Juan Don's Wondrous Muck

EMERGING FROM THE SWILL

2011-08-18T16:02:00.000-05:00

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

2011-05-28T21:12:00.003-05:00

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

2011-05-27T21:32:00.003-05:00

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...

2011-05-19T18:52:00.004-05:00

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

2011-05-18T19:31:00.003-05:00

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

2011-05-05T17:02:00.009-05:00

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.
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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.
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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

2011-05-01T13:33:00.007-05:00

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%.”
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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

2011-04-28T22:22:00.005-05:00

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

2011-04-25T22:56:00.006-05:00

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!

2011-04-24T18:28:00.007-05:00

“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.
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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!

2011-04-22T20:04:00.005-05:00

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

2011-04-20T19:19:00.006-05:00

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

serious people

2011-04-18T16:48:00.001-05:00

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

2011-02-09T12:51:00.001-06:00

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

2011-02-02T20:23:00.000-06:00

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!

2011-01-22T19:20:00.008-06:00

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

2011-01-11T19:29:00.001-06:00

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

2011-01-10T21:27:00.004-06:00

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.

pie crust

2010-11-24T17:06:00.005-06:00

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

2010-11-10T19:37:00.000-06:00

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

2010-11-04T15:47:00.002-05:00

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

2010-11-01T19:58:00.000-05:00

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.

skoal

2010-10-21T23:16:00.001-05:00

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.

pre-night out with Beloved

2010-10-15T18:08:00.002-05:00

Political Science: The difference between Democrats and Republicans is Democrats offer bread with their circus.

Americans have been conditioned to watch literally anything that radiates through a television screen. A majority of Americans believe what they’re watching is real. While America is occupied with television, Wall Street, Chamber and Commerce ransack the family room. The irony is that many viewers own Chinese burglar alarm systems. Frank Cannon, also known as “Fat Man”, says this is called “creating a diversion.”

People in Hell really do want ice water if God speaks through Glenn Beck.

I’m no longer comfortable using the word evil to describe evil. The good thing is I’m aware that evil exists -- and it’s out to get me. Later today I’ll decide to replace evil with paranoid after combining a clove cigarette with deep breathing exercises; otherwise known as a near-death experience.

Johnny Bosco is smart. He’s learned that incessant pre-dawn yelling does not always produce the desired result. Now he positions himself directly atop my face and extends his claws into the loose skin around my eyes. And so my first taste of consciousness is pure primordial terror. Well trained, I pry Johnny Bosco from my eyelids and open a can of Fancy Feast before fully appreciating the pain.

Every day I try to finish six pages. Twenty minutes before noon I stagger back into the inner-sanctum and edit yesterday’s output. Here is what I was able to salvage from Chapter XXIV:
_________________
Slowly, ever so slowly, Prince Elmer wiped his massive sword across the slave girl’s gleaming black bottom, honoring an ancient warrior tradition with each deliberate pass. As his muscular forearm glistened like a young penguin’s back, Prince Elmer’s blank expression turned fierce remembering Lady Fisch-Leigh’s eye-stinging treason.

The phone rang.

(I was tempted to leave in the ensuring conversation between my hero and his mother, Dowager Queen Shelly Belle, but decided to save it for less serious creative writing -- like this blog or tax forms).
_________________

Juan’s take on “A Pledge to America”

After Nosan and Jerri von Kreppler’s teenage son, Nosan Junior, drove the family car into Lake Byrd Emulsion for the fourth time, Nosan Senior finally put his foot down. Nosan Junior’s driving privileges were suspended until he exhibited signs of responsibility. Jerri felt sorry for the boy. She persuaded her husband to let Nosan Junior write a pledge promising never to drive into Lake Byrd Emulsion again.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I pledge never to drive your car into the lake. And I really mean it!

Satisfied, Nosan and Jerri waved goodbye to their son as he sped off. Forty five minutes later they watched in stunned disbelief as the same tow truck driver returned their wrecked, wet vehicle. Nosan Junior dashed upstairs. A few minutes later he handed his shaken parents a note.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I pledge never to drive your next car into the lake. And THIS TIME I really, REALLY mean it!!!

All Kooky on the Eastern Front

2010-10-09T17:14:00.009-05:00

Richard Iott, tea bagger patriot and Republican candidate for Ohio’s 9th Congressional seat, goose-stepped around in a Nazi SS uniform. Richard didn’t confine his unique hobby to private, indoor bier fests; no, Richard (I’m going to rechristen him Dick) is a Nazi re-enactor;think goofballs who sport itchy costumes and play Civil War on weekends. Dick and fellow spooks fight make-believe Bolsheviks when not murdering Jews, Gypsies, tramps and thieves with unloaded MP40s. When photos of Dick in his authentic SS Wiking wear surfaced, he had a perfectly reasonable explanation: Father and son bonding.

Sure, why not. Donning Nazi outfits and eliminating Slavic sub-humans is more creative than fishing or coaxing a 1972 Beetle back to life. I image that Dick was surprised when little Heinrich asked him, “Vater, would you join me in reprising the glory days of the Third Reich?” Perhaps the pale Bursche was unnaturally shy and spent too much time in the basement torturing stray cats, and Dick, desperate to connect with his odd offspring, jumped at any opportunity to get Heinrich some fresh air. I find myself struggling to bond with Gomez. There are times when I feel guilty sharing vodka and unfiltered cigarettes with my nine year old. But I do have my baseline bottom. Should Gomez ever ask me join in on a costumed-torchlight parade around the synagogue in Waffen SS Totenkopfe, I’d refill his glass and quickly change the subject.

Its doubtful Dick’s extracurricular activities will negatively affect Ohio’s sock monkey twirlers. Immune to cognitive dissonance, admiring a guy who lurks about public parks dressed like Sergeant Shultz is compatible with Obama-as-Hitler comparisons. Maybe a few paunchy patriots will have La-Z-Boy recliner epiphanies, but the chances are slim. Since the likely gaggle going to Washington next January will be a homemade quilt of “real” Americans, Dick strutting around in Wiking gray will blend in nicely with comparable Confederate finery. White sheets always stand out, of course.

Sweet Jesus

2010-10-08T10:52:00.003-05:00

Note: Juan Don is still missing. And so another excerpt from Anson Burlingame‘s blog, “Inside the Call for What?”

WHAT IS WAR?

Summarizing from my last blog, for damn sure two Presidents have not unleashed the necessary “dogs” to kill ALL able bodied men to dismantle the government of that country. Bush said it very clearly: If someone shoots at our troops, blow up the house if possible. War is not a surgical instrument. If we blow up one house but others keep shooting, build BIG POW camps to house the bad guys, women and children if necessary. BUT NEVER sacrifice a single AMERICAN in this “inhumane” war.

Now think about this: When we truly unleashed “hell” with nuclear weapons, the intellectual definition of “kicking around” was sometimes referred to as “low intensity conflict.” But the loss of life was essentially minuscule. Of course the CIA agent in some remote country that had his throat slit by the KGB might think otherwise. Frankly, in my view destroy the whole damn house, then move in and “take out” the village after the fact.

Isn’t it really that simple? But, But, But you say if we follow all of the above we have “mucked” around with uncertainty. YES it is brutal, but all war is engagement and treasure, at least in money. But let’s not get distracted in the more subtle thoughts of “war.” Let’s simply “unleash the dogs of war” and “go there and shoot that”, etc.

Now let’s move to the last part of Clausewitz: “Massive force sometimes picks the “dogs” to be sacrificed.”

To me the answer is pretty clear. I must now get somewhat “technical” in military or strategic terms. We must defeat AFGHANISTAN and ALL of its people. Just like Germany, or the South, or Great Britain, or whomever.

So more to come folks, if you have the stomach to read further. See my next blog, WHAT DOES A “GLORIOUS” WASTELAND LOOK LIKE AND WOULD CONRAD HEID VACATION THERE?

vivid green vacation

2010-09-29T20:06:00.002-05:00

PART ONE: LOOK HOMEWARD DIPSHIT

The return journey from Honduras was trying. Still wavering between Technicolor hallucinations and Disney jungle animation from the all-you-could-vomit Bill Burrough’s Yage Team Adventure buffet, the pilot hauling me and Jock Goldstein from Corozal to a private airfield south of Mexico City looked like an eleven year old extra from “The Mission.” The only sensible thing to do was inhale tequila and pass out. Jock declined my invitation to abuse the bewitching stench. He thought Ricky, our diminutive, boxed aeronautics professional, might need assistance reaching the pre-Kennedy administration Piper Apache’s rudder pedal.

A violent drop hurled my spinal column back into gravity’s complete control seconds before rubber melted with runway gravel. Aside from chain-smoking purple Guatemalan, Ricky was fond of unleashing unexpected 1,500 feet aerial swoons to pass the time. (I learned this from Jock, who is convinced his genitalia suffered permanent tissue damage from repeated attempts to seek sanctuary just below his throat. Luckily, I was unconscious from acute alcohol poisoning during all but a tiny snippet of the three hour horror show).

Shaky but surprised to be alive, we crawled into the back of a panel van and jostled forty miles or so to airplane numero dos. Our new pilot gave me the chills. Deep wear on the wooden handle of his machete was disconcerting. On the bright side, he was tall enough to legally careen around Space Mountain. Jock rifled through his duffle bag and found a handful of anti-anxiety pills leftover from a stab at delivering mail. We washed them down with what the locals mistakenly think is water. While our new pilot went through his pre-flight check -- kicking tires and bouncing atop each wing -- Jock and I contemplated making a run for it. But where would we go?

Before we could decide on whether or not to simply dash for the clearing and become seriously existential, the pilot wandered over. My Spanish is strictly retail, just proficient enough to pay $100.00 dollars for landfill curios.

“What did he say?” I asked.
“If we need to take a dump, the outhouse/terminal wouldn’t be his first choice,” said Jock.

We contemplated the pilot’s advice in silence.

COMING WHENEVER, PART TWO: CHICHUACHUA DESPAIR

Fun with cut-ups.

2010-09-18T22:56:00.003-05:00

Note: Juan Don is currently out of the country taking part in the annual Bill Burroughs 1953 Yage Team Adventure reenactment. Thus far the only contact with Juan has been a rambling phone call expressing disappointment that his spirit guide is the lady in the Progressive car insurance commercials. Replacing Juan is conservative Republican Ray O. Hackler. Ray O. writes editorials for a small market newspaper and donates every other Tuesday morning giving Taser demonstrations to elementary school kids.
______________________
Ray O. Hackler says,

I’ve known Juan since 1983. Although a typical liberal fuck up artist, he does have a few redeeming qualities. Last year after Juan returned from Central America he spray painted all of his shoes metallic gold and added long haired domestic cat to his arsenal of “animal” languages. No, those are not counted as redeeming qualities. I can’t think of any at the moment. But basically he’s harmless.

I’m doing this as a favor. Don’t even ask. A man of my word, I promised I’d fill-in while Juan’s eating drugs with freaks. Instead of presenting my own material, I’m recycling the best of Anson Burlingame for those who may be unfamiliar with Joplin’s best anti-liberal scribbler. Enjoy.
_______________________
Inside the Call for What?

“Girding myself for battle, I ran into a buzz saw of sorts. I responded accordingly thereto, and did my usual routine. So here I go again, back to first principals in an absence of force. No force and we all do as we choose; accordingly when NO force from government is involved liberals simply protect their butts in carrying out their duties. This was EXACTLY what happened once OPA gained control over Emma’s money.

Look at income taxes (since 1917 or so). Now don’t even try to point to something like Obamacare as such an attempt to “regulate” “labor” at the federal level. THAT is not freedom. Now go listen to the tea parties. Forget the stupidity of those that use that venue to promote hate and 'distain' like calling whoever she is a Nazi, etc. Far too soon to tell if tea parties are a strong, vibrant and needed addition to American politics. But I sure as hell am listening and like some of which I hear now but not in the “early days” when Our Founders hammered the hell out of others, not just the “rich”. Talk about monkeys and footballs!!!

Outrageous liberals will say, “kobble de kook” and conservative reaction will create an uproar for sure, one way or another. But after all, who is really in “charge” of the discussion? Is it possible to “go over the cliff” we asked ourselves? What will it “look like” if we do take the plunge? We weren’t sure, we concluded, but it would not be PRETTY at all. Dreams bring us back to some form of disagreeable reality. Consider the Dark Ages as an extreme example. “WHEN IS ENOUGH, ENOUGH?”

Go think about it.”

Barely hanging on in this sulfuric atmosphere

2010-09-15T21:04:00.004-05:00

I had to open the widow. Keisha, our loveable old rottweiler, released a massive dose of methane. These silent assaults are impossible to describe; one has never experienced the sudden rush of overpowering hell until they’ve had their entire being traumatized by her beastly rectal vapor. I’m sure it’s purely coincidental, but she is infamous for slaying us while we’re eating. Her farts actually penetrate food, literally turning ham salad on wheat into a shit sandwich. At least fifteen minutes must pass before the Hovel Goddess and her lame burden can smoke without risking terrible death.

Newt Gingrich and his latest spooge receptacle are determined to avoid honest employment. Fronting a Muslim bashing flick so disgusting Preacher Jones fears years of diligent brainwashing is at risk should his tank-topped cult view the abomination, the Sid and Nancy of vicious fear mongering are determined to squeeze America’s tea baggers dry before Glenn Beck. Like a Clive Barker character, Newt lurks about in dark, unspeakable damnation until summoned by the lure of easy election year PAC money. I take it his blond succubus must be a Mel Gibson Catholic.

It’s impossible to dwell upon vicious fear mongering without mentioning Hannity. I thought he was going to cry last night when Karl Rove spoke poorly of Delaware’s Miss Spooky Panties 2010. A Republican speaking ill of a Republican candidate on Fox is akin to pinching off a loaf atop St. Peter’s Baldachin Altar during the televised Christmas mass; poor Karl. The first time in 34 years he tells the truth and even his buddy Rush Limbaugh blows out a Cochlear implant yelling at him…so much for Big Tent conservatism.
___________
Hannity: What’s so wrong with Christine O’Donnell that you can’t support her?
Rove: She’s mentally retarded, Sean.
Hannity: Now that’s a lie, Karl!
Rove: No, she has Down syndrome.
Hannity: Her mother could be Asian! What’s wrong with Asians! Can’t Asians be good Obama-hating conservatives! Wait, hang on. Governor Palin’s on the line.
____________

I do not have a Twitter account, cell phone or ski equipment. I don’t want anyone to ever accuse me of making shit up.

Rumors that I was deported from Great Britain are kind of true. It’s complicated. Let’s just say that I was strongly advised to leave in a big hurry.

PS: Tomorrow is Beloved's mother's XXXXXXXXVI birthday. Upcoming festivity conversations are conducted in Latin. The dress code is toga casual for men; tunic casual for women. Chariot races will be held regardless of weather conditions. I'm hoping for a muddy track, as sloppy turf neutralizes Reidicus' superior driving skills...and the fact he's using a horse, while I'm whipping the Old Hide to shake a leg.

chelsea's revenge or karma's bitchslap

2010-09-10T19:36:00.001-05:00

Dear Juan,

This question has been bothering me for a long time: Is Geoff Caldwell retarded? I can’t tell from the little photo on his blog. Not that it makes any difference on how I plan to vote. Just because someone is retarded doesn’t mean they can’t love their country and hate Obama. Am I even supposed to use the word retarded? Or will liberals take offense? My husband thinks the paper has a program where “special needs” people can pretend they're writing something.

Curious in Granby

Dear Curious,

Sorry for the delayed response. The Old Hide and I have had one hell of a time finding a school for Gomez, the mail carrier’s youngest son. Only teasing. Even though Gomez has red hair and green eyes, I must keep believing that there’s a Leprechaun squatting somewhere in the Don family chaparral. Because three clinical child psychologists labeled Gomez a “chronic pyromaniac with homicidal tendencies,” we can’t find a kindergarten teacher willing to roll the dice. Unless there’s an action junkie in our immediate future, it looks like Gomez is learning his ABCs from “Deadwood” DVDs.

I’d need to watch Caldwell bowl or operate a hot charcoal grill before pronouncing him retarded. It’s hard to tell from the photograph. Perhaps his dense expression was caused by an accidental exposure to reality seconds before the picture was snapped. But his angry, confused prose is obviously the work of a maladjusted mind. Caldwell’s muddled cognitive dissonance is common among people classified as slow. The slow (or Hannitized) can’t understand basic cause and effect scenarios, such as taxes generate governmental revenue or borrowing Chinese money to invade the wrong country is a poor expenditure of limited capital. Those afflicted with this particular mental defect are unnaturally drawn to authoritarian figures. This explains why Dittoheads believe outlandish fabrications from dissimulating grifters. A recent study conducted by the Cleese Institute revealed that long term listeners to talk radio can hear dog whistles, while those engaged in productive activities were deaf to high-pitched frequencies. Unfortunately, the research was discontinued: An alarming number of Dittoheads suffered serious spinal cord injuries from repeated attempts to lick their junk.

To answer your question, no I don’t believe Caldwell is retarded. I’d go with Hannitized.

Because I’m from Carterville, using the word retarded to describe someone is often considered a compliment, so I’m not up to speed on what liberals consider an appropriate, politically correct designation for the mentally handicapped. I’d experiment with variations of developmentally challenged. Or you could make up a word. My father was fond of skeeterbrained when explaining my childhood peccadilloes to annoyed neighbors.

Don’t quote me, but I’m pretty sure the paper received a generous Koch endowment that stipulates all editorial writing must be attempted by locals with certified Intelligence Quotient scores no higher than 90 and no lower than 65. Rumor has it the Chamber of Commerce threw a ruckus after their candidate failed to meet the minimum requirement.

a single ray

2010-09-09T16:39:00.002-05:00

I’ve found that maintaining a perverse sense of humor about the demise of democracy keeps alcohol consumption down. While it’s tempting to attempt Bill Faulkner’s self-medicinal regimen, my meager literary output is insufficient to garner Beloved’s benediction. It’s one thing to overlook a Nobel Prize winning writer’s bourbon-enhanced sabbaticals, it’s quite another when the sloshed reprobate is yours truly. And so I maintain a hazy, semi-conscious peephole, rather than complete oblivion’s sweeter scenery.

Today was a pleasant diversion from the usual dreary bullshit. Joplin Globe blogger Duane Graham (whose writing is accessible in the right hand corner) spanked the nuts off of Geoff “Ro” Caldwell (whose atrocities are not accessible in the right hand corner). Rarely does a dull Dittohead receive such a public horse whipping as was applied by The Erstwhile Conservative. I have no idea what possessed the hack talk radio transcriber to slither from his quiet crawlspace, but I’m glad "Ro" exposed his ass to more than the two or three buffoons who share the same repugnant politics. Of course, I couldn’t resist the temptation to tease.

Further laughs were had later when Anson Burlingame (Caldwell’s partner in bad English) rubbed salve on his buddy’s bleeding butt: There, there my little patriot. Graham is an intemperate ideologue, incapable of love for country or playing the mawkish victim. Be strong; be strong for me. I need your strength so I can continue posing as a right-of-center conservative.

Had I not been overcome by a wave of nausea, I’d have commented: Decorum invisible tank lovers. Please, get a room!

And so a brief respite from the systematic breakdown of America. Yet without another refreshing glass of bye-bye juice, I fear my soiled tissue will circle closer to the drain.

the shape of things

2010-08-26T16:20:00.004-05:00

Dear Juan,

I hear a lot about the benefits of small government over big government. Is it a size thing? If so, why wouldn’t petite government be preferable to small government? Petite has a better ring to it. When somebody describes a woman as petite, I immediately draw a pleasing mental picture of Audrey Hepburn in “Roman Holiday.” But if a woman is described as small, I envision Linda Hunt in “Dune.” Basically, petite is almost always cute and small can range from mildly disconcerting to physically deformed. It’s like someone saying their female cousin is big. What does that mean, big as in fat or big as in volley ball spiker?

Brandon Bravo
Carterville, Missouri

Dear Brandon,

It’s a small (or petite) world. I knew your father. Back when Junior’s Tavern pushed the envelope of irresponsible drinking, he was known as Rio. Your pop was the mastermind behind replacing cars with riding mowers as the vehicle of choice for avoiding intrusive interest in our blood alcohol content. After an ample supply of Jim Beam, Rio was a genuine problem solver. On any given afternoon the pitted parking lot was full of corroded Snappers. If Junior Madden had maintained sobriety long enough to master small engine repair, he’d have left Birdie Lu financially solvent. I was considered a showoff because I owned Carterville’s only John Deere, complete with working headlights and adjustable seat. The Deere was a family heirloom, the crown jewel of Grandpa White’s estate.

