I'm Soooo BORED!

Here is a recent photo of me in the Patagonian rain forest. I took some of the native Viagra, which stretched my pecker out two feet long, and it became inhabited by parrots and monkeys.

Does that make me an interesting person? Nah, anybody can come up with a few bucks for a plane ticket. So what makes a person interesting? A lot of New Yorkers think having some money will make them interesting, like Madoff, so they chisel and steal and kiss butt for their entire life and they get the money, and then they blow off a load of hot air about their house, their cars, I don’t know what else. It’s blank tedium.

Sometimes I have a few drinks with my girlfriend, Magpie, and I tell her what’s on my mind. Yesterday I tried to tell her that I felt Michael Jackson’s father, Joe Jackson, should not be continually excoriated in the media because he might have smacked Michael for not working hard enough when he was a kid. Michael Jackson said in numerous interviews that his father would hit him with a leather belt when he was not performing to the extent of his potential.

“Look,” I told her, “Gary, Indiana is a tough place. It used to be a city of steel mills. Now even those are gone, and the whole city is on welfare. Joe Jackson had to raise nine kids by working in steel mills, working two jobs at once, doing God knows what to put food on the table. What little money he could scratch together, he spent on musical instruments for his kids because he figured, even though it was a longshot, maybe they could get a band together and use that as a way to get out of the ghetto and escape poverty. If it weren’t for that they’d probably all be crackheads today.

“So he smacked the kid! Maybe he felt Michael was not working hard enough to exploit the talent God gave him and not appreciating the sacrifices that his parents were then giving him. It’s the same story with Serena and Venus Williams. Their father never struck them because they were girls, but he rode them unmercifully when he felt they weren’t competing hard enough. But now the Williams sisters are millionaires. Michael Jackson died owning the equivalent of whole countries.

“Another thing. Nobody ever wondered what Joe Jackson had to endure in his life. He probably got beat up a lot, both as a child and as an adult. However much he may have chased Michael around the house with a leather belt, he probably figured that this was nothing compared to what he had had to endure and was still having to deal with, being responsible for raising a big family under horrific conditions.

“I don’t care what Anderson Cooper might have to say on CNN about Michael Jackson’s nightmarish abuse as a child. Anderson Cooper was Gloria Vanderbilt’s son and he grew up in the lap of luxury. The worst thing Anderson Cooper has ever had to endure has been to take a big one up the butt without sufficient lubrication.”

Magpie looked at me, aghast. “How do you know that?” she exclaimed. “Did you research it?”

“What, Joe Jackson, or Anderson Cooper’s butt?”

“You need to consult a psychiatrist!”

“I don’t think I need to see any psychiatrist for stating what are plain facts”.

Magpie’s solution for me is always psychiatric therapy. Which is astounding, considering the whack jobs she associates with. Any time I reflect on a situation and come up with a conclusion that varies from what she has seen on television, it makes me a candidate for Bellevue’s psycho ward.

That’s why people are so tedious. OK, most people are severely limited to start with. Talking to them is the equivalent of poking a caged animal with a stick. Nobody knows anything. Even if somebody should be struck with the inspiration of an original idea, he’s afraid to express it or fear of being accused of mental illness. What we are presently dealing with is a situation of enforced conformity. That’s why people dress so shabbily. They think nothing of spending millions of bucks on their houses and cars, but their freakin wardrobes are from J.C. Penney, so that they won’t be perceived by their peers as being stuck up.

Anyway, even if people would have the audacity to think of something interesting, nobody could express it anyway, because with Twitter and text messaging they have lost the capacity to spell and write, if they ever even had it, which is doubtful. This is how Shakespeare would look on Twitter:

2B or not 2B
Tht is the ?

Fuckoff! Don’t waste my time, moron!

I’m an exhibitionist, OK? Some people like to expose themselves on subway trains. I like to expose myself on the internet. Believe me, as nuts as this blog is, there is still plenty that I’m holding back (big surprise!).

But I am not going to let myself be driven into a hole because my freakin girlfriend or her phony-ass friends don’t approve. She has one friend who is so full of baloney that she has got a full Rogers & Hammerstein grand piano in her living room, and she can’t even play chopsticks. When Magpie told me this, my immediate reaction was, “She should put in a harmonica instead. It takes up less room, and she can’t play that either”.

