Just Like I Pictured It!

“Wow, New York, just like I pictured it!”

“Get in that cell, [asshole]!”
- Stevie Wonder "Innervisions"

If Diogenes haunted the alleys and darkened corners of 21st century New York with a flashlight in search of an honest man, he certainly would not find me remarkable.

Nevertheless, I am an approximation of how close you can come to honesty and still survive here. An old boss of mine once called me as honest a man as he knew, which essentially meant that I never stole from him (he had my phone tapped). Anyway, he was too busy stealing from our parent corporation to really monitor any activities I might happen to engage in.

New Yorkers lie to you for no reason at all, or just to keep in practice. That is why I totally discount any criticisms directed at me or my activities as coming from malevolent, scheming, maladjusted thieves. Yeah, I know, it takes one to know one blah blah blah. Most New Yorkers lie to take the path of least resistance, or to even the playing field. They’re swine. But the New Yorkers who tell the truth are even worse, since New Yorkers can no better afford to have their affairs exposed to the light of day than Nosferatu can afford to get a suntan. Every time the floodlight of transparency shines on a New Yorker, the result is a disaster. There is not enough band width in cyberspace to recount all the New Yorkers who have been maimed by exposure to reality, so let me just refresh your memory with a couple of recent examples: Governor Eliot Spitzer, the totality of Wall Street, A-Rod (but not Madonna. The publicity is right now actually helping her sell records and concert tickets). Anyway, Madonna is like Hillary Clinton, only more so. After what she’s been through there is no exposure left that can damage her.

Speaking for myself, truthfulness is an element of malice. I love shining the light and watching the little creppy-crawlies scatter to hide in the cracks. Of course, that’s wishful thinking – nobody is scared of me. Not yet, anyway. But I still enjoy finding a pressure point and squeezing the spit out of it. Unfortunately, when you have a hobby like that, the only birthday cards you get are from undertakers asking to be remembered in your will.But no matter. I lost a whole lot of friends this year when I insinuated that Barack Obama was a paid agent of the Republican Party in their effort to derail a Hillary Clinton candidacy, which would have been a mortal blow to them. Hillary Clinton has been tied to the whipping post more times than Madonna, but she keeps on ticking. In Obama the Republicans have got a nice marshmallow Easter Bunny that they can tear apart and consume at their leisure.

In this they will be assisted by the New York press corps, who need fresh suckers to sacrifice to boost circulation during the perennial economic crisis.

They certainly have been having a field day with Obama, and he hasn’t even been formally awarded the nomination yet. Just this week Jesse Jackson threatened to cut off his balls and the New Yorker Magazine featured him on its cover all duded out in his Kenyan goat herder suit with his wife looking for all the world like Black Panthers moll Angela Davis, Kalashnikov in hand.

Obama has no political past, resembling a drifter from a Theodore Dreiser novel, and you can portray him in any colors you like. He’s a self-described community activist who somehow managed to become a millionaire (I never bothered to help anybody, and I’m still broke). No question that the Republicans are going to have a field day with him. The New Yorker, which is undoubtedly in cahoots with Hillary Clinton, made one last stab at showing the Democratic Party what they can expect in September, but to no avail. The Democrats are absolutely determined to run off the cliff in an election year when they should have scored an historic electoral triumph, snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, the same as last year’s Mets, who blew a 7 ½ game lead in the last two weeks of the season. When somebody is determined to self-destruct, all you can do is stand out of the way so that when the bullet exits his head it doesn’t wreck you too, as collateral damage.

Meantime, the Democrats are virtually giving John McCain a free pass on the patriotism issue. It’s common knowledge that as the son of a Navy admiral, nobody was willing to try to stop him from performing aerial acrobatics over North Vietnam, causing him to be shot down, and then, sensing he had a future campaign issue in flyover country, refusing to leave the Hanoi Hilton even as his captors were begging him to go. Where is the New Yorker cover portraying McCain lounging around the pool at the Hanoi Hilton, being served an umbrella drink by Ho Chi Minh wearing a waiter’s uniform as Jane Fonda performs a jackknife dive off the diving board, surrounded by clouds of anti-aircraft flak? Apparently, the New Yorker doesn’t have the stomach to feature a thing like that.

Oh, Lord, please hear my prayer! Let me get good traction as a writer, so that I can roast John McCain, Barack Obama, The New York Post, The Times and Tina Brown (what do I care about freakin Brittney Spiers or Lindsay Lohan?) on the same spit like a Brighton Beach Turkish shish-kebob, with plenty of hot sauce!

And let’s not forget Colombian hostage Ingrid Betancourt, who spent six years in FARC captivity because she was too stupid and headstrong to heed the pleadings of Colombian police and military, insisting on driving right into a FARC roadblock. Talk about a dumbass Latin bobblehead!

