Thanks to an old amigo burrowed deep within the bowels of commercial publishing, I’ve snatched several excerpts from Bristol Palin’s upcoming memoir. The budding young celebrity is carving out quite a career. Snagging a coveted spot on “Dancing with the Stars”, Bristol wowed TV addicts with stiff caterwauls about the gaudy studio without inflicting permanent testicular injury to her arm candy. Although an uncouth (and jealous) liberal sniper compared her moves to that of a “dancing cartoon cow”, Bristol’s gamy attempts to tango wooed viewers who love Jesus and His flock of precious zygotes. It’s a god damned shame that she didn’t win the shiny silver ball. Christians are a persecuted minority.
Wise beyond her twenty years, Bristol’s memoir could very well rejuvenate the Family Palin brand. If the yet untitled memoir is anything like the sneak peaks, I predict a bright future for America’s most famous unwed mother and ambassador for teen sexual abstinence.
__________________________
Willow and me went to Clay’s party. Clay’s a dick, but his dad keeps beer in the garage. Clay’s dad is a dick, too. Carl’s always copping a feel when he pretends to hug me. Yuk! What an asshole. Levi said Carl asked him if we were fucking. That pissed me off. So I cornered Carl and got right in his stupid face. Carl’s such a faggot. His face got all red and shit. He won’t even look at me in church.
Levi and me were boning. Mom shouted through the door, “Hey, you two better be ‘doin homework in there!” Levi was stoned and started giggling. I started giggling because Levi was giggling. Mom said, “What so funny?” I said, “Math.” Levi said, “Yeah, we’re ‘doin multiplication.” And Mom said, “What’s that?”
I couldn’t believe I was knocked up. I was so pissed. Mom and Dad were like, “great, way to go” -- like it was my fault! Dad really yelled at Levi, and called him a dipshit. Mom shoved me into the kitchen and was saying stuff like, “Is he too cheap to buy rubbers? Really, Bristol, you couldn't just give him a hand job or BJ.” And then I got all mad and said, “Why should he have all the fun? Most of the time he pulled out. Besides, Levi said rubbers made his dick hurt.”
When I was really bored, I’d count the times Cindy McCain blinked. We called McCain, Gramps McCreepy. I can’t believe nobody noticed him staring at Mom’s ass when she was giving a speech. Once, he came into the hotel room when I was watching MTV in my underwear. I’m like, hello?, I’m in my underwear. He tried to pretend he wandered into the wrong room. I said, “Take a picture next time, it lasts longer.” Snap!
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Thoughts on Mubarak
The blizzard came and stayed. There’s so much sub-zero snow outside that the rottweiler really doesn’t know whether to shit or go blind. I’m encouraging her to pee and shit outside. I even put on actual clothes, boots, gloves, black ski mask the rottweiler carried home several years ago, and shoveled an area big enough for her to squat down without exposing her butt and doggy poon to what Lutherans call Schnee. The things we do for love.
When I write “actual clothes”, I mean garments not associated with debauched lounging. I’ve become so comfortable in my daily sloth that I think nothing of engaging in small talk with the occasional guest wearing dirty sweat pants, ill-fitting pullover and what can best be described as very cheap house shoes. To complete my look, I omit shoving into place Dr. Benway’s handmade upper dental partial. Wearing the porcelain prosthetic feels unnatural, like drinking coffee after 7:30 AM with no pick me up. Every now and then a Jehovah’s Witness pays their dues. Imagine if Larry David wrote the scene where Clarice Starling meets Jame Gumm. They usually make a hasty retreat when I insist that they listen to the audio version of Nimoy’s “I Am Not Spock” as a token of my appreciation for the free Watchtower.
When I write “actual clothes”, I mean garments not associated with debauched lounging. I’ve become so comfortable in my daily sloth that I think nothing of engaging in small talk with the occasional guest wearing dirty sweat pants, ill-fitting pullover and what can best be described as very cheap house shoes. To complete my look, I omit shoving into place Dr. Benway’s handmade upper dental partial. Wearing the porcelain prosthetic feels unnatural, like drinking coffee after 7:30 AM with no pick me up. Every now and then a Jehovah’s Witness pays their dues. Imagine if Larry David wrote the scene where Clarice Starling meets Jame Gumm. They usually make a hasty retreat when I insist that they listen to the audio version of Nimoy’s “I Am Not Spock” as a token of my appreciation for the free Watchtower.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Run! It's an old liberal!
