with a whimper

I turned 52 Saturday. Growing older is the easiest thing I’ve ever done -- all you have to do is not die.

Fifty was traumatic. Because Hallmark needs to keep baby in shoes, the Big 5-O provides make believe social drinkers with an array of overpriced party favors. There was more than a tinge of disappointment when Preparation H was missing from other loosely sacked crap. I thought butt itch pellets were required protocol. Instead of letting this faux pas pass go unnoticed, I made a big deal about not getting suppositories. Quietly, Beloved snuck away, drove to May’s City and upon her return flung the yellow box at me, delighting the blotto social drinkers and adding a touch of short-lived reality to the pirate-themed affair.

Even I can’t imagine how sordid a Big 6-0 gathering of reprobates must be. Instead of brand name analgesics, does the lucky stiff get a used colostomy bag?

However, there’s nothing wrong with slowing down. In fact, I’m beginning to grow fond of short-term memory loss. Hopefully before long I won’t be able to remember names. Everyone will be Buddy or Sissy. Beloved will think long and hard about sending me off to Wal-Mart; (In my prime I was often disorientated when it came to purchasing the correct feminine hygiene product). Eventually the State will determine that my driving skills have deteriorated beyond all hope. Saddling unfortunate family and friends with the onus of ferrying me to Happy Hour, Mr. Hootie Coot will no longer be bound by the social contract. Keeping Buddy or Sissy busy at the blender, deaf to pleas that I please stop drinking, Karaoke lovers can expect to endure a very choppy rendition of “The Ballad of the Green Berets” or an equally haunting “D-I-V-O-R-C-E”.

Of course, it’s fuzzy house shoes and soiled sweats from now on. I’ll become a limping Philip Larkin poem and finally fulfill a particular high school guidance counselor’s prescient glimpse into my future.

Juan Don

casting the first stone

Gadhafi and almost full term governor Sarah Palin should go on tour.

Earlier today I threw chat at the dime store diva but, once again, R. Duane Graham beat me to Snow Ball. That’s what I get for not web surfing before committing another keyboard atrocity. And I had this tangent going where Palin prepped for her first paid overseas publicity stunt by watching “Mulan”. Just as well. The flautist enhancing her foreign policy credentials through Disney animation had a Tim Burton feel to it. A Guy Davis man myself, Burton is a sophisticated reach for someone who just yesterday figured out LOL doesn’t mean…well, an abomination. Now I know why I had trouble keeping an online spades partner -- that and going nil while holding the ace.

It remains a mystery to me why conservative Christians find Palin appealing. I have no choice but to believe that they’re fine with pathological liars. Sarah Palin lies, and she lies a lot. What kind of value system ignores blatant disregard for truth? In a profession known for playing fast and loose with veracity, Palin’s consistent falsehoods are serial and glaring.

Political ideology aside, what Christian attributes does Palin possess that Barack Obama does not? Have right-wing evangelicals become so obsessed with abortion that they automatically exonerate politicians from further moral scrutiny just because they adopt a pro-life stance? The list of “family values” conservatives caught in all manner of tawdry vice is lengthy. Tom Delay has compared himself to Jesus Christ on at least three occasions. I’ll freely admit that I spent my youth fighting to stay awake during the Epistle lesson. Yet while perfecting inattentive eye contact, I remained cognizant enough to know that Armageddon will be a spectacular clusterfuck if Delay and Jesus are sharing the same white stallion.

Let us pray that Delay’s dirty dancing doth honor the Lord. Let us further beseech The Almighty that Sister Sarah rakes in more Neiman Marcus sheaves, Brother Newt does not hog the confessional booth and Deacon Sanford finds the strength to keep his Argentine whore away from his wife’s upcoming inspirational book tour.

Play ball.

Juan Don

nearly caught in the act

Oops. The rush by Congressional Republicans to punish ACORN resulted in weaving a wide legislative net. Check out http://www.contractormisconduct.org. I guess pimp and ’ho undercover journalism has lost its edge since Starsky & Hutch were forced into early retirement. Andrew Breitbart should have trusted his gut instinct and sent two assholes wearing gorilla suits into ACORN’s heart of darkness. Everybody knows the typical black commie is a sucker for the old “hey, how can a couple of apes illegally house underage Honduran prostitutes and steal Maurice Filson’s money, all at the same time?”

Gads! Beloved’s import careened into view. I’d better grab a snow shovel and look busy.

Juan Don

this drought will never end

The slab is quiet. Radio ranting has been replaced by birdsong and the occasional plea from Beloved to make galley floor cat-sick go bye-bye. Nothing if not facile, I’ve learned to remove greenish Fancy Feast vomit with nursing home efficiency. Roi’s frequent in-hovel shat requires more attention to detail: he is French and can’t help himself from nibbling on Miss Puss’ moist meal. Choice of cleaning equipment is dependent on where Roi has decided to squirt organic Van Dyke brown. When he dribbles on the bed, disposable wipes are rendered obsolete. Contrary to pernicious gossip, I have not yet reached the point where lying upon Roi’s primitive olfactory art is an acceptable option. No, when this occurs I drag the sheet outside and wait for rain.

