October 30, 2005
Everybody calls me the Fat Man
'Cause I likes to throw my weight around
I'm so bad I even killed Batman
And buried his black ass in the ground
If you see the Fat Man comin'
Better throw away your guns and knives
'Cause if the Fat Man catch you
You can kiss your skinny ass goodbye
All the ladies the Fat Man
'Cause he give them what they want
They know if they see the Fat Man
He gonna' pay them cash up front
When the ladies see the Fat Man
They sing 'Glory to the stars above!'
'Cause they know if they see the Fat Man
They get three hundred pounds of love
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Posted on 10/30/2005
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October 29, 2005
Frankie Lee sat on his front porch
Drinking warm beer and blowin’ on his harp
The moonlight shone on the swirling flood
Which had made a lake out of his front yard
His two best friends sat at his feet
Enjoying the rough music so sweet
Chester, the big floppy Labrador
Laid out like a bear rug on the floor
And the skittish little kitty he called Fillmore
The two little critters loved the blues so much
Because Frankie Lee had the magic touch
Gradually the silence of the night
Was broken by a motorboat and its searchlight
It was Deputy Sheriff Duran
A shotgun draped over his thick forearm
Determined to save the public from harm
And the boat’s driver, another tough man
The Sheriff said “We heard your melody makin’
And figured you might need savin’”
Frankie Lee said “Your timin’ is real good
Me and my friends could use some help
To save us from the ragin’ flood”’
The Sheriff said “Hold up, son. Step into the boat
But the animals cannot come along
For them there is no hope”
“Well, I cannot leave without them. They are my only friends
Sheriff Duran said “I reckon that you oughta’
I’m tellin’ you to get aboard
And that’s a lawful order”
Frankie Lee kissed Chester and Fillmore
And left them out some water
Saying “I’ll be back in a couple of days and then we’ll be alright
Then he got aboard the boat and it pulled away into the night
As Chester and Fillmore lay down on the porch
Patiently awaiting Frankie Lee to return and set things right
The Superdome was a hellish zone
For a man to be left on his own
Dark and hot, no law and order
Thousands of people with no food or water
Gangsters running wild high on crack and booze
The only lights from the TV crews
Showing the world the ugly news
Frankie Lee found a seat with a church congregation
The people there sang gospel hymns and prayed for their salvation
But Frankie Lee could only thing of Chester and Fillmore
And their desperate situation
While the Nation’s imperial rulers watched from the window of a plane outside
The people in the stadium went insane
And some committed suicide
The guards had all run away and left the blighted victims behind
In the evil and the chaos Frankie Lee lost his mind
His thoughts turned away from his two best friends and all that he held dear
Reduced to the level of an animal by hunger, thirst and fear
Not so Chester and Fillmore, alone and defenseless in the night
They knew that Frankie Lee would move the world to set things right
When the law showed up at the Superdome
They organized the situation
And cut the people into groups
To facilitate their evacuation
Frankie Lee said “I have to go back to Sycamore Street
To save my dog and cat”
The man told him “There is no personnel for that
Your neighborhood is under ten feet of flood
We’ll send in the ASPCA when conditions are good
Your animals will have to wait
There’s people here in very bad shape”
They said “Frankie Lee get on the bus. We’re sending you real far away
Louisiana’s all filled up and so is Texas too
You’ll have to go to Utah
It’s the best that we can do
In Utah they’ll take care of you”
They flew him into Utah on a military flight
And when he deplaned in Ogden he could not believe the sight
In place of lush green foliage and willowy eucalyptus
He saw only dead tumbleweed and prickly hostile cactus
Instead of great Lake Ponchartrain
A desolate wasteland with no name
Instead of lush wisteria
An American Siberia
Frankie Lee fell to his knees and prayed for the Lord’s intervention
And forgiveness for abandoning his best friends to their certain destruction
He knew that in the opposite sense they would not have let him die
But would lay down their innocent lives that he might yet survive
He moaned “Oh Lord please save them
They are so pure and free
I pray that you might spare their lives
And instead take me!”
At just that moment Sylvia the Rescue Lady was riding down Hastings Street in an inflatable boat
The pollution of benzene and methanol in the water was so acute
It obliged her to wear a mask and protective Hazmat suit
When the boat reached the corner of Sycamore Street a thought popped in her head
She said “I see some animals on the porch of that gray house straight ahead
A big black dog and a tiny little kitty
And Lord they look half-dead
When the boat pulled up to Frankie Lee’s house, Chester and Fillmore made a joyful din
And Sylvia the Rescue Lady opened her arms and welcomed them in
Sylvia the Rescue Lady found new homes for Chester and Fillmore
Chester lives in a big house on the beach but he won’t go in the water
Frankie Lee got a job in LA driving a great big gravel truck
Some times he pulls over to the side of the road
To cry about his misbegotten luck
Fillmore lives in a little pink house in Wheaton, Illinois
One day he was chasing a flitting butterfly
He sat down and remembered Chester and Frankie Lee
And the time the water came and swept away their lives
The End
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Posted on 10/29/2005
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October 27, 2005
We take you now to the Williamsburg, Brooklyn, headquarters of Yussel Rotten, the Punk Rock Rabbi, otherwise known as the Bedford Avenue Laundromat:
“Brothers and Sisters, thank you coming to our first meeting here tonight. I’ll be honest witch yez, when the American Jewish Community first contacted me in BOGOTA, where I was (pppffffffzzz hack hack) writing a history of the Columbian Jewish Community, and asked me to take on this assignment, I had my doubts!!! ‘Yussel,’ I sez to myself, ‘is this really your big chance to break into the bigtime, or was it just another false start, like when I invented the Osama Bin Laden Doll (‘It Walks, It Talks, It Blows Itself Up’)? Or when I tried to sue Hosni Mubarak for back wages for building the pyramids? Or was I really gonna see my name in lights – ‘Yussel Rotten gets down with the Talmud!’
“I went into the mountains of Columbia with just my dog, Primitivo, my faithful Columbian guide, Juan Valdez, and a rolled-up ten peso note, and I (snnnnoooorrrrrrt!) meditated for forty days and forty nights. And one night a bush began to burn! As I stood there (inhaling the smoke), HE came to me, as in a dream. ‘Yussel,' he said, 'you have been called! Go forth into the streets of New York City and bring me back the Children of Israel, male, female and, er, whatever else. In return, I will grant you Life, Good Health and (fffffttttttt!) the baaaaddest shit I grow in the Garden of Eden, baby!’ Well, brothers and sisters, I am not an ordained rabbi with a degree from the Mel Brooks College of Rabbinical Knowledge for nothing!!! I hocked my gold Rolex and caught the first jet back to Miami.
“Now before I get into a heavy rap witch yez about the social and spiritual goals for this organization, I wanna take a coupla minutes and talk to yez about the fuel for this organization, and I’m not talkin’ to yez about crude Arab oil, or Iranian donkey shit! I mean Money! Gelt! Green Stuff! Cabbage! MOOLAH! If we’re gonna win back the people on the street, we got to show some class. We need some Cadillacs! And not just the little jive-ass compact models that the goyim are driving around! We need some BIG, SILVER, and RED jobs like Phil Silvers and Harry Cohen like to drive. Show the people on the street that if they come back to the God of Israel, they won’t have to walk anymore!
"Now where we gonna get money for these gunboats, you’re askin’ yourselves! Well, I’ll tell you where! From our exclusive collection of Yussel Rotten’s Religious Novelty Paraphenalia Supply House in Babylon, Long Island, that’s where! Lookit’ what I got here: ‘Two Jews Blues’ by Mike Bloomfield and Al Kooper, ‘Kinky Friedman and the Texas Jewboys Sing 20 Country Passover Favorites!’ And check out this little beauty: The Walk-Me-Talk-Me-Kiss-Me-In-The-Dark Combination Mazuzah Beer Bottle Opener and Roach Clip! WE SHOULD RAKE IN MILLIONS WITH THIS COOL SHIT!!!!
"But man doth not live by bread alone, Brothers and Sisters, and that’s why we are here tonight. We are here to bring back the Children of the Nation of Israel who have strayed! Who are shooting dope! Who are doing five to ten in Allentown for securities fraud! Who are selling phony aluminum siding jobs to Guyanese immigrants on the West Side of Chicago! The Messiah is coming soon. He may be here now (or he may be in East Orange, New Jersey). He may be eight feet tall (or he may be five-feet-two). He may wear sandals (or he may wear Calvin Klein stretch jeans with the tight crotch). But I’m gonna tell you sumbiches one thing right now, and you can take this one to the bank with you:
"IT AIN'T GEORGE FUCKIN' STEINBRENNER!!!
"Maybe it’s Matsui. After all, who ever heard of a six-foot Jap who hits homeruns? Maybe it’s Jose Contreras, because Steinbrenner paid him forty million bucks and then hounded him so unmercifully that the poor guy couldn't see straight to pitch. Then Steinbrenner traded Contreras to Chicago, and once Contreras got out from under Steinbrenner he found his groove and took over the world. Steinbrenner's such a prick that pitchers are running away from him in droves!
"It ain't Donald Trump either. Every time you ask Trump how much he's worth, he gives a different answer depending on what he's been smoking that day. And then it turns out everything he owns has a lien on it.
Somebody should send Steinbrenner and Trump out in a boat without an oar and then punch a hole in the boat ha-ha!
"Anyway, who's the messiah? How the fuck should I know? That’s not my job. I’m just here to tell you to go forth and bring me back the Lost Tribe of Israel. And don’t forget to sell some roach clips.
"See you all next week."
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Posted on 10/27/2005
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October 26, 2005
PACK OF ANGRY CHIHUAHUAS ATTACK OFFICER!
AP
FREMONT, California (Dec. 30) - A pack of angry Chihuahuas attacked a police officer who was escorting a teenager home following a traffic stop, authorities said.
The officer suffered minor injuries including bites to his ankle on Thursday when the five Chihuahuas escaped the 17-year-old boy's home and rushed the officer in the doorway, said Fremont detective Bill Veteran.
PRIMITIVO THE ATTACK CHICHAHUA!
Primitivo the Attack Chihuahua
Faster than a rocket
More powerful than a raging bull
And he fits right in your pocket
His father was a pit bull
His mother was a poodle
Though he was born in Mexico
He loved to whistle Yankee Doodle
I went down to the subway
With Primitivo in my pocket
He fit in nice and snug
But his head stuck out of it
The two cops on the platform
Saw us waiting for the train
They said “No dogs on the subway
We don’t want to see that mutt’s face again”
Primitivo leapt to the ground
And gave a mighty lion’s roar
He pulled so strongly on the leash
It dragged me across the floor
He charged the cops ferociously
His tiny teeth were gleaming
The cops took aim and fired their guns
While people ran for the exits screaming
They filled the tiny Chihuahua
With forty shots of burning lead
Still the mighty Primitivo
Would not fall down dead
All at once he lay down
Panting though not expired
In spite of all the shots the cops had fired
I ran over to where he lay
And fell down to my knees
Crying “Primitivo my heart’s devotion
Do not leave me please
Primitivo’s eyes glazed over
His tongue hung down to the concrete floor
He took a last lick at a piece of gum
That happened to be stuck there
He said “O papí me siento malo
Creo que me voy a morir
Se la termina mi vida
Don’t Cry For Me Argentina!”
