Freedom‘s Watch: 8 to 5
Does terror wear yellow or red?
Or perhaps an earthy burnt umber,
the color of dead wedding guests
as they become one with
an uninvited drone’s
debris.
God, a world away,
moves the joystick with deliberate
finger -- just a flick --
and His extension returns home in
time for dinner.
_______________________
The Savage Nation
It could be Intelligent Design
or a game show koan
encased in sheets of plastic wrap;
wound too tight with piss and moan like
driving Betty Davis home.
________________________
One from Everette Maddox, the departed poet of New Orleans.
Of Rust
“It struck me today,
while trying to explain to
a student how he should
go to hell, that all
my languages are rusty.
My French for Graduates,
my old Latin minor, my
Berlitz German -- oh
my Esperanto’s hopeless.
All my Englishes, too,
Old, Middle, Modern,
Pidgin, Basic. In Paris
I asked for a room
dans douche. I can’t get
cliches straight: Does
water flow under the dam
or over the bridge?
How will I ever manage to ask you to come
back to me in a sentence with so many
to’s in it?
My fans must be confused
(me too) because “If gold rust,
what will iron do?” (Chaucer).
Somebody said the best
words, in any order,
were Alone in bed. E.g.
In bed alone. In alone
Bed. Bed alone. But
I think the best words
are In bed with you, and
the best order is
In you with bed. Rust
has its uses: They make
old beds out of it,
like ours you painted
white. I remember too
one winter dawn (this was
before we met), some
friends and I, loaded, drove
the wrong way up a hill.
in the fog, and stopped
to hear a small mystery:
birds, creaking like hinges,
saying, it seemed to me,
just what they meant”.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
The Showerhead
Juan is embarrassed to say that he didn’t know the Lone Star state had broken free (yet again) from the U.S. of A. For someone who likes to believe he keeps up with current events, missing this development exposes serious flaws in his web surfing routine. Chuck Norris is a captious celebrity and obvious frontrunner to replace Sam Houston. After watching the martial artist test the outer limits of overpriced exercise equipment, Juan took a deep drag and thought: This old bearded guy has potential. Jasper the Roofer, Juan’s income tax preparer, is pleased Norris has thrown down the nunchucks for a running Kin Geri at public office -- even if the office doesn’t exist.
_____________________________
Placing a tarry hand under chin stubble, Jasper’s translucent baby blues took on an otherworldly sheen. The last time Juan had witnessed the roofer, free-lance gynecologist and tenured Cato Institute Fellow lapse into a trance was when he prophesized that the IRS would overlook Juan’s attempt to claim nineteen dogs as dependents. They didn’t, but it was nevertheless a gallant Hail Mary.
“Chuck Norris will lead his people out of bondage before starting another war with Mexico. Texas will become a beacon of light for white Christian paramilitary cults and Air Force Academy graduates. Perhaps this last vision is redundant…”
Before he could squeeze another prediction out of Kamadhenu’s teat, a flash of sunlight broke through the hovel’s swirling squalor: the ethereal utter slipped away. Juan had wanted to ask a few questions while Jasper was milking sacred moo juice. Although marginally interested in the changes President Chuck would bring to Texas (would tourism suffer if roaming bands of vigilantes engaged in impromptu street executions?), Juan was curious what Kamadhenu thought about replacing her bald oracle with Turbo Tax. Dipping his index finger into Keystone Light, Jasper concluded that he was running late for his weekly Joplin Globe editorial board meeting. As he drove away, Juan wondered if the newspaper knew his unpaid input was occasionally inspired by an invisible Hindu cow.
______________________________
Michele Malkin has turned her attention away from hectoring sick kids to marketing Objectivism. “Go Galt!”, screams the diminutive loony tune. What better way to protest President Obama’s outrageous ‘tax the wealthy’ scheme than deny liberal loafers the dried fruit of Rand’s literary genius? Imagine the economic fallout should bloggers quit blogging or Heritage Foundation shills stop pandering for face time on Fox News. If the worthless poor think they’re fucked now, just wait until literally tens of little Galts put away their Lego blocks. Labor unions call what Malkin has in mind a strike. Since labor unions and strikes are anathema to the entrepreneurial investor class, there must be another word or phrase Ayn Rand used to describe sleeping in.
Alan Greenspan might know.
Juan
_____________________________
Placing a tarry hand under chin stubble, Jasper’s translucent baby blues took on an otherworldly sheen. The last time Juan had witnessed the roofer, free-lance gynecologist and tenured Cato Institute Fellow lapse into a trance was when he prophesized that the IRS would overlook Juan’s attempt to claim nineteen dogs as dependents. They didn’t, but it was nevertheless a gallant Hail Mary.
“Chuck Norris will lead his people out of bondage before starting another war with Mexico. Texas will become a beacon of light for white Christian paramilitary cults and Air Force Academy graduates. Perhaps this last vision is redundant…”
Before he could squeeze another prediction out of Kamadhenu’s teat, a flash of sunlight broke through the hovel’s swirling squalor: the ethereal utter slipped away. Juan had wanted to ask a few questions while Jasper was milking sacred moo juice. Although marginally interested in the changes President Chuck would bring to Texas (would tourism suffer if roaming bands of vigilantes engaged in impromptu street executions?), Juan was curious what Kamadhenu thought about replacing her bald oracle with Turbo Tax. Dipping his index finger into Keystone Light, Jasper concluded that he was running late for his weekly Joplin Globe editorial board meeting. As he drove away, Juan wondered if the newspaper knew his unpaid input was occasionally inspired by an invisible Hindu cow.
______________________________
Michele Malkin has turned her attention away from hectoring sick kids to marketing Objectivism. “Go Galt!”, screams the diminutive loony tune. What better way to protest President Obama’s outrageous ‘tax the wealthy’ scheme than deny liberal loafers the dried fruit of Rand’s literary genius? Imagine the economic fallout should bloggers quit blogging or Heritage Foundation shills stop pandering for face time on Fox News. If the worthless poor think they’re fucked now, just wait until literally tens of little Galts put away their Lego blocks. Labor unions call what Malkin has in mind a strike. Since labor unions and strikes are anathema to the entrepreneurial investor class, there must be another word or phrase Ayn Rand used to describe sleeping in.
Alan Greenspan might know.
Juan
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Diaper in Blue Velvet
The good news is that Juan’s anti-aging skin cream appears to be working. He applied the greasy lotion liberally to problem areas, studiously avoiding eye contact with reflective surfaces as directed. He’s traded in his relaxed-fit Wranglers for the tighter boot-cut variety and plans to purchase a sweeping Sam Elliot moustache. Locomotion is restrictive but bowling alley Jezebels will appreciate the view, especially when hip gyrations help hop his sixteen pounder toward the all important sweet spot.
__________________
Warren Buffett, the Mutual of Omaha, doesn’t know what a derivative is. This makes Juan feel better about the prospects for economic recovery. Long ago he concluded that Larry Kudlow and his dance partner, Jim Cramer, are full of shit. He’d like to think that Erin Burnett’s financial reporting is shit-free, but there’s something about her shade of lipstick that makes him jumpy. Perhap Fox is providing savvier stock tips. Suffice it to say, following CNBC’s advice has led Juan to experiment with Strong Heart as an entrée alternative. Drinking cheap gin before digging in seems to retard the canned horse meat’s pre-gulp appeal. Dry dog food topped with evaporated milk was a non-starter.
Glenn Beck, the Moloch of Meatball, doesn’t know the difference between genetics and eugenics. Glenn’s outrage over rescinding the ban on stem cell research was like listening to Elizabeth Hasselbeck wax fruity on the morally superior way to dip baby poop. Madame Rosa is right: Giving dumb white people access to the airwaves never ends well.