I’ll always remember the August afternoon Marshal Dickman put the kibosh on our unlicensed means of transportation. The day before your father instigated a mass mower exodus. He’d heard Billy Hardy had installed an in-ground pool behind his double-wide, thanks to a fortuitous insurance settlement. So off we went. There were probably twenty mowers snaking down old Route 66. Because we were drunk, the progress was rather disorderly. And then, out of nowhere, the Marshal’s Dodge zoomed past our caravan with lights flashing. Eventually everybody found park, and we idled in place wondering what the fuss was all about. Long story short, we were holding up Mrs. Sample’s funeral motorcade -- and had been for ten blocks. Alas, mowers don’t come equipped with rear view mirrors. Although it wasn’t funny at the time, Jack Cooley, Carterville’s last in-house mortician, was forced to pull his ’64 Caddy hearse into Pearson’s gas station and phone the Marshal into action. No doubt the solemnity of the occasion was marred by an uninvited and intoxicated lawn mower escort.

Because Mrs. Samples died a Baptist, the Marshal saved the colorful tongue lashing for later. Ironically, Billy Hardy didn’t have an in-ground pool. All we found was a shitty Western Auto above-ground. But then what should we have expected from someone who hit pay dirt after having their head aerated by a brush hog? It wasn’t your father’s fault that Billy Hardy blew Liberty Mutual's money on chinchillas. Rio was always the romantic type. He deserved better than cashing out in a wet crawlspace. At least he left this vale of tears doing what he loved best. The Rio I knew would have been pleased knowing he was laid to rest in a sheet metal casket.

Concerning big or small government, who cares? As long as there’s enough electricity to keep the ice machine working, Carpe diem.

freudian baba ghanoush

2010-08-25T10:28:00.005-05:00

Dear Juan,

I’ve been having nightmares. It’s awful. I dream that I’m lounging by the pool reading a Christian mystery novel when Terror Babies surround my recliner. Some are wearing sombreros and have bushy El Guapo mustaches, and others look just like bin Laden. The hairy little fiends shout dreadful things. I'm not sure, but I think they rape me. How can I stop these nightmares?

Suzy Hungerford
Galena, Kansas

Dear Suzy,

Have you tried killing a quart of Yukon Jack before bedtime? Several years ago I was tormented by the same reoccurring nightmare. Without going into specifics, my unconscious mind plopped me naked into a hot tub with Matt Drudge, Joan Rivers and the late Martha Raye. The inexpensive Yukon Jack therapy guaranteed a good fourteen hour coma. Just make sure smoke alarms have fresh batteries. The amber-colored medicine induces what Ozark Mental Health professionals call “dead drunk.” I’ve found the only downside is a propensity to polish off unrecognizable refrigerated green stuff. Play it safe and get rid of all Tupperware containers. Although Yukon Jack neutralizes the green stuff’s toxic assault on natural stomach juices, finding an empty plastic tub from last year’s office Christmas party wedged between your thighs is always a rough way to start the day.

As for the particular baby demons disrupting dreamy poolside reading, I believe buried deep inside your subconscious is a sexual attraction for the “other.” Why these unfilled desires take the form of dark-skinned hirsute babies is troubling, but then I’m only a dabbler in abnormal psychology. Maybe if you fantasized about George Lopez and Sunjay Dutt playing grab ass in the pool before putting Jay Leno out of his misery, the “Terror Babies” could morph into pleasurable recreational sin. Instead of suffering from nightmares, REM sleep might replace your shower head’s adjustable spray nozzle.

cold hands, patriotic heart

2010-08-21T23:09:00.004-05:00

Dear Juan,

I see you’re a cavity search consultant. I’m assuming this is some type of government job. Do you work for Homeland Security? If so, I salute your contribution in the fight against terrorism. The reason I ask is because my wife and I are taking a trip next month, and a persistent personal problem prohibits me from walking without difficulty. The fact that I’m eighty one years old doesn’t help. Do cavity search professionals profile passengers based on ethnicity or awkward gait?

Roy Rickles
Shuffleboard City, Arizona

Dear Roy,

I retired from my life’s passion due to a rare olfactory disorder called Doocy‘s Disease. Life isn’t fair. My current occupation doesn’t hold a flashlight to the exciting challenges I faced as a cavity search consultant. The brave men and women who probe, poke and occasionally extract contraband don’t receive enough credit. Thanks for recognizing the Rubber Glove Brigade’s service.

To answer your question, of course profiling occurs. If you’re wearing a beard and turban, bend over. Depending on complexion, men in pointy Middle Eastern shoes have a 75 percent chance of ‘dropping trou’. The odds of attractive Columbian women and male interior decorators undergoing enhanced pre-flight scrutiny hovers around 83 percent. The few who request a cavity search are almost always obliged. We call these volunteers “practice dummies.” Sean Hannity, a persistent volunteer, inserted raisins up his rectum to keep us on the ball. It just goes to show that someone doesn’t have to be in uniform to help keep America safe from evil.

It was my experience that Caucasians over sixty were rarely probed.

There was one CSS (Cavity Search Specialist) who was unnatural suspicious of older white women. Eventually reassigned to the Seniors Administration on Aging after Cloris Leachman barely survived an unusually vigorous examination, he is now in the nursing home industry.

Last week a nice sounding young man contacted me expressing interest in exploring cavity search opportunities. He arrived visibly intoxicated, stumbling about the front porch with a bottle of Blue Nun and Bette Midler records. Needless to say, I didn’t let him in. I just can’t put my finger on why it still bothers me.

rose is a rose unless she's a rhonda

2010-08-20T14:23:00.001-05:00

Dear Juan,

Are skag and skank interchangeable? I say skag is descriptive, as in Rhonda has skaggy hair. Skank, on the other hand, is definitive: Rhonda can have skaggy hair and not be a skank, but a skank is a skank regardless of skaggy hair. Am I right?

Cy Risk
Septic Creek, Colorado

Dear Cy,

I believe you’re trying to imply that skag is an adjective and skank is a noun: A skank can have skaggy hair, but it’s grammatically gauche to say a skag has skanky hair. However, it’s hello Holiday Inn if I said, “You look skanky” to my ball and chain after her mane has been freshly mowed. The insult is immediately recognized, and I’m scouring the dusty dresser looking for clean underwear. At this point grammatical correctness plays a secondary role to nicking her credit card amid the ensuing melee.

To be on the safe side, do what I do and appropriate innocuous words or phrases in lieu of apparent affronts. Judging from your interest in this specialized area of offensive slang, I suspect you’re not known as the George Clooney of Septic Creek. Unless you prefer auto-eroticism over interactive coitus, utilizing a more imaginative vocabulary might charm the moo-moo off some lucky gal who finds the comb over hot. Years ago I replaced fuck with baby doll as my loud reaction to missed four foot putts. Even though screaming baby doll hasn’t improved my stroke, I’m no longer on the course marshal’s dook list. You’d be surprised how people respond when told to go baby doll themselves, especially when said in a soft, effeminate voice.

Give it a shot. Retool skank into sweetie pie or the common honey. There’s a sense of empowerment in maligning women without their knowledge. Look how far Rush Limbaugh has gone. Who knew switching bitch for Feminazi was a gold mine? A trophy wife may not be in your future, but you can enjoy the next rum & Coke without worrying where cocktail waitresses insert the lime before serving.

Aqua Buddha

2010-08-19T15:47:00.001-05:00

Dear Juan,

Maybe it’s nothing but lately I’ve noticed my dog’s penis tastes funny. Is this weather related or should I take Barker to the vet?*

Shelly Skibbe
Cape Girardeau, Missouri

Dear Shelly,

That’s up to you. If you decide to see the vet I wouldn’t elaborate on why you’re concerned about his todger. I’d say something like, “Barker scratches a lot down there” or “Should his thingy be that red?” Obviously you’ve had enough oral intimacy with the pooch to discern a difference in flavor. I’m not sure what “funny” means, but whatever change has occurred must not be a mouth watering treat.

Going out on a limb, I’d look into what you eat or drink before sharing downtime with Barker. Are you taking prescription medication? Maybe this might explain the unwelcome tang. I’d give it some time before seeking treatment. While I’m remarkably open-minded, there are those who would recoil in horror if your abnormal display of affection became public. In fact, I hope Shelly Skibbe is not your real name. There are times when seeking the cover of anonymity is a wise decision. A dog lover myself, I prefer mundane physical contact, such as ear and belly rubbing. Barker may consider these examples of less amorous affection tame by comparison, but keep in mind the odds of catching weird diseases dramatically decrease when limiting contact to hand-on-fur.

My craving for cocktail shrimp has mysteriously disappeared.

*Thanks to fellow Buddhist, Garry Shandling.

dedicated to the divine Ms. Slater

2010-08-19T11:35:00.002-05:00

Dear Juan,

I’m hoping you can help me win a bet. I think Obama is a colored Stalin. My co-worker is convinced he’s the Anti-Christ with a little Hitler on the side. An educated man, I’m pretty sure the Anti-Christ has to be either Muslim or of French Huguenot descent. Help me out. There’s a topless photo of Dr. Laura on the line.

Maury Gory
Duckbutter, Kentucky

Dear Maury,

Good question. It’s highly unlikely Obama has any Der Fuhrer seed. Even though Hitler funneled his homicidal impulses toward Jews and Slavic sub-humans, he wasn’t keen on Negroes. Physical characteristics prized by Aryan fabulists during the Third Reich’s mass murder spree were in no way compatible with the Jesse Owens look. Ergo it’s dubious to believe Hitler was suicidal -- at least not before April 30th, 1945. Indiana’s Mike Pence is a near-perfect manifestation of Hitler’s goose stepping ideal. If Obama possessed Pence’s vacant blue-eyed stare and flat Nordic forehead, then your co-worker would be on the right track. As for comparisons between Obama and Stalin, I don’t see the connection. For one thing, Stalin killed an estimated 20 million Russians. And he wore a mustache. Because Obama is an incompetent “man-child” it’s hard to imagine him coming close to Stalin’s impressive tally. You’re giving Obama too much credit. About all Obama can pull off is whacking a gaggle of sick seniors. Not to be too critical, but his “Death Panels” are thin soup when spooned up against Stalin’s extensive, well organized gulag operation.

As for the Anti-Christ, I would lean toward French Huguenot. Although swarthy, they blend in better than the average Arab.

Sorry I couldn’t help.

PS: If you’re the owner of the topless Dr. Laura photo I’d like a copy. I’ve abused my Sarah Palin-in-jogging-shorts glossy beyond recognition.

Dear Juan

2010-08-18T21:34:00.002-05:00

Dear Juan,

My wife thought it was odd that Rush Limbaugh’s wedding included a color guard. Is it?

Dick Indabar
Hell, Oklahoma

Dear Dick,

Hiring a military color guard is unusual, especially since Limbaugh was conspicuously absent during Vietnam. However, fourth marriages are granted more creative license. Although it is not uncommon for previously married couples to redo the traditional church wedding, most opt for less formal ceremonies. When my cousin Dink tied his fourth or fifth knot (he wasn’t sure if number three was legally binding in the States), both bride and groom staggered into Snorky’s Hi-Ball wearing matching ‘I’m with Stupid’ tee shirts. They requested invited guests pay their tab in lieu of lottery tickets.

Because I don’t care, I’m not sure if the former country club caterer was previously married. If not, perhaps she was fulfilling a grotesque childhood fantasy. It’s not unreasonable to assume Limbaugh was stoned on goofballs and thought the garish affair was just another narcotic-induced hallucination. Rumors abound that he has no memory of the wedding and freaked after finding out Mrs. Limbaugh IV paid Elton John an extra $375,000 to croon “Better Off Dead” as their special song. Photos of “The Doctor of Democracy” humping John’s sequined leg were retrieved by security before Dick Morris could reach his National Enquirer connection.

So, all things considered a color guard was probably the least bizarre affectation.

Juan

beaned burrito

2010-08-04T22:32:00.002-05:00

Duane,

Because of rattled brain cells, I must protect the few reasonably stable ones that miraculously dodged Wild Bo Campbell’s fastball, circa 1970. A squeaky clean Boy Scout at the time, Wild Bo’s erratic attempt to brush me off the dish resulted in a dramatic personality change. Two days after Doc Gregory pried the baseball from my forehead I was smoking L&Ms with neighborhood delinquents and brazenly challenging Daddy’s authority.

Liberating a big brass pot leaf belt buckle from Webb City’s original head shop exacerbated the budding oedipal drama, leading to years of musty basement exile. Isolated from family interaction, I escaped into a fantasy world where Pink Floyd provided the soundtrack and Penthouse intense pleasure every thirty minutes. Thanks to my sister’s kindness, the damp cell’s drippy ambience was eventually enhanced with hot plate, lava lamp and cast iron washtub. The protracted oedipal drama reached its climax in ‘73 when Daddy bought me a teddy. Convinced this would shame me into sitting still for Cousin Lenny’s flattop clippers, he was traumatized when I arrived late for Faith Lutheran’s Der Ring des Nibelungen -- what Episcopalians call Easter Sunday -- working the comfortable lingerie. Herbal planning went into accentuating his gift with cute Cleopatra sandals and roach clip earrings. The lack of panties was an unintentional fashion faux pas. I found out years later that Frau Waldbesser blamed me for her husband’s subsequent battle with acid reflux.

But I digress. Here at Chow Acre Burlingame occupies the same crawl space with Caldwell -- the dullard he thinks is “General Patton.” Lord ‘a mighty. Lacking your ‘generosite d’esprit’, I’ve reached a dead end with Joplin’s Ted Baxter. Although I have conversed with inanimate objects in the past (thanks to the Zip Wyatt Treatment Center abusing aromatic hydrocarbons is now a swirling blur), I fear a relapse if tempted to refute bunkum from someone whose grip on English is similar to the average 13th century Hungarian double amputee. It’s tough to stay engaged when his comments read like Steven Wright: “I bought some batteries, but they weren’t included.”

Maybe there is a little liberal buried deep inside Burlingame that’s dying to get out. Visions of the movie “Alien” come to mind.

And now I’m going to retire for the evening and dream about Billy Long jerking off the stigma of one party rule.

practice makes perfect

2010-07-30T22:55:00.004-05:00

The lady standing next to Gary Nodler (who I presume is his wife) gazed up at the chunky corporate tool with an expression of earnest adoration as he endorsed his campaign commercial. Alas, her eyes darted toward the camera moments before the touching scene reached completion. I suspect lack of preparation played a role in this unfortunate miscue, ruining another classy conservative homage to traditional family values. Nancy Reagan had this staged scene down cold. Her wide Precious Moments eyes were always boring into the side of Ronnie’s head like carbide-tipped drill bits. But then Nancy was an old MGM/GE trooper trained to ignore adverse conditions, such as stinging sleet or what Daddy calls “dog pecker gnats.”

Because I had nothing better to do, I e-mailed Gary with suggestions on how to improve this stale media affectation. Presuming he wins the Republican primary and continues his quest to avoid employment in the private sector, the promotions need tweaking.
______________________________________________________

Dear Gary,

Before I put forward ideas on how to avoid further media miscues, let me commend you for owning one suit. Whether or not wearing bright baby blue threads is by design or lack of wardrobe, the color definitely attracts attention. It’s always savvy marketing to brand an image: Think Colonel Sanders and Matthew Lesko. If tempted to buy another suit, consider canary yellow or hugger orange. Avoid pinks and pastels. Billy Long telling butt pirate jokes isn’t worth the fashion risk.

*Shoot everything indoors. While outdoor locations are popular backdrops for pale politicians seeking to convey the impression of sporadic outside activity, you appear uncomfortable surrounded by nature. At least you weren’t on a horse, farm tractor or holding tools commonly associated with manual labor.

*Perfecting the doting-wife-staring-in-hypnotic-fascination-at-husband’s-gourd requires eyelid and neck muscle memory. I suggest she spend several hours a day staring at your head. Hire an assistant to distract her with loud noises and water pistol. This will either improve concentration or garner unwanted attention after she files a restraining order. Remember, there is a fine line between unblinking devotion and the less attractive deer-in-headlights glare. Use the time-tested trick of taping her eyes open if blinking detracts from the desired effect. Just make sure the tape isn’t visible. Some people might mistake the campaign ad for a trailer announcing another Tim Burton movie.

Another fool in paradise,

Juan Don

Gouge for Congress

2010-07-26T19:13:00.001-05:00

Hello, my name is Gale Gouge and I’m running for Congress. A lifelong conservative, I believe in faith, family, no taxes and our God given right to carry concealed firearms in these venues: churches, schools, libraries, tractor pulls, movie theaters, family reunions, Little League baseball games, Wal-Mart and hospital emergency rooms. However, I do not support concealed firearms in businesses where alcohol is served. A personal tragedy involving my older brother has convinced me that assault rifles or large knifes provide a safer, more effective deterrent against sneaky ex-husbands unable to let go of the past.

Here are some of the things I’m against: government, taxes, Democrats, liberalism, welfare, Islam, Marxism, dope, environmentalism, homosexuals, workplace safety, MSNBC, public school teachers, NAACP, unions, low fat milk, little cars, Mexicans, cats, beards, trial lawyers, Communism, seat belts, hunting permits, Hollywood elites and Barack Hussein Obama.

Here are some of the things I’m for: conservatism, capitalism, corporations, Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, guns, police surveillance, Rush Limbaugh, endless war against Muslims, no taxes, off-shore drilling, global warming, Fox News, Sarah Palin, shoes with Velcro straps and deer chili.

I’ve listed a lot more on my website, www.gougeagainstgovernment.com.

Here’s a little personal history about me and my wonderful family.

Gabby and I have raised two beautiful daughters, Melody and Gale, Jr. Melody is a Health and Beauty Aides professional at the Monett Wal-Mart and Gale, Jr. is a stay-at-home mom with two special needs children. Her husband, Pick Scriven, is the owner of a successful funnel cake concession and enjoys doing volunteer work at the Barry County jail. Gabby is a tireless prayer leader and plans to continue her education online at Glenn Beck University. A freak back injury after high school has left me at the mercy of SSI disability checks. Praise to Jesus, Brother Bill Lingle has managed to partially heal the S1 and S2 vertebra. Thanks to the Holy Spirit, I can now operate the riding mower without too much pain and help Gabby water the tomatoes.

Because I’m not part of the local Republican Party establishment, our fund raising efforts have been slow. If you want to send a real American to Washington and make America the Christian nation our Founding Fathers envisioned when they defeated the French back in 1861, vote for me.

And if you can spare a few dollars check out my website for information on where to mail the money.

God bless America,

Gale Gouge

Outsourcing

2010-07-26T12:55:00.004-05:00

I’m not really a movie reviewer. I get nervous sitting in the dark with strangers. The last movie I sat through featured Joan Blondell. Back when cigarette smoking was socially acceptable in hospital nurseries, I made a good living writing lurid crime stories. Call me sentimental, but what passes as sexy today can’t hold a candle to grainy black & white photos of half naked dames getting whacked with a claw hammer. The dames weren’t really getting whacked. Bud Ossen, the Ansel Adams of erotic masochism, was a genius. Photography lost a true visionary the night his ex caught him off guard walking across the Dark Yodeler’s parking lot. If her Rambler hadn’t stalled out, who knows how many times the crazy bitch would’ve backed over the poor bastard. I tear up staring at faded Confidential Detective covers. Those were the days when high art was appreciated.

Had I stayed away from bourbon, unstable bottle-blonds, bookies and slow ponies, my so-called Golden Years might be a different color. I’m a happy man if I can get through the day and not go ten rounds with aluminum wrapped suppositories. Whoever said, “Old age is a blessing” never spent an afternoon sprawled on the bathroom floor in a desperate attempt to shove a little metal torpedo up their ass. It ain’t pretty. Did I mention that my prostate gland and the eight ball are identical twins?

[It was at this point Dane Paste, the Joplin Globe’s senior copy editor, realized Clifford Hanger’s first submitted movie review wasn’t going to make the Sunday edition].

