EMERGING FROM THE SWILL

No, I haven’t been drinking Caribbean-kissed frozen battery acid, making over-paid diplomats nervous with a propensity to indulge in inappropriate Latin American nudity with the vacant-eyed and doomed. But that was my plan. This was to be a summer of abandon. Instead, it has been a summer spent nursing a broken collar bone, surrounded by squalor and ill-behaved cats. Perhaps next week I’ll arise from sweat-stained grime and take an interest in what’s going on beyond the hovel’s dilapidated environ.

Until then.

The Sound of Something Else

Geoff,

Congratulations on having more free time than yours truly.  I’m jealous.  Although your idea of wasting time and mine differ, it’s nice to know that you’re not toiling your life away.  I know someone who does.  Without reaching too far into the bent guttering of utter despair, let’s just say that Chantix would improve Butchie’s mental health.  I’m starting to worry about you, however. 

Well, maybe not worry.  Worry would imply that I give a dook, and I don’t.  On second thought, curious would be a much better word.  I’m curious as to why you’d create a blog dedicated to harassing somebody who cares even less about you than I do.   Why would Geoff Caldwell, someone blessed with an impressive IQ, bother with an intellectual lightweight like Duane Graham?  It’s like Einstein giving up his Unified Field Theory to obsess over remarks Milton Berle made about how he spaced off Maxwell’s equations in relation to mass-energy equivalence.   It makes no sense. 

I can see why an idiot giving you the bums rush would stick in your craw.  I’m not sure it rises to the level of a First Amendment issue, but his callow treatment obviously hurt your feelings.  Because Graham isn’t the sharpest knife, he failed to grasp the level of sophistication inherent in carefully misspelled insults.  It took me a day or two to fully appreciate how you cleverly impersonated the stereotypical right-wing prick.  Graham’s failure to grasp “Dwain Bwain” hilarity was an open sore of near-brilliant satire.  Maybe its because I’m stoned  but just saying “Dwain Bwain” over and over and over again is making me giggle.    And now I have the fucking hiccups:  Comedy is not only hard but annoying.

Remember the advice Woody Allen gave Dick Cavett:  Don’t throw pearls at swine.  Wouldn’t your talents be better spent concentrating on poetry?  I read a few samples and immediately thought the style was a clever meld of “The Pointy Birds” and “Man from Nantucket.”   Although I lack your knack for meter, “Dreams” inspired me to lick my salty muse.

_________________________
Eyeballs Near Jejunum

 Obama is a Kenyan
As black as black can be
A traitor to his country
No gallant Bobby Lee. 

Dwain Bwain is a commie
To write he is not fit
A blight on all our mommies;
Joplin’s local chicken shit.

Twinkle, twinkle all that’s bright
Let Freedom sing her tune
With Reagan’s lance to make things right
And  Peggy Noonan’s poon.

Tank festooned with common sense
My helmet gleaming white
I’ll suck the Koch of corporate spooge
While Anson takes a bite.

Paging Belle Starr

While waiting for the guy at Sudden Link to run my credit report, I noticed his fingernails.  They were long, shiny and tapered.  His disturbing nails distracted me from wondering what Equifax had to say about  my lax commitment to timely bill paying.   I keep waiting for the day when sirens blare and heavily armed men from Reader’s Digest Deadbeat Elimination Team Bravo Disney come crashing through the ceiling, blasting sterile office ambience with stun grenades:  the target is secure but shitting profusely. 

Exhausted after the eight minute ordeal, I decided to take a respite inside Jim’s Tavern.  Conveniently located several hundred feet from the county jail, Jim’s will more than likely become the place I brood over Bud and eventually get right enough to recount my encounter with Steve Martin.   It’s within staggering distance from  Don Birnam Manor.  Built before steam was considered useful, the damp structure would be perfect for filming reptile noir horror flicks.  The basement sounds like a crocodile is dragging its struggling dinner out to deeper water.   I won’t describe the kitchen.  Just thinking about and I subconsciously bend pipe stems into furry nooses.    Don Birnam Manor does have a Turkish toilet.  Try as one might, they’re damn near impossible to find.  The great thing about a Turkish toilet is that only women with natural panache will squat atop a rather small hole when performing numbers one or two.   Although I’m not judgmental, it is a feather in Madame’s cap if she doesn’t need a seat to drop a deuce.   Perhaps it does stretch the normal boundaries of physical attraction but I’m immediately smitten by any lady eager to give a Turkish toilet another go.

if jupiter aligns with mars...

I’m trying to find the right disability lawyer.  The position requires just three criteria:  no scruples; proficiency at Trivial Pursuit; and at least one intense six hour narrative featuring peyote.  I forgot to mention that I never trust anyone who doesn’t laugh at my John Wycliffe, Catherine the Great and Richard Speck walk into an Applebee's joke.   The two who have are like family to me.  Don’t misunderstand; I’m not seeking a miracle.  I know the odds of a retirement spent lying unconscious atop Caribbean beaches are grim.   But it can work if the right players are in place.  It has to be a team effort:  Edison didn’t make light bulbs, after all. 