Juan’s local talk radio station is hosting Beck’s “We Surround Them”… event (?). Speculation abounds as to what stunt Beck has planned. One of the Daily Kos diarists thinks the nut will stage his “arrest”; high drama, indeed. A more realistic skit would have Glenn’s family file onto the set and plead for his immediate return to rehab. Juan is mulling over attending the… event (?). But what does the typical paranoid crank wear? It’s doubtful the Beckites would dig Juan gliding through in pretty sun dress, his patchy mop adorned with tinfoil tierra. (The pretty sun dress is accentuated with cowboy boots or flip-flops, depending on the day’s horoscope; weather conditions can also play a determining factor, even if his horoscope predicts Scorpio rising bodes well for exposed toes wooing a little strange). Juan will probably opt for his all-purpose ensemble -- the one he wears to funerals, weddings and his yearly appearance at SATOP reunions. Who knew his blue “High on Life and Glue” tee shirt would become akin to Mrs. Juan’s “little black dress”? High Fashion Tip: The tee shirt goes best with Ryan Seacrest Capri pants. They’re available at inthecloset.com
Sean Hannity has found his soul mate in Victoria Jackson. They do make a cute couple. David Lynch, Juan’s old Bocci ball partner, ‘Twittered’ the semi-reclusive, part-time Tuli Kupferberg impersonator expressing interest in collaborating on scenarios that exploit the duo’s on-camera chemistry. Because of lawyers, Juan can’t share the details but here’s his two cents: Place a Bunsen burner and matches between them, and then shout, “Action!”
Swear to Gosh, Juan’s 3/11/09 horoscope:
“Your routine has gotten beyond boring right now, and today you are going to be in desperate need of some high energy or some high drama to keep you interested. So, head right now for your nuttiest and wackiest friend today. Find out what they’ve got going on -- and if you can get in on the action! Get out and get cooking on something new“.
______________________________________
Looks like its cowboy boots! Duck!
__________________
Warren Buffett, the Mutual of Omaha, doesn’t know what a derivative is. This makes Juan feel better about the prospects for economic recovery. Long ago he concluded that Larry Kudlow and his dance partner, Jim Cramer, are full of shit. He’d like to think that Erin Burnett’s financial reporting is shit-free, but there’s something about her shade of lipstick that makes him jumpy. Perhap Fox is providing savvier stock tips. Suffice it to say, following CNBC’s advice has led Juan to experiment with Strong Heart as an entrée alternative. Drinking cheap gin before digging in seems to retard the canned horse meat’s pre-gulp appeal. Dry dog food topped with evaporated milk was a non-starter.
Glenn Beck, the Moloch of Meatball, doesn’t know the difference between genetics and eugenics. Glenn’s outrage over rescinding the ban on stem cell research was like listening to Elizabeth Hasselbeck wax fruity on the morally superior way to dip baby poop. Madame Rosa is right: Giving dumb white people access to the airwaves never ends well.
Juan’s local talk radio station is hosting Beck’s “We Surround Them”… event (?). Speculation abounds as to what stunt Beck has planned. One of the Daily Kos diarists thinks the nut will stage his “arrest”; high drama, indeed. A more realistic skit would have Glenn’s family file onto the set and plead for his immediate return to rehab. Juan is mulling over attending the… event (?). But what does the typical paranoid crank wear? It’s doubtful the Beckites would dig Juan gliding through in pretty sun dress, his patchy mop adorned with tinfoil tierra. (The pretty sun dress is accentuated with cowboy boots or flip-flops, depending on the day’s horoscope; weather conditions can also play a determining factor, even if his horoscope predicts Scorpio rising bodes well for exposed toes wooing a little strange). Juan will probably opt for his all-purpose ensemble -- the one he wears to funerals, weddings and his yearly appearance at SATOP reunions. Who knew his blue “High on Life and Glue” tee shirt would become akin to Mrs. Juan’s “little black dress”? High Fashion Tip: The tee shirt goes best with Ryan Seacrest Capri pants. They’re available at inthecloset.com
Sean Hannity has found his soul mate in Victoria Jackson. They do make a cute couple. David Lynch, Juan’s old Bocci ball partner, ‘Twittered’ the semi-reclusive, part-time Tuli Kupferberg impersonator expressing interest in collaborating on scenarios that exploit the duo’s on-camera chemistry. Because of lawyers, Juan can’t share the details but here’s his two cents: Place a Bunsen burner and matches between them, and then shout, “Action!”
Swear to Gosh, Juan’s 3/11/09 horoscope:
“Your routine has gotten beyond boring right now, and today you are going to be in desperate need of some high energy or some high drama to keep you interested. So, head right now for your nuttiest and wackiest friend today. Find out what they’ve got going on -- and if you can get in on the action! Get out and get cooking on something new“.
______________________________________
Looks like its cowboy boots! Duck!
Monday, March 2, 2009
Rush Twitter
I’m hopeful conservatives staging tea parties captured the moment on camera. The vision of pissed off patriots tea bagging in protest over Obama’s dastardly stimulus plan dips awful damn close to briny genius. What could demonstrate symbolic objection more sincerely than slurping a spicy ‘tea’ ball or two? Ah, Snerdly has informed me that adult ‘tea parties’ and ‘tea bagging’ are not necessarily synonymous. Hmm, this explains Joe the Plumber’s disinterest -- and my strained relations with the neighbor lady. Its doubtful Hallmark has a card that could pacify this specific social faux pas with warm, fuzzy verse.
________________________________________________________________________
Dear Tammy,
Terribly sorry about the ‘incident’. Had you invited me over for coffee, then the likelihood that I’d have dropped ‘trou’ in your kitchen is fifty-fifty. But when you said, “Come over for a little tea party“, I obviously misinterpreted your intent. Without going into detail, I thought you had something entirely different in mind. Needless to say, the frantic brouhaha that erupted was not what I expected.
Here’s the funny thing: I thought you were the nut!
Please except my apology for any emotional duress and damage to your sliding glass door.
And thank you for not calling the police. My relationship with Palm Beach’s finest is tenuous enough without an indecent exposure charge added to their lengthy shit list.
Let’s do lunch sometime…on me.
Rush
________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________
Dear Tammy,
Terribly sorry about the ‘incident’. Had you invited me over for coffee, then the likelihood that I’d have dropped ‘trou’ in your kitchen is fifty-fifty. But when you said, “Come over for a little tea party“, I obviously misinterpreted your intent. Without going into detail, I thought you had something entirely different in mind. Needless to say, the frantic brouhaha that erupted was not what I expected.
Here’s the funny thing: I thought you were the nut!
Please except my apology for any emotional duress and damage to your sliding glass door.
And thank you for not calling the police. My relationship with Palm Beach’s finest is tenuous enough without an indecent exposure charge added to their lengthy shit list.
Let’s do lunch sometime…on me.
Rush
________________________________________________________________________
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Barn Burners
Juan offers crisp pipe-tip to Satirical Review for succinctly describing this past week’s GOP kook-fest as “One Flew over the CPAC Nest”.
If crazy could be turned into clean fuel, CPAC could solve the planet’s energy crisis before their Jesus returns to even the score with high-octane barrels of whoop ass. As a sign that CPAC is expanding its base, registered sex offenders convicted of molesting non-Caucasian kids can now participate in Tom Delay’s popular racial profiling seminar, where attendees learn how to quickly detect tanned Republicans from mud people. (Evidently, John Boehner was roughed up last year). Aware that the Obama Depression has nicked the pockets of insurrection-loving conservatives, Delay graciously accepted ammunition in lieu of cash, prompting a run on on his patented “Barney Frank-Off” bug spray. Delay could not accept plastic explosives as payment because of a particular ATF regulation that prohibits unstable paranoids from transporting packets of C-4 via black trench coat. Where will it end? Juan has buried his bazooka. Chow Acre will suffer famine should Obamacons take away his best chance for procuring poached deer -- and other unidentifiable chucks of charred meat.
