Happy Happy

"Never should anyone say that a day was wasted in persuit of a dream." Emerson.

I know what you're thinking, that Emerson. Right? For me Felix Emerson always seemed to have the right thing to say, at the right time.

Happy New Year.

Oh, I was going to do one of those year in review sort of things. Let's see, nothing much happened.
A bunch of Becky's showed up, buy that book here.
Then my dog got murdered numerous times, that one is here.
I was somehow forced to mingle with republican presidential candidates and smoke marijuana with the sitting president, that's here.
Of course, the first in a series of detective novels, that fell out and is right here. Then, as if not to be out done, the second showed up, almost as an after thought. Here.

Other than that, this iron lung that is my home is comfortable.

May 2013 be as supercalifragilistic and quite possible expilasdoshious as 1999.

That long look

Home with child

I was blessed or lucky enough to stay home with three children and this video, which not us, certainly reminded me what a day in our life certainly kind of felt like.
Enjoy.

The thing my dog does in the snow

At this point in history I am pretty sure everyone knows my dog is a mean and angry alcoholic lesbian, which is neither here nor there. The real key important thing to know about Beth is that she likes to poo outside, which is kind of important, since she is not only a big giant lesbionic dog, but also she eats like a much bigger dog, if you catch my drift, so the more outside she gets, the better I am about it.

Today we are in the midst of what our local pansy weather man is calling the storm of this century, that is, it is snowing. Barely. I like snow, although I grew up in Southern California and did not experience actual snow until well into my teens, when I was visiting the son of a Hollywood producer and his coke addicted father left a huge pike of the stuff on a mirror in the “library”.

It has been snowing all morning here and when I let my hefty lesbian dog out to do her thing she sprinted into the frozen tundra like she won the dog lottery and could not wait to claim her lesbian dog prize, which I am guessing would involve leather harnesses and a DVD collection of Rosie O’Donnell movies. My dog made it to the far corner of our tiny back yard and then began her ritual and I took notice, because for the first time in weeks, a large smile broke out across her usually dour face.

Unusual, because she is, like many lesbian dogs, a mean spirited and vicious bitch by nature, which is, of course, neither here nor there. But there she was, doing her business in the far corner of the back yard and it struck me, the only thing different from yesterdays morning ritual and todays morning ritual was about 10 inches of snow. Which of course got me thinking, what could be so magic about waking up to ten inches?

I sat for a while and enjoyed some sort of boring gluten free breakfast and the exploits of our new hate filled cat, Foxtrot Tango and it dawned on me, I too could use a morning ritualistic poo. So, instead of walking all the way up to the fifth floor bathroom, and again I do not understand why we do not have a bathroom on any of the four floors before that fifth floor bathroom, but instead of doing that, I decided that today of all days, I would break all the previous imposed “Santorum Rules for Pet Interaction” and poo outside in the snow.

Of course there is some serious preparation one must partake before engaging in such folly, but because I neither had access to the great Google machine, not am I very smart, I just walked outside, dropped trou and let loose. In no time whatsoever I was bothered by my nosey lesbian dog, wondering to herself at long last, have I no shame. So, without reading material or toilet paper I did not waste nearly the amount of time I would usually spend in such duty (doody), finished my business, and made my way inside, leaving my fur coated lesbian dog to remain in the snow, happy as a clam in much warmer climates.

There is a lesson to be learned in all this, but I am quite sure I am not the sort who learns lessons.

Ironically, I have a baby cat named Django

Remove those chains

As many of you know, I have been held hostage in the deep south for a few weeks now, unable to do much more than eat fried food and watch cable TV, until my long lost love rescued me from my bitter and callus custody.

It was not all dangerous and unhealthy. One day I did go shoe shopping. That said, it was both sad and embarrassing because a person I presumed to be a shoe salesman asked me, in a deeply flawed Mississippi accent something that sounded like “flotsum flinglen clotsu flink?” which I thought must mean “can I help you find some shoes,” but could have indeed meant almost anything. As you can imagine, I left the store, damn near shoeless and wondering what the hell had just happened.

That’s when it hit me, these chains that have bound me to this life of constant fear and entitlement have got be to removed. Which is how I came up with the title for my new movie, Hymie Unchained, a story of a Jew in Mississippi, wandering the hurricane ravaged countryside, looking not so much for a better life, but a decent pair of shoes and a non-fried meal, only to discover an unknowable language and an awful lot of very large people who could care less about one Jews personal journey.

I know a movie about Jews will not find a willing audience with those liberal elitists in Hollywood, but this is a project I feel passionate about, not as passionate as I feel about fried chicken, but still somewhat passionate about none the less. With any luck, Hymie Unchained could be in a downloadable version on your digital movie magic box sometime in the next few weeks, if everything comes together, which they hardly ever do.

This just in...favorite headlines

House Won't Be In Session For Legislative Business On Thursday, America's Mental Health Crisis

I pray

This has been a very strange week of Hanukkah for me and my family. For about 15 years or so, the kids and I would gather at Hanukkah and light candles and do some sort of traditional prayer, or more likely, we would create our own prayer, sometimes lighthearted and silly, sometimes serious and sad, depending on the agenda. Always the kids and I would gather as the sun would set, light candles, do a prayer and exchange gifts.

This year, I was alone. The kids are either gone or busy and I have been alone for the lighting of candles and the praying. This year my fiance is on a different coast and happened to be seriously ailing, so my prayers have focused on healing and health. I am never sure how these prayers work, I am never sure if the power of a prayer can find its way to gods ear, and if god will indeed do anything about it.

I was alone again last night, lighting seven candles and trying to think of an appropriate prayer, because all of a sudden, when another national tragedy has overtaken just about every aspect of our lives, I did not want to waste an opportunity to have a moment with praying and not get a word in for the parents who have lost babies in Connecticut.

I lit the candles and I prayed. Prayers are deeply private.

If you wait till the last Hanukkah minute

If you are like me and many people are, according the the vast majority of recent polling date, then you wait until the very last minute to purchase both Hanukkah gifts and Christmas presents.
Need a suggestions?
Try this. Click right here and buy the second installment of Branson, a brash, yet sensitive New York Police detective, madly in love with both his job and his gravity defying girlfriend.
For many people Hanukkah is wrapping up, so click quickly and as many times as possible, then purchase as often as you can afford to, then copy that link and send it to everyone on your email list because this is by far the most affordable, most unique and in this case, my favorite gift of the season.
Felix Navidad.

It's a drag

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Things happen in LaJolla

LaJolla, California – Early December, 2012.

I was hitchhiking, trying to make my way to Seattle to score me some of that legal weed and maybe get me a gay marriage, what the hell, Washington State made all the sins legal in one election and damned if I was not going to partake. I stuck my thumb out, but in LaJolla, good luck being a well groomed white guy trying to get a ride.

After about an hour in the sun, a dusty SUV slowed, the sort of older model that looked like it had not seen the inside of an elevator in months. The window rolled down on the passenger side and the gray haired gentleman turned to me, former Republican Presidential candidate Mitt Romney looked over and smiled that fake smile of his and asked, “where you going?”

Follow the rest here, as the final chapter, for now at least, in Dancing with Mannequins and Idiots.

The French are very good with balls

Time to breakup

Xmas song

Early morning hate

The last couple of mornings I have been forced to wake early for some very important business type meetings and while having my coffee and rather boring gluten free cereal I have accidentally turned on the excessively large flat screen TV and watched some C-Span as I regretfully ate my tasteless but healthy breakfast.

If you are like me you do not ever get the pleasure of watching early morning C-Span so let me tell you what you are missing. Racism and hatred, that's what you are missing, that and a dull white man in a cheap suit who does not seem to know how to hang up on callers. C=Span has a strict hiring policy, it can only hire bland hosts who dress like JC Penny mannequins to host all of their shows, personality not required.

Yesterday I was sipping coffee and wondering why gluten free cereal tastes an awful lot like dog food when a caller from somewhere in America began a rant about the "fiscal cliff" blaming everything on "the entitlement society." This is when Boring Suit Man asked him exactly what the caller meant by entitlement society, which I believe in retrospect was exactly what the caller was hoping for, because he began a 30 second rant that went something like this.

"You can't have people sucking off the government tit all the time. People are getting welfare, living in Section 8 housing, getting free healthcare, government buses take them to doctors appointments, their food is paid for, so is their gas and electric. What you have here is an entire generation raised to think that they don't have to do nothing, they can sit at home and watch TV and just keep making kids and do nothing to make this country better and all these niggers have to do..."

The bad suit wearing guys draw dropped when the n-word was tossed out. That's what happened. Oh, you can say what you want about free housing and healthcare, but you throw the n-word out and the cheap suit loses his shit. How does a powerless sissy man lose his shit on C-Span? He told the caller that that "sort of language is never appropriate and that he is forbidden to ever call C-Span again." So there.

Wow, I thought, drinking my coffee and eating my terrible tasting cereal. First, racism is right there, early in the morning, spoon fed to you on C-Span. Wow. Then I thought, do the silly people at C-Span really think that the racist and hate filled neanderthals who make such phone calls will take the ban of no more calls punishment seriously? We shall see.

