and while The Maverick tweeted...

Preparing for the onslaught of shitty weather, Beloved throttled our mottled Mazda up the hill to May’s City to stock up on heavily taxed distilled medicinal supplies. Well rested after an 18 hour nap, she felt frisky enough to brave Food for More or Less, stuffing her cart with big cans of Uban and various treats that are virtually impossible for me to abuse: thanks to her patient beatings, I have finally learned to peel the plastic off of frozen pizza before incineration. Mucho smarter than Juan, Beloved did not take our precious electricity for granted and purchased meat favorable to open flame cooking. (During the notorious December black out of aught seven we tore into charred bird like famished 12th century poachers). Although the liberal in me was pleased Empire eventually reconnected Chow Acre’s tenuous link to civilization, my inner Galt found wallowing in cold, greasy darkness exhilarating.
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No expert on the long term effects of Xanax abuse (in headier times pill-popping daredevils preferred Quaaludes for spittle-dangling repose), the drugged response by Republicans to President Obama’s SOTU address raises suspicion that the Party of No is hooked on what gets “Ima Kritick” through Oprah. I knew real conservatives weren’t going to wildly applaud an assault on Roy Blunt’s family business, but sitting in a catatonic stupor for 70-odd minutes usually prompts psychiatric nurses to check for eye pupil movement. Convinced obstruction sans principle is the ticket back to power, the Wrecking Crew is betting that dysfunctional government parlays into campaign gold.

And President Obama is betting they're wrong.
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BECAUSE THIS IS FUN: James O’Keefe III, the Dustin Diamond of Pajamas Media, has been ordered back to Mommy and Daddy’s tender mercy. Had House Republicans been on the ball, O’Keefe would have been the first make-believe pimp to receive a Congressional commendation…and then later be placed under parental supervision. Damn the luck.
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Now I know why Roger Ailes hired Sarah Palin. Adding collagen to rumors that she’s had plastic surgery, Sarah and her immoveable eyes brows resurrected ‘mandation’ from its Victorian tomb. Contrary to snide asides that panned Palin’s imaginary vocabulary, ‘mandation’ is an honest-to-gosh word. Although “memorizing sermons” is not even close to the meaning of mandate, using a word that hasn’t been uttered since Lord Randolph Churchill horse whipped Vicar Hungerford is worth something. I’m not sure if Norm Crosby is still alive, but I smell a summer replacement sit-com should Fox decide to exploit homophonic comedy’s limited potential. Assuming the worst and Norm is fly fishing with Slappy White, Steve Doocy already has the perfect name for Sarah’s daffy husband/sidekick.

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Northern Overexposure (Fox) 9:00: Suspicious that her cleaning lady is stealing toiletry supplies, Sarah enlists a reluctant Steve to install video surveillance equipment in the master bath. Hilarity ensues after Consuelo (Lupe Lopez) discovers that she is being videotaped passing water. Andy Dick guest stars as himself.

Everybody Limbo!

Paul Butler has been listening to vintage Harry Belafonte tunes.

Back when roach clip earrings combined sex appeal with common sense practicality, I borrowed heavily from Harry’s best work. The sing-song quality of ending words in O enabled less high readers to dig my poetry without fear their metaphorical leg was being pulled. The downside to aping Calypso’s sun-kissed
syncopation is the inclination to name characters Banana Hannah and Day O’Bread -- assuming youthful experimentation with island vibes linger and wrinkle over into late middle age. At the risk of beating Reel Ting’s steel drum, fiction featuring a barefoot protagonist limits the literary terrain to Fred Flintsone’s Bedrock and a yet unwritten novella lurking somewhere in Mac County’s hairy flora.

And then again, maybe Paul-O’s prescription medication booked him on a Caribbean cruise.

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The second largest shareholder in Aussie billionaire Rupert Murdoch’s News Corp. is Saudi Arabia’s Prince Al Awi Ben Talal. I’d feel queasy if my favorite All-American fake news outfit was another oil embargo away from becoming Al Jezeera’s dumber cousin. Although Glenn Beck adorned in flowing throbe can’t help but enhance his Founding Father aberrations, who can argue that Sarah Palin’s handsome face covered with heavy black niqab does little to accentuate her patriotic cheese cake appeal. The upside to foxy Fox News vixens encased in drab Muslim flax is money saved on make-up: eliminating costly war paint plastered on Greta Van Susteren’s puss could feed Jonah Goldberg for at least three hours.