The cops ran over and removed their hats in silent tribute
They reloaded their pistols
And fired a twenty-one gun salute
They said “Primitivo is the greatest dog
We ever had to kill
Though we shot him forty times
We did not wish him ill”
When the mayor heard the news of Primitivo’s untimely demise
It came to him as no surprise
He said “It is the duty of the cops
To shoot Chihuahuas with no warning
But due to the loss of an authentic canine hero
I’m declaring a national day of mourning”
Condolences poured in from all the countries of the world
A life-sized bronze statue of Primitivo was unfurled
Although it was only six inches tall
They installed it in Washington at the National Mall
Primitivo went down in history
As a world-wide legend
While he looked down upon us
From up in doggie heaven
Even the astral constellations of the sky
Transformed their celestial configuration
As Primitivo the Attack Chihuahua
Became an astronomical infatuation
When the astronomers pointed their telescopes up to the sky
They were astonished to see a Chihuahua fly by
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October 25, 2005
Anybody who knows a little about women can speculate on the motivations that led Judith Miller to act as a shill for the Bush administration’s campaign to build support for an invasion of Iraq.
Having survived almost thirty years as a Times staff reporter, she had seniority that superseded almost anybody in the corporate hierarchy, including her editors or the newspaper’s publisher. The Pulitzer Prize she won certainly enhanced her prestige and added to the hubris that normally builds up in a woman with so much authority, so much so that she felt no compunction about referring to herself as “sharp elbows” or “Miss Run-Amok,” though she was self-aware enough to defend some of her more objectionable behavior with the caveat, “I am not a jerk.”
This writer, once working in a corporate environment, inquired of a bluntly aggressive female colleague; did she ever consider the use of charm to achieve her ends? She replied sharply, “That would be phony.” She explained that she saw no reason to be any more charming than the men in that environment, who were, frankly, uncouth boors and philistines.
Without ever having personally met Ms. Miller and knowing her only from Times articles and television film clips, one can nevertheless deduce that she is not a person of exemplary grace or poise. She comes across as a little bit of a mess. Assuming that impression to be on the mark, and attributing to her the aforementioned traits of egotism and hubris to which she has herself alluded, one can infer a personality profile that would pretty much amount to a loose cannon rolling unimpeded across the deck of a ship manned by novice sailors and commanded by a captain and officers who were themselves untested and green.
A woman like this, bold and authoritative yet uncouth, unimpeded by any firm, guiding leadership, is bound to arrive at the conclusion that the men around her are a bunch of squishy, liberal wimps. It’s a guaranteed fact that any male with the least masculine characteristics would be immediately excluded from consideration for employment at the Times, so Ms. Miller has probably been barreling through its corridors for years seething with the attitude that no man is good enough for her.
So she probably reacted to meeting the neo-macho specimens representing the Bush administration, Bush, with his unreconstructed frat boy posturing; Cheney, with his heavy industry hard hat image (Cheney has never had an industrial job); Scooter Libby with his tight jeans and cowboy hat, with the relief of a lonely woman who finally finds a really good bar and exclaims, “Finally, some real men!”
She probably really dug their aggressive approach to the use of American power, enough to overlook the fact that these top Republican tough guys were all draft dodgers. Look, nobody’s perfect!
For their part, Cheney, Libby, Rove et al, sensing immediately that they had Ms. Miller eating out of their hands, played her like a fiddle with sweet talk about WMDs, security clearances, embedded status in Iraq and plenty more that we don’t know about, though it must have been a regular Cyrano de Bergerac story with Libby reciting her poetry from beneath her balcony in the moonlight with Cheney and Rove feeding him his lines from the bushes.
Whatever Libby told her, must have been strong stuff for her to spend three months in jail rather than speak his name, and then, when she got out, she dissembled and misspoke, infecting the Times like a Typhoid Mary leaving chaos and destruction in her wake.
This is just the beginning of the story, not its end. Special Prosecutor Fitzgerald still has to announce the indictments and there is an excellent chance that in addition to Libby and Rove, Chaney himself will be charged. Then the pressure will be on him to either absorb the punishment himself (and Cheney is a very sick man), or to disclose any discussions he had about Wilson and Plame with the other half of his Odd Couple act, namely Bush.
Then the central question will be: What Did Bush Know and When Did He Know It?
“There you go again!”
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Posted on 10/25/2005
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October 25, 2005
I saw my darling in the moonlight
Her face gloriously lit in the starry night
As she floated floated floated down Exchange Place
In the dead still summer heat
Far away I heard the screaming
And the shooting and the cursing
As the raging mob descended
Dancin’ round the hangin’ tree
Does it warm your heart’s compassion
Madly throbbing voodoo drums
Beating loud inside the city
When the Day of Judgment comes?
Who will live and who will die?
Does it pay to question why?
Dead souls cowering in fear
Voodoo rhythms in the air
Take a million tons of water
Add a million forelorn souls
Sprinkle in some black gunpowder
Crumble in some levee walls
Now you’ve got the devil’s gumbo
Tell me, friend, how does it taste
Rich bouquet of death and waste
Can you hear the voodoo drums?
The mad crying and the screams?
Bodies floating in the water
Zombies rising from the graveyard
Evil spirits wild dancing
On the corpse of New Orleans
Ghoulish fiends from hell ascended
Sticking pins in nasty dolls
Paralyze the people’s leaders
As the deadly gumbo bubbles
Breeding filthy plague and anthrax
Rotting flesh and putrid maggots
As the gumbo boils over
Satan’s minions lick their chops
Let’s all sit down to the banquet
Feast upon the devil’s madness
While we await our turn in the pot
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Posted on 10/25/2005
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October 24, 2005
Are you tired of having lazy, mentally defective children who:
· Dress Like Bums?
· Hate School?
· Smoke Rope?
· Wango-ze-Tango Until Four AM?
You may be a victim of FAULTY GENES!!!!
The chart here tells the story. In Graph A we have a happy, healthy sperm cell. Note his smiling face! Sperm Cell A can’t wait to begin his Long Trek up the uterine canal to the womb, there to meet the egg of his dreams and develop into a happy, healthy kid who:
· Gets Straight A’s in School
· Has a Part-Time Job
· Is Captain of the Football Team (or the cheerleading squad)
· Dreams of Becoming MAYOR OF NEW YORK CITY!
There are many reasons for Faulty Genes:
· Tight Pants
· Self-Abuse
· DRUG ADDICTION
SO WHY TAKE CHANCES!!!???
Come On Down to Sperm City in the Paramus Mall where we have a friendly and knowledgeable staff of 60 Genetic Engineers ready to talk to you about your needs! Sperm City is a division of SPERMCO INTL. with branches in forty countries. Our worldwide computer network enables us to draw from a gene pool of over ONE TRILLION PEOPLE, thereby assuring you THE KID OF YOUR DREAMS! We have a clone to fit your budget, be it that of an industrial drone or a Nobel laureate. We can fix you up with an itinerant tobacco picker or an Olympic pole vault champion, SO COME ON DOWN!
To the first hundred people who come in and say “Dick Sent Me,” we will give, absolutely free of charge, our new, easy-insert applicator in Traditional or Italian Hi-Tech design.
Come On Down Saturday when Mayor Ed Krotch and Governor Mario Homo will be giving away free condoms to everybody wearing an I Luv NY Jockstrap.
Vaginavisa and Masturbacard Welcome.
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Posted on 10/24/2005
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October 24, 2005
Nous nous retrouvons sur une plage du Maroc. Je me presente devant toi tout nu, graisse de bain de soleil. Je bande une erection enorme, gonflee et dure qui ressemble, avec sa tete pourpre et veines bleues qui palpitent d’anticipation, un serpeant qui s’etend d’un arbre de la jungle. Toi, allongee sur une serviette de plage sur le sable, es topless. Tu portes un collier de coquilles autour de ton cou, des bracelets d’or. Tes ongles et tes ongles d’orteil sont rouges comme l’enfer. Dans tes cheveux, des fleurs. Radiante, vous portez un sarong de vert et jaune autour de ta taille que couvre tes jambes.
Souriante, tu te leves sur un coude pendant que je m’approche pour mieux me regarder. Je me mets a genoux pres de ta tete et j’embrasse ton cou et tes joues. Tu m’offres ta bouche avec volonte. On s’embrasse comme deux animaux affames dans la chaleur de la jungle, avec la passion de deux amants separes qui se reunissent. Ta bouche est mouillee et douce comme une puit d’eau fraiche dans le desert.
Les vagues de la mer battent un rythem doux de tranquillite devant nous. Les rayons de soleil eclattent sur la mer, et les bateux a voiles glissent doucement sur l’horizon. J’embrasse ton cou et tu m’offres ton epaule, que je devore, prenant ton sein dans ma main. Je te suce les seins pendant que tu frottes ma tete avec tes mains. Je leche ton nombril et, lentement, je separe les plis de ton sarong pour exposer tes cuisses et ton sexe qui glisse dans le soleil. C’est comme une orchidee rarissme couchee dans un lit d’herbe, dune beaute exquise qui attire des abeilles pour la polliniser. C’est parfumee. Je l’embrasse, et de ta bouche j’entend dire « Mon galant... » Les levres delicates de ta vagin se plient devant ma langue comme les feuilles d’une patisserie fine et mousseuse. Je les brousse doucement avec le point de ma langue. Delicatement j’arrive a ton clitoris que se dresse comme un petit soldat devant son general.
Avec tes mains, tu tires a mes hanches jusqu’a ce qui mon sexe pend au dessus de ton visage. Tu me prends dans ta bouche, et c’est comme une revelation. C’est comme entrer dans le paradis apres avoir passe une eternite dans le purgatoire. Ma bite reagit avec la joie, comme un arabe deseche qui tombe sur une source. « Je vie !! » Ta bouche et ta langue sont un paradis de supplices tendres. Tu me suces, tu m’entoures avec ta langue et tu me branles avec ta main. Je me rend coeur et ame a tes tentations.
Perdu pendant quelques instants dans mon reve, je suis reveille par les mouvements de tes hanches qui se levent pour gronder ta chatte contre mon visage. Tu te presses contre moi, insistante, et tes mouvements deviennent plus frenetiques, possedee comme une sorciere, une femme que je n’ai jamais connue auparavent. Tu grondes, tu pousses tes fesse. Tu me suces avec frenesie. Avec ta tete tu montes et descends sur ma bite comme une folle. Tout d’un coup, tu deviens rigide, comme la mort t’es arrivee. Un giclement d’ecume echappe de ton vagin, que je leche avec delectation. (a suivre)
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October 24, 2005
If you like this blog, tell your friends. If not,, tell your enemies. What do I care? Even bad publicity is better than nothing at all. This blog can be accessed directly by going to Google and typing in "200motels." As this hooker once told me, "This is a great business - you sell it and you still got it."
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Posted on 10/24/2005
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October 23, 2005
October 23, 2005: Campaign officials for Hillary Clinton attacked Jeanine F. Pirro for intentionally committing ridiculous campaign errors in hopes of getting free publicity in her bid to unseat Senator Clinton.
“We’ve seen this all before, when Rick Lazio intentionally took a dive and damaged his face in the hope of getting a sympathy vote,” said Howard Wolfson, a Clinton adviser, referring to Senator Clinton’s Republican adversary in the 2000 race. “Republican candidates have a long history of performing stupid dog tricks, dating from the days when Gerald R. Ford would stumble and fall to get attention to the present Bush strategy of falling off his bicycle.
“If Ms. Pirro thinks that making a fool of herself every day in time for the six o’clock news will distract the public from Senator Clinton’s serious efforts on behalf of the interests of New Yorkers, then she is seriously mistaken.”