This morning, another early morning meeting, more terrible cereal, a sip of bitter coffee and a taste of C-Span and I could leave recharged to do battle with some marketing folks who seem to hate me. There I was, assured inside my head that yesterdays racist rant was a one-off, a rare goof up that could only happen on a live call in show on C-Span that probably no one else was watching. This morning, another boring guy in a decent suit this time was taking calls and again talking about this financial cliff, wondering how the Republicans would deal with the presidents latest offer. This time, a call from a man somewhere in the Midwest. He started off somewhat rational, saying Texas was at fault because George Bush was from Texas and George Bush started all those expensive wars and the largest military base was in Texas and just as the host was about to cut the caller off, the brilliance of C-Span was again laid out for everyone to hear.

"It's not just Texas though, see it's also Virginia, cause they get all the tax dollars to spend paying off all the military contractors like Haliburton. Plus Delaware, where the Vice President is from and the home of all the credit card companies. That's where all the money is, the credit companies are stealing everyone's money and you know the Jews are going to take our money and send it to Israel and..."

Again, the host cut the caller off, a little perturbed, but this time he did not chastise the caller, nor did he tell him never to call again. I am not sure what C-Span has in the way of standards and practices, but I do know this, you rail against a caller using the n-word, you get a lifetime ban, but you rail agains money changers using the j-word, you just get politely tossed off and that's about it. I am fine with that. I had a meeting to go to.

What I do know is this, I am going to start waking up earlier, C-Span rocks.

To be 16 again

Well, I am an optimist. When you're number one at anything, everyone is after you, and if you're number two, chasing number one can be a tiresome pursuit. But when you're number 16, like the United States is right now (according The Economist) then life is damn fine, because there are plenty of crappier countries down the list (hello Nigeria) and there are some really great countries in front of you, the likes of which America will never surpass.

Oh, well, 16 is not such a bad place to be.

That's right, using all sorts of numbers and statistics, The Economist has ranked the best countries to be born in for the year 2013 and the dear old United States is 16, tied with Germany. If you are like me you have to be asking yourself how could this happen? It's not like we have the worst education system in the world, although we do have one of the worst in the industrialized world, but certainly not as bad as Uganda. Of course, we have what Republicans like to call the "best healthcare system in the world" which is a lie, but they say it so often, it often sounds real. No, we do not have the best healthcare system in the world, but it sounds nice, much like, America is the best country in the world to have a baby in. Which is, of course not true, unless you completely discount Sweden, Singapore, Norway and the list, while not quite endless is about 15 countries longer than one might imagine.

Get the point? While the elected blowhards in Washington DC are trying to look stupid and petty and continue to lie about what a great country they are flushing down the international toilet, there are actually metrics that prove how far down that proverbial toilet we have already been flushed, and it's kind of far. Semi-senile senators waddle the streets demanding depends and tax cuts for the super wealthy all the while cutting all the programs that could have kept us just barely in front of Kuwait on the list of best places for baby having in 2013.

I know, we as Americans are brain washed from a very young age to believe we are the best country in the world and when studies show that's not true and when facts prove that's not always the case and when The Economist posts stories showing exactly how bad it is getting, the very least we should do is run out to Costco and buy a crate of Twinkies and sit back and watch some Jerry Springer and wonder how all of this could have happened. For me? I blame Obama. Why not? It most certainly is not my fault.

Todays favorite headline

Kate Middleton bangs

Financial cliff diving

Personally, I have always been something of a cliff diver, so I say, bring on this fiscal cliff and let’s go for it.

First, am I the only one who see’s our elected members of congress as these gelatinous slow moving idiots, the sorts of self important imbeciles that seek public office because their low self esteem would never allow them to continue their career as pedophilia ice cream delivery drivers back home?

When I was in college I would wait until the very last minute to finish a super important paper, no matter how much warning I had prior to the deadline. This is not how smart people do things, this is how irresponsible boneheads like me do things. This is also how congress does almost everything. This silly little “fiscal cliff” drama they have concocted is something they have not only created, it is something they could have dealt with months ago and something they could end now, tomorrow or any day. Trust me though, they will drag it out until the very last second because they are drama queen boneheads.

Not only are the vast majority of our members of congress boneheads, they are cartoon character boneheads. They appear to be self important, holding press conferences and hosting meetings, discussing super important affairs of the state and talking, always talking as if every word out of their jittery jowls is the most important word ever uttered.

If you step back for just a second you realize these are the close genetic links from the Roman empire senate, these fat lazy shitheads are the cousins of those swine who brought down the empire we like to laugh at. Think about it, Roman senators sat around in their plush chambers, offering favors to friends, sex to hot boys and wine to anyone who wanted a sip and spoke ill of the emperor to anyone who would listen. Sounds an awful lot like John McCain.

So, everyone keeps asking me, what the hell is going to happen. I know, you know, we all know what will happen. The country will plummet off the fiscal cliff on January First and everyone with a finger will point it at the pasty white guy in the other party. Taxes will increase immediately. Soon after, all the badly dressed idiots we so fondly call senators and congressmen will meet and miraculously come to some sort of serious, and I mean super serious, conclusion. See, when the fiscal cliff is overtaken, guess what the vast right wing nuts get to do? Once the taxes rise on January first, those republicans will once again get to hold hands and, wait for it, vote to lower taxes for everyone. That’s right, one week after being unable to find a compromise, the elected shitheads will somehow find it in their cold cold hearts to lower the taxes that just automatically rose.

Amazing how that works. Everyone will be happy. The democrats get to raise taxes on the wealthy, the republicans get to cut taxes for the wealthy, the people get to watch our elected shitheads prance around and make silly faces in front of expensive cameras and all the while, nothing really gets done.

As a somewhat professional cliff diver, all I can say is, watch out below, because sometimes, when you dive off a cliff, the water can be a lot more shallow than it appeared just seconds before. I know this, because personally, I have broken my nose no less than 7 times.

Winter of his disco

My friend Karl Tivey is dying, but then, when you think about it, who isn’t? It’s a marvel more people aren’t really. In fact, if I were a betting man, I’d put a thousand on everyone of us doing exactly what Karl is in the midst of, although not nearly as sexily.

Karl came to stay for the holidays and while he was napping on my couch I grabbed his bag of medications and went to the magic google machine and did some research. Karl picked up the HIV back when it was deadly, but back then he was not so smart as to seek immediate treatment. His immune system is kaput. If he were to hear you sneeze he would turn and walk away, he is both smart and paranoid, which means we get along just fine.

As he slept I did my research and realized that my friend was probably doing more harm that good by ingesting the chemicals he has been using to treat his disease. I did not want to just impose my opinion on my friend, so I waited. During dinner I coached the subject in the most subtle manner I knew.

“You know those medicines you take are toxic, right?” I said, simply.

“Yeah, I’m not stupid. Pass the rice.”

Karl explained that he had stopped by my house for a couple of weeks to stop taking the medications. He was going to do it cold turkey and he thought my house would be as good of a place as any. He was probably right, cold turkey is a phrase often used around this joint, and not just to describe an unusually delicious thanksgiving dinner served three hours late because of a JetBlue mishap.

Since Karl has been here I have found it only appropriate to wear my French maids outfit. Karl is having massive migraine headaches, giving up toxic pharmaceuticals without consulting a specialist will do that to you, and I am serving as his nurse. I waddle around offering pudding and a green juice cocktail enhanced with just a touch of homemade tequila. Karl spends most of his days in the guest room, windows covered, as dark as possible, his head pounding, no sounds allowed at all.

We miss the summer and the spring, the floating leaves of fall. The air in his room is cold, which is what he requested. I don’t know why. It is now winter in my heart, hearing and watching my friend suffer as he prepares for some sort of expedition I have no clue of how it might end. I think of the spring bulbs my lover and I planted and I whisper in Karls ear that he has to return to watch them bloom.

Soldier on

Don't ask, don't tell

Best dinner ever

Another holiday has come and gone and nothing says holiday inquisition like a table filled with food and questions about parenting like I was subject to yesterday.

Here is how it played out and if you are familiar with Nuremburg or the Hague or any number of bogus trials you already know how sitting in front of a bunch of opinionated and angry people can lead to uncomfortable silences and ruined pumpkin pie eating. So it probably was at the dinner table with Hitler and so it was at Thanksgiving when my 17 or so children decided, some with their mouths full, that I was the worst father in history.

Now, imagine my surprise, because there have been some terrible fathers in history and mind you Donald Trump still is alive.

No, these children, some of which sprang from my very loins, took it upon themselves to claim that I, their diminutive father, was part abusive jerk and part verbally assaulting Neanderthal. I have no shame when admitting I was not a perfect father, heck, I was the father who accidentally left two young children at a “coffee shop” in Amsterdam for two weeks while I got stoned and enjoy “art” with a beautiful European super model. I was the “father” who took the kids on a Volkswagon bus tour of the west coast, which included nude beaches in Washington State, Oregon and at least 7 beaches in California. I may have also been the father who sold one or two of my children into white salvery to the failed Romney campaign.

