October 25, 2006
When the stock option scandal started to break recently, I predicted to my girlfriend, Magpie, that every single large company in the country would be affected by it. After all, I reasoned, who in his right mind would be able to resist looting the treasury of his company with virtual impunity?
Oh sure, defenders of this peachy state of affairs point out that any executive who gets caught forging false dates on stock options is still subject to civil suits by enraged shareholders and dismissed from his job. But all that means is that the ones unlucky enough to get caught might have to give back some of the money he looted. Try giving back a stolen television and see if that gets you off the hook.
Though lately the emphasis has shifted slightly toward a tougher approach toward white-collar crime, notably through the efforts of New York Attorney General Eliot Spitzer, the weight of justice still falls more heavily on the activity of low-end criminals, who can’t afford armies of accountants to smooth out their nefarious dealings. Nevertheless, there’s still plenty of criminal activity at the top end to go around, particularly in New York, where the fertile soil of Wall Street pushes up a new crop of high-end wiseguys with the regularity of winter wheat. Indeed, the criminality is so ingrained in the system that people are accusing Spitzer of trying to destroy capitalism. If you lock up all the thieves, they scream, there won’t be anybody left to run the system.
I tend to concur. If you locked up all the deserving New Yorkers, the streets of New York would resemble one of those post-apocalyptic black and white episodes from The Twilight Zone. The devotion of New Yorkers to stealing is famous worldwide. I have often written that the national animal of New York City (and I support giving independent national status to New York, like Singapore or Hong Kong, with our own passports) should be the seagull, who prefers to steal the food out of another seagull’s mouth rather than work for it.
Stealing is a team sport. When I was a kid I used to enjoy the Sgt. Rock comic books. Sgt. Rock was a tough master sergeant in World War II, fighting the Germans or the Japs, I forget which, and his squad was a cross-section of American stereotypes: one black guy, one Italian, one Jew and so on. Of course, these guys were real macho, not like the fruits who work on Wall Street. Together they vanquished the soulless axis enemy.
In New York we got the All-American Dream Team of Stealing: Dick Grasso, Dennis Koslowski, Robert Trosten and Phillip Bennet who stole $500 million from Refco and Kobi Alexander. If they put together an Olympics for white-collar theft, we should send over these bozos to defend our national honor as felonious swine. That would certainly burst my heart with pride!
I’m not going to be a hypocrite and pin all the stealing and asshole behavior on Republicans, though they do it with sanctimonious zeal that is almost religious in its devotion. As the great American philosopher Robert Hicks, whom I met while he was working as a leather cutter at Calderon Belts and Bags, put it, “Republicans don’t leave nothin’ for anybody else.”
Nevertheless, stealing in New York is a bi-partisan effort, predominantly dominated by Democrats. Witness the inelegant behavior exhibited by Brian McLaughlin of the Electrical Workers Union, who stole from everybody in sight, including the Little League. One of his partners in crime, the son of former New York mayor Abe Beame, who decided to go into the traffic light business, though my instinct tells me he doesn’t know the difference between AC and DC, paid McLaughlin a half-million dollar bribe to keep the lights flashing. One of McLaughlin’s girlfriends, justifying her acceptance of an $8,000 check that had been traced to her by The New York Post, justified it by saying, “I thought it had something to do with the bookkeeping.”
Then we have the case of Andrew Cuomo, who is running for New York State Attorney General on the strength of being the son of former Governor Mario Cuomo. Big freakin’ deal! If all it takes to get elected is a historical name to get elected I think I’ll change my name to Washington Lincoln Jefferson. Or how about Napoleon Bonaparte Junior? That has a nice ring to it!
Andrew Cuomo was Clinton’s Secretary of Housing Urban Development for eight years, and I defy you to explain to me what he did during that time, except that rent went up. This guy is a perfect example of displacing volume for no known purpose except to bring joy to a father’s heart. I still puke when I remember the useless little moralistic homilies Mario Cuomo used to inflict upon the electorate, which were in no small measure responsible for his replacement by the mentally vacant Pataki who, while he accomplished nothing, at least had the presence of mind not to open his mouth and thereby focus attention on his total lack of a brain.
I have a cousin who, having nothing more to offer, wrote a whole book on the joys of being related to someone, called “In Praise of Nepotism.” This book immediately sank like an Estonian ferryboat, its only contribution to world culture being as an infinitely rich vein of material for ridicule generated by me. If Andrew Cuomo gets elected Attorney General, he will immediately join that pantheon of useless progeny who act as a permanent brake on human progress.