Random thoughts post-talk radio:

If I owned a pharmacy, I’d call it Gateway Drugs and pay myself to play air guitar. Jamming away sans instrument is smart advertising, especially if targeting motorists who prefer Demerol refills over coffee.

Congressman Roy Blunt distinguished himself at the Values Voter Summit. Inserting the always funny monkey joke as comedic segue into Village Idiot pander, Roy’s stand up prompted an amused snake handler to drop Eve’s deceiver atop Michele Bachmann’s expansive hair helmet. Nonplussed by the slithering serpent, Michele calmly freed it from Aqua-net's gooey grasp and offered table mates an impromptu opportunity to test their faith. Surprisingly, the five wide-eyed Nazarenes declined her generous offer. Sensing that video cameras were rolling, Michele began babbling in tongues and flinging the dizzy copperhead about like a scaly boa. Rexella Van Impe tried to cut in but was ignored by the twirling public servant. After she collapsed in spent spiritual climax, Blunt thanked the Congresswoman for leading the charge against Hoot-Smalley.


Noticeably absent from the VVS’ staple of Rapture-inspired doomsday mysteries was Sen. Larry Craig’s “Peter Platter” series. A non-discerning reader, I’ve found lumping hard-boiled pulp fiction in with repressed homosexuality a refreshing alternative to James Patterson’s formulaic pap. Every chapter has Platter (Larry’s effeminate private dick) sniffing around for clues in public toilets. Although the sleuth’s unorthodox method of gathering information strays from the genre’s usual terrain, replacing dimensionless broad-in-sack with anonymous men-in-stall gives the “Peter Platter” mysteries greater latitude for developing the darker side of closeted fast food managers -- a tangent never fully explored by Raymond Chandler.

Juan Don

a certain song from "South Pacific"

Out of habit, I began pecking yet another jab at Rush Limbaugh. For twenty years I’ve lampooned the slimy prick. But no more: Fuck him. Whether it was full blown epiphany or clogged artery inexplicably expanding, I don’t know. Regardless, the urge to do meaningless battle with the toxic fraud just wasn’t there.

Maybe I’ve reached the tipping point. Wasting effort rehashing tripe is not a productive way to spend one’s leisure time. If Obama haters decide to grow up and engage in constructive dialogue on how best to keep the American experiment from imploding into nihilistic farce, I might rejoin the fray. Your basic liberal, I’m not clever enough to know when Nazi means Nazi and when it means nigger. It is asking a lot to think that someone who can’t spell diaper has mastered the subtle similarities shared between Chicago community organizer and German Gauleiter.

I’m going to take a long, hot shower.

PS: I forgot Glenn Beck: Fuck him, too.

Juan Don

quill, candle, wax and seal

RDG,

“Darwin’s Wasp” is an exceptionally good post. It’s fitting and proper that the new movie about Darwin cannot find a US distributor. We are, after all, God’s chosen people. If forced to choose, I wonder who the Almighty would pick as his BFF: the USA or Israel. Who knows why the God of Moses was more actively involved in day-to-day affairs? I’d take Glenn Beck seriously if he parted the Great Salt Lake with a tear-stained hankie. Perhaps God has found another planet to awe, leaving the decedents of Adam to Brother Huckabee. Because I’m an atheist, conservatives’ hog-tying religion to secular politics has always chafed my inner thighs. I’m certain that George Washington would strip James Dobson down to the waist and whip his back with hard leather for even suggesting that the original rebels were theocrats at heart. Dobson would dig the attention, each lash reminding him of mommy’s girdle, the metal straps biting into his skin with a deliciously kinky kind of love. The freak probably writes his sadomasochistic “child psychology” encased in latex…with a well-watered gourd crammed up his poop chute. Then again, I might have Dobson confused with Randall Terry.

Not surprised that Geoff Caldwell thinks Jimmy Carter is a racist. At least he didn’t rip off Limbaugh and call the former president a “hemorrhoid”. I hope he’s saving “Herr Hemorrhoid” for President Obama’s next dark homage to National Socialism. Geoff is “semi-liberal”, after all. Comparing Carter to Norma Desmond was certainly a novel twist. Look for Anson Burlingame to applaud the Olsen to his Johnson.
_____________________________________
Geoff,

Great use of Gloria Swanson. Check out my blog where I compare Carter to that actress who boiled the little girl’s rabbit.
_____________________________________

Ah, it appears Beck’s coup against ACORN has taken yet another turn. To liberally paraphrase AC/DC, “Who Punked Who?”

Enjoy the Arizona sunshine. Joplin has morphed into Seattle -- sans fresh seafood.

Juan Don

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