Tuesday, March 27, 2012
A picture for fifty bucks
The incredibly biased lame stream media is reporting that you can now have your picture taken with the disgraced former speaker of the House of Representatives Willard Mitt Newt Gingrich for the unmanly sum of fifty American Dollars. It really is kind of sad when you think about how this guys life must be like riding the world’s harshest roller coaster on the worlds best high grade meth.
Just a few months ago the porcine pasty white former congressman from Georgia was gleefully telling anyone with a microphone that every other candidate seeking the nomination should leave the race because he had taken the lead in every poll and the people knew what they wanted. Newt was in his element, planning his inauguration, talking about what his second term would be like and plotting his fourth, fifth and sixth wedding ceremonies.
Within 3 weeks he was in fifth place in every poll and dropping and no one would ever take him seriously again. Today it was announced that if you wanted to have one of those joke pictures taken with the former speaker and current prostitute in training, he would do so for cash on the spot. That’s true, Newt is so desperate that he is no longer even trying to hide that his services in any form are for sale.
For such a smart man, he sure can come off as a complete moron. I was actually going to cobble together 50 bucks and go ahead and take the dive and have my picture taken with the obese and egotistical disgraced former speaker, but really, how many naked pictures of Newt Gingrich does someone really have to add to their collection?
Just a few months ago the porcine pasty white former congressman from Georgia was gleefully telling anyone with a microphone that every other candidate seeking the nomination should leave the race because he had taken the lead in every poll and the people knew what they wanted. Newt was in his element, planning his inauguration, talking about what his second term would be like and plotting his fourth, fifth and sixth wedding ceremonies.
Within 3 weeks he was in fifth place in every poll and dropping and no one would ever take him seriously again. Today it was announced that if you wanted to have one of those joke pictures taken with the former speaker and current prostitute in training, he would do so for cash on the spot. That’s true, Newt is so desperate that he is no longer even trying to hide that his services in any form are for sale.
For such a smart man, he sure can come off as a complete moron. I was actually going to cobble together 50 bucks and go ahead and take the dive and have my picture taken with the obese and egotistical disgraced former speaker, but really, how many naked pictures of Newt Gingrich does someone really have to add to their collection?
Monday, March 26, 2012
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Saturday, March 24, 2012
I get magazines
I get all sorts of magazines. Recently, while recovering from a fairly serious toe job, I was laying on my couch reading a financial advice magazine, enjoying the pretty pictures and the blurred words, have I mentioned I was wasted on pain medication? At some point it was time for me to pass out again and I laid the magazine cover down on the table next to the couch and proceeded to doze. When I woke, there I noticed a full page add for the latest version of the Apple 4S phone and its magic Siri talking phone feature. The add featured the phone finding the best spots for coffee shops and the phone had a digital map. First on the phones read out was my favorite coffee shop of all time and I took that as a sign.
Ritual Coffee from Matt Bertles on Vimeo.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Republican pancakes in Baton Rouge
There’s a swell Ihop in Baton Rouge off highway 10 on College Drive that really is to die for. I am not sure what makes this one that much more special that the millions of other Ihops around America, but for me, this particular Ihop spoke in a language that was part French, part Native American and part Russian immigrant and all of them were clearly telling me, the silly republican nomination procedural is officially over and a pancake is a good way to celebrate.
It’s true. No matter what stupid thing Mitt Romney will say today or tomorrow or anytime over the next few months, he will be the nominee and he may very well be the next president. That much is true.
I got a booth all to myself and I quickly noticed the elderly busboy clearing the table directly across from me. Now, I have no problem with older Americans continuing to work into their golden years. I see these people now at fast food restaurants and WalMarts and I figure one of two things, they either retired and got bored or they worked for one of the companies that Mitt Romneys investment team purchased, devoured all the assets from and sold off into bankruptcy, leaving the employees penniless and without their pensions. I never ask, I am kind of shy.
The old man had a plastic bin that he was filling wildly, just both hands moving at light speed, two plates flying in from one direction, a bunch of silverware from another, I think I saw a catsup bottle tossed in at one point, then I know I saw an assortment of syrups thrown in, and that did not seem right. He was only a few feet away, working at his outragous pace, but I also knew he must be under a great deal of stress, but he would get fired if his manager saw him wasting catsup and syrup, so I quietly said, “excuse me, hey, sir, excuse me.” He turned quickly around, looked me in the eye, his eyes spinning and unfocused, his hair greased back from sweat and kitchen oil. He looked vaguely familiar. As I studied his face I realized he was Ron Paul.
“You’re Ron Paul,” I said.
“Yeah, so?”
“Well, aren’t you still running for president?”
“Don’t have any more money. Hell, I’m like the United States government, I can’t pay my bills. I had to take a second job to pay for signs for people to put in their yards.”
“Is that right.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, congressman, it’s probably not such a good idea to trash the syrups and catsup, I think those are supposed to be left behind.”
“Say’s who? Seems kind of dirty to me. One family sharing their germs with the next. No, I throw it all out.”
“Well, OK then.”
He turned and went back to clearing the table. I turned to focus on my menu and it was a beautiful menu, with pictures of the choices of pancakes and waffles and bacon and sausage and an assortment of artery clogging foods that are some of the best foods available in this entire world. Right as I was about to decide on the stack of three blueberry pancakes, a pudgy, pale white hand pushed a glistening cup of water down in front of me and I heard the lisping nasally chant, “may I take your order sir?” I knew that lisp. I knew that pale what hand. I did not even need to look up, my pudgy pasty white waitress had to be the former disgraced speaker of the house and now laughingstock of the entire republican party, one Newt Gingrich.
I looked up smiling broadly. “Newt, good to see you. Good to see you actually working. What, your job as a DC whore has dried up?”
“I’m laying low until the convention.”
“Probably smart. So are you going to take my order?”
“Oh sure,” he reached around to his back pocket, which is not easy for such a corpulent little tyrant like Newt and he pulled out a pad, removed a pen from his sweat stained shirt pocket and looked at me, his little beady eyes all a twinkle.
“I think I’d like a small stack of blueberry pancakes.”
“That’s it? Any sides? They want us to push sausage.”
“Oh Newt, still pushing pork, must feel just like home for you. No, my people do not eat pork. I’ll stick with the stack of pancakes. Thanks.”
He waddled off. I wondered how this could have happened, two of the final four contenders for the GOP nomination working at the same Ihop? What were the chances that just happens? Ten to one maybe? I did not know. Actually when you think about it, when people lose elections, they just kind of disappear. That woman that lost to Barack Obama, in the democrat primaries, no one ever hears about her anymore.
A few minutes later the pudgy waiter came out with a short stack of pancakes in one hand and an array of syrups in the other. The beads of sweat from his pasty white forehead causing me some concern, because if one of those beads was to make it way onto my luscious pancakes, the world would not hear the end of it. Lucky for me, Newt is a much better waiter than he was speaker because he set the pancakes down sweat free, followed closely by the syrups. “Will there be anything else Jew?”
“What’s that?”
