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.