Until I get all the wrinkles ironed out, Power Ball will have to do.

i gots nuttin

The Brian Jones Memorial pool officially opened last week.  Three fake Cardinal legends, a blond brunette named Sandra and liver-spotted “social drinkers” were on knee to help christen another season of poor decision making.  The weather failed to cooperate, however.  No one was Neal Cassidy enough to take the inaugural plunge.  There is no denying that our ever approaching date with oblivion has manifested itself psychologically.  The invincibility of youth and delusions of middle-age have been replaced with cautious malaise -- not to mention the real possibility of a six figure ICU bill should careless smoking collide with Col. Bill’s portable oxygen tank. 
_________________________________

Alder and I are currently engaged in an argument.  He is adamant that Elvi is the proper word to describe two or more Elvis impersonators.   I disagree.   My choice is hunks (of burning love).   Sensible people, there is every reason to believe that we’ll sort this out before July.
_________________________________

It’s been a bad week for the Newt. 
_______________________________  

Because of a well-placed family connection, I’ve been ask to name four new Crayola Crayon colors.  These are my suggestions:  Armageddon Crimson; Swarthy Other Brown; High Colonic Black; and Chuck Todd.  (Chuck Todd is a reddish brown that never quite covers the intended target, like the inspiration’s wispy chin whiskers).
_________________________________

Aborted short story openings:

Delmar never quite came back after the decapitation.

Morgan knew it was wrong but ignited the flame thrower anyway.

Sonny’s mood swings kept inmates of Last Stop Manor on the edge of their Hoverounds. 

King Elmer, his massive biceps flexing preposterously with each thrust, felt thick throat muscles tighten at the sight of four .50 caliber machine guns.

It really was a dark and stormy night.

Glenda was convinced -- despite suffering horrible burn scars from a freak house trailer explosion -- that she was the hottest catch of Elks Lodge 88.

Denny had a hunch Trixie could replace Darlene even before their embarrassing parking lot foreplay became the talk of Splits Lane. 

He pushed the bounds of eccentricity by wearing a nylon stocking over his head when entering Third National Bank.

Although the city council supported Cal’s dream of opening the first sight-impaired Jiffy Lube, vocal critics felt the name was misleading.



   











 

The Day Before Al Fest

Make no mistake; Usama bin Laden was terminated with extreme prejudice.   Initial reports claiming that the terrorist mastermind was tapped while engaging in armed resistance were walked back; same for using the cutest Mrs. bin Laden as a human shield.  Not that the grainy details matter.  From the moment SEAL Team Six hit the ground, Usama’s ass was grass.  Two hours later the corpse was dumped into the Arabian Sea -- all in all, a well-planned and executed assassination.
______________________

Former President GW Bush, arguably the worst president in American History, declined President Obama’s invitation to appear with him in NYC.  It appears Bush Junior is having a sad because Obama failed to thank him for killing bin Laden.  After all, everybody who watches Fox “News” knows it was torture and near-heroic incompetence that finally put the rabid Saudi Arabian dog down.   Who can deny that Operation Headshot’s surgical success was not directly related to the tragic invasion of Iraq or policy of torturing detainees?   

And then again, perhaps the linguistically-challenged ex-Decider was upset he couldn’t wear his manly action hero combat flight suit.  He has a point.  Nothing hollers “Mission Accomplished” better than hitching a harrowing one mile ride to an awaiting aircraft carrier.  Its amazing evil-doers everywhere didn’t give up after Bush combined Texas Ranger machismo with arousing Village People homoeroticism:  Stroking the shaft of ‘American Exceptionalism’ always has a happy ending when the commander-in-chief is wearing a Johnny Wad-sized cod piece.   Television talking heads were turned on watching the Rove orchestrated photo op.  Chris Matthews, among others, staged a three day circle jerk celebrating the moment G.I. Joe finally avenged the Carter presidency.   Even though congenital locker room heterosexuality makes wearing  pink physically impossible, I’ll admit my impressive todger tingled when Dead Eye Dick emerged from the cockpit in 21st century gladiator garb. 

I listened to Rush Limbaugh for about twenty minutes this morning.  You’d think that a draft dodging OxiContin freak -- otherwise known as “The Doctor of Democracy” -- would be thrilled Usama was toast. Let’s face it, the guy had a fucking military color guard at his last wedding.  In fairness,  Elton John’s paid presence always lowers any ballroom’s testosterone level, so hiring extras to march around with flags elevated the spectacle up to what Christian traditionalists consider an appropriate pre-connubial bliss sperm count.  But I’m at a loss trying to understand why such a hardcore patriot wouldn’t cast partisan politics aside and salute the successful mission.  Surely “America’s Anchorman” isn’t just another talk radio hack.   That’s the type of behavior I’d expect from anti-Obama hating racists, not someone who peddles LifeLock.
_______________________

The Donald will not be participating in the Indy 500.  He had to decline pace car duties because an unplanned food fight between  Lil John and Meatloaf required his mediation skills.  I’m impressed that his devotion to reality television trumped another free publicity opportunity.  And I’m disappointed.  Although I usually pass on anything to do with internal combustion engines, I would have checked out The Donald’s participation -- especially if there was the chance he’d remove his crash helmet on camera. 

Community Outreach Fail

Anson,

I’d like to take the opportunity to thank you for writing a well-researched evaluation concerning Rep. Michele Bachmann’s presidential qualifications.  I look forward to future in-debt analysis of the other prospective GOP candidates.  

