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.
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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.
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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.
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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.”
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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.
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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.