EMERGING FROM THE SWILL

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

Until then.

The Sound of Something Else

Geoff,

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

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

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

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

_________________________
Eyeballs Near Jejunum

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

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

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

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

Paging Belle Starr

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

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

if jupiter aligns with mars...

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

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

i gots nuttin

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

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

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

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

Aborted short story openings:

Delmar never quite came back after the decapitation.

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

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

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

It really was a dark and stormy night.

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

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

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

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



   











 

The Day Before Al Fest

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

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

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

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

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

Community Outreach Fail

Anson,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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