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
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
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.”
______________________
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.”
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, September 10, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)