There were touchy moments. Heidi Grossentuber was disappointed Delay dodged her notion that Desi Arnaz Cubans pose the same threat to white civilization as Bill Cosby Negroes. Resplendent in camouflage jumper and flattering .50 caliber bullet earrings, she questioned his commitment to ethnic cleansing. While buffing her daughter’s shaved head with car wax, Heidi expressed confidence that Ann Coulter’s clinic would be less open-minded.
Newt Gingrich, mentally refreshed after bouncing recycled curiosa off used bricks, wowed the crowd, as did 13 year old Jonathan Krohn. Gerhardt Felchersen was so taken with young Krohn’s piddle several Concerned Women took turns guarding the john should the prodigious lad’s bladder swell. Showcasing just how in tune conservatives are with Hip-Hop culture, Rep. Michele Bachmann and Alan Keyes reprised Amos and Andy radio skits to good natured jeers. (John Bolton’s “nuking Chicago” punch line was such a hit, Koch Industries presented the imaginative diplomat with pliers made from radioactive dross).
The highlight of the event occurred when a fat, sweaty man, dressed in an ill-fitting black Orson Welles ensemble, accepted the rabble’s prestigious Knute E. Fucher Award. Felchersen, who waited in line five hours to press his lips against the honoree‘s displaced brain pan, said he’d never brush his tongue again.
Sunday reading: Check out The Big Picture’s “Santelli’s Planted Rant?” Spontaneous “populism” my draft-dodging butt.
Juan
If crazy could be turned into clean fuel, CPAC could solve the planet’s energy crisis before their Jesus returns to even the score with high-octane barrels of whoop ass. As a sign that CPAC is expanding its base, registered sex offenders convicted of molesting non-Caucasian kids can now participate in Tom Delay’s popular racial profiling seminar, where attendees learn how to quickly detect tanned Republicans from mud people. (Evidently, John Boehner was roughed up last year). Aware that the Obama Depression has nicked the pockets of insurrection-loving conservatives, Delay graciously accepted ammunition in lieu of cash, prompting a run on on his patented “Barney Frank-Off” bug spray. Delay could not accept plastic explosives as payment because of a particular ATF regulation that prohibits unstable paranoids from transporting packets of C-4 via black trench coat. Where will it end? Juan has buried his bazooka. Chow Acre will suffer famine should Obamacons take away his best chance for procuring poached deer -- and other unidentifiable chucks of charred meat.
There were touchy moments. Heidi Grossentuber was disappointed Delay dodged her notion that Desi Arnaz Cubans pose the same threat to white civilization as Bill Cosby Negroes. Resplendent in camouflage jumper and flattering .50 caliber bullet earrings, she questioned his commitment to ethnic cleansing. While buffing her daughter’s shaved head with car wax, Heidi expressed confidence that Ann Coulter’s clinic would be less open-minded.
Newt Gingrich, mentally refreshed after bouncing recycled curiosa off used bricks, wowed the crowd, as did 13 year old Jonathan Krohn. Gerhardt Felchersen was so taken with young Krohn’s piddle several Concerned Women took turns guarding the john should the prodigious lad’s bladder swell. Showcasing just how in tune conservatives are with Hip-Hop culture, Rep. Michele Bachmann and Alan Keyes reprised Amos and Andy radio skits to good natured jeers. (John Bolton’s “nuking Chicago” punch line was such a hit, Koch Industries presented the imaginative diplomat with pliers made from radioactive dross).
The highlight of the event occurred when a fat, sweaty man, dressed in an ill-fitting black Orson Welles ensemble, accepted the rabble’s prestigious Knute E. Fucher Award. Felchersen, who waited in line five hours to press his lips against the honoree‘s displaced brain pan, said he’d never brush his tongue again.
Sunday reading: Check out The Big Picture’s “Santelli’s Planted Rant?” Spontaneous “populism” my draft-dodging butt.
Juan
Thursday, February 26, 2009
President Obama is a tough act to follow. Just ask Maverick (the old one in loafers). Had Jindal gushed forth draped in a bath towel and played “Blue Bayou” with kazoo and knee cymbals, the MSM would still have panned his performance. But delivery and style is secondary to true conservatives. They feast on substance. Ignoring comparisons to Kenneth the Page, Limbaugh hailed Mr. Bobby’s five minute SNL audition a successful swinging bunt. Brilliantly shooting down the president’s tax and spend harangue with soothing sing-song, Louisiana’s exorcist-in-chief reminded Republicans why their party enjoys soaring success with high school dropouts and populist-leaning stock brokers.
Bravo, Bobby Jindal. Let all talk of Palin-Plumber 2012 slink back to the moose blind.
Reagan’s heir has a new face, even if it makes Duke and Dixie Snopes edgy.
**********
Juan met Chief Running Tab, his favorite redskin, at the Fresh Scalp Casino for a long afternoon of poker losses and firewater. Curious about Michelle Malkin’s claim that the swastika is an ancient Native American symbol, I asked the Ansel Adams of cheese cake photography if he was aware of such a thing.
Sure. Haven’t you been to the tribe’s annual Schnitzel Tanz?
No.
Yeah, we goose-step around burning books, pining over how Jewish bankers stabbed us in the back, and then stole our buffalo. Mark my words, amigo, one day we’ll get the Sudetenland back.
Juan must apologize to Hot Air and Colorado’s white patriots for doubting their historical acumen. He will have to reevaluate his long held belief that Custer’s megalomania made Crazy Horse’s day.
***********
Local College Republicans were stunned to learn that 95% of Americans engage in pre-marital sex. Les Noodle expressed doubt that polling was conducted in areas where tongue kissing is considered sodomy.
It’s just another liberal ploy to reverse federal funding for abstinence-only sex education, said Noodle. Socialists spread the lie that teenagers have sex, and they don’t. Well, maybe some do, but their parents take drugs and believe in global warming. We’re taught that certain body parts are shameful until God blesses them through holy matrimony. Knowing untainted couples have no idea what to expect on their wedding night pleases the Lord. As part of our pledged commitment to purity, we encourage Young Republicans to shower and relieve themselves as quickly as possible. In fact, its best if they perform these chores with their eyes shut. Our chapter’s vice president, Missy Fingers, has never looked directly at her special place. She’s an inspiration.
Juan
Bravo, Bobby Jindal. Let all talk of Palin-Plumber 2012 slink back to the moose blind.
Reagan’s heir has a new face, even if it makes Duke and Dixie Snopes edgy.
**********
Juan met Chief Running Tab, his favorite redskin, at the Fresh Scalp Casino for a long afternoon of poker losses and firewater. Curious about Michelle Malkin’s claim that the swastika is an ancient Native American symbol, I asked the Ansel Adams of cheese cake photography if he was aware of such a thing.
Sure. Haven’t you been to the tribe’s annual Schnitzel Tanz?
No.
Yeah, we goose-step around burning books, pining over how Jewish bankers stabbed us in the back, and then stole our buffalo. Mark my words, amigo, one day we’ll get the Sudetenland back.
Juan must apologize to Hot Air and Colorado’s white patriots for doubting their historical acumen. He will have to reevaluate his long held belief that Custer’s megalomania made Crazy Horse’s day.
***********
Local College Republicans were stunned to learn that 95% of Americans engage in pre-marital sex. Les Noodle expressed doubt that polling was conducted in areas where tongue kissing is considered sodomy.
It’s just another liberal ploy to reverse federal funding for abstinence-only sex education, said Noodle. Socialists spread the lie that teenagers have sex, and they don’t. Well, maybe some do, but their parents take drugs and believe in global warming. We’re taught that certain body parts are shameful until God blesses them through holy matrimony. Knowing untainted couples have no idea what to expect on their wedding night pleases the Lord. As part of our pledged commitment to purity, we encourage Young Republicans to shower and relieve themselves as quickly as possible. In fact, its best if they perform these chores with their eyes shut. Our chapter’s vice president, Missy Fingers, has never looked directly at her special place. She’s an inspiration.