So, without admitting guilt, something I learned to do from not more than 4 lawyers, I can say (this was cleared by my non-Jewish lawyer) that I was indeed not the best father, but that did not protect me from the abuse I received while serving these “children” a dinner of tofurkey and steak. I sat at the head of the table and listened for hours as child after child listed grievance after grievance, something about leaving them alone for months at a time, feeding them nothing by hot baby formula and cocaine and for my Native American son Geronimo he even claimed that I stole his room and allowed industrialists to ruin it with mining, timber harvesting and oil production. To this charge I, of course said, “cry me a river.”

All in all, it was the best thanksgiving ever.

53 percent are laughing

With the vote counting drawing to a close, Mitt Romney is set to end up as 'Mr 47 percent' - the proportion of Americans he infamously branded as 'victims' and 'dependent on the state'.
According to Dave Wasserman of the non-partisan Cook Political Report, with new tallies from Maryland coming in, President Barack Obama has now crossed the threshold of 64 million votes, bringing Romney's national percentage down to 47.56 percent.
Once the counts in the Democratic strongholds of California and New York are completed, it is a virtual certainty that Romney will dip below 47.5 percent meaning that his overall percentage will be round down to 47.

Finally, the election is over, Seamus

Karl Rove got around to calling the election this morning, finally. We all wait on pins and needles for the modern day Jabba to announce who wins and who loses and this election was like all the rest, we wait until super smart Karl makes his announcement and I, like you, stood naked in front of my big screen, looking at Fox News this morning at Karl and the gang announced that some how, completely unexpectedly, the Kenyan Muslim had once again stolen yet another election and this got me thinking. Karl is really not that smart.

Which really got me thinking. My lesbian dog used to date Seamus Romney, back in the day and once, when Seamus and Beth had spent an afternoon on the beach, sniffing one anothers butts and eating garbage, I called out to her, I called, Beth and she looked up at me with that same look of wonder and entitlement that most Obama voters get when they look at the president, a look of, “OK, I hear you, but what sort of treats do you have for me if you expect me to walk through the sand all the way up to your air conditioned hummer.”

So there I was, sitting in my air conditioned hummer, listening to Aerosmith and smoking crystal meth with Tumbleweed Romney when one of those massive Mercedes Benz four wheel drive super macho truck like monsters pulls up and the passenger window slowly rolls down and Ann Romney drunkenly lollygags out and screams, “Tumble, you an Seamus tie yerselves on top a the car, we in a hurry.” With that she took a swig of what looked like moonshine and the window slid back up.

A near naked Tumbleweed ran over to the beach like a trained robot, pulled Seamus off my dog and ran to the Mercedes, pulled the rope he and I had used not 10 minutes before out of his pocket, jumped on the roof and proceeded to tie the both of them up in a series of spectacular knots, the likes of which could never be fabricated again, if payment was not offered, of that I am sure.

The Mercedes roared to life and that was the end of the Romney campaign. Sadly, it was also the end of Seamus too, because as Mitt made a wild turn onto the freeway, in a true act of love, lust and hunger, Seamus broke free, jumped off the speeding Mercedes in an attempt to reunite with his lesbian lover Beth, and he was immediately hit by an oncoming Haliburton toxic waste spewing milk truck. So it goes.

Beth and I, we were fine, untouched really. In fact, as some sort of holiday gesture to the under employed, republican and otherwise illiterate – we are offering the sad but true stories associated with Beth Libitard, former disgraced CIA director, current concubine of one lesbian MSNBC hostess and future Secretary of State. That book is here. Enjoy.

Denver never smelled so sticky

Who didn't see this coming?

As of Saturday November 10, 2012, citizens from 15 States have petitioned the Obama Administration for withdrawal from the United States of America in order to create its own government.

States following this action include: Louisiana, Texas, Montana, North Dakota, Indiana, Mississippi, Kentucky, North Carolina, Alabama, Florida, Georgia, New Jersey, Colorado, Oregon and New York. These States have requested that the Obama Administration grant a peaceful withdrawal from the United States.

These citizen generated petitions were filed just days after the 2012 presidential election.

Louisiana was the first State to file a petition a day after the election by a Michael E. from Slidell, Louisiana. Texas was the next State to follow by a Micah H. from Arlington, Texas.

The government allows one month from the day the petition is submitted to obtain 25,000 signatures in order for the Obama administration to consider the request.

The Texas petition reads as follows:

The US continues to suffer economic difficulties stemming from the federal government’s neglect to reform domestic and foreign spending. The citizens of the US suffer from blatant abuses of their rights such as the NDAA, the TSA, etc. Given that the state of Texas maintains a balanced budget and is the 15th largest economy in the world, it is practically feasible for Texas to withdraw from the union, and to do so would protect it’s citizens’ standard of living and re-secure their rights and liberties in accordance with the original ideas and beliefs of our founding fathers which are no longer being reflected by the federal government.

If I may, I would like to recommend a name for the new country. How about, The Illiterate States of Klu Klux Klanistan?

Why Romney lost the election

You may have noticed that earlier this week the American people just said no to former Massachusetts governor and Magic Underpants wearing Mormon curse chanting all around fun guy Mitt Romney during what was advertised as some sort of election.

Since that time everyone of Karl Roves chins has come up with a different excuse for the presidents re-election, from voter fraud to misspent wealth to over 390 billion dollars spent on high class donuts.

If you ask me it all comes back to Winter in Iowa. It comes back to me. I am sorry to say this, but back then I was following the inept and insane republican hopefuls around the barren and boring cornfields of the once proud state of Iowa as these craven white people went begging for acceptance and a vote. During the primaries these "candidates" will do almost anything to get attention and at some point I ended up speaking via cellphone to none other than Willard Mitt Romney, who did everything he could to cast a secret Mormon curse on me.

Sure, I may have dated Tumbleweed Romney, even got him drunk, all of which is against some scary and sacred Mormon rule of some sort, but if Tom Cruise can do it, so can Tumbleweed, at least that's what I told Tumbleweed.

Either way, Mitt was upset and during our conversation, which follows, he did everything he could to toss a curse of Mormon hell right onto my lap. Of course, having had Mormon curses tossed my way numerous times, I did what any right thinking American would do, I tossed them right back, which probably cost the sweet natured and always likable former Mr. Utah the election. For that I am kind of sorry.

Here is the chapter from "Dancing With Mannequins and Idiots, One Lone Reporters On the Ground Coverage of the Republican Primary Race 2012."


“Ishkabbibble?” I asked. “Is that what you said?”

Mitt Romney, the handsome former governor and possible robot (suspected) on the other end of a long distance phone call replied, “I just think we have a bad connection, what was the question again?”

“Well, it seems that everyone keeps bringing up the Mormon issue and I was…”

“Ishkabbibble.”

“Yeah, see, there it is again.”

“Not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Well, I asked you about Mormons.”

“Look, I’ve addressed this countless times, it really isn’t an issue anymore, either people are going to get over the whole Mormon thing, or they are not.”

“Right, and I guess my point is”

“Ishkabbibble.”

“Yeah, there it is. What is that you keep saying?”

“Didn’t catch your question. Ask again.”

“Where did you say you were today?”

“We left Iowa City this morning, now we’re approaching Splendid, town of I’d say 500 people. Good people, like most of the people we meet in Iowa, and heck, around this great country.”

“I’m sure that’s true sir.”

“You should join us sometime.”

“Is that an invitation to join your campaign on the bus Governor Romney?”

“God no, you said you were a Jew right?”

“No, I did not say that.”

“Ishkabbibble. Wait a second, I read that. Right.”

“Read it?”

“Ishkabbibble. I had it somewhere. What was the question?”

“You keep saying Ishkabbibble. What does that mean?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I can tell you this, the good people of Iowa are more interested in jobs and cutting wasteful spending in Washington DC than they are about silly negative campaign tricks. That’s what I keep hearing.”

“I’m sure that’s the case. But I keep hearing you wear magic underwear.”

“Ishkabbibble.”

“Yes, of course. How do you plan to create jobs if elected presi…”

“Ishkabbibble. The key is listening to the people. Of course, we have to cut taxes and once we cut taxes, we will know how to cut things, so we may as well cut the regulations that are really slowing job growth, you know what this country needs more than anything right now?”

“Ishkabbibble?”

“What’s that? No, what this country needs is less Obamacare and more Romney Magic.”

“Is that a new campaign theme?”

“Don’t know yet, we were just throwing it around in the bus, what do you think?”

“I like it.”

“So other than continually running for president, what do you do for a living?”

“Is that a joke question?”

“No. Well, kind of.”

“Ishkabbibble. Here’s the thing, Matt, is that you’re name?”

“Ishkabbibble, yeah, that is. But you can call me, Ishkabbibble.”

“That’s funny.”

Right here, right at this very second over a bad phone connection as the Mitt Romney for President 2012 bus was driving down some God forsaken lonely highway in a terrible rural area of Iowa, a state not known for much of anything, this is when affable Fred McMurray like robot Mitt Romney dropped his nice guy persona. All of a sudden, right there at that instant, it was as if nice guy Fred McMurray handed the phone to 1970’s Clint Eastwood in full Dirty Harry persona, I get this.

