pie crust

Johnny Bosco, my long and lean tomcat, was curled around toaster, coffee can and some mysterious gadget Beloved must use to make homemade bread. A clumsy human, my ungraceful moves awoke JB from his cat dream. He looked through me with bottomless green eyes. In that moment I understood mankind’s greatest delusion is accepting as fact our divine superiority over the animal kingdom. Because of my rude intrusion JB made me fumble for his Fancy Feast before reloading the Bunn with life saving Uban.

Speaking of buns, Sarah Palin’s cable television self-promotion is shredding viewers, losing 40 percent of last week’s audience. I have no idea why viewers decided to opt out, but its well within the range of possibility that voyeurs were disappointed Hootie Belle wasn’t topless or no High-Definition beaver close-ups were included with gratuitous moose and squirrel. I guess her clown-punching admirers forget that she’s a Christian and it’s cold in Alaska. Exposing the state’s natural beauty without wearing Carhartt finery is physically risky, even if zooming in on our next president’s chilly nipples jutting out like crimson birthday candles honors everything real about America. Although it’s probably incongruous with TLC’s mission statement, producers might consider filming Hootie Belle mud wrestling Eskimo drunks should ratings continue to plummet. True, it’s an extreme interpretation of dramatic license to sell the idea that a sociopath rolling around with Nanook is educational; but keep in mind Vince Neil will soon be showcasing his athletic skills on “Ice Dancing with the Stars.” I can’t wait until the “rock legend” cuts a frozen rug to “A Rat like Me.” Snookie’s weak ankles and malt liquor addiction made padding her impressive resume with spectacular pratfalls impossible. Fortunately, ABC will soon feature the orange bombed-shell and Joe the Plumber in “Tennessee Williams for NASCAR Fans.” An anonymous source told TMZ that network executives were pleased with production costs, since both would be performing “A Streetcar Named Desire” in their street clothes.

Babs Bush went out of her way to set her eldest son straight about his riveting glass-entombed fetus story. I thought the macabre encounter was George’s first experience with delirium tremens. I’m not sure why the fetus was in a glass jar, unless Babs was bored with collecting shrunken heads and found a creepier coffee table objet d’art. Or maybe George Senior kept the floating curio in his office to taunt his son.
_________________________________________________
Little Spike has more brains than you ever will. Now quit drinking my Old Spice! And if I ever catch Jeb wiping your ass again I’ll have you lobotomized, not that it would make much difference.
_________________________________________________

Since tomorrow portends a solid month -- and then some -- of Holiday Cheer, I’ll save time and publish the annual Chow Acre year-in-review Christmas update.

Dear DNA,

If 2011 is anything like this last hellish abomination, I’ll make some “family” happy and put a gun in my mouth. (You know who you are, assholes). On second thought, maybe I’ll take a few of you out with me. What? Not laughing now? Remember, I know where all you pikers live.

Dear Friends,

Ho, Ho, Ho...Chi Minh, NLF is ‘gonna win!

I could blow smoke up your butts about how well Gomez is doing in school, how Beloved is off the anti-depressants and how I’ve found inner-peace through complete, cynical indifference, but you know better. Just be glad I haven’t asked for more money. Believe me; I’m as tired hearing about the shitty economy as you are of saying it. I’ll remind everybody, once again, that supporting the arts isn’t just writing checks to PBS. Kind words and smiles are nice, but they don’t pull any coin at May’s City. And so I’ll expect enhanced Christmas cards. And yes, I do accept Visa and Mastercard. (Frank, you were MIA last year; I know for a fact that you inherited your Mom’s Wal-Mart stock. Be a sweetheart and step up to the plate).

And please, just don’t assume that I prefer tequila over vodka. I don’t.

Crown Press toiletries

Two books recently found their way to Chow Acre; I did not order them: “Life”, Keith Richards’ memoir and “Decision Points” by Ranger Cod Piece.