At least the reader doesn’t have to lose any sleep worrying about me getting hoist on my own petard in this regard, nobody on either side of my family even being able to bear the thought of me, with my ungainly propensity for trumpeting ugly realities from every hillside like a demented Riccola yodeler. In fact, this opinion is unlikely to reach more than a handful of insomniac web surfers, who, if they haven’t already passed out from boredom, are only bothering to read it at all because it’s less strenuous than masturbation.
But if Andrew Cuomo is totally without interest, his charming wife, Whatzername, is even less interesting. If that’s possible. So it was quite shocking when I read in that bible of sobriety and erudition, The New York Post, that during Cuomo’s tenure as HUD Secretary she was doing speaking tours and getting paid $2,000 a lecture! Now, what would Andrew Cuomo’s wife have to say that was worth paying $2,000 to hear?
Now, I’m sure that Whatzername went to a fantastic Ivy League college, one where I couldn’t even get a job scraping food off the plates in the employees’ cafeteria. And I know from seeing her photo in The Post that she is vastly more lovely and charming than I, ‘cause I ain’t that hot.
So I was racking my brain trying to figure out why Andrew Cuomo’s wife was getting paid two thousand bucks a speech to talk about….what?!!, and nobody was paying me shit, even though I have a very funny stand-up act, when I finally got to the end of the article and it explained that each time an organization paid her an honorarium of two thousand dollars, HUD would allot it a grant of two hundred thousand dollars!!!
Now it all came clear, if you want your wife to be a successful, highly paid speaker, all you have to do is arrange to pay back the money from the public coffers at a rate of 100-1. That’s what you learn when you go to an Ivy League university.
But we’ll have time to get back to Andrew Cuomo at a later date, because given the nature of his competition he’s sure to win big even though he is totally useless and boring. Whereas his opponent, the flamboyantly corrupt and incompetent Jeanine Pirro is certainly destined to fade into obscurity in a couple of weeks, and then I will forever lose my chance to kick her while she’s down.
Which would be a terrible waste of a buffoon, because if ever there existed a vile, grasping, treacherous loudmouth cunt from the suburbs, who stole and clawed her way to the top of Westchester’s seamy, tacky, greasy pole of municipal politics, the embodiment of all that is sleazy, maggot-ridden and putrid in Republican politics, then that animal is Jeanine Pirro, who threw her hard-stealing husband to the wolves so that she could continue to graft and steal as part of the rotten-to-the-core Republican political machine of backstabbing pricks like her colleague John Spencer, who wrote the letter that got the U.S. Attorney interested in investigating her in the first place.
This Jeanine Pirro would be dangerous if she weren’t so inept. If I were to write the scenario for a black comedy about her, I would say that she sold her soul to the devil, but he let the bargain lapse for lack of interest.
Not that she isn’t capable of causing great personal damage. Witness the guy who she sent up for 20 years for a rape he didn’t commit, who continually sent her letters from prison pleading with her to run a DNA test that he knew would exonerate him, to which she responded (admittedly, paraphrased by me), “Why don’t you shut up and serve your sentence? Can’t you see I’m busy?”
The fact that the innocent guy was sprung from jail in the middle of Pirro’s campaign proves to me that there is still justice in this life, and that people’s evil actions will be sprung upon them at the most inopportune moment.
The problem is that Pirro is made of such brass that it’s impossible for anything less than a baseball bat to make an impact on her. Maybe if the guy were to confront her personally the world could see what an impossibly cold person she is.
Not that it would have any impact on Pirro. She’s always in attack mode, totally focused on the money.
And busy she was! Plotting with Bernard Kerik, Giulani’s former right-hand man, to follow the hapless Al Pirro and plant a bug on his cabin cruiser so she could catch him in fragrante delicto with the wife of his attorney and confront him with audible proof of hanky-panky with the wife of his attorney.
Not that she ever had the intention to divorce the sucker, but just to cut his balls off and dominate him completely. No way was she going to let go of him, especially since he was still breaking his back to pay her $15,000 a month cash.
Jeanine Pirro met her husband Al in law school, although it wasn’t like Bill and Hillary Clinton meeting at Yale, all burning up with inspiration from President Kennedy to do good for the world. Rather, like 99% of the scumbag attorneys in the world, they were killing themselves to get closer to the money. They worked both sides of the street in tandem, he with the mob and she in Republican politics to provide him with political cover.