Pre-Palin Vault Bones: Antichrist alert of '08

2010-07-25T10:44:00.001-05:00

I was relieved to read that Jerry Jenkins, the Abbott to Tim LaHaye’s Costello, doesn’t believe Barack Obama is the Antichrist. “I can see by the language he uses why people think he could be the Antichrist, but from my reading of scripture, he doesn’t meet the criteria. There is no indication in the Bible that the Antichrist will be an American”, said the popular pulp fiction writer. No longer using the Book of Revelation as inspiration for my occasional stab at mixing the action thriller genre in with Armageddon (I prefer lifting passages from Nelson DeMille‘s “The Hammer of God“), I’ll defer to Jerry’s expertise and cross Obama off my list of possible Antichrist candidates. But after revisiting old notes, I was shaken (but not stirred) to find the Antichrist shares striking similarities to Auric Goldfinger. If I detect any mysterious whiff of Pussy Galore within Revelation’s gory prophesy, I’ll fire my flare gun in the general direction of Jerusalem -- the official high sign for Hagee’s Military Warrior Support Foundation to look busy. The sooner we find this Antichrist character, the better.
**************************

Odd that Karl Rove may have met with Georgia’s Mikheil Saakashvili several days after Dr. Rice’s July 9th private dinner with the comb-challenged president. Bush’s “brain” sure gets around. Attending a conference in Yalta with Saakashvili, Juan wonders what Bush’s nefarious election strategist was doing so far from home. Perhaps Diebold is selling magical voting machines to Eastern Europe’s fledgling democracies.

Sifting through mainstream news this morning, I found Matthew Mosk and Jeffery H. Birnbaum’s piece in The Washington Post exploring Randy Scheunemann’s connection with Saakashvili. Scheunemann, McCain’s top foreign affairs hack, was receiving hefty checks from the Georgian government until March of this year for lobbying services rendered; I’m sure that had no impact on the Maverick’s command decision to dispatch Joe Liebermann overseas. Good thing the other half of what Wolcott calls “The Sunshine Boys of Cold War II” is the perfect candidate to report back an unvarnished assessment of the situation. Meanwhile, professional neo-cons were rolling atop shag carpets with glee over the prospects of instigating WW III a few days ago; but now a silky radioactive mushroom cloud of doubt hovers over Krauthhammer’s black leather-lined study. Alas, the Russian bear has pulled back, dashing hopes of an all out shooting war between Blackwater goons and Putin’s KGB before Labor Day.

Pressed to clarify what he meant when saying, “In the 21st century nations don’t invade other nations”, McCain deftly ignored his support of the preemptive invasion of Iraq and recited a prepared statement condemning Russia’s swift military response to Georgia’s attack on Ossitia. I’m sure the Maverick’s bellicose disconnect tickles he feathers of ignorant war hawks; however those of us seeking escape from Cheney’s bunker tend to reach for more gin and tonic.

That’s a serious hint, Adler. It’s time you blessed the hovel with more English liquor and fresh limes.
***************************

Thanks to one particularly disturbed acquaintance, I have Jerome Corsi’s heavily researched tome detailing the life and times of Barack Obama. I’m not sure what to do with it, so I’ll place it next to the slab’s meat grilling device and wait for inspiration.
****************************

Does Pete Peterson work full-time or part-time for Hallmark? I’d love to have a collection of his quotes to replace my outdated calendar featuring Tarzan’s famous quips.
*****************************

Juan is going to a pool party this afternoon. He promises not run, carelessly misuse glass containers or engage in horseplay with women half his age.

September 26, 2007

2010-07-25T08:57:00.005-05:00

Trolling through the paper’s on-line comment section, I decided to visit Andrew M’s discussion room. It would appear as though Andrew M is confused about the Bible‘s lack of specificity regarding Cain’s better half.

Andrew M: “At that point in the bible it (is only) states that Adam, Eve, Cain and Able (sic) were on earth, it says nothing of no other people on the earth. So where did Cain’s wife come from?”

As luck would have it, I know the answer:

Cain’s ex-wife is the former Holly Sally Butts, oldest daughter of Charles (Chuck) and Wanda Strickland Butts. She was raised with her two sisters, Wendy Dawn and Hannah Anna, on the outskirts of Nixa, Missouri. Active in band, she typed competitively for Nixa High’s FBLA chapter. Holly divorced Cain, alleging serial spousal abuse. She is currently married to Dustin (Dusty) Hole. Sadly, Holly attached her maiden name with Hole, via unfortunate experimentation with the hyphen. Although Cain's lack of a surname never exposed Holly to possible local ridicule, her last name greatly vexed her original in-laws and added even more stress to the shopping season we celebrate today as Christmas.

To those curious about Old Testament mysteries, e-mail me with questions on Monday and Thursday: I don’t shave and tend to drink more than usual.

Whispering past the cemetery: Febuary 2008

2010-07-25T07:19:00.002-05:00

From The Hairdresser, Party Lines’ unofficial Washington D.C. correspondent.*
******************************************************************

Dear Juan,

Sorry I couldn’t talk last week when you called. You had obviously been ‘working’ hard that day and I had endured a lengthy Happy Hour ‘conversation’ with a booth-full of soused, overpaid ‘health-care’ lobbyists. I suspect that they’re penciled-in to receive the first fresh liver available after their organic filters permanently ferment. Proximity to power does have its privileges.

From your last rambling missive, I can’t tell if you think Giuliani will go the distance or suffocate beneath his self-promoted 9-11 hero mythology. I can tell you that he’s certainly got the juice. The same fat cats who financed George W. have written big-numbered checks to his campaign. No question that Bernie Kerik poses a problem. Judith Regan, the woman scorned, probably did make secret tape recordings. It’s very likely Murdock’s legal army is busy creating firewalls in case the Feds decide to follow the money. Although it’s no secret Murdock’s Media Empire is backing Giuliani, it certainly gives the other candidates an opening to cry foul when Fox News lackeys drool in near-orgasmic delight at the very mention of his name. McCain and Romney have already taken their shots, questioning Giuliani’s judgment for sponsoring somebody with Kerik’s checkered past. It’s Helleresque ironic that he turned down Bush’s offer to become the Homeland Security czar over fears his scandal-rife career would generate too much negative publicity -- and then suggested Kerik as a splendid replacement! I’m starting to agree with you; maybe the entire White House vetting process was/is run from Karl Rove’s Blackberry.

An associate who works for the Dark Side has a friend with close ties to the Thompson campaign. The news from Shady Rest isn’t good. Thompson looks bad. Celebrity stalkers and Republicans praying for Reagan’s return have to stifle a gasp whenever he shuffles into view. Thus far he’s failed to generate any momentum (or money); he will probably fade away before Valentine’s Day. Romney, who will win in Iowa and New Hampshire, is the one benefiting most from Giuliani’s close proximity to the Kerik mess. Assuming that Giuliani’s mob problems provide rightwing evangelical mullahs the brass knuckles needed to serious cripple The Weekly Standard’s favorite neo-con, then Romney’s Mormonism will be overlooked as long as he recites verbatim from the Dobson Book of Common Prayer. Robertson’s endorsement doesn’t pack the same wallop it once did. In fact, it’s a sign of how far removed Giuliani’s people are from the conservative Christian movement that they thought a brief sound-bite from Robertson would redeem Rudy’s unconscionable pro-choice position. Nothing succeeds like success. A slew of early primary victories will put the Romney camp front and center, and leave John McCain (poor bastard) and Mike Huckabee staring in glum silence at a map.

Republican mavericks and libertarian-leaning independents have found a new horse to ride in Ron Paul, leaving McCain stranded in some dimly-lit church basement, muttering to himself that his Faustian deal with Bob Jones III was a bit premature. Huckabee’s poll numbers have been trending upward (he doesn’t have to pretend born-again ‘bona-fides‘, since he ‘are’ one) but he’ll never tap into BuschCo ’Pioneer’ cash or persuade Wall Street that he can keep the global Ponzi scheme afloat for another four years. Beltway consensus is that Huckabee is positioning himself to be on the VP shortlist. He would certainly be a friendlier face than Tom Tancredo or Duncan Hunter. Both have hinted that should Bill Richardson win the Democratic beauty contest, they will demand INS agents poke him back to Mexico at gunpoint. (Strangely enough, they seem to like Dennis Kucinich. Howard Kurtz believes it’s because he has a hot wife).

It will be interesting to see how long Republicans can pretend Hillary Clinton is the incumbent president. After holding the House and Senate hostage for years, the latest GOP slogan is VOTE FOR CHANGE! The joke going around Zengo’s Lounge is sometime next spring House Repubs will try and push through a bill declaring Bush a Democrat. I’m sure you enjoyed hearing that they demanded an apology from Pelosi for suggesting that the needless Iraq occupation will eventually cost $3 trillion. I see their point. Fiscal conservatives can live with $2 trillion but anything higher than that is an outrageous affront to common decency.

Now go and super-glue your teeth back in!

Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em,

(Name withheld for national security)

*Funny how some things never change.

flushed from c drive

2010-07-23T22:47:00.009-05:00

Adler came over for Juan's famous Great Value canned chili. My nonchalant method of turning on the burner gives the dook-colored feast that little something extra. Adler swears area jails have nothing on tibio puercos banquete. And what is the perfect post-para los puercos dessert? Yes, the delicious banana.

Because of wet weather, horse tank-side cocktails were swirled in the hovel’s constrained spa. Too small for conventional pleasantries, such as heated pool and relaxing sauna, the spa can only accommodate a steam iron. While sipping Black Market brandy and taking turns squirting each other with jarring blasts of hot vapor, our conversation soon turn to politics.

But I wasn’t in the mood. Feeling queasy from the entree, banana and cheap brandy, I was ready to watch fat people exercise for cash prizes. Adler realized I was fading.

Worn out? He asked.

I guess. The drive to buy smokes took it out of me. I couldn’t have gone another mile.

What is it? Two, three miles?

At least. And I was wearing steel-toed Red Wings. With my atrophied legs it was like driving in diving boots.

Why were you wearing steel toed boots?

I don’t know. Perhaps I was trying to impress the girl at the counter. She looks like the type who appreciates a man who actually works for a living.

Tattoos?

Just one that I know of.

Is it becoming?

As much as any indescribable bluish-green glob is on a skinny girl’s neck.

Teeth?

No glaring empty spaces. But she doesn’t really smile. It’s more of a strained grin.

Pause. A siren wailed. More creek trouble down at Holly's Haven.

I’d better split before Beloved comes home. Ever since you blamed me for breaking the Bullet blender, I get the death stare.

She learned that trick from her mother. If Trinity Lutheran decides to spice up the bell choir with Dracula-in-drag, Scary Frau tinkling “A Mighty Fortress is our God” is the next YouTube sensation.

Twilight: The rain was over, replaced by foggy swirls of humidity. Adler kicked his old Norton to life. The roar was deafening. I could hear the British bike rumbling east, long after beatnik and machine vanished from sight.

Several hours later, mentally drained from staring sphinx-like at network television, I curled up with the cats and daydreamed about winning a lifetime’s worth of disability checks.

Rando Redux

2010-07-15T22:56:00.002-05:00

After Shelly Dreyer beat a hasty retreat from the Club 609’s small town trendy décor, Anson Burlingame spoke quietly but firmly into his wallet-sized tape recorder.

Impressions of the trial lawyer: Good judge of character; perfume subtle, didn’t smell like a Guam Goochie girl; obviously a right-wing ideologue; shitty at math; flimsy grip on science; didn’t compliment my beard or Hawaiian shirt. This bothers me, even though no signs of ‘butchiness’. Maybe she’s far-sighted.

An hour later Bill White, Shelly Dreyer’s opponent in the Republican primary, sat opposite his interrogator, staring down into a pile of overpriced romaine lettuce.

Anson: Here’s the scenario, Bill: You and a young Japanese guy are marooned on a desert island. Months and months go by and still no rescue ship. The Japanese guy’s hair is getting longer and longer. And because he’s oriental, he doesn’t have any facial hair. Let’s say he’s found a flimsy dress while looking for coconuts or whatever. One day you notice him walk by and he’s wearing the dress. You think, ‘Shit fire, from the back he looks just like a girl!’ Later on the beach…
White: I’m not sure where you’re going with this or why.
Anson: Bill, as I explained during my last scenario with the terrorist, power drill and ticking time bomb, I’m exploring the depths of your flexibility.
White: You do remember that I’m running for state representative?
Anson: Of course! And I want to make damn certain how the person representing me in Jeff City would handle themselves with a young Japanese guy wearing a dress on a desert island. You’re a Republican, so I’d expect you to look after my economic self-interest! What I want to know, Bill, is what’s going to happen to the Japanese guy.
White: Alright, the answer is an emphatic no.
Anson: Even after two, three years?
White: Still no. Can we change the subject?
Anson: Just one more. I call this my ‘Illegal Mexican/Red Dawn Scenario’. You might want to pay close attention, Bill; this baby gets real tricky in a hurry.
White: (Fumbles for his ringing cell phone). Hello. Yes. Right. Okay. Anson, I’m very sorry but I’m needed back at the office. Something about residency requirements.
Anson: Too bad. You’d have really enjoyed the last brain teaser.
White: I’m sure. Thanks for the lunch and the interesting conversation. Maybe some time I can give you more details about my plan to entice bigger poultry plants into southwest Missouri.

While the waitress removed the plates, Anson spoke quietly but firmly into his wallet-sized tape recorder.

Impressions of Bill White: Not as wimpy as first thought; would drill terrorist's knee-cap but wasn’t as gung-ho about slicing open his nut sack with a K-Bar. Didn’t bite on the Japanese guy who looks like a girl on desert island scenario. Seemed a bit jumpy when I asked him if he favored nuking the entire Middle East. Wanted to know if Israel was included in my plan for total victory. Good point. Doesn’t think Obama is a true Marxist, but could be if he wins a second term. Fingernails were a bit too long. Doesn’t appear to get outside much. Will declare winner during spur of the moment epiphany while watching “Hannity.”
Mustard way too spicy.

Rando

2010-07-15T18:10:00.003-05:00

Rando,

Well, the mysterious case of ‘Just Who the Fuck is Shelly Dreyer?’ has certainly taken an interesting turn.

Since Anson failed to include questions and answers from his “interviews", I thought I’d have some fun.

Showdown at the 609 Club, featuring Anson Burlingame and local hack politician, Shelly Dreyer. The intrepid submariner is not about to let her pull the wool over his eyes. One tough son-of-a-bitch conservative, Anson has spent twenty minutes concocting questions that will determine whether or not Shelly, a god damned trial lawyer, can survive his brutal but brilliant interrogation without dissolving into a puddle of piss. There won’t be any quarter given, no sir. Keen beyond any reasonable definition, only Anson can determine if Shelly is a true Republican or just another liberal pussy pulling a fast one.

Anson: Okay, Shelly, what’s the square root of 137?
Shelly: What?
Anson: Come on! You heard me. I thought trial lawyers were smart. Let‘s go, I have a dozen more “nukes” waiting in the wings! (Snaps his fingers).
Shelly: I don’t know.
Anson: I figured as much. Okay, Shelly, so tell me why I shouldn’t think you’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing?
Shelly: Why would you think that?
Anson: Hey, I’m asking the questions here! You sue doctors, don’t you?
Shelly: Wow, you’re the toughest cross examiner I’ve ever met.
Anson: Really?
Shelly: Swear to God. Did you practice law?
Anson: Hardly, I was the captain of a nuclear submarine.
Shelly: Holy cow! Now that’s impressive!
Anson: Damn straight! So, if you aren’t a wolf in sheep clothing, are you a traditional Jasper County conservative ideologue?
Shelly: Yes.
Anson: Hmmm. You sure?
Shelly: I’m just your typical gun-loving, tax-hating, Christian conservative who is firmly convinced that liberalism poses a greater threat to our freedom than Muslim terrorists.
Anson: Fair enough. Okay, how old is the Earth?
Shelly: Really old.
Anson: You’re going to have to do better than that.
Shelly: Millions and millions of years old?
Anson: Wrong! (Pounds fist on the table) It’s four billion years old!
Shelly: Okay. (Looks at her watch). You know, I’d love to spend more time talking with you, but I have to give…I mean take a deposition. I have to say that I’m really, really impressed with your questions. I can see why you write such great editorials.
Anson: And my blog?
Shelly: Blog?
Anson: (Narrows his eyes ). You haven’t read my blog?
Shelly: I’m sorry, I don’t spend much time on the internet.
Anson: Well, that’s unfortunate. I write a damn fine blog for the paper. Carol said it should win an award.
Shelly: I can see why, if it’s anything like your editorials.
Anson: One last question: Paper or plastic?
Shelly: Plastic?
Anson: Good answer! That was a trick question. Had you said paper, I’d know you’re an impostor!
Shelly: Amazing! Perry Mason has nothing on you.

pinch

2010-07-08T14:21:00.002-05:00

The bad news is the economy may never regain any semblance of financial stability; the good news is a giant asteroid hasn’t entered the Earth’s atmosphere. After pinching myself hard enough to reluctantly reenter this disheveled time/space portal, I immediately remembered the opening lines from Woody Allen’s, "My Speech to the Graduates": “More than any other time in history, mankind faces a crossroads. One path leads to despair and utter hopelessness; the other to total extinction. Let us pray we have the wisdom to choose correctly.”
***************************
I missed Bristol Palin’s acting debut because I haven’t gone completely insane; not yet, anyway: I’m saving that for Ryan Franklin’s next mound appearance.
***************************
The Summer of My Discontent: The other day George the tom cat and I bitched about the rottweiler for a good fifteen minutes before we both realized that my weak meowing vocabulary severely limited the conversation’s potential for ferreting out why Keisha likes to repose in the hovel’s narrow hallway, blocking egress to his favorite sleeping nest (atop Beloved’s fleece pullovers) and the only working toilet. Developing a fondness for shitting indoors at an early age, I don’t relish doing my business in the backyard. But I will if I have to, even though there’s a very good chance the doctor’s wife (my gamey neighbor) will bear witness to this necessary act of nature. (Babs has an unnerving habit of training her high-powered binoculars on my backyard). It’s fortunate that she thinks I’m a Native American. During one our semi-frequent patio slab Shiraz taste-testing binges, the Australian grape prompted her to slovenly inquire if pooping alfresco was an ancient Peoria ritual. While flattered that I felt comfortable performing this scatological ceremony through her pricey SkyOptics, she was curious as to what an offering of feces signified. Caught flatfooted by her question, I fingered a greasy bottle of Banana Boat tanning lotion before concocting a suitable reply.

“Babs, aside from revealing an appreciable amount of sun baked skin while jiggling atop your riding mower, the reason we’ve formed a bond is our shared fondness for getting hammered before “Days of Our Lives” momentarily transports us into a world where everybody, even the villains, have healthy, pink gums. I could tell you why my people take the occasional outdoor dump, but to do so would defile my mannitoo-oo. There are aspects of our complex and seemingly incoherent spirituality that pale faces will never understand. I’ll be honest, someone from your gene pool pinching off a seat-less loaf is an affront to the Noble Savage’s sensibility. Maybe it’s the graceless way Europeans squat, I don’t know. Regardless, the sacred bowel movements that you’re honored to zoom in on represent eons of thanks for having a butt hole. Let’s leave it at that.”

Babs raised her wine glass and slurred a toast to an area of the human body that seldom receives its’ just due: Here, here, indeed.

Several hours later I drug Babs home. After placing her listless body in front of the garage the doctor uses to house his gleaming black Tahoe, I staggered about the creek bank in an approximation of unresolved purpose.

Jeepers Creepers

2010-06-14T23:42:00.002-05:00

Let’s see, forty five days have passed since my last act of bloggery and…

Crude is still gushing into the Gulf from a broken oil well that nobody -- not even James Cameron or Kevin Costner -- can fix: So much for Hollywood elites. Whenever a nuclear weapon is being bantered about as an alternative to golf balls and mud, it’s safe to assume that the final scene of this nightmarish fuck up will feature John Cleese running away from a vicious, oil-encased rabbit.
___________________________________
Plumber: “Juan, I’m afraid I can’t stop the toilet from leaking.”
Juan: “Well, that’s not good.”
Plumber: “Don’t worry. I have a small A bomb in the truck. I’m guessing two, possibly ten, square miles will cease to exist. Trust me; after I set this bad boy off you won’t be worrying about the crapper.” [Plumber laughs while Juan ponders how he should inquire about his homeowner’s nuclear explosion liability without arousing State Farm’s suspicion].
___________________________________

Anson Burlingame continues his obsessive quest to avoid discussing progressive taxation as a possible revenue source.

Sarah Palin has enhanced her presidential stature by denying rumors of a boob job and ass tuck.

I feel better knowing that a large stash of lithium has been discovered in Afghanistan. But that’s just me. The prospect of scoring affordable Librium means that I can make it through another season of “Celebrity Apprentice”. Yes!

Because I know too much about Beck’s latest ghost written pap, “The Overton Window”, I’ve been singing:

Founder’s Keepers
Where’d ya get those peepers?
Founder’s Keepers
Where’d ya get that…eye?