Juan
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Pre Wal-Mart Musing
Congratulations to Sean Penn. “Milk” is the only Oscar nominated film Juan saw this season; it was well worth the $47.50. Perhaps one day a pilgrim will present the hovel’s shrine to Eva Marie Saint with a copy of “Slumdog Millionaire”… rather than scratch-off lottery tickets. Juan must do some research before viewing “The Reader”. Depending on how much of Kate Winslet’s glorious flesh is exposed, the flick may replace “Inside Seka” as his favorite Christmas morning movie.
***************
Adler and I have made a very small bet. He predicts Glenn Beck will eat a live mammal on air before Memorial Day. I’m holding out for the 65th anniversary of D-Day. Mammal in this case is akin to an Econ 101 widget; there’s enormous leeway as to genus. The only condition is that the creature must be alive before the idiot takes a bite.
Should Santa Elizabeth smile upon our wager, Glenn will select a 200 pound chimpanzee as his entrée. Ideally, the chimp will be pumped full of Xanex thirty minutes before serving and properly tenderized with gun butts. After eleven minutes of babble about the evils associated with mental health, the furry primate could then be flung into Glenn’s lap: Bon appetite, Mr. Muggs.
****************
The only difference between AIG and a bottomless is pit is that a bottomless pit may serve some useful purpose.
****************
Gov. Mark Sanford (R-SC) has offered one economically distressed constituent his thoughts and prayers in lieu of “porkulous” bacon. Principled beyond the pale, Sanford’s concern is a touching reminder that Republicans are nothing if not fiscal conservatives. Juan suspects beneath unfettered free market orthodoxy lies the ghost of Mary Baker Eddy. The GOP (always handy with clever slogans) could easily substitute supply-side economics with Christian Science economics. The change is likely to cause temporary confusion among true conservatives: Global warming deniers know God is to science what Limbaugh is to black hurricane victims. But re-branding Ayn Rand’s tarnished reputation is crucial for the Ponzi scheme’s survival.
Christian Science economics could even promise to deliver nationalized health care dead on arrival. Herding the impoverished sick into reading rooms is cheaper than providing proper medical care. Senator Jim Bunning (R-KY) -- who has added seer to his short list of accomplishment -- might occasionally wander through and toe-tag patients with an imminent rendezvous with Jesus -- assuming that Jim’s extra-sensory gift enables him to spot the saved with reserved seating from the unlucky Jew on stand-by.
****************
AP Headlines: Burris Should Resign Says Sex-Scandal Senator; Adrianna Discusses Nipple Erections with Gordon Liddy; Michael Steele Urges GOP Lawmakers to Wear Underwear over Pants.
Juan
.
***************
Adler and I have made a very small bet. He predicts Glenn Beck will eat a live mammal on air before Memorial Day. I’m holding out for the 65th anniversary of D-Day. Mammal in this case is akin to an Econ 101 widget; there’s enormous leeway as to genus. The only condition is that the creature must be alive before the idiot takes a bite.
Should Santa Elizabeth smile upon our wager, Glenn will select a 200 pound chimpanzee as his entrée. Ideally, the chimp will be pumped full of Xanex thirty minutes before serving and properly tenderized with gun butts. After eleven minutes of babble about the evils associated with mental health, the furry primate could then be flung into Glenn’s lap: Bon appetite, Mr. Muggs.
****************
The only difference between AIG and a bottomless is pit is that a bottomless pit may serve some useful purpose.
****************
Gov. Mark Sanford (R-SC) has offered one economically distressed constituent his thoughts and prayers in lieu of “porkulous” bacon. Principled beyond the pale, Sanford’s concern is a touching reminder that Republicans are nothing if not fiscal conservatives. Juan suspects beneath unfettered free market orthodoxy lies the ghost of Mary Baker Eddy. The GOP (always handy with clever slogans) could easily substitute supply-side economics with Christian Science economics. The change is likely to cause temporary confusion among true conservatives: Global warming deniers know God is to science what Limbaugh is to black hurricane victims. But re-branding Ayn Rand’s tarnished reputation is crucial for the Ponzi scheme’s survival.
Christian Science economics could even promise to deliver nationalized health care dead on arrival. Herding the impoverished sick into reading rooms is cheaper than providing proper medical care. Senator Jim Bunning (R-KY) -- who has added seer to his short list of accomplishment -- might occasionally wander through and toe-tag patients with an imminent rendezvous with Jesus -- assuming that Jim’s extra-sensory gift enables him to spot the saved with reserved seating from the unlucky Jew on stand-by.
****************
AP Headlines: Burris Should Resign Says Sex-Scandal Senator; Adrianna Discusses Nipple Erections with Gordon Liddy; Michael Steele Urges GOP Lawmakers to Wear Underwear over Pants.
Juan
.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Wednesday's Child
To further drive home the point that our economy is well and truly fucked, W. is having trouble raising dough for his library. Donation checks for the proposed $500,000,000 dollar joke are in the proverbial mail. Enlisting Pere Bush to hit up his terrorist pals for petrol dollars portends that the turd has finally lost its bloom. It must be embarrassing for Decider to ask Daddy -- yet again-- for help. Educated speculation surmises that oil sheiks and war profiteers are facing financial uncertainty after padding Wall Street hedge funds with supply-side funny money. The once flush Carlisle Group has disbanded in disarray, and there’s no Savings & Loan loot for Brother Neal to steal. Had Operation Petticoat been more careful with wrapped pallets of fresh C-notes, the joke could have easily been constructed with “cost overruns” gleaned from Halliburton’s daily dry cleaning bill.
**********
Rep. Eric Cantor (R-VA) wants to be the GOP’s replacement Newt Gingrich. It takes big balls to think he could reprise Newt’s brief but puerile tenure. Not every grifter is blessed with the fat fruitcake’s loquacious bullshit; browbeating your cancer-stricken wife into signing divorce papers takes serious sand. To train for the role, Cantor should run over neighborhood dogs; maybe give children candy laced with X-Lax. Perhaps he could hitch a ride to Santo Domingo on Hophead One, lap up some salty sex tourist action, then return to champion legislation against internet porn. But Juan doesn’t think Cantor has the chops to channel Newt’s Lonesome Rhodes persona: He needs to aim his pop gun a little lower.
**********
George Will’s latest snark against global warming realists has unleashed broiling blowback. Caught using long debunked “evidence” to “prove” the Earth is flat, Will has yet to come clean. In fairness, Will has never mastered deductive reasoning. Like his fellow Reagan Vestals, the bow-tied devotee prefers myth over science. If Juan owned ABC, Will’s weekly Sunday screed would be performed in flowing toga. (Cokie Roberts’ contract would stipulate wearing an Easter Bunny mask).
***********
An enlightened state: Arkansas reaffirms the statute that bars “non-believers” from holding state office. However, believers can carry their firearms to church. I suppose there is occasional confusion at weddings where shotguns are prominently displayed.
***********
Media consensus is that Sen. Roland Burris’ days as a member of the world’s most dysfunctional Elks Lodge are numbered. Juan hopes that Ro hasn’t redecorated his mausoleum with signage that trumpets his latest political achievement.
***********
Willie Nelson recently celebrated his 75th birthday. To commemorate the occasional, Willie said: “I have outlived my pecker”.
Juan
**********
Rep. Eric Cantor (R-VA) wants to be the GOP’s replacement Newt Gingrich. It takes big balls to think he could reprise Newt’s brief but puerile tenure. Not every grifter is blessed with the fat fruitcake’s loquacious bullshit; browbeating your cancer-stricken wife into signing divorce papers takes serious sand. To train for the role, Cantor should run over neighborhood dogs; maybe give children candy laced with X-Lax. Perhaps he could hitch a ride to Santo Domingo on Hophead One, lap up some salty sex tourist action, then return to champion legislation against internet porn. But Juan doesn’t think Cantor has the chops to channel Newt’s Lonesome Rhodes persona: He needs to aim his pop gun a little lower.