She may well have signed the joint return that got Al Pirro sent away without reading it line by line, but she for sure knew every detail of every larcenous deal he was ever involved in. To believe differently would be to completely miss the point of Jeanine Pirro, which is an infinitely grasping avarice of bottomless depth
He took the dive, and while he was in jail his attorney threw a fundraising benefit for him at Rao’s, where wiseguys have been known to get iced right in the middle of their linguini. Her office let it be known that offenders who engaged Al Pirro’s attorney would benefit from preferential treatment. Presumably, they met later to split the fees.
She engaged in sweetheart treatment with Giuliani Associates and Giulaini’s discredited former right-hand man, Bernard Kerik, steering high cost non-compete consulting contracts to Kerik on behalf of parties her office was supposed to be prosecuting, and when she decided to engage in a bit of domestic skullduggery against her own husband she had Kerik’s “operatives” follow Al around. When Kerik, already having problems of his own, declined to plant a listening device on Al’s boat at her insistence, the Westchester District Attorney threatened to plant the device herself personally.
And all the time that the Pirro Gang was running wild, the hapless guy whom she railroaded to a 20 year term for a crime he never committed, along with who know how many other hapless schlemiels sent up because they fit the bill for pathetic scapegoats, rotted in rat-infested dungeons run by prison corporations that were probably kicking back payments to her for steering prisoners to them. Oh Yeah!
Fortunately, this emerging Republican kleptocracy is crumbling under the weight of its own arrogance, greed and incompetence, so we’ll probably be spared the full brunt of their instinctual criminality at least until the next group of grasping scumbags emerges.
In the meantime, just to remind us of how we barely dodged the bullet of having this country transformed into a third-rate banana republic, we still have Giuliani to kick around, assuming he’s stupid enough to try to run for president in 2008, which would definitely require a voluminous airing of senseless police shootings, precinct plunger parties, criminal police commissioners, mayoral wives starring in Vaginal theatrics off-Broadway while the mayor lines his pockets, and whatever other ghastly abominations this writer can dig up with a stick.
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Posted on 10/25/2006
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October 14, 2006
Performed at The Comic Strip, New York City, Oct. 10, 2006.
EMCEE: And now, direct from an exclusive engagement at the secret underground dump by the White Castle on Nostrand Avenue in Brooklyn, we are proud to present you the comedic excretions of
200motels
Thank you very much. You know, folks, I have an act, but Bob and Gladys are insisting they want me to do improv. I said, “What if I die onstage?”
Gladys said, “I want you to die.”
So I thought to myself, If I die, I’ll donate my body to science. Like in “Alien.” They open my pants and my dick has another dick inside that pops out with teeth…
Now for a little bit of sports trivia. What’s this? [lurches across the stage like a moron] That’s Mike Piazza running to first base with half a baseball bat stuck up his ass after Roger Clemens threw the bat at him.
After that, when Mets manager Bobby Valentine said that Piazza was gay, Piazza got so pissed-off, he put on his dress and he left.
Anyway, with a name like Bobby Valentine, who is he to talk?
The way I hear it, Piazza is now designing a line of dresses for the Mets to wear when they win the World Series. The batboys are going to be dressed like flower girls at a wedding.
I was really sorry about Corey Lidle crashing his plan into that apartment building. What a lot of people don’t know is, the day before he did it, Yankees owner George Steinbrenner screamed at him, “You stink! You couldn’t hit the side of a barn.”
Lidle said, “I can too! Go to your window tomorrow at 2:00 and you’ll see how good I can aim!” See, Lidle thought Steinbrenner lived in the building, and he did what a lot of Yankees like A-Rod and Juan Contreras didn’t have the balls to do. [moans from the audience]
Electronics are fantastic. People who can’t read or write are walking around with thousand dollar laptop computers. They got an iPod in one ear, a telephone in the other ear and a Blackberry stuck up their ass.
Why don’t they get a harmonica, too? [pulls out a harmonica and plays a few bars of blues] Where’s the Spanish comic who was on before? ¡Mirá amigo! [plays a few bars of Latin music]
[Sings] Coño carajo diablo pendejo maricóóóóóón! ¡Mirá amigo, por qué las mujeres me llaman “hombre de nieve?” ¡Por qué yo tengo el cuevo de helado con dos cojones de hielo!