I’d like to think that the newest Mrs. Limbaugh’s prenuptial agreement includes free rectal reconstruction surgery.

bottom of the ninth

2010-05-01T00:27:00.004-05:00

Sarah Palin has amended “drill, baby, drill!” to “pray, baby, pray!” And all this time I thought she was an expert on containing the various ecological disasters inherent when sea water and crude oil collide. I’m glad Dr.Staib, my dentist and borrowed precious metals fence, doesn’t substitute Novocain for prayer. Call me a cynic, but I doubt if prayer can thwart the looming nightmare awaiting Louisiana’s coastal wetlands or quiet shrieking nerves.

Rush Limbaugh, who would burst into flames if haunting holy ground, hasn’t petitioned the Lord for divine intervention. Decidedly more nimble than the movement’s painfully ignorant poster-saint, he pondered the possibility of politically motivated sabotage. Because it’s impossible for an offshore drilling platform to blow up, environmental ‘whackos’ must have planted explosives. This plausible explanation, eerily similar to Michael Crichton’s plot line in “State of Fear”, should improve his accuracy rating once the eco-terrorists are caught hiding under Nancy Pelosi’s desk.

It’s comforting to know that the dynamic duo of post-toasty conservatism treat catastrophes with such somber gravity.
__________________________

Our planned trip to Arizona is on hold. Every summer Beloved and I visit the Grand Canyon on our way to see Uncle Hans and Aunt Dot. Usually by July I’m a leathery Cordovan brown. Fond of wide brimmed sombreros, the odds of being stopped have increased dramatically now that a non-Aryan-looking eccentric traveling with a white woman is considered sufficient cause for police intercession. Adding to our apprehension is the state’s latest effort to crack down on those who can’t speak English without an accent. Ever since I was cursed with the option of wearing a dental partial or finding work in Branson, I sound like Peter Lorre playing Zorro. While this oral misfortune ruined a budding Little Theater career, it comes in handy throwing bill collectors off the trail.

Gnarlatious Revelation

2010-04-25T20:06:00.002-05:00

Glenn Beck is receiving instructions directly from the Big Kahuna. While less blessed holy men struggle with sacred texts for spiritual guidance, Glenn is getting his dope straight from the horse’s mouth. Who needs printed paper when the audio version is piped in for free? Think of the relief fading eyesight would receive if Stephen King, his New England accent emanating from somewhere deep inside your brain, eliminated the need to shop retail. Of course hearing King recite “The Stand” from beginning to end does limit the lucky recipient’s ability to concentrate on other things. And depending on the volume, getting a good night’s sleep could become problematic. Maybe this is why schizophrenics often turn to drugs and alcohol -- especially if the voice is Mark Levin squealing the same Hardy Boys mystery twenty four hours a day. I vaguely remember enjoying “Hunting for Hidden Gold” when navigating my way through fifth grade, but Levin’s continual internal narration of their wild adventure is as good a reason as any to get down with Grey Goose.

History is sprinkled with prophets claiming a close relationship with the Big Kahuna. The more successful prophets’ spawned monotheistic religions that can’t figure out who listened to the one true Hodad of all Bomboras and who listened to George Burns. In terms of seniority, Christianity has a 600 year edge on Islam, and the Jews have both beat by roughly 1,700 years. Perhaps Glenn is the prophet who will bring all three religions together, forever ending the bloody infighting between Abram/Abraham’s descendants. But because Glenn’s been vague about what his supernatural chats entail, I’m not awaiting in tingly anticipation over what the Big Kahuna eventually reveals, via His Vick’s VapoRub huffing buddy. However, working in Glenn’s favor is the fact Limbaugh’s talent source chose a dry drunk with a history of dummy dust addiction over the average sheet metal worker; it does follow the “mysterious ways” motif. And it wouldn’t be the first time the creator of airborne pollen threw mankind another screw ball. Molding a “rodeo clown” from bullshit makes sense when you consider Sister Sarah grossed $12 million last year.

I’m going to be disappointed if “The Plan” (what Glenn calls his latest gag) turns out to be a celestial-seasoned sales pitch to buy gold and/or “survival” seeds.

Manning Up

2010-04-24T10:55:00.006-05:00

I seldom haunt the garage. It is not my happy place. Crowded with strange smelling boxes and shadowy objects, the dank space is a shipwreck of flea-market flotsam. Every now and then I’m ordered into this hellhole to retrieve an item for Beloved. Yesterday she assured me there was a box of rags somewhere within the mice infested maze -- and she needed them pronto.

I’ve learned from previous beatings not to ask where something might be lurking. Ye gods forbid I should question the crap's very existence. Stalling for time, I offered to glean through my closet of business/casual attire and find tattered cotton suitable to replace the generic rag; but no. For reasons unknown Beloved collected real rags (as opposed to faded shards of Ralph Lauren’s retail empire) and now was the moment of their liberation from cardboard bondage.

Blessed with what military professionals call “shithouse luck”, I eventually located the box sans panic attack and bouts of nausea that usually accompany my rare garage explorations. Because Beloved cleverly marked my grail in big, black letters, she was presented with her wish within the hour. Exhausted -- but flushed with victory -- I retreated to the patio and repeatedly toasted success with fermented grains. Had the sun burned brighter, I would have anointed my ablated flesh with oil and presented the goddess Cerridenwen with sacrificial nail clippings.

All in all, it was a rather typical Friday afternoon at the hovel.

Hen House Call

2010-04-21T21:37:00.006-05:00

Hello.

Is this Juan Don?

Could be. Who’s this?

I’m Phoebe Nutt, Dr. Sutterer’s office manager. Mr. Don, our records show that you still owe 3,587 chickens.

Damn, that’s a lot of chickens for condyloma acumination surgery. The best my wife and I can handle is nine at a time. She drives a compact and I drive a small convertible. If you relaxed your policy of only accepting live chickens, we could pack our trunks and deliver a few more.

Why would the doctor accept dead chickens as payment?

Good question. Here’s another: Why does he want live chickens? Dr. Dookley was always eager to take McNuggets.

I’m not an accountant, Mr. Don. If transporting chickens is a problem, I suggest you contact Malan Brothers Fowl Emporium. They specialize in bulk live chicken delivery.

I know. My wife called them. They barter large caliber ammo for chickens. Believe it or not, we’re short on large caliber ammo. Look, I know where I can liberate some goats, maybe a cow or two…

I’m sorry, but the doctor doesn’t accept hoofed animals as legal tender. The practice is strictly chicken-for-services rendered. Hello. Mr. Don?

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Inspired by rum and Sue Lowden, the Nevada Republican running against Harry Reid. Additional inspiration by lime and Dr. Sutterer, Joplin’s favorite compassionate conservative physician.

patio intellectuals

2010-04-20T10:01:00.002-05:00

Adler and I were not in a serious mood yesterday afternoon. Blame it on Rio. After partaking generous amounts of Rio, he recounted a conversation overheard at one of Joplin’s classier dives. The eavesdropping involved a young man’s poor attempt to entice a young lady off her bar stool for some “Fear of Flying” backseat car sex. After more Rio, we drained the remaining sunlight concocting terrible pick up lines. And the least disgusting winner is:

Excuse me. I couldn’t help but notice that you could really use a good, hot shower. My parents have a roomy walk-in, with little seats on each side and three flexible spray nozzles. Mommy likes the convenience of sitting down when cleaning out her dirty place. What say you and I go lather up?

pale faces

2010-04-18T08:18:00.002-05:00

Silly me, I forgot sore losers were gathering to protest tax cuts. Because an unfortunate seven iron-to-bald spot mishap triggers strange bouts of memory loss, I missed out on an opportunity to show off my carefully lettered sign and Old Glory poncho. Wordy when wielding a Magic Marker (I really like the way they smell), mine says: Although my grandparents are dead, they’d never live to see their only grandson master screen patio door repair now that ‘Obamacare’ has debauched our glorious, God-given health-care racket…free kittens to good homes.

Captain Putnam, garbed in what appeared to be a mismatched “Barry Lyndon” costume, obviously shares my penchant for exhibitionism. It’s not every day that someone with an English riding boot fetish can flash their leathery kink without attracting recusant looks from real Christian conservatives. At least the gentleman’s costume did not include black fishnet stockings. There is no tricorn hat in the world that can offset the unsettling image of Thomas Jefferson in drag. The very thought of Tom dressed as saucy 18th century strumpet is enough to curdle this pagan’s cream. I’m teasing, of course: the bespectacled emcee is not clever enough to meld Revolutionary War fantasies with Marlene Dietrich’s Weimar Germany. This is just a guess, but I suppose even gullible Beckerheads would have trouble keeping a straight face if the master of ceremonies conducted the confusing affair in ass-less chaps and “Don’t Tread on Me” nipple rings.

Yes, it’s true my invisible friend -- who is “conservative but smart as hell to boot”* -- Sarah Palin poured into ass-less chaps, her saggy mammary glands adorned with nipple rings, would most certainly entice me to shake my sock monkey. But then again, Beloved’s Lands' End swim suit teaser provides enough erotica to redirect blood flow to an area best described as the Dead Sea. Due to an unfortunate incident involving Victoria’s Secret and double espresso, my urologist suggested I refrain from opening mail unattended.

It was thoughtful of Jasper County Republicans to offer W. Cleon Skouen’s contribution to tinfoil origami. Although William Luther Pierce, author of “The Turner Diaries”, is a better writer, Skouen’s work is more compatible with Glenn Beck’s post-Dixie revisionism.

*Anson Burlingame occasionally commits an unwitting act of transparency.

sun burned in soft, white places

2010-04-12T15:39:00.004-05:00

I’ve been busy doing other things now that spring has sprung. Genetically predisposed to practice paganism, my lucky neighbors are, once again, blessed to see a lot more of me since the post-Easter neon blue Speedo has arisen from its dresser drawer tomb. Past the age where worrying about physical appearance makes any difference, the ‘boys’ and I sway (and droop) with Newton County sangfroid; we’re oblivious to jeering motorist(s) or the Old Lady’s hairy eyeball. Because no suitable conical non la (leaf hat) is stocked within Wal-Mart’s cornucopia of imported sweat shop finery, I make do with a ratty Ping Panama fedora.

Although gentle folk seem to find my yard work attire (or lack thereof) lascivious from the eyebrows down, rest assured that my thinning pate is covered with country club straw. The affectation allows me to converse with the good doctor’s wife without straining the bounds of polite society. Perhaps it’s best that I cannot find a proper non la. Replacing Ping with Cong sun shade has the potential to strain outdoor tête-à-têtes, and jeopardize the fun we have recounting our embarrassing bikini wax miscues.

Mrs. DeBakey is convinced that I’m a shameless Peoria half-breed. I doubt if she would be as forthcoming with titillating spa gossip -- or her husband’s gin -- should a pointy non la create suspicion about my ethnic origin. A rather loose lady, her friendliness might wane should she believe I’m more Thanh Pho Ho than Gotebo. There is something about the Noble Savage that fading debutante’s find attractive. Always eager to please, I’ve made up fertility dances on the spot if it prompts Mrs. DeBakey to break out the blender. Last summer, overcome by gimlet and Gitche, she painted her toenails turquoise in honor of an especially moving impromptu patio stomp. Alas, the Old Lady’s unexpected appearance brought the blues to a potentially consciousness-altering experience, and left one fake brave sleeping off his afternoon drunk in the big dog’s teepee.

Speaking of Sarah Palin, I gather a gathering of wine and spirit distributors were not wowed by the former half-term governor’s act. In fairness, nuclear arms reduction jokes are an odd subject for partying Vegas conventioneers. Granted, someone supposedly running for president has to walk a fine line between what is and what isn’t appropriate stand -up material: Humor that’s too risqué runs the risk of offending religious hypocrites; and goofing on the evils of competent government only plays well where shirtless patrons consider lite beer an aperitif.

Fortunately for Palin, conservatives have wandered so far off the reservation it's considered patriotic to sing "Anything Goes". Anson Burlingame, Joplin’s official nuclear arms control expert, believes the former half-term governor is as qualified to discuss America’s nuclear arsenal as the president. It’s true, before she quit her day job Palin did preside over Alaska’s National Guard. President Obama, on the other hand, is saddled with the Pentagon’s spurious input.

Lord knows the world would be a safer place if America just surrendered to Israel.

we are stardust, we are golden

2010-03-27T22:19:00.011-05:00

An undetermined number of Republicans are enjoying “Tea Party Woodstock”; placing those three words together just isn't right. Twelve years old when the original Woodstock spawned the porta-potty industry, my parents decided that I was too young to accept the freaky next door neighbor’s invitation to tag along. I fought back tears watching Shorty drive away in his camper-hearse.

Six years later, one of the hairier non-traditional students from my freshman orientation class captivated me and other pucca-shelled student union hipsters with vague recollections of his long weekend spent tripping on Max Yasgar’s farm. Mr. Mike compressed the iconic event into no food, hallucinations and mucky fucking. When asked about the music, he shrugged and shook his head.

The last time I saw Mr. Mike he was in the custody of campus security. But he looked happy.

Gathered outside Majority Leader Harry Reid’s hometown, Preparation H Woodstock has attracted top names in the pandering industry. Sarah Palin, fresh from helping shove John McCain’s reputation even further down the crapper, is flying in to shake her money maker. Sarah’s backup singers include Joe the Plumber, Andrew Breitbart and Newsmax sensation, Hannah Giles. Too bad Hannah’s partner is still sorting out his legal situation. I’m sure the mob would love to see James O’Keefe and Hannah reprise their classic rendition of “Moo Woo Woo” -- especially if wearing traditional Irish pimp and ’ho costumes.

Laura Meyers, a Las Vegas Review-Journal reporter, arrived early and filed this little peek into real America:
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Dave Alexander, a Las Vegas tour guide, was already selling souvenir T-shirts featuring a yellow-flag “Don’t Tread on Me” motto. It’s a Tea Party favorite.

“Sarah gave me the courage and the incentive to get off my La-Z-Boy recliner and stop cussing at the politicians on TV and start getting out and doing something,” said Alexander, smoking a cigarette and wearing a red, white and blue baseball cap. He said he would sleep on site in his Toyota Tundra double-cap pickup with a couple of friends. His lunch was spray cheese on Ritz crackers.

“We’ll be roughing it a bit, I guess,” he said.
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I almost forgot that Victoria Jackson is beaming in to share her social studies skill with Dave and fellow gourmets. The former SNL comedienne is best known for performing hand-stands while warbling. Oddly enough, this unique talent didn’t segue into silver screen stardom.

Cantor Banter

2010-03-27T16:25:00.003-05:00

Last Thursday Rep. Eric Cantor (R-VA) announced that he was the victim of domestic terrorism. The Minority Whip said a bullet was fired into his congressional office. This shocking revelation, following numerous incidents of angry intimidation aimed at Democratic lawmakers, heightened an already tense environment. While Democrats complained of racial and sexual slurs, spit, faxed nooses, ad nauseam, Cantor upped the ante and insinuated that he had narrowly escaped an assassination attempt.

There is just one problem with his story: it was wildly exaggerated.

Several hours before the Minority Whip shared his chilling tale, Richmond police issued a report debunking Cantor’s claim that he was sniper bait. First of all, the unfortunate window was not attached to his congressional office, but to rental space he shares with three other lessees. There is no signing that indicates Cantor has any connection to the building. And about the bullet, it’s safe to conclude that Cantor was not the slug’s intended target. In fact, whoever fired the gun was pointing at the sky. The bullet, on its return flight, had just enough momentum to break glass, but couldn’t penetrate the window blinds. Essentially, Cantor’s “direct threat” was nothing more than a random act of careless “gun play” -- or spent celebratory brass from an Afghan wedding party.

Faced with defending (spinning) his boss’s fact-free rush-to-judgment, Cantor’s spokesman, Brad Dayspring, implied the congressman was relying on “information available at the time”. I guess neither Cantor nor his staff has internet access.

I like Steven Benen’s take: “But the defense doesn’t exactly make Cantor look good, either. The Minority Whip was so anxious to make it seem like violent threats are a problem for “both sides” that he, ahem, jumped the gun. He didn’t really know what he was talking about, but he nevertheless told reporters and America about a “threat” that didn’t exist. Many media outlets even bought into Cantor’s claim at face value, assuming that he wouldn’t say something like this if it weren’t true. For that matter, for a media desperate to characterize every ugly phenomenon as “bipartisan”, Cantor gave them what they wanted.

But it wasn’t true. Given the larger atmosphere, and the actual violence that’s already occurred, people in Cantor’s position have a responsibility not to be reckless with the truth. It’s a responsibility clearly and conveniently forgot at an important moment”.
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I’m sure Glenn Beck will put his chalkboard to better use and provide his reclining army the straight dope.

sea change

2010-03-23T10:36:00.006-05:00

The Hairdresser thinks I was too rough on Bart Stupak. After all, he did come around at the last minute and help push HCR past the finish line. Sorry. It’s not that I’m cold or stubborn (I'm actually a very malleable bundle of easy come, easy go) but coddling Bart’s particular religious beliefs should never trump the needs of Americans without health-care. Abortion is still legal in this country, contrary to what pro-life fetus defenders pretend. It’s not that I have anything against the fetus. I just follow the Constitution: a woman's uterus is HER OWN DAMN BUSINESS.
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I rarely laugh out loud, but John Boehner’s last minute pep talk to fellow House Republicans was a rare exception. Reminding them that a lot of people were watching C-SPAN, he cautioned his colleagues to “act like grown ups”. In other words: behave. One of the Minority Leader’s many responsibilities must be keeping class clowns in line. Maybe this is why Boehner chases Michele Bachmann around the Capitol with a paddle.

Yes, I know a net would be more appropriate.
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Several of the True Realization’s fellow travelers disagreed with my assessment that Tea Baggers were “Southern Strategy” Republicans in disguise; once again, sorry. The so-called movement’s incestuous relationship with Fox, talk radio and GOP funded front groups is too obvious. In fact, this is the last time I will ever write Tea Bagger. From now on every racial slur, every act of domestic violence and every glob of hateful spittle that comes from the mob’s mouth will be placed directly upon the RNC’s doorstep -- where it belongs. The days of 'plausible deniability' are over.
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It’s impossible to underestimate the historic legislative victory achieved by the president. The political wind no longer blows from the right side of the aisle. Republicans, establishing their brand as disingenuous and incompetent, are now stuck asking voters to choose the profits of heath-care insurers over personal well-being. Good luck with that.

Gregg Sargent: “The conventional wisdom inside the Beltway, which for so long held that Dems were courting political disaster if they passed reform, has suddenly swung violently in the other direction -- another reminder that when you win, people view you as, well, a winner”.

the day the tea bag died

2010-03-21T18:19:00.003-05:00

From the get-go “Tea Baggers” were poorly disguised Movement Conservatives pretending to be grass root populists. Staunch Bush-Cheney Republicans, they hid their party affiliation behind silly costumes and loathsome signs. Nothing but a toxic brew of shrill incoherence and blatant racism, it is a national disgrace that these ignorant sore losers were allowed one second of media attention. Even though “Tea Baggers” bore an uncanny resemblance to Rush Limbaugh’s ethnically diverse audience, too many in the media went out of their way to portray the remaining dregs of Reagan’s Revolution as an independent voice representing genuine fear over Big Government’s assault against super-sized value meals.

It’s time to call the “Tea Baggers” out for what they really are: Republicans. And since the Republican Party is now a wholly owned subsidiary of Fox & Rush Limbaugh, Inc., Republicans need to officially change their party’s name. Past association with socialists like Teddy Roosevelt and Dwight Eisenhower could entice a mob of “nigger” shouting, gun-toting “real” Americans into a flurry of spittle-fueled race baiting. Shots might be fired if a rifle-toting asshole found out Reagan raised taxes.

There is only one option left for the survivors of Jim DeMint’s Waterloo: Costa Rica.

I’m going to send the losing party’s chairman a terse email:

Hola!

How is President Obama’s hope and change working out for you?

Have no fear, my deaf amigo.

There are still mucho fancy mattresses to sell.

Juan Don

Scam American & an ongoing concern

2010-03-20T16:23:00.006-05:00

So far Sean Hannity has remained beneath the Cone of Silence in hopes that his less-than-charitable participation with Ollie North’s Freedom Alliance will fade from our media’s scandal obsessed radar screen. Because his audience of ill-informed ideologues receive their “information” exclusively from propaganda peddlers, Hannity can rely on the right’s well-oiled smear machine to mount an attack against Debbie Schlussel’s apostasy. Schlussel, no slouch in the wingnut department, committed the cardinal sin of exposing one her own. Worse yet, she provided evidence of Hannity’s below-board behavior: committing an act of blatant transparency does call into question Schlussel’s credibility.

