May 29, 2006
In “The Manchurian Candidate,” the commies got their hands on a rich man’s son, inflated him into a bogus war hero and brainwashed him to fuck up American politics. In the twenty-first century version we got our own homegrown version, Bush, who is acting like a foreign agent not because he’s brainwashed – he hasn’t got a brain to wash – but because he’s such a boring dope that he has hypnotized the whole rest of the country into a flatline mental coma of imbecility.
He completely botched 9/11 and then established a police state of electronic surveillance. He completely corrupted the media and press establishment to behave like dummies. Not one reporter or editor has the nerve to say what everybody is thinking, that the president is a brainless twit. He looted the treasury with his tax breaks and then had stockbrokers and investment bankers licking their chops when he tried to do the same thing with Social Security. They figured they were going to get to steal the mother lode, people’s retirement checks. The only thing that saved Social Security was that the stealing in Washington became so blatant, with Abramoff, DeLay and Cunningham, that people finally realized they were going to get fleeced like sheep and refused to go along with Bush’s pirate-ization program.
The only thing Bush can do right is to fuck up. In that he has no equal. For a FEMA director he appointed a guy whose whole expertise in life is a horse’s ass (where is he now that Barbaro needs him?). When the flood came, instead of getting down there himself and supervising rescue efforts like the president of Indonesia did after their recent earthquake, Bush flew over New Orleans on his way to another Republican fundraiser. Now Bush’s latest appointment is a CIA director who speaks no foreign languages and whose whole expertise is in domestic electronic eavesdropping. What kind of a spy is that, who can only spy on his own people?
Anything that has to do with work, Bush avoids like the plague. Not only is he lazy, he’s incredibly stupid to the point of being proud of it. When the intelligence pointed to Arab saboteurs taking flying lessons, Bush replied, “I’m not going to waste my time swatting flies.” Later it came to pass that those flies really got into the ointment and messed things up Big Time! That’s what happens when you’re too lazy to pick up a fly swatter.
The fact that this dummy graduated from Yale says a whole lot about Yale. Like innumerable princes throughout history, Bush was born to rule not because he has brains, but because his family has got money. Any half-wit schemes he forces his subjects to endure are just tough luck – it’s the natural order of things.
The difference is, this being ostensibly a western democracy (although Republicans won’t even concede that, they’ll tell you that this is a republic and not a democracy, sort of like ancient Rome), you’re at least allowed to complain, though the people are so processed and pasteurized that they’re incapable of sizing up what’s happening to them. The consensus seems to be, I’ve got a little piece of the action, so I’m all right, Jack. That might work for some people, but this writer cannot stand to be in the company of freakin’ idiots.
If I could get my hands on some cash, I would blow out of here completely, down to Mexico or even farther, like the people in the Terminator movies, where I could wait for the whole mess to collapse. Only, unlike the movie, I wouldn’t come back. Given the Loony Tunes gang of losers in leadership positions, I feel justified in being pessimistic about the future prospects for any kind of stability. I’ll take my money in Swiss francs, thank you.
Now it turns out that John Kerrey, the Democratic presidential nominee in 2004, has been exposed by the Republicans as a total fraud and not a war hero at all. It’s a good thing that Bush stole the election from him. But it certainly begs the question: what about John McCain? Was he a war hero or just another poseur who is playing on the gullibility and naiveté of the electorate? Maybe the whole concept of a war hero candidate is just another marketing concept that has become so devalued as to be essentially worthless. Anybody who ships out to war on Bush’s say-so is likely to get more than he bargained for and less than he deserves. If somebody like Bush were to show me the way to the front, I would look for the way out the back.
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Posted on 5/29/2006
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May 28, 2006
Now that Barbaro’s racing career is at an end, it’s time to plan for the rest of his little horsey career.
Since he’s still too young to collect Social Security he has to start thinking about getting a real job. Ordinarily, a retired sports hero can count on a job in sports management, but since Barbaro has got all those pins and plates in his leg, it’s doubtful he’d be able to get through the airport metal detector in time to catch his plane.
The times when a horse could go to Hollywood and be a big movie star are over too since the public taste has moved away from cowboy movies. Barbaro was offered a role in the planned sequel to Brokeback Mountain, but turned it down after he was told he’d have to take part in a love scene with Jake and Glen.