“I said, will there be anything else sir?”
“A little more coffee please. Hey wait a second. What the hell is wrong with these pancakes?”
“You haven’t even tasted them, how could there be anything wrong with them?”
“Have you seen them?” My voice was getting a little louder, at least loud enough that wildly meth altered Ron Paul slowed for a second while clearing a far off table, looked over, decided I was not a police officer and went back to scrubbing dried syrup off a tabletop.
“I have seen them, this is our classic short stack.”
“Yeah, well, these are all in the shape of a Jesus fish, the kind people put on the back of their car, these even have Jesus written in the middle using blueberries. What the fuck is going on here?”
It was at that very moment that the dopey looking chef walked around the corner, another white guy who looked incredibly familiar, way too familiar actually and dammit I thought to myself, is that Rick Santorum?
“Is there a problem here?” The former senator from Pennsylvania said in that monotonous way he has of speaking that makes him sound both humble and boring.
“The fuck there’s a problem here, first who said you could make Jesus fish pancakes? You realize not everyone wants to celebrate Christianity while eating pancakes?”
“Well, they should.”
“Of course, in your strange little no-birth control world that would make sense, but in the place I like to live, which incidentally is called the real world, we like our pancakes as close to round as possible. I don’t want my pancakes preaching to me. Oh, and why are you a short order cook? I thought you were still running for president.”
“No one takes me seriously.”
“Some people do.”
“Not enough to elect me president.”
“Duh, that was the case a year ago, 6 months ago, 1 month ago and forever. So now you fuck with peoples head one person at a time by making pancakes in the form of a Jesus fish?”
“It’s my calling.”
“I thought your family was your calling.”
“Have you seen my family. Once I realized I had no chance of winning I got together with the other mousketeers, that’s what we started to call ourselves, and we started to mind meld and think about our future. Newt stepped back, figured his days taking money from DC insiders to get them close to republican congressional whores was over. Ron Paul needs rehab, but until then he makes a remarkable busboy and me, well, I kept looking over at my wife and my kids and I kept thinking, if I gave up this campaign and moved back to Brickenbrack Pennsylvania and started farming or something, I’d lose it, so me and the other mousketeers started working here.”
“This Ihop in Baton Rouge just happened to be hiring a cook, waiter and busboy?”
“Newt killed the entire day staff, opened up a lot of hours for us.”
“Wow, Newt really does know how to make things happen.”
“He has his way. So, those pancakes are getting cold, you want me to make you some new ones?”
“Can you make regular pancakes?”
“Yeah, I call those obama lover pancakes. Eat them in shame.”
“ I will.”
The former senator took my Jesus fish pancakes and disappeared back into the kitchen, followed by Ron Paul carrying a bucket of dirty dishes. Newt was across the dining room taking the breakfast order from a couple that looked remarkably like Marcus and Michelle Bachmann and all of a sudden I was no longer hungry. I ran to my car, got in and drove to New Orleans and prepared for the final chapter in this incredibly strange and sad little republican race to no where in particular.
It’s true. No matter what stupid thing Mitt Romney will say today or tomorrow or anytime over the next few months, he will be the nominee and he may very well be the next president. That much is true.
I got a booth all to myself and I quickly noticed the elderly busboy clearing the table directly across from me. Now, I have no problem with older Americans continuing to work into their golden years. I see these people now at fast food restaurants and WalMarts and I figure one of two things, they either retired and got bored or they worked for one of the companies that Mitt Romneys investment team purchased, devoured all the assets from and sold off into bankruptcy, leaving the employees penniless and without their pensions. I never ask, I am kind of shy.
The old man had a plastic bin that he was filling wildly, just both hands moving at light speed, two plates flying in from one direction, a bunch of silverware from another, I think I saw a catsup bottle tossed in at one point, then I know I saw an assortment of syrups thrown in, and that did not seem right. He was only a few feet away, working at his outragous pace, but I also knew he must be under a great deal of stress, but he would get fired if his manager saw him wasting catsup and syrup, so I quietly said, “excuse me, hey, sir, excuse me.” He turned quickly around, looked me in the eye, his eyes spinning and unfocused, his hair greased back from sweat and kitchen oil. He looked vaguely familiar. As I studied his face I realized he was Ron Paul.
“You’re Ron Paul,” I said.
“Yeah, so?”
“Well, aren’t you still running for president?”
“Don’t have any more money. Hell, I’m like the United States government, I can’t pay my bills. I had to take a second job to pay for signs for people to put in their yards.”
“Is that right.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, congressman, it’s probably not such a good idea to trash the syrups and catsup, I think those are supposed to be left behind.”
“Say’s who? Seems kind of dirty to me. One family sharing their germs with the next. No, I throw it all out.”
“Well, OK then.”
He turned and went back to clearing the table. I turned to focus on my menu and it was a beautiful menu, with pictures of the choices of pancakes and waffles and bacon and sausage and an assortment of artery clogging foods that are some of the best foods available in this entire world. Right as I was about to decide on the stack of three blueberry pancakes, a pudgy, pale white hand pushed a glistening cup of water down in front of me and I heard the lisping nasally chant, “may I take your order sir?” I knew that lisp. I knew that pale what hand. I did not even need to look up, my pudgy pasty white waitress had to be the former disgraced speaker of the house and now laughingstock of the entire republican party, one Newt Gingrich.
I looked up smiling broadly. “Newt, good to see you. Good to see you actually working. What, your job as a DC whore has dried up?”
“I’m laying low until the convention.”
“Probably smart. So are you going to take my order?”
“Oh sure,” he reached around to his back pocket, which is not easy for such a corpulent little tyrant like Newt and he pulled out a pad, removed a pen from his sweat stained shirt pocket and looked at me, his little beady eyes all a twinkle.
“I think I’d like a small stack of blueberry pancakes.”
“That’s it? Any sides? They want us to push sausage.”
“Oh Newt, still pushing pork, must feel just like home for you. No, my people do not eat pork. I’ll stick with the stack of pancakes. Thanks.”
He waddled off. I wondered how this could have happened, two of the final four contenders for the GOP nomination working at the same Ihop? What were the chances that just happens? Ten to one maybe? I did not know. Actually when you think about it, when people lose elections, they just kind of disappear. That woman that lost to Barack Obama, in the democrat primaries, no one ever hears about her anymore.
A few minutes later the pudgy waiter came out with a short stack of pancakes in one hand and an array of syrups in the other. The beads of sweat from his pasty white forehead causing me some concern, because if one of those beads was to make it way onto my luscious pancakes, the world would not hear the end of it. Lucky for me, Newt is a much better waiter than he was speaker because he set the pancakes down sweat free, followed closely by the syrups. “Will there be anything else Jew?”
“What’s that?”
“I said, will there be anything else sir?”
“A little more coffee please. Hey wait a second. What the hell is wrong with these pancakes?”
“You haven’t even tasted them, how could there be anything wrong with them?”
“Have you seen them?” My voice was getting a little louder, at least loud enough that wildly meth altered Ron Paul slowed for a second while clearing a far off table, looked over, decided I was not a police officer and went back to scrubbing dried syrup off a tabletop.