Brian Donahue, Ms. Pirro’s campaign manager denied that her organization has enlisted comedian Jackie Mason to shape her campaign strategy. “We have been in preliminary discussions with Beavis and Butthead, but that’s as far as it has gone.”
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Posted on 10/23/2005
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October 23, 2005
"Fellow inmates and literary cognoscenti, welcome to the monthly meeting of the Sing-Sing Literary Society. I'm your moderator, Angel de la Cruz, otherwise known by my nom de plume of Inmate 733506.
"It's been a great honor for me to assume the leadership of a society with such a great tradition of erudition as ours. Before coming to Sing-Sing, I essentially believed that a book was something you used to write down bets. The only time I had ever been in a library was when I broke in at four in the morning to smash through the wall to the adjoining jewelry store. I thought that Balzac was something that happened when your pants were too tight.
"Now, it's a common saying that an education can break down barriers. Unfortunately, it cant break down guard towers with searchlights and sentries armed with high-powered sniper rifles, or wouldn't none of us be in the mess we're in. Dale Carnegie may have been instructive on 'How to Win Friends and Influence People', but he never explained what to do if you get caught alone in the shower room with Porky O'Reilly.
"Nevertheless, the love of literature can lift a great weight off our shoulders, even if it can't get rid of the ball and chain around our leg. The weight I'm referring to is that of ignorance. In some ways, being in the joint has been good for me (not that I'm thinking of sending a candygram to the cop who arrested me). Who would have thought that a guy like me, Angel de la Cruz from Spanish Harlem, would ever contemplate the beauty of a South Seas sunset, an infinite, rolling carpet of azure teeming with biological life forms and a live volcano spewing black smoke across the horizon as in "Victory" by Joseph Conrad? Or a raging battle in the streets of fifteenth century Paris as Catholics and protestants shot and hacked away at each other with swords as in 'Queen Margot' by Alexander Dumas? An airline ticket can get you to Miami, but a book is a ticket across space and time that can take you to the floating gardens of Tenochtitlan before the arrival of the conquistadors, where painted courtesans beckon to you from dugout canoes.
"Now I am going to turn over the floor to my esteemed colleague, Kareem al-Shabaz, who will apprise us of his progress in the study of 'Les Miserables' by Victor Hugo."
"Thank you, Angel. When I last spoke, Petit Gavroche had rescued the two little orphans who had been abandoned on the Paris streetcorner and got them something to eat. Little did he know that they are his little brothers, and that their father, Thenardier, has rented them out to some other hoods who are using them in a plot to extort money from a rich family.
"Now, I don't have nothing against extortion if it's for a good cause, but I think anybody who would sell out his own kids to a bunch of fuckin' swindlers should be shot..
"But that's just me talkin'. Anyway, Petit Gavroche takes the kids back to where he lives, which is inside a gigantic white elephant that was built by Napoleon Bonaparte, and they all go to sleep inside this giant steel cage which he had built to protect them from the rats, 'cause the whole place is filled with rats, not just a few rats but hundreds and thousands of rats, which take up all the room in the place except where the kids are sleeping.
"In the middle of the night, this other kid comes and gets Gavroche because they need him for a job, and Gavroche goes out.
"And here's the good part! Back in those days the cons had this dodge that, they'd take a coin, called a 'sou', which was like a nickel or a quarter, and they would use a wire to very metriculously cut it in half down the center of it, so it was like two coins. Imagine how much work that took! Then they scraped out the inside of both halves and they would hide a piece of a saw blade inside the coin and snap the two halves together, so they would always have a saw blade on them for when they could use it to saw through bars.
"And when the CO's made them empty out their pockets, they would just say 'That's my money. And the bulls never caught on ha ha ha!
"Unfortunately, that kind of workmanship doesn't exist today, and it's a pity, 'cause I ain't shovin' no jigsaw blade up my ass, that's for sure!
"Anyway, Thenardier, who is Gavroche's father, has been locked up by Inspector Javert, who has broken up his plot to torture Jean Valjean to get all his money, and he's lookin' to break out. So he saws through the bars. But he has to get word out to his boys, so they'll be outside waitin' for him to make his move.
"So, get this! He writes a note and puts it in a dinner role and throws it over the wall into the exercise yard of the next cell block, so when his partner's wife comes to visit him, he can pass along the message to her, and she can get word out to Thenardier's gang.
"It's a good thing they don't try that here, 'cause the rolls they feed you in this place, if you threw it and it hit somebody in the head, you'd end up doin' twenty-five to life for manslaughter ha ha.
"So Thenardier crawls through the bars of his window and gets up to the roof, and when he whistles to his boys in the street, they send Gavroche up the drainpipe with a rope and Thenardier goes down the rope and escapes.
"And you know what? When Thenardier went to thank his son for breakin' him out of the joint, Gavroche had already split!"
"Thank you, Kareem. Keep reading, and don't do any of that stuff yourself. Now we'll hear from our fellow scholar Vito Mustociolli on the Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire."
"Thank you. I want to start off by saying that if I would have known what I know now, I prob'ly would have been some big banker, or at least had a job, anyway.
"What the Romans had goin' for them was organization. You had a direct line of command from top to bottom, and everybody knew what his job was. Not like today when you got too many independent contractors steppin' over each other's toes and confusing everything up.
"Rome was started in about 500BC by Romulus and Remus, whose mother was a wolf. Now, they got in a fight and Romulus killed Remus, which was definitely the wrong foot to get started off on, because as time went on a beautiful thing kept getting ruined by hot-headed people who kept flying off the handle and killing each other for bullshit.
"Now, back in those days, Italy was ruled by the Greeks in the south and the Etruscans and the Gauls in the north, and Rome was just a small city. But as it kept getting richer, it kept growing bigger and bigger. Like a guy who starts with a candy store, and then he takes over the whole block, and then he finally owns everything. First the Romans took over Campania, then Tuscany and so on and so forth. In the early days, the Roman army was just like we got the reserves today - they would fight a campaign and then go back to their farms. At first they would form alliances with the other Italian kingdoms, but they kept all the loot for themselves. Finally, the other kingdoms and cities said 'What is this? We are doing all the work any you are keeping all the loot for yourselves! We need to eat too!' So the Romans cut them in for a piece of the action, let them be citizens, but they couldn't vote. If you wanted to vote, you had to be from Rome. It's like Brooklyn; you can do the crime, but you can't vote unless you're a made guy.
"The first time the Romans came up against some real opposition was about 200BC, against the Carthaginians, who were originally Phoenicians from Syria but became their own gang. Carthage moved into Sicily, which was owned by the Greeks. The Greeks from Syracuse complained to Rome, and the Romans came down to fight Carthage. Now, the Romans captured some Carthaginian ships and copied them, and Rome became the masters of the Mediterranean Sea. They threw Carthage out of Sicily and then went to Spain and took that away from them as well. Finally Carthage crapped out and threw in the towel. But that wasn't good enough for Rome. By now they had gone over to a professional army, and their philosophy was 'it's my way or the highway.' In order to get along with Rome, you had to kiss their ass on a permanent basis. The Carthaginians took it for as long as they could, and then they rose again. They went back and re-took Spain and then Hannibal, with an army composed of Africans, Spaniards and Gauls crossed the alps and pillaged and raped the shit out of Italy for twelve years, defeating the Romans in battle after battle. They used elephants for tanks, but those tanks left piles of shit ten feet high ha ha!
"Now this is where the true nature of the Italian people came into the picture. You can knock us down, or you can knock us out, but we're too thick-headed to recognize defeat. Hannibal said 'They're beat! Why don't they stay down on the mat like a sane person?' But uh-uh, no Italian is going to crap out while he's still got breath left in him. The Romans just kept raising armies and building ships until they wore down Hannibal and he had to evacuate.
"But that wasn't enough for Rome. They landed an army in North Africa and laid siege to Carthage, and once again Carthage crapped out. Rome demanded major reparations from Carthage, which Carthage agreed to, but there were elements of Roman politics, notably a guy named Cato, who felt that as long as Carthage lived and breathed they would be a threat to Rome. Which I totally agree with. If you got an enemy, and if the enemy is not dead, then you got a problem.
"So Carthage paid off its war debt, but as soon as Rome got the money in its pocket, it attacked again. But this time they finished off the job, leveling the city until not a brick or a blade of grass was left standing. In fact, they turned over the soil and poisoned it with salt so that not even a weed could grow there.
"The Romans didn't fuck around.
"The Punic Wars brought Rome into the modern age, the same as World War II did for the Americans. Now they were masters of the world with an empire stretching from Asia to Spain, from Africa to England. But all that success brings with it a new set of problems, mainly: what do you do with all the soldiers who did the legwork? What about the people forced off their land and were flooding into Rome?
"The old-timers who ran the place, the Moustache Petes as we liked to call them, said 'Fuck 'em, who needs 'em.' But by this time there was a progressive element who depended on the votes of the proletariat (by this time they could vote), headed by Julius Caesar. Caesar instituted free food for Romans, and for the returning veterans, he advocated free land to farm.
"A civil war ensued, which Caesar won. He became the whole deal, but behind the scenes the old guard plotted its revenge. On the Ides of March they assassinated him in the senate. He was succeeded by Caesar Augustus, then by Tiberius, and then by a whole lot of dictators, but they always kept the name of Caesar. Because he was the man, baby. Nobody ever came again that had his class, not even Napoleon!
"Finally the Roman Empire just ran out of steam. You can't be Numero Uno forever. No matter how good you are, someday you just run out of motivation. It'll even happen to the Yankees. In 324AD, the Roman Empire divided in two and Emperor Constantine founded Constantinople, which was the beginning of the Byzantine Empire, the same as Carthage evolved from Phoenicia.
"And that's as far as I got."
"That was fantastic, Vito! You probably know more about the Roman Empire than 99% of the people livin' on the outside. What are you going to study next?"
"Well, I figure I got time for the British Empire. I'm not up for parole until 2132."
"Keep pluggin' away, man. O.K., folks, Corrections Officer Garrity is telling me that we're running out of time. Before we adjourn, I'd like to extend a hearty welcome to the newest member of our group, Judge Waxner. A lot of you probably already know him as the judge who sent you here. Well, now he's here to join us, learn how the other half lives, so to speak.
"Hey, it could happen to anybody! Remember what Petronius wrote:
The courts are an auction where justice is sold
The judge who presides bangs a gavel of gold
"In the case of Judge Waxner, sitting up there for all those years, sending people away like an assembly line, he started to get a god complex like one of Vito's Romans, bragging to people, 'I sent this guy away for so many years, I sent that guy away for so many years'. He probably lost touch with the reasons he was elected to that position in the first place, which was 'To Serve and Protect.' He started ruling on cases in which he had a conflict of interest (if a guy is smart enough to get elected judge, he should be smart enough to remember what stocks he owns in his portfolio), then, when his girlfriend left him, he started harassing her with ugly phone messages and threatening letters, even sending condoms to her little daughter.
"Hey, you lost it, bro, and now you're one of us.
"The only problem is, they put you in with a guy who you sentenced to life for stealing a set of golf clubs under the 'Three Strikes and You're Out' statute. Now you get to spend every day and every night with the guy.
"It's tough the way he banged you up like that, but the way he explains it, it was all the result of a lovers' quarrel.