“Hey Matt, you listen, and you listen good. You must think it’s all about asking these stupid fucking questions and trying to make me sound like some sort of elite pompous pussy, which is all you liberal wankers do anyway. Then you keep pointing out my little speech defect, that Ishkabbibble I say every now and then. But what you don’t understand, what a punk like you could never understand is that I am a proud Mormon, and yes I am wearing magic underwear, and what you might not comprehend is that those magic underwear you like to make fun of, Ishkabbibble, well, they do indeed give me a power, and one of those powers is to cast curses. Did you just snicker? Listen to me punk. I say Ishkabbibble three, well, now make that 2 more times and you end up spending all of eternity in Mormon hell. So, giggle away sissy boy. Cause what you just have to be asking yourself right now is did old Mitt count how many Ishkabbibble’s he already said, or might you already be damned to eternal Mormon hell.”

“Ishkabbibble, let me just say this. Ishkabbibble. As you can imagine. Ishkabbibble. I too understand how much fun it is to wear kinky undies, right now I am wearing a pair of my lawyers Victorias Secret edible, yet earth friendly, athletic wear undies. Ishkabbibble. Now, at some point, while you were rambling on about your campaign or your kids or something about how pretty your hair is, I Googled Ishkabbibble, and realized you were, well, putting some sort of Mormon hex on me Ishkabbibble – even though Jews don’t get all hung up on silly religious games, well, other religions silly religious games. Ishkabbibble. The point is, I Googled it, and just by chance, I discovered that I can cancel out your obnoxious hex and send it right back at you, Ishkabbibble, just by repeating the number of Ishkabbibble’s enough times. Ishkabbibble. Catch my drift? By the way, Wikipedia describes Mormon Hell as Donny and Marie singing Chrismas carols 24-7. My lord, that really is hell.”

“Oh, that’s getting Mormon Hell Provo style on your ass. We take that shit seriously, Ishkabbibble.”

“Well governor, Ishkabbibble, thank you again for the interview. Ishkabbibble.”

“Ishkabbibble. Oh, and keep in mind, if elected, there is no way I would name another Jew to the Supreme Court.”

“I never gave it a thought. Ishkabbibble”

“Ishkabbibble.”

With that the phone from the Romney bus went dead and Robot Romney rode off into the cold wilds of a desolate and barren state that no one really can find on a map. While Robot Romney smiles and sends out evil curses to unsuspecting, and might I add innocent interviewers, he continues his feckless and hateful campaign. I did recheck the latest on Mormon Hell and apparently you can have as many wives as you want. Which is, of course, just another version of hell for some of us.

Electronica review

After months and months of election coverage, not here mind you, but allowing others to pretend that an elderly rich white guy could spend a fortune to take back the White House, it's now time to get back to the real purpose of this blog, reviewing electronic products.

Microsoft was nice enough to send me a shitty new Surface, a tablet-like piece of shit product the Redmond based crap company has pushed out to the populace like a Boston based mega-rich boring republican tried to do with a crappy useless tablet like brick. Surface sucks worse than Tumbleweed Romney does after a diet Coke and a hit of some legal marijuana. Microsoft has not released a good product in 50 years. How they are still in business is beyond me.

That said, I begged the nerds at Apple for a Iphone 5 to test out and they were stupid enough to allow me to test it out and I tried, but it is such a light little slippery mess, I almost immediately dropped it and ran over it with my Fiat 500 sporty little car. The Fiat 500 is a wonder, great gas mileage, fun to drive, easy to park and illegal for me to drive, although my non-jew attorney assures me that soon enough I too should be able to drive again. That said, the Apple Iphone 5 can not withstand the drive-over of a Fiat 500 which is not really asking a lot, so for me, the Iphone 5 is a major fail.

Samsung asked me to review the Galaxy 3, which is some sort of tablet/phone/sex device. How could I resist? First, for a tablet, it is too small, for a phone, too big and for a sex device, I could not figure out how to make it vibrate for more than a few seconds, so, fail/fail/fail.

Next up, a new toaster. Now, toasters should not ever be confused for sex toys, but after trying to play with a Galaxy 3 for 7 days, I was somewhat desperate, so the toaster was it. After 3 days in the hospital, I can report, the Target Toaster is a miracle worker, give it a shot, just don't plug it in.

Shallow morons...

I love it when clowns and banal morons talk about people being shallow. I do not have cable television, so I never get the joy of waking to any Fox News programs, but this clip from this morning sure did make me laugh.

Stoned and gay married

I don't know about you, but after yesterdays super fabulous election, I purchased a ticket to Seattle, where I plan to smoke a shitload of pot and gay marry my boyfriend.

That's right, the good people of Washington State have decided people should get baked and get gay married. Oh, I am sure you, like me, are saying, yeah, but that will be sometime if the far off future when lawyers and other lawyer type people will fuck everything up.

No, actually, in December you can legally get baked and get all sorts of gay married. 3 Day waiting period after December 6th for a gay wedding, no waiting to get all high.

See you in Seattle for Hannukah, which starts on December 8th this year. Wow.

How I voted for Mitt Romney

Final political post of 2011

Nate Silver, a Jewish stat freak wanking at the New York Times has predicted the election for president will go for Obama. It's early, but like most Americans, I could not bring myself to vote for the zombie in magic underwear. That said, many people have called with the same questions today, is Nate Silver a witch. The answer is here.

Legal hoo haa

Vote for the white guy

For Mitt, the end is near

The stupids will vote for Romney

And now, a message...

Just because I wrote a book on my experiences following the strange and somewhat beautiful republican primary campaign, people think I am a tea bagging right wing nut case, and that is kind of true. More importantly, I am not a fan of Mittens Romney, mostly because he was unkind to me and to his super gay son Tumbleweed Romney.

That said, if you or someone you know is old or young, elderly and or middle aged, they should watch this video for production value and quite possibly a secret message.

Here we come

My fiance and I are going to Canton Ohio to convince idiots to vote for Obama. Wait, I should not say idiots. We will be working to get undecided morons to vote for the president, I believe that's better. Actually we will be going door to door to talk to people and hopefully explain why they should vote for the better candidate in this election, it's that simple.

I'm not sure of my exact motivation for going to Ohio, except that it looks like the election will be decided there and I got a call from the Ohio Obama campaign and I said yes. Plus, this election seems like one of those election that is real important.

Now, earlier this year Mitt Romney put a Mormon Curse on me by saying the word Ishkabibble over 7 times during a conversation we had. Today, during a press event in Ohio, the former magic underwear wearing robotic governor of Massachusetts was asked if he were elected president would he continue to fund FEMA and he mumbled Ishkabibble and got in his limo and disppeared.

Canton Ohio is supposed to be nice this time of the year.

Hello Sandy

The winds last night were windy and the rain was wet. That was it. I know, there are cities and towns around the East that are deeply underwater, and even parts that have been hit hard by the bitch Sandy the storm with a pretty name.

What does it all mean? It probably means that President Obama wins, because he is looking all presidential while silly little Mittens stands on the sidelines in a nice suit and a stupid look on his blank face wondering what his handlers will have him say.

I'm the reason...

That free book? Not so free...

Remember about a week ago we were all about giving away that great book about how Mitten Romney was able to beat out a Satan worshiper, a fat guy looking for wife number seven and a stoned out of his mind Texas governor to win the chance to lie about everything and become president? Do you remember? Good, cause a lot of you downloaded that book, something about Mannequins and Newt, something. Anyway, you got it for free and for that, everyone from Jesus to Bill Clinton thanks you. Seriously, I asked, they do.

But, and this is a big but, bigger than a Kardashian Butt, but...You must now loan that electronic wonder-book to all your friends. Loan away, don't be shy, you are not betraying your trust with Jesus or Bill Clinton, trust me, I asked. Loan it out as fast as you can to as many friends as you have, even the fake ones on Facebook. Yes, your fake friends want to read about Mannequins and Santorum, or whatever it's called. Do it, loan it, send it off to Cuba. Do what you must.

Mount Zion

Ohio bound

For a week now the good folks with the Ohio Obama campaign have been calling me asking desperately if I would like to come to Ohio and help out. How can things like this happen? Well, I did volunteer for the convention, so they have my name and phone number. Strange thing, because I also volunteered for the republican convention, but Mitt and his gang of dopey morons have yet to call and ask if I would be willing to help out.
Either way, my partner and I are off to Ohio this week to knock on doors and convince the lonely and inept to get out of their homes and vote for the current president. If they bother to ask me why, I will tell them I really don't know, although I did walk around the grounds of the White House last week and was real impressed with the garden the First Lady has had planted. A beautiful garden she has going and I imagine a Romney garden would not be so pretty.
I doubt stupid undecided voters in Ohio care much about gardens. In fact, if anyone is really undecided at this point, they would either be brain damaged, dead, or just so flat out stupid they should not be voting anyhow.
Either way, I will knock on doors and ask if they is anything I can do to help them get to the polls and vote. I do have some experience with this sort of thing. When I first moved to Seattle I took a job working for the George H. Bush campaign, which is the good Bush, not the evil two term Bush that everyone seems to hate, but his father, the silly older Bush that every seems to forget. I worked all sorts of slacker type jobs for the Puget Sound Bush campaign and it paid well at the time and one of the long running jokes was how Bush would win because we were all getting paid for our menial work and door knocking silliness while those poor democrats just had volunteers doing the grunt work. So now, here it is, some 22 years later, or something like that, and I am a volunteer for a democratic president, doing basically the same song and dance I did for elder Bush so many years ago.
The funny thing is, the Romney campaign is in such shambles that they do not have the on the ground operation to have people calling me and begging me and my partner to come to Ohio and help. Not that we would, Romney is a halloween horror show that is scary to adults and children alike.
See you in Ohio.