“I have seen them, this is our classic short stack.”
“Yeah, well, these are all in the shape of a Jesus fish, the kind people put on the back of their car, these even have Jesus written in the middle using blueberries. What the fuck is going on here?”
It was at that very moment that the dopey looking chef walked around the corner, another white guy who looked incredibly familiar, way too familiar actually and dammit I thought to myself, is that Rick Santorum?
“Is there a problem here?” The former senator from Pennsylvania said in that monotonous way he has of speaking that makes him sound both humble and boring.
“The fuck there’s a problem here, first who said you could make Jesus fish pancakes? You realize not everyone wants to celebrate Christianity while eating pancakes?”
“Well, they should.”
“Of course, in your strange little no-birth control world that would make sense, but in the place I like to live, which incidentally is called the real world, we like our pancakes as close to round as possible. I don’t want my pancakes preaching to me. Oh, and why are you a short order cook? I thought you were still running for president.”
“No one takes me seriously.”
“Some people do.”
“Not enough to elect me president.”
“Duh, that was the case a year ago, 6 months ago, 1 month ago and forever. So now you fuck with peoples head one person at a time by making pancakes in the form of a Jesus fish?”
“It’s my calling.”
“I thought your family was your calling.”
“Have you seen my family. Once I realized I had no chance of winning I got together with the other mousketeers, that’s what we started to call ourselves, and we started to mind meld and think about our future. Newt stepped back, figured his days taking money from DC insiders to get them close to republican congressional whores was over. Ron Paul needs rehab, but until then he makes a remarkable busboy and me, well, I kept looking over at my wife and my kids and I kept thinking, if I gave up this campaign and moved back to Brickenbrack Pennsylvania and started farming or something, I’d lose it, so me and the other mousketeers started working here.”
“This Ihop in Baton Rouge just happened to be hiring a cook, waiter and busboy?”
“Newt killed the entire day staff, opened up a lot of hours for us.”
“Wow, Newt really does know how to make things happen.”
“He has his way. So, those pancakes are getting cold, you want me to make you some new ones?”
“Can you make regular pancakes?”
“Yeah, I call those obama lover pancakes. Eat them in shame.”
“ I will.”
The former senator took my Jesus fish pancakes and disappeared back into the kitchen, followed by Ron Paul carrying a bucket of dirty dishes. Newt was across the dining room taking the breakfast order from a couple that looked remarkably like Marcus and Michelle Bachmann and all of a sudden I was no longer hungry. I ran to my car, got in and drove to New Orleans and prepared for the final chapter in this incredibly strange and sad little republican race to no where in particular.
Talking sex
Get More: Savage U, Full Episodes
The really fun news is there are already right wing nutters who want MTV to pull the show, without ever having seen it. How are these right wing nuts able to know things are dangeorus without seeing them first? Is it the same way I knew heroin was dangerous without shooting up?
Anyway, watch the clip, because for me, the series kind of looks fun. But if you are like me, you are already feeling a little skeezed out, then click here, this should help.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Chicago votes
For a couple of weeks in the early 90’s I was basically running the Supreme Court. That much is true, although none of the current members are willing to admit it. I bring that up because sometimes it is good to have friends in high places.
If you, like me, enjoy a night or two under the stars thinking deep thoughts and questioning big issues, then the last few days with Ron Paul would have been perfect for you. They would have been perfect for me too, but I can’t recall much of them because the good doctor/congessman from rural Texas has been camping out under the large steel Anish Kapoor bean in Millennium Park in Chicago, getting high off Oxy and talking nonsense, which may be the leit motif of his entire campaign, note to editors, leit motif of the entire republican campaign – talking nonsense is key.
Really, step away from the horse race of daily updates, who said what, why did Mitt say something only an incredibly rich guy would say, or how Santorum said someone only an incredibly religious nutter would say, and what the hell did nutty Newt say because to be honest no one seems to care anymore what Newt has to say. Which brings me to my camping buddy Ron Paul. Remember Ron Paul? He the speaker of all things true? He the man not afraid to tell truth to politicians who would not know truth if it slammed them in the sac?
That Ron Paul has been pooping in a McDonalds takeout bag for the last few days because he is too paranoid to leave the confines of the dark and cold area underneath the polished metal art egg that really is something to see, at least from the outside. When laying under it, while still impressive, it gets kind of boring. Plus, security guards come by every hour sweeping up on their two wheeled motorized deviced and Congressman Paul tosses out a couple of Oxy pills and tells them to get lost and every single time that has worked.
Today is the Illinois primary and I am pretty sure the only people who care are Mitt Romney and the cable TV horse race idiots. Even Ron Paul can’t be bothered to give one of his famous rambling speeches anymore. Last time I asked him if he was still in the race, he was laying on his back, staring up at the polished metal, his reflection all distorted and his mind melted after days of Oxy play time and he mumbled something like, “we don’t have the money to be playing with nation building, or some shit.”
So bring on another republican primary. The networks are ready with their serious music and their outrageous graphics. I am sure CNN has a 3-D animatronic platform of some sort or another, with Wolf Blitzer pissing all over the likes of Anderson Cooper (daily activities at the CNN newsroom from what I hear) and in the end, no one will care. This really has become the race that no one seems interested in. Spring is here. The boring republicans continue to pontificate on topics ranging from birth control to budgets and there is not a lick of passion to be found.
The ineffective president must just waltz around the oval office worried about all the things he can’t control, like gas prices and another shooting of an unarmed black teen in Florida and the president can only stand in his office and wonder, now what?
Maybe Ron Paul does have it right. “Glambor fling, shandu klandu kindlsn polo skansks.” Then he took another Oxy and laid back down to stare at his reflection in the polished metal for another three hours.
If you, like me, enjoy a night or two under the stars thinking deep thoughts and questioning big issues, then the last few days with Ron Paul would have been perfect for you. They would have been perfect for me too, but I can’t recall much of them because the good doctor/congessman from rural Texas has been camping out under the large steel Anish Kapoor bean in Millennium Park in Chicago, getting high off Oxy and talking nonsense, which may be the leit motif of his entire campaign, note to editors, leit motif of the entire republican campaign – talking nonsense is key.
Really, step away from the horse race of daily updates, who said what, why did Mitt say something only an incredibly rich guy would say, or how Santorum said someone only an incredibly religious nutter would say, and what the hell did nutty Newt say because to be honest no one seems to care anymore what Newt has to say. Which brings me to my camping buddy Ron Paul. Remember Ron Paul? He the speaker of all things true? He the man not afraid to tell truth to politicians who would not know truth if it slammed them in the sac?
That Ron Paul has been pooping in a McDonalds takeout bag for the last few days because he is too paranoid to leave the confines of the dark and cold area underneath the polished metal art egg that really is something to see, at least from the outside. When laying under it, while still impressive, it gets kind of boring. Plus, security guards come by every hour sweeping up on their two wheeled motorized deviced and Congressman Paul tosses out a couple of Oxy pills and tells them to get lost and every single time that has worked.