Madame Rosa plucked Richards’ remembered open G felonies while looting Sam’s Club. She thought that I’d enjoy “Keef’s” international dope adventures. The other book arrived via UPS. It was sent by my sister-in-law, who has quietly gone insane. Two years ago she made the case for why Sarah Palin and sliced bread were indistinguishable. The long distance pitch disturbed Beloved so much that she immediately embarked on an eight hour road trip to try and talk Gretchen down. We both agreed that she was either sampling test tubes from her vintage Laboratory Technician Chemistry Set or thirty years of breathing Texas Panhandle dust had finally clogged up nine generations of German Lutheran engineering.

Beloved phoned home the next afternoon, relieved that her oldest sister’s dementia was the result of lengthy metal church exposure. Gretchen expanded on her Palin for Queen Ester spiel with discomforting angel jabber, and offered to exorcise my demons for free -- provided Beloved return home with a puppy from Turbo’s latest litter. My Charm convinced Gretchen that I was beyond saving grace -- whether amazing or bug fucking nuts -- and returned to Chow Acre sans pooch. I thanked Brigantia by spraying recycled gin near the late poodle’s favorite lilac bush.

Oh, the books. I leafed through “Life” and will donate “Decision Points” unopened to Mr. Yellowman’s environmentally friendly outhouse for more productive use.

corporate empathy

Christine O’Donnell has every right to be pissed: She whipped popular Congressman Mike Castle in the primary, bravely faced down elitists who ridiculed her fifteen minutes of fame playing Bill Maher’s second banana and was honest about being ashamed of her own pussy. And to top it off, she doesn’t even have a job. What does it take to be a United States Senator? Considering that the Koch Brothers threw a few million dollars of loose change into Sharron Angle’s campaign, Christine should have received some of their daddy’s oil money. Had Rove’s undisclosed cash flow been diverted into Christine’s open tip jar, who knows? It’s not like the electorate was actually paying attention.

Adding insult to injury, Fox News doesn’t appear interested in offering her employment. Surely Roger Ailes has figured out that her car is a mobile home. If the cable channel can give Juan Williams two million bucks to play Sean Hannity’s Stepin Fechit, surely there’s enough coin for Christine. She’s prettier than Greta, and from what I can tell has a bigger rack. I’m sure she’d even dye her hair blond to fit in with Murdock’s strict adherence to “Fair and Balanced” journalism.

I’m beginning to think Compassionate Conservatism only applies to those who don’t really need it.

before the deluge

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that tweet sounds like twit. The Germans figured out a long time ago that vowels are easily manipulated to create audio vibrations frequently associated with body waste removal. Stand outside any German language class and you’ll swear constipated Visigoths are vocalizing a mass dump. Romance languages, on the other cheek, are deceptively suggestive. Leslie, a brief college squeeze, spoke fluent French. I loved it when she lapsed into breathy frog-speak after draining a bottle of vintage codeine, inflaming my little corker with visions of awkward debauchery. Call me a sallow opportunist but banging an unconscious blond beats wearing eternal bird feathers.

The last time I saw Leslie she was wavering dazed behind JC Penny’s jewelry counter. For a moment I felt the urge to rescue her narco-soul from retail’s fluorescent hell. She looked so vulnerable next to flawed diamonds and base metal watches. An insistent voice broke the spell. Leslie pitched forward as if propelled by invisible puppet strings. I watched her glassy green eyes contract in distracted focus. She retrieved a future pawn shop sparkle from the display case. Ten minutes later I bought heavy leather hiking boots -- not because I hiked but because all the cool guys lumbered to class like Frankenstein. Tossing the Frisbee around was a joke.

Tomorrow portends to be a bad day. Always prepared, two fresh jugs of Gallo await, along with Styron’s “Darkness Visible” for light comedic relief. It would be keen if Mr. Yellowman could shake himself free from Little Bohemia and deliver fresh eggs. Fresh eggs are code, of course. Use your own god damned imagination. My back is sore from carrying the load.