But if Jupiter is aligned with Mars, skittish grifters may decide that edging away from Hannity qualifies as self-preservation -- assuming the scandal is fueled by further evidence of purulent misconduct. It’s one thing to take cash for personal appearances and ghost written books; it’s quite another to pretend money raised is earmarked for wounded soldiers and children. Keep in mind that should the usual suspects realize defending Hannity is counter-productive, it’s only because he was caught red handed. Every “Great American” knows that one bad apple spoils the whole barrel.
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I hope this is true: Democrats no longer need Bart Stupak’s vote. The C-Street disciple canceled his scheduled press conference this morning, creating buzz that his coalition is falling apart. Ezra Klein, providing real time updates, is reporting that Speaker Pelosi rejected Stupak’s insistence on a separate vote that would add further restrictions to the odious Hyde Amendment.

It should be clear to House leaders that Stupak was never going to support HCR. The Wisconsin saboteur has spent more time scheming with Republicans than working with colleagues. Still ___ votes short, a full-court press in on to woo the remaining uncommitted. Rep. Jan Schakowsky (D-IL) is confident that Speaker Pelosi has the 216 votes without Stupak -- and what’s left of his bill-killing gang. Alas, there is no way to confirm Schakowsky’s optimism.

If President Obama signs an executive order reaffirming the bill’s current abortion funding restrictions, he has the blessing of key pro-choice Democrats. Klein believes that this extra layer of protection might allay the reelection fears of skittish Blue Dog fence-sitters. Ironically, the Blue Dogs worried about losing pro-life votes should be paying more attention to organized labor. The unions are making no bones about withholding campaign cash from defecting Democrats. In fact, they can expect to face a well-financed primary challenge.

Also known as Bart Stupak meets Connie Saltonstall.

It’s time for Merlot before shoveling spring snow.

inching closer

2010-03-17T13:53:00.004-05:00

House Representative Dennis Kucinich (D-Ohio) is supporting HCR. Dennis, an unabashed liberal, was previously dead-set against the current bill: he believed it wasn’t strong enough. Dennis is in favor of the public option. And he’s right; a single-payer system is the best solution to fix the health-care crisis. Unfortunately, the deep pockets of special interest will not permit rational policy to trump greed. That’s the world we live in.

Kucinich’s acquiescence, accepting the reality that HCR is an historic first step in dragging America’s broken, over-priced and exclusionary disgrace into the 21st century, probably won’t have much sway over Democratic fence-sitters, as he was the last member of the Progressive Caucus to switch sides. According to Chris Bowers of Action Left, eight more are needed from the 15 undecided Reps to reach the magic number. A majority of the 15 come from Bart Stupak’s Roman Catholic coalition. Stupak (D-C Street) still objects to abortion language contained in the Senate bill. However, the fierce pro-lifer has difficulty keeping his facts straight. Specifically, Stupak’s objection over the use of taxpayer money to fund elective abortions is unfounded. The Catholic Health Organization -- representing 600 hospitals -- agrees:

“Despite false claims to the contrary, the Senate bill will not provide taxpayer funding for elective abortions. It will uphold longstanding conscience protections and it will make historic new investments in the support of pregnant women. This is a real pro-life stance, and we as Catholics are all for it.”

Dale Kildee (D-MI) offers a glimmer of hope that Stupak’s pro-life block is feeling the heat from pro-passage constituents. Kildee has peeled away, saying that voting for the bill in no way compromises his staunch pro-life stance. It’s telling that Stupak has gone to Fox and whined about how fellow Democrats are no longer kissing his ass, hoping he’ll do the right thing. The media spotlight placed on Stupak has revealed him to be a bad faith player with dubious connections. Good luck winning reelection, Bart.

And best wishes to all the Blue Dog Democrats come November -- assuming they aren’t defeated in the primary election.

A meager swarm

2010-03-16T15:12:00.003-05:00

Nate Silver, the best political pollster in the business, is “guardedly optimistic” that 216 House members will vote yes for HCR. I’d cross my fingers if such delicate manual dexterity was still possible. Thus far I’ve haven’t found one serious observer ready to wade the Rubicon and declare reform a done deal. And so I wait in puckered repose.

Dick Armey’s orchestrated assault on Capitol Hill will no doubt receive extensive news coverage. For some reason the corporate media enjoys transforming a gaggle of Tea Baggers into Joel’s Army. Using Texas-style mathematics, Village stenographers will add an additional six figures to a mob easily stuffed inside an average sized mega-church. A clever hack, Armey has removed references to the Republican Party’s generous supply of placarded outrage, lest a roving reporter’s tale of homegrown antipathy against affordable health-care be tainted by signs of RNC patronage.

I do like the “Ides of March” analogy uttered by Mark Sanford, South Carolina’s gallant Romeo. The image of toga-robed, knife wielding Senators saving the republic from an African Caesar’s attempt to reign in health-care costs is more colorful than anything J.D. Hayworth could whip up. Then again, J.D. might whip out another man-on-horse aberration to warn the “base” away from Obamacare. Lord knows what unnatural perversions Democrats have planned for Pop’s colonoscopy. Why right-wing grifters inject bestiality into political discourse is a question best left for abnormal psychology specialists.

At least Hayworth and Rick Santorum (Rick’s infatuated with man-on-dog coupling) omit sheep from their hairy harem. Thrusting out a wild poke, I suspect that probing an occasional ewe’s forbidden fruit is considered a rural perk among the “base’s” staunchest defenders of man-on-cousin coitus.
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I’m placing CNN on my no-fly list. Disturbing at it was that the cable news channel paid for Glenn Beck’s loony tunes, hiring Erick Erickson is the final straw. I won’t delve into the gory details concerning Erik’s contribution to brain-dead punditry. Confident that all three Juan Don readers are up to speed on the moron’s seedy history, I’m spared spending time rehashing Erick’s greatest misses.
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It appears that “Code Red” turnout was so small reporters were forced to guesstimate “hundreds” littered the Capital’s concrete. Although the national media is blessed with a healthy budget, justifying the expense of sending out camera crews to cover a “handful” can generate testy inter-office memos. Good thing Fox has canned footage of anti-war demonstrations to compliment hard news interviews with wandering stragglers.

red nosed rosary

2010-03-15T19:36:00.001-05:00

Jim Wallis, founder of the progressive Christian website Sojourners, was one of many who took issue with Glenn Beck’s rant against churches preaching the concept of “social justice”. Beck went so far as to encourage his radio audience to “leave their church” if Father Gerry weaved such blasphemous heresy into his Epistle lesson. The Jesus that Glenn knows and loves would never, ever give a sucker an even break.

Every idiot knows that “social justice” is communism with two words. The savvy idiot understands that socialism is how liberal elites spell communism. If an idiot is really on his or her game, fascism can be attached to the other ‘isms’ -- assuming the President of the United States hates white people. Glenn, a self-educated disc jockey before earning his “rodeo clown” pants, is very sensitive to slurs against The Gospels, especially those claiming Jesus worked pro bono. Glenn’s Jesus would be earning $23,000,000 a year entertaining confused bigots, and not wasting his time on sick deadbeats.

Wallis wrote Beck a nice letter and asked if they could meet in an open forum and debate whether or not “social justice” is anathema to Christianity. He went out of his way to stress that his beef with Beck was nothing personal, and hoped that they could have a civil conversation.

Glenn responded to Jim’s invitation on his radio show:

“So Jim, I just wanted to pass this on to you. In my time I will respond -- my time, well, kind of like God’s time, might be a day, might be a week to you, I’m not sure. But I’m going to get to it in my time, not your time. So you go ahead and you do your protest thing, and that’s great. I love it. But just know -- the hammer is coming, because little do you know, for eight weeks, we’ve been compiling information on you, your cute little organization, and all the other cute little people that are with you. And when the hammer comes, it’s going to be hammering hard and all through the night, over and over…”

It appears that some “rodeo clowns” have a mean streak. Maybe it’s caused by over-exposure to horseshit.

Ailes or your lyin' eyes?

2010-03-14T15:34:00.014-05:00

Howell Raines: “For the first time since the yellow journalism of a century ago, the United States has a major news organization devoted to the promotion of one political party. And let no one be moved by occasional spouts of criticism of the GOP on Fox. In a bygone era of fact-based commentary typified, left to right, by my late colleagues Scotty Reston and Bill Safire, these deceptions would have been given their proper label: disinformation.”

Raines’ Washington Post op-ed is spot on.
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The disease injected by Murdock-Ailes into the body of national discourse is a cancer that can only be eradicated if professional journalists publicly defend the Fourth Estate against FNC’s far-right subterfuge. Fox purports to be a legitimate news operation, not another Comedy Central. Ailes dodges accountability by claiming evening programming is nothing more or less than televised editorials -- meaning views expressed represent the host’s personal opinion. But then Ailes is just another over-paid Republican Philistine. There is no disclaimer attached to these “shows” that identifies content as prejudicial, fact-free hit pieces. Of course the work-a-day talking heads are held to a slightly higher standard. Who could argue that “Fox and Friends” doesn’t bend over backwards to avoid the appearance of blatant political partiality?

Roger Ailes shrugs when pressed to defend his slanted “news” operation. He's on record muttering that his only obligation is to ensure Rupert Murdock makes money. In his warped universe selling garbage repackaged as serious content is fine as long as it’s profitable and helps keep Republicans in power; if viewers aren’t able to disseminate the difference between honest journalism and agenda-driven drivel, that’s not his problem. Pretending that every other for-profit news outlet is tainted with liberal bias, Ailes implies that his 24 hour hyper-partisan attack against President Obama and the Democratic Party provides “balance” to the mainstream media’s non-existent love affair with progressive ideology. In short, Glenn Beck’s psychotic episodes are a reasoned rebuttal to Rachael Maddow’s researched and sourced reporting.

It’s unlikely there would be a ‘grassroots groundswell’ of tax-hating Tea Baggers protesting Obama’s $298 billion dollar tax cut without the “news” channel’s active encouragement and promotion; nor would Sarah Palin’s vast reservoir of expertise concerning “Death Panels” be exploited without Ailes supplying her a “fair and balanced” platform to expose the murderous intentions American Medical Association Marxists have in store for senior citizens.

And where else can cable television subscribers hear Frank Gaffney rattle his plastic saber, demanding yet another unfunded, preemptive invasion? Because the unnecessary aggression against Iraq was such a smashing success (he predicted Operation Iraqi Freedom would be a “cake walk”), Gaffney must be taken seriously. After all, he does have a track record. Assuming FNC junkies are lucky and William Kristol joins Gaffney in a rousing round of Sunday morning Obama bashing, local airheads will have two foreign policy “experts” to ape when concern trolling the president’s lack of commander-in-chief credentials. Compared to Gaffney, Kristol is a fucking military genius.
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This should make Anson Burlingame's Ayn nice and Rand:

Virginia Thomas, wife of Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas, is taking full advantage of the court's recent ruling that gave corporations the unalienable right to play Pinocchio and become a real live boy. She is using corporate funds to start a new Tea Party lobbying group. And who said this fairy tale wouldn't have a happy ending?

Hey! That's not a scrub brush!

2010-03-10T14:02:00.015-06:00

The best comment I’ve read that succinctly captures the kook-off between ex-Congressman Eric Massa and Glenn Beck: “It was Beck’s Geraldo in Capone’s vault moment”.

The best contextualizing of Massa’s tickle me Elmo defense is from The Onion (circa 2006): “Why Do Homosexuals Keep Sucking My Cock?”

Riveting television, to be sure.

Not even a genius like Rush Limbaugh could detect the whiff of ‘wangy’ fruitcake wafting from Massa’s shower towel. It took the smartest (or highest) man in America 24 hours to pad away from Massa’s meltdown. In fairness, El Rushbo was hard-pressed to continue his embrace of the ex-Congressman’s initial hosiility against the White House after discovering Massa had previously denounced him as an unpatriotic dick: Rush had no option but to do the only honorable thing and proclaimed Massa a spurious flake.

Politico has yet to determine whether it was Massa’s unbecoming disrespect for Limbaugh’s butt boil deferment (keeping the warrior pillow-bound during Vietnam) or allegations of male staff groping that soured their budding relationship. I find it hard to believe that Limbaugh would give Massa the cold shoulder just for playing a little grab ass. Known to be a rather randy man, Limbaugh doesn’t let his love of Jesus override innocuous hand-to-todger horseplay. Real Christian men, like Limbaugh, know the difference between locker room jocularity and full-blown 'faggotry'. It’s liberalism's perverse ideology that has ruined steamy bonding between naked white millionaires. Because time-honored mores have been polluted, an inadvertent, near-sighted peter-pull invariably leads to an awkward apology and strange reminiscence about the good old days of roped soap.

Compounding Rush’s on-air lapse of judgment is his declaration to flee the U.S. if HCR becomes a reality. On record preferring New Zealand as his Elba-of-choice, the beloved conservative icon has apparently changed his mind, and is now threatening Costa Rica with his presence.

New Zealand is a beautiful country. A friend of mine lived there for several years and returns whenever his wife will let him. Unfortunately, New Zealand is a poor sex tourist destination -- unless the traveler has a thing for sheep. Although lacking in sheep, Costa Rica does have socialized medicine -- and has for some time. I guess this is why Limbaugh back-pedaled this afternoon, and slurred that he never intended to live in Costa Rica, only hang around until his Viagra was gone or he ran afoul of honest vice cops .

Vault Residue

2010-03-08T15:48:00.005-06:00

I found this old posting left over after my eleven day stint as political contributor for Out magazine.
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Surprised by the display of diversity at the Republican National Convention -- some delegates wore red cowboy hats, some did not -- the sparse crowd provided evidence that the offspring of Reagan’s Revolution are indeed a colorful lot: Florida’s tanned delegation displayed just enough patina to avoid unfair comparisons with Big and Rich fans. I’m assuming the giant, digitized American flag waving behind the stage was a reminder that Minnesota is part of the United States. The Mississippi contingent breathed a sigh of relief. Unsure if their folding money was accepted in St. Paul, they chanted “USA!” in celebration after being assured that no confusing currency exchange rate would create nervous uncertainty when paying their bar tabs.

It was disappointing that President Bush couldn’t personally address the convention. Still preoccupied with Hurricane Gustav‘s wet, wind-blown aftermath, he had barely enough time to phone-in a nine minute howdy-do. Vice President Cheney is rumored to be war mongering abroad, which explains his absence from the festivities. Fred Thompson was a pleasant surprise. Reading the speech that Arnold Schwarzenegger was supposed to give, I thought he provided hammy “Petticoat Junction” ambience Arnold has trouble pulling off. Arnold is a gifted actor but I’m not sure if Uncle Joe is in his repertoire. Reminding viewers of yet another reason to embrace Sarah Palin because she can “field dress a moose”, Fred’s observation cleverly put to rest unease about her resume. I’m sure this endearing skill will come in handy when debating Senator Biden in St. Louis.

Speaking of Uncle Joe, Senator Liebermann was in fine form. Although the Alabama delegation wasn’t sure when to grunt “USA!” and when to boo, his appeal to neoconservative Democrats is worth literally a handful of votes for the McCain-Palin ticket. Juxtaposing McCain’s salty unpredictability with Obama’s youthful equanimity went a long way in wresting the “change” mantel away from the flashy upstart. I’m guessing someone possessing McCain’s preternatural ability to pretend he’s never flip-flopped on every major issue is an essential character requirement for restoring honor and integrity back to Washington; but I’m not sure if Washington’s lack of honor and integrity is the fault of the new Congressional majority or the Bush Administration. Perhaps this disconnect explains why the President’s address was eight minutes and fifty seconds longer than the McCain campaign requested.

Strange that the word ’torture’ was never used when the headliners hinted McCain was once ill-treated by the Cong.

Revved and ready for round VIII of the Culture Wars, I’m looking forward to Governor Palin’s oratory. Adler hopes she can do rope tricks that appear authentic and not awkward "Annie Get Your Gun" imitations. We have a five dollar bet riding on her theme song. I say it’s “I Can’t Say No” from "Oklahoma"; Adler is placing his money on Heart’s “Barracuda”.

Shrouds

2010-03-08T11:40:00.005-06:00

The Heritage Foundation’s amnesia primer for post-Bush conservatives: Forget the fact that reconciliation has been used 22 times since 1980; forget the fact that Republicans have facilitated the legislative maneuver 17 of those; erase all memory that the “nuclear option” extended the 2006 tax holiday for the wealthy.

Rinse and repeat until uncontrollable drooling seeps evenly from both sides of mouth.

Republicans find reconciliation an abhorrent perversion only when wielded by a Democratic majority. Or perhaps reconciliation is deemed a legitimate exercise if the legislation in question has been thoroughly vetted by Glenn Beck. Glenn, an expert on George Washington’s opinions about 21st century America, is the go-to guy for those who can’t converse with dead people. Senator Jim DeMint doesn’t have Glenn’s “gift”. He must resort to crude historical revisionism when declaring reconciliation an affront to the late General and his deceased contemporaries. As to which General DeMint has in mind when lashing out at simple majority rule remains an open question. Well known for his flighty Confederate sensibilities, there is solid evidence to believe DeMint’s General is Lee.
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LOCAL EDITORIAL
By Hansen B. Babbitt, Jr.
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One out of every three Muslims killed by missiles fired from U.S. drones in Afghanistan isn’t an evil-doer. At first blush I found this number appalling. But after brief reflection, I decided the ratio could be worse. Defeating Terror is messy business: accidentally ruining Afshan’s wedding day just because an errant bomb lands on loved ones is her bad for being in the wrong place and the wrong time -- like me at my first wedding. Although no one was ripped apart or vaporized, a very unhappy violin player’s delicate instrument suffered serious moisture damage after incidental contact with airborne booze.

Horror, like beauty, is the eye (or fret) of the beholder.

Should three out of three goat herders suffer collateral damage, we born-again fiscal conservatives will spray our poseur-flavored spittle all over the criminal misuse of taxpayer dollars.

To further pound home my mastery of common sense, I know that extending unemployment benefits is an outrage. Public money finding its way into the pockets of lazy deadbeats is anathema to the principles of Adam Smith’s free-market. Doling out cash to corporations is, however, an acceptable way to ensure campaign contributions flow into the right coffers; greasing the wheels of freedom and God’s invisible palm is the only way to ensure my offspring will avoid a diet of dirt burritos.

Killing idle Muslims who aren’t ‘jihading’ is wasteful spending. It dishonors the unfunded war against Saddam’s weapons of mass destruction.

Don’t get me started on labor unions, monkeys or footballs. Liberals fail to "get" my "cub bear playing with pecker" lunge at satire.

There, I’ve glued that sucker shut. It's time for cookies and a smoke.

Dance of the Potty in D minor

2010-03-02T17:14:00.002-06:00

Senator Jim Bunning (R-Shutter Island) is having quite a week. Jimbo really put the hurt on unemployed goldbrickers and Medicare reimbursement checks. I liked his thoughtful response when asked if he was concerned about the half million or so citizens adversely impacted by such principled devotion to civic duty. His reply was so good it should be the GOP’s 2010 campaign theme: “I Don’t Give a Shit”. The word “shit” conveys passion -- much better than poop or dung -- among the adenocarcinoma of American ‘exceptionalism’.
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Harold Ford II, the former Tennessee Congressman and current stay-at-home Merrill Lynch executive, has withdrawn his New York senatorial bid. Empire State progressives are roiling in tear soaked despair. Reactions from Greenwich Village are mixed as to recent developments detailing the depths of Gov. David Paterson’s idiocy. Rumors are that SNL’s Fred Armisen is ecstatic. It just goes to show that one person’s turd sandwich is another’s Quarter Pounder with cheese.
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Senator John McCain (R-Attends) has stumbled from age-related senility into full blown subcordical dementia. Perhaps David Gregory (tallest member of the Karl Rove Dancers) will conclude that McCain’s run as permanent guest host is a drag on advertising revenues. Not even a talent like J. Fred Muggs could protect Dave Garroway from television land’s fickle attention span. Now that Jim Traficant is out of prison and seeking to revive his political fortunes, Gregory should ask the morally ambivalent ex-con to replace McCain -- assuming Michele Bachmann (R-Seussville) wants to keep her starring role as Debbie Jellinksky in Kevin Smith’s new stage production of “The Addams Family”. (Pat Caddell is simply stirring as Uncle Fester).
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J. D. Hayworth (R-Bedrock), the bumptious former Congressman and Kid Rawhide’s stunt double, has decided that placating Arizona’s unknown contingent of ‘birthers’ isn’t worth the effort. J.D.’s handlers probably concluded that mob appearances with Orly Taitz might cool the jets of voters who breathe through their nose. Then again, the large-browed ex-shock jock could be fearful McCain’s psychiatric nurses will force him to show proof that he’s not a Neanderthal -- even though there is nothing in the Constitution that prohibits Neanderthals from holding public office or firearms.
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The more things change…

Once upon a time I referred to hitting the head as “taking a Nixon”. Years later Nixon was replaced with Newt. I’m still quite fond of approximating Newts’ true essence when flushing doody down the crapper. However, after due deliberation, I’m retiring Newt for another well deserving piece of fecal matter.

