catching up

Dearest Marta Hari,

Receiving your e-mail turned another dreary day into late June. What has it been, twenty five, thirty years? Good lord. No longer the lanky buck that haunted The Jounce and Cheek with starry-eyed ebullience, time and poor choices have done their low work. I use a scooter to grocery shop. It’s unbearable. Last week I nearly came to blows with a fat woman over Wal-Mart’s last electric ride. Fortunately, another fat woman defied gravity and relinquished her scooter before the pitiful scene could bloom into physical folly. I’m positive that punching an obese diabetic goes against all things Zen, and guarantees my next incarnation will be spent dodging fly swatters.

You can’t imagine how thrilled I was when Timothy Beep mentioned your agoraphobia had abated. The last I heard you were raising chinchillas in Gotebo. At first I assumed chinchilla was code for pot, but later learned that you were actually in the fur trade. (Come to think of it, I don’t remember pot ever being called chinchilla. Maybe I was reading too much Harold Pinter at the time). It’s a good thing you have an unlisted number. A late night phone call inquiring about the price of chinchilla would have sparked an awkward exchange if quarter ounce was mentioned.

There has been a lot of water under the bridge since I last stuffed bills down your G-string. Sadly, my small fortunate is gone. Although I haven’t graced a gentleman’s club in many years, I don’t believe the dancers would appreciate an old cripple trying to insert loose change. Bar conversation now revolves around so-and-so’s latest medical misadventure. I counted four canes and two portable oxygen tanks at the last Table of Failure confab. Suffice it to say, exotic artists at The Stoned Crow would have to carry a defibrillator; Clorox would come in handy for the less bathed regulars.

I look forward to seeing you at Mr. Yellowman’s retirement bash. If you’re unable to recognize me, I’ll be the very slow moving Jay Silverheels with bad haircut and botched plastic surgery.

As always, peace, love and Bobby Sherman,\

Juan Don

The Golden Pole

Mr. Yellowman is retiring. He’s throwing off the yoke for well deserved respite. He’ll soon be free to pursue his passion for photography with unrestrained abandon. Known as the barnyard Mapplethorpe, his black and white prints featuring sultry fowl have replaced the painted handsaw as cutting-edge country kitchen art. Exhausting the common goose’s sensual potential in “Coquettish Quack”, Mr. Yellowman’s contribution to pestiferous coffee table clutter is one of Lawrence County’s better kept secrets. No longer chained to time’s ponderous anchor, the gifted shutterbug can now complete what many believe will be his crowning achievement. Without giving too much away, let’s just say that when finished the chicken’s underappreciated sexuality will finally receive its due.

This momentous event cannot go uncelebrated. The True Realizations’ indoor gardening committee is planning a blowout worthy of the occasion. Providing the perfect soundtrack for disorganized line dancing, The Brush Hog Five or Six will set up shop in the ancestral cow barn; for those who prefer to trip the light fantastic with less hay, Patty Liner’s digeridoo tribute to Buffy Saint Marie is sure to raise neck hairs, and allow those with orthopedic issues an opportunity to bunny hug without bending their knees. Ask to read from “Disremembered”, a collection of prescription strength cough syrup-induced clerihews, I’m still in negotiation with party organizers. Convinced my clerihews pack more poetic punch sans partial, the organizers do not share this sentiment. Hopefully, the impasse will be resolved without one of my artiste fits. But I wouldn’t bet on it.

There’s a rumor that Marta Hari’s agoraphobia is in remission. If true, the legendary bon viand’s presence would be icing on Mr. Yellowman’s retirement cake. The Madame Curie of the modern lap dance, her prowess with flaming pasties is still regarded as the cusp of pre-Reagan era titty bar entertainment. She is a goddess. I plan to plant my lawn chair firmly in the path of her precious talent.

Juan Don

don't drink the yellow tea

I’ve retired ‘tea baggers’ for ‘tea tards’. It is unfair to lump the genteel art of testicle sipping in with Beck’s rancid brew. Tempted to adopt ‘tea turds’ as the new moniker for vapid white trash backlash, I recalled that turd was already taken. Some years ago I rechristened Kurds into Turds, as I enjoyed telling dinner guests that Beloved had prepared a delightful Turdish dish. Besides, it would make no sense for millions* of ‘tea turds’ to protest Affirmative Action’s highest achiever.