**********
George Will’s latest snark against global warming realists has unleashed broiling blowback. Caught using long debunked “evidence” to “prove” the Earth is flat, Will has yet to come clean. In fairness, Will has never mastered deductive reasoning. Like his fellow Reagan Vestals, the bow-tied devotee prefers myth over science. If Juan owned ABC, Will’s weekly Sunday screed would be performed in flowing toga. (Cokie Roberts’ contract would stipulate wearing an Easter Bunny mask).
***********
An enlightened state: Arkansas reaffirms the statute that bars “non-believers” from holding state office. However, believers can carry their firearms to church. I suppose there is occasional confusion at weddings where shotguns are prominently displayed.
***********
Media consensus is that Sen. Roland Burris’ days as a member of the world’s most dysfunctional Elks Lodge are numbered. Juan hopes that Ro hasn’t redecorated his mausoleum with signage that trumpets his latest political achievement.
***********
Willie Nelson recently celebrated his 75th birthday. To commemorate the occasional, Willie said: “I have outlived my pecker”.
Juan
Saturday, February 14, 2009
B Flat
Ten days have passed since we last communed. Juan has been growing a salty facial affectation and experimenting with bearded kook-against-bad clam as novel literary devise. Alas, his quaggy Moby Dick is dulled from quixotic thrusts. Juan often feels like Monty Clift playing Freud, simultaneously attracted and repulsed by Susannah York’s hysterical vagina. Fresh supplies of Blend Number One (bless you, Medium Mike) hasn’t yet propelled the potty scribe to venture far from the hovel’s pituite environ or don the heavy plastic attire required for delicate litter box ‘deturding‘.
No pity, please. Save that tender grace for the gal with 14 kids. Red Wing is furnishing Ms. Suleman with free footwear to rear her brood; corporate America is not completely heartless.
There was a baggy lady, nesting in a boot
She ran out of sperm…
But not Food Stamp loot.
Her chicks are all quite frisky, swinging to and fro
Fully incubated…
High on Public Dole.
Bill O’Reilly can’t decide if he should shower-bone Ms. Suleman before or after beating her unconscious with Neil Cavuto’s head. Perhaps Bernie Goldberg can help Father Christmas decide on the proper, morally peculiar sequence. It’s comforting to know Murdock’s mouthy meat puppet is looking out for Juan. Not entirely convinced Cher is a pinhead, Juan is waiting for further proof of treasonous diva-speak. There’s no doubt, however, of Betty Rubble’s Marxist inclinations.
Juan consumes jarred samplings of spongy psilocybin before catching Glenn Beck‘s televised psychosis-cum-tent revival. The eyeball close-up was inspirational: Mormon clowns began dancing around after peering into his tiny car’s fly-specked window. Who knew Beck had the wet spark to combine Giacomo Balla and Emmett Kelly into an ongoing homage to impalpable spoof? The appearance of Cryin’ John Boehner will render the set awash in tears should Glenn and the tanned Cincinnati Kid delve too deeply into Buckley’s old toy box and discover a black baby Jesus. Babs Walters must be turning green with envy.
Blackwater, Inc. changed its name to Murder, Inc. in hopes of improving a reputation tarnished by wonton slaughter. Meyer Lansky’s relatives quickly filed an injunction, claiming copyright infringement. Unfortunately for the Lansky family, John Negroponte traded Vito Genovese a slice of the lucrative Bolivian sex slave industry for the rights during the Reagan Revolution. Negroponte’s son, Belial, claims to have evidence of his father’s DNA on a bloody Accademia di Vino cocktail napkin.
“It’s complicated”, said Gino “The Prick” Colombo. “We’re gonna have a sit down and work this thing out. If we can keep the Amway boys out of it, maybe everybody can stay off the mattress”.
The Prick’s sentiments were shared by Abby Fister-Gein, Blackwater’s Director of Human Resources. “Of course we're disappointed that the company’s decision to re-brand created such an outcry in the underworld community. Although Murder, Inc. was a good fit for our corporate culture, Bastardevil is available and meets our marketing criteria”.
Omega: Saying “porkulus” more than five times can lead to permanent mental retardation.
Juan
No pity, please. Save that tender grace for the gal with 14 kids. Red Wing is furnishing Ms. Suleman with free footwear to rear her brood; corporate America is not completely heartless.
There was a baggy lady, nesting in a boot
She ran out of sperm…
But not Food Stamp loot.
Her chicks are all quite frisky, swinging to and fro
Fully incubated…
High on Public Dole.
Bill O’Reilly can’t decide if he should shower-bone Ms. Suleman before or after beating her unconscious with Neil Cavuto’s head. Perhaps Bernie Goldberg can help Father Christmas decide on the proper, morally peculiar sequence. It’s comforting to know Murdock’s mouthy meat puppet is looking out for Juan. Not entirely convinced Cher is a pinhead, Juan is waiting for further proof of treasonous diva-speak. There’s no doubt, however, of Betty Rubble’s Marxist inclinations.
Juan consumes jarred samplings of spongy psilocybin before catching Glenn Beck‘s televised psychosis-cum-tent revival. The eyeball close-up was inspirational: Mormon clowns began dancing around after peering into his tiny car’s fly-specked window. Who knew Beck had the wet spark to combine Giacomo Balla and Emmett Kelly into an ongoing homage to impalpable spoof? The appearance of Cryin’ John Boehner will render the set awash in tears should Glenn and the tanned Cincinnati Kid delve too deeply into Buckley’s old toy box and discover a black baby Jesus. Babs Walters must be turning green with envy.
Blackwater, Inc. changed its name to Murder, Inc. in hopes of improving a reputation tarnished by wonton slaughter. Meyer Lansky’s relatives quickly filed an injunction, claiming copyright infringement. Unfortunately for the Lansky family, John Negroponte traded Vito Genovese a slice of the lucrative Bolivian sex slave industry for the rights during the Reagan Revolution. Negroponte’s son, Belial, claims to have evidence of his father’s DNA on a bloody Accademia di Vino cocktail napkin.
“It’s complicated”, said Gino “The Prick” Colombo. “We’re gonna have a sit down and work this thing out. If we can keep the Amway boys out of it, maybe everybody can stay off the mattress”.
The Prick’s sentiments were shared by Abby Fister-Gein, Blackwater’s Director of Human Resources. “Of course we're disappointed that the company’s decision to re-brand created such an outcry in the underworld community. Although Murder, Inc. was a good fit for our corporate culture, Bastardevil is available and meets our marketing criteria”.
Omega: Saying “porkulus” more than five times can lead to permanent mental retardation.
Juan
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
A Tubular Take
Juan‘s punch is pleased. Dr. Malan and your host go back many lunas. Doc’s Dodge Ram and medical kit were indispensable when paying my dues on the incantatory Yaqui stand-up circuit. The Doctor, known throughout southern Mexico as El Luz Callon, is quite lucky with firm senoritas and arty hat dances requiring fireworks. I still burst into girly squeals over the ‘ice pick incident‘. Please excuse me while I gasp for air. Ah, in pain but off the plywood. I’ll save stories about our lengthy incarceration inside Yucatan’s Pero que Dices prison for Valentine’s Day.
************
The Republicans have recalled Joe the Plumber from Gaza. This can only mean they’re getting serious about countering President Obama’s reckless job creation plan. Sammy Joe must strike a nerve with cage fight fans who prefer their lobotomized Will Rogers served with raw alopecia. Col. Larry “Pickles” Pepper, Sammy Joe’s agent, called me last week wanting to know if I was interested in ghost writing his meal ticket’s autobiography, tentatively titled “Joe Two Good Four Ewe: WTF?”