These two paragraphs were especially enlightening: 
_____________________
“Let’s see, married for a long time, mother of 5 children, very good lawyer though I have no idea her legal positions in court defending or prosecuting someone (but just being a good lawyer and making a living doing so says something regardless of politics), numerous (but I don’t have the details) community service projects long before becoming a politician, and MOST important it seems the (sic) she and her husband have provided aid to at least 23 foster children along the way.  Now is that last one a political smoke and mirrors play or did they really do it?  I don’t know for sure but it has my attention for now.

Is she tough?  My goodness it seems so.  She has the beautiful smile (is that sexist?) but God almighty there is real steel behind it when you try to take her on in her stated positions.  I like that in a man or a woman.  Sarah Palin does that too and I like it, regardless of her politics.  Of course both are called “stupid” by the left but that is just political BS.  At least they know what the (sic) want and say it, honestly.  I wonder if Hillary is equally “stupid” simply because she is a woman????”
_______________________

Although I was hoping for more information regarding what Bachmann and Palin “want”, I’m heartened to know that they want it “honestly.”   I’d feel cheated if they were behaving dishonestly in their quest for easy money.   As for Hillary, she does indeed share a common poon with Michele and Sarah.   It’s not “sexist” for crackpots to harbor suspicions of what might be lurking inside her Pandora’s Box.  Had Adam taken Eve’s offering and fucked it on the spot, I doubt that Man would suffer the agonies of self-awareness or be condemned to endure an eternal lust/revulsion tussle with what Dr. Dobson accurately described as “Satan’s twat.”   Then again, Dobson’s mother beat him with a girdle -- the Joan Crawford kind with biting metal straps.   A good Christian woman, Mrs. Dobson never swung the heavy girdle she was wearing.  She kept a specially designated bare butt spanker (feared as the Lord’s Unmentionable) atop the family’s King James:  Myrtle frantically tugging on her grayish undergarment and exposing the terrified child to Eve’s bushy abomination is why neurotic undergrads eventually sniff their way toward a career in Clinical Psychology. 

_________________________
“But I am not an investigative reporter from the left simply digging for dirt.  I remain for now one of the 20%.”
_________________________

Who constitutes “the 20%?”  I’m curious because the convertible is having transmission problems and I don’t want to be stranded anywhere near “the 20%.”   My ravaged Bocce Ball knee makes fleeing on foot impossible.  Even though Obama’s “half-black” genes mugging his “half-white Republican” DNA is always a disturbing read, time spent detailing features unique to “the 20%” would help this beatnik avoid an unplanned escape.   A map showing where you and your minority reside would be handy, as would descriptions of tell-tale physical characteristics.  For example, do you and your minority share similar congenital defects, such as lazy eye or neurofibromatosis?  Or perhaps wearing white socks with flip-flops is how “the 20%” spot fellow crackpots when verging about Wal-Mart’s Spartan liquor department. 

I can’t wait until you tackle Newt Gingrich’s storied political contributions to American morality with trademark misspellings and a writing style best described as Cutty Sark-addled illiteracy.

The Art of the Deal

Nice headline:  Trump Claims Obama Fathered Two Black Girls

Back in the day I called taking a shit voting for Nixon.  In the 80s it was amended to pinching off a Ronnie.  The 90s was squandered as a corporate stooge and a corporate stooge is lucky to hit the pot, much less name an evacuation; too bad.  I could have nudged the Senior Vice President of Sales and said, “Hey, Chip, check out the Greenspan I just deposited.  I’m pretty sure that bad boy is over the weight limit.” 

The Donald has revived my interest in scatological driven juvenilia.  Less than fifteen minutes ago reheated burritos demanded a curtail call.  Before flipping the handle  -- there’s a trick to it or the next customer is literally faced with ugly brown leftovers -- I stared down at my work and thought, The Donald.   From now on my poop will become another Trump trademark.  

“Hold that boring fifteen minute joke, Steve.   I have to release The Donald.” 

“Honey, you have The Donald on your flip-flop.”

Maybe I have this backwards.  Taking a Trump makes more sense; so does dumping a Trump.  But Trump isn’t a pleasing sound -- too close to pump or stump or lump or comb-over.  Trump has his own cologne.  During my blackout era, “seeing” a hygienically indifferent Rumanian witch, there were times when I came to in my glove box wearing a stench similar to what The Donald pimps.  A  nice young man is driving my old Subaru wondering why the car always smells like a 4th century enema.  He learned a bitter lesson:  Some deals really are too good to be true.

and Lord Tits-Fondlemore wept

I’m disappointed Prince Will is marrying a commoner.  Don’t get me wrong, I believe Kate is a fine young woman.  Last year I spent considerable time examining photos of the comely lass.  Thanks to an enterprising photographer, I was able to take extensive measure of her almost naked body.  Although she doesn’t have the Hanoverian hips of Queen Betty, I believe they are wide enough to handle child birth and bless Britain with future expenses.   She does not appear to be the typical Saxe-Coburg-Gotha-Windsor breeder, per say.  It is impossible to match Queen Vicky in that respect.  There was good reason Al wore nothing but a silk robe in private chambers.  As the royal stud, he was always on duty to service the insatiable Vicky.  Had Viagra been available it is very likely that the frail German would have died from nervous exhaustion well before the age of forty two.

Call me a romantic but I miss the old days when royal marriages were arranged.  Sometimes a prince lucked out and sometimes he was stuck with a grotesque Hapsburg.  The practice of royals choosing their mates is bullocks.  There was noble self-sacrifice in an heir bravely enduring sexual congress with a chinless hunchback.  It drew a nation together.  Even the lowest manure shoveler could take comfort in the fact that his bed mate didn’t frighten horses.  