Today is the Illinois primary and I am pretty sure the only people who care are Mitt Romney and the cable TV horse race idiots. Even Ron Paul can’t be bothered to give one of his famous rambling speeches anymore. Last time I asked him if he was still in the race, he was laying on his back, staring up at the polished metal, his reflection all distorted and his mind melted after days of Oxy play time and he mumbled something like, “we don’t have the money to be playing with nation building, or some shit.”
So bring on another republican primary. The networks are ready with their serious music and their outrageous graphics. I am sure CNN has a 3-D animatronic platform of some sort or another, with Wolf Blitzer pissing all over the likes of Anderson Cooper (daily activities at the CNN newsroom from what I hear) and in the end, no one will care. This really has become the race that no one seems interested in. Spring is here. The boring republicans continue to pontificate on topics ranging from birth control to budgets and there is not a lick of passion to be found.
The ineffective president must just waltz around the oval office worried about all the things he can’t control, like gas prices and another shooting of an unarmed black teen in Florida and the president can only stand in his office and wonder, now what?
Maybe Ron Paul does have it right. “Glambor fling, shandu klandu kindlsn polo skansks.” Then he took another Oxy and laid back down to stare at his reflection in the polished metal for another three hours.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
No tranny killer Newt
First off, to the best of my knowledge, Newt Gingrich, the pudgy, pasty white, disgraced former speaker of the house, did not kill a tranny prostitute in a fit of rage last night in Birmingham. Also, a blonde haired idiot Fox News bimbo “reporter” told me that, but I think she was either joking or is an illegal Mexican.
In order of events. Well, the last time I was madly in love with anyone other than myself it was in Birmingham Alabama and it was about 13 years ago. I know, that is a long time for a lover like myself to go without being madly in love, but people come and people go, but true love is a rare commodity.
Myself, I have always found transvestites to be both fascinating and, well, how do I put this so as not to hurt the feelings of the transvestite population? A little whacky? Yes, that should do. That said, just because men who like to dress as women are different than me, a man who likes to dress as a badly dressed man, that does not mean a hypocritical, overweight, disgraced former speaker can kill you, right? Of course I am right. In my mind, the only people a person like Newt Gingrich has the right to kill is, A-someone dumb enough to marry Newt Gingrich, I think we can all agree on that, and B-Rush Limbaugh, because, well, Rush Limbaugh is equally fat, loud, hypocritical and obnoxious and obviously does not seem to know when his 15 minutes has passed him by.
So, I was having a quite breakfast in my hotel’s quaint little dining area this morning, a cup of warm coffee and a gluten free English muffin when the Fox News blonde bubblehead stumbled in and sat across from me. I was reading something important on my Ipad and I pretended not to smell her, she of the type who is so ashamed of her true self that she bathes in some sort of smelly French perfume to hide as much of her natural scent. I sneezed and she said hello. We had met on the Romney campaign plane a few weeks ago. She seemed to like me because I could do and say all the things she was not allowed to. At Fox News, they are only allowed to do and say the things they are told to do and say. Me, on the other hand, I have no editor, owner or Big Balls Bill O’Reilly looking over my shoulder, demanding to slant things in such a way as to make Mitt Romney appear human, or Newt Gingrich to appear smart, or Rick Santorum to appear less Santanish.
She gurgled, “did you hear?”
“That Santorum killed a goat and drank it’s blood to celebrate his win? Yeah, he does that after every caucus and primary.”
“Really?”
“Oh, that was not what you were going to ask? What did you want to tell me?”
“Newt killed a tranny prostitute last night?”
“You don’t say?”
“It’s what I heard.”
“From who?”
“Sources.”
“Yeah? Which sources?”
“Oh, I can’t say.”
“Why not, will they explode? Will you?”
“I promised them.”
“Kind of like Deepthroat?”
“I did not.”
“Huh? Oh, Jesus, no, Deepthroat was the source who fed the Watergate information, yeah, nevermind. So Newt killed another tranny prostitute?”
“What? He has killed others?”
“Wait, you don’t know about the others?”
“Seriously?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t say anything else.”
“No, wait, does he really kill tranny prostitutes.”
“That’s what my sources have been telling me.”
“When? Where? Why?”
“Oh my, when, where, why? You are a real reporter. Well, my sources tell me that after every primary and caucus vote that Newt loses, he finds himself a tranny prostitute and kills her to take out his frustrations.”
“How do you know this.”
“Sources.”
“Can you tell me who these sources are?”
“Deepthroat.”
“Here?”
“No, oh, gross. My sources do not want to be known.”
“Oh, right. Watergate and everything. So Newt really does kill tranny prostitutes.”
“That’s what I hear.”
She left after that, quickly, her empty head spinning.
At this point in the campaign, most in the “news” business seem to agree that the only reason Newt is even still campaigning is that it keeps him from hanging out with his wife for any extended amount of time. Plus, Fox News is now reporting he has a penchant for Tranny Murder.
In order of events. Well, the last time I was madly in love with anyone other than myself it was in Birmingham Alabama and it was about 13 years ago. I know, that is a long time for a lover like myself to go without being madly in love, but people come and people go, but true love is a rare commodity.
Myself, I have always found transvestites to be both fascinating and, well, how do I put this so as not to hurt the feelings of the transvestite population? A little whacky? Yes, that should do. That said, just because men who like to dress as women are different than me, a man who likes to dress as a badly dressed man, that does not mean a hypocritical, overweight, disgraced former speaker can kill you, right? Of course I am right. In my mind, the only people a person like Newt Gingrich has the right to kill is, A-someone dumb enough to marry Newt Gingrich, I think we can all agree on that, and B-Rush Limbaugh, because, well, Rush Limbaugh is equally fat, loud, hypocritical and obnoxious and obviously does not seem to know when his 15 minutes has passed him by.
So, I was having a quite breakfast in my hotel’s quaint little dining area this morning, a cup of warm coffee and a gluten free English muffin when the Fox News blonde bubblehead stumbled in and sat across from me. I was reading something important on my Ipad and I pretended not to smell her, she of the type who is so ashamed of her true self that she bathes in some sort of smelly French perfume to hide as much of her natural scent. I sneezed and she said hello. We had met on the Romney campaign plane a few weeks ago. She seemed to like me because I could do and say all the things she was not allowed to. At Fox News, they are only allowed to do and say the things they are told to do and say. Me, on the other hand, I have no editor, owner or Big Balls Bill O’Reilly looking over my shoulder, demanding to slant things in such a way as to make Mitt Romney appear human, or Newt Gingrich to appear smart, or Rick Santorum to appear less Santanish.
She gurgled, “did you hear?”
“That Santorum killed a goat and drank it’s blood to celebrate his win? Yeah, he does that after every caucus and primary.”
“Really?”
“Oh, that was not what you were going to ask? What did you want to tell me?”
“Newt killed a tranny prostitute last night?”
“You don’t say?”
“It’s what I heard.”
“From who?”
“Sources.”