Fortunately, Barbaro has one employment option that’s a guaranteed moneymaker, and it’s something he’s perfectly suited for – impregnating female horses for money. As a Kentucky Derby winner, he could name his own price and still have a line of interested female companions stretching from here to Churchill Downs. One equestrian analyst put it this way: “Barbaro has potentially got a fortune of seventy-five million bucks worth of jism in his little horsey cojones.”
The only thing that stands between him and all that moolah, not to mention his adoring female admirers, is a delivery system. Since his rear leg, which he needs to climb up on all that horsey female butt, is all torn up, Barbaro needs help getting into position for inserting his easy insert applicator into the awaiting port of entry.
That is why the engineers at horseconnect.com have designed this easy-to-use entry vehicle for Barbaro’s procreational pleasure. It’s called “HORSEY STEPS” and it’s based on the principle that even a horse is entitled to his “Stairway to Heaven.” “HORSEY STEPS,” which is based on scientific principles perfected by the ancient Egyptian architects who constructed the pyramids, is easy to use.
The little staircase is placed behind the mare’s backside and Barbaro simply has to walk up with his front legs until he is in position to insert his tiger in her tank. Then his Guided Muscle is eased into its final destination by our skilled team of undocumented workers, José and Pedro.
That’s not all! “HORSEY STEPS” can also be used by human beings. If you have a girlfriend who’s too tall for you, and you have trouble getting up there to fulfill your masculine potentialities, “HORSEY STEPS” is what you need to have the honeymoon you deserve. Don’t delay! Call now and you’ll receive, absolutely free of charge, a free tank of oxygen to keep you from passing out in the thin atmosphere up there.
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Posted on 5/28/2006
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May 21, 2006
The debate over Global Warming heated up over a confidential report that warns of an impending disaster caused by flatulence being released from the butts of fat people in Brooklyn. “This crisis could raise the earth’s temperature by as much as 50 degrees,” asserted Anton B. Schmucklevitch, director of The Methane Institute in Washington D.C. “When calzone combines with Chinese egg rolls in the intestines of fat people, a noxious gas is produced that dissolves the ozone layer in the atmosphere and produces a greenhouse effect capable of obliterating all life on earth.”
Fat people are particularly hazardous because of their increased gas producing capacity. “The average bus driver is capable of producing one thousand times more methane from one can of Cheez Whiz than a fashion model snacking on a power bar,” asserted Schmucklevitch. “We must act now to protect future generations from suffocation.”
An additional hazard to Brooklyn residents is that drivers of SUV vehicles, who favor the large-size cars because of their increased capacity to accommodate fat butts, are sometimes subject to gas attacks which force them forward in their seats, resulting in their feet pressing down on the accelerator and causing the vehicle to run up on the sidewalk, crashing into pedestrians and store fronts and putting grandmothers and small children at risk.
Many proposals have been put forward to combat the flatulence crisis in Brooklyn. One concept, designed by Continental Pipeline Corporation, which markets natural gas, is to distribute Gas Collection Kits to all people with large backsides. The kits, designed by Hyman P. Buttman, consists of a plastic tube which fits snugly in the rectum, attached to a balloon which collects the gas. “The ingenuous element of this invention is the patented computerized valve that control the flow of gas from the user’s butt and prevents leaks into the atmosphere,” proudly asserts Buttman. “That should make the morning commute of transit riders much more pleasurable."
Naturally, pants would have to be widened to accommodate the ever-expanding volume of gas, which would be collected at conveniently located collection centers. Is the fashion industry up to the challenge of making attractive plus-size styles that could accommodate an ever-expanding bag of gas sticking out of a fat person’s butt? We asked the eminent fashion authority Poquito Maricon of Plus-Size Consultants. His idea? Bring back the bustle, an eighteenth century fashion concept that accentuated women’s posteriors. “Only instead of just having bustles in dresses, we would put them in pants and shorts, even in bathing suits. That way you would be designing ladies fashions that would be environmentally responsible. As for the men, no real he-man from Brooklyn is going to be thrown off his game by something as inconsequential as a bag of gas sticking out his butt.”
Could the volume of gas harnessed from the fat backsides of Brooklyn have an effect on the nation’s balance of payments? “It would certainly be a plus factor for the economy,” said Nutley Bagel of The Treasury Board. “We could eliminate shipments of liquefied natural gas from Bolivia.” Just think of it - the Backsides of Brooklyn wipe out a whole South American country. THANK YOU, BROOKLYN!