Storm music

Condom style, at least I think that's the title

Ballsy move for Trump

You too could be anti-anything

I heart NY

Many years ago I was busy while sitting in the back of a cab in New York City and when I paid the fare, I accidentally left my cash filled wallet in the back seat. Of course I lost my mind and cried like a baby, which was appropriate.

A week or so later I received a small package in the mail, my wallet. All the cards, drivers license and cash were still there. The good people of New York hardly ever let you down.

Years later my beautiful daughter was also in a cab in New York City and she, being so much smarter than her suspected father, did not lose her wallet or purse or whatever it is women carry god knows what in, no she lost he super expensive cell phone.

Flash forward a week and a stranger send her some sort of electronic message via something called FacingBook or some such, asking in no uncertain words, "hey hot stuff, want you phone back?"

See? New York City is great.

Romney tax cuts explained

Headline of the day

Mitt Romney's Bain Helped U.S. High Schoolers Get Hooked On Marlboros

Branson 2 arriving soon?

Very true. All the rumors we have been spreading for months are somewhat true. The one about a new Branson detective novel? All true. Eyes of the Beholder is in a final edit and will be out in time for, oh let's say, Thanksgiving? Of course that would be for Americans. In the rest of the world, for those parts than enjoy a good detective novel all about the decadence and self inflicted insanity that is New York City, the novel should be available on Amazon.whatever in November.

Debate prep

Obama is gay and Romney is retarded

Cartoon election

Voters rights

A long dry spell ends

Bike ride

This should wake you up and probably make you want to get on a bike and go for a ride and if you're like me, looking at a beautiful warm fall day, chances are you will.
Enjoy.

Lying liars

I like people who lie, in fact for a little while I only dated psychotic liars because, well, because they were fun to listen to, but that is neither here nor there.
The point is, never lie infront of a camera.

Ice scream

It seemed inevitable that I would have to see my doctor after my most recent cycling mishap, so I called to make an urgent appoint with Indian born doctor Pootang Misanthrope, who is actually still training to be a doctor, but because I think he kind of likes me, the appointment was made for yesterday afternoon.

I made my way to Dr. Pootangs office, which is not a good place to visit because it almost always smells like cabbage, curry and sheep sweat, even on a cool fall day. I walked in and his super smart receptionist asked me my name and after I told her my name, she asked if I was a new patient and after I told her I had been there just the week before she asked me why I was there today and I reminded her that is was she who had made the phone appointment for me only hours earlier when I made my urgent request to see Dr. Pootang.

I sat and read a 3 year old Time Magazine and wondered when they gone out of business because they used to be a fine publication. Nurse Smokes-a-lot led me back to the exam room and I asked if she was going to weigh me and take my blood pressure and she looked at me and said, and I swear this is what she said, “will that really be necessary?”

“Well,” I said, kind of exhausted, “I thought that is what usually is done.”

“Yeah, you are overweight and have high blood pressure. So what are you here for today?”

I told Nurse Smokes-a-lot that I had fallen off my bike and injured my neck, so she pretended to show some interest, looked at the reddish blemish on my neck, coughed up some flem and said that Dr. Pootang would be in shortly.

I laid back on the exam table and took a nap. A short time for Dr. Pootang could be hours, especially if the curry is fresh.

Later that day Dr. Pootang walked in and said he had good news and bad news. I immediately said we should focus on the good news and he said, matter of fact-like, “well then, you should restrict you intake of foods for the next three days to ice cream.”

I stood immediately, put my pants back on as I sped out of the clinic, thanking Dr. Pootang and I almost fell at the doorway and he was mumbling something about the bad news, but with good news already clouding my judgment I could not be bothered.

Last night I was sitting naked on the couch, deep into my third pint of Ben and Jerrys double chocolate, mint, sesame, marijuana and cupcake royale when I heard a slight knock at the front door. It was not late and sometimes people knock on the front door, asking for directions, or to use the phone or just which is the new crack house in the neighborhood, such is the glamour of living in a gentrifying ghetto.

I forgot to put on any clothes and walked to the front door and opened it and I was just a little shocked to see my third wife Pocatello Penny standing at the door, a waif of her former self, small, petite and disarmingly cute as a button. “Hello Penny,” I said.

“You have no clothes on,” she said, obviously.

“That is true Penny. I do not have clothes on, but since you were once my lovely wife and have since moved on, as have I, I feel it unnecessary to play games with wardrobe.”

“Fair enough. I’m here for the kid,” she said, in all seriousness.

“Which one,” I answered, equally seriously.

“We only had one child. That would be the one I am here to claim.”

“Care to refresh my memory?” I asked, just a little bewildered, but by then the ice cream was showing signs of melting, my continued nudity was clearly visible to the street denizens and now a small crowd of neighbors was forming on the street, some of them my fellow Block Watch adherents, probably wondering why this stranger has lingered on my doorstep, knowing full well I could easily have directed anyone to the new crack house location in a single sentence.

Pocatello Penny pushed the front door open and looked up the stairs, calling out as she did this, “Elvis, are you up there?”

“Elvis is our child?”

“Are you retarded?” She asked in a rather vulgar sort of way that only an ex-wife seems capable of.

“Possibly, but I see that would not worry to you. What do you want Elvis for? You do know he is in the military?”

“Well, I am supposed to take him for the holidays, and he can’t be in the military, he’s only 13.”

“He looked older and what holidays? It’s October.”

“It’s the holiday visit I am supposed to take him, did you not read the divorce documents?” She asked, seemingly unaware that I remained completely naked, but I had in the meantime, closed the front door.

“I had no idea we were legally divorced.”

“Well we are and every three years in October I get Elvis for 3 days. I am here for those 3 days.”

“Yeah, well, like I said, he’s in the military. Would you like some ice cream?”

“Why don’t you have any clothes on?”

“Bike accident.”

“And the empty ice cream containers?”

“Doctors orders.”

She squinted her eyes at that one, but by then she had her hand in the silverware drawer and had pulled out a spoon. We sat on the couch and shared the pint of Ben and Jerry’s. Near the end, when I was on the last tasty bite of cupcake royal, she looked at me again and said, “what branch of the military is Elvis in?”

“Israeli, I think.” Then I took that last big bite and smiled. She smiled back, took both spoons, put them in the dishwasher and showed herself out of the house.

Artist talking

Philip Pearlstein: Naked Vision (Trailer) from Araby Williams on Vimeo.

Here's looking inside you

A friend called to say she is about to go to a doctor for some serious medical tests. Because I am a competitive dope, I asked, innocently, what sort of medical tests. Because I figured, even where medical tests are concerned, I could compete and possibly win when health is on the table and testing is being used.

She said she would be getting an MRI for the first time. Oh, I said, rather nonchalantly, a tube, acting as if being inside one of these monster machines was something I do on a monthly basis, which in fact is not true. “I’ve done that a couple of times,” I said, which on the face of it is true, but the fact is, I’ve had more than my fair share of MRI testing done.

“Yes, my first one, they are looking for breast cancer,” she said, without a trace of drama.

I asked if there had been other tests and she said there had been, and that this was a precaution. I told her to not worry about the MRI, they are kind of fun, which they are. A few weeks ago I was in the waiting room at a local hospital, waiting for my turn to lay on the platform and be sent into the giant tube. The waiting room is always dangerous because the people waiting for an MRI are almost always like my friend, worried about what the giant tube may be about to surprise them with, because an MRI is like a stalker with X-Ray vision, willing to look at parts of you without acknowledging pain, suffering or relationships.

I sat in the MRI waiting froom with a nice looking older woman who asked me why I was there and I lied and told her I had a headache, and she told me she had some spots on her liver. I reassured her that the MRI would be the perfect tool to find out just what those spots were. In fact, at some point I too had a diagnosis of spots on my liver and an MRI had found them to be just a shadow of something else and nothing important. I told the woman sitting next to me that story it seemed to bring her a momentary sense of calm. She asked me about my headaches and I smiled and told her they were no big deal, she said something about how they were a big enough deal to get an MRI and I said, not really and then the nurse came to take the spotty liver woman into the room with the MRI machine, I walked into the patient dressing room and retrieved my clothes and made my way to the exit. Sometimes testing for some things become more of a headache than the actual tests.

Modern medicine can do many things and then again, it can’t do a lot of things. We do not live forever and one of the things we are reminded of when we are laying on the platform of an MRI machine is that a million dollar machine that peers inside of our fragile little bodies reminds us that we indeed harbor these fragile little bodies and at any minute we might just go ahead and die. Why just yesterday my dog up and died, just like that, one minute she was watching Springer on the TV in Spanish and the next, she was laying on the floor, dead to the world.

