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.