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Posted on 5/21/2006
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May 14, 2006
[SYNOPSIS] La Creta hates El Porteno and she means to do him harm.
La Creta would watch with infuriated obsession as El Porteño would jump from screen to screen on the monitor all day long: directing men around, lugging 50 lb. Bags of seasonings, checking computers, feeling the dough. Sometimes, unsatisfied by the consistency of the great 400 lb. loads of dough that fell out of the mixers he would send the dough maker to another job and mix it himself, keeping three machines running, while at the time directing the flow of carts into the cooler, or making sure the right flavors were being baked for the production schedule.
These details had to be supervised on a continual basis. The workers were hard-working and well-intentioned but their thinking processes became taxed very early on, and a lot of things could go wrong. Porteño walked over to the ovens and checked the clipboard. The racket of noise and the oppressive wave of heat from the burners and boilers were withering. He saw a man sitting in a chair holding the remote control that controlled the conveyor to the oven. He screamed in Spanish at the man to make himself heard over the racket, “I don’t want you to do that today. We’re short handed. Guillermo is going to have to stop loading trays each time and move the conveyor. You got that, Guillermo? OK?” Porteño turned back to the man in the chair. “I need you to take a broom and pick up all these bagels that have fallen on the floor and throw them in the garbage. Get one of those metal rakes and see if you can pick up the dough that’s fallen between the kettle and the oven. I don’t want that idiot Frank Purdue coming up and giving me his useless shit about the flies again.
” When the worker heard the name Frank Perdue, he exclaimed with joy, “Frank Perdue The Chicken Fucker!”
El Porteño, ignited by this instantaneous flash of worker camaraderie, went along with the joke. “He fucks flies, too. Get to work.”
The guy walked away, delighted. “A chicken fucker who fucks flies too, ha-ha!”
It’s appropriate that a manager’s obsessions pervade the workplace, and to Frank Perdue the flies that invaded the bakery during the warm months represented an endless pestilence. It was a war that you couldn’t win. Since insecticides are not permitted in food processing areas, the only solution was endless cleaning and disinfection, and that had to be handled carefully too.
Frank Perdue had issued fly swatters to the workers, with specific instructions not to kill flies anywhere around the food. But the workers refused to get involved with the fly killing. Their machist egos would not let them sink so low as to chase flies around the factory with a fly swatter, particularly since the little buggers are so hard to catch, and they absolutely refused to be seen as clumsy, bumbling fools.
So it came to pass that Frank Perdue, the only educated person in the place, the Safety Manager, was reduced to being a one-man fly vigilante posse, armed with fly swatters and sticky-tubes all day long, searching for kamikaze squadrons of flies who hid and then re-emerged the moment his back was turned.
As valuable as El Porteño was to the factory, he had one large area of vulnerability to a natural predator such as La Creta, and that was his huge, all-encompassing sense of libido, a voracious monster of carnal hunger that shaped his primary attitude toward women as being, essentially, live mattresses of female flesh that you bounced on, and then you gave her shot in the ass and exploded inside her and then she thanked you. That is how Porteño saw women, as butts screaming for you to fuck them. Even in his native Argentina the women are getting tired of being handled in this fashion. They have established their own techniques for handling this, usually involving knives and poison. Nevertheless, Latin America is still pretty well oriented to the male psychology, so in that environment a male like Porteño has a good rate of survival.
In WASP culture, however, there exists disdain for the unbridled psychology behind this kind of manic cross-pollination, especially among the women, who mean to put a stop to it. And in North America, women have power.
As luck would have it, there were several factory girls bursting with estrogen who considered Porteño the answer to a working girl’s dreams. He was handsome, though not like Julio Iglesias but more like a Bruce Willis, a mug whose face had been pushed into a very charming arrangement. He was big and muscular, and attractive even in a sweaty t-shirt, the way Marlon Brando should have looked in his forties’ if he had not let himself go so early in life. Porteño was a hard worker and a good provider for his young wife and baby, and was definitely seen as a prize to be snatched away if possible. Also, like most Argentinians, he was white.