Magpie exploded, “You idiot, you don’t know anything!”

Yeah, I don’t know anything. I’m an idiot. I’m a dummy! HA-HA-HA, look at the dummy! Look at ol’ stupido!

I may be a freakin idiot, but I’m not stoopid enough to fill up an apartment with a grand piano I can’t play!

Fuck this. I think I’ll go get drunk. I wish I had some reefer.

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Pavlov's Dogs

Any man who lets his woman do his thinking for him is an idiot. Think about it. If you were gay, and you were locked into a relationship with another guy, and the guy insisted on running your whole life, including your business affairs, would you let him?

No way, because the implicit thinking is that his interests might be totally different from yours and he might try to manipulate you to suit his own purposes.

But with women it’s different. How many guys end up letting themselves be conditioned to obey like trained seals in the belief that she knows best, and meantime she’s following a logical trajectory of satisfying her own desires.

I’m not advocating revolution. I’m just writing this because nobody else seems to have given any thought to it. In today’s paper Bernard Madoff got sentenced to 150 years in a maximum security prison while his wife went free with a little nest egg of several million bucks, which she maintains is her “own money”.

Her own money! From where? They started out life together in Queens, New York, broke. She never had a job of her own. It’s her “own money” because she insisted that he squirrel it away for her out of the millions and billions that he chiseled and stole from his suckers, er, clients, at her own insistence!

Look at Madoff. He’s an idiot, a patsy. He looks like a clown face on a kid’s inflatable punching bag. This moron looks like he never had an original thought in his life. Now look at his wife, Ruth. She is pure brass. When you put the two pictures together, it’s totally obvious who was running the show.

If Bernard Madoff was not receiving his running orders from his wife, I will eat my hat. Don’t make me laugh! Now he is taking the fall and she is expressing shame at having been associated for the last fifty years with such a nefarious smooth operator. Oh please!

Everywhere you look in New York, it’s the same story: the women are running the men, who are conditioned from birth to take orders, first from their mothers and then from women who are trained by their mothers to perpetuate the stupid cycle.

I had occasion to sit in on one of these training sessions one morning when I was having breakfast at a Bagel Nosh restaurant on Second Avenue many years ago. At the next table, some old idiot broad was breaking her daughter into The Secret Sorority of Ball-Busting Psycho Females. “All men are children”, she told her daughter. “You find out what they want, you give it to them, and then, when they misbehave, you take it away”.

It sounded like a freakin dog trainer to me. Not that I hadn’t already figured it out long before, but I was gratified to find out that I wasn’t a paranoid psychotic. Anyway, I have always been immune to any kind of Voice of Authority, which is why nobody can freakin stand me. I act in my own interest. If I fall on my face, it’s with the knowledge that I only have myself to blame.

Recently I went to a conditioning class at the New York Sports Club. It’s me and forty women because, since I got my arm broken on a city bus, for which I recently won a judgment against the bus company, I’m only fit to work out with freakin women. When the place gets sweated up it smells like a pot of boiled shrimp.

Anyway, I rushed in and got the most desirable place in the studio, a corner where two walls of mirrors converge, giving the illusion that there are four of me. That way, at least, I have the illusion that there are other men in the room besides me ha-ha.

I dropped my towel and sunglasses there, to mark my place, and went off to get my dumbbells, but when I returned, my stuff had been pushed off to the side and some wiseguy woman had displaced me.

“Hey, that’s my place”, I screamed.

“No it’s not”, she screamed back. “I was here first!”

“Like hell,” I screamed. I pointed to my sunglasses and towel, which she had pushed over to the mirror. “That’s my stuff!”

So this idiot female reverted to her mother’s training. “Be a gentleman!” she commanded. This was pure Pavlovian dog training. “Sit! Stay! Heel!” Most men would skulk away and find a place at the back of the class. And why? Because some dingbat instructed them to. Unfortunately for her, I am no dumb dog. “Oh no”, I said. “No gentleman. Because you’re no lady. We’ll let the trainer decide”.

She walked away, obviously to cop a plea to the trainer. But I know the guy, and he knows me. She came back, smoldering, and moved her stuff out of the way for me.