There are young women from ancient European principalities available.  They haunt the Italian Riviera, running up credit card bills and begging Vanity Fair for photo shoots.  Not only do they have the proper bloodline but Prince Will would never have to worry that his Princess was eating cranberry poached pears with a fish fork.  The thought of such table atrocities has me ringing Fruity for more sherry.  

Happy Easter Bunny: Bok! Bok!

“There are days when it’s not worth chewing through the leather straps.”
Emo Phillips

It’s a gloomy Easter Sunday in the Ozarks.  The five day forecast portents more of the same.  I had planned to flop atop my last unbroken Chaise recliner, let the sun tan the wrinkles and finish Hanna’s “Long, Last, Happy:  New and Selected Stories.”    

Easter was once a big deal.  The offspring received new clothes and tried to behave during the long and poorly sung Lutheran service.  I was never sure why we were Lutheran.  Dad came from a disinterested Catholic background and Mom’s parents shopped around before deciding on Martin Luther’s Protestant apostasy.  My grandmother’s grandparents were Lutheran.  But she grew up Methodist, as her maternal grandfather was a minister in that particular denomination.  I think she felt that embracing Lutheranism was a way of returning to her Swiss/Scandinavian roots.  Perhaps cousins from the Krattley side encouraged her to worship a Teutonic God, tolerant of sloppy-drunk weddings; a forgiving God whose mercy a Jurgensmeyer or Rohm believed saved them from eternal damnation after peeing on a slow moving flower girl.  I doubt if Christians cleaning up after an Assembly of God wedding contend with pools of piss and upchucked sauerbraten. 

Easter at home was more fun.  Dad would put on his I'm the Lord of this House tee shirt and retire to the garden shed.   While we quivered before the shed door, Our Savior would leap out and shout, “He has risen!”  He would then drench us with a water hose.  We would scream in mock terror while Jesus in plaid Bermuda shorts chased us about the backyard.  After fulfilling Scripture, the Messiah retired to his lawn chair, toasting his resurrection with cans of cold Falstaff.  

This unorthodox ritual replaced the traditional Easter egg hunt.  Dad did not abide chicken.  His mother raised chickens and he claimed to have been force fed the bird for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  After a judge encouraged his enlistment in the Navy, Dad vowed never again to eat fowl meat or shelled goo from a bird’s cloaca.  And to my knowledge, sixty two years later, a drum stick or juicy breast has never touched his lips.  He was not a purist, however.  He did eat cake and other dessert related foodstuffs that used eggs as an ingredient.  
____________________________

Late spring, 1966

Dad dropped me and Poop Pot off at Grandma M’s hovel.   She was a short woman who treated children with terse, medieval riposte.  All of us were afraid of her, especially Poop Pot.  My little sister stuttered and Grandma M considered this a sign of mental retardation.   Her stuttering became more pronounced when she was nervous.  It didn’t help that Grandma thought her name was Gloria. 

“Gloria, come here!”
“I’m n-n-n-o-o-t Gl-o-o-or-ria!”

She grew a huge vegetable garden and raised chickens.  The grand kids were required to work when paying her a visit.  I didn’t mind pulling weeds or watering but I hated messing with the chickens.  After putting in a solid two hours of gardening, she decided to give us a breather.  While we sat beneath the biggest oak, wondering when Dad would rescue us from our laborious gulag, Grandma waddled out and handed us tepid tea.   Poop Pot made the mistake of stuttering for ice.  Grandma looked at me and rolled her eyes as if to say, the girl isn’t right.  Suddenly she popped out of her rusty metal chair.

“Johnnie, go kill a chicken.”

I don’t remember saying anything.  Kill...a...chicken?  I was aware that chickens were killed...somehow.  How else does one eat them?  But the methodology involved was a mystery I preferred not to know.  Before I could figure a way out of this unexpected and incomprehensible assignment, she waddled off.

Poop Pot, her eyes wide, asked, “Are y-y-you real-l-l-ly go-go-go-ing to k-k-ill a ch-chi-cken?”

I do remember wishing I had brought my pellet gun.  Dazed, I wandered into the smelly pen.  My only thought was how to kill a chicken without actually touching one.   And then it hit me.  Of course, I’ll throw rocks!  It didn’t take long before the pen went wild with flapping, squawking birds.  Because I was busy flinging stones at my rattled prey, desperately trying to take flight, I failed to see Grandma M, her stubby legs churning, grab me from behind. 

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to kill a chicken?”

She released me and grabbed the nearest hen.  Ignoring the beating wings, she carried the bird to a stump.  I noticed the hatchet at the same time she chopped down on the struggling hen’s neck.  Poop Pot, who had followed Grandma M to the pen, collapsed.   She missed the chicken stagger in headless circles before following her to the ground, dying atop a stream of fresh blood.   Good God.

Dénouement:  Grandma M made Poop Pot eat a dirty Tums and drink water that had stuff floating in it.  I was replaying the savagery in my mind, convinced that a pellet gun was a more humane way to murder a chicken.  Or electricity.  Dad laughed when Grandma M relayed the details of our traumatic afternoon.   

Do not go in there!