"Anyway, judge, maybe when you get fitted for your new dentures you can give us a lecture on the judicial doctrine of:
Justice Tempered With Mercy
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October 22, 2005
Tired of the same old dreary celebrity programming on network T.V.? Who cares if J-Lo is double-jointed, or if Gwyneth Paltrow has a wicked backhand? Because out in Hollywood, where schlock never sleeps, they are developing a whole new generation of celebrity sports programming which promises to have something for everybody! Right now some joker with a Ph. D in Brainwashing is sitting at his desktop, feverishly pounding away long into the night, his head swimming with images collected earlier that day, during an afternoon of shopping on Rodeo Drive. He wants to call it:
DESIGNER WRESTLING
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to DESIGNER WRESTLING. I'm your ringside announcer for the night, fashion columnist and wrestling aficionado, Clona Mononucleosis, speaking to you from the Christian Dior Memorial Arena in Palm Beach, Florida. There's an airborne shot of the Arena courtesy of the Fiorucci Blimp which is hovering high in the sky above Palm Beach.
"Lemme' tell you something, folks. Designer wrestling has gone a long way since it was a fledgling sport practiced in a few smart salons on Paris' Avenue Foch and Manhattan's Upper East Side to where it is now, in the world spotlight. Some of the great champions of our sport, like Maulin' Madame Grès, 'the Dropkick Granny of Montparnasse', or Georgeous Georges Balenciaga, the 'Barcelona Brawler', have long since hung up their sequined capes and retired to Nice or Capri, and are totally unknown to today's new generation of Designer Wrestling fans, who only come to it through the marvel of cable T.V. Now, however, these greats of yesteryear have been replaced by a magnificent new pantheon of luminaries, some of whom will be on the card tonight.
"I'd just like to say a word or two about the Christian Dior Memorial Arena, designed by famed architect and darling of the celebrity set, I.M. Pei. As you can see it's done in the neo-Roman school of architecture, sort of what Pliny the Elder would conceive of the Greek Parthenon being like if he were alive at ringside. The massive ring of marble columns which surround the arena, permitting an unimpeded view from the expensive seats, supports the 50% cotton, 50% polyester dome which is retracted when the stadium is converted into a polo field on Sunday afternoons.
"You'll also notice that the harsh lighting usually associated with sporting events has been done away with in favour of suspended crystal chandeliers and ornate silver candelabra carried by liveried footmen costumed to represent the court of Versailles during the reign of Louis Quatorze, 'Le Roi Soleil', by Zoomar Creations of Los Angeles, California, and are certified to be 100% reproductions by the accounting firm of Price Waterhouse and Co.
"Also, the food here is different from other sporting events. Nowhere to be found is vile swill like beer and hot dogs. Instead, we have dainty petits fours, chicken cacciatore and Perrier water being passed around by the cutest boys dressed only in satin tank tops and seersucker shorts. I can't tell you, ladies and gentlemen, how great it is to be here after all those years of covering those dreary little fashion events (actually, I can't sew a stitch, myself) and having to eat those rotten little egg sandwiches. I've finally made it into big-time fashion sports announcing, and I'm never going back, no matter whose butt I have to kiss!
"Now, before the first match of what promises to be a thrilling and eclectic night of designer wrestling, I'd like to present the colour commentator for this week's show, gossip columnist for the Newhouse chain of newspapers and former two-time champion in the Androgynous Bantamweight Class, the most insulting mouth ever to be punched on Seventh Avenue, Thomas Sneermonger."
"Hi, folkth! In a few seconds the bell will ring, signaling the start of the first match pitting Oscar De La Renta in the shrimp-coloured tartan plaid skirt and matching bagpipe hosiery against Sonia Rykiel, the 'Drag Queen of Knits', who is done up to resemble some kind of surrealistic Lolita. How would you describe her outfit, Clona?"
"I would have to describe her as being attired in the post-minimalist, ultra-nouvelle vague popularized by the hookers in the alley behind the fish stalls along the waterfront in Napoleon Bonaparte's hometown of Ajacio, Corsica. This is a look that would send Madonna and Grace Jones screaming into the arms of the Women's Christian Temperance Union. I don't want to say she looks slutty, but really, darling, a chain-mail halter top made from beer can pull tabs? And that automobile T.V. antenna hanging from her ear looks positively déguelasse!
"This has all the elements of a grudge match, wouldn't you say, Clona? After that atrocious scene they pulled at the Coty Awards dinner last fall, why Sonia would have pulled dear Oscar's hair out by the roots, if he'd had any!"
"You know what they say, Thomas, 'Time wounds all heels!' There's the bell! Sonia Rykiel jumps onto the ropes and springs head-first over Oscar de la Renta, who drops onto the mat and deftly rolls away. Now he's up and he's got her pinned down with his foot in the small of her back and he's twisting her leg behind her. She's pounding on the mat and calling him a second-rate stylist in that vulgar Roman patois she is sometimes accused of using at inopportune moments in cheap attempts to attain notoriety. Omi goodness! She's slipped out of his hold and now has him caught in a scissorlock, squeezing the breath out of him between her two deadly, powerful thighs! Oscar's head is turning a frightening shade of Dufy blue which almost matches his lambswool turtleneck pullover with optional earflaps. Now he's reached over and grabbed her in a hammerlock and is applying a knuckleburn to her La Coupe hairdo. These designers are sooo vicious!
"She's bounced off the ropes and she catches him in the chest with a flying dropkick. She's got his head twisted in the ropes and she's biting his knuckles. Sonia Rykiel started as a wrestler to pay for her tuition at the Milan School of Design where she majored in active knitwear. She briefly abandoned wrestling to promote her fashion house, but the call of the ring was too strong, and now she's regarded by many as a favourite to topple the current IFFW champion, Mary McFadden, at the Chicago Amphitheatre later this spring."
"My goodness, Clona, what an exciting match that was!"
"Not to mention the exquisite styling, Thomas. Now before the next match begins, we'd like to show you some videotaped highlights from a recent match between social secretary Muffie Brandon and Pat Buckley wrestling in a tub of mud specially designed by Vidal Sasoon, who personally scoured the four corners of Soviet Moldavia, searching for mud which contained just the right skin nutrients."
"Truly inspirational, Clona. Now in this clip we have social mouth Jerry Zipkin pitted against Zandra Rhodes. For this match Jerry has come up with an outfit which seems to have been inspired by the final orgy scene in 'The Story of O'! All the feathers and everything kind of resemble the San Diego Chicken, except he's showing a lot more flesh."
"Zandra looks perfectly darling in her pea-soup coloured Moroccan camel herder's leggings and shocking fuschia satin motorcycle jacket. She's really been training, and now she's walking all over his chest in her cleated mountaineer boots and berating him for always making such a spectacle of himself in public situations. Who does he think he is, really!"
"Sorry to cut in, Thomas, but we'd like to switch you back now in time for the next match between Claude Montana, shown there in the frilled peasant skirt, Navajo belt and hand-tooled cowboy boots, and Pierre Cardin, in the topless swimsuit with suspenders and wraparound sunglasses.
"They're circling each other. Now they're clenched in combat as Claude Montana slips down between Pierre Cardin's legs. Now he's got him up on his shoulders and he's spinning him around, givin' him the ol' helicopter. Oh! Did you see him hit the floor! The punishment these designers have to go through for the sake of art!
"Now Pierre Cardin is really mad! He's walking around the ring screaming like a madman. Now he's huddled in the corner with his financial advisers. He charges out, grabs Claude Montana by the hair and gives him some shot in the face! Referee Paloma Picasso comes over and breaks it up. She's telling something to Pierre Cardin, who apparently doesn't like what he's hearing. The fans are tensed for action! All cocktail conversation in the massive stadium is totally hushed as the smart money from three continents sits in total awe of these fashion immortals locked in brutal combat on the world stage. Actually, it's like something out of Kurosawa, or something.
"They're circling. Claude Montana bounds against the ropes and comes flying back feet-first, catching Pierre Cardin in the chest and knocking him over. Oh, dirty pool! Now he's got him pinned. Paloma Picasso is down on the mat inspecting the pin to make sure it's clean.
"And that's the match."
"And just in time for Pierre Cardin to get to the airport, Clona. Tomorrow he's scheduled to sign an agreement giving him exclusive rights to clothe the entire population of Western New Guinea. What a magnificent sportsman! Totally unfazed by his loss to Claude Montana, he's throwing designer chocolate kisses to the crowd and inviting them to the opening of his chain of Maxim's of Paris fast food franchises."
"Now we're ready to bring you the feature contest of the evening, a tag-team match between Ralph Lauren and his New York Dolls and Italy's Fabulous Flying Fendi Sisters. Ralph Lauren's having a little trouble negotiating the ropes in his drop-dead sequin cocktail dress and size 14 Cuban heels. He's carrying an adorable little clutch from Anne Klein for Calderon."
"What an inspiring designer, Clona. If, as they say, simplicity is genius, then Ralph Lauren is genius simplified."
"My sentiments exactly, Thomas. Now entering the ring are the Fendi Sisters: Larry, Moe and Curly. They're shouting insults at the crowd and daring them to show their designer labels. The crowd is responding in a like manner and showering them with martini olives and ice cubes. Here are the rules for the match: each team is issued a jeweled tiara from Bulgari Jewellers. Only one member from each team is allowed in the ring at a time, and he or she must be wearing the Bulgari tiara, which must be passed by hand from team member to team member, not thrown or kicked.
"And there's the bell..
"Curly Fendi, in the fringed deerskin jacket and gladiator sandals, and Ralph Lauren seem to be circling each other warily. Ralph Lauren's showing some fancy footwork, feinting and darting about. He pounces on Curly Fendi and gets her in a half-nelson. She spins around, giving him a jab in the ribs with her free elbow, bounces off the ropes, and catches him in the head with a dropkick. Now they're on the mat and he's up on his knees trying to get her on her side. In a supreme effort of will she manages to break free, hauls it back to the corner, and hands off the Bulgari Tiara to Moe Fendi in the striped pajamas and pith helmet. Moe Fendi leaps onto Ralph Lauren's back, and now he's riding him around the ring like a horse. This is CRAZY!! The crowd feels the same way. They're pelting the ring with Perrier bottles. The Fendi team is responding by throwing handfuls of chicken cacciatore all over the place!"
"Omigod, Clona, don't look now, but advancing down the aisle are Ralph Lauren's personal bodyguard and cheerleading team, including the whole 'A' table from Mortimer's, and they're brandishing what appear to be giant seam rippers. Oh no, they're using the giant seam rippers to snap the ropes like loose threads, and there's a brawl going on in the ring. CLONA, I'M GETTING CHICKEN CACCIATORE ALL OVER MY SATIN TUXEDO LAPELS!!!"
"Well, I'm sure this match can be covered just as well from upstairs in the press lounge. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Clona Mononucleosis, along with Thomas Sneermonger, thanking you for participating in another exciting evening of Designer Wrestling. Be sure to tune in next week, when we will present Kenzo battling Yojhi Yamamoto on the roof of the Diet Building in Tokyo in what wrestling touts and garment industry analysts alike are already calling 'The War of the Nip Fashion Titans'."
THE END
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Posted on 10/22/2005
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October 20, 2005
I got into town on track forty-four
My heart so excited I couldn't relax no more
When I tried to put my key in the door
The son-of-a-gun wouldn't fit no more
Have you seen my wife?
I ain't seen her
Have you seen my wife?
I ain't seen her
Have you seen my wife she's the joy of my life
And when I catch that woman I'm goin' to jail for life
I went downstairs for a scotch and a beer
They said "Hey, bro, what are you doin' here?"