Don’t feel like ex-Texas Ranger John Reid if you’ve never heard of Frances Fox Piven. Neither had I. Blessed with a ‘Caldwellian’ IQ so high that I’m virtually unemployable, somehow Frances Fox Piven escaped my ginormous butterfly net. Reluctant to make excuses; let’s just say I wasn’t up to speed on burning sociological issues in 1966. Although a precocious nine year old, I failed to read Professor Piven’s The Weight of the Poor: A Strategy to End Poverty. I was probably too preoccupied trading Beatle bubble gum cards with Mary Alice Turley. (Mary Alice was ape over Paul and I was obsessed with Ringo, correctly deducing that he was the brains behind the operation).
A year later The Monkees replaced The Fab Four’s hold on Mom’s pocketbook. Hopefully this doesn’t sound too boastful, but I was Oakland Park’s only fifth grader to own authentic Monkee Wear. My tight striped pants and extra wide black belt (with equally wide buckle) distracted the usually shy Terri Combs away from the fraction’s dark mysteries. She whispered, “Muck, you’re so mod.”
The next day Billy James, Dale Knottraub and I formed a band. Although neither Billy nor Dale owned authentic Monkee Wear, both wore pointy black Beatle boots. Pointy black Beatle boots were cool but cumbersome if participating in recess activities, like running down girls and kick ball. Always the trend setter, I wore Chuck Taylor All Stars, even if the canvas icons could not be seen because tight, striped, pocket-less and very flared Monkee pants covered my little feet.
Billy was half Gypsy and half Oklahoma Indian. He marched to a different tom-tom. It was Billy’s idea to name our band The Comanches. I was looking to incorporate words like groovy or far out; Dale didn’t care as long as he was the lead singer. Mrs. McCune let us lip-synch I’m a Believer during music class. It was The Comanches' first and last gig. Billy moved on to pellet guns; Dale soon developed an all-consuming passion for rocks. After an afternoon of soul searching, I finally admitted that wearing Monkee pants greatly inhibited physical activities -- such as bike riding and bending over. As for my musical career, my parents made me take Hammond organ lessons from a giantess. I was later granted a pardon when I said the organ sounded like “dead people groaning.”
Had I traded my usual reading/ogling -- Mad Magazine and Dad’s not-so-cleverly stashed Playboy(s) -- for The Nation, maybe Professor Piven’s ungodly leftist assault on America’s economic system might have made a lasting pre-pubescent impression. Glenn Beck, who was two when Piven published her traitorous article, was obviously the wonder of Mt. Vernon, Washington. The future Victoria Jackson of progressive conspiracy theories pegged Professor Pevin as an anathema the same year high school freshman Rush Limbaugh could finally make poo-poo in the stool.
But it is odd that infant shock jock prodigies like Beck always time travel back 40-plus years to warn right-wing extremists of current left-wing extremism. It’s been some time since the Weather Underground planted bombs or the Black Panthers freaked out whitey. The SDS hasn’t overrun campus property since Maude made her sassy television debut. It’s scary to think what dirty deeds Glenn knows (God speaks through his chalk) the Grange have planned. Could be that 1893 will be a living hell for fat cat bankers and railroad men.
A year later The Monkees replaced The Fab Four’s hold on Mom’s pocketbook. Hopefully this doesn’t sound too boastful, but I was Oakland Park’s only fifth grader to own authentic Monkee Wear. My tight striped pants and extra wide black belt (with equally wide buckle) distracted the usually shy Terri Combs away from the fraction’s dark mysteries. She whispered, “Muck, you’re so mod.”
The next day Billy James, Dale Knottraub and I formed a band. Although neither Billy nor Dale owned authentic Monkee Wear, both wore pointy black Beatle boots. Pointy black Beatle boots were cool but cumbersome if participating in recess activities, like running down girls and kick ball. Always the trend setter, I wore Chuck Taylor All Stars, even if the canvas icons could not be seen because tight, striped, pocket-less and very flared Monkee pants covered my little feet.
