows from the right side of the aisle. Republicans, establishing their brand as disingenuous and incompetent, are now stuck asking voters to choose the profits of heath-care insurers over personal well-being. Good luck with that.

Gregg Sargent: “The conventional wisdom inside the Beltway, which for so long held that Dems were courting political disaster if they passed reform, has suddenly swung violently in the other direction -- another reminder that when you win, people view you as, well, a winner”.