skoal

Halloween is not my favorite holiday -- if Halloween is actually considered a holiday. For many years my mother dressed me in a hobo/bum outfit, with stubby candy cigar and cork-smeared beard. Sister Poop Pot mooched her little Snickers dressed as a ballerina. Today she’s an accomplished dancer and I’m unshaven, drinking Old Crow and chain-smoking cheap ass cigarettes. Decking me out as a pint sized cardio-vascular surgeon never crossed Mom’s mind. It could have been worse. Danny Fletcher always spooked around as some kind of knife-wielding goon and now he’s doing serious time in Leavenworth for mail fraud.

I’m officially nominating Clarence and Ginny Thomas as Juan Don’s Couple of the Year. Last year’s winner, Mr. and Mrs. David Vitter, have yet to acknowledge that they’ve received their prize. Maybe Dave hasn’t fully recovered from stomping out the flaming paper sack of recycled Johnny Bosco tuna. Then again, Mrs. Vitter could have been the lucky one who performed an impromptu front porch fire dance, and assumed her diapered dandy hadn’t paid Pauline’s Pussy Palace for services rendered.

I see where Murdock is paying Juan Williams two million bucks to hang around Fox “News.” And, yes, I’d let O’Reilly fondle me for that kind of money. God knows what’s in Mara Liasson’s contract. But I hope it involves Bill Kristol’s butt, Doocy spooge and a straw. I can’t wait until Christine O’Donnell gets her own show, “The Flying Numb.”

TO HELL WITH THE HOLIDAYS

A flint-skint spark lit
on a dark step. I was just
passing by. According
to the papers
it was nothing. Nobody was born
or died. Nobody was elected
or impeached or assassinated.
No wars were declared. No
treaties were signed.
The banks and bars were open.
The mail ran. The toast
was just “Cheers!” Cursed
with neither calendar
nor wall to tack it to,
I was spared the chore
of marking down
the day when nothing happened
to me alone.