Terry Jones, the pervy-looking preacher man, shot his car last night in Detroit City. Jones drove all the way from Florida to raise hell about Michigan’s Muslims. Jones became famous after threatening to burn a Koran. It doesn’t take much these days to become a celebrity. Joe the Plumber is still haunting freak shows with Sarah Palin, and all he did was badger Obama about taxes. I’m surprised Bald Ambition hasn’t gone straight to DVD. Michael Chiklis has a similar chromed-dome and squat body. The part would require spending time with the developmentally disabled. Actually, Chiklis could research the role by hanging with my brother-in-law, assuming Chiklis is man enough to get boxed before Robin Roberts passes the baton to Kelly Ripa.

But enough of Joe. In another year, maybe two, his travel schedule will be impeded after being placed on the sex offender roster. Let’s pray that Willow is not involved. The last thing Sarah needs is another pregnant minor. I confess that the thought of Joe joining Family Palin as an unlikely son-in-law is rife with creepy potential. Joe, Willow and little P. Trap sharing a windowless A frame has enticing David Lynch meets Maurus Jokai possibilities. And having a professional toilet plunger lurking next door is always a plus. I know from experience that dumping several days of my diet taxes the old American Standard’s flushing capabilities. Just think what moose meat stool must look like? Perhaps carnivorous Alaskans keep Second Amendment remedies near the crapper in case a particularly bold moose meat loaf decides to make a run for it.

On second thought, enough of Terry Jones.

I hope the rain delay continues. Batista is starting tonight. And we all know how his political career in Cuba turned out.

Horror in McClelland Park

My sacrifices to Memnoch have paid off. Franklin’s dead arm is now relegated to mid-relief work. And yet the reassignment does not fill my smoke abused heart with joy. I prayed for retirement. But Memnoch, like the god of Abraham, moves in mysterious ways. The key difference between the two is Memnoch’s catholic approach to ritualistic sacrifice: anything handy will do. Not keen on slaughtering animals, I burn mutilated collection notices from Reader’s Digest. For some reason the company is under the impression that I owe $17.89 -- and have for years. Although my math skills have been described as theological, I’m guessing Reader’s Digest has invested more than $17.89 in its hopeless quest for compensation. If the supposed purchase was anything but a cookbook, I would have dashed off a check long ago -- out of respect for Ed McMahon’s sidekick repartee. There was a time when the thought of Ed knocking on the weathered front door, brandishing balloons and a poster-sized check, competed with Cameron Diaz as my favorite post-number masturbatory fantasy.

Since Ed’s death I no longer indulge in that particular strain of THC-induced auto-eroticism. The thought of opening the front door to find a decomposing celebrity is not only horrifying but the ultimate dolphin-flogging buzz kill. I suspect the penes of male prostitutes experience a similar reaction when trying to service Joan Rivers.
________________________

I opted to do my intoxicated loafing on the front porch. I usually slouch like a sack of onions on the so-called patio. But the so-called patio is a wreck. Old leaves from last fall, wind-whipped cigarette butts and jagged pieces of a battered charcoal grill litter the filthy slab; and I must have dumped the cat’s crap box much too close for comfort. The slightest breeze reactivates the feces, creating an odor so foul it induces olfactory muscle memory. I’ve had to bury my face in the rottweiler’s butt to offset the nauseating stench. Keisha doesn’t seem to mind. She’s the large boned descendent of an ancient race. Although my History degree is rotting somewhere in the garage, I vaguely recall Roman nose-to-dog butt bonding was common back when Tiberius was buggering little boys.

My lifestyle is on public display when facing east. Neighbors zooming by in their pricey imports can’t help but take a nervous peek at the disheveled freak and his disintegrating spook house, no doubt wondering why I’m determined to drag down property values. Perhaps a jaunty salute of Big Gulp encased juniper berry and juice prompts them to question their sleep deprived bourgeois existence. I’d like to think so. The neighbors should be glad that I no longer weave the Yard Man about in neon blue Speedo, love muscle jiggling, beer can in hand. The neon blue Speedo has been replaced for a sheer white sun dress. It’s cool and protects wrinkles from damaging UV rays. And I dig the way it feels. When giddy I put it on and skip around the dead maple, “I’m the Happiest Girl in the Whole USA” blaring from barely attached outdoor speakers. Who said “Going Galt” is limited to a Russian psychotic’s wet dream?

I had just settled in when Opie came bounding through the tall grass. Opie is a nine year old Jack Russell, still full of manic terrier spark. He loves cat food, and knows that I’ll eventually turn him on to some Fancy Feast if he hangs around long enough. The cats are not fond of Opie. George, the tom, is an especially dangerous character. He’s either sharpening his claws to razor-sharp perfection or hacking up bird parts. Pat, his mother, hides her vicious instincts by pretending harmless domesticity. They set Keisha straight long ago. I shudder remembering how they rode her in circles, claws extended over the terrified dog’s eyeballs. Watching this primordial cruelty, frozen in place while two beasts forever scarred my noble companion’s self-esteem, is a memory forever etched in what‘s left of my mind. Even though Opie gave playful chase, I assumed they spared him because of his size.