Time is fleeting and at some point it’s over. I used to tell my children that it’s not the way you wrap a present, but the smile you get when it’s unwrapped. Even then they would look at me and say, “you really need to put down the pipe” and I would smile back and say “never”.

I called my friend after she had the MRI and she was anxiously waiting on the results, which really is the worst part of all medical tests. I had no words of encouragement for her, except to say that she was lucky to be getting tests and having doctors looking inside of her body and if they were to find something, experts who would prescribe proper medical treatment.

“You sound calm about this,” she said to me.

“I can be calm, I was not the one in the MRI machine.”

“Well, your calming words are welcome.”

“I do what I can,” I said. With that she said she appreciated my words of supposed wisdom and needed to take a nap. She hung up the phone and I sat looking at the wall, which has a drawing of me, my children and our recently deceased dog, all drawn by a very young child, so we are all stick figures and the dog looks a little too much like a bird, but I knew what the artist was trying to capture.

Free Mittens

It's true, you and all your close friends can still download a copy of Dancing with Mannequins and Idiots, the only book that explains how someone who wears Magic Underwear could lead win the primary and take over a right leaning republican party.
Click here and download it a million times, share with every single friend you have ever had and someday in the future, a giant party will be held, probably in early November.

Mitt calls for debate advice

It pains me to admit it, but a weekend playing basketball against a team of angry and bitter midgets has left me in more pain than I can fully describe. Probably worse than childbirth, but I am a man, I can only imagine what child birthing feels like, although I have witnessed numerous babies being born. I was there when all 17 of my own children were born and for a short while I pretended to be a chiropractor/gynecologist in a small Montana town and while there I must have witnessed 12 other babies being born. Most of the time it was not that big a deal, really.

At least for me.

The point is, when you are in as much pain as I am, and I was not joking, you play physical basketball for a weekend against some seriously angry midgets and you will no doubt know what its like to feel a serious amount of pain, much more pain than child birth would cause, of that I am sure. When I am in this much pain I like to do a few yoga poses to help my body relax, and there I was deep into a squatting dog with wet bisquit and my phone began to vibrate.

At times of deep meditation I like to turn my phone onto vibrate and sink it into my back pocket. It just so happens that in Deep Dog with Wet Bisquit you end up with the phone right in the middle of your butt cheeks and your face right next to it, so I let it ring for a few seconds while I thought about who might be so rude as to call while I was in such a fragile state. I could make out the image on the screen and it was a giant tumbleweed and I knew immediately it was one of the forlorn sons of the republican candidate for President of the United States, one Tumbleweed Romney.

We had met months earlier while I was covering the silly, retarded and contentious republican primary and he was, well I am not sure what any of the young zombie Romney boys do but stand around and hope against hope that a casting agent for the adult JCrew magazine happens by. No such luck, but my phone continued to seduce me with its innocent vibrating and I reached around and pushed a button, “hello Tumble, what’s up?”

Mitt: “It’s Mitt, not Tumbleweed. Why do you call him Tumble, I don’t even call him Tumble.”

Me: “Mitt? Why are you using Tumbleweeds cellphone?”

Mitt: “Technology has me all messed up. I need some advice, off the grid if you know what I mean.”

Me: “ I don’t.”

Mitt: “I have a debate against the worst president in history and if you believe the liberal media I am about to lose the election and I need some advice from someone who is not stealing me blind.”

Me: “Good that you called. I’m the perfect guy for the job.”

Mitt: “Great. Let’s hear it.”

Me: “Let’s hear what?”

Mitt: “I need zingers for the debate, something to throw old Mr. Cool off this game.”

Me: “OK, First, admit right off the top that you’re an idiot.”

Mitt: “What’s that again?”

Me: “Look, over the past few months you seem to have gone out of your way to look like a foolish idiot not ready to run a neighborhood McDonalds, much less president of the fading last great super power. Use that in your favor. Admit you might not be the smartest guy on the stage, nod at the president and smile that fake smile of yours, and then say, “then again, the president has a big giant remarkable brain and all he has done is ruin our country.”

Mitt: “That might just work. I’m writing that down. Anything else?”

Me: “Yes, always refer to the president as “the first black president of the United States,” every time you say anything to him, say that.”

Mitt: “I don’t get it.”

Me: “Play the race card Mitt, all those rednecks and crackers need to be reminded, this man is Black. After a few times reminding them, start with a little more, like, “as much as I respect the opinion of the first Hawaiian born black president of the United States, I disagree. See how that works?”

Mitt: “I think so.”

Me: “Then, next chance, “see, there you go again and I expected more from the first non-Muslim, Hawaiian born, black president of the United States.”

Mitt: “Oh my.”

Me: “By the end of the debate you will fill you final statement just by thanking the “socialist, possible Kenyan, cigarette smoking, bisexual, gun-toting, gang member, Christian hating, over-educated, smug, possibly non-Muslim, Hawaiian born, first black president of the United States. I promise he will be completely off his game. Later, when people accuse you of being completely insensitive, just remind them how stupid you are.”

Mitt: “Brilliant.”

Me: “For debate two I would recommend you wear a wife beater t-shirt to show off your full upper body tattoo, that should win over the Cholo and illegal Mexican vote right there.”

Mitt: “I’ll have to get more tattoos. Any suggestions on winning over the women vote?”

Me: “Call congressman Todd Akin, he seems completely tuned in on the women’s issues.”

With that I hung up and reminded myself of the troubled history I had with the Romney clan and the terrible Mormon curse Mitt had put on me by chanting the word Ishkabbile 17 times during a cold Iowa winter. Oh those were the days.

Free copy of "Dancing with Mannequins and Idiots" here.

Dude, you slapped a fish

Free Mannequins

In honor of the first presidential debate, it seems a good time to look back on the Republican presidential primary season to find out how Mitt Romney actually won the right to debate at all.
Need some answers and need them free? Beginning Monday and for 3 days you and every single friend you have from Paris Texas to Paris France can download a copy of Dancing with Mannequins and Idiots - the most comprehensive and incisive book into the inner workings of the Republican process of picking a winner quite possibly ever written*.

*Bill O'Reilly

Oh boy...

Seahawks win the Super Bowl

Talking about unnatural sex

The problem with Mitt talking...

All a memory

I don’t know much about how things get here or where they came from. Let me back up a second. I am writing a book about memory, both my long gone mothers last few years as she lost a battle to Alzheimers and my own fantastic little battle with a Traumatic Brain Injury that sometimes has led to the most hilarious experiences with an almost complete lack of any short term memory.

That said, sometimes things are just outright confusing, like this morning. I was standing in my kitchen preparing to make some coffee, which is part of my daily routine. The bean grinder made all the same noises it has always made and when I checked, there were no ground coffee beans to add to the drip machine, which was not so surprising, because for as long as I could remember, this particular grinder has been a part of my life, which got me thinking, how long has that actually been the case and where did it come from?

See, the real joy and frustration of no memory are moments just like that one, the inability to know much about anything that has a role in my life. I was alone in the kitchen trying to figure out how to grind coffee beans by hand when I started to wonder where that particular grinder may have come from and it dawned on me how little I knew about my own life.

The grinder had died, that much was clear, another object to be replaced, but where did it come from and when? I would never know, so I used a food processor to adequately grind some coffee beans and that too left me wondering. See, I hardly ever use a food processor for anything and for the life of me I could never imagine having used it to grind coffee beans. Then I got to thinking, where did the food processor come from and when did it become a part of my life? It’s not like I ever wanted one.

For many people not knowing what happened recently would be something of a godsend and I would imagine, if I gave it much thought, that would be the case for me too, but sometimes it’s just flat out disturbing. I have been doing a lot of “editing” of late, getting rid of clothes and cameras, books and bedding that I never used or never would use again, just bringing boxes and bags of stuff to my local Goodwill. In some ways it’s kind of nice to just get ride of “stuff” but in other ways, it is remarkable acknowledging how much of these things have no resonant value in my memory. I have no clue where any of them came from and why they are in my closets, bathrooms or kitchen. It’s as if I have been asked to clean the house of someone I kind of know.

Republican candidate for president, Flipper Flopper

Strength in pain

Dumb people vote too

Yeah, when you talk with people who vote, it can get kind of scary.

I saw it too

Recently I was lucky enough to find a hidden surprise in my mail that has somehow allowed the ads to return to this little blog, which is nice and so, I am doing my best to update and keep things relevant, except I was just waltzing though this mess and noticed on one of the ads, a link to King Mitt Romneys site, which is cool, since I am a registered republican and all, but I am not one of those inbed republicans who votes republicans down the line because I think republicans are better Americans.

No, I am not one of those. So, it is strange to see my ads asking people to support this moronic mormon candidate that I could never imagine myself supporting. That said, this is America and maybe you should click on over and see what the Mittster has to say today about what he said yesterday, because on almost an hourly basis, he flips, then he flops and soon enough, he flips right back again.

It's fun and sad. All at the same time. Enjoy.

Mumfording

Stick it

Have you ordered some stickers from the unrelated site that is somewhat related to this site? You should. Want to know why? You could win yourself one of those new fangled Ipads. That much is true.

All you have to do is order some stickers, stick them, email or text in some amazing sort of photos of well placed stickers, like the one at the White House, and then you too could win an Ipad. The contest continues and everyone is welcome to compete.

