September 27, 2006
Ségo – dit Sarko – tu es ma belle
On rôde sur ma moto Boul St. Michel
Sarko – dit Ségo – t’es mon désir
T’es tellement beau dans ton blouson de cuir
Ségo-go-go
Sarko-ô-ô
Ségo – dit Sarko – embrasse-moi vite
Sarko – dit Ségo – je te tiens au bout de la bite
Ségo-go-go
Sarko-ô-ô
Ségo – dit Sarko – t’as la bouche comme une rose
Je baise mon slip et voilà que je t’arrose
Ségo-go-go
Sarko-ô-ô
Sarko – dit Ségo – je me vend bien trop chère
Si t’as pas de fric je te fous en l’air
Ségo-go-go
Sarko-ô-ô
Baby, je te donne tout ce que tu veux
Si je peut fourrer ma bite dans ton cul
Ségo-go-go
Sarko-ô-ô
Une fille comme toi ne se croise pas souvent
Dis-moi si t'plait comme bien tu te vends
Ségo-go-go
Sarko-ô-ô
Ecoute, mon vieux, je me vend bien trop chère
Si t’as pas du fric je te fous en l’air
Je veux un garçon que roule sur quatre roues
Si non, c'est sur c’est fini entre nous
Ségo-go-go
Sarko-ô-ô
Ma belle moto n’a que deux roues, pas quatre
Mais j’ai un beau chien pour te lécher la chatte
Ségo-go-go
Sarko-ô-ô
Je peux sortir ma matraque, te faire le CRS
Si tu permets, de te casser les fesses
Ségo-go-go
Sarko-ô-ô
Tu n'arriveras pas juste avec des beaux mots
Faut que tu me regales d'un joli cadeau
Ségo-go-go
Sarko-ô-ô
J’te régalerais des diamants et de tout le reste
Si tu me permets de m’allonger sur tes fesses
Ségo-go-go
Sarko-ô-ô
Nous deux, on fait vraiment la paire
Imagine les positions qu’on peut faire
Si j’peux entrer dans ton dérrière
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Ségo-go-go
Sarko-ô-ô
J’ai besoin d’un cow-boy sur ma selle
Mais j’aime pas les mecs que puent de la gueule
Ségo-go-go
Sarko-ô-ô
Peut-etre France a besoin d'une co-présidence
L’une pour son cul
Et l’autre pour ses dents
MON DINER AVEC SARKO!
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Posted on 9/27/2006
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September 24, 2006
I don’t have any problem with Hollywood production values, but I believe it would be more refreshing to get ugly actors with big personalities (like me) to portray historical occurrences. Instead of casting Sean Penn as Huey Long, whom he resembles not in the least, it would have been vastly more entertaining to cast a pudgy, jowly used car salesman from Pomona – somebody who really understands what stealing is all about. Sean Penn might have punched out some paparazzi, but he never stole anything of significance.
That is not my only problem with the current remake of “All The King’s Men.” I read the actual novel by Robert Penn Warren, who apparently had covered Huey Long as a journalist. He managed to get a sense of the venality of the situation, the grafting, the base manipulation of an illiterate agricultural electorate. But he covered Long like an elitist, scandalized by the base opportunism of a lumpenproletarian hustler who rose above his station until he was hoist on his own petard, assassinated by a scion of the local aristocracy.
Warren pays scant attention to Long’s broader achievements, getting to the Louisiana bar at a young age, getting elected Railroad Commissioner, who was responsible not only for transport but for resource extraction (oil) and whose duties put him in contact with big oil, railroad and banking interests. Long got elected governor at a young age (like Bill Clinton), consolidated his political power throughout the state, built roads, schools, hospitals, bridges, gave free textbooks to poor schoolchildren, built hospitals and universities and generally improved life for all his citizens. Sure he stole. He lived in luxurious hotel suites, kept mistresses, dressed in silk suits. These parts I’m sure Sean Penn can project convincingly, but I seriously doubt whether he has the depth of intellect to portray more than a cardboard façade of the actual Huey Long, or that the story will let him.
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Warren’s novel doesn’t come anywhere close to conveying an understanding Huey Long’s deeper motivations. For that you have to go to a superb biography of the man written by Robert Shelton more than 30 years ago. A thick book of 700 pages, it meticulously paints a portrait of the man, his times and his enemies among the landowning aristocracy and urban bourgeoisie, who certainly never suffered materially under Long (he was astute enough to cut them in for their share, just as he made sure that the blacks shared the wealth as well) but were nevertheless outraged that they were no longer in the driver’s seat.