Billy was half Gypsy and half Oklahoma Indian. He marched to a different tom-tom. It was Billy’s idea to name our band The Comanches. I was looking to incorporate words like groovy or far out; Dale didn’t care as long as he was the lead singer. Mrs. McCune let us lip-synch I’m a Believer during music class. It was The Comanches' first and last gig. Billy moved on to pellet guns; Dale soon developed an all-consuming passion for rocks. After an afternoon of soul searching, I finally admitted that wearing Monkee pants greatly inhibited physical activities -- such as bike riding and bending over. As for my musical career, my parents made me take Hammond organ lessons from a giantess. I was later granted a pardon when I said the organ sounded like “dead people groaning.”
Had I traded my usual reading/ogling -- Mad Magazine and Dad’s not-so-cleverly stashed Playboy(s) -- for The Nation, maybe Professor Piven’s ungodly leftist assault on America’s economic system might have made a lasting pre-pubescent impression. Glenn Beck, who was two when Piven published her traitorous article, was obviously the wonder of Mt. Vernon, Washington. The future Victoria Jackson of progressive conspiracy theories pegged Professor Pevin as an anathema the same year high school freshman Rush Limbaugh could finally make poo-poo in the stool.
But it is odd that infant shock jock prodigies like Beck always time travel back 40-plus years to warn right-wing extremists of current left-wing extremism. It’s been some time since the Weather Underground planted bombs or the Black Panthers freaked out whitey. The SDS hasn’t overrun campus property since Maude made her sassy television debut. It’s scary to think what dirty deeds Glenn knows (God speaks through his chalk) the Grange have planned. Could be that 1893 will be a living hell for fat cat bankers and railroad men.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
an ongoing conversation II
The Fox News narrative is coming together. It goes like this:
The massacre in Tucson that left six dead and thirteen wounded, including Congresswoman Giffords, is the act of a lone madman. Efforts by liberals to politicize the shooting are grossly unfair. Attempting to cast Jared Lee Loughner as a rightwing extremist is absurd; if anything, Loughner is a lefty. His Face Book page listed the Communist Manifesto as a favorite book, along with Mein Kampf, We the Living and Peter Pan. And he smoked pot. When you combine Marx, Hitler, Rand, Barrie and Tommy Chong you get the typical communist/anti-communist fascist Objectivist druggie, who is quite possibly a pedophile; in other words, a typical liberal Democrat. Loughner’s only redeeming quality is a fondness for semi-automatic handguns with extended round clips; (he must have acquired this positive trait from reading Hitler and Rand). However, had Loughner’s library included Going Rogue or rightwing propaganda published by Regency Press, drawing conclusions from what a madman wrote on his Face Book page is an irresponsible rush to judgment.
The real victims are Sarah Palin, Rush Limbaugh, Glenn Beck and every other rightwing pundit exercising his or her rights to incendiary free speech-for profit. Of course, brief condolences to those the Democrat lunatic murdered.
__________________
This is the reason I stopped satirizing conservatism -- or whatever the fuck Fox is peddling. It’s certainly a constant drum beat of fear and loathing. I’m only half-joking when I write that it would be a seamless transition should Ailes replace Glenn Beck’s Woodrow Wilson/Progressive Fascism conspiracies with Manson’s Helter Skelter. Nuts is nuts. How did the party of Reagan become the party of Limbaugh? At what point did the Republican Party decide to let Clear Channel and Rupert Murdock run the show? There’s no rational explanation why national Republican leaders should fear pissing off a radio shock jock with a well-publicized arrest for prescription drug doctor shopping. What’s Limbaugh going to do if a Republican Congressman refuses to apologize for being truthful about the self-proclaimed Emperor’s nakedness, fire him? The subservient relationship between Limbaugh and supposedly serious lawmakers is a combination of Conrad’s Lord Jim and Kingsly Amis’ Lucky Jim. Thomas Pynchon is the only writer alive who could capture Republican Party politics with the right touch of post-modern absurdity and dense complexity.
The brandy must be refreshed -- and there is always more dirty laundry.