[Translation: Why do women call me “the snowman?” Because I have an ice cream dick and two ice cubes for balls]
Where’s the French guy? He left? You know, the French invented fart music, where a French guy made a fortune of money blowing air out of his ass in nightclubs. So I figured, this is America. We can do better. So I figured a way to lodge the harmonica up my ass, and when I fart it comes out sounding like “My Old Kentucky Home.” It don’t exactly smell like Springtime in Paris but it sounds real pretty.
I used to go to France, but I found out that the pussy was cheaper in Mexico, so now I go there. The only problem is, when I come back to the States I got guacamole coming out of my dick.
Did anybody see that photo of Paris Hilton in The Post. The photographer got a real cute shot of her cleavage, but what was really cool was that big bag of reefer she had sticking out of her handbag. That looked like dynamite shit! Paris Hilton got everything you want in a woman: big tits, big ass and a big bag of reefer!
When the cops questioned Paris Hilton about a crime she witnessed, she told them, “I ain’t that smart.” Yeah, not too smuckin’ fart. Except she’s grossing about $20 million a year for doing nothing. And every time she shows up at a nightclub opening, they give her a $200,000 Italian sports car. I wish I was that fuckin’ stupid.
It’s like that billionaire who told the Financial Times, “I’m stoopid! I don’t know how much a whole lotta’ nines are. But I got some people working for me who do!”
Well, that’s all the time I got. How’d I do with this improv? OK? See you all next week.
200motels WILL BE APPEARING AT THE COMIC STRIP ON A REGULAR BASIS. FOR INFORMATION REGARDING HIS APPEARANCES, CALL BOB OR GLADYS AT 212-832-1762.
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Posted on 10/14/2006
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October 08, 2006
It’s a fitting testament to the triumph of virtue over evil that all the monstrous maledictions the Republican Party has visited on hardworking Americans have come back to roost upon their just in time for the elections.
There is not enough bandwidth on this web site to recount all the damage these swine have inflicted upon our country, though I wish there was, because from a comedy standpoint it’s a shame to leave out any of it.
But as the topper, as the cherry on the vile, overflowing toxic confection of an ice cream sundae from hell that constitutes Republican activity in both the domestic and foreign policy arenas, we now have the infinitely evil spectre of a homosexual Republican congressman, ostensibly the protector of damaged children, sending masturbatory e-mails and text messages to teenage congressional pages.
Nothing about Republican underhandedness surprises me. I have always considered the Republican Party to be the fount of all that is venomous in the American body politic. I don’t care how far you go back – to the vicious slander visited upon Franklin Delano Roosevelt and his wife Eleanor, the McCarthyite witch hunts and HUAC career demolition of the 1950’s, Richard Nixon and his Huston Plan to set up concentration camps for anti-Viet Nam activists in the 1960’s, the Clinton impeachment circus and the Starr Report of the 1990’s. The Republican Party has always abided by one enduring philosophical maxim: distract the public with a monstrous spectacle, and then, when they are otherwise preoccupied, pick their pockets.
And when Republicans steal it’s not just incidental behavior like a Democratic congresswoman spending a fortune of money to redecorate her office. When Republicans steal, they do it with the holy zeal of brainwashed freaks on a mission. They figure they’re doing us a favor by looting the treasury. That way, there won’t be any resources left for social programs, and the scrambling around to keep body and soul together will fortify us as a people lean and mean.
Some of them, like some Charles Manson cult members, actually believe this garbage (I’ll just briefly put the lie to it right now by pointing out that Germany and Sweden, who have the world’s most highly advanced social programs, are more productive than we are, with higher export ratios). But most of them regard this justification as a cynical joke that just enables them to steal.
The witless sophistry they use to bamboozle the hayseeds in the hinterlands naturally has less resonance with relatively more sophisticated city dwellers, so the Republicans, endlessly resourceful in their sanctimonious slander, have figured out a formula for justifying this disparity of stupidity by attacking metropolitan areas as godless outposts of cosmopolitanism out of touch with the real deal values of virtuous heartland dwellers. Joseph Stalin used exactly the same strategy to isolate and persecute Soviet Jews.
Nowhere is this intellectual pollution more evident than in the realm of sexual morality, which is an easily justifiable red herring to throw to the trained seals that constitute their electorate. In this, they have the Pope as an ally and can also point to the King James Bible for justification. Sex, bad. Abortion, super bad. Homosexuality, an abominable vice that dareth not speak its name. Does anybody in the Republican leadership really buy into any of this garbage? It would hardly seem to be the case. When Republican House Speaker Dennis Hastert was informed of the existence of salacious e-mails sent by Mark Foley to young teenage boys, he blew it off (an unfortunate metaphor, but there you are).
