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.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
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.
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.
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.
Monday, October 29, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Saturday, October 27, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, October 15, 2012
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.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Friday, October 5, 2012
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.
Enjoy.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, October 1, 2012
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.
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.
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