Betancourt, who grew up and was educated in Paris, obviously thought her native Colombia could benefit from a touch of French civilization, using her high social connections in Bogotá, where she was a government minister, she put herself up for president on an ecology ticket. Not to say that Colombia, the lush, green tropical land that had inspired Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ literary school of magical realism, is not indeed in need of environmental consciousness, but with a century-long history of violent factionalism and civil war that has caused the violent death of upwards of a million citizens and unbelievable social dislocation and misery, probably the last thing most people could wrap their minds around was saving the forest habitat of the three-toed tree sloth.

Hey, what do I know? Barack Obama became a millionaire trying to lift people out of poverty. If you do good for others some of it has got to rub off on you, right?

So, here’s Ingrid Betancourt, barnstorming around Colombia, compliments of the Colombian government transportation infrastructure, with her campaign manager, another chic young thing in designer jeans, disseminating her message of saving the environment and building a political base. A lot of the territory was in guerilla hands, and the only way was to get from town to town was by military helicopter. One day there was no helicopter to take her where she wanted to go.“No problem,” she said, “we’ll just drive there.”

The police and the army told her, “You can’t drive there from here. That’s FARC territory. You have to wait until a helicopter becomes available.”

“Nonsense,” she retorted.“What would the FARC want with sweet, charming, cultivated little ol’ French me? I’m not involved in nasty old adversarial politics. I’m trying to bring people together to save the speckled tree frog (with me as their leader, naturally).”

So off she drove into the bush. They got about five miles until they ran into a FARC roadblock commanded by Juan Valdez’ half brother, Octavio Guevara Valdez, who had run away from the coffee plantation and become a FARC commander.

“What do we have here?” he exclaimed, twirling his greasy moustache.

“Ingrid Betancourt sweetly explained, “We’re off to grandma’s house with a basket of enchiladas. But first I want to stop in San Juan del Maricón to exhort the people to combat global warming.”

Octavio said, “Well, you can travel more comfortably in the trunk of my Toyota.” See, in Colombia hostages are such big business that there is a huge industry built around custom-built air-conditioning for the trunks of cars, so that the valuable merchandise does not expire in the hundred-degree heat while you are in the process of extorting money from their families. If you look in the Medellín Yellow Pages, this is what you see:

Pablo’s Custom Air-Conditioning

Car trunks our specialty

“Keep your hostage as fresh as the day you disappeared him.”

Colombia’s largest selection of blindfolds, handcuffs and instruments of torture.

Anyway, to make a long story short, Ingrid Betancourt became a national hero in both Colombia and France because of her own stupidity. In this country, John McCain became a national patriotic icon because of his insistence on doing stupid dog tricks with his F-14, at the cost of millions to the taxpayers.

So why am I still broke? Because of all the dumb-ass mistakes and blunders I have committed in life, I have never done anything stoopid enough to put myself in the same class of doghouse as these freakin morons.

That’s why everybody hates the Clintons: sure they have their peccadillos, but they never connected with the average dork on the street by doing a monumental screw-up like letting the World Trade Center get destroyed by being too lazy to beef up airport security after getting an intelligence briefing that terrorists were getting ready to use airliners for flying bombs, or promoting a world class sophistry like “Greed is Good” (instead of “Enterprise is Good”) and allowing of class of thieving imbeciles to bring the world banking system to its knees by running amok, totally unregulated, and flooding the market with worthless mortgage securities based on the sale of houses to economic basket cases at usurious rates of interest.

The latest statistics indicate that the US spends double the rate of other industrialized countries on a health care system where 15-20% of the population is not even covered, with the vigorish going to the big insurance combines. So why are AIG and all the other monster insurance conglomerates at the point of bankruptcy? Because they invested a huge portion of the money they chiseled in worthless CDO’s ha-ha! No honor among thieves. Jeez, wotta buncha schmucks!

The New York Post reports (oh it’s gotta be true!) that the wives of investment bankers who lose their jobs are running out on them. Pretty soon you’re going to need a hard hat to take a walk down Wall Street for fear of getting hit in the head by bankers jumping out of windows. Don’t bother withdrawing your money from the collapsing banks because with the dollar losing half its value relative to the euro since Bush stole the election in 2000, pretty soon it won’t be worth the paper it’s written on anyway.

What’s the solution? What do I look like, a genius? If I was so smart I would be going broke (I’m already there), my girlfriend would be running out on me, and I’d be papering my outhouse with worthless securities. All I can say is, maybe this country’s overdue for a social revolution. We should’ve stuck with Hillary.

Barack and Hillary: The Greatest Love Story Ever Told
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GIULIANI'S PANTIES! click here:
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