I said "My old lady locked me out of the house"
And the whole place went quiet as a mouse
I said "Hey Billy you're my best friend
Can you tell me where my wife has been?"
He said "Man, I ain't kiddin'
You got you a nasty woman"
He said "I don't wanna' be the one to tell
But she's in room thirteen of the Chelsea Hotel
All I know is she ain't been around
Since the Navy got to town"
I said "Take this satchel away from me
It's filled with beer, wine and scotch whiskey
Just take up a collection to make my bail
'Cause when I catch that woman I'm goin' to jail"
I ran around the corner to the Chelsea Hotel
And sure enough I caught her up there with a sailor
She said "Look , baby, I won't give you no dodge
Only new cars park in this garage!"
Then she tried to push my ass out of the door
I knew in my heart I couldn't take no more
I reached in my pocket and gave out with a roar
And pulled out my pearl-handled forty-four
I said "Look, baby, it's plain to see
That you are coming home with me
So get your things on and get out of this place
Before this little sucker blows up in your face!
Have you seen my wife?
I ain't seen her
Have you seen my wife
I ain't seen her
Have you seen my wife she's the joy of my life
And if I catch that woman I'm goin' to jail for life
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October 20, 2005
This is Cabeza Roja, the Red who's a Head, comin' to you from ¯WONDERFUL RADIO HAVANA¯! We're ninety miles from the Florida coast, puttin' out music dat's de most (baby)!
Our temperature's a balmy hundred and twelve in the shade here at the Havana Libre Hotel in beautiful downtown Havana. Looking out over Liberation Plaza, I can see crowds forming at the entrance of the 22nd Annual Bulgarian Tractor Exhibition, which will be featuring Rudi "Red Baron" Klopnik in his modified 1934 Volga Harvester, "Stalin's Revenge", battling Big Bertha Brezhnev, Soviet Mud Wrestling Champion for the fifth straight year. All you Radio Havana listeners be sure to stop by our Radio Havana booth, where you might win a trip to Angola!! Our mascot, Chairman Mao, will be rollerskating around the hall giving out free Radio Havana license plates to anybody he sees wearing a Radio Havana t-shirt. Once you've got a license plate, you can start figuring out how to get your hands on a car!! If you figure that one out let me know!
Well, I just got back from a beautiful weekend of chopping sugar cane with the comrades down in Oriente Province, and I saw a lot of volunteers in the labor brigade wearing their Radio Havana t-shirts. Keep up the good work, muchachos!
Incidentally, the place to go down there is a hot little nightspot called Pepe's, featuring a band which had a monster hit a few years back, and now they've made some personnel changes and they're hoping to make a comeback. I'm talking about Yassar Arafat and the P.L.O. Only, now they've got Osama Bin Laden on synthesizer and Ayatollah Khomeini on drums. Good luck, guys. I'm gonna' dedicate this next song, "Beirut Shuffle" to you.
The Sports Update just came in from José Marti Stadium, where after nine innings of play the final score is Havana 6, Zambia 0. Maybe we should send some advisors over there, show those people how to play baseball. Incidentally, our Havana Giants won't be going on that exhibition tour of Vietnam. Seems that some Vietnamese players got caught in the dugout reading old copies of the Wall Street Journal that were left behind by the Americans, and the whole team has been sent back for what the management terms "indefinite Spring training." Hope you guys learn your lesson! I'll be back after this important message.
(Mad raving in Spanish)
Back again, comrades. That was our Fearless Fidel addressing the Congress of Beet Harvesters a couple of days ago. There was a bomb scare during the convention. Somebody from the Iraqi delegation misplaced one of his bombs and it took him an hour to find it and put it back in his briefcase. Those guys ought to be more careful.
I just want to remind all you punkers out on the Isle of Pines to come out Saturday night, down to Patrice Lumumba Auditorium for the Anarchist Hop, featuring the Red Brigade and the Baader-Meinhof Gang. I don't want to be accused of spreading rumors, but word has it that Saddam Hussein might put in a surprise appearance!
Everybody here at the station wants to send out a Get Well to Muammar Khadafy, who had a skiing accident in Siberia, where he was on tour with his new band, The Muslim Fundamentalists. Seems our Bad Boy of Rock n' Roll has been making front pages all across the third world, which is not so hard once you think about it, because those newspapers only got one freakin' page! As you'll remember, he got into hot water with the Russian police for urinating on Lenin's Tomb. And then there was the time in Smolensk where he bit the head off a rabid water buffalo and had to be taken to the hospital for tests. Well, in this latest incident, one of Muammar's road managers managed to get ahold of an old Russian troop transport helicopter that he found in Afghanistan and was buzzing our boy on the slopes with it, only he didn't watch where he was flying and strayed too close to the Chinese border. Naturally, they shot him down, and one of the blades flew off and gave Khadafy a good shot in the head. Tough luck, Baby!
We have the results from yesterday's Presidential elections: Castro, fourteen million, Opposition: one. Our Fearless Leader sure knows how to get out the vote!!!
Foreign Minister Ricky Martin just got back from Nueva York, where he addressed the United Nations. He says that there's rioting in the streets and mass starvation. Sounds like my house on a Saturday night! Next time he goes up there, maybe he can get me a good deal on a green card. Just kidding, comrades.
As you know, this is the thirtieth anniversary of the tragic plane crash which claimed the life of Chinese rockabilly superstar Lin Piao. He may be gone, but his music lives on, and this Sunday night between ten and eleven, Radio Havana will be playing a retrospective of Lin Piao's Greatest Hits, tracing his progress from his formative years on the Szechuan bar circuit, through his Comintern period, right up through the Cultural Revolution of the nineteen sixties. All his greatest hits will be featured, like "Twenty Four Hours to Taiwan" and the unforgettable "Long March to Your Heart." Don't miss it!
All you boating enthusiasts should try to get up to the coast this weekend for the annual Mariel-to-Key West sailing regatta to give a hearty send-off to our team of criminals and mental defectives as they try to outrun the Haitian team past the U.S. Coast Guard blockade. First team to make it to the States will be awarded luxurious accommodations in a barbed wire refugee camp underneath the Miami Expressway. Florida Governor Jeb Bush will be there with a contingent of National Guard to award the trophy.
By the way, all our listeners in the Miami area will be interested to know that the Alpha 7 Exile Brigade will be holding try-outs in the Okeefenokee Swamp this weekend. Among the competitions to be featured will be: Dope Smuggling, Bragging to Reporters, Posing Heroically in front of a Cuban Flag for Photographers, and an essay contest on the theme of "Why I Would Like to Become a C.I.A. Operative." Finalists will get to join a guerilla team on the Nicuragua-Honduras border.
Well, that's all for today. Remember, anybody caught hoarding toilet paper will be shot.
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October 19, 2005
Stick out your can here comes the garbage man
I said stick out your can here comes the garbage man
I’m a garbage man with a master plan
To make you love me in a garbage can
So stick out your can baby here comes the garbage man
I say stick out your can baby
Stick out your can baby
Stick out your can I’m working as fast I can
A garbage man’s life can’t be beat
Five bucks an hour and all you can eat
Stick out your can baby
Here comes the garbage man
Saque tu tanque por fuera
Llega el basurero
Yo soy el basurero
Que busca la basurera
Tengo la cama de masa
Allí tu sabe que pasa
When I pull up to your house on Saturday night
Your daddy got a shotgun lookin’ for a fight
Your mama says she hates me
She say I don’t look cute
With eggshells and spaghetti
Hangin’ from my suit
When we pull up to the drive-in
They say we’re out of luck
They say they got no room for a purple garbage truck
The preacher he won’t marry us he says that it’s not fair
To go up to the alter with jello in our hair
When I die and go to heaven it would be so great
TO EMPTY OUT THE GARBAGE CANS OUTSIDE THE PEARLY GATES!
OOOOOH BABY, I'M A GARBAGE MAN!
I’m a garbage man with a master plan
To make you love me in a garbage can
So stick out your can baby
Stick out your can baby
Stick out your can
Here comes the garbage man
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Posted on 10/19/2005
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October 18, 2005
This is a serious endorsement for Michael Bloomberg’s reelection.
I literally ran into him on 9/11 at the polling station located in the elementary school at Eighty-First Street and Madison Avenue. Figuring him to be just another rich Republican nut job like Ronald Lauder, I didn’t even bother to shake his hand. He wasn’t inclined to go out of his way to glad-hand me either, so we just nodded good morning to each other and he rushed by, followed by his entourage of assistants and television cameras.
I have lived in a lot of cities with a lot of different mayors. I grew up in Chicago under Mayor Daley, the elder one. As befits a city where the people are the next thing to animals, he behaved more like a circus ringmaster with a whip and a chair in his hands than a civilized elected official. He kept a punching bag in his office and confided to columnist Mike Royko “First I hit it one hundred times with my left hand. Then I hit it one hundred times with my right hand. Then I hit it one hundred times with both hands.” That is how Mayor Daley prepared to conduct the people’s business.
Everybody in Chicago was a Democrat and everybody in Chicago was somehow wired to the Daley machine. Fathers at the dinner table regularly admonished their out-of-control sons by invoking Daley’s name: “How can you behave like that after the Mayor’s been so good to us!!!” they would scream.
For some years I lived as a child in Los Angeles, where the mayor was a comical figure named Sam Yorty. Mayor Yorty seemed to be made for black and white television with his grey suit. This was when American naiveté and optimism were at their apex and nothing represented this better than the sunny, smoggy hills of Southern California. My mother and I, who were from Chicago and who harbored no illusions about the nature of urban realities, laughed outloud at the mayor’s childlike assertion that “There is no organized crime in Los Angeles.”
As a young adult I lived in Montreal, which was guided by the benign paternalism of Mayor Jean Drapeau, a little man with a round bald head, toothbrush moustache and little dots for eyes, making it easy for newspaper editorial cartoonists to caricature him. Mayor Drapeau, whose name appropriately means “flag” in French, had for his political models Charles de Gaulle and Napoleon Bonaparte, who is still considered in the French world to be the greatest man who ever lived. Mayor Drapeau was acutely aware that Montreal was the second largest French city in the world, and all his efforts were focused on raising its grandeur and glory to a level equaling that of Paris. This ambition was fought tooth and nail by Montreal’s rate payers. Undeterred, he built the city’s subway, one of the most beautiful in the world; organized the Expo 67 world’s fair on specially constructed artificial islands in the St. Lawrence River; spearheaded the effort to bring Major League Baseball to the city and, the pinnacle of his achievements, brought the 1976 Olympic Games to Montreal. For this he built a grandiose billion dollar stadium and Olympic complex in the city’s distressed east end, connected to the downtown by a special subway line.
I was operating a leather boutique on Ste. Catherine Street, Montreal’s rue principale, and got to fully partake of all the excitement and glory of the times.
Upon retiring from municipal politics, Mayor Drapeau was appointed Canada's Special Ambassador to UNESCO in Paris.
So, I have had the luck to appreciate many different kinds of municipal leadership.
Mayor Bloomberg is distinct from all the other mayors I have known. He is not combative like Mayor Daley, not ridiculous like Mayor Yorty (or, I might add, Mayor Giuliani), not grandiose like Mayor Drapeau. He is a New York City boss, not so different than any executive you might meet in any office building in the city. That is why he is so determined to cut out social promotion in the schools – from the continual and endless deception of hiring college graduates who turn out to be functionally illiterate and not suitable for employment.