Sometimes I feel as though I am the last man in New York City, like the last guy in “The Invasion of the Body Snatchers” who finds out at the end that he’s surrounded by pod people. I get the feeling that the reason the economy and society have collapsed is that men, who essentially built everything, have abdicated in favor of the women.

The modern concept of womanhood can be traced back to medieval France, where the artists and minstrels conceived a romanticized version of woman, in the same vein as unicorns and chivalrous knights who slept under the trees in their armor. It was pure Hollywood, but since art and culture leave an indelible impact on real life, this construct gained currency. Later on, under the reign of Louis XIV, women began to be noted for their intellectual abilities, as the wives of rich men began the practice of holding salons, inviting artists and discussing subjects of contemporary culture.

Prior to these French developments, however, women were essentially regarded as beasts of burden and baby machines. And it’s interesting to note that even in France, which is fundamentally the wellspring of female equality, women did not achieve suffrage until 1945.

In this country, well, somehow the notion took that the women were more refined and civilized than the men. Anybody who has watched “Real Housewives of New Jersey” knows what a load of old bullocks that is. And you don’t need a television either. Just go out on the street and engage one of these ladies in a few minutes of conversation, and you get an idea how far society has regressed backwards since the days of the Sun King.

Women’s suffrage in the U.S. was based on the reactionary strategy of counteracting the effects of granting the vote to male immigrants, which they insisted would subsume the rights of “real” Americans. Sound familiar? Later on, the comedy movies of W.C. Fields invariably showed him being hounded and hectored to death by some prim, politically correct old broad with an ax to grind – with his head as the grindstone. It’s no wonder women outlive men by a decade and end up with all the money. That’s how they have got it figured.

As I stated at the beginning of this piece, I am not out to create social upheaval. Plenty of women have got a legitimate beef against men, who are knuckleheads and pineapples. As Chairman Mao so succinctly pointed out, women hold up half the sky. But going forward, if we are to make sense of the ungodly mess we have created, being descended as we are from the apes in the trees and the primal beasts slithering under rocks in the mud, the human race should reflect on the neural impulses that have brought us to our present dead end.

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Family Reunion - Michael Jackson and Elvis in Heaven

ELVIS – Son!

MJ – Dad!

ELVIS – I know it didn’t work out between you and my daughter, Lisa Marie, but she was always headstrong like her mother. Never mind, you’ll always be family to me. Ma, look who’s here! It’s Michael Jackson.

MA PRESLEY – Son! Did you have a good trip?

MJ – It was like nothing at all.

MA PRESLEY – Well, you boys just talk while I make lunch. We’ll all get acquainted later.

ELVIS – You must be relieved to get out of life.

MJ – The pressure just got to be too much. Everybody pulling you in a different direction. I could’ve made a comeback. I was set to do fifty sold-out concerts in London. But I’ll tell you, Elvis, I was pushing fifty, which is too old to play Peter Pan.

ELVIS – You did right to check out when you did. Now you’ll sell more albums than ever. There’s such a thing as overstaying your welcome. Look at Madonna!

MJ – But I didn’t mean to die. I just told the doctor, give me something to relax me. Unfortunately, he relaxed me too much.

ELVIS – Anyway, that’s all in the past. Will you be staying with us until you get your own place?

MJ – If you have room for me.

ELVIS – Oh, we have room! I sort of designed this place myself. It’s part Memphis, part Hollywood and part Vegas. Over on the back forty I even put in a Hawaiian surfing beach.

MJ – Real homey.

ELVIS - Yeah, this is America just like I pictured it. No foreign cars or foreign people.

MJ – I know. Like, when I was a child my daddy worked in a steel mill. Today they’re all closed. The world today is all topsy-turvy. You can’t keep up. With all the iPods and file sharing, it’s getting harder and harder to come up with a sound to fill it up.

ELVIS – You’ll like it here. We got a gated community to keep the riff-raff out. Only artists.

MJ – Yeah, I noticed. It’s like a really good part of Encino.

ELVIS – Johnny Carson lives down the road a piece. And just over yonder the President’s got a spread.

MJ – Obama?

ELVIS – No, dummy, Ronald Reagan! He was the governor when I was alive. He only got to be president after I died. But he’s a prince of a man. I tried to get Nixon in here, but the board wouldn’t approve it. Too many Democrats.

MJ – What did God say?