“NO!” said Juan.
“Come on, Juan. Doesn’t baby need new shoes”?
“I’m busy”.
“Since when?”
“Since Juan read Rick Warren’s book. Jesus wants me to live large. I’m working full-time, five hours a week. I’m allowed to slap the Old Lady around so long as there’s no tell-tale serious bruising. Juan’s blessed”.
And that was that; the connection went muerto. Add Pickles receiving lap dance-while-driving to the growing list of dangers associated with bumpy distractions when getting soaked in Verizon‘s wireless tub.
*************
Wonderful news: Work continues on the border fence. Real Americans will soon recapture jobs lost to shifty Mexicans. Juan can’t decide between a career in motel housekeeping or tackling the challenging opportunities available in areas that require college degrees, like live poultry evisceration. I’ll have to pray for guidance when making that decision. Unfortunately, Pastor Rick said shaking the Magic 8 Ball is not a sanctioned prop when beseeching divine instruction. However, draped in an official Saddleback prayer hoodie gives the petitioner an edge over those who worry Rosary beads. On a lighter note, Pastor Rick asked if Juan would please stop referring to tail gate parties as further processed animal sacrifices.
*************
Madame Rosa is convinced Tom Daschle’s red eyeglasses sank his confirmation schooner. I agree. Since when have rich lobbyists paid their fair share? Tom would be shunned, barred from the capital’s finer restaurants, if he treated his taxable income like an average middle-class schmuck. Another Tom is livid.
“Liberals are pussies!” shouted Tom Delay, Sugarland’s colorful bug exterminator. When asked to elaborate, the former “Hammer” made obscene gestures with a rubber hose. The small crowd that gathered around his van offered encouragement, egging him on to perform more revolting acts with his spray tank’s long appendage. Visibly exhausted after fifteen minutes of manic debauchery, poisonous tubing his profligate prop, Delay finally collapsed to scattered applause. Kathy Lopez viewed this as proof he’s planning a political comeback.
**************
Juan is saddened that Olympic hero, Michael Phelps, has tasted bong water. Our culture has gone up in smoke. It was only a matter of time. Dobson’s Gawd, like Elvis, has left the building and is eating fried chicken where metal girdle straps mean rough love for sexually confused adolescent males.
Juan
************
The Republicans have recalled Joe the Plumber from Gaza. This can only mean they’re getting serious about countering President Obama’s reckless job creation plan. Sammy Joe must strike a nerve with cage fight fans who prefer their lobotomized Will Rogers served with raw alopecia. Col. Larry “Pickles” Pepper, Sammy Joe’s agent, called me last week wanting to know if I was interested in ghost writing his meal ticket’s autobiography, tentatively titled “Joe Two Good Four Ewe: WTF?”
“NO!” said Juan.
“Come on, Juan. Doesn’t baby need new shoes”?
“I’m busy”.
“Since when?”
“Since Juan read Rick Warren’s book. Jesus wants me to live large. I’m working full-time, five hours a week. I’m allowed to slap the Old Lady around so long as there’s no tell-tale serious bruising. Juan’s blessed”.
And that was that; the connection went muerto. Add Pickles receiving lap dance-while-driving to the growing list of dangers associated with bumpy distractions when getting soaked in Verizon‘s wireless tub.
*************
Wonderful news: Work continues on the border fence. Real Americans will soon recapture jobs lost to shifty Mexicans. Juan can’t decide between a career in motel housekeeping or tackling the challenging opportunities available in areas that require college degrees, like live poultry evisceration. I’ll have to pray for guidance when making that decision. Unfortunately, Pastor Rick said shaking the Magic 8 Ball is not a sanctioned prop when beseeching divine instruction. However, draped in an official Saddleback prayer hoodie gives the petitioner an edge over those who worry Rosary beads. On a lighter note, Pastor Rick asked if Juan would please stop referring to tail gate parties as further processed animal sacrifices.
*************
Madame Rosa is convinced Tom Daschle’s red eyeglasses sank his confirmation schooner. I agree. Since when have rich lobbyists paid their fair share? Tom would be shunned, barred from the capital’s finer restaurants, if he treated his taxable income like an average middle-class schmuck. Another Tom is livid.
“Liberals are pussies!” shouted Tom Delay, Sugarland’s colorful bug exterminator. When asked to elaborate, the former “Hammer” made obscene gestures with a rubber hose. The small crowd that gathered around his van offered encouragement, egging him on to perform more revolting acts with his spray tank’s long appendage. Visibly exhausted after fifteen minutes of manic debauchery, poisonous tubing his profligate prop, Delay finally collapsed to scattered applause. Kathy Lopez viewed this as proof he’s planning a political comeback.
**************
Juan is saddened that Olympic hero, Michael Phelps, has tasted bong water. Our culture has gone up in smoke. It was only a matter of time. Dobson’s Gawd, like Elvis, has left the building and is eating fried chicken where metal girdle straps mean rough love for sexually confused adolescent males.
Juan
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Dueling Banjos at the End of the Mind
The Conyers/ Rove tango extends well beyond what Einstein considered acceptable parameters for the space-time continuum‘s dance floor. Their buck and wing reminds me of the Star Trek episode featuring loud alien mimes caked in grease paint. (One protagonist was black on the left side of his puss, the other on the right; ergo standard yelling mime-against-yelling mime conflict). Eventually both were cast into the frozen void to forever wrestle with Gene Coon’s ponderous script. I’m guessing the moral is that mimes, whether vocal or mute, San Franciscan or extraterrestial, are always obnoxious. Relieved when Lokai and Bele were energized off the Enterprise, I recall muttering “finally”. Tucking my plastic phaser back into my jammies; I then stomped upstairs to terrorize Sis.
***High on Milk Duds and Coke, hope came crashing down when I realized Spock wasn’t going beat the dook out of Kirk with his Vulcan canoe paddle. Maybe girls liked the Captain’s smarmy machismo, but one particular fifth grade boy wasn’t impressed. Preternaturally drawn to Uhura, little Juan’s color blind heterosexuality stirred whenever she squirmed in her seat; Nurse Chapel not so much.
In fairness to Nurse, I don’t remember her sitting down that often or wiggling in such a way that enhanced the Federation’s female dress code. Had she very deliberately retrieved dropped medical supplies on a regular basis, my budding prurient interest in T & A would have been divided between the bridge and sick bay***.
Mr. Conyers,
To quote the late Joan Crawford, “There’s a lot of bitch in every woman - a lot in every man”. So get bitchy. Either Congress has the power of subpoena or it doesn’t. The Hollywood Ten certainly felt the coat hanger’s sting when they were ordered to Capital Hill. Here’s an idea: Issue an arrest warrant. Assuming Rove isn’t on the lam, he shouldn’t be that hard to find. Just look for a Fox News film crew. Perhaps Ollie North will loan Karl his old Marine Corps uniform - if you promise not to make him cry. No matter how many gun and knife shows the Lt. Colonel headlines, paunchy patriots can’t quite shake the disturbing image of Ollie revealing his sissy side. That’s why he chews glass and encourages illiterate Aryan Nation storm troopers to use his neck for choke hold practice. Testifying dry-eyed and defiant, Karl could daub that salty blot from conservatism’s starched brown shirt. Think of it as doing your part to encourage bi-partisanship.
Herr Rove,
Man up, Karl. There’s only so much glass Ollie can digest before he starts selling gooey semi-organic figurines to Freedom Rally geeks.
****************************
This year I decided to skip the Alfalfa Dinner and honor Robert E. Lee’s birthday by encouraging Allen Shirley to write romance novels via early morning phone calls. I was going to point the lawn jockey south, but two factors thwarted my plan: It weighs 4,000 pounds and my scary sense of direction. Accidentally aiming the lawn jockey north would be a senseless gesture, especially if I snapped my last good vertebra in the process.