“Yeah? Which sources?”
“Oh, I can’t say.”
“Why not, will they explode? Will you?”
“I promised them.”
“Kind of like Deepthroat?”
“I did not.”
“Huh? Oh, Jesus, no, Deepthroat was the source who fed the Watergate information, yeah, nevermind. So Newt killed another tranny prostitute?”
“What? He has killed others?”
“Wait, you don’t know about the others?”
“Seriously?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t say anything else.”
“No, wait, does he really kill tranny prostitutes.”
“That’s what my sources have been telling me.”
“When? Where? Why?”
“Oh my, when, where, why? You are a real reporter. Well, my sources tell me that after every primary and caucus vote that Newt loses, he finds himself a tranny prostitute and kills her to take out his frustrations.”
“How do you know this.”
“Sources.”
“Can you tell me who these sources are?”
“Deepthroat.”
“Here?”
“No, oh, gross. My sources do not want to be known.”
“Oh, right. Watergate and everything. So Newt really does kill tranny prostitutes.”
“That’s what I hear.”
She left after that, quickly, her empty head spinning.
At this point in the campaign, most in the “news” business seem to agree that the only reason Newt is even still campaigning is that it keeps him from hanging out with his wife for any extended amount of time. Plus, Fox News is now reporting he has a penchant for Tranny Murder.
At the White House...
If you want to get some stickers and get involved in this amazing "stickering" campaign, click here.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Friday, March 9, 2012
That ringing sound
Why yes, I do believe in magic and love. I do.
A couple of nights ago I was sitting in bed, reading a book, it was late, after 11, which may or may not be late to you, for me it’s kind of late. My cellphone rang. Caller ID suggested it was a New York City number, but no one I knew.
I could not figure out if I wanted to answer, because sometimes when you answer the phone late at night from a location where you have once lived it is often bad news. Someone has died, or is about to. In fact, at this point, late night calls from unknown phone numbers in places I once called home are almost always tragic. I stared at the screen with a slight bit of hessitation.
A few years ago I was making a documentary on the fracturing American economy. I had interviewed world class economists, drunk with power derivatives traders, out of work auto workers, people barely hanging on and at one point an 80 year old woman who was about to lose her New York City apartment to foreclosure. She was a marvel. My friend, who is a photojournalist, ran into her at an anti-Wall Street protest and had connected us. I interviewed her at her soon to be foreclosed upon apartment, which was about 3 blocks away from the World Trade Center complex and had a beautiful view of the Statue of Liberty.
As part of that project I made a series of short films on the various people I had interviewed. I made one of the 80 year old woman and posted it on YouTube. Then my phone was ringing late at night a couple of days ago.
“Is this Matt?”
“It is.”
“You have a short film on me on YouTube. I need you to pull it off immediately.”
It seems that this beautiful woman is being named to a United Nations group of some sort and in a Google search of her name, my film had come up, questions were asked and it just seemed easier to have the film removed. So, while we were still on the phone a couple of keystrokes and the film disappeared.
That is of course, not the magic part.
First, since I am officially an orphan, I am always in search of a mother figure and this woman, this dignified, beautiful and brilliant woman was so sweet and so lovely, I felt so at home with her and we were joking and having such a great time, I wanted to just snuggle up in my bed and have her read me a story.
“Matt, tell me again how we met?”
“Seriously, you don’t remember?” She is 82, after all.
“Well, did we sleep together?”
“Oh we did so much more than sleep together.”
“That I know did not happen.”
“A friend at a protest got your number and we talked.”
“That’s right. You’re getting married, right?”
“I am, but how did you know about that?”
“I am registered with the Free Church, I could marry you in New York if you like.”
“Seriously?”
“Of course.”
“Would it be legal?”
“As far as the state of New York is concerned.”
“I’ll get back to you on that.”
We talked some more, her late husband was a lot of things, most importantly a pain in the ass to Joseph McCarthy, when you are 82 your late husband could certainly have been a pain the ass to McCarthy. We made plans to have a drink when I am in New York in a couple of weeks and probably make plans for the wedding.
Magic happens, you just have to answer the phone.
A couple of nights ago I was sitting in bed, reading a book, it was late, after 11, which may or may not be late to you, for me it’s kind of late. My cellphone rang. Caller ID suggested it was a New York City number, but no one I knew.
I could not figure out if I wanted to answer, because sometimes when you answer the phone late at night from a location where you have once lived it is often bad news. Someone has died, or is about to. In fact, at this point, late night calls from unknown phone numbers in places I once called home are almost always tragic. I stared at the screen with a slight bit of hessitation.
A few years ago I was making a documentary on the fracturing American economy. I had interviewed world class economists, drunk with power derivatives traders, out of work auto workers, people barely hanging on and at one point an 80 year old woman who was about to lose her New York City apartment to foreclosure. She was a marvel. My friend, who is a photojournalist, ran into her at an anti-Wall Street protest and had connected us. I interviewed her at her soon to be foreclosed upon apartment, which was about 3 blocks away from the World Trade Center complex and had a beautiful view of the Statue of Liberty.
As part of that project I made a series of short films on the various people I had interviewed. I made one of the 80 year old woman and posted it on YouTube. Then my phone was ringing late at night a couple of days ago.
“Is this Matt?”
“It is.”
“You have a short film on me on YouTube. I need you to pull it off immediately.”
It seems that this beautiful woman is being named to a United Nations group of some sort and in a Google search of her name, my film had come up, questions were asked and it just seemed easier to have the film removed. So, while we were still on the phone a couple of keystrokes and the film disappeared.
That is of course, not the magic part.
First, since I am officially an orphan, I am always in search of a mother figure and this woman, this dignified, beautiful and brilliant woman was so sweet and so lovely, I felt so at home with her and we were joking and having such a great time, I wanted to just snuggle up in my bed and have her read me a story.
“Matt, tell me again how we met?”
“Seriously, you don’t remember?” She is 82, after all.
“Well, did we sleep together?”
“Oh we did so much more than sleep together.”
“That I know did not happen.”
“A friend at a protest got your number and we talked.”
“That’s right. You’re getting married, right?”
“I am, but how did you know about that?”
“I am registered with the Free Church, I could marry you in New York if you like.”
“Seriously?”
“Of course.”
“Would it be legal?”
“As far as the state of New York is concerned.”
“I’ll get back to you on that.”
We talked some more, her late husband was a lot of things, most importantly a pain in the ass to Joseph McCarthy, when you are 82 your late husband could certainly have been a pain the ass to McCarthy. We made plans to have a drink when I am in New York in a couple of weeks and probably make plans for the wedding.
Magic happens, you just have to answer the phone.
Gun debate on Craigslist
Yesterday there was a shooting at a psychiatric facility here in the Pittsburgh area. I decided to check my local Craigslist board and see what sort of wisdom and reaction I would find. Here you go. Oh, these are all actual posts taken directly, with no corrections or editing. All posted under the title: “don’t blame the guns.”