I’ll admit that I haven’t read Beck’s fiction. Although it is biased of me to assume that he shares Newt Gingrich’s larval creative writing style, I believe there is a Constitutional amendment guaranteeing my right to literally piss on stuff just because I can. Of course, I have to exercise this God-given autocracy standing up. To do so in a squatting position would mock Old Testament patriotism and belittle rigged-market capitalism. This may be the reason why our Founding Fathers believed that only humans born with a penis had the unalienable right to vote. An enlightened lot, they made no distinction as to size, which probably explains why each state has two senators. Alas, the human-as-chattel penis was black balled and denied the various “pursuit of happiness” activities that European Homo sapiens assumed were intrinsic privileges. Due to an overemphasis on Colossians 4:1, African slaves weren’t considered “we the people” when Tom Jefferson was mounting young Sally Hemmings. While it’s tempting to fantasize about owning slaves saddled with the onus of maintaining Chow Acre‘s Gothic ambience, I fear their daily productivity would cause Beloved to question the necessity of maintaining an in-hovel poet.

Had the original Sons of Liberty broke open chests of East India tea and soaked the leaves with freedom’s golden flow, today’s Million ’Moran’ March* would be a pungent affair, indeed. The appropriately named Dick Armey firing off the inaugural yellow salvo against white oppression is an inspirational image. Always the savvy merchandiser, I’m sure Beck would offer female bigots affordable “9-12” strap on bottles to squeeze at the next town hall putsch. It goes without saying that women peeing ala roadside ditch mode does not create visually charming propaganda. Perhaps Sarah Palin can take time away from writing “Pageant Walking with Flute” to practice upright pissing. Well known for her athleticism, the almost full term governor might be able to approximate the average Bubba’s streaming arc, further endearing herself to shirtless dip shits and the gals who love ’em.

*Dick’s army fell about 960,000 illiterates short of reaching one million. Better luck next apocalypse.

Juan Don

stupid is as stupid blogs

I grabbed my long handled flashlight and ducked into Caldwell’s Crawlspace. As expected, his homage to Paleolithic cave paintings was just another caterwaul down Sore Loser Lane: Self reflection is not his forte. Because I have better things to do than teach a stone to speak, I won’t squander my pre-Alzheimer cocktail time engaged in fruitless debate with someone who displays the symptoms of severe Attention Deficit Disorder. A cruel bastard, I do have droplets of common decency left over from my brief stint in the Peace Corps, so I won’t mention Hollerin’ Joe Wilson‘s association with the Sons of Confederate Veterans. (Even though the villagers never experienced the thrill of flush toilets, I left the Kangamora Tribe feeling better about themselves, secure in the knowledge that some white men can’t find their ass with both hands or keep their pants dry after a surprise machete hazing. I’ll always remember how their laughter mingled with my screams after yet another language miscue found me volunteering to separate mating baboons).

I guess a black Marxist, Communist, fascist, Kenyan/Indonesian community organizing Messiah scares the holy shit out of Caldwell and his tea bagging confederates. Good thing Glenn Beck is on the ball.

By the way, Joe Wilson has taxpayer funded health-care, courtesy of Uncle Sam. I feel warm all over knowing that I’m helping provide the prick with weekly prostate exams.

Juan Don

Pop Quiz

1. The complete collapse of late 20th century conservatism is due to:

A: Ergot poisoning
B: An Australian billionaire
C: Home schooling
D: Internet-accessible gay porn
E: Retired postal workers

2. President Barack Obama’s political ideology is best described as:

A: Black Panther Marxism
B: Black Post-Colonial African Marxism
C: Full Monty Communism
D: Ivy League careerism
E: Something so horrific Mark Levine is reduced to squealing in Porpoise

3. Conservatives believe socialized medicine will:

A: Kill Momo & Popo
B: Arouse God’s Old Testament wrath
C: Unleash an army of zombie whores
D: Make abortions wildly popular
E: Besmirch the breast implant industry

4. The difference between Mormonism and Scientology is:

A: Mormons own a Mountain West Conference football team
B: Will Smith can become a Scientologist
C: Joseph Smith never owned a yacht
D: Mormons frown on women marrying brother-husbands
E: Roughly 100 billion dollars in off-shore accounts

5. The United States Census is:

A: Diabolical
B: Insidious
C: A form
D: Che Guevara’s dissertation
E: Practical joke played on young libertarians by ACORN-funded welfare queens

6. If Glenn Beck’s rectum had the power of speech it would:

A: Yodel
B: Become Candies’ spokes-rectum for abstinence only sex education
C: Travel the world with Sarah Palin as her Ed McMahon, shouting “Hey Oh!”
D: Recite apocalyptic free-verse beat poetry while Glenn provides weepy bongo drum accompaniment
E: Sell gold







7. Conservatives believe torture is:

A: Sacred Cheney family tradition
B: Stevie Nicks singing “O Holy Night”
C: Daytona 500 rain delays
D: Filling out the dreaded census
E: Great sex

Bonus: What is the name of former South Carolina Board of Education member Kristin Maguire’s most recent online pornographic short story?