I’m assuming that niqabs play hell with peripheral vision. This could explain why Arab women aren’t allowed to operate moving vehicles or participate in public beheadings. Considered an expert in national security, Palin’s credibility would suffer if she was forced to don a constraining ski mask when scouring the horizon for uninvited Russians. It stands to reason that Prince Al Awi Ben Talal shares her concern that Putin will “rear his ugly head up” -- but don’t ask me why. Allowing Palin to forgo unbecoming hood for attractive scarf would give her pretty eyeballs the freedom to rotate without restriction; thus thwarting amphibious assaults against Seal Island and the occasional Guatemalan stuffed-in-car trunk attack.
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James O’Keefe, the young conservative agent provocateur, has traded in his pimp costume for drabber illegal wire-tapping wear. Hailed by assholes for exposing ACORN’s heart of darkness, O’Keefe has even been lauded by House Republicans for his daring raid into the Belgian Congo of community organizing. Too bad Sean Hannity is busy covering the devastating aftermath of Haiti's violent lurch into utter despair. I’d love to see the neck-less ace reporter’s hard-hitting interview with Andrew Breitbart (O’Keefe’s employer and genius behind “Big Hollywood”).

Juan

let freedom ka-ching

In honor of the Supreme Court finally granting full constitutional rights to Money, I’d like to share Justice Thomas’ favorite joke.
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A pirate walks into a bar with a ship’s steering wheel shoved down his pants. The bartender says, “Hey, pirate, did you know you have a ship’s steering wheel shoved down your pants”? The Pirate says, “Arr, and it’s driven’ me nuts”!
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And we can’t forget Justice Scalia’s favorite knock-knock joke; because Justice Scalia is an intellectual, the responder has to say, “I have to get my coat").

Knock-knock.
Who’s there?
Bob.
I have to get my coat Bob.
Knock-knock.
Who’s there?
Vinnie.
I have to get my coat Vinnie.
Knock-knock.
Who’s there?
Tex.
I have to get my coat Tex.

smells like...victory!

It’s a big day here at Chow Acre. This afternoon we’re having the septic tank pumped. Always looking for an excuse to wear my blue hardhat and manly Red Wing work boots (steel-toed, of course), I can’t wait to assist in the operation. I made a mental note not to ask the poop removal professional if I can hold his hose; thus avoiding the awkward silence that ensued after mistakenly personalizing the truck’s thick plastic extractor. This time I’ll replace pronoun with definitive article and avoid an embarrassing conversational faux pas. Although accustomed to being an anomaly, I can’t help but find it strange that other septic tank owners don’t enjoy participating in the fascinating process. According to Carl, I’m the only homeowner who takes such an active interest in vacuuming out their human waste. Last year, after we finished sucking the concrete tank dry, he said that I had missed my calling. Carl stubbed out his Doral and left me with this dangling participle of hope: "Juan, I'd be tickled shit-less to sell you my business...assuming my rotten luck ever changes".

My fingers are crossed. Damn it, I’m due for Disney’s blue bird to alight atop my shoulder!

Too excited for wheel-spinning politics, I’ll await the outcome of the Brown/Coakley contest before officially announcing my retirement.

I'd rather not comment on that particular lamp shade-on-head incident

Scott Brown, the conservative Republican running to occupy the late Ted Kennedy’s senate seat, has a tea bag problem. No, not the kind you dip into hot water or (old Walther League rules prohibit me from providing a detailed description of the other definition) but the post-Obama incarnation of the caffeinated plant or (okay, a man-sack lowered into an orifice commonly used to hold a lighted cigarette). Scott Brown is a political tea bagger. He has accepted money from the movement’s various donation-seeking offshoots; and he has spoke at rallies where angry white people display their dyslexic prowess with cardboard and Magic Marker.

But Scott doesn’t remember taking their money or entertaining the shallow end of America’s gene pool. When pressed on the question, he feigns amnesia. This sudden memory loss might work if not for the fact that 4,906 websites have posted photos of Scott speaking at a tea bag hootenanny -- not to mention the paper trail that shows his campaign has eagerly accepted cash from the pale horde. You’d think that his compatriots would get pissed at Scott for playing Peter to their Bejezbus. It’s tacky to take someone’s money and then pretend you don’t know them. But then Scott could be just another elitist, afraid to be associated with citizens who still find the mullet a cutting-edge hair style. Granted, the chilly New England climate isn’t a tea bagger’s natural habitat. It has to be uncomfortable showing off back tattoos when the air temperature is below freezing. (This is a guess. It’s impossible to determine what someone with a full back tattoo would or wouldn‘t find physically painful). So maybe he figures that publicly snubbing the rabble won’t cost him many votes.

Hold on, I’m receiving an urgent message from C.O.N.T.R.O.L. Well, I must modify this posting to accommodate incoming information. It seems The Boston Globe’s reporting is not quite accurate. Scott appears to have said he’s “not unfamiliar” with tea baggers just that he was reluctant to “get into a discussion of Tea Partiers or his relationship or connection to the movement”. I can’t blame a conservative politician from Massachusetts for that. Should I ever be questioned about my association with The True Realization’s annual Jamaican pig roast and extreme lawn dark tournament, I’d give a similar response.
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No, officer, I’m not unfamiliar with the event, but I really don’t want to discuss my relationship or connection to the incident in question.