Before I could reach down and give Opie a welcoming rub, he spied George crouching near the holly. In a flash he darted toward the deadly creature. Unfortunately for Opie he misjudged his lunge. George reached out and swiped his right paw across the terrier’s turned head. The sound Opie made was supernatural. Blood spurted from his ravaged ear, instantly besprinkling his white coat with bright red. The little guy was in shock, staring at me with glassy eyes. On wobbly legs he shook his head from side to side, blood spraying in all directions. George watched his evil handiwork with smug satisfaction. Because I was drunk, my reflexes were akin to bullets fired from Mike Nelson's underwater revolver. By the time I figured out how to defy gravity and escape a lawn chair, Opie was tearing off for home. The only thing to do was call Bob, Opie’s dad, and give him the bad news.
______________________

Dénouement: Opie’s right ear was sewn back together; he’s reasonably okay. Bob said he’s never been so quiet.

serious people

The last time I posted frozen snow blanketed the ground. Two months later oak pollen is thick, grass is high and Ryan Franklin has already blown four saves. And people ask me why I drink. I’m going to instigate a frank discussion with the Cardinal’s front office: If Franklin stays I want $300 -per-month to cover my liquor bill. Had I followed sound advice, a law degree would come in handy when enhancing a clear-cut case of emotional distress with personal injury. (There are infinite ways a drunk can hurt himself if surrounded by sneaky cats).

Ah, politics. What a steaming pile of horse shit our public discourse has become. I wish the fascists on the right would just cut to the chase: Let poor people die and force the middle-class into indentured servitude.

Candy Crowley: Congressman, left-wing radicals are up in arms at your proposal to kill everyone making under $30,000 a year. Even some billionaires are worried about the lack of fast food employees, trash collectors...basically all those losers who do things we’d never do.

Congressman Ryan: Well, Candy, killing a large segment of the population puts those of real economic value on the path to prosperity. America can only become the nation it never was if the rich can force skilled laborers and service providing professionals to work for peanuts. Our Founding Fathers wouldn’t know the Social Contract from a micro-wave oven. Think about it, large areas of unsightly housing could be burned and then turned into golf courses and private parks. There would be no health care crisis. Why? Mooches and deadbeats are dead! And it would be the employer’s decision to offer medical care. If the employee generated cash flow or didn’t complain about their squalid conditions, maybe he or she might receive life-saving treatment. Of course, Social Security and every other entitlement program would be axed immediately after we take back America. Employees would get to keep every penny they earn -- except for those who live in company owned houses and obtain their food from company stores. So much a month would be automatically deducted from their paychecks to pay for these perks. My favorite proposal allows those who feel confined by traditional roofed housing to live in tents; the more gastronomically adventurous could save money by foraging.

By the way, page six of my proposal allows for a contingent of white boys and girls with good teeth to work in fast food, wait on tables, pump gas, etc. We’re not depriving wealth-producing Americans of their Happy Meals.

Crowley: Rabid liberals have denounced your program to rid the country of Mexicans, those of Mexican descent twice removed and all blacks not in professional sports or the entertainment industry. Pro-homosexual churches....

Ryan: Wait, wait a second, Candy. It’s a lie that my plan would forcibly expatriate Mexicans twice removed. I want to set the record straight on that.

Crowley: What about Asians and Native Americans?

Ryan: I love sweet and sour pork, and the Native American community is essential for maintaining lucrative kick backs via their casino gambling operations. Since the rich pay no taxes, local officials where casinos are located can pocket ten percent of the take. That will save the Koch Brothers from writing unnecessary checks.

Crowley: What about the millions and millions of dead bodies?

Ryan: I’ve factored that in, Candy. British Petroleum and Halliburton have agreed to collect and then dump the corpses in the Gulf of Mexico. Prison labor will do the collecting. After Phase One is complete, the criminals will be pushed out of airplanes during an invitation-only Fourth of July celebration. Oh, and The Club for Growth will finance the killings through another Wall Street orchestrated credit default swap scandal.

Crowley: Thank you, Congressman.

Ryan: My pleasure.

Anais Knot

Thanks to an old amigo burrowed deep within the bowels of commercial publishing, I’ve snatched several excerpts from Bristol Palin’s upcoming memoir. The budding young celebrity is carving out quite a career. Snagging a coveted spot on “Dancing with the Stars”, Bristol wowed TV addicts with stiff caterwauls about the gaudy studio without inflicting permanent testicular injury to her arm candy. Although an uncouth (and jealous) liberal sniper compared her moves to that of a “dancing cartoon cow”, Bristol’s gamy attempts to tango wooed viewers who love Jesus and His flock of precious zygotes. It’s a god damned shame that she didn’t win the shiny silver ball. Christians are a persecuted minority.

Wise beyond her twenty years, Bristol’s memoir could very well rejuvenate the Family Palin brand. If the yet untitled memoir is anything like the sneak peaks, I predict a bright future for America’s most famous unwed mother and ambassador for teen sexual abstinence.

__________________________

Willow and me went to Clay’s party. Clay’s a dick, but his dad keeps beer in the garage. Clay’s dad is a dick, too. Carl’s always copping a feel when he pretends to hug me. Yuk! What an asshole. Levi said Carl asked him if we were fucking. That pissed me off. So I cornered Carl and got right in his stupid face. Carl’s such a faggot. His face got all red and shit. He won’t even look at me in church.

Levi and me were boning. Mom shouted through the door, “Hey, you two better be ‘doin homework in there!” Levi was stoned and started giggling. I started giggling because Levi was giggling. Mom said, “What so funny?” I said, “Math.” Levi said, “Yeah, we’re ‘doin multiplication.” And Mom said, “What’s that?”