Hint: Think “The Colonel and Mavis” share a hot tub with Roger Stone


Juan Don

in the eyes of the beholder

Anson Burlingame’s use of Justice Scalia to finger paint ethical and legal ambiguities regarding what defines torture is a major league cop out. Scalia has often referenced fictional television character Jack Bauer when pressed to provide cover for the Bush-Cheney Administration’s lawless disregard for long standing protocol concerning the treatment of incarcerated individuals, whether detained by domestic law enforcement personnel or captured on the battlefield. Pretending there are no guidelines that clearly define what is and what is not torture plops into the bezonian horse shit corral. If Scalia cited Dr House’s addiction to pain killers as the casus belli for insisting that all sarcastic physicians undergo mandatory drug testing before treating patients, I assume Anson would find the Justice’s unnerving disconnect applicable when opining about his jarring experience with a caustic urologist. Personally, I’m fond of appropriating the ‘Jethro Bodine’ scenario, especially if engaged in serious conversation about the security threats inherent when cross-dressing hillbillies are allowed to impersonate Army officers and/or drive tanks down public streets.

It’s not like there are no precedents that clearly spell out codes of conduct:

United States Bill of Rights (1789) Article Eight
Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948) Article Five
Geneva Conventions (1949) Article 99. Third Convention
American Convention on Human Rights (1969)
UN Minimum Standards for the Treatment of Prisoners (1957) Rule 31
UN Declaration on the Protection of All Persons from Torture and other Cruel,
Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment (1975)*
____________________________________________
*”No state may permit or tolerate torture…Exceptional circumstances such as a state of war…
Or any other public emergency may not be invoked as a justification of torture or other cruel inhumane or degrading treatment or punishment”.
____________________________________________

Going after the grunts who followed orders and tortured captured “enemy non-combatants” has all the elements of a show trial: God forbid the suits that created the insidious framework should be held accountable. How could Chris Wallace do his job as a journalist if Dick Cheney wasn’t around to remind all the Little Bo Peeps that committing war crimes kept their sheep safe? Of course, there is no proof that torture and murder deterred another 9-11 from occurring -- not that it matters to rock-ribbed conservatives.

I guess some think its okay to torture… just to be on the safe side. And it’s not like we torture native Christians who murder abortion doctors in cold blood. That would be wrong.

Juan Don

Rainbows are for socialists

Duane Graham’s quicker reflexes beat me to the punch line. I’m left wondering who Congresswoman Lynn Jenkins thinks has the palest stones to enter the ring. Because I’ve been drinking, distracting yet another hangover, Chuck Norris is my choice to KO the reigning champ. Putting the sexy back into dyed facial hair, Walker’s the karate-chopping orangutan to Joe the Plumber’s shaved marmoset. What frumpy patriot lugging grammatically-challenged cardboard can resist Chuck’s orange chest hair? An effulgent forest of Day-Glo Liberty Trees, his pelt can spark spontaneous “Remember the Alamo!” squeals and sporadic bursts of gunfire. I’ve always thought psychedelic orange a patriotic color. Alas, freakishly bright orange pants on Caucasian men of prostate trouble age rarely grace the average tea bagging scene. Too bad men in Wal-Mart cargo shorts aren’t blessed with John Putnam’s acute fashion sense. (If I’m not mistaken, he’s fond of the bold bare ankle look during warmer weather, switching to sensible knee-high waders after the first hard freeze. To give credit where credit is due, I tell prospective employers that wearing plastic thongs with tube socks is my small attempt to show support for Putnam’s crusade against environmentally unsound lap dances. I find this testimonial breaks the ice before inquiring about drug testing policies).

One thing is certain: Michael Steele and the preternaturally tanned John Boehner would need expensive dermatological treatment to qualify as “great white hopes”. My guess is that Lynn’s McDreamy is cooling his heels in Idaho.

Juan Don