“It is so sad that people died today as a result of a suicidal crazy man. My thoughts and prayers are with the victims and their families. “
“I know this place is full of liberal anti-gun people so post away. Just remember he could have just drove his car through a crowd of people on the sidewalk.
It is a good thing a good person there had a gun too-to stop him-dead.
Guns don't kill people. People Kill People. “
“You're a fucking idiot. The common factor in all the gun violence in this country is GUNS!”
“Really? And just how many guns have killed without the common factor of the HUMAN? Humans kill even without using guns, you are a true idiot.”
“Of course guns are used in 100% of gun violence.....if they used another item to commit the act, it would not be classifed as gun violence. Just like you could say black people are 100% responsible for black on black crime. No shit moron. The point he was trying to make was if the man would have used his truck to run down 20 people walking down the sidewalk, you wouldnt hear anyone calling for a ban on chevy trucks. Trucks dont kill people...people kill people.”
“The problem is guns and dumb people. Kind of like texting while driving. The problem was neither the smart phone, or the car, it is always the dumb person driving. Dumb people with guns are deadly. Dumb people with cars are deadly. This country has more guns than any other country, we love guns and we will fight to allow people to keep their guns. The real problem is we have way too many dumb people. Dumb people also have guns. Because we will never restrict guns and we will never restrict dumb people, we are fucked. Just like the law that makes it illegal to text while driving, you still see these idiots texting and swerving while driving. Of course we will soon read about another death because a dumb fuck was texting while driving. Blame the car? The phone? No, of course not.
There is no solution. Dumb people will always funk things up because they are dumb.
We should not ban guns or cars or smart phones or anything else. We should ban dumb people from breeding. IQ tests mandatory. If you are dumb, you get lifetime birth control. Sorry, you can fuck all you want, but no more children. You dumb people are fucking everything up.”
"Guns don't kill people but they sure make it easy for people to kill people. That's what they were designed for after all. "Ain't good for nothin but putting a man six feet in a hole"
“It is so sad that people died today as a result of a suicidal crazy man. My thoughts and prayers are with the victims and their families. “
“I know this place is full of liberal anti-gun people so post away. Just remember he could have just drove his car through a crowd of people on the sidewalk.
It is a good thing a good person there had a gun too-to stop him-dead.
Guns don't kill people. People Kill People. “
“You're a fucking idiot. The common factor in all the gun violence in this country is GUNS!”
“Really? And just how many guns have killed without the common factor of the HUMAN? Humans kill even without using guns, you are a true idiot.”
“Of course guns are used in 100% of gun violence.....if they used another item to commit the act, it would not be classifed as gun violence. Just like you could say black people are 100% responsible for black on black crime. No shit moron. The point he was trying to make was if the man would have used his truck to run down 20 people walking down the sidewalk, you wouldnt hear anyone calling for a ban on chevy trucks. Trucks dont kill people...people kill people.”
“The problem is guns and dumb people. Kind of like texting while driving. The problem was neither the smart phone, or the car, it is always the dumb person driving. Dumb people with guns are deadly. Dumb people with cars are deadly. This country has more guns than any other country, we love guns and we will fight to allow people to keep their guns. The real problem is we have way too many dumb people. Dumb people also have guns. Because we will never restrict guns and we will never restrict dumb people, we are fucked. Just like the law that makes it illegal to text while driving, you still see these idiots texting and swerving while driving. Of course we will soon read about another death because a dumb fuck was texting while driving. Blame the car? The phone? No, of course not.
There is no solution. Dumb people will always funk things up because they are dumb.
We should not ban guns or cars or smart phones or anything else. We should ban dumb people from breeding. IQ tests mandatory. If you are dumb, you get lifetime birth control. Sorry, you can fuck all you want, but no more children. You dumb people are fucking everything up.”
"Guns don't kill people but they sure make it easy for people to kill people. That's what they were designed for after all. "Ain't good for nothin but putting a man six feet in a hole"
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Finally, a song about Santorum
Not only a song about Santorum, but a song that contains the lyric, "Justice for the unborn..." I'm singing along, join in.
Probably another sticker
This one from a pet shop in Pittsburgh.
If you send it a picture of one of these stickers in some sort of interesting place, you might win an Ipad3. Contest here.
If you send it a picture of one of these stickers in some sort of interesting place, you might win an Ipad3. Contest here.
Another sticker spotted
Thie one was sent to me from somewhere near Kent State University.
Enter the contest to win an Ipad3. Here.
Enter the contest to win an Ipad3. Here.
Something only a lesbian dog could teach me
I was napping on the floor with my lesbian dog this afternoon and let me stop right there. It seems like whenever I mention my lesbian dog, someone will email me and say I should stop picking on lesbians. I never respond to those sorts of inflammatory emails, but let me just say this about that, my dog is a proud out lesbian and I have no problem with that. She gets mail addressed to Lesbian Dog, so give me a break.
As my lesbian dog and I were napping on the floor we heard some keys at the front door and neither of us had realized how long we had been napping and my youngest daughter was home from school. To me, this is really not that big of a deal, but to my lesbian dog you may have just called and told her she won the Nobel Peace Prize, because she literally lost her shit once she heard the jingling of the keys.
She was up in an instant, running for the door, back to me, as I began to sit up on the floor in the living room. Then she would spring back to the front door, push her nose against the window and run back to me in an instant. When the door opened my lesbian dog was all over my daughter who had trouble setting her backpack down because of the wildly acrobatic movements of the exuberant and out of control dog. Her dog spine was twisting in a series of yoga-type movements that I will only be able to do when the mobsters are stuffing my lifeless body into some bag before throwing me into a body of water somewhere.
I was now up and standing a few feet away and I mentioned to my daughter that the dog seems to think she was never going to return and my daughter looked at me with those dead eyes that only a teenage daughter can turn on a father and she said flatly, “maybe the dog loves me and is happy to see me.”
“Ouch,” I thought.
In an instant I was jumping up and down, running up to her and then far away, screaming and yelping and excited out of my mind just to see her. I ran back and my lesbian dog jumped in excitement too, she was in on my game, we were both overcome with incredible excitement to be in the presence of the return of my youngest daughter, it was, literally, a gift from the gods. I jumped, screamed out in excitement, danced around and ran into the dining room, overcome with pure adrenaline, my dog followed, turned on a dime and ran back to my daughter, I followed and when the dog jumped with glee because she saw my daughter, I did exactly the same thing, barely able to get the words out, “we are so incredibly excited to see you, when you left for school this morning, we weren’t sure you’d be coming back and now you’re here and it’s so great and we are so incredibly excited to see you…” all the while as I was spitting those words out my dog and I were jumping and dancing and terribly excited. Me and the lesbian dog could not stop running from one side of the kitchen to the next, jumping and turning and running into the dining room and sprinting back, just to let my youngest daughter know, we missed her so very much.