I couldn’t believe I was knocked up. I was so pissed. Mom and Dad were like, “great, way to go” -- like it was my fault! Dad really yelled at Levi, and called him a dipshit. Mom shoved me into the kitchen and was saying stuff like, “Is he too cheap to buy rubbers? Really, Bristol, you couldn't just give him a hand job or BJ.” And then I got all mad and said, “Why should he have all the fun? Most of the time he pulled out. Besides, Levi said rubbers made his dick hurt.”

When I was really bored, I’d count the times Cindy McCain blinked. We called McCain, Gramps McCreepy. I can’t believe nobody noticed him staring at Mom’s ass when she was giving a speech. Once, he came into the hotel room when I was watching MTV in my underwear. I’m like, hello?, I’m in my underwear. He tried to pretend he wandered into the wrong room. I said, “Take a picture next time, it lasts longer.” Snap!

Thoughts on Mubarak

The blizzard came and stayed. There’s so much sub-zero snow outside that the rottweiler really doesn’t know whether to shit or go blind. I’m encouraging her to pee and shit outside. I even put on actual clothes, boots, gloves, black ski mask the rottweiler carried home several years ago, and shoveled an area big enough for her to squat down without exposing her butt and doggy poon to what Lutherans call Schnee. The things we do for love.

When I write “actual clothes”, I mean garments not associated with debauched lounging. I’ve become so comfortable in my daily sloth that I think nothing of engaging in small talk with the occasional guest wearing dirty sweat pants, ill-fitting pullover and what can best be described as very cheap house shoes. To complete my look, I omit shoving into place Dr. Benway’s handmade upper dental partial. Wearing the porcelain prosthetic feels unnatural, like drinking coffee after 7:30 AM with no pick me up. Every now and then a Jehovah’s Witness pays their dues. Imagine if Larry David wrote the scene where Clarice Starling meets Jame Gumm. They usually make a hasty retreat when I insist that they listen to the audio version of Nimoy’s “I Am Not Spock” as a token of my appreciation for the free Watchtower.

Run! It's an old liberal!

Don’t feel like ex-Texas Ranger John Reid if you’ve never heard of Frances Fox Piven. Neither had I. Blessed with a ‘Caldwellian’ IQ so high that I’m virtually unemployable, somehow Frances Fox Piven escaped my ginormous butterfly net. Reluctant to make excuses; let’s just say I wasn’t up to speed on burning sociological issues in 1966. Although a precocious nine year old, I failed to read Professor Piven’s The Weight of the Poor: A Strategy to End Poverty. I was probably too preoccupied trading Beatle bubble gum cards with Mary Alice Turley. (Mary Alice was ape over Paul and I was obsessed with Ringo, correctly deducing that he was the brains behind the operation).

A year later The Monkees replaced The Fab Four’s hold on Mom’s pocketbook. Hopefully this doesn’t sound too boastful, but I was Oakland Park’s only fifth grader to own authentic Monkee Wear. My tight striped pants and extra wide black belt (with equally wide buckle) distracted the usually shy Terri Combs away from the fraction’s dark mysteries. She whispered, “Muck, you’re so mod.”

The next day Billy James, Dale Knottraub and I formed a band. Although neither Billy nor Dale owned authentic Monkee Wear, both wore pointy black Beatle boots. Pointy black Beatle boots were cool but cumbersome if participating in recess activities, like running down girls and kick ball. Always the trend setter, I wore Chuck Taylor All Stars, even if the canvas icons could not be seen because tight, striped, pocket-less and very flared Monkee pants covered my little feet.

Billy was half Gypsy and half Oklahoma Indian. He marched to a different tom-tom. It was Billy’s idea to name our band The Comanches. I was looking to incorporate words like groovy or far out; Dale didn’t care as long as he was the lead singer. Mrs. McCune let us lip-synch I’m a Believer during music class. It was The Comanches' first and last gig. Billy moved on to pellet guns; Dale soon developed an all-consuming passion for rocks. After an afternoon of soul searching, I finally admitted that wearing Monkee pants greatly inhibited physical activities -- such as bike riding and bending over. As for my musical career, my parents made me take Hammond organ lessons from a giantess. I was later granted a pardon when I said the organ sounded like “dead people groaning.”

Had I traded my usual reading/ogling -- Mad Magazine and Dad’s not-so-cleverly stashed Playboy(s) -- for The Nation, maybe Professor Piven’s ungodly leftist assault on America’s economic system might have made a lasting pre-pubescent impression. Glenn Beck, who was two when Piven published her traitorous article, was obviously the wonder of Mt. Vernon, Washington. The future Victoria Jackson of progressive conspiracy theories pegged Professor Pevin as an anathema the same year high school freshman Rush Limbaugh could finally make poo-poo in the stool.

But it is odd that infant shock jock prodigies like Beck always time travel back 40-plus years to warn right-wing extremists of current left-wing extremism. It’s been some time since the Weather Underground planted bombs or the Black Panthers freaked out whitey. The SDS hasn’t overrun campus property since Maude made her sassy television debut. It’s scary to think what dirty deeds Glenn knows (God speaks through his chalk) the Grange have planned. Could be that 1893 will be a living hell for fat cat bankers and railroad men.

an ongoing conversation II

The Fox News narrative is coming together. It goes like this:

The massacre in Tucson that left six dead and thirteen wounded, including Congresswoman Giffords, is the act of a lone madman. Efforts by liberals to politicize the shooting are grossly unfair. Attempting to cast Jared Lee Loughner as a rightwing extremist is absurd; if anything, Loughner is a lefty. His Face Book page listed the Communist Manifesto as a favorite book, along with Mein Kampf, We the Living and Peter Pan. And he smoked pot. When you combine Marx, Hitler, Rand, Barrie and Tommy Chong you get the typical communist/anti-communist fascist Objectivist druggie, who is quite possibly a pedophile; in other words, a typical liberal Democrat. Loughner’s only redeeming quality is a fondness for semi-automatic handguns with extended round clips; (he must have acquired this positive trait from reading Hitler and Rand). However, had Loughner’s library included Going Rogue or rightwing propaganda published by Regency Press, drawing conclusions from what a madman wrote on his Face Book page is an irresponsible rush to judgment.