If you’ll excuse me, I have to take a big Stupak.

Ice 9

2010-02-27T11:48:00.004-06:00

Jonathan Rauch has hit the nail on the head: so-called Tea Bag conservatives have more in common with George Wallace than either Goldwater or Reagan. His piece in The National Journal is well worth reading.
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I’m not sure if KODE’s Justin Lattimer is really a journalist. Ergo fluffing Roy Blunt is business-as-usual. Too bad Carole Parker was busy bothering Branson celebrities. She would have asked Roy whether he prefers ketchup or mustard on his burger. It’s important to know these things. A mustard man, I could never vote for someone who uses ketchup. At least real Globe journalists can provide professional follow-up and pin the lobbyist down on whether or not he’s ever flirted with mayonnaise. Although mustard has Gallic origins, mayonnaise screams post-Vichy French socialism. Of course ketchup is from Latin America and we all know what that means.
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It’s comforting to know that our local newspaper’s editorial writer is broadening his political horizon by watching Sean Hannity. There is nothing like a dose of Sean to keep the natives well-informed. Not every “Great American” has the balls to showcase David Bossie’s public service. I can’t imagine Rachael Maddow giving Bossie free air time to hawk “The Clinton Chronicles 2.0”. But then Maddow is a liberal elitist who thumbs her nose at pikers blaming “dirty fucking hippies” for ruining the Bush Administration’s stellar economic stewardship. Assuming a certain opinion page professional digs “Generation Zero”, he’ll find careful viewing of “Howard the Duck” downright illuminating. Be sure and take notes. A jigger of extraterrestrial foul always gives the average bar stool blow more spangle than banner.
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Sarah Palin didn’t like President Obama telling John McCain to STFU. Calling the president “arrogant” for reminding Maverick that he lost the election is yet another reason why she’s qualified to star as Fox News’ highest paid lap dancer. It was rather uppity of the post-colonial black Marxist to interrupt an ancient, white “Songbird” in mid tweet. After all, McCain did put ‘Country First” when plucking the ambitious beauty pageant flutist from obscurity. Had McCain treated the vice presidency with reckless disregard, Carrie Prejean might be sullying Reagan’s reputation. Choosing Sarah over Carrie is proof that McCain isn’t a mentally unbalanced flake, no matter what Rush Limbaugh thinks.
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Here’s some good news. Rep. Paul Ryan’s plan to restore fiscal accountability means I’ll only be 104 years old when the federal budget is finally balanced. That will give me plenty of time to enjoy my golden years without worrying about the “Death Tax”.

fishy coos

2010-02-23T13:12:00.004-06:00

This morning I linked to Sen. Scott Brown’s Facebook page and read the charming comments posted by his ‘former’ admirers. They are unhappy the late Ted Kennedy’s replacement joined four other Republicans in supporting President Obama’s jobs bill. The comments, ranging from threatening to vicious, show little love for the newly elected Senator’s independent streak. I’m guessing Sen. Brown won’t be invited to watch Glenn Beck work his chalkboard magic anytime soon. But then Glenn barks like a dog. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Every so often I oink at Nancy Grace. Unlike Glenn’s barks, my oinks don’t have a point. And they certainly don’t qualify as clever political satire. Sometimes I just like to make pig noises. Once I get my permanent denture partial in place clucking sounds should dramatically improve, adding depth and dexterity to my barnyard symphony.

Now go read my blog at http://thecowgoesmoo.com/ There I ask interesting questions and provide brilliant budgetary analysis using my pocket calculator and George Will column.

CPAC Synopsis

2010-02-22T09:37:00.010-06:00

It took some effort but I was finally able to un-clutter my secret stash. The secret stash -- small Amyl Nitrate bottles; generous links of “Washburn Woo-Woo!”; canteen of commemorative “Then Came Bronson” muscatel; and a pretty amber pill Beloved ordered me to swallow if I ever grew another mustache -- is for consumption during emergencies, such as grease fires or tackling routine home maintenance chores. Because I’m blessed, there hasn’t been a valid reason to crack open the stash. Divine Providence, disguised as flaming animal fat, scorched the hovel’s kitchen long before the stash was lovingly assembled and a very rare, unnamed neurological disorder makes gripping tools impossible.

Juan is not burdened with the onus of constructive versatility.

I thought about adding an amendment to include surprise visits from traveling in-laws but feared serious domestic reprisal should popper react poorly with “Woo-Woo!” It goes without saying that channeling Richard Widmark’s breakout performance in “Kiss of Death” does not lead to pleasant family dining. Usually floating on an emotionally even keel, Beloved would become livid if I shoved her wheel chair-bound mother down the basement stairs. And who could blame her? Anyone foolish enough to cross her hormonally-charged Margino Line knows Beloved’s happy-go-lucky smile can quickly morph into tight-lipped violence. No longer owning cow-like reflexes, my abdominal spread is an easy target for stoned-honed butter knife. But what extended exposure to holy matrimony doesn’t have its little twists and turns?

Ozzie Nelson could have been another Cassavetes had he replaced cardigan with black turtleneck. Caving under corporate pressure, he shelved his dream of mining the dysfunctional family zinc buried inside post-World War II mass consumerism. In later years the toothy B team bandleader lamented his lost opportunity. Three months before succumbing to smog-related emphysema, Ozzie was interviewed by Fly Fish America’s Richard Handler. Handler, best known for introducing soft-core pornography into staid sporting magazine fare, 'single-handedly' transferred Fly Fish America from coffee table top to toilet tank lid. Although long out of print, tracking down “The Other Pole: How Richard Handler Yanked Angling Away from the Finaldi Brothers” is worth the effort.

Here’s my favorite exchange between Nelson and Handler:

Handler: Oz, it is true that you wanted Harriet to be the Joan Vollmer to your William Burroughs?

Ozzie: Yeah. I wrote a script where Harriet, high on Benzedrine, is raking imaginary lizards off an orange tree. David and Ricky are crying, freaking out, running around the backyard trying to make her stop. I crash through the glass patio door with my .45, emptying the clip into the pool, yelling at Harriet to get her ass back inside before neighbors called the cops. The squares at ABC didn’t dig the symbolism. The scene was completely rewritten. As I recall, Harriet accidentally runs over Don Defore’s favorite birdbath and hilarity ensues when I try to replace it before he returns home from whatever the fuck he did for a living. I shot that episode drunk, so the birdbath could’ve been a lawn jockey for all I know.

critiquing (sic) just isn't for breakfast anymore

2010-02-14T21:16:00.004-06:00

I’m pleased to see Jim Stone has joined the paper’s community blogging corps. Jim’s addition offsets the sadness of losing Ms. Fuller. It appears her busy social life left little time to blog about her busy social life. I’ll always picture Miss C tripping the light fantastic with stubbly soap star or neck kissing 54th Street Romeos while an antique disco ball’s rotating tin bathes Conga Bob’s Bungalow in Baroque bling. Her adventurous appetite for urban sparkle reminded me of my brief fling with big city hustle.

Alas, NYC ate my liver and left me with barely enough coin to cage a slow Greyhound ride home. On the upside, I was the only Carterville poet sporting pointy black boots and skinny yellow tie when unceremoniously de-bussed near the coffin factory. Had not my rival returned from Rangoon in flashy opium den finery, I might have become The Stagger Inn’s in-house Dylan Thomas: denied immortalizing early morning stabs at bad sex in slippery villanelles remains this fading Uranthian's eighth greatest regret.

Once the gals took one look at Jock Lovelace’s embroidered silk dragon jacket, I was toast. Defeated, I limped across Chat Mountain and licked my bloody muse inside a jumpy stripper’s single-wide. To make a long story short, Karla quickly tired of my temperamental languor. Although our parting wasn’t sweet sorrow, it did attract the attention of local law enforcement.

Anson will have to step up his game now that Jim has “joined the fray.” The unlikely editorial writer’s meat cleaver is no match for his scalpel; retreating to the fetid swamp of false equivalence when caught speaking-from-ass ensures a short-lived career. Kicking hippies sticking flowers into gun barrels is like forty years ago, man. The late, great Porter Wittich laid some advice on me that I took to heart.

“Write about stuff you know,” he said. “Or at least have some vague approximation.”

And for the next twenty years I wrote about poverty.

Anson would be better served limiting his public verse to underwater oddities and/or the feminine mystique.

Well, I must feed my “old man pooch.” Damn it, sometimes Johnny Kaje’s barbs sting. I guess I’ll go back to showering in the dark.

and while The Maverick tweeted...

2010-01-28T20:39:00.005-06:00

Preparing for the onslaught of shitty weather, Beloved throttled our mottled Mazda up the hill to May’s City to stock up on heavily taxed distilled medicinal supplies. Well rested after an 18 hour nap, she felt frisky enough to brave Food for More or Less, stuffing her cart with big cans of Uban and various treats that are virtually impossible for me to abuse: thanks to her patient beatings, I have finally learned to peel the plastic off of frozen pizza before incineration. Mucho smarter than Juan, Beloved did not take our precious electricity for granted and purchased meat favorable to open flame cooking. (During the notorious December black out of aught seven we tore into charred bird like famished 12th century poachers). Although the liberal in me was pleased Empire eventually reconnected Chow Acre’s tenuous link to civilization, my inner Galt found wallowing in cold, greasy darkness exhilarating.
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No expert on the long term effects of Xanax abuse (in headier times pill-popping daredevils preferred Quaaludes for spittle-dangling repose), the drugged response by Republicans to President Obama’s SOTU address raises suspicion that the Party of No is hooked on what gets “Ima Kritick” through Oprah. I knew real conservatives weren’t going to wildly applaud an assault on Roy Blunt’s family business, but sitting in a catatonic stupor for 70-odd minutes usually prompts psychiatric nurses to check for eye pupil movement. Convinced obstruction sans principle is the ticket back to power, the Wrecking Crew is betting that dysfunctional government parlays into campaign gold.

And President Obama is betting they're wrong.
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BECAUSE THIS IS FUN: James O’Keefe III, the Dustin Diamond of Pajamas Media, has been ordered back to Mommy and Daddy’s tender mercy. Had House Republicans been on the ball, O’Keefe would have been the first make-believe pimp to receive a Congressional commendation…and then later be placed under parental supervision. Damn the luck.
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Now I know why Roger Ailes hired Sarah Palin. Adding collagen to rumors that she’s had plastic surgery, Sarah and her immoveable eyes brows resurrected ‘mandation’ from its Victorian tomb. Contrary to snide asides that panned Palin’s imaginary vocabulary, ‘mandation’ is an honest-to-gosh word. Although “memorizing sermons” is not even close to the meaning of mandate, using a word that hasn’t been uttered since Lord Randolph Churchill horse whipped Vicar Hungerford is worth something. I’m not sure if Norm Crosby is still alive, but I smell a summer replacement sit-com should Fox decide to exploit homophonic comedy’s limited potential. Assuming the worst and Norm is fly fishing with Slappy White, Steve Doocy already has the perfect name for Sarah’s daffy husband/sidekick.

*******
Northern Overexposure (Fox) 9:00: Suspicious that her cleaning lady is stealing toiletry supplies, Sarah enlists a reluctant Steve to install video surveillance equipment in the master bath. Hilarity ensues after Consuelo (Lupe Lopez) discovers that she is being videotaped passing water. Andy Dick guest stars as himself.

Everybody Limbo!

2010-01-27T16:34:00.001-06:00

Paul Butler has been listening to vintage Harry Belafonte tunes.

Back when roach clip earrings combined sex appeal with common sense practicality, I borrowed heavily from Harry’s best work. The sing-song quality of ending words in O enabled less high readers to dig my poetry without fear their metaphorical leg was being pulled. The downside to aping Calypso’s sun-kissed
syncopation is the inclination to name characters Banana Hannah and Day O’Bread -- assuming youthful experimentation with island vibes linger and wrinkle over into late middle age. At the risk of beating Reel Ting’s steel drum, fiction featuring a barefoot protagonist limits the literary terrain to Fred Flintsone’s Bedrock and a yet unwritten novella lurking somewhere in Mac County’s hairy flora.

And then again, maybe Paul-O’s prescription medication booked him on a Caribbean cruise.

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The second largest shareholder in Aussie billionaire Rupert Murdoch’s News Corp. is Saudi Arabia’s Prince Al Awi Ben Talal. I’d feel queasy if my favorite All-American fake news outfit was another oil embargo away from becoming Al Jezeera’s dumber cousin. Although Glenn Beck adorned in flowing throbe can’t help but enhance his Founding Father aberrations, who can argue that Sarah Palin’s handsome face covered with heavy black niqab does little to accentuate her patriotic cheese cake appeal. The upside to foxy Fox News vixens encased in drab Muslim flax is money saved on make-up: eliminating costly war paint plastered on Greta Van Susteren’s puss could feed Jonah Goldberg for at least three hours.

I’m assuming that niqabs play hell with peripheral vision. This could explain why Arab women aren’t allowed to operate moving vehicles or participate in public beheadings. Considered an expert in national security, Palin’s credibility would suffer if she was forced to don a constraining ski mask when scouring the horizon for uninvited Russians. It stands to reason that Prince Al Awi Ben Talal shares her concern that Putin will “rear his ugly head up” -- but don’t ask me why. Allowing Palin to forgo unbecoming hood for attractive scarf would give her pretty eyeballs the freedom to rotate without restriction; thus thwarting amphibious assaults against Seal Island and the occasional Guatemalan stuffed-in-car trunk attack.
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James O’Keefe, the young conservative agent provocateur, has traded in his pimp costume for drabber illegal wire-tapping wear. Hailed by assholes for exposing ACORN’s heart of darkness, O’Keefe has even been lauded by House Republicans for his daring raid into the Belgian Congo of community organizing. Too bad Sean Hannity is busy covering the devastating aftermath of Haiti's violent lurch into utter despair. I’d love to see the neck-less ace reporter’s hard-hitting interview with Andrew Breitbart (O’Keefe’s employer and genius behind “Big Hollywood”).

Juan

let freedom ka-ching

2010-01-22T22:52:00.005-06:00

In honor of the Supreme Court finally granting full constitutional rights to Money, I’d like to share Justice Thomas’ favorite joke.
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A pirate walks into a bar with a ship’s steering wheel shoved down his pants. The bartender says, “Hey, pirate, did you know you have a ship’s steering wheel shoved down your pants”? The Pirate says, “Arr, and it’s driven’ me nuts”!
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And we can’t forget Justice Scalia’s favorite knock-knock joke; because Justice Scalia is an intellectual, the responder has to say, “I have to get my coat").

Knock-knock.
Who’s there?
Bob.
I have to get my coat Bob.
Knock-knock.
Who’s there?
Vinnie.
I have to get my coat Vinnie.
Knock-knock.
Who’s there?
Tex.
I have to get my coat Tex.

smells like...victory!

2010-01-19T14:02:00.005-06:00

It’s a big day here at Chow Acre. This afternoon we’re having the septic tank pumped. Always looking for an excuse to wear my blue hardhat and manly Red Wing work boots (steel-toed, of course), I can’t wait to assist in the operation. I made a mental note not to ask the poop removal professional if I can hold his hose; thus avoiding the awkward silence that ensued after mistakenly personalizing the truck’s thick plastic extractor. This time I’ll replace pronoun with definitive article and avoid an embarrassing conversational faux pas. Although accustomed to being an anomaly, I can’t help but find it strange that other septic tank owners don’t enjoy participating in the fascinating process. According to Carl, I’m the only homeowner who takes such an active interest in vacuuming out their human waste. Last year, after we finished sucking the concrete tank dry, he said that I had missed my calling. Carl stubbed out his Doral and left me with this dangling participle of hope: "Juan, I'd be tickled shit-less to sell you my business...assuming my rotten luck ever changes".

My fingers are crossed. Damn it, I’m due for Disney’s blue bird to alight atop my shoulder!

Too excited for wheel-spinning politics, I’ll await the outcome of the Brown/Coakley contest before officially announcing my retirement.

I'd rather not comment on that particular lamp shade-on-head incident

2010-01-14T12:42:00.002-06:00

Scott Brown, the conservative Republican running to occupy the late Ted Kennedy’s senate seat, has a tea bag problem. No, not the kind you dip into hot water or (old Walther League rules prohibit me from providing a detailed description of the other definition) but the post-Obama incarnation of the caffeinated plant or (okay, a man-sack lowered into an orifice commonly used to hold a lighted cigarette). Scott Brown is a political tea bagger. He has accepted money from the movement’s various donation-seeking offshoots; and he has spoke at rallies where angry white people display their dyslexic prowess with cardboard and Magic Marker.

But Scott doesn’t remember taking their money or entertaining the shallow end of America’s gene pool. When pressed on the question, he feigns amnesia. This sudden memory loss might work if not for the fact that 4,906 websites have posted photos of Scott speaking at a tea bag hootenanny -- not to mention the paper trail that shows his campaign has eagerly accepted cash from the pale horde. You’d think that his compatriots would get pissed at Scott for playing Peter to their Bejezbus. It’s tacky to take someone’s money and then pretend you don’t know them. But then Scott could be just another elitist, afraid to be associated with citizens who still find the mullet a cutting-edge hair style. Granted, the chilly New England climate isn’t a tea bagger’s natural habitat. It has to be uncomfortable showing off back tattoos when the air temperature is below freezing. (This is a guess. It’s impossible to determine what someone with a full back tattoo would or wouldn‘t find physically painful). So maybe he figures that publicly snubbing the rabble won’t cost him many votes.

Hold on, I’m receiving an urgent message from C.O.N.T.R.O.L. Well, I must modify this posting to accommodate incoming information. It seems The Boston Globe’s reporting is not quite accurate. Scott appears to have said he’s “not unfamiliar” with tea baggers just that he was reluctant to “get into a discussion of Tea Partiers or his relationship or connection to the movement”. I can’t blame a conservative politician from Massachusetts for that. Should I ever be questioned about my association with The True Realization’s annual Jamaican pig roast and extreme lawn dark tournament, I’d give a similar response.
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No, officer, I’m not unfamiliar with the event, but I really don’t want to discuss my relationship or connection to the incident in question.

How do you define “hosting” the event?
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Juan Don

Blond Persuasion

2010-01-10T19:14:00.009-06:00

The fact that Liz Cheney is on a nationally televised Sunday morning news show speaks volumes about the mainstream media. I was tempted to qualify the opening sentence; but no. This is my blog and I feel like making a blanket statement. Everybody else does.

Liz, Daughter O’Dick, served in the Bush Administration as an assistant to the Under Secretary of Silly Walks. She has as much business opining on Islamic terrorism as I do working on automatic transmissions. At least her former job relieved Dick from paying her rent and bar tab. Free-market conservatives may hate the minimum wage, but they find nepotism a sweet tool for prying their kids out of the house. Liz is such a vacuous waste of skin that George Will had to distance himself from her prattle about “reverse racism” -- you know, the terrible discrimination inflicted on rich white people by poor minorities.
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Janet Napolitano should have resigned immediately after the ‘underwear bomber’ fried his package. She obviously can’t keep America safe. If she doesn’t fall on her sword the next terrorist attack could be devastating. What if al-Qaeda crazies hijacked jets and flew them into buildings, all on Saddam Hussein’s dime, would that wake people up to Obama's hands off approach to our enemies? We need my Daddy back in power. This Obama guy is a liberal and liberals can’t or won’t do the things that are necessary to defeat Terror -- like torture, murder, suspend habeas corpus, invade the wrong country, you know, stuff that works. And I’m not just saying this because I want my old office back. Even though Dick Armey pinches my butt, I’m making out like a bandit fronting his Americans for Safety…Americans Against…; I can’t remember the name. But that’s not important. What’s important is that my Daddy is right!
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I’m going to put on the proper attire for watching “Return to Cranford”. All except for the lipstick; it makes the brandy taste funny.

numb and number

2010-01-09T14:24:00.002-06:00

The hovel’s high dollar heat pump has had trouble pumping heat into hovel. Juan and Beloved are still encased in an assortment of insulated clothing, which makes locomotion through boxed and unboxed debris more than problematic: We lumber about our cold, alien moonscape like two aging Apollo astronauts. The only positive development occurred when Beloved found a strange-looking rock amidst frigid kitchen clutter. Quite unlike the other kitchen rocks, we are holding our visible breath in hope that this particular rock is of interest to NASA scientists. Unlucky with machine generated lottery numbers, perhaps Beloved’s find is our ticket to a Redneck Riviera beachfront travel trailer.
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Yesterday I had the pleasure of being threatened with a buffoon’s imaginary tank, which provided me with three or four minutes of sub-Artic mirth. The buffoon in question is a curious mixture of boundless incoherence and adamant confusion; the perfect combination for thumbing grammatically incorrect opinion pieces and absurd online exchanges. Because journalism is a dying art, financially struggling small town newspapers have turned over political musing to rank amateurs and anonymous paranoids.
Geographically isolated small town newspapers have always been fertile ground for talk radio monologues-cum-three hundred or less word diatribes against ‘Democrat’ controlled government. Blessed with the average pond gar’s memory, local defenders of Ponzi scheme economics and torture-as-patriotism have literally shit their britches after losing last year’s presidential election. But at least the feces flingers are in capable hands. Any day RNC Chairman Michael Steele will say something the same way twice and inspire Obama haters to rally around the tea bag.