ELVIS – God don’t involve himself in real estate matters. Have you given any thought about how you’ll spend eternity in heaven?

MJ – I thought I’d go back into the studio and work on developing some new material. Then I’ll inhabit the soul of a young artist and communicate my songs to him in his dreams while he’s sleeping.

ELVIS – Well, I hope you have better luck with that than I did. The market don’t care about rock n’ roll anymore. Everything today is one-note techno music these days. It’s like people are in a trance. Sometimes I go down to earth and fly around, just to get a feel for things, and it’s like being on Mars or a different planet. And I haven’t even been dead that long. Styles are changing too fast and going down. Music is probably the worst field for a dead person to make an impact. If you think we have it bad, you should go visit the classical composers like Beethoven or Wagner. They have totally given up trying to write new material. All they do is eat long lunches and go sailing in their boats.

MA PRESLEY – Boys, I made you a nice pitcher of lemonade and some lunch. Michael, I hope you like peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

MJ – It’s my favorite. Here, look. I’ve been developing some new dance steps. This is my new moonwalk.

ELVIS – Pretty cool. Now you can really walk to the moon. Maybe later I’ll call James Brown and invite him over. Then we can all dance up a storm.

MJ – It would be great to see James again. We had some great times together when we were alive.

ELVIS – I used to catch your shows in Vegas when you were still with the Jackson 5. You were probably too young to remember.

MJ - Sure I remember! Are you kidding, Elvis coming to my show? It was bigger than performing for the Queen of England!

ELVIS – Anyway, now we have all of eternity to reminisce about the old times. In the meantime, let me call up some girls and we’ll have a party to welcome you to heaven. Don’t feel bad about dying. You certainly left your mark on the world.

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Cha Cha's Coney Island Bar

With the new economic reality, you can forget about $500,000 summer rentals in the Hamptons. Fortunately for New Yorkers, a $2.00 subway ride will take you to Coney Island beach for a refreshing dip in the ocean, with the used condoms and Tampex tubes floating in the water with you.

It’s better than remaining in the sweltering city, though one reader recently compared it to taking a shit in your bathtub and then jumping in.

After a refreshing day of getting your feet all cut up by glass fragments and swimming in sewage, you can enjoy a languorous postprandial aperitif at Cha Cha’s Bar on the Coney Island boardwalk. Quite aside from the dramatic sunsets, which make the New Jersey oil refineries sparkle like gleaming jewels on the horizon, the panorama presents the romantic scenario of New York Dept.of Environmental Protection barges as they sail to-and-fro, transporting solid waste between Jamaica Bay and the East River, not to mention the enchanting fish fragrance emanating from the butts of the female bathers.

The companionship you’ll meet at Cha Cha’s is equally scintillating. As I was sitting at the bar, the girl next to me leaned over and discreetly whispered, “Don’t look now, but the guy next to me is playing with himself”.

“So what,” I said. “That has nothing to do with you”.

She responded demurely, “Yeah, but he’s using my hand to do it!”

Cha Cha’s is conveniently located between the Shoot The Freak attraction, where an insulting sideshow barker insolently invites passers-by to take potshots at a nut-job human target with a paintball gun as he scampers through a garbage-strewn lot, and a Nathan’s hot dog stand selling exorbitantly priced weenies to idiot retards and stinking up Cha Cha’s with the aroma of fried grease.

OK, it ain’t the Promenade des anglais on the French Riviera. Nevertheless, it has its advantages. The women there, who resemble the female gorillas in the Kongo exhibit at the Bronx Zoo, although with less body hair, are so desperate for money that if you poke a hole in a $20 bill and push your dick through it, they will blow you just to get closer to the money. Watch out, though, these broads have a lot of studs and rings embedded in their lips and tongues, and this, combined with protruding wires resulting from cheap dental work, can result in you organ being shredded like a meat grinder.

In addition to just getting blown, you can get laid as well. Once you do the deal, you just have to walk across the boardwalk to the beach. But as I previously pointed out, the sand is full of broken glass from drunken Russians from Brighton Beach who, after getting drunk on cheap Georgi vodka, celebrate by breaking the bottles like gleeful Cossacks who had just massacred a village full of Jews. That’s why it’s best to first prepare by setting aside a cardboard vegetable box, which are available by hunting around the alley behind the vegetable stalls on Brighton Beach Avenue, and stashing it under the boardwalk near Cha Cha’s for use as a mattress. Failing that, it’s preferable to be on top when you perform the sex act in the sand. That way, it’s your partner who ends up going to Coney Island Hospital for getting cut up. Another thing to be vigilant for is bedbugs in the sand which are brought there by underprivileged Brooklynites and lay in wait, hoping for a better home.