Everybody knew Foley was a fruit but nobody seemed to mind. He kept his congressional seat safe for the Republicans and voted the party line.
Unfortunately, voting wasn’t the only thing he did from the floor of the House. Right in the middle of legislative sessions he was using his Blackberry and cell phone to send electronic messaging to every kid he ever met in the House going back ten years.
Now, this writer has developed his own theory about juvenile sexuality among adult offenders, and that is that they are not emotionally equipped to handle relations with adult people. They’re retarded, and this goes for sexy blonde schoolteachers who carry on with young boys.
In terms of the women, I say, Let them off the hook. Boys like to get fucked. I know I did. These daffy young women are doing a public service as long as they don’t go out of their way to do psychological damage. Maybe we should set up a domestic “Piece Corps” or “Pussy Patrol”to send these stunted women from town to town to lay kids and keep them from hotrodding around at night, getting into terrible car crashes.
In terms of the men, though, there is a destructive, predatory quality to them that makes them dangerous. No adult male should be allowed that much latitude of behavior.
This is not to say that Foley did more than flirt, which is not a hanging offense. His problem is that instead of just reciting these imbecilities verbally over the telephone, this schmuck left a paper trail behind him.
How likely is it that Foley would write this garbage down in a letter, put a stamp on it and deposit it in a mailbox? Not bloody likely! Or that he would sit down at a computer terminal to do it? No, the problem is with these hand-held Blackberries and text-messaging cell phones. The problem, as with handguns, is the instant accessibility of these gadgets that can turn an irrational impulse into an indelible fact of life.
Foley would still have a job today if he had a harmonica in his pocket instead of a freakin’ Blackberry. Instead of ruining his own life and his party’s chances, he could have whipped out his mouth organ and played a soulful version of “My Old Kentucky Home.”
Or he could have paid his tailor to cut the pockets out of his pants. That way, he would have had something else to play with other than Bush’s future congressional agenda. As far as House Speaker Dennis Hastert is concerned, the only thing he cares about is fleecing the suckers. When they came to him about Foley’s e-mails, he probably rolled his eyes and said, “What did you expect? You know the guy’s a fruit! Tell him to knock it off” before going to the main order of business: “How much did we take in this week?”
As for me, none of this comes as a shock. Everybody knows former FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover wore party dresses. I believe the truth will eventually come out that the CIA has photos of British Prime Minister Tony Blair engaging in sex with men, otherwise why would he slavishly agree to involve his country in the invasion of a country that it had previously been kicked out of once before already? French former prime minister Edith Cresson once got in trouble for joking that 25 percent of all Englishmen were homosexual, but that joke would not have gained currency if there were not some anecdotal foundation to it.
I believe the U.S. owes a debt of gratitude to Mark Foley for providing irrefutable evidence of what we already know: that the Republicans are unfit for any activity that has an impact on the interests of men, women, boys or girls.
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Posted on 10/8/2006
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October 07, 2006
Anybody who reads this blog knows how much I enjoy poking fun at Brooklyn, with its Old School mix of fat people, runaway SUV’s, shootings, baseball bat concussions and delectable random instances of sundry miscellaneous animal brutality that makes The New York Post police blotter column such a daily hoot to read.
But it is the uncharted reaches of the Borough of Queens, with its mile upon mile of deceptively tranquil row houses, unsullied by even the faintest hint of anything even approaching human culture where, like a swamp, the placid scum-coated surface belies a thriving underworld of stifled ambitions, suppressed longings and vengeful loathing.
Queens is a municipality, not quite urban and not quite suburban, where, like a tropic marshland of the human heart, a tranquil stroll can suddenly erupt in deadly panic in a split second as a giant python attacks, locking itself around the unsuspecting victim and instantly choking the breath out of it before ingesting it whole, not leaving even a trace.
Not surprisingly, a large number of these predators are females, who are driven by more voluptuous needs and darker desires than the male of the species. And the victims, like those pathetic creatures on the margins of a herd of wildebeest who are the natural prey of the lions and jackals that surround them, waiting to pick off the most defenseless, are the aged and the infirm; desperate, lonely old men with a fortune of assets locked away and nothing to do with their time except while away their lives in anticipation of a visit from the Angel of Death.
The news reports are replete with dramas that a modern-day O’Henry would ignore because they take place tucked away in a far corner of the city too remote to occasion a visit by any literate person. But the heart beats nevertheless. And the desperate longing, which can eat away at a person like battery acid devouring human flesh, lies not far beneath the deceptively calm surface of everyday metropolitan life.
