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

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

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