Below is a perfect example of how easy it is to take a picture and start the ball rolling. This is a sticker added to a gas pump at some unknown Costco in, well, I don't know, probably Kansas or Cuba or someplace. See, the great thing about people sending in these pictures is they come from all over the place, Dubai and Portland and every other god forbidden backwater.

So click on over and start the ball rolling.

Blind drunk

I no longer drive a car and the world thanks for me for that. Lately to attend my daughters soccer games I have been riding my fat tired Cannondale to the high school. A few days ago I was riding home from the game and while the cars waited patiently in line at a red light, I rode to the right of them and illegally passed and rode up the hill.

Last night I was again on my way home from a game and approached the same red light and cars were again backed up, but instead of passing on the right, this time I pulled behind the last car and waited my turn. I had my light on in front and a blinking red light on the back. The light turned green and the cars moved forward, as did I. As they cleared the intersection I began to make the right turn and at that instant the driver who had been waiting to make a left proceeded to do so, as if I never existed.

Of course, I had the right of way. I have every legal right to be on that road. I was wearing a bright white shirt and my bike shorts have fibers that glow when lights hit them. My front light is a halogen and it was blinking obnoxiously. You would have to be blind or drunk to miss me as badly as that driver did.

I was two inches from having a blind drunk pull my front tire under his Jeep. Two inches. I made it up onto the sidewalk. He never slowed or acknowledged that I was even there or yelling every obscene word ever known.

Then I rode home and sat in the living room for a while and thought about those two inches. I’ve been listening to the Avett Brothers lately.

“And when the black dress drags upon the ground
I’ll be ready to surrender
And remember we’re all in this together
If I live the life I’m given I won’t be scared to die”

Gay marriage

Since I am secretly getting all married and eloping and stuff and I support everyones right to marry in basically any form they want to marry the love of their life, I wanted to share this video and ask you to go ahead and click away and support love too.

Thinking of adopting a pirate?

As I think everyone knows by now I recently adopted a Somali pirate for no real good reason other than I was bored. Seriously, if you think about it, what good is a pirate in a land locked area like Pittsburgh? Although, there was some interest by the local somewhat professional baseball team, ironically enough nicknamed the Pirates, but once they found out my real pirate both enjoyed raping, pillaging and murdering, they lost all interest in hiring him as a mascot.

So now it’s just me and Tim. To be clear, Tim is not the pirates real name, but out of respect to his family and the fact that I can’t for the life of me begin to spell his real name, I call him Tim.

I am neither a complainer or a democrat, so my tolerance for the great differences of other cultures is limited, to say the least, so when the giant FedEx box arrived a few weeks ago from Somali carrying Tim and his super cool pirate flag I was both excited and dismayed because I thought, “oh a pirate, how fun,” until I realized that a real life pirate is not only not a lot of fun, but is, in reality, a pain in the ass.

First off, Tim barely speaks English, or at least he pretends to not speak English, which is fine with me. That much became clear as I opened the box and he said, “gets me fuck out of here bloke.” I mean, seriously, that sort of language is really reserved for, oh I don’t know, a drunken flight attendant on a JetBlue red eye?
Anyway, the point was, I paid 35 bucks for my pirate and the least he could do was show up with a friendly attitude. That was what I thought the least he could do, but I was dead wrong.

Pirates don’t like to play catch. I guess that should go without saying, but it’s true. The first afternoon with our family, Tim and my oldest son Biff were out in the field playing what I thought was catch, until Biff came into the kitchen with a knife stuck in his shoulder claiming that Tim had stuck him and laughed until he gave up his wallet.

Pirates pee outside. I guess it should go without saying, but pirates are not really housebroken, and let your mind focus on that while I continue.

Finally, the return policy for unwanted pirates sucks, big time. First off, the phone calls to the Somali adopt-a-pirate gang almost always go unanswered and believe you me, customer service is the key to all good business nowadays. You want a happy customer, answer your damn phone. Even then, I am pretty sure that I would not want to keep Tim as my own pirate. If not for the stabbings, the thieving and the thefts, Tim is not a nice pirate.

Pirates spit and cuss. If you watch fun little pirate movies and think to yourself that you might want a pirate or two living in your home, think again. See, in most movies, you can not smell what the living conditions are like on those boats, or homes or wherever it is that the pirates are living. Now, after a week or two of having a pirate actually living with you, I can tell you that the only thing worse is having an ostrich family living in your master bedroom, which I am also trying to get rid of, but the own-an-ostrich hotline completely refuses to return my calls.

Mitt is trying to lose the election as fast as possible

White boys dance

My cat is a drunk

I put up with a lot. I don’t say that to brag or anything, but it’s true. When my lesbian dog came out of the proverbial closet, I acted as if it was as natural as the day is long, none of my business was my attitude and truth be told, it really is none of my business, what she does with another dog of the same gender much less same breed, I could care less. Really, although I don’t think she and her “partner” should raise puppies together, I am the last person who should make decisions on things like that.

I am a conservative republican and it pains me to say that, because hypocrites like Mitt Romney and drug abusing multi-married Rush Limbaugh have tarnished the brand, but the fact is, I think adults of any species should be allowed to lead complex lives of their own choosing as long as they are responsible. Which is why this morning when my freakishly sexually challenged cat admitted to being an out and out alcoholic I lost my shit.

“Look,” I said, seriously, “I can deal with your promiscuity and lack of morals, and I can deal with the different baby daddies and I can even deal with the late in life lesbianism, but really, the morning beer drinking, followed by the unpleasant afternoons of tequila shots leading to late night binges of Zeldameisters and god knows what you do when I am sleeping, I am just at the end of my rope here.”

She was passed out on the kitchen floor and not listening to a word I said. This is how she deals with my heavy handed criticism. Sometimes she gives me that unforgiving look, like I am just another man who does not understand her burden.

I know a lot about women, I have been married quite a few times and when not married, I have danced with numerous others. Just a few weeks ago my third wife Backwoods Becky asked me a very serious question, “what the fuck?” I just nodded knowingly and that seemed to be enough for her. Backwoods Becky may have been my second favorite of all my ex-wives.

Here is what I know about alcoholics, they are often fun at parties, but they make the very worst designated drivers, unless you are in Mexico, which in that case they are fine drivers. The closer you get to the equator, the less alcohol affects the central nervous system, that’s a fact, you can look that up in the medical journals.

I was recently at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting and this guy named Jim stood up and said he was the comptroller for the city of Plottsberg, which is a small hamlet nearby, so I figured he was at our local meeting so people would not recognize him. He told this sad story about how his wife had left him with the kids and to fund his alcoholism he had been stealing from the cities redevelopment fund and was sure that someday, someone would catch him and he would certainly face jail time and not some cushy federal jail but probably some serious state prison where people don’t play tennis.

Jim had all sorts of sad stories and lucky for him the meeting was pretty much anonymous because telling about how he was stealing from the hamlet of Plottsberg would ruin him if word got out. Anyway, the point of all this is that at some point in history drunk people were kind of fun and funny, but now I find them more and more just sort of laying about on my kitchen floor, throwing up hairballs and spitting out countless unwanted kittens and to be honest, I am kind of tired of it.

It comes here to pass

I met Betty Rubble on the suburban streets of Bainbridge Island 12 years ago while I was riding my bike and she was vigorously walking a beach road. I almost ran her over and she screamed something profane at me, I had these headphones in my ears and I think I was listening to U2 at the time, so I could not hear a word she said, but I slowed and turned my bike around, and then I removed an earbud and stopped and waited, she approached and I asked if she had said something to me.

“Yes, I said you’re an asshole and should learn to ride a bicycle.” She continued to walk.

I nodded and put the earbud back in, turned the bike around, started to peddle, harder and faster until I passed her again on her left and dug in and rode away. At that time in my life I rode five or six days a week, rain or shine, almost every day at 10 in the morning. It was my ritual, it was both a punishment and a joy. There was never really a reason I started, although a painful divorce did coincide with the more serious riding, I kept at it, pushing myself, year after year, harder and faster until I was in the best shape of my life, a serious, daily cyclist.

I started to see Betty Rubble often out on the roads and in the various parks, walking. At some point I stopped at the Tree House Café for a quick coffee and she was sitting there and I grabbed my coffee and sat with her. She was wearing a tight, dark pair of runners winter tights, a gray lycra zip up top of some sort and something in her hair that pulled it all back in a bunch. Her face was clean and white, not quite a China doll, but very clear and pristine.

“You know who I am?” I asked.

“I know you ride your bike a lot.”

“You called me an asshole a couple months ago.”

“OK.”

“Kind of hurt my feelings.”

“Yeah, looks like you spent a lot of time doing a lot of crying and in deep introspection.”

“That and I drink more.”

“Is that helping to ease the pain?”

“Nope, I’m still an asshole.”

“I can tell. My name is Betty, Betty Rubble.”

“I’m Matt.”