The massacre in Tucson that left six dead and thirteen wounded, including Congresswoman Giffords, is the act of a lone madman. Efforts by liberals to politicize the shooting are grossly unfair. Attempting to cast Jared Lee Loughner as a rightwing extremist is absurd; if anything, Loughner is a lefty. His Face Book page listed the Communist Manifesto as a favorite book, along with Mein Kampf, We the Living and Peter Pan. And he smoked pot. When you combine Marx, Hitler, Rand, Barrie and Tommy Chong you get the typical communist/anti-communist fascist Objectivist druggie, who is quite possibly a pedophile; in other words, a typical liberal Democrat. Loughner’s only redeeming quality is a fondness for semi-automatic handguns with extended round clips; (he must have acquired this positive trait from reading Hitler and Rand). However, had Loughner’s library included Going Rogue or rightwing propaganda published by Regency Press, drawing conclusions from what a madman wrote on his Face Book page is an irresponsible rush to judgment.
The real victims are Sarah Palin, Rush Limbaugh, Glenn Beck and every other rightwing pundit exercising his or her rights to incendiary free speech-for profit. Of course, brief condolences to those the Democrat lunatic murdered.
__________________
This is the reason I stopped satirizing conservatism -- or whatever the fuck Fox is peddling. It’s certainly a constant drum beat of fear and loathing. I’m only half-joking when I write that it would be a seamless transition should Ailes replace Glenn Beck’s Woodrow Wilson/Progressive Fascism conspiracies with Manson’s Helter Skelter. Nuts is nuts. How did the party of Reagan become the party of Limbaugh? At what point did the Republican Party decide to let Clear Channel and Rupert Murdock run the show? There’s no rational explanation why national Republican leaders should fear pissing off a radio shock jock with a well-publicized arrest for prescription drug doctor shopping. What’s Limbaugh going to do if a Republican Congressman refuses to apologize for being truthful about the self-proclaimed Emperor’s nakedness, fire him? The subservient relationship between Limbaugh and supposedly serious lawmakers is a combination of Conrad’s Lord Jim and Kingsly Amis’ Lucky Jim. Thomas Pynchon is the only writer alive who could capture Republican Party politics with the right touch of post-modern absurdity and dense complexity.
The brandy must be refreshed -- and there is always more dirty laundry.
Monday, January 10, 2011
an ongoing conversation
I did something today that I haven’t done in seven months: I listened to Rush Limbaugh.
I stopped tuning-in because of a personal commitment to consciously limit my exposure to mendacious propaganda. I couldn’t do anything about the dark overtones that permeates political discourse, but I could tune-out premeditated malevolence. I’m embarrassed to admit that I wasted so much time wondering what lies the Father Coughlin of modern American conservatism would weave. Even though I knew Limbaugh was too clever to openly espouse his racist contempt against minorities or overtly encourage violence, I kept hoping for an unguarded Lonesome Rhodes moment when his inherent ugliness would be impossible for devoted sycophants to ignore. I forgot that two decades of dehumanizing human beings have anesthetized his brainwashed self-loathing audience.
Because Limbaugh -- and others who have traded decency for lucrative careers in dog whistle politics -- have saturated civilized conversation with divisive contempt disguised as “intellectual honesty” there is no longer a clear line separating acceptable from unacceptable speech. Hiding behind the First Amendment, the purveyors of what Dave Neiwert has labeled “eliminationist rhetoric” cry foul if called out for insinuating an existential enemy known as liberalism seeks America’s destruction. The traditional media gives them a pass, pretending there is a false equivalency between rightwing violence-laded language and what little remains of leftwing mass communication. Conventional Beltway wisdom insists on pretending “both sides do it” whenever an obvious example of unscrupulous venality becomes too toxic for easy dismissal. Bill O’Reilly was never held accountable for his constant slurs against the late Dr. George Tiller. Referring to Dr. Tiller as a “baby killer” for providing women legal abortions, O’Reilly played the victim card after Scott Roeder, a seriously disturbed pro-life fanatic, executed the doctor in his church -- for Christ's sake. After all, O’Reilly didn’t actually pull the trigger. He was simply exercising his rights to free speech by describing Tiller as a mass murderer. Who could argue that Joseph Stalin and Dr. Tiller didn’t share the same monstrous history? Only “pin headed” liberals would take “cheap shots” at O’Reilly for drawing such an obvious conclusion, right?