Then I had to stop because I thought I was in decent shape until I tried to do the welcome home ritual of my lesbian dog and I realized that even though she has put on some winter weight, she could be teaching some serious aerobics class, because my chest was throbbing and I could hardly take a breath. I leaned down and gave my lesbian dog a hug and she too was breathing heavily, but she looked at me and I looked at her and we both kind of held that look for a second, a look that said we had both accomplished something a little bit amazing, that welcome home ceremony. Well, amazing for a dog. I mean, come on it was really just random jumping and running, which for a dog is apparently a pretty big deal.
As my lesbian dog and I were napping on the floor we heard some keys at the front door and neither of us had realized how long we had been napping and my youngest daughter was home from school. To me, this is really not that big of a deal, but to my lesbian dog you may have just called and told her she won the Nobel Peace Prize, because she literally lost her shit once she heard the jingling of the keys.
She was up in an instant, running for the door, back to me, as I began to sit up on the floor in the living room. Then she would spring back to the front door, push her nose against the window and run back to me in an instant. When the door opened my lesbian dog was all over my daughter who had trouble setting her backpack down because of the wildly acrobatic movements of the exuberant and out of control dog. Her dog spine was twisting in a series of yoga-type movements that I will only be able to do when the mobsters are stuffing my lifeless body into some bag before throwing me into a body of water somewhere.
I was now up and standing a few feet away and I mentioned to my daughter that the dog seems to think she was never going to return and my daughter looked at me with those dead eyes that only a teenage daughter can turn on a father and she said flatly, “maybe the dog loves me and is happy to see me.”
“Ouch,” I thought.
In an instant I was jumping up and down, running up to her and then far away, screaming and yelping and excited out of my mind just to see her. I ran back and my lesbian dog jumped in excitement too, she was in on my game, we were both overcome with incredible excitement to be in the presence of the return of my youngest daughter, it was, literally, a gift from the gods. I jumped, screamed out in excitement, danced around and ran into the dining room, overcome with pure adrenaline, my dog followed, turned on a dime and ran back to my daughter, I followed and when the dog jumped with glee because she saw my daughter, I did exactly the same thing, barely able to get the words out, “we are so incredibly excited to see you, when you left for school this morning, we weren’t sure you’d be coming back and now you’re here and it’s so great and we are so incredibly excited to see you…” all the while as I was spitting those words out my dog and I were jumping and dancing and terribly excited. Me and the lesbian dog could not stop running from one side of the kitchen to the next, jumping and turning and running into the dining room and sprinting back, just to let my youngest daughter know, we missed her so very much.
Then I had to stop because I thought I was in decent shape until I tried to do the welcome home ritual of my lesbian dog and I realized that even though she has put on some winter weight, she could be teaching some serious aerobics class, because my chest was throbbing and I could hardly take a breath. I leaned down and gave my lesbian dog a hug and she too was breathing heavily, but she looked at me and I looked at her and we both kind of held that look for a second, a look that said we had both accomplished something a little bit amazing, that welcome home ceremony. Well, amazing for a dog. I mean, come on it was really just random jumping and running, which for a dog is apparently a pretty big deal.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Quick reminder about Becky Stories
Yes, you can purchase the collection of Becky Stories if you click on that blue poster on the right, there, right over there on the side of the page, the one with the girl. Click that, go to the page, buy the book.
Stories of women, none actually named Becky, but most, dammit, all of them referred to as Becky.
Now, I have not read this book, but my understanding is that there is not a single story about the death of my lesbian Australian attorney. Of course, if you are in a reading mood, that book is available too. Click the picture of the Lesbian Attorney right below the blue picture.
Do not click the round faced man and buy that book. Why? That book is being pulled and re-released as a super long form mess of a book, so if you purchased it for the outlandish price of 99 cents today, and came back in 2 months and wanted to read the additional 30 chapters and had to pay another 5 or 6 dollars, you would be outraged and probably post mean things in the comment section. That would not be pretty.
So, to return to the meaning behind this post, click on Blue picture, buy book, read it, then come back here and complain bitterly.
Stories of women, none actually named Becky, but most, dammit, all of them referred to as Becky.
Now, I have not read this book, but my understanding is that there is not a single story about the death of my lesbian Australian attorney. Of course, if you are in a reading mood, that book is available too. Click the picture of the Lesbian Attorney right below the blue picture.
Do not click the round faced man and buy that book. Why? That book is being pulled and re-released as a super long form mess of a book, so if you purchased it for the outlandish price of 99 cents today, and came back in 2 months and wanted to read the additional 30 chapters and had to pay another 5 or 6 dollars, you would be outraged and probably post mean things in the comment section. That would not be pretty.
So, to return to the meaning behind this post, click on Blue picture, buy book, read it, then come back here and complain bitterly.
Sticker sighting
Another mystery sticker has been sighted. Keep sending in those pictures, because in the end, someone will win an iPad3.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
You said you want an iPad3?
Then you should try this super sexy contest. First, it's not super, or sexy, and it involves demanding stickers, placing them around your city, town or homeless shelter, taking a digital picture (or pictures) and getting them posted on the official competition site. Other than all that work, you too could win an exciting and life changing electronic device, no not an inflatable Antonio Banderas Love Doll, although that would be a great prize too.
Click here.
Click here.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
A sticker mystery
Like you, I keep my nose to the ground and my eye in my pocket, so I don't miss a thing.
Imagine my surprise then, as I made my rounds today and I kept seeing a sticker, on buildings, taxi-cabs, an Apple Store and even a prostitute. I saw one on a beautiful weathered wooden floor and I snapped this picture, but it got me thinking, I should start a contest.
So I will.
But until then, keep your eyes wide open and your nose unfingered, because something is poofing up the runway. No fear, I'm on it.
Imagine my surprise then, as I made my rounds today and I kept seeing a sticker, on buildings, taxi-cabs, an Apple Store and even a prostitute. I saw one on a beautiful weathered wooden floor and I snapped this picture, but it got me thinking, I should start a contest.
So I will.
But until then, keep your eyes wide open and your nose unfingered, because something is poofing up the runway. No fear, I'm on it.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Why I am the worst babysitter in the world
My friend Bill asked if I could babysit Bosco and I said sure. Bill is a new father, a first time father and I have yet to meet young Bosco, heck, I did not even know that Bill had named the new son Bosco, but I am an experienced father and Bill can trust me with this baby and he and his wife can take a night out and reconnect while me and the young child can hang out and get to know one another.
The baby is only about two months old so I don’t even have to baby-proof the house. At two months a baby is really nothing more than a paper weight with arms. He’ll flop around and scream and eat and need a diaper, that should be about it. Maybe we can watch a movie together, it will be a bonding experience.
A long long time ago my brother asked me to babysit my nephew, who at the time was a tiny baby, a teething baby, so a bit older than two months, but still, a baby. I was told he was teething and that if he got cranky, I should dip my finger in scotch and rub it on my nephews sore gums. The minute my brother and his wife pulled out of their driveway, my sweet baby nephew began to scream bloody murder. I thought he must be teething, having never witnessed a baby teething before, I figured this was it. So I found the scotch, poured a glass, dipped my finger in it, and rubbed it all around the babies gums. I took a sip of the scotch myself to make sure it was indeed scotch. It was. The baby screamed some more. I figured I probably had been a bit light on the scotch and refingered the glass and inserted it back into the screaming babies mouth, it did not have much effect, so I took another sip, dipped my finger back in, tried it again, and then again and so on, and so on.
