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.
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