I listened to Limbaugh today to hear how the godfather of hate radio blamed last Friday morning’s carnage on me, a gun-adverse liberal. Like the rest of his well-financed “intellectually honest” true-blue patriots, Limbaugh is worried the attempted assassination of Congresswoman Giffords is focusing unwanted attention on how he made his fortune. Because he and every other so-called conservative flame thrower share a common lexicon, Limbaugh is nervous public outrage could cause Beltway enablers to abandon the “both sides do it” equivocation. Worse yet, nervous Republican politicians might distance themselves and stop providing legitimacy for his stock-in-trade: vituperative personal attacks. Because Limbaugh has never been anything but a semi-educated shock jock/provocateur, he has always needed the veneer of establishment political power to embellish non-existent credentials. Without elected officials pretending he is Bill Buckley’s intellectual heir, the Wizard of Oz self-constructed persona floats away.
It is a dilemma he shares with Sarah Palin, Glenn Beck, Sean Hannity, ad nauseam. I doubt if they could write a book, much less debate policy issues with any discernable expertise. Remove them from their hermitically-sealed cocoons, and the most widely admired conservative icons would be more adept at remaking the “Road to Bali” than addressing the country’s vexing problems.
I’ll continue this discussion tomorrow. It’s late and I need to finish laundry before Beloved slides home. Writing is a hobby; housework is my vocation.
I stopped tuning-in because of a personal commitment to consciously limit my exposure to mendacious propaganda. I couldn’t do anything about the dark overtones that permeates political discourse, but I could tune-out premeditated malevolence. I’m embarrassed to admit that I wasted so much time wondering what lies the Father Coughlin of modern American conservatism would weave. Even though I knew Limbaugh was too clever to openly espouse his racist contempt against minorities or overtly encourage violence, I kept hoping for an unguarded Lonesome Rhodes moment when his inherent ugliness would be impossible for devoted sycophants to ignore. I forgot that two decades of dehumanizing human beings have anesthetized his brainwashed self-loathing audience.
Because Limbaugh -- and others who have traded decency for lucrative careers in dog whistle politics -- have saturated civilized conversation with divisive contempt disguised as “intellectual honesty” there is no longer a clear line separating acceptable from unacceptable speech. Hiding behind the First Amendment, the purveyors of what Dave Neiwert has labeled “eliminationist rhetoric” cry foul if called out for insinuating an existential enemy known as liberalism seeks America’s destruction. The traditional media gives them a pass, pretending there is a false equivalency between rightwing violence-laded language and what little remains of leftwing mass communication. Conventional Beltway wisdom insists on pretending “both sides do it” whenever an obvious example of unscrupulous venality becomes too toxic for easy dismissal. Bill O’Reilly was never held accountable for his constant slurs against the late Dr. George Tiller. Referring to Dr. Tiller as a “baby killer” for providing women legal abortions, O’Reilly played the victim card after Scott Roeder, a seriously disturbed pro-life fanatic, executed the doctor in his church -- for Christ's sake. After all, O’Reilly didn’t actually pull the trigger. He was simply exercising his rights to free speech by describing Tiller as a mass murderer. Who could argue that Joseph Stalin and Dr. Tiller didn’t share the same monstrous history? Only “pin headed” liberals would take “cheap shots” at O’Reilly for drawing such an obvious conclusion, right?
I listened to Limbaugh today to hear how the godfather of hate radio blamed last Friday morning’s carnage on me, a gun-adverse liberal. Like the rest of his well-financed “intellectually honest” true-blue patriots, Limbaugh is worried the attempted assassination of Congresswoman Giffords is focusing unwanted attention on how he made his fortune. Because he and every other so-called conservative flame thrower share a common lexicon, Limbaugh is nervous public outrage could cause Beltway enablers to abandon the “both sides do it” equivocation. Worse yet, nervous Republican politicians might distance themselves and stop providing legitimacy for his stock-in-trade: vituperative personal attacks. Because Limbaugh has never been anything but a semi-educated shock jock/provocateur, he has always needed the veneer of establishment political power to embellish non-existent credentials. Without elected officials pretending he is Bill Buckley’s intellectual heir, the Wizard of Oz self-constructed persona floats away.
It is a dilemma he shares with Sarah Palin, Glenn Beck, Sean Hannity, ad nauseam. I doubt if they could write a book, much less debate policy issues with any discernable expertise. Remove them from their hermitically-sealed cocoons, and the most widely admired conservative icons would be more adept at remaking the “Road to Bali” than addressing the country’s vexing problems.
I’ll continue this discussion tomorrow. It’s late and I need to finish laundry before Beloved slides home. Writing is a hobby; housework is my vocation.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
pie crust
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.
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 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.
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