This went on until both the baby and I were pretty close to shit faced.
At some point later that night my brother came home to find both the baby and I passed out on the entry way floor, the glass of scotch spilled between us. I never babysat my nephew again.
I vacuumed the living room and was ready for my friend Bill. The doorbell rang and Bill walked in carrying a fairly substantial monkey. Bosco is Bills monkey. He set Bosco down on to the floor and gave me Boscos hand and reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a couple of bananas and gave me those too. “Don’t let him throw his shit, that is just not allowed.” Bill looked sternly at Bosco and pointed his finger at his face, “do not throw shit Bosco.” He walked towards the front door, turned and said to me, “thanks for doing this. I needed the break.”
“Yeah,” I said, stupidly, “no problem”
Needless to say I have years of experience dealing with monkeys, both housebroken and wild. That should not come as a surprise to anyone at this point. I was a little shocked, because once Bill was gone, Bosco turned to me, looked around, spotted the control for the flat screen TV and in one fairly acrobatic move jumped from the floor in front of me, grabbed the remote, landed on the couch, turned the TV on and immediately started rummaging through channels until he found episodes of the show Designing Women. Monkeys love that show.
I went into the kitchen and drank tequila straight from the bottle. In a few minutes Bosco joined me. It was going to be a long night. I ate a banana and the next thing I knew, Bill was knocking on the door.
I am skipping over everything that happened because quite honestly, nothing serious happened. Bosco did not throw any shit against my walls, he did not spend hours watching Monkey porn on my flat screen, he ate a banana and watched a marathon of Designed Women reruns while I sat in an overstuffed chair nearby and wrote emails to a Russian supermodel I am currently stalking.
It was only the next day, long after Bosco and Bill has been gone that I realized what a trickster that monkey was. I found myself walking to the post office, passing the crack salesmen and the local prostitute, who is very friendly this time of the year. Often times she leers at me with contempt because I am not a customer, but this morning she seemed friendly, he glazed eyes making contact for a change and a methy smile coming over her frail face. I smiled back and then I heard the bird chirping and thought how nice to be experiencing an early spring.
I was walking on a busy street and the birds were chirping again. Spring is in the air. As I was purchasing some stamps at the post office, again, the birds were chirping, loudly, this time, in my pocket. I knew the chirping had very little to do with spring. I pulled my cell phone out and checked, I was receiving a text from my friend Bill, asking how things were. The tone had been changed on my phone, so when I received a text from Bill I heard birds chirping. Strange.
As I was making my way home the sound of a fax machine connecting came from my pocket. Again, strange noise, I check it and this time my phone was alerting me that I was receiving mail, but this alert noise was different than any setting I had ever had before. It began to dawn on me. Bosco.
That’s the thing about monkeys. If they are not throwing shit against your walls, they are messing with the sounds coming from your phone. How do I know this? Because just now my phone started playing Californication because I was getting a text from, get this, Bosco.
The baby is only about two months old so I don’t even have to baby-proof the house. At two months a baby is really nothing more than a paper weight with arms. He’ll flop around and scream and eat and need a diaper, that should be about it. Maybe we can watch a movie together, it will be a bonding experience.
A long long time ago my brother asked me to babysit my nephew, who at the time was a tiny baby, a teething baby, so a bit older than two months, but still, a baby. I was told he was teething and that if he got cranky, I should dip my finger in scotch and rub it on my nephews sore gums. The minute my brother and his wife pulled out of their driveway, my sweet baby nephew began to scream bloody murder. I thought he must be teething, having never witnessed a baby teething before, I figured this was it. So I found the scotch, poured a glass, dipped my finger in it, and rubbed it all around the babies gums. I took a sip of the scotch myself to make sure it was indeed scotch. It was. The baby screamed some more. I figured I probably had been a bit light on the scotch and refingered the glass and inserted it back into the screaming babies mouth, it did not have much effect, so I took another sip, dipped my finger back in, tried it again, and then again and so on, and so on.
This went on until both the baby and I were pretty close to shit faced.
At some point later that night my brother came home to find both the baby and I passed out on the entry way floor, the glass of scotch spilled between us. I never babysat my nephew again.
I vacuumed the living room and was ready for my friend Bill. The doorbell rang and Bill walked in carrying a fairly substantial monkey. Bosco is Bills monkey. He set Bosco down on to the floor and gave me Boscos hand and reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a couple of bananas and gave me those too. “Don’t let him throw his shit, that is just not allowed.” Bill looked sternly at Bosco and pointed his finger at his face, “do not throw shit Bosco.” He walked towards the front door, turned and said to me, “thanks for doing this. I needed the break.”
“Yeah,” I said, stupidly, “no problem”
Needless to say I have years of experience dealing with monkeys, both housebroken and wild. That should not come as a surprise to anyone at this point. I was a little shocked, because once Bill was gone, Bosco turned to me, looked around, spotted the control for the flat screen TV and in one fairly acrobatic move jumped from the floor in front of me, grabbed the remote, landed on the couch, turned the TV on and immediately started rummaging through channels until he found episodes of the show Designing Women. Monkeys love that show.
I went into the kitchen and drank tequila straight from the bottle. In a few minutes Bosco joined me. It was going to be a long night. I ate a banana and the next thing I knew, Bill was knocking on the door.
I am skipping over everything that happened because quite honestly, nothing serious happened. Bosco did not throw any shit against my walls, he did not spend hours watching Monkey porn on my flat screen, he ate a banana and watched a marathon of Designed Women reruns while I sat in an overstuffed chair nearby and wrote emails to a Russian supermodel I am currently stalking.
It was only the next day, long after Bosco and Bill has been gone that I realized what a trickster that monkey was. I found myself walking to the post office, passing the crack salesmen and the local prostitute, who is very friendly this time of the year. Often times she leers at me with contempt because I am not a customer, but this morning she seemed friendly, he glazed eyes making contact for a change and a methy smile coming over her frail face. I smiled back and then I heard the bird chirping and thought how nice to be experiencing an early spring.
I was walking on a busy street and the birds were chirping again. Spring is in the air. As I was purchasing some stamps at the post office, again, the birds were chirping, loudly, this time, in my pocket. I knew the chirping had very little to do with spring. I pulled my cell phone out and checked, I was receiving a text from my friend Bill, asking how things were. The tone had been changed on my phone, so when I received a text from Bill I heard birds chirping. Strange.
As I was making my way home the sound of a fax machine connecting came from my pocket. Again, strange noise, I check it and this time my phone was alerting me that I was receiving mail, but this alert noise was different than any setting I had ever had before. It began to dawn on me. Bosco.
That’s the thing about monkeys. If they are not throwing shit against your walls, they are messing with the sounds coming from your phone. How do I know this? Because just now my phone started playing Californication because I was getting a text from, get this, Bosco.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
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