How do you define “hosting” the event?
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Juan Don

Blond Persuasion

The fact that Liz Cheney is on a nationally televised Sunday morning news show speaks volumes about the mainstream media. I was tempted to qualify the opening sentence; but no. This is my blog and I feel like making a blanket statement. Everybody else does.

Liz, Daughter O’Dick, served in the Bush Administration as an assistant to the Under Secretary of Silly Walks. She has as much business opining on Islamic terrorism as I do working on automatic transmissions. At least her former job relieved Dick from paying her rent and bar tab. Free-market conservatives may hate the minimum wage, but they find nepotism a sweet tool for prying their kids out of the house. Liz is such a vacuous waste of skin that George Will had to distance himself from her prattle about “reverse racism” -- you know, the terrible discrimination inflicted on rich white people by poor minorities.
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Janet Napolitano should have resigned immediately after the ‘underwear bomber’ fried his package. She obviously can’t keep America safe. If she doesn’t fall on her sword the next terrorist attack could be devastating. What if al-Qaeda crazies hijacked jets and flew them into buildings, all on Saddam Hussein’s dime, would that wake people up to Obama's hands off approach to our enemies? We need my Daddy back in power. This Obama guy is a liberal and liberals can’t or won’t do the things that are necessary to defeat Terror -- like torture, murder, suspend habeas corpus, invade the wrong country, you know, stuff that works. And I’m not just saying this because I want my old office back. Even though Dick Armey pinches my butt, I’m making out like a bandit fronting his Americans for Safety…Americans Against…; I can’t remember the name. But that’s not important. What’s important is that my Daddy is right!
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I’m going to put on the proper attire for watching “Return to Cranford”. All except for the lipstick; it makes the brandy taste funny.

numb and number

The hovel’s high dollar heat pump has had trouble pumping heat into hovel. Juan and Beloved are still encased in an assortment of insulated clothing, which makes locomotion through boxed and unboxed debris more than problematic: We lumber about our cold, alien moonscape like two aging Apollo astronauts. The only positive development occurred when Beloved found a strange-looking rock amidst frigid kitchen clutter. Quite unlike the other kitchen rocks, we are holding our visible breath in hope that this particular rock is of interest to NASA scientists. Unlucky with machine generated lottery numbers, perhaps Beloved’s find is our ticket to a Redneck Riviera beachfront travel trailer.
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Yesterday I had the pleasure of being threatened with a buffoon’s imaginary tank, which provided me with three or four minutes of sub-Artic mirth. The buffoon in question is a curious mixture of boundless incoherence and adamant confusion; the perfect combination for thumbing grammatically incorrect opinion pieces and absurd online exchanges. Because journalism is a dying art, financially struggling small town newspapers have turned over political musing to rank amateurs and anonymous paranoids.
Geographically isolated small town newspapers have always been fertile ground for talk radio monologues-cum-three hundred or less word diatribes against ‘Democrat’ controlled government. Blessed with the average pond gar’s memory, local defenders of Ponzi scheme economics and torture-as-patriotism have literally shit their britches after losing last year’s presidential election. But at least the feces flingers are in capable hands. Any day RNC Chairman Michael Steele will say something the same way twice and inspire Obama haters to rally around the tea bag.

And yet trouble lurks. In a rare moment of candor Newt Gingrich, the pewter tongued cable news pontificator, said that Chairman Steele’s skin color is a problem for the 22 percent of card-carrying Republicans. There is a growing suspicion among the defenders of real America that African-Americans hide Muslim inclinations behind flag lapel pins. Islam, emanating from that part of the world where godly fair hair and blue eyed DNA mutated into devilish hues, is indeed a darker religion than the type practiced by 700 Club members. Although Jesus was a Semitic Jew, over the centuries he has appropriated the features of a 1970s era Caucasian rock star. I look more foreign than the framed print that my grandmother hung next to Franklin Roosevelt’s baggy-eyed photo. Should Jesus return using conventional travel, there is the distinct possibility that he would be cavity searched by TSA employees.

If Steele’s race bothers Republicans, its no wonder that a president of Kenyan (and Kansan) ancestry named Barack Hussein Obama gives them the heebie-jeebies. Perhaps if the president bore the physical characteristics of the average Topeka truck driver local “Jugheads” wouldn’t need to change their boxers every fifteen minutes. Of course there is little Steele can do to transform his physical features into Rudy Giuliani’s more pleasing Italian-American flesh and bone presentation. Steele could ditch the business suit and approximate tea bagger wear. From what I’ve seen Old Glory transposed on tee shirt, hat and Muumuu is considered proper attire for parking lot clucking. A black guy strapping on some Second Amendment heat around a pair of relaxed fit Wranglers is always a dandy way to blend in with pistol-packing white bigots.

Imagine the reaction if Jesus arrived wearing stunning mariachi outfit and tasseled sombrero. Aside from leaving Fox & Friends speechless, Sean Hannity’s discomfort when interviewing El Sustantivo would be…palpable.