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.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, November 1, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, October 15, 2010
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!!!
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!!!
Saturday, October 9, 2010
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.
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.
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