For those guys who prefer masculine companionship, no problem! Cha Cha’s has got a willing contingent of gay men, who actually cost a lot less. In fact, depending how ugly the guy is, he might even pay you!

Brooklyn being a multicultural community, it’s helpful to know a few words of Spanish to aid you in your conquest. One phrase that always comes in handy is that faithful old standby “Bicho en el culo”. This translates into “Dick in the ass”, and is always helpful in any transaction.

One last tip concerns Cha Cha’s bathroom, which makes the overflowing Porto-Sans at KeySpan Baseball Stadium shine like Schmuckingham Palace by comparison. You can forget all about toilet paper, just grab a fistful of cocktail napkins. The bathroom is for all sexes and the lock on the door is broken. Last time I took a leak there, a woman barged in and demanded if I was quite through. Since my cell phone was ringing, I asked her if she would hold my pecker, which was still pissing, while I answered the phone. She obliged, but after she had shook it dry, she asked me for a holding fee. Since the plumbing has a tendency to get stopped up, the toilet is prone to flooding, so, in order to avoid ending up floating in a pool of urine, it is advisable to wear platform shoes or, failing that, to wear rubber hip boots, which are available for a rental fee from the commercial fishing boats moored nearby in Sheepshead Bay.

Look, this is nasty. But if you are squeamish about any of the aforementioned details, the best thing would be for you to get the fuck out of New York City.

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Iran Stands Up Against Tyranny

                                                          IRAN FIGHTS BACK!!!!!!

What is happening in Iran, with mass street demonstrations and civil unrest over the stealing of the election that should have gone to Moussavi, is an indication of the more comprehensive cultural values that the Persian people enjoy as a result of their ancient civilization and culture.

Sometimes elections are stolen. If the people of a country determine that their votes are not being fairly represented, they have the inalienable right to overturn the result by any means available at hand.

Many peoples have a propensity to go into the streets if they feel they are being cheated or manipulated. The other country that comes to mind is France, although Japan and Korea also have histories of extra- parliamentary protest.

To our great shame, the American people have a tendency to accept whatever results are inflicted upon us, no matter how much the process stinks. The 2000 presidential election is the case in point. The election was stolen by Bush, even though the popular vote was manifestly in favor of Gore and the Democrats. The results in Florida, the pivotal state in that election, were manipulated and perverted by the state’s Republican governor and secretary of state, even though the whole nation knew perfectly well that voter exclusion and ballot manipulation were scandalously obvious. The decision went to the U.S. Supreme Court, whose Republican majority later joked about throwing the election to Bush.

Elections count. The result of the Bush coup d’état was to reverberate for the eight following years. We ended up with a reactionary dictatorship that mishandled 9/11, dragged us into a vindictive foreign war of choice against Iraq, threw the country’s banking system into chaos, completely flubbed the relief effort following Hurricane Katrina, as well as many other grave consequences too numerous to be recounted here.

The American people, by not flooding into the streets in 2000 to protest the stealing of the election and the installation of a puppet administration, that of the idiot Bush, are partly responsible for our own decline. Part of the blame goes to Al Gore, who, instead of spearheading protests in Washington and provoking Americans to demonstrate in all other cities and towns, grew a beard and accepted a lecturer’s post at Columbia University, to his everlasting shame.

Things turned out fine for Gore. He ended up receiving the Nobel Prize and an Academy Award. As for the rest of us, not so good. We don’t have jobs or medical insurance. The World Trade Center is dust, with thousands of casualties. We are saddled with two foreign wars. Our international reputation is a shambles. Our currency is debased, its value debated on a daily basis. We are diminished as a nation.

Maybe that is why President Obama is hesitant to add the weight of his opinion to the disruptions taking over the disputed Iranian election. It might draw uncomplimentary comparison to our own impotent reaction under the same circumstances, where we just went to work the next day and accepted the humiliation of being played for suckers.

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