The same shit fit Long induced in the Louisiana aristocracy, he brought to the national ruling class, as he engineered his election as U.S. Senator from Louisiana while still retaining the state’s governorship. When Long tried to impose a 5 cents a barrel tax on oil extraction to help pay for social services, Standard Oil of New Jersey pressured the Louisiana Republicans to engineer his impeachment. Instead of timidly hiding in the governor’s mansion, he dared to go right into the state legislature and, in full view of his opponents, brazenly directed the strategy that defeated the impeachment motion. Upon achieving complete victory and reducing the Republicans to rubble (like Bill Clinton), Long retired to the grandest restaurant in Baton Rouge and broadly instructed the waitress to, "Fry me a steak."
Like so many other thrilling aspects of Long’s career that don’t conform to Warren’s portrayal of him as a hick snake oil salesman, Warren’s novel doesn’t even attempt to relate this episode.
Long started a national grassroots campaign called “Every Man A King” that the country’s impoverished dispossessed could join by sending in ten cents. Using mass-marketing techniques he had perfected in Louisiana, he coined the motto “A Chicken in Every Pot and a Car in Every Garage.” His national campaign was effective enough to scare the dickens out of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Robert Penn Warren and the rest of the American élite. He promised to wrest power from their grip, centralize it in himself and form the core of an American cult of personality more closely resembling the other nationalist strongmen of his time than anything experienced in the Anglo Saxon world. In this, Louisiana, with its Creole and French Napoleonic dynamic, had less in common with other American regions than with the spooky voodoo regions of the Caribbean.
It was the promise of this nasty regional mélange that he intended to impose on society until he was stopped short by a bullet fired from the gun of a rich man’s son, who was insulted that his father, a respected society doctor, had been coarsely sacked by Long from his health care administrator’s job for incompetence. The assassin himself was promptly dispatched in a volley of gunshots by Long’s security detail.
This high drama was beyond the writing talents of Robert Penn Warren, whose book portrays Huey Long as more than a vaguely interesting regional curiosity instead of the deeply compelling political force of American history that he deserves to be. Someday (but not soon) this country may have a Shakespeare to give Long the historical and cultural significance he so richly deserves, more akin to Richard III than the scheming country bumpkin he is currently portrayed to be.
Without the pressure he felt from Huey Long breathing down his neck from the left, Roosevelt might never have felt compelled to push through social programs like Social Security that have continuing impact on our lives today.
For this writer personally, Huey Long was living proof that you can rise to prominence in this country without the overt or tacit approval of the country’s entrenched interests. He proved that you can go out on a limb and beat the odds. Whether one agrees with his world view or not, Huey Long was a great American who deserves to be studied in depth and emulated, not subjected to the mind-numbing interpretation assigned to him by the current brain dead crop of Hollywood auteurs.
Like so many fantastically talented Americans who have been written out of history by the ongoing “Ministry of Truth” arbiters of culture, who dictate our taste according to their whims, Huey Long will someday be recognized for his genius and audacity.
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Posted on 9/24/2006
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September 23, 2006
Something sweet is in the air these days, and it’s the absence of Republicans. It may not be Springtime in Paris, exactly, but the air is unpolluted by the petty calumnies, insults, recriminations, accusations of treason and cowardice and threats that are the quotidian sustenance of our red state neighbors, as they strive to lower the rest of us to their primordial level of comprehension.
This freshening of the ecosphere may be explained by the advance of the November elections, as the G.O.P., like so many incontinent house pets, scared by the prospect of imminent electoral punishment by their masters, the electorate, for their willful and wanton fouling of the carpet of our social fabric, hide in inaccessible, dark corners, sort of like Bin Ladin in the caves of Pakistan, until after the first Tuesday in November. The usual vile nonsense coming out of their mouths about abortion, social permissiveness, and the hoariest of all concepts, Values, spoken by unimaginable creeps, most of whom are under indictment for stealing and bribery, are nowhere to be heard.
For these hideous little ghoulies, monsters and vampires who cringe when exposed to sunlight, our national Halloween parade of Republican geeks, every day is Trick or Treat. Either they get the treat, which is our national treasure, or we get the trick in the form of the accelerated destructon and ruin of our lives by methods that can only be described