Poesy from Juan and Everette

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”.

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

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!

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
________________________________________________________________________

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