Crown Press toiletries

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

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

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

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

corporate empathy

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

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

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

before the deluge

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

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

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

skoal

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

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

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

TO HELL WITH THE HOLIDAYS

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

pre-night out with Beloved

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

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

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?