And yet trouble lurks. In a rare moment of candor Newt Gingrich, the pewter tongued cable news pontificator, said that Chairman Steele’s skin color is a problem for the 22 percent of card-carrying Republicans. There is a growing suspicion among the defenders of real America that African-Americans hide Muslim inclinations behind flag lapel pins. Islam, emanating from that part of the world where godly fair hair and blue eyed DNA mutated into devilish hues, is indeed a darker religion than the type practiced by 700 Club members. Although Jesus was a Semitic Jew, over the centuries he has appropriated the features of a 1970s era Caucasian rock star. I look more foreign than the framed print that my grandmother hung next to Franklin Roosevelt’s baggy-eyed photo. Should Jesus return using conventional travel, there is the distinct possibility that he would be cavity searched by TSA employees.

If Steele’s race bothers Republicans, its no wonder that a president of Kenyan (and Kansan) ancestry named Barack Hussein Obama gives them the heebie-jeebies. Perhaps if the president bore the physical characteristics of the average Topeka truck driver local “Jugheads” wouldn’t need to change their boxers every fifteen minutes. Of course there is little Steele can do to transform his physical features into Rudy Giuliani’s more pleasing Italian-American flesh and bone presentation. Steele could ditch the business suit and approximate tea bagger wear. From what I’ve seen Old Glory transposed on tee shirt, hat and Muumuu is considered proper attire for parking lot clucking. A black guy strapping on some Second Amendment heat around a pair of relaxed fit Wranglers is always a dandy way to blend in with pistol-packing white bigots.

Imagine the reaction if Jesus arrived wearing stunning mariachi outfit and tasseled sombrero. Aside from leaving Fox & Friends speechless, Sean Hannity’s discomfort when interviewing El Sustantivo would be…palpable.

swerve responsibly

2009-12-31T12:23:00.005-06:00

Never the most optimistic Yaqui sorcerer on decent flying days, seeking signs that 2010 will be an improvement over last year has yielded the slimy glimpse that we’ll be seeing more of Newt Gingrich on Meet the Press; that’s what chicken intestines tell me. Maybe you have a better way of divining the future. At least a chicken can be fried and served with mash potatoes after the serious work is done.

Although loath to make resolutions, I have decided to ignore online senility and NO SMOKING neon. Consider my public pipe smoking a version of going Galt. When Missouri becomes civilized and allows nicotine-addicted drunks to flaunt their firearms, tobacco teetotalers had better watch their step. Because I’m a lousy shot, the Mac 10 is an ideal weapon. Gun nuts tell me that the lightweight machine gun is great for drive-bys and spontaneous crowd control. Besides, spraying collateral damage honors a holy God-given Constitutional right. I’d be more inclined to kill animals if taking careful aim wasn’t considered a sport. We’ll know the last trace of liberalism has finally been eliminated when Field & Stream features an article on flame throwers.

Assuming that a neutered health-care reform bill meets Joe Lieberman’s approval, my guess is that Tea Baggers will turn their short attention span toward education. Who knew teaching evolution would morph into America’s first black Hawaiian president? Reading between the lines, I suspect that’s why Sarah Palin is still hanging around. She knows her scripture. Pictures in the official Alaskan Assembly of God Bible depict Adam and Eve looking like fully clothed Scandinavian campers. Education is a terrible thing. Jesus and Paul Butler wept after reading Paul Teverow’s op-ed that blasphemed “It’s a Wonderful Life” with leftist Ph.D. propaganda. Perhaps locals much closer to the Lord than the out-of-state historian can pass the collection plate and buy MSSU before another international studies vacation corrupts Heather Dawn’s sporadic rendezvous with underarm deodorant. I worry that reinstituting a ban on shellfish will cripple Red Lobster’s business. Executing abortion providers and waiters serving lobster dishonors the ‘murder by necessity’ defense, as it infers that both fetus and lobster share the same homarus americanus classification. Because dark magic gives me an edge, I can see Anson Burlingame solving this dilemma by suggesting parents name male offspring Shrimp and girl babies Crabbie.

Fully rested and well stocked, Juan Don looks forward to sharing his exposed toes wisdom with those bold enough to crawl away from Caldwell’s Corner. Assuming there is no more dirty laundry to wash, I’ll eat some sacred fungi and see if I can find Cary Randolph Fuller. My spirit body enables me to sneak into Nello’s without appropriate jacket and tie.

pretending to appear busy in a vain attempt to avoid shopping with Beloved

2009-12-21T10:26:00.002-06:00

One thing is certain: There will be no public option. But that’s not surprising. The country remains right-of-center, regardless of recent electoral victories. Thirty-plus years of branding political conservatism as both morally and economically superior to progressive populism has created an atmosphere where the very mention of publicly funded health-care blasphemes the Christian righteousness inherent in unregulated capitalism.

Abetted by media personalities, pushing a daily dose of Founding Father fables, the self-appointed stewards of Formica America grant themselves immunity when their excuses for maintaining the broken status quo are exposed as nothing more than fear mongering distractions. It’s impossible to take Roy Blunt seriously when he expresses anxiety over Medicaid’s future as his principled objection against socialism. Try as one pagan might, I can’t find where the legislator/lobbyist championed a single taxpayer-funded program that directly benefits low-income citizens; misusing taxation’s ill-gotten gains in such a manner only encourages the poor to think medical care is a necessity, rather than a privilege.

(I must give credit where is credit is due. Anson Burlingame’s “Is Rationing Reasonable?” is a hoot. I nearly spilled my brandy reading about the gang member and his gun shot wound hypothetical. Who in their right mind would want to pay an imaginary thug’s hospital bill…forever? Not me; no way, Jose. If I may offer some deconstructive criticism, Grandma “hitting the limit” is a tad maudlin considering it’s “the most wonderful time of the year.” But since Grandma is fictional, I’ll play along and give the old gal a dollop of hope).
_______________________________________________________________________
After Me-Maw’s “fund” ran dry, her favorite granddaughter clutched the family jewels in Little Theatre agony. A Libra by birth, Margie lacked the ability to make decisions. More than once an angry mob had pushed her car away from Wendy’s drive through menu. Just as Nurse Mew was “pulling the plug”, Margie’s on again-off again Virgo lover rushed in with enough batteries to “keep her going.”
________________________________________________________________________
Merry Christmas,

Juan Don

stromming the thurman

2009-12-17T13:38:00.005-06:00

Dear Erstwhile,

You’ve really done it this time. When will you learn that responding to The Man Called Shirley is fraught with peril? It’s not beyond reason to think that “Big dog” might sniff out your home address and gift you with burning Yuletide turds. Heaven knows what “local yokel” has up (or down) his overalls. (The Man Called Shirley supporters offer few clues as to their gender, leaving an old acid head wondering if “little bo peep” is “Joe Schmoe” bitching in film noir era panties). Exposing Joplin’s favorite pill pusher’s fondness for straw can only lead to charges of “hateful arrogance” and “2nd grade pettiness”. Tempted to ape Anson’s rare online anonymity, I tried to join in on a little masked mob fun as “fuck me running”. But for some reason, “fuck me running” was denied his First Amendment right of free speech; dittos for “always squirting spooge” and “roy blunt”; too bad. Had my lengthy, scatological-scented drivel been accepted “writes” would need to step-up his/her game, or risk becoming just another “Farmer Ted”. Pray like hell that after the 2010 elections real Americans will be free to hide inside “Pelosi's pussy” without fear of “libtard” outrage.

And now I must get back to my reading. I can’t wait to see how Sarah escapes from the Garden of Gethsemane. (Because global warming is a hoax, maybe she splits on Todd's Artic Cat).

Juan Don

roasted on an open fire

2009-12-13T11:07:00.003-06:00

The “War on Christmas” is as seasonal as spiked egg nog. On cue, before Bud washed down the last Turkey Day leftovers, 21st century cable television Torquemadas began bitching about liberals besmirching Santa’s milk and cookie transubstantiation. The predictable media uproar appears contrived. A registered Democrat for some time, I’ve never heard of pro-choice pagans interested in protesting publicly-funded nativity scenes. Call me Ishmael, but wouldn’t Slomo’s donkey and Buddha’s beautiful belly provide novel additions to the usual suspects surrounding Baby Jesus? Including Spider Man, SpongeBob SquarePants and Mickey Rourke as manger staples could go a long way in broadening Christianity’s cultural appeal. I’m kidding: Rumors concerning SpongeBob’s swishy sexual orientation guarantee local mullahs would never sanction homosexual animation so close to straight plastic figurines.
______________
Years ago I barely escaped excommunication for trying to replace “Silent Night” with Little Baby Jesus fighting Little Baby Devil. The Gruppenpastor did not think an altar melee a proper Christmas Eve dénouement…breaking the hearts of two four year old boys. Thanks to blind dating, my ideas for “Easter in Space” were embraced by Unitarians, leading to a short-lived stint in rehab, followed by an even shorter marriage. I’ll always wonder why I insisted on Jesus wearing roller skates during the “He is Risen”(sic) musical number. In my defense, the clinical psychologist playing Jesus wasn’t upfront about his bad ankles. Grady’s less than graceful tomb exit was not the effect I envisaged. If the Unitarians had been blessed with Saddleback’s bank account, I’d have affixed my clumsy Jesus with a wire harness, a la Peter Pan. This type of clever staging is known in religious theatre lingo as “more cowbell.”

Even though “Easter in Space” had its spotty moments, phaser toting Uranthians beaming down into traditional “Passion Play” fare remains the highlight of my directing career.
_____________
I have yet to read where Pinochet Christians donate proceeds from their war profiteering to charity. You’d think Sarah Palin might relax her $15.99 per personal photo policy. After all, this is retail shopping’s holiest month. I guess a real Christian, raking in millions selling dime store diva values, believes receiving is better than giving; it’s not like Trig would go without shoes if Sarah waived the photo fee. Gifting rural bachelors with suitable icon-cum-pinup material displays the true spirit of Christmas, and gives her male fans something special to ogle when engaged in private root cellar ho, ho, ho. Had the half-term governor hawked Lynn Vincent’s fiction in green bra and red panties, squeezing a little extra juice from Joel’s Army is understandable -- especially if strategically placed candy canes are involved.

Adler is on record saying that should the book tour bleed over into January, Sarah will be swinging from a pole. If so, color me gone.

Juan Don

the advent sweater

2009-12-06T12:43:00.006-06:00

Before too long Glenn Beck’s live version of "The Christmas Sweater" will become a cult classic. He works up quite a ‘sweat’ during his one kook performance. I doubt if Charles Dickens needed to change shirts during his famous reading of "A Christmas Carol." But then Victorian hams were considerably less demonstrative in public. There is every reason to believe that Glenn would’ve been clubbed straight to Bedlam Hospital’s notorious rubber room if unleashing his pseudo-autobiographical poltergeist upon old London Music Hall patrons. Although Victorian middle-class propriety is considered repressive by our more flexible social mores, there is something to be said for keeping the mentally unstable locked away from ladies and small children.
__________________________

I refuse to opine about Tiger Woods’ poor driving skills. As someone known to take rather wide turns, it would be hypocritical of me to throw stones. My one and only comment about the affair is that I’d be tickled pink if a comely young woman used synonyms for large to describe my rusty pecker.
__________________________

Thanks to Anson Burlingame, I’ve rekindled my affection for the quotation mark. Taking timeout from an unauthorized Burl Garvin biography, I killed several minutes experimenting with Anson-esque prose. The initial attempts were so-so. Here are a few examples:

Sometimes I think I “know” things and other times things get “gooey”, especially in the “bathroom.”

I “posted” a reply to Duane Graham. His “take” on “stuff” is irritating as hell. How do we “pay” for health care? Let’s get “real”. If somebody is too poor to get “sick”, tough periscope. Who said life was “fair?“ I knew a guy who had back “trouble” and received a welfare check every month for just sitting around on his “ass." Liberals believe this is “good." It’s not! It’s “bad”, just like the guy who claims he “weed-eats” around my pool but doesn’t.

Perhaps brandy and a pinch or three of Jack the Ripper is required to fully explore the style’s creative possibilities. This morning I incorporated finger gestures-cum-quotes to explain why the dishes weren’t “done."

Juan Don

dashing through the blow

2009-12-02T11:18:00.004-06:00

It's been awhile. November has never been a good month for me. The short days and long nights exacerbate my tri-polar mood swings, unleashing an unhealthy compulsion to haunt the dark side of the moon. December is no picnic. Not even the prospect of wearing my soiled Santa hat offsets the dread of yet another family encounter so soon after Thanksgiving's dressing noir. "Tis the season" would be almost bearable if compressed into a tall bourbon glass: Ho Ho Ho. Oddly enough, rescuing Baby Jesus from Black Friday or Branson's Away in a Manger Savior Stampede USA! isn't high on Randall Terry's hit list. Suicide rates might level off if sensitive types didn't have to endure an extra month of retail holiday cheer. But since I don't make the rules, I'll lapse into offline mode and await the screams of little dears when they find their $2.50 Newton's Jewelry gift card buried beneath packing peanuts.

How about melding Thanksgiving and Christmas into one cheese ball? Jesus wasn't born on December 25th; Lord knows when Squanto shared his gourd with starving Europeans. Wal-Mart, always exploiting the true spirit of Christian capitalism, should buy both holidays and transform Pearl Harbor Day into the mother of all cross-marketing extravaganzas. Although it would take time for Target employees to feel festive about wishing customers Merry Wal-Mart, eventually they'd come to appreciate the brutal simplicity of squeezing Mary's miracle into a box of Pilgrim's Pride. And assuming that real American shoppers find the merger amenable, the bidding war for Easter might resurrect Lou Dobbs' cable television career. I'm rooting for Target. Jesus performing back-flips from his cave/tomb in flashy footwear is certainly more up tempo than anything the Bentonville mob could imagine. Having first-hand experience dealing with Sam's spawns (and the rectal scars to prove it), my educated guess is that roll back pricing would take on new meaning.

It's a given that the traditional nativity scene needs a make-over. Adding Pilgrims, Wampanoags, pumpkins, turkeys and woodchucks to usual manger fare is the equivalent of Emirile Lagasse's "Bam!". True, metal church congregates will complain that Captain John Smith standing next to Wise Man Number Two is a tad too Mormon for non-denominational taste. But this is easily assuaged by replacing both Pilgrims and Indians with Kenyon witch exorcists.

Of course, New Year's Eve is sacred and must be kept holy.

*****************************
Sarah Palin, the heart and soul of modern conservatism, has stitched another patch onto Bill Buckley, Jr.' s Cold War quilt. A veritable treasure trove of "Desperate Housewives" insight, the half-term governor's ghost-written pot boiler is selling well with patriots who usually limit their book buying to paperbacks featuring Fabio's shirt-less torso. Beating the Christmas shopping deadline didn't allow proof readers the luxury of thorough examination: Mistakes were made. But so what if a quote from John Wooden Legs was attributed to John Wooden. Who hasn't confused the left-leaning Native American activist with UCLA's legendary basketball coach?

Juan Don

waiting for the red phone to ring

2009-11-05T11:11:00.001-06:00

Today’s the day Michele Bachmann marches tea baggers through the halls of Congress. In anticipation of this historic charade, Democratic Party representatives have agreed to stand before their desks naked from the waist down. Actually, only male representatives will be airing out their boys: tea bagging female traitors is physically impossible. An imaginative loon, perhaps Bachmann has developed a contingency plan so as to include the fairer socialist sex. Judging from the wild-eyed siren’s previous patriotic stunts, it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that girl Democrats could be assaulted with the red, white and blue Endocervical Specula ’O Liberty. We can only hope and pray that Barney Frank feels rough, populist tongue and cold stainless steel, preferably at the same time.
______________________

My pharmaceutically enhanced happiness took a hit yesterday after reading the Family Tamko has $250,000 to burn. It must be a burden to have so much money lying around. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to help. And so I offer this remedy:

Dear Humphreys,

After hearing of your cash infestation problem, I feel compelled to offer my assistance. Because Beloved made me shovel out the garage, there is approximately 200 square feet of unused floor space. Too small an area for the average libertarian to stretch his or her legs, it can easily accommodate a quarter million dollars. Assuming the money is packed in boxes, I’m guessing that the relatively clean area can handle five, maybe six million bucks. In fact, why not just back the Brinks truck up to the garage door, and I’ll take it from there.

A huge fan of asphalt,

Juan Don

spooky canine tooth

2009-11-02T19:24:00.002-06:00

Here’s what I did last week while high on serious pain medication:

Devoted two days studying the Republican’s health-care plan

Phoned in a pizza delivery order to Freeman Urgent Care

Tried to make my wife a Halloween costume out of Shoe Goo and electrical tape

Set the sticky black wad on fire in a plastic trash can

Looked on helplessly while my wife galloped about trying to contain the toxic blaze

Invented a new chili recipe that doesn’t require beans, ground beef or conventional seasoning
_______________________________

Tomorrow’s election results should provide ample piles of blog material. Because I still have two serious pain pills left, I am going to clean out the vial. Dangerously close to glimpsing Limbaugh’s “American exceptionalism”, perhaps another 1000 milligrams will provide the final push.

Juan Don

without partial

2009-10-28T13:39:00.009-05:00

Squealing about the price of Fruit Loops and moo juice, Dianne Slater is back again to say boo. The scary Chicago street thug is spending money like a California conservative. Waddle for your lives, the African Marxist wants to give her two hundred and fifty bucks! Hell’s bells, Miss D, that extra cash could keep you supplied in cereal for at least another month, maybe two if you stopped swallowing handfuls while watching Glenn Beck imitate Mr. Green Jeans going through angel dust withdrawal. Not to be picky, but how did George W. Bush pay for the invasion of Iraq? Maybe I missed the local Americans for Prosperity garage sale that raised…a trillion dollars.

Bitching about the First Couple enjoying an occasional date night, I assume Miss D is cool with GW Bush expending 857 days of his presidency on vacation. It’s amazing that he found the time to defeat Terror and preside over unparalleled economic growth. Small wonder the previous president is making over $3,000 a minute motivating the morally prone.
___________________________

Ollie North is advising Congressional Republicans on foreign policy. Rep. Mike Pence (R-Uranus) wanted Sarah Palin for the job, but she hasn’t had time to purchase bigger binoculars. Ollie’s expertise in selling weapons to America’s sworn enemies is beyond reproach. I suspect the Taliban would trade poppies for Stinger missiles. Ollie could then persuade his international drug connections to convert the further processed poppies into legal tender. All politicians like slush funds, especially the covert, untraceable variety.

I’m going to go out on a limb and predict Ollie believes President Obama should order more troops into Afghanistan before launching a preemptive strike against Iran, the UN and Chicago’s south side.
___________________________

House Republicans are pushing for a resolution to honor tea baggers. Hearing the news, Gunston “Gunny” Krumpler, founder of Not Those Kind of Hershey Kisses, is upset that his organization is getting the shaft.

Firing off an email from his French Lick, Indiana headquarters, Krumpler let Rep. John Boehner know his disappointment.

Mr. Minority Leader,

As a lifelong libertarian and practicing Objectivist, I must object to reports that tea baggers are being singled out for special commendation. Described by friends as ‘loose and goosey’, I’m cool with consenting adults doing whatever floats their boat. Although sipping testicles is not my cup of tea, the activity appears popular with overweight whites who share grammar issues.

To the point: What about throwing a bone to liberal-hating gun-lovers who find pleasure in kissing and tonguing butt? Had Dick Armey thought it through, he would have realized that there are more anti-Obama ass kissers than tea baggers. Instead of a measly 70,000 marching on Washington, my organization could have fielded an additional twenty or thirty from the northern Virginia /D.C. area alone. And not to toot my own horn, but I designed a killer logo that never fails to generate media controversy.

