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.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, April 22, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, April 18, 2011
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)