La Creta hounded him endlessly about any production mistakes she could unearth. Her most common complaint was about racks of dough that had to be thrown out due to the fact that the dough makers had added an insufficient amount of yeast to the batch. When she told this to Pato Gonzalez, Pato would call Porteño with horrible screaming and threats. “Who is supposed to be watching these dough mixers?” Pato would scream mockingly. “That’s my money you’re throwing in the garbage! How would you like it if I deducted that money from your pay? I want you to start tightening up on the amount of waste that’s coming out of my factory, or I’ll get rid of you and find somebody who can do the job!”
This kind of abuse La Creta was able to bring down upon Porteño’s head on a daily basis, but she didn’t stop there. She watched him closely for any personal interactions that might take place between him and the female help. As a result, Porteño received calls from Pato Gonzalez demanding, “What is this story about you and Licia Fernandez?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mercedes [La Creta’s real name] says she saw you touching Licia Fernandez in the stairwell.”
“Well, she’s crazy.”
“Don’t talk that way about my factory manager. I trust her implicitly.”
“Well, I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t know what she’s talking about.”
This is where Pato Gonzalez would assume his legalistic, pedagogic posture. “Let me explain you how this works. Back in your country that kind of behavior goes on all the time. BUT THIS IS AMERICA!! Here we have laws against improper touching in the workplace. You could go to jail and I could get sued. NOW do you understand?”
“Understand what? Nothing happened!”
“We have the whole thing on the camera. I could have you arrested.”
“Pato, did you look at the film?”
“I’m going to have her send the disk over, and when I see it, then I’ll be able to make a determination. In the meantime, leave the women alone and keep your eye on what’s going on over there."
One of Porteño’s most ardent female admirers was a ripe little Mexican papaya named Brenda-li, who had beautiful pear-shaped titties that she showed off like little cupcakes. She worked in retail store in the front of the building, and so was always fresh and made-up in contrast to the girls who worked in the factory, with their plain hairnets and the no-jewelry rule. [TO BE CONTINUED]
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Posted on 5/14/2006
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May 08, 2006
Chunga’s Revenge!!!
The revenge of the spirit world is a terrible thing. Evidently the spirits of past transit workers, offended by unkind things I have written about Local 100 and its president, Roger Toussaint, decided to inflict upon this writer a violent and painful punishment.
On April 24, I boarded a bus to go to work. Before I was even able to walk to a seat in the back, the driver of the bus gunned the engine and then immediately slammed on the brakes, the inertia of which forced me to fly forward and bang my forearm on the metal armrest that divides the seats which fold up to permit wheelchairs.
What I am saying is, last week I broke my arm on a city bus and I am now walking around with it in a heavy plaster cast. I have to go into the hospital next week for an operation to join the broken bone, the ulna, by screwing the pieces together by means of a titanium plate and some screws. Then the bone has to grow back and fuse where it is being joined.
I didn’t follow legal procedure when the accident happened. I should have immediately insisted that the driver pull the bus over and call the police and ambulance. A number of things kept me from doing this. First, even though I thought I heard something snap when my arm hit the seat divider, and the arm hurt like a bitch, I was not incapacitated. I got up and sat down in the seat, figuring the pain might recede momentarily. A couple of minutes passed and it still hurt. I took out a pen and paper and walked up to the driver, telling him, “I fell when you jammed on the brakes back there, and I think I might have a problem. You think I can have your driver number.” I didn’t want to make a big scene because, what if I was wrong and it was nothing?
The driver showed no interest whatsoever. He just pointed to the four-digit bus number above the windshield, telling me, “Take That.”
Fortunately, there was a lady sitting there who saw the whole thing. She was gracious enough to give me her telephone number, so I at least have proof that the whole thing happened when those pricks from the bus company start insisting that I made it up.
I have fallen and injured myself plenty of times playing sports, so I have a little bit of pain tolerance. I wanted to go to work that day because I had just started a new job in Rockefeller Center doing something I am really good at, and I didn’t want to mess that up.
So I worked almost a full day with a broken arm until I finally conceded that the pain was not going to go away. I left work at 4:00 PM and went to Lennox Hill Hospital where they took an x-ray and told me, “You’ve broken your arm.” “I didn’t break it, the bus broke it.”
“Well, get a good lawyer and sue the bus company,” they told me. “We wish you luck.”