He is low-key and conciliatory, unlike his predecessor, who was elected on the basis of racial resentment and never let you forget it. How that turkey ended up being “America’s Mayor” is beyond my comprehension.
Mayor Bloomberg and his appointees have been totally free of any hint of scandal or unethical behavior. He is an excellent manager, the lack of which is the greatest crisis facing this country today: the ability to define goals and follow up until satisfactory achievement is accomplished. This lack of effective managerial expertise is the all-encompassing issue of our time – getting results. Giuliani, who was previously a grandstanding prosecutor, had no managerial experience in delegating authority and following up, and his choice of scandal-ridden and discredited Bernard Kerik as Police Commissioner tells you all you need to know about Giuliani’s judgment.
If the emphasis on managerial excellence that we are discussing here, the ability to define goals, delegate authority to competent managers and the will to follow up, had been addressed the way it deserves to be, the current profile of this country would currently have a much sunnier aspect.
Assuming Mayor Bloomberg wins and continues to build on his achievements, maybe we should begin to consider what results might be achieved by encouraging him to apply his manifest talents in a larger arena.
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Posted on 10/18/2005
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October 17, 2005
Here at Bush Vineyards, we are taking a non-traditional approach to winemaking. Although we have our standard commercial brands like Grassy Knoll Chardonnay and Jack Ruby Rosé, we have made a marketing decision not to target the effete white wine-swilling oenophiles who populate our nation’s coastal regions for the very sound reason that that market is already oversaturated by both domestic and overseas winemakers. Frankly, that market segment has been wrung dry and in order to keep market share, the distributors are having to keep coming up with infinite tedious variations of the same old stale snob scene. How many times can you show slender blondes in billowy white dresses being seduced over a candelabrum by a guy driving a Lexus while the sound track bellows the death scene aria from La Wally before you finally decide to swear off the stuff out of utter boredom?
Our market research is indicating that there is huge growth potential in a market segment which has been totally ignored in this industry, rural whites with a household income in the range of $15,000 to $35,000. These are your beer drinkers, or they go straight for the hard stuff. They are looking for a drink they can consume at tailgate parties outside a stock car track while listening to 50,000 watts of AC/DC belting out “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.” For these people, anything between Budweiser and Jim Beam is strictly flyover country. But to address this target audience we have to develop a product which is divorced from their popular conception of what a wine currently is.
Our marketing people have come up with some intriguing and original concepts to target this potential audience, labels that will excite their imaginations and stimulate their latent patriotic buying impulses. These are brand names designed to hit home with a nascent wine-consuming market hitherto undiscovered by the industry, the same way as a fabulously rich mother lode of natural gas in the Sonora badlands can be tapped, piped and marketed where once there were nothing but prairie gophers and wily coyotes. We have our Château Alamo, our Chez LBJ, and our Saturday Night Special Sagebrush Puke with the little pieces of grape left in to give the effect of real redneck vomit. Shoot, what Frenchie ever thought of a thing like that?
That’s not all! Our research shows that the customer is uncomfortable with a cork bottle stopper, so we replaced them with twist-off bottle caps loaded with a small explosive charge like a party favor, so that when you open the bottle you don’t get a popping sound, you get a bang! “Bang bang bang” like the Fourth of July! Hot dawg, that’s the old Texas spirit! Incidentally, in an effort to connect with our Mexican population here, we got our line of Pancho Villa Chili Pepper Wines in beef, chicken and quesadilla flavors!
Now, we’re the first winery to get away from bottles completely and sell our wine in cans. This one here, our Bullseye brand, features a picture of Kennedy’s head in the crosshairs. Our El Paso Wetback Wine has a picture of a fetching Mexican senorita swimming across the Rio Grande, in honor of the contribution made to our culture by our southern partners in Nafta.
Here’s a photograph of our Brownsville facility. You’ll notice that all the grape pickers are wearing striped suits. That’s because we signed an agreement with the Texas Department of Corrections to use convict labor, which is real popular with the picture taking public. We had to space the grape vines a little farther apart to make way for the ball and chain that each con has attached to his leg to make sure that our labor force doesn’t run away ha ha.
In some cases we have been making use of depleted oil fields by stringing the grape vines over abandoned derricks. We use Mexican labor to pick the grapes because we found that they are particularly agile at swinging around the derricks on ropes to get to the vines. Sort of reminds you of an old Tarzan movie, don’t it?
Also, the same way that free-range chickens are tastier than chickens whose movements are confined, we find that grapes which have been crushed more tenderly give out a more generous flavor. Therefore, we don’t crush our grapes underfoot, but instead we get women with large soft behinds to sit on the grapes. Heck, if I was a grape, I’d like that better, wouldn’t you?
We let the grapes ferment in disused oil storage tanks and we throw in some tumbleweeds for aging, which gives our wine its distinct Texas personality, and then we run it through some Hoover vacuum cleaners to filter it and take out the excess water. What you have left is pure, sparkling Texas wine with a distinctive bouquet of sagebrush and just a hint of petroleum residue to denote its authentic provenance. Then we load it into barges and float it down the Houston Ship Canal to our bottling facility outside Galveston for shipment to a Seven-Eleven near you.
I hope you’ve enjoyed this little tour of our winery and I invite you to stop in down the road at the Texas State Prison Museum where you can have your picture taken sitting in a genuine electric chair.
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Posted on 10/17/2005
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October 16, 2005
The problem with Times journalists is that in the Coney Island fun house of their minds, lined as it is with grotesque mirrors of distortion, they see themselves not as newspaper writers but as movers and shakers of the American Empire at least on a par with senators and congressmen.
This overweening sense of self-importance, when attached to a talent of negligible magnitude, places them more in the realm of low farce than in any pantheon of intellectual probity.
When seen in this light, Judith Miller stands out like a hood ornament that has been mounted backward on a Keystone Kops vehicle constructed to collapse in the first reel.
Miller, who frankly describes herself as “Miss Run-Amok,” adds “I am not a dope.” The jury is still out on that one, though she goes on to add, “WMD – I got it totally wrong. The analysts, the experts and the journalists who covered them – we were all wrong. If your sources are wrong, you are wrong.”
There it is, folks: the whole justification for misleading millions of readers into supporting a foreign invasion. I fucked up. I got paid big bucks for being an idiot, but it’s not my fault. I was fed false information and I swallowed it whole. It could happen to anybody!
She continues, “I did the best I could.”
Any job this writer has ever held, if he ever tried to use this excuse on his boss after causing a blunder of this magnitude that cost the company as much expense and humiliation as Ms. Miller has caused to be heaped upon the Times, he would have been sent flying out the door with a boot print on his butt.
But you don’t find many bosses like Bill Keller. Hired to replace Howell Raines, who was himself fired for idiocy and incompetence, Keller has upheld Raines’ tradition of imbecility. As one of his first moves as editor, he instructed Miller that she could no longer cover any stories having to do with Iraq or weapons issues.
Her attitude was, “I can do whatever I want.”
/> Keller concedes, “she kept drifting on her own back into the national security realm.”
Keller knew from the start that Miller was protecting Scooter Libby, but felt compelled to keep the news out of the paper. A lot of people knew, like Times Washington Bureau Chief Phillip Taubman. Taubman said, “No editor wants to be in the position of keeping information out of the newspaper.” But they did. It sort of makes you wonder what else they know that they’re not telling.
So much for “All The News That’s Fit To Print.” Who decides what’s fit to print, Bozo The Clown or Cheetah The Chimp?
When you read Miller’s account of it, it’s so incomprehensible that you really wonder what she’s doing working for a New York newspaper. “Confused” is an adjective that doesn’t even begin to describe her state of mind, except that she fits right in with all the other nut jobs working for the Times, like Maureen Dowd, who caused to be published a full-page obituary for her mother in the Week In Review section, describing how she offered her mother a Cosmopolitan cocktail while the old doll was on her deathbed with tubes sticking out of her. Or David Brooks, who rejoiced in being fat and middlebrow in one of his columns.
One is mystified how this mentally shattered Ms. Miller could ever have been granted a security clearance for nuclear weapons intelligence, unless Libby and Rove had intended to feed her hogwash and co-opt her into working for the administration.
This stuff surpasses parody. Compared with these knuckleheads, Jayson Blair comes across as a breath of fresh air and candor.
The Times costs four times more than the Post, but you get four times as many laughs.
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October 16, 2005
William Bennett claimed he was misrepresented when he said that violent crime would drop if all black babies were aborted. He meant to say that he felt it would be immoral because abortion is wrong. He didn’t say anything about genocide.
Naturally, all races have bad habits and the world would be in some way enhanced if all their babies were aborted. Following are some examples of that principle:
If all French babies were aborted there would be no more stinky cheese
If all Italian babies were aborted there would be no more sappy music
If all Jewish babies were aborted there would be no more people slithering under the doors of pay toilets to avoid paying a quarter
If all Muslim babies were aborted there would be no more greasy Halal chicken wagons cluttering up Sixth Avenue
If all Puerto Rican babies were aborted there would be no more automobile chop shops, child support cheats, nasty maricón jokes
If all Democratic babies were aborted there would be no more sanctimonious moralists
If all Republican babies were aborted there would be no more loudmouth, bleached blonde soccer moms from the suburbs
If all Australian babies were aborted there would be no more drunken louts mistaking telephones for boomerangs
You get the picture. Let me just state right now that I am against abortion because unwanted children are an excellent source of cheap labor as well as being a subject for mirth in an otherwise dreary world.
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Posted on 10/16/2005
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October 15, 2005
The morning of 9/11, I was working as a coding instructor for a litigation support company at 39 Broadway, corner of Exchange Place, two blocks from the World Trade Center.
Before going to work I had gone to vote in the Democratic primary. My polling place was the grammar school located at Eighty-First Street and Madison Avenue, where I came face-to-face with Michael Bloomberg, who was being trailed by an entourage of TV cameramen. Considering him to be the latest of rich Republican nut-jobs in the manner of Ronald Lauder and having nothing to do with me, I did not even offer him my hand. (I have since calibrated my opinion of him according to the circumstances) Sensing my reticence, he just offered me a polite nod and continued past, his entourage floating by me in his wake.
When the attacks occurred and the towers collapsed, the decorum in my office collapsed into pandemonium. People ran around frantically, some crawling under their desks, women screaming “We’re all going to die!” Presently, everybody calmed down to a state of fragile alarm and waited for the dust outside to settle. This took a couple of hours.
Since a large part of my job had to do with cases involving exposure to asbestos, I understood that the air outside was charged with a lethal quantity of asbestos and fiberglass dust, I wrapped my face in several layers of wet towels, and as most of my co-workers made their way the short distance to the Staten Island Ferry, I started up in the opposite direction north on Broadway, toward my home on the Upper East Side.
The layer of lethal dust and debris on the street was several inches thick and my clothes were covered with the ghastly substance.
When I got to Wall Street I turned east. The street was completely deserted except for a lone policeman at the corner of Wall and Nassau Streets, forlornly manning a barricade though the streets were deserted except for myself and the other occasional stragglers. At Maiden Lane, a lone city bus stood abandoned in the middle of the square. It looked damaged, probably from a collision with a car. A little piece farther up the road, across from a passage under the Manhattan Bridge, was a hospital. I went around the corner to its emergency entrance, not because I was in need of assistance, but just to see what I could see. What I saw was – nothing. No ambulances pulled up. Emergency workers milled around on the sidewalk with nothing to do. Of all the thing I saw that day, that was the weirdest. The terrorists had bowled a perfect strike and had killed everybody, with nobody left standing, or so it seemed.