The real victims are Sarah Palin, Rush Limbaugh, Glenn Beck and every other rightwing pundit exercising his or her rights to incendiary free speech-for profit. Of course, brief condolences to those the Democrat lunatic murdered.
__________________

This is the reason I stopped satirizing conservatism -- or whatever the fuck Fox is peddling. It’s certainly a constant drum beat of fear and loathing. I’m only half-joking when I write that it would be a seamless transition should Ailes replace Glenn Beck’s Woodrow Wilson/Progressive Fascism conspiracies with Manson’s Helter Skelter. Nuts is nuts. How did the party of Reagan become the party of Limbaugh? At what point did the Republican Party decide to let Clear Channel and Rupert Murdock run the show? There’s no rational explanation why national Republican leaders should fear pissing off a radio shock jock with a well-publicized arrest for prescription drug doctor shopping. What’s Limbaugh going to do if a Republican Congressman refuses to apologize for being truthful about the self-proclaimed Emperor’s nakedness, fire him? The subservient relationship between Limbaugh and supposedly serious lawmakers is a combination of Conrad’s Lord Jim and Kingsly Amis’ Lucky Jim. Thomas Pynchon is the only writer alive who could capture Republican Party politics with the right touch of post-modern absurdity and dense complexity.

The brandy must be refreshed -- and there is always more dirty laundry.

an ongoing conversation

I did something today that I haven’t done in seven months: I listened to Rush Limbaugh.

I stopped tuning-in because of a personal commitment to consciously limit my exposure to mendacious propaganda. I couldn’t do anything about the dark overtones that permeates political discourse, but I could tune-out premeditated malevolence. I’m embarrassed to admit that I wasted so much time wondering what lies the Father Coughlin of modern American conservatism would weave. Even though I knew Limbaugh was too clever to openly espouse his racist contempt against minorities or overtly encourage violence, I kept hoping for an unguarded Lonesome Rhodes moment when his inherent ugliness would be impossible for devoted sycophants to ignore. I forgot that two decades of dehumanizing human beings have anesthetized his brainwashed self-loathing audience.

Because Limbaugh -- and others who have traded decency for lucrative careers in dog whistle politics -- have saturated civilized conversation with divisive contempt disguised as “intellectual honesty” there is no longer a clear line separating acceptable from unacceptable speech. Hiding behind the First Amendment, the purveyors of what Dave Neiwert has labeled “eliminationist rhetoric” cry foul if called out for insinuating an existential enemy known as liberalism seeks America’s destruction. The traditional media gives them a pass, pretending there is a false equivalency between rightwing violence-laded language and what little remains of leftwing mass communication. Conventional Beltway wisdom insists on pretending “both sides do it” whenever an obvious example of unscrupulous venality becomes too toxic for easy dismissal. Bill O’Reilly was never held accountable for his constant slurs against the late Dr. George Tiller. Referring to Dr. Tiller as a “baby killer” for providing women legal abortions, O’Reilly played the victim card after Scott Roeder, a seriously disturbed pro-life fanatic, executed the doctor in his church -- for Christ's sake. After all, O’Reilly didn’t actually pull the trigger. He was simply exercising his rights to free speech by describing Tiller as a mass murderer. Who could argue that Joseph Stalin and Dr. Tiller didn’t share the same monstrous history? Only “pin headed” liberals would take “cheap shots” at O’Reilly for drawing such an obvious conclusion, right?

I listened to Limbaugh today to hear how the godfather of hate radio blamed last Friday morning’s carnage on me, a gun-adverse liberal. Like the rest of his well-financed “intellectually honest” true-blue patriots, Limbaugh is worried the attempted assassination of Congresswoman Giffords is focusing unwanted attention on how he made his fortune. Because he and every other so-called conservative flame thrower share a common lexicon, Limbaugh is nervous public outrage could cause Beltway enablers to abandon the “both sides do it” equivocation. Worse yet, nervous Republican politicians might distance themselves and stop providing legitimacy for his stock-in-trade: vituperative personal attacks. Because Limbaugh has never been anything but a semi-educated shock jock/provocateur, he has always needed the veneer of establishment political power to embellish non-existent credentials. Without elected officials pretending he is Bill Buckley’s intellectual heir, the Wizard of Oz self-constructed persona floats away.

It is a dilemma he shares with Sarah Palin, Glenn Beck, Sean Hannity, ad nauseam. I doubt if they could write a book, much less debate policy issues with any discernable expertise. Remove them from their hermitically-sealed cocoons, and the most widely admired conservative icons would be more adept at remaking the “Road to Bali” than addressing the country’s vexing problems.

I’ll continue this discussion tomorrow. It’s late and I need to finish laundry before Beloved slides home. Writing is a hobby; housework is my vocation.