The specialist I went to scheduled me for an operation to screw the bone together. In the meantime, I am going to work in the coding center of a massive Manhattan law firm. If I prop my left arm on some rubber typing cushions I can type, and so far I have been accomplishing a pretty substantial workload. The bosses seem satisfied.
Now, the average reader might be tempted to say to him/herself, “This writer has got a pretty good lawsuit against the MTA.”
Well, Think Again! The courts are ruled by a doctrine called “Public Policy,” which is a general consensus arrived at by legal deep thinkers about what kind of judicial judgments are deemed to be in the public interest. And Public Policy is against people who sue public transit, on the grounds that the public interest at large is imperiled by lawsuits brought by injured parties.
Public Policy is a doctrine that rolls uphill, protecting large interests against small challenges due, in large part, the fact the authority figures who formulate it have a material interest in the large entities they protect. That is to say, the judges own stock in these companies and dine with the big shots they protect from legal challenges. When Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia laughs off suggestions of impropriety and conflict of interest for accepting vacations paid for by corporations that have business before his court, that is a good indication of the nature of Public Policy. When Bush goes on the warpath for tort reform or asbestos reform, he is trying to make it harder, not easier, for injured or contaminated victims to sue. That’s Public Policy. See, these Public Policy wonks are not inclined to side with a harmonica-playing flunky who sues the bus company for a broken arm he received as a result of some sloppy driving.
The first attorney I consulted about suing the NYCTA glared at me and told me he would not take the case because it would be impossible to prove negligence against the bus company because, “Maybe the bus driver was forced to brake abruptly by someone walking in front of the bus.” H was not swayed by my argument that maybe the driver was operating the bus in an unsafe manner in the first place.”
The second law firm refused to take the case because I did not immediately insist on calling an ambulance and getting a police report immediately after I fell, though at that time I was not immediately aware of the extent of my injury.
The third attorney did not even bother to show up for our scheduled meeting at all. So as of this moment, I cannot even find legal representation, which is hysterical because I’m surrounded by lawyers all day at work.
Fortunately, I was able to obtain some claim forms from the bus company, and I have filled them out and am filing them myself. I don’t need an attorney for that.
I have always had the luck to have marvelous strength in my life, running and swimming for miles at a time, boxing and training at tae kwon do, moving furniture up and down flights of stairs, carrying home Christmas trees and air conditioners to save on delivery charges. So it is a real eye-opener now to not be able to floss my teeth or tuck my shirt into my own pants. You really find out who your real friends are when you can’t even jerk yourself off.
I am not a small person and, paradoxically, the cast on my arm makes me look larger. When I was in my doctor’s office, his medical assistant, a sexy redhead named Yvette, told me, “That cast on your arm makes you look tough.”
I immediately responded, “Don’t talk that way! I’ve never been less tough. Right now a woman could knock me over.”
For a split second, I could feel a flash of animal desire from this woman – the desire to jump over and kick my ass. The primordial desire that lies dormant in every New Yorker and beast of the jungle, to inflict suffering on the weak.
Now that I have had a taste of the swinish behavior of the MTA and the transit workers, it gives me an even deeper insight into what animals they are. The driver who drove that bus is a disgrace to humanity, as are his managers, for breaking my arm and ruining my health. Worse still, when I try to collect damages I am going to have to confront some sleazy, low-class attorneys who are going to try to blame me for the accident. That’s how those scumbags work.
These drivers can’t drive for shit! It’s like going on bumper cars. Jam, Break! Jam, Break! As long as we have to live like we’re in a damn jungle with cave men for bus drivers, we might as well go for Wild Kingdom. Maybe we should rid of the drivers completely and replace them with real animals who, at any rate, would be cheaper to feed.
My plan consists of breeding orangutans and then inject human stem-cells into their brains while they are still in their mothers’ wombs to make them super-intelligent. Then we teach them to drive buses and subways.
That way, no more pension fund, no more idiotic union. We just pay them a bunch of bananas.
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Posted on 5/8/2006
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May 01, 2006
Jo-oo-sééé can you see
Don’t deport me
All I want is to be free
And an eighty-nine Chevy
And a gold crucifix
Saturday night get some kicks
A plate of beans and rice
And Coro-o-na on ice
Jo-sé-é-é
Maricó-ó-ó-ón
Papichulo y tu ma-dreeee
A col-or TV
A-and Gloria Trevi
Gracias, Amigos!
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Posted on 5/1/2006
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