If I would have had the presence of mind to go into the hospital and claim to be traumatized, I probably could have later claimed some of the money that was spread around so prodigiously but, frankly, I was in perfect control of my senses, and not being of a fraudulent or litigious nature I continued on my way. What I needed was a drink.
North of the Manhattan Bridge, I found myself out of the dust cloud and smacked the lethal debris off my clothes and shoes as best I could. I joined the stream of refugees which marched north on Allen Street.
The only time I really got alarmed was on Second Avenue at Fifth Street. Somebody had set a television out on the sidewalk, and when the announcer repeated a rumor that one of the hijacked planes had been packed with chemical warfare agents, I felt a sense of alarm.
For me that was the worst of it. I met my girlfriend at Union Square and we went out for lunch and a bottle of wine at an Indian restaurant. Then we caught a crammed bus uptown and drank margaritas at a Mexican restaurant until we were drunk. I joked to a woman that the twin towers would still be standing if they had followed my advice and put Madeleine Albright on the roof as a scarecrow. Displaying the black sense of humor that used to be prevalent in the City before the rigor mortis of political correctness killed any sense of levity, she and her girlfriend both laughed cruelly.
Years passed. The sequence of events in lower Manhattan fast-forwards in my mind: the firemen and cops fighting over the overtime pay and disobeying orders to wear respirators; those same workers becoming ill from lung disease and suing the city; the huge compensation awards paid to the survivors of the victims; finger-pointing over who was negligent; Giuliani’s rehabilitation as “America’s Mayor;” the World Trade Center disaster being turned into a national religion of sanctimony and self-righteousness; the war to scrape Afghanistan clean of terror groups; the use of WTC as a pretext to invade Iraq; the war on France.
With the exception of the invasion of Afghanistan, which was totally proper and correct, the rest of it has been handled as ass-backward as humanly possible, even given people’s natural propensity for imbecilic behavior. Elevation of the WTC disaster to a kind of sideshow allowing all manner of charlatans to capture center stage and use of it to railroad people into a kind of enforced jingoistic patriotism has turned national life into a kind of right-wing witch hunt not seen since the cold war. Now, instead of accusing people of being pinko fellow travelers, the mob is attacking people for being soft on terrorism and unwitting dupes of Bin Laden (whatever happened to him anyway?).
Let’s get this straight, I am not soft on terrorism. On the other hand I am not soft on Bush either. He had advance warning about the airplane attacks, the same as he had advance warning about Hurricane Katrina, but he could not act because he and his appointees do not have the management skills to motivate the bureaucracy. It’s as simple as that – incompetence flowering into full-fledged negligence.
Well, what of it….? The utter devastation of Katrina with its hundreds of thousands of victims, the asian tsunami with its hundreds of thousands of dead, the Pakistan earthquake with 40,000 dean have put the World Trade Center in more or less of its true context, that of a monstrous occurrence more-or-less in line with the miseries being inflicted on the world at large. Maybe it’s time to put it behind us to some extent and look ahead to the future.
Nevertheless, there’s one group of people who are refusing to let go – the surviving families of WTC victims. These people, already heavily indemnified, seem to have an iron grip on any future development plans for the site. It’s like these families have hardened into an irresistible pressure group that nobody can control. After getting rid of a museum they didn’t like, they are now vetoing a PATH station that they say will defile hallowed ground.
Hallowed ground? New York is all hallowed ground. More people died during the Draft Riots of 1863, but nobody is suggesting a moratorium on building in midtown.
Let’s get real!! For a group of what are essentially bridge and tunnel people to have a veto on one of New York’s most valuable and strategic pieces of real estate is not just ridiculous, it’s plain nuts.
These charming and tragically afflicted people should go home, come to grips with their grief and rebuild their lives. And let New York heal itself.
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Posted on 10/15/2005
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October 14, 2005
Moe and Larry are sitting at desks with crude, hand-drawn signs that say “Moe’s Energy Company” and “Larry’s Energy Company". Larry turns to Moe and says, “I promised to take Mitzi to a fancy French restaurant tonight and I’m broke!”
Moe responds “Relax. I guarantee you that by the end of the day we’ll be rolling in money. All we need is one sucker, er, customer, and we’ll be set.”
“I still don’t understand how this works.”
“It’s very simple. We promise to deliver so many megawatts of electricity to the customer at one dollar per megawatt hour. Once we get the money, we buy electricity from Hydro-Quebec for five cents per megawatt hour and we rent space on transmission lines from Niagara Mohawk for another five cents per megawatt hour, and they do all the work. That way we make ninety cents profit.”
Larry asks “Why would anybody want to buy electricity from us?”
“Why? Because we got intelligence.”
“Intelligence? What’s that?”
Moe says “I’ll show you.” He sticks out his hand and says “Hit my hand with that shovel.”
“I don’t want to do that! I’ll break your hand!”
“Go ahead and do what I say: hit my hand with that shovel!” Larry picks up the shovel and swings it at Moe’s hand. At the last second, Moe removes his hand and the shovel flies by harmlessly. Moe announces triumphantly “That’s intelligence!”
Exalted, Larry cries “Now I get it! Now you do it to me!” He puts up his hand in front of his face and cries “Hit my hand with the shovel!” Moe swings the shovel, Larry moves his hand, and the shovel hits him square in the face with a clang, knocking him over. Crawling back to his chair he declares mournfully, “I should have finished engineering school.”
Moe puts a box on his desk. The box is labeled “Renewable Energy Source.” Larry says “What’s that?”
Moe says “This is an environmentally friendly way to produce clean energy in conformity with the new EPA regulations. We put one of these in every car, and that way people can drive without burning gas anymore. We should rake in millions with this cool shit!”
Larry says “Yeah? Lemme’ see!” He opens up the top of the box, and the picture shows a bunch of slimy, disgusting black eels. Every once in a while a jolt of electricity emanates from the eels. Larry whines “Why those are just eels.”
“Yeah, but they’re electric eels” says Moe.
Larry goes back to his desk and sits down, dejected. “That’s the stupidest thing I ever saw” he exclaims.
Moe, enraged, screams “Oh yeah?” He takes one of the eels from the box and puts it down Larry’s shirt. Larry’s hair stands out straight and electric charges start shooting from his whole body. He jumps up and starts doing a St. Vitus dance around the desk, then falls down to the floor and, in a sitting position, starts jumping around on his butt like a dog trying to scratch his rear end, screaming “Dweeb dweeb dweeb dweeb!” Finally, Larry manages to pull the electric eel from his shirt. He drags himself back to his chair.
Moe says, “Quit foolin’ around and let’s get to work. Here, sign this contract!”
“What’s it say?” asks Larry.
“It’s an agreement that says that Larry’s Energy Company is contracting to buy ten million megawatts of electricty from Moe’s Energy Company.”
Larry signs the contract. Moe says, “Now you give me a contract to sign!” Larry pulls a contract out of a drawer and gives it to Moe, who signs it. “There,” says Moe, “now we each made ten million dollars.”
“Yeah, but that’s on paper. We still don’t have any money.”
Moe says “Oh yeah? Watch this!” He calls out “Curley!”
Curley is in the adjoining room, stuffing cans of peas into a turkey’s ass. “Can’t you see I’m busy!” he screams.
“Get in here, you dummy!”
Curley enters. “Yes, Moe?”
Moe says “Larry and I just made ten million dollars each.”
“Yeah?”
“How would you like to make ten million dollars too?”
“How do I do that?”
“Easy. We sell you bonds secured by our energy futures contracts, and every month we pay you interest. Then, when our stock price hits fifty dollars a share, you have the option to convert the debt into equity.”
“Sounds good to me,” says Curley, “only, I don’t have any money.”
“What about the two grand your aunt left you in her will?”
“I was savin’ that dough to pay my college tuition.”
Moe, infuriated, screams “Are you holdin’ out on me?” He tries to grab Curley by the nose, but Curley deftly puts on a pair of glasses with a fake nose attached, and Moe is left holding the rubber nose. Curley screams “Nyuk nyuk nyuk!”
“Why, you….!” Moe fumes. He swings his arm around in a circular motion like a ferris wheel, his closed fist pounding Curley on the top of the head like a hammer.
“Ooow, that smarts!” Curley squeals.
Moe commands, “Now, fork over the dough, ya’ mutt!” Curley timidly obliges, handing over a roll of bills. Moe, handing half to Larry, peels off the top bill and hands it back to Curley. “Here’s the first interest payment.”
Curley screams delightedly, “Eureka! I just made fifty bucks.”
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Posted on 10/14/2005
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October 13, 2005
I been around the world
From Bombay to Montreal
But I'm proud to hang my hat
On the banks of the Houston Ship Canal
Where the sweet smell of ethylene glycol
And methylene oxide meet
And the effluent streams of methanol
Disintegrate your feet
Where toluene and styrene share a moonlight kiss
And hydrochloric acid has an odor worse than piss
Oh carry me back to the Houston Ship Canal
Where fish sprout legs
And dogs lay eggs
And birds grow toes
And Mother Nature holds her nose
On the banks of the Houston Ship Canal
Where life is such a hoot
To feel my boyfriend's tumors growin'
Through his protective asbestos suit
One night my boyfriend kissed me
As the dead fish went floating by
And he whispered to me I love you
But our respirators got in the way
We took a moonlight cruise
On the styrene monomer barge
By the petroleum tanks
Where the gas leaks stank
And it smelled real rank
As we held our nose
And it weren't no rose
'Cause it curled our toes
Where the radon beamed
And the fishes screamed
On the banks of the Houston Ship Canal
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October 13, 2005
Since human beings are products of the same celestial processes which formed the heavens and the galaxies, such social constructs as we have been able to devise are also subject to the same immutable laws of science.
Nowhere is this more applicable than in New York, where everybody considers himself to be a star.
Thirteen billion years ago, give or take a couple of hundred million years, deep within a giant interstellar cloud in the arms of our Milky Way Galaxy, gravity pulled together a clump of gas and dust. When its center became hot enough to ignite nuclear reactions, our Sun was born. A surrounding disk of gas, dust and icy grains condensed to form the Earth and the other planets in our solar system.
So, New Yorkers began not as apes (that would be vastly overrating us) but as condensed gas and dust which after billions of years cooled down to the extent that the resulting compounds allowed liquid water to be formed. Micro-organisms of indeterminate provenance in the water used the sun’s energy to create an atmosphere of oxygen which made possible the evolution of complex species of life.
This article will not address superstitious theories of creation or other voodoo concepts. For the purposes of examining the social structures of so-called intelligent life in New York City, we will stick to proven laws of physics handed down by people like Einstein and Roentgen.
Some regions of the universe contain many more galaxies than others. Clusters of galaxies are held together by their mutual gravitational forces. As this applies to New York, it would be to say that constellations are grouped in certain parts of the city, like the Upper East Side, the Theater District, Wall Street, Greenwich Village, etc., which are attracted/repelled by mutual fields of magnetism. Like the universe, there are vast areas of New York, Staten Island, Queens, Bronx and most of Brooklyn, that are totally void. Then you have New Jersey and Long Island, Klingon Territory, places of indescribable horror.