Speaking of the endangered novel, “A Tale of Two Twitties”, my fictional account of Conway Twitty’s battle with multiple personality disorder, will be available in time for Easter.
Juan
***High on Milk Duds and Coke, hope came crashing down when I realized Spock wasn’t going beat the dook out of Kirk with his Vulcan canoe paddle. Maybe girls liked the Captain’s smarmy machismo, but one particular fifth grade boy wasn’t impressed. Preternaturally drawn to Uhura, little Juan’s color blind heterosexuality stirred whenever she squirmed in her seat; Nurse Chapel not so much.
In fairness to Nurse, I don’t remember her sitting down that often or wiggling in such a way that enhanced the Federation’s female dress code. Had she very deliberately retrieved dropped medical supplies on a regular basis, my budding prurient interest in T & A would have been divided between the bridge and sick bay***.
Mr. Conyers,
To quote the late Joan Crawford, “There’s a lot of bitch in every woman - a lot in every man”. So get bitchy. Either Congress has the power of subpoena or it doesn’t. The Hollywood Ten certainly felt the coat hanger’s sting when they were ordered to Capital Hill. Here’s an idea: Issue an arrest warrant. Assuming Rove isn’t on the lam, he shouldn’t be that hard to find. Just look for a Fox News film crew. Perhaps Ollie North will loan Karl his old Marine Corps uniform - if you promise not to make him cry. No matter how many gun and knife shows the Lt. Colonel headlines, paunchy patriots can’t quite shake the disturbing image of Ollie revealing his sissy side. That’s why he chews glass and encourages illiterate Aryan Nation storm troopers to use his neck for choke hold practice. Testifying dry-eyed and defiant, Karl could daub that salty blot from conservatism’s starched brown shirt. Think of it as doing your part to encourage bi-partisanship.
Herr Rove,
Man up, Karl. There’s only so much glass Ollie can digest before he starts selling gooey semi-organic figurines to Freedom Rally geeks.
****************************
This year I decided to skip the Alfalfa Dinner and honor Robert E. Lee’s birthday by encouraging Allen Shirley to write romance novels via early morning phone calls. I was going to point the lawn jockey south, but two factors thwarted my plan: It weighs 4,000 pounds and my scary sense of direction. Accidentally aiming the lawn jockey north would be a senseless gesture, especially if I snapped my last good vertebra in the process.
Speaking of the endangered novel, “A Tale of Two Twitties”, my fictional account of Conway Twitty’s battle with multiple personality disorder, will be available in time for Easter.
Juan
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Falling gently on Jane's mane
Jane,
Damn it was pleasing to watch you verge through the frozen pasture in pink chiffon. Seeing you sleeveless, hopping over ice clumps in open-toed pumps, is the closest thing to hope this hovel has experienced since Adler biked over his famous Sudanese brownies: I ate them like three ex-cons at an all-you-can-eat sorority buffet. I don’t know how you stay so young, so fresh and vibrant in our republic’s darkest hour. You are the light in Debbie Boone’s life. Don’t let Deb’s occasional pregnancy fool you into believing she shares space in her father’s Blue Suede universe. My best snitches are from the LA area. They’ll confirm that she slow dances barefoot inside M. Etheridge’s flannel walled Villa Del Poon. There, I’ve used ‘you’ six times in one paragraph; it’s time for a smoke.
I thank Ras Tafari that our Boy Rush never ceases to amuse. Flinging empty pill bottles at apostates who voice public blasphemy against Gawd’s favorite sex tourist has obvious pull with dim white men: Woe to the serious conservative who challenges the movement’s most grumous pant load. On his B game when besieged by belligerent info-babes and sobriety’s harsh glare, it will take more than one dart (or tart) to bring him down. Currently thrashing about Lake Scummy’s fetid surf, as long as the Cheech to Buckley’s Chong still has a stash, pharmaceutically engineered pies will be thrown. Mr. Yellowman, always the voice of reason, has postulated the theory that Boy Rush is just another gay man trapped within the movement’s drab homage to Film Noir. El Rushbo did seem excited at the prospect of bending over and taking Obama’s socialist spear. But would he take it like a real man or a Hollywood liberal?
No one can accuse your old flame of cavorting with show people. Dick LaNear is a rock, literally. Back again to pin poor cash flow on Bill Clinton’s tender chest, I can understand why the affair ended badly.
“I realize that I now will be called a racist”, scribbles the bathetic Dittohead. Alas, Dick’s desperate stabs are not racist. There are other, more “salient“, words to describe his crackpot economic fables: Moronic, imbecilic, knavish, imposturous and dumb come to mind. It’s a shame that he wasted his shady charm blowing smoke up young butts. Open collared and sock-less, smelling of Clubman and crisp sawbucks, I can see how he oozed his way into your hebetic heart. All of us have, at one time or another, been seduced by sweet talk. Every time I peer out cold porous glass, I’m reminded of the night a slick Lothario plucked all the feathers off my innocent little chicken.
I’ve temporarily put aside childish things. President Obama’s inaugural address made an impression; all work has stopped on revitalizing the fake poop industry. Yesterday was spent wondering where Jessica Simpson gained her additional seven pounds. Uncharacteristically optimistic, I divided the seven pounds by two and awarded each breast an equal amount.
Question: If Mitt Romney is a Hair Lord, does that make Sarah Palin a Hair Lady?
Question Dos: Can Sarah wear a coon skin cap as a replacement wig?
Give Vinnie a squeeze,
Juan
Damn it was pleasing to watch you verge through the frozen pasture in pink chiffon. Seeing you sleeveless, hopping over ice clumps in open-toed pumps, is the closest thing to hope this hovel has experienced since Adler biked over his famous Sudanese brownies: I ate them like three ex-cons at an all-you-can-eat sorority buffet. I don’t know how you stay so young, so fresh and vibrant in our republic’s darkest hour. You are the light in Debbie Boone’s life. Don’t let Deb’s occasional pregnancy fool you into believing she shares space in her father’s Blue Suede universe. My best snitches are from the LA area. They’ll confirm that she slow dances barefoot inside M. Etheridge’s flannel walled Villa Del Poon. There, I’ve used ‘you’ six times in one paragraph; it’s time for a smoke.
I thank Ras Tafari that our Boy Rush never ceases to amuse. Flinging empty pill bottles at apostates who voice public blasphemy against Gawd’s favorite sex tourist has obvious pull with dim white men: Woe to the serious conservative who challenges the movement’s most grumous pant load. On his B game when besieged by belligerent info-babes and sobriety’s harsh glare, it will take more than one dart (or tart) to bring him down. Currently thrashing about Lake Scummy’s fetid surf, as long as the Cheech to Buckley’s Chong still has a stash, pharmaceutically engineered pies will be thrown. Mr. Yellowman, always the voice of reason, has postulated the theory that Boy Rush is just another gay man trapped within the movement’s drab homage to Film Noir. El Rushbo did seem excited at the prospect of bending over and taking Obama’s socialist spear. But would he take it like a real man or a Hollywood liberal?
No one can accuse your old flame of cavorting with show people. Dick LaNear is a rock, literally. Back again to pin poor cash flow on Bill Clinton’s tender chest, I can understand why the affair ended badly.
“I realize that I now will be called a racist”, scribbles the bathetic Dittohead. Alas, Dick’s desperate stabs are not racist. There are other, more “salient“, words to describe his crackpot economic fables: Moronic, imbecilic, knavish, imposturous and dumb come to mind. It’s a shame that he wasted his shady charm blowing smoke up young butts. Open collared and sock-less, smelling of Clubman and crisp sawbucks, I can see how he oozed his way into your hebetic heart. All of us have, at one time or another, been seduced by sweet talk. Every time I peer out cold porous glass, I’m reminded of the night a slick Lothario plucked all the feathers off my innocent little chicken.