Witness the horror of 78 year-old Charles Schlechtiger, lured to a park by his 32 year-old paramour, Liat Corman, where he is ambushed by her confederate and beaten to death when he refuses to surrender the keys to his house.
Or 85 year-old Louis Bruno of Howard Beach, who met 19 year-old Natasha Marks outside a supermarket and told her, “That’s a beautiful coat you’re wearing.”
“I think you’re cute too,” she said, and proceeded to fleece the old geezer over the course of several months for a grand total of $800,000.
Now, the fact that these guys, living in working-class neighborhoods, have managed to amass so much in assets is a good indication that they have little or no experience in the ways of women. They obviously have lived their lives very frugally, only to find themselves old and rich with little in the way of eventful memories to comfort them in their old age.
This writer has had rather the opposite experience. Years of nightlife and fooling around with women and no money left. With the supercharged libido I inherited from my progenitors, my destiny was never in doubt. But at my stage of the game I can at least state unequivocally that I have a profound understanding of the nature of women.
Aside from my sentimental education, can I say that my money was well spent? The great American philosopher, Howlin’ Wolf, once sang, “If I had the money I spent on women, I’d be a millionaire.” Yeah, and a perfect patsy for a teenage jackal with a predilection for Perla lingerie.
At this stage of the game, I have to say that I am more or less immune to the seductive temptation of young women. Every time one passes by, I think of Howlin’ Wolf and say to myself, “There goes my money.” Then I think of George Thorogood singing, “She ain’t gonna get nuthin’!”
When you see these young girls, you got to think about the great baseball players of history. A guy with a lifetime batting average of .400, which is practically impossible, means that he hit four for ten. Most players don’t get close to that. The same goes for scoring with women – I figure batting for pussy, you’re doing good to be batting .200. That means four dates of spending your money, having to put up with lame conversation about the new musical about “The Grinch That Stole Christmas” and getting a handshake for every one time you get your pecker wet. And this being New York, you’re just as likely to get hit up for cabfare, a twenty-dollar loser’s penalty, so that her lazy butt can ride back to the Bronx in the lap of luxury while you take the subway home with all the lunatics on the N train for company.
Uh-uh! Like George Thorogood sang, “She ain’t gonna get nuthin’!”
Look at Giacomo Casanova, the Babe Ruth of pussy. He made and lost multiple fortunes in eighteenth century Europe, always blowing his money on women. When he got old and ran out of steam he had to take a job as librarian in the castle of a Prussian nobleman, where all the working stiffs, subway riders of their time, intensely jealous of his worldwide reputation as the World’s Greatest Lover, hounded him on a continual basis, “Hey, loverboy, you ain’t so hot now!” until the day he died. Meanwhile, the women had all his assets.
It’s sort of like the black widow spider, where, after mating, the female kills the male and sucks him dry of all his bodily fluids, as General Jack D. Ripper so delicately described the process in “Dr. Strangelove.” Except with human American women, they just suck you dry and let you live (sometimes).
The reigning Queen of all this nasty sucking process for our time has got to be Anna Nicole Smith, who cleaned out her old boy to the tune of eight hundred million dollars, which is more than some whole countries live on.
Not for Anna Nicole Smith the American Dream of hard work and smart investing. She made her money the old-fashioned way, by sucking the dick of an eighty-five year old man, though, to be fair, when she got on her knees in front of the wheelchair, the pedals must have made for a very uncomfortable blowjob.
No matter, the old boy couldn’t do enough for her in return. “Someday all this will be yours,” he told her. And then he croaked.
I fell bad for Anna Nicole Smith. She had a son, whom she loved, and then she had a little daughter. The photo of the three of them together showed how happy she was, and I certainly wished them all well.
Then her son, who was a moron, died of an overdose about an hour after that picture was taken. This kid was heir to hundreds of millions of dollars. She certainly would have given him anything he wanted. Instead of enjoying a rich young life, he wore a trucker’s cap and drowned to death on his own vomit.
His mother, as lucid and focused a person as ever existed, sizing up the situation very clearly, shed a tear for him as a star-crossed loser and got him planted in the ground in time to make it to her next fashion shot. Life goes on, and she had a new daughter. Let’s hope she has better luck with her latest child.
In the meantime, I have taken up the harmonica to get my mind off the women. You want me to blow you a song?
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Posted on 10/7/2006
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