The parts of New York where stellar activity exists can be compared to clusters of galaxies which bend and refract light according to Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, acting as a gravitational lens whose strong gravity warps the surrounding light to produce distorted and magnified blue images of other distant galaxies. For instance, the media galaxies magnify and distort perceived images of the artistic or financial sectors, sometimes producing duplicate images so that only a trained observer is able to discern what is real and what is an illusion.
The galaxies tend to take a spiral form with the most powerful gravitational force at the center, surrounded by a pinwheel of billions of lesser stars extending out into the void.
When a celestial entity starts to lose energy, it explodes into a nova, sending out a fireball that engulfs the surrounding objects in a cataclysm of fiery destruction before collapsing into a black hole which sucks all the surrounding objects into it.
Like the stock market.
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October 12, 2005
A casual reader of the New York TIMES cannot but be dismayed by its wholly vacant approach to news reportage and analysis. It’s as though the paper had been intentionally gutted of any residual urbanity or sophistication in order to appeal to the vast lumpen suburban market it feels it needs to boost its circulation and its appeal to advertisers.
Of the TIMES’ policy to reach a suburban audience, there can be no doubt. It continually panders to the suburban mentality with stories vaunting the great quality of suburban living. Lately the emphasis has been on Brooklyn and how hip that is. Excuse me, but as a Manhattanite who frequently goes to Brooklyn and the outer metropolitan area during the summer months for the beaches, I fail to understand what the fuss is about. Brooklyn is still Brooklyn and the suburbs are still the suburbs, stultified catacombs of impenetrable cultural desiccation populated by instinct-driven herds of functionally illiterate adults mindlessly devoted to populating the world with their progeny.
But let’s get back to the TIMES. The travel section sends out writers who can barely express themselves in English to write about places they know nothing about in prose as stultifying as though it had been composed about a weekend in Rochester. Most of these geniuses freely admit to being wholly ignorant of even basic Spanish or French. It recently dispatched one of its star columnists to a newly opened gastronomic spa on the Mayan Riviera of Mexico. After joking about the incomprehensibility of her Spanish she continually lamented her retarded attempts to find a plate of nachos. Finally after a long article devoted to ridiculing the superfluous appointments of the resort and its cuisine, this jewel of American letters finally rejoices at locating a plate of nachos.
If this was an attempt to prove that she was not a fancy person and to connect with the common people, she needn’t have wasted her effort, for that was never in doubt.
The Jayson Blair revelations and subsequent corporate self-flagellation quite aside, the TIMES seems to be undergoing a period of critical dysfunction. Its female bureau chief in Baghdad was sacked for e-mailing the wives of correspondents, keeping them au courant about their husbands’ extracurricular amorous liaisons (plus ça change…). The former restaurant critic revealed in a book that she wore disguises during the performance of her critical forays into the city’s most elegant restaurants, evoking the most slapstick episodes of “I Love Lucy.”
The arrogant and triumphalist evocations of middle-brow culture freely indulged in by Times opinion shapers make for very tedious reading. One writer ridiculed Mick Jagger’s “ridiculously flat abs,” evidently outraged that the composer of “Not Fade Away” would have the audacity to stay in the game and not resign himself to avuncular obscurity. After a statement by the National Institute of Health that being fat might not be so bad for one’s health after all, one of the TIMES most boring apologists for the current administration trumpeted that, not only did he feel vindicated in his flabbiness but also in the fact that he wasn’t so smart either; that middle-brow, middle-heavy and middle class was now being restored to its position of dominance after years of being relegated to the sidelines of ridicule by the infuriating legions of modernity.
The TIMES is not hesitant about dumbing down of culture to pander to middle class boorishness. For several years one of its main female columnists regularly seized the opportunity to ridicule contemporary fashion designers as being unflattering to the average female figure (well, maybe to hers). She pursued this mantra of scorn and disdain unabated over a period of several years without ever offering a clue to what she considered to be acceptable female attire. Presumably, from a photo of her adorning the cover of one of her books, she buys her clothes at Bolton’s.
It should come as no surprise that a company where Jayson Blair was encouraged to rise to prominence is a strict adherent to the doctrine of political correctness in all its convoluted manifestations. This is an environment where the meek and the socially challenged shall inherit the earth. The one aspect of modern life that the Times has embraced without hesitation is Gay Liberation, which does not fundamentally alter the politico-economic landscape as, say social democracy would, and it affords the TIMES the veneer of progressivism. If you want the latest skinny on which two guys just got married by a female rabbi knee-deep in the surf off Cape Cod, just tune in to the Sunday Styles section. One of the most vehement advocates of this position, who shall remain nameless here as shall all of them because they are all instantly forgettable (can you name one former Times columnist?) has made a crusade of defending the gay rights movement even down to its most obscure nuances against the contumely of flatulent right-wing bores such as Bill Bennett and the whole other gang of idiotic reactionary twits. Hardly a stretch, but sometimes he wears his heart on his sleeve too blatantly, such as when he declared that as a Jew he felt personally threatened about the popularity of “The Passion of the Christ.” What was he afraid of, that mobs of enraged Cossacks would emerge screaming on horses from the movie theater, led by Taras Bulba, waving sabers after seeing Jesus torn to ribbons by a gang of gnarly, crooked-teeth Jews, and hack the critic to death? Give me a break! “Passion of the Christ” is just a piece of celluloid, or even more insignificantly, plastic video junk. In fact, after Mel Gibson removed the more revolting footage of mutilation and torture it didn’t elicit any interest at all.
The paper’s globalization expert travels the world sending back little homilies about how we are living in the best of all possible worlds. A few years back, during the dot-com boom, he advanced the line about how the computer would drive exponential economic growth forever. When that ended he shifted his line to how sending Intellectual Technology jobs to India would eventually benefit the American worker. His Pollyanna-ish line is actually helped by the fact that this Minnesota native speaks no languages besides college English, is not conversant in any cultures outside the Anglo-Saxon world and does not betray any knowledge of political or economic history going back more than one or two decades. It’s almost as though he were assigned this vocation at random, that he happened to be standing in the corridor when the boss passed by.
That the TIMES is living in a sanitized little Disneyland of the Spirit, with all those masters of the universe pontificating the hell out of each other in the employees cafeteria while scarfing down massive amounts of company-sponsored roast beef and fettuccini alfredo, all the while scheming to keep their insignificant selves separated from the vagaries of the labor market is beyond doubt. The problem rests with us, the poor news-consuming public, who are left with the alternative of paying $3.50 for this worthless rot or having to pick grains of news out of the Post and the Daily News like birds pecking out morsels of corn from pig manure. In a city of eight million people, one of the richest in the world and that was once the home of dozens of dailies, how on earth did we end up getting squeezed by this embarrassment of intellectual paucity?
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October 12, 2005
Let’s Talk Turkeys
It wouldn’t bother me to write a weblog that turns the world inside out – portraying New Yorkers as flaccid, vacant know-nothings who are quite the opposite of their vaunted self-projection of sophistication and probity. Actually, they are closer to the characterizations portrayed in Sex And The City, an image they have embraced as representative of their carefree liberality and cosmopolitanism, but which I consider to be a brain-dead portrayal of adult women with the minds of adolescents who have magically been awarded Manhattan apartments and the freedom to pursue their suburban high school fantasies of finding a guy with money (that’s not much of a stretch, is it?).
I have earned the right to form an opinion, having lived here for the last quarter century, and have been subjected to the full gamut of New Yorkers’ personalities, which I have found lacking and totally bereft of any kind of charm.
This assessment is not going to make me any kind of friends but, finally, somebody had to say it. Maybe it will provoke a polemic - if any polemic is possible in a society with a millimeter-thin depth of consciousness - or at least some superficial self-examination in a class of people whose self-image is totally distorted by conceit and where any foundation of philosophical discernment is totally non-existent.
I inhabit a city whose elite is consumed by getting a good table at a restaurant, where the top fashion designers design the same four seams season after season and then justify it by proclaiming their love of “clean lines”; where the opinion-making “newspaper of record” allows its top columnist to write a full-page obituary in its Sunday News and Review section for her mother, whose claim to greatness is that she sent her daughter pickle recipes and wrote fan letters to Ronald Reagan, describing a scene that took place while the old doll was on life-support with tubes sticking out of her, and the daughter, described by the paper as a “national treasure”, asks her if she wouldn’t care to have a Cosmopolitan cocktail. This obituary the paper ran with a straight face, not considering for a moment that somewhere out in readerland somebody might regard it as a ridiculous self-parody.
A city where judges are regularly thrown off the bench and prosecuted for corruption and nobody bothers to suggest examing their past decisions to determine if some poor souls have been railroaded into long prison sentences. Thousands of years ago, the Roman parodist Petronius described this situation when he wrote:
The court is a market
Where justice is bought and sold
The judge who presides
Bangs a gavel of gold
This is a city where the head of Riker’s Island ends up getting locked up in his own jail; where the city transit authority admits to years of gross malfeasance and incompetence and then raises the fares; where the ex-mayor, after two terms defined by mismanagement, defiant divisiveness and institutionalized brutality is elevated to the status of “America’s Mayor” for phony posturing and superficial speechifying after 9/11, and nobody bothers to question it.
This is a city of entrenched interests and little intellectual probity, where night is day and day is night, where Halloween is a year-round affair.
Admittedly, this stuff happens everywhere. The difference is that New York, which loves to qualify itself as being inhabited by a rarified class of deep thinkers, is not any more discerning or philosophically grounded than any two-bit palookaville in the sticks.
That’s my problem.
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October 11, 2005
When Helmer was a little fatman His mama said to him
“One day you will be the King of Broadway but I’ll tell you something real
Since you are a mental moron you’ll have to find a way to steal”
Helmer found a piece of dough And rolled it into a bagel
“Now I found a calling where I am able
I’ll throw some sesame on top then I’ll have something really seedy
I may not be so smart But I am fucking greedy
Who cares if I’m wrong or right?
What I’ve got here is an idiot’s delight
A hard crust on the outside
And at the center nothing
It’s a poetic metaphor of my mind, a miniscule intelligence That even a microscope would be hard-put to find
I’ll put together an army of idiots
With me as the central scheming brain
Nobody will figure out that I am totally freakin’ lame
The morons of the world will genuflect will scrape and cower
For the privilege of working in the steam box for six bucks an hour
I’ll be the King of Broadway with my squeaky voice and rubber Halloween mask of a clown
And if anyone has the audacity to talk back to me I’ll scream like a banshee and put him six feet in the ground”
For his factory manager he appointed a woman whose totality
Was so involved in psychosis she could not discern reality
She called this worker’s house and told his wife he was cheating on her
And when the guy’s wife took poison and almost died
Helmer gave the guy a one dollar raise to keep him satisfied
His production plant is such a rancid stinking nightmare
That even the rats and roaches are afraid to go in there
With putrid grease and moldy dough stinking like a gutter
The Health Inspector gave it a lower rating than the black hole of Calcutta
The sidewalk in front is so infected with filth and disease
Walking there is like ice skating on pure grease
The Arab pushcart vendors who are his next door neighbors are such slobs
They are killing encephalitic pigeons and roasting them on spits for shish kebob
Oh Helmer he is rich but not in terms of money
He’s rich in terms of comic idiocy
But it ain’t funny
He’ll go down in history like The Three Stooges
On the Mount Rushmore of monumental Scrooges
What he lacks in intelligence he makes up for in thieving greed
He would suck up the world in a black hole of avarice If he could figure out how to succeed
And when the final accounting of Helmer’s career is through
They’ll have to build a special cage for him and all his idiot relations in the Bronx Zoo
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