From then on I would slow and chat while I was out and about on my cycle. We would have coffee, we exchanged phone numbers and we would meet. We became fast friends. Betty was tall, dark haired, fair skinned, thin, athletic, almost always smiling, naturally stunning and alluring in the most intense way imaginable. She married Fred Flintstone 5 years earlier, they had a 3 year old son named Barney and they seemed very happy with one another. How could they not be, she was amazing, he was some sort of male model, athlete attorney or something. Perfect really.

I liked Fred Flintstone, he was a man who seemed at peace with himself. I am not sure I could pull off his calmness, because here I was a cyclist in skin tight lycra shorts, meeting his wife out on the road, for a coffee now and then, sometimes downtown for a donut, we laughed and joked. He knows she and I are enjoying ourselves and yet he does not seem to care in the least. I had met him, we had talked, he seemed like a grounded man. He did not view me as any sort of competition for his wife, which was fine, because I never had been, but my question always remained, how did he know that?

That never really mattered though, how he knew, if he knew or if he just did not care if his beautiful and seductive wife was flirting with the guy on the super sleek Italian cycle. Some men were just not the jealous type.

There is a pier at Point White and sometimes, when I was slow and tired, I would ride my speedy racing cycle down to that pier and instead of continuing to ride, I would just get off my bike and walk out onto the wooden planks and sit over the water and watch fish. I know, thinking back on it I am amazed at how incredibly boring it sounds, but when you consider days of cycling, often the same roads, sometimes over a hundred miles a day, loafing on a pier on a warm spring day staring down on fish swimming below is not really all that bad.

I was laying face down on the pier, watching the small salmon doing some sort of happy primitive dance and someone walked up and laid down next to me, uncomfortably close, I don’t really like a lot of physical contact. I turned to my right, it was Betty. She was radiant, even more so than usual. We were just inches apart, her lips gently touched with a shade of color, but her face naturally tanned and supple. Our eyes met, she did not say anything. I could sense her breath. The closeness shook me. At that point, we were friends and there was a tension when we were with one another, not necessarily a sexual tension, but certainly a palpable chemistry that neither of us seemed to know what to do with, nor to even acknowledge. I just held my stare and we were both looking at one another, but seeing more than one another, for a second, the world slowed, for just a moment we were completely alone, the salmon stopped swimming, there was no traffic on the nearby road and the wind blew to a quiet hush. There was something in her eyes and then there was a tear. All of a sudden, what had been a peaceful scene filled with some sort of hope was now dread and not a word had been spoken. My head gently shook from side to side, hardly noticeable, but then she shook her head, almost in response, subtly up and down. A tear formed in my eye and slid down my cheek.

“Breast cancer,” she sort of whispered.

“Yeah.”

“He’s 3 fuckin’ years old.”

“Yeah,” I said, not so much a response as having nothing else I could muster.

We stared at each other for a long time. Then she said, “why are you laying on the pier?”

“Watching the fish.” Then we both laid face down, side by side, and stared at the fish. Her left hand, above her head, my right hand, reaching out, holding it. I liked that feeling. We laid there for what may have been forever. I asked if Fred had known and she said she had yet to tell him and asked me what she should do. I started to cry, laying there, my tears raining down on the swimming salmon. They did not know better.

“You tell him, he loves you, he truly loves you, he will do what he does. You are a beacon and you are healthy.”

Betty held my hand and the world began to spin again, slowly, but still it spun, as it should.

All that comes, it comes here to pass.

Carpenter

Zelda Marcos hates the Yankees of New York

“Oh dos fawking Yankees,” she said and pushed through my front door and into my kitchen, handing me a meat pie, a warm bottle of Pyramid ale and a swift punch in the face. Zelda Marcos is many things, bank robber, republican operative, season five Spanish language Idol runner up and low priced prostitute and sometime meat pie delivery person. She was all those things and a woman who likes gloves.

Zelda liked to say that you can judge a woman by the gloves she wears. That and how much hatred she can muster for the Yankees, which for Zelda was a lot. This I knew for a fact because a few weeks ago when the Yankees beat the Orioles Zelda stopped by and when I opened the door she kicked me in the balls and said, “what you think about that you fawking Yankee lovin’ son of bitch.” Then she left a really good turkey pot pie that the kids and I had for dinner.

I am a small business owner, the type President Obama seems obsessed with putting out of business and the type Mitt Romney would just as soon buy, bankrupt and sell off to China, so I am one of those. But as a small business owner, one of the things I pride myself on is customer service. See, the thing that makes me different from, say, WalMart is that when you call me, I answer the phone. When you call WalMart, someone in Bangalore answers and they hate you.

When you call Zelda Marcos House of Meat Pie Delivery Service a lot of the time you get a message that says this: “hello, this is Zelda.” That’s it. Nothing about what it is, why you might want to leave a message, nothing.

Then, if you are like me, you might leave information, like your address and that you would like to schedule some meat pie deliveries, something like that, what you get next is something you might not expect. You might even leave your phone number. If you are like me, you would then expect to get some sort of confirmation phone call, but if you were me, a phone call would never come. Instead, you would begin to have infrequent meat pie deliveries and sometimes a beating, ass kicking or just a beligerant rant from an angry Zelda Marcos who may or may not be drunk, high or both. She hates the New York Yankees, as do most people in America, but she hates the Yankees with a passion most people reserve for hating, well, the New York Yankees.

My greatest fear at this point is the dreaded possibility that the Yankees win the World Series, I can only imagine what Zelda would do if that happens. That said, the way they play and choke, I think, for this year at least, I am safe with just a severe beating, nothing more serious. Then again, her pulled pork meat pie was delicious after last years surprise playoff win against the Brewers.

For that, I kind of hope the Yankees at least make it to the second round. October for me means two things, a good ass kicking from Zelda Marcos and some damn fine Meat Pies.

Waking music

Paper or plastic

I spent a majority of this past summer in Seattle and while that city gets many things right, from planting itself next to great mountains and ending near beautiful water, it got some things wrong, requiring most women to belong to tribes of lesbians to name just one, but clearly one thing Seattle is getting right is requiring people to pay attention to the choice of being stupid or smart.
The choice of paper or plastic for most lazy Americans is really so 1980’s that it should be illegal in every state except Texas which is not really so much a state as it is a penal colony at this point. No, Seattle allows you to use plastic at the checkout at your favorite store, but if you choose to use a plastic bag you pay for it, as you should.
See, the problem with most of us, is we don’t pay for the damage we do. We waddle through life, using and abusing all that is around us, throwing garbage on the ground and expecting someone else to clean up our mess and waddling off as if big momma government will fix all our problems. Then, as if we are spoiled idiotic children, we demand the big momma of government lower our taxes and cut programs, the very programs that hire even more idiots who carry bags around to pick up the trash that these same idiots throw on the ground, see how it works?
So what should we do? Could we just be adults and stop throwing our shit on the ground? No way in hell. Just a few weeks ago I was walking off a ferry in Seattle and a young man was walking in front of me, holding hands with what I presumed to be his hideous girlfriend and in his other hand, he was drinking a large McDonalds sugar filled drink and oh how the god mayor of New York would have a field day with a moron like this guy, because not a minute later this pathetic excuse for a human would decide he was done with his drink and not bother to use one of Seattles numerous trash cans, no he just dropped it into the street. That is how people deploy their garbage, not just in Seattle mind you where hippies and liberals actually have a say in how people behave, but in super conservative enclaves like Denver and the super porcine state of Florida.
The problem, one of many, is of course we have become a nation of imbeciles and self centered assholes. Who else feels entitled to drink gallons of soda and on a whim drop the container into a street? Imbeciles and assholes, that’s who.
One easy solution is to charge morons for the right to do things, like drink large sodas that most humans can neither drink, hoist or carry (like New York City is planning to do) and charge these same lame idiots to use a plastic bag, which Seattle does now. Why charge for a plastic bag? Because stupids can not be trusted to do anything the right way. It’s true, we can’t trust stupid people to do much right, they can’t drive, they can’t raise children and they most certainly can’t dispose of plastic bags in any sort of proper way. Seattle charges you if you want to use a plastic bag and it’s about time.
I think the charge is five cents a bag and that is not nearly enough. In a more perfect world the charge should be 5 dollars for the first plastic bag and fifty bucks for any bag after that. Why? First, it would limit the use of the bags, which really is the purpose of the charges and second, it would stop stupids from using bags at all, because quite honestly, what we are trying to do as a society at this point is limit the stupids from doing more damage than what they are already doing, isn’t it?
Seriously, smart and caring people never did use plastic, they always carried recycled bags into Whole Foods and you know it. No, the law in Seattle was designed to punish and embarrass the stupid and the immature, like the soda drink dropper I witnessed, it is a way to teach the stupids a lesson their stupid parents were too lazy to instill in them. As a society we have grown weary of prisons and schools that do not have the time to keep repeating and teaching morons the same things that responsible parents should have instilled into children during formative years decades ago, so we now just charge them for the lessons.
Seattle and New York may be testing grounds, but the rest of the country will catch up, because the truth is, we can’t allow the idiots and the dummies to run the country. We see it all the time, stupids demand better roads and better schools and at the same time deeper cuts in taxes, never bothering to wonder how you can have both. So, while we can not go back to teach fundamental math to morons, we can still do the simple things, like charge meatheads for the damage they do to the world, at a nickel a shot.