You could prove that the Republican Party is inclusive if including anally-fixated anti-government patriots.

PS: Please don’t confuse Not Those Kind of Hershey Kisses with the George Soros funded Rectal Rangers. I don’t believe an explanation is necessary,

Hi Ho,

Gunny Krumpler

An hour later Krumpler sent another email.

Dear Mr. Minority Leader,

Imagine my shock and embarrassment when discovering that the tea baggers in question…well, I hope one day you and I can share a good laugh.

If I may offer a small defense-as-question: Why do they call themselves tea baggers? As an educated man with 23 hours of community college under his belt, I don’t think I’m alone in thinking that there was a sexual component involved. But since there isn’t, I fully understand why you wouldn’t want to add my organization into the mix.

Although NTKOHK is perfectly legal with nothing whatsoever to hide, I would consider it a great favor if FBI personnel weren’t dispatched to my humble office. I’m going through a rather nasty custody battle with my ex-wife, and I know she’d use a federal investigation against me in court.

PS: I have an autographed photo of Speaker Gingrich.

Very Sincerely,

Gunny Krumpler

Juan Don

Pre-Op Ritual in E Minor

2009-10-23T13:17:00.000-05:00

Senator David Vitter (R-LA) has been slow to question Tangipahoa Parish justice of the peace Keith Bardwell’s resolve not to marry mixed raced couples. Bardwell, known to sing Jubilation T. Cornpone after blushing brides officially become patrilocal property, doesn’t believe black-on-white breeding produces show quality pups. Bayou Bob Maggiteaux, Bardwell’s barber, is pretty sure Keith’s ugly encounter with his neighbor’s Dalmatian caused an aversion to spots.

“You’ll never see him wear polka dot shirts or enter a circle drive,” said Bayou Bob.

When asked if racism plays a role in the justice’s refusal to follow state law, Bayou Bob replied, “As far as I know he’s never been to the dog track.”
_________________________

I wrote Senator Claire McCaskill an e-mail asking her to please contact Anson Burlingame. I’m sure that his Red Team collection of north side Joplin conservatives could provide her with invaluable insight as to why they’re still sending Jim Talent money.

Preternaturally helpful, I’d like to offer Anson a few suggestions should he decide to re-name his blog. There’s nothing wrong with Shaker simplicity. But a splash of color is always refreshing. Approaching winter’s promise of monotone blues can always use a little orange peel to pucker the soul.

Please keep in mind that I’m on my second or third post-brunch Bloody Mary; Muse is still encased in wool toe socks. Up periscope:

Brace Yourself

Ding, Ding, Ding: Dive! Dive!

Okay! Okay! Sixty Percent

The Dromophobic Flaneur

I'm Not Paying for That (Not that I do Anyway)

Pruning the Nodical Hydrath

Country Club Cracknel

Damn this Thing!
__________________________

And now I must wash thoroughly before my two O’clock laparoscopic hepatic resection. The nurses become edgy if I wander into surgery in sweat pants and Bugle Boy pullover.

Juan Don

posey

2009-10-22T20:33:00.000-05:00

Freedom

Does Terror wear yellow or red?
Perhaps a burnt umber?
The color of dead wedding guests
becoming one with
an uninvited drone’s
debris.

God
moves the joystick with deliberate
finger -- just a flick --
and His extension returns home in
time for dinner.
_______________________

Tea Bag

It could be Intelligent Design
or a game show koan
encased in sheets of plastic wrap;
wound too tight with piss and moan
like driving Sarah Palin home.

________________________

Of Rust: Ev Maddox

It struck me today,
while trying to explain to
a student how he should
go to hell, that all
my languages are rusty.

My French for graduates,
my old Latin minor, my
Berlitz German -- oh
my Esperanto’s hopeless.

All my Englishes, too,
Old, Middle, Modern,
Pidgin, Basic. In Paris
I asked for a room
dans douche. I can’t get

clichés straight: Does
water flow under the dam
or over the bridge?

How will I ever manage to ask you to come
back to me in a sentence with so many
to’s in it?

My fans must be confused
(me too) because “If gold rust,
what will iron do?” (Chaucer).

Somebody said the best
words, in any order,
were Alone in bed. E.g.
In bed alone. In alone
Bed. Bed alone. But
I think the best words
are In bed with you, and
the best order is
In you with bed. Rust

has its uses: They make
old beds out of it,
like ours you painted
white. I remember too
one winter dawn (this was
before we met), some
friends and I, loaded, drove
the wrong way up a hill

in the fog, and stopped
to hear a small mystery:
birds, creaking like hinges,
saying, it seemed to me,
just what they meant.

feathery spines

2009-10-21T15:05:00.000-05:00

Scrolling through comments lurking beneath news that Liz Cheney will skip Rachael Maddow’s invitation for Sean Hannity’s tender offer, this barb caught my eye: "She's a dumber version of Tonya Harding."

Ouch. But there is a resemblance. Assuming that her latest elbow thrown into national discourse fails to bruise Obama’s ribs, there is potential for another heart-warming (or wrenching) reality show featuring the two blond bombers. Actually, elbow should be elbows, as she has joined talons with fellow Belt Way bird-brain Bill Kristol. Stapling together another tax-exempt Freedom Works, the beneficiaries of fortuitous birth are determined to defeat Terror and other insidious nouns. Calling their foray into further nepotistic teat suckling Keep America Safe, the calumnious couple obviously decided Keep My Daddy out of Jail a tad too aboveboard for neo-conservative taste. After daring media Marxists to prove her rants wrong, Maddow gamely retrieved Daughter of Dick’s gauntlet. Alas, Liz has opted to puss out. It’s only fitting and proper that she rattle her plastic saber with an equally insufferable patriot-cum-pussy. Juan is still eagerly awaiting Hannity’s promise to prove waterboarding isn’t really torture -- otherwise known as Hell freezing over.

Of course, Liz or Bill* will never rake their fear-mongering chicken emissions atop Rachael’s garden. Real Americans struggling to read Glenn Beck’s latest comic book are up to speed (or meth) on MSNBC’s chalky connection to The Blackboard Jungle Conspiracy. As chair bound commando Geoff Caldwell knows, the only cable infotainment outlet not haunted by Mao’s chubby ghost is found inside the Fox hole. Who knew the last bastion of pristine capitalism would be owned by an Aussie billionaire married to Wendi Deng? Mrs. Deng-Murdock must not be a communist or her name would have appeared on Beck’s ever-expanding hit list.

*Debra Burlingame is the third leg of the neo-con’s latest publicity stool. Although I have no reason to believe that Debra is related to Anson Burlingame (Joplin‘s favorite rhetorical question conservative), I can’t definitively dismiss any familial connection because there is no full-time research staff available to link curd to whey. That’s how Beck was able to establish President Obama is a direct descendent of Magog.

Juan Don

Voices

2009-10-19T20:23:00.000-05:00

I prefer to think the vast majority of Joplin Globe op-ed participants are seventh graders struggling to complete a homework assignment. Because the paper’s online edition doesn’t provide photos or biographical background, it’s impossible to determine if they’re old enough to date. Not that age should be a determining requirement for submitting opinions. Carterville’s Wild Kyle Hole fathered twins before his twelfth birthday. His preteen peers -- saddled with lower levels of testosterone -- gaped in awe at Wild’s full beard; eyes were wide watching him shower after gym class. I’ll never forget the morning he jumped out of an opened third story window, nor can I erase Miss Drum’s reaction to such unexpected dare-deviltry. (Before she regained consciousness, Wild had scaled the slick bricks and was back in his seat enjoying Nurse Melvina’s frantic medieval resuscitation techniques).

Although it’s rare when twelve year olds are subpoenaed to testify in divorce court, at least three prepubescent Cartervillians were entangled in unsavory paternity suits; ten year old Bobby “Billy” Sackley was the target of late night pot shots fired by jealous truck drivers. There is strong evidence to suggest lead poisoning played a role. However, Kyle’s thick proliferation of pubic hair and freakishly abnormal sexual development can not be pinned entirely on severe plumbism: three generations of Holes all bore marked similarities to the mythical Yetti. Spending a disproportionate amount of their meager income on shaving cream and straight razors, natives gave the Hole family a wide berth when they rushed The Shamrock Café, tearing a new one in the popular Carp Tuesday buffet.

Colleen Hole, Wild’s youngest sister, could light matches off her chin stubble while being breast fed.
,
Unfamiliar with strip-mining’s toxic reach, perhaps a few lucky burgs were spared heavy metal contamination‘s dreadful assault on the orbital frontal cortex. Personal experience dictates that maternal relatives living on farms far removed from Carterville’s consumptive moonscape displayed greater facility with fireworks, as they never pointed Roman candles directly at family members or rolled M-80s beneath the picnic table where skittish great-aunts had gathered to escape Black Cat’s sulfuric machine gun pop. (I’m convinced that my youthful Independence Day indiscretions were never forgiven. While cousins received cash after completing rehab, I cornered the market on travel-sized Brut and military recruitment paraphernalia).

Once again, I’ve lost my train of thought.

Wait, something, something free-market…nope, it’s gone.

Juan Don

gawd's personal foul

2009-10-14T20:25:00.000-05:00

Close but no cigar.

KSDK radio in St. Louis reported that Rush Limbaugh has been dropped by the bidding group negotiating to buy the Rams. “Dave Checketts said that while Limbaugh would have been only a limited partner with no role in the Rams’ operations, his involvement had been a distraction.”

I’d substitute distraction for disaster.

Tomorrow’s foray into broadcasting back country should be interesting. I’m confident his sheeple will call in offering conciliatory twangs and hooting outrage of gummy disgust. Reverse racial discrimination victims can share their horror stories of African Marxism, which, no doubt, has kept them from owning aluminum trailer skirting.

Feeling sprite, I might peek in on my Red State pards and see how Erick Erickson’s Trike Force is handling the news. So pissed off at Sen. Olympia Snowe’s traitorous behavior that they’re sending her…rock salt…in protest, who knows what bagged oddity awaits Commissioner Goodell: peat moss?

Juan Don

he doth protest too much

2009-10-14T11:33:00.000-05:00

This musing is follow up to comments posted on The Erstwhile Conservative, Duane Graham’s ongoing contribution to Joplin area political dialogue.

Duane,

I’m curious as to whether or not Rush Limbaugh is serious when threatening to take legal action against those he feels have maliciously impugned his reputation. Limbaugh, who has made a fortune under the First Amendment’s wide protective net, is treading on thin ice when accusing critics of crossing the line.

The onus to prove criminal defamation is on the plaintiff. I find it hard to believe that after two decades of broadcasting racially insensitive remarks anyone would need to fabricate evidence of his congenital prejudice against minorities. Media Matters is just one website with myriad examples of the talk show host’s deleterious commentary.

Limbaugh’s defense when cornered on an especially intolerant remark is that he’s first and foremost a satirist. As an acknowledged expert in Limbaughnics, you know he has always played this card if caught exposing too much leg; it’s his perpetual enemies who don’t get the sophisticated drift because they’re blinded by liberal indoctrination. Of course, only like-minded conservatives have evolved beyond identity politics and are freed from bigotries divisive pull. He is merely using ‘humor’ to prove his point that it’s the Democrat Party that is obsessed with race. Why else would liberals bemoan such hilarity as “Barack the Magic Negro?”

Closer to the issue in question -- Limbaugh’s interest in buying a piece of the Rams -- was this ‘satirical' jibe he made in 2007: “The NFL all too often looks like a game between the Bloods and the Crips without any weapons.”

It’s strange that Al Michaels hasn’t stolen his brilliant quip. At least then Limbaugh could claim plagiarism.

Thinking about libel brought up memories of Oscar Wilde’s tragic case. Trevor Fisher's: Oscar and Bosie: A Fatal Passion is a fascinating read detailing the sad consequences when plaintiff becomes respondent. The upshot is that one should never sue when guilty of ‘slanderous’ accusations. Although Limbaugh’s behavior isn’t criminal (neither was Wilde’s: Victoria’s England shares striking similarities to Inhofe’s Oklahoma), losing in court wouldn’t be in the propagandist’s best interest -- how can one besmirch a reputation that doesn’t exist?

Juan Don

Tuesday's Weld

2009-10-13T14:16:00.000-05:00

Needling online comments stacked beneath Allen Shirley’s doggerel suggest the serial bore fails to impress locals with internet access. You’d think the paper could find a fresher mule* to haul stale trumpery. Slater’s god only knows what water hazard Shirley laps from before scrawling thick pencil marks upon Big Chief’s pre-lined tablet.

Oh well. Perhaps a bidding war between The Globe and The Big Nickel will entice Shirley to replace his divots inside another publication. Should The Big Nickel win (and why not?), savvy used car shoppers could amuse themselves with Short Bus Soliloquies before getting down to more serious business.

*Please note that just one lame drug dealing inference was exploited by the soiled sweats wearing eccentric.** There is no reason to assume that a professional pill peddler would break the pusher’s cardinal rule: Never get high on your own supply.
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Extending the ’getting high on your own supply’ tangent for a moment, I’m listening to El Rushbo explain why his storied career in race-baiting should not be misconstrued as blatant bigotry. Because the shrinking gasbag never, ever talks about himself, media attention has focused on his interest in purchasing a piece of the St. Louis Rams. His connection to the bidding syndicate in question would have come out sooner or later, but it was Fuzzball who first broke the story -- the kook can’t control his impulse to remind sheeple how much money he’s parked offshore.

(Without besmirching Graceland’s holy allure, I’d wager 13 pesos that dittoheads will one day stand in line to visit Limbaugh’s lush Palm Beach compound. Dumbfounded pilgrims gazing in opened mouthed amazement are a fitting tribute to dope-induced American exceptionalism).
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I wonder if Fox News will point their impartial horse whip in Gov. Rick Perry’s general direction. A sordid drama involving arson, capital punishment and dead children should be right up Glenn Beck’s alley. If you can’t huff Vaporub and cry over burnt babies, what can a patriot pretend to bawl about? Let’s take a moment and review the list of conservative Republican politicians the cable channel has skewered over the years.

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All apologies if I left some out.

**Normally, eccentric is preceded by reckless -- as in ‘the reckless eccentric fucked up another riding mower’.

Juan Don

The Naked and the Wet

2009-10-09T12:35:00.000-05:00

Be still my beating heart. Various sources are saying that Levi Johnston will pose nude for Playgirl magazine. Good for Levi. He might as well join his estranged almost in-laws and cash in the time sensitive Wal-Mart gift card. A glossy spread featuring Levi’s johnson is sure to warm the bristly cockles of Andrew Sullivan’s gay Tory beard.

I’ll treasure the pin up. There is a marred ocher space awaiting the photo in the hovel’s small trophy room, where other Scotch-taped mementos silently absorb the Peterson’s blended emissions.

…after an appropriate pregnant pause…

Double dog drat. Levi is not going to air out the todger. A semi-modest stud, he’ll limit public nudity to bare butt cheeks. This is a major disappointment. Although I’m reasonably sure Levi is blessed with hard marbled ass, thanks to ice hockey’s strenuous physical demands, D list celebrities dropping ‘trou’ is common fare. I believe Andy Dick’s website is nothing but digital pics of late-night moon shots.

Should Sarah Palin and Michele Bachmann agree to reprise classic black bra and panties catfight for free-market wampum, I’ll tape their titillating shoot next to Betty Page‘s hallowed shrine. Human Events could use the ensuing buzz to broaden the rag’s appeal.
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The mad howling you hear is Fox News’ reaction to President Obama winning the Nobel Peace Prize. I wonder how Dianne Slater will celebrate our Kenyan-in-chief’s unexpected honor. I gather from her recent published acid reflux she won’t be joining Democrat/Nazi party members goose-stepping about in flaming torchlight salute, draining steins while unedited Bibles smolder atop other leather bound bonfire fodder. I’m guessing Ms. Slater’s plans are more subdued: attacking bacon/cheese ball with mephitic gusto.
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Because of an unexpected splash of splendid weather, Adler suggested we accompany our canoes down to Dino’s this afternoon. He’s certain that no federal funding was allocated to ensnare tipsy water rats. Always erring on the side of paranoia, I’ll bribe Hippy Jim with appropriate contraband to be my designated paddle. This way I can fully appreciate the ride without worrying if sneaky creek cops are lurking behind impromptu tree dams. Securely strapped to the sturdy Coleman cooler, I know Adler will waste no time coming to the rescue if Coleman is swept into the surging brown current. He is nothing if not level headed.

Juan Don

probably not taught at OCC

2009-10-07T13:58:00.000-05:00

I see where embryonic eyes have discovered that the blog has a convenient e-mail attachment. This design flaw is unfortunate. However, I have very recently discovered that I can preemptively delete incoming stink bombs. If only the litter box was as sophisticated as Google software.

Because I have nothing better to do, I’ll respond to one critic who obviously shares my unhealthy fascination with unfocused malaise.

Yes, I know Paul was not an original disciple: He arrived after the Summer of Love was corrupted by crass commercial exploitation. Casting away his old square self after a particularly powerful trip, Paul made up for lost time by collaborating with Peter and Mary. (Did you know that Peter, Paul and Mary released an album with Andrew? The succinctly entitled PPM &A produced one top ten hit, “Leaving on a Fast Ass”). Alas, Paul’s misogynistic behavior became too much for Mary. During a tense pre-gig sound check Mary finally confronted Paul over what she suspected was his repressed homosexuality. Paul erupted and grabbed Mary, inadvertently yanking off her long hair extension. Shocked and embarrassed, Mary fled the stage in tears. Peter, looking for an opportunity to ditch the volatile Paul and reform the group as a duo, took swift action. Although Peter vehemently denied using Paul’s suspected sexual orientation against his band mate, Pharisee Records founder Mannie Goldberg’s homophobia was well known among the Judea folk/rock community. Citing creative differences as the impetus for Paul’s sudden exodus, the March III A.D. issue of Rolling Boulder magazine published their label’s brief press release:
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Pharisee Records spokesman Abe MacAbee confirmed reports that Peter, Paul and Mary have cancelled their “Too Much of Nothing” tour.

“There is no truth to rumors that internal dissension played a role in the breakup. The decision to disband was amicable and the result of much soul searching. Sadly, situations beyond their control have made concluding the tour impossible.

Paul Tarsus has long expressed a desire to pursue solo projects. Peter and Mary wish him well on his next artistic adventure, and offer their full support.

Peter and Mary will perform under a new name, Zager and Evans".
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The rest is history. Paul moved to Corinth and discovered a knack for writing fiction. Known today as the Jewish Proust, his work is widely regarded as the model for late 20th century situational comedy.

Juan Don

The Better Jesus

2009-10-05T20:26:00.000-05:00

This is interesting. A group called The Conservative Bible Project has decided that the word of God is too liberal and in need of cutting edge societal evolution. Because there is no severe weather alert, the devil’s workshop is open for business.

****The new and improved conservative Jesus****
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And The Lord spoke at great length on the evils of progressive taxation. When He finished, Thomas raised his hand. “But Master, didn’t you say render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s?”

“Thomas, Thomas, Thomas”, said Jesus. “Would you be party to liberal media lies? You know how the Jerusalem Times likes to reprint my parables word for word, and then accuse me of hypocrisy and falsehoods. Haven’t I told you, each of you, about how ideologically pure propaganda works?”

The Lord pointed toward Luke. “What’s my current accuracy rating?”

“Ninety eight point seven percent“, said Luke.

The Lord smiled and lighted a nice cigar. “Okay, who’s up for a quick round of golf before supper?”
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And The Lord was on a roll. After teasing Paul for wearing girly sandals, He gathered his disciples about him.

“Look, you all know how I feel about queers. There’s no greater abomination than man lying with man. It’s no different than lying with dog, sheep or ass. Why is Paul laughing? Come on, I’m trying to be serious. It’s just creepy. What? Speak up, James. How do I feel about woman lying with woman? You know, for some reason that doesn’t bother me.”
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Jesus led myrrh baggers into the olive grove and blessed their signs. Many brandished spears and this pleased The Lord. He told the myrrh baggers that illegal aliens could not enter the Kingdom of Heaven and warned of socialized medicine defiling sacred capitalism. To strike home His point, The Lord only healed those able to pay in cash.
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John informed Jesus that Lazarus had died again (he was accident prone) and said the family was anxious for Him to repeat another miracle. The Lord listened quietly. While turning water into an excellent chardonnay, pausing occasionally to swirl the fruity wine, He replied, “Do I look like a co-dependent?”

Juan Don