I’ve temporarily put aside childish things. President Obama’s inaugural address made an impression; all work has stopped on revitalizing the fake poop industry. Yesterday was spent wondering where Jessica Simpson gained her additional seven pounds. Uncharacteristically optimistic, I divided the seven pounds by two and awarded each breast an equal amount.
Question: If Mitt Romney is a Hair Lord, does that make Sarah Palin a Hair Lady?
Question Dos: Can Sarah wear a coon skin cap as a replacement wig?
Give Vinnie a squeeze,
Juan
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Two economists walk into a bar...
Metaphorically speaking, I’m torn between delving back into identity politics and riding my little pony off into higher plateaus. Actually, I do have a little pony. Her name is Keesha. What I lack is higher plateaus. Hemmed in by Shoal Creek and mounds of crushed commercial rock, the best Keesha and I can do is gallop about Chow Acre’s dormant pasture grass and pretend we’re delivering mail. My wife would rather I get a normal job…but that’s like the wisp of smoke from Sanford and Townsend’s distant fire. I’ve evolved beyond simple cash transactions. I give of myself freely. My only condition is that those wanting something first make an appointment. Just because I rarely answer the phone, door or e-mail doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m avoiding interaction.
Hint: If wishing to engage my presence in the flesh, please sit beneath the ornamental pear tree…and bring a cooler. The tree is small and ugly. It faces the hovel’s northern entrance. The petitioner should dress ala David Carradine circa 1973. This rule is transgender. From time to time the petitioner should reach into the cooler, produce a bottle of Red Stripe, and wave it around. This indicates the visit is serious in nature. Do not be discouraged if I leave without acknowledgment. I’m probably out of Blend Number One and may or may not return. An enlightened being, I’m attracted to whimsical tangents unenlightened drones too often deem as sinful behavior.
Of course, I’m warming up to an educated guess as to what type of training is required for someone to call themselves an economist. From my red-eyed perspective, the average economist bears marked similarities to a friend who could legally marry people because he paid the Universal Life Church twenty bucks. I should say used to know. The person in question died four years ago. Please join me in hoping that the twenty bucks helped paved the way for his eternal reward somewhere over the Rainbow Nation. He was a good man and a fancy dancer. (The second to last sentence in this paragraph would have created discomfort if mouthing Palin-ese…paved the way for eternal reward somewhere over the Rainbow Nation also). But let’s not be distracted by old Star Search runner-ups. However, it is appropriate to be distracted by her sledding partner, Joe the Jack of All Trades. Currently a singing journalist, Joe is enjoying downtime in Gaza bird-dogging what’s left of the vacation hotspot’s Cocktail Waitress Corps. Although I personally find bald men unattractive, perhaps a large, white hairless skull is considered sexy forbidden fruit among women accustomed to dodging better-looking terrorists. I once dated a dwarf named Sunshine. Please don’t think that I’m drawing a comparison between homely bald men and the average female dwarf. My former therapist helped me work through why I craved a lot of physical intimacy with Sunshine. Surprisingly, neither the naughty id nor the Boy Scouts of America were contributing factors.
Hint: Do not share psychological breakthroughs with members of your family; my father and I have not spoken for years.
Well, my Charm phoned (we have a secret signal…if she calls, I answer) and requested antibiotics. It appears her least favorite molar is practicing black magic again. And I was so hoping to place economics under the microscope.
Juan
Hint: If wishing to engage my presence in the flesh, please sit beneath the ornamental pear tree…and bring a cooler. The tree is small and ugly. It faces the hovel’s northern entrance. The petitioner should dress ala David Carradine circa 1973. This rule is transgender. From time to time the petitioner should reach into the cooler, produce a bottle of Red Stripe, and wave it around. This indicates the visit is serious in nature. Do not be discouraged if I leave without acknowledgment. I’m probably out of Blend Number One and may or may not return. An enlightened being, I’m attracted to whimsical tangents unenlightened drones too often deem as sinful behavior.
Of course, I’m warming up to an educated guess as to what type of training is required for someone to call themselves an economist. From my red-eyed perspective, the average economist bears marked similarities to a friend who could legally marry people because he paid the Universal Life Church twenty bucks. I should say used to know. The person in question died four years ago. Please join me in hoping that the twenty bucks helped paved the way for his eternal reward somewhere over the Rainbow Nation. He was a good man and a fancy dancer. (The second to last sentence in this paragraph would have created discomfort if mouthing Palin-ese…paved the way for eternal reward somewhere over the Rainbow Nation also). But let’s not be distracted by old Star Search runner-ups. However, it is appropriate to be distracted by her sledding partner, Joe the Jack of All Trades. Currently a singing journalist, Joe is enjoying downtime in Gaza bird-dogging what’s left of the vacation hotspot’s Cocktail Waitress Corps. Although I personally find bald men unattractive, perhaps a large, white hairless skull is considered sexy forbidden fruit among women accustomed to dodging better-looking terrorists. I once dated a dwarf named Sunshine. Please don’t think that I’m drawing a comparison between homely bald men and the average female dwarf. My former therapist helped me work through why I craved a lot of physical intimacy with Sunshine. Surprisingly, neither the naughty id nor the Boy Scouts of America were contributing factors.
Hint: Do not share psychological breakthroughs with members of your family; my father and I have not spoken for years.
Well, my Charm phoned (we have a secret signal…if she calls, I answer) and requested antibiotics. It appears her least favorite molar is practicing black magic again. And I was so hoping to place economics under the microscope.
Juan
Saturday, January 24, 2009
And so it begins
Plans for the professional website have been put on hold. My savior turned out to be another slacker; if I had the money more disciplined computer gurus demand, I’d be acting very irresponsibly in a state that begins with the letter ‘F’. But the journey to Casey’s starts with finding the car keys. (I sense a theme coming on).
Tomorrow I’ll put my stomach back to the counter and twirl the soup spoon of literary mediocrity. I would proceed with Juan’s Way this evening but for a lengthy respite spent drinking with somebody named Glenn. Glenn is from Oakland, California. He has a female space alien tattooed on his right forearm. The odds are better than good that he has other inked works of art on his body. How can somebody from Oakland, California stop with just one female space alien? I’d like to think that skin seldom exposed to men has the cast of Star Wars permanently etched into its wrinkly expanse. Perhaps a lucky lass has run her fingers across Darth Vader’s large helmet after Glenn spun his web of unique inter-galactic space, wooing the broad with big city bravado and thin pony tail.
But he bought me beers after I helped him get two trivia questions right in a row. He massaged my frail ego and I lifted his score above a nearly comatose chick wearing what appeared to be panties on her head. Out of touch with what younger humans consider fashionable, maybe ecru panties signifies high social status among those who pierce their face.
Well, Juan is feeling weak. The eyes are going and Roi is scooting his butt across the hovel’s hard plywood flooring. He may just be playing.
Juan
Tomorrow I’ll put my stomach back to the counter and twirl the soup spoon of literary mediocrity. I would proceed with Juan’s Way this evening but for a lengthy respite spent drinking with somebody named Glenn. Glenn is from Oakland, California. He has a female space alien tattooed on his right forearm. The odds are better than good that he has other inked works of art on his body. How can somebody from Oakland, California stop with just one female space alien? I’d like to think that skin seldom exposed to men has the cast of Star Wars permanently etched into its wrinkly expanse. Perhaps a lucky lass has run her fingers across Darth Vader’s large helmet after Glenn spun his web of unique inter-galactic space, wooing the broad with big city bravado and thin pony tail.
But he bought me beers after I helped him get two trivia questions right in a row. He massaged my frail ego and I lifted his score above a nearly comatose chick wearing what appeared to be panties on her head. Out of touch with what younger humans consider fashionable, maybe ecru panties signifies high social status among those who pierce their face.
Well, Juan is feeling weak. The eyes are going and Roi is scooting his butt across the hovel’s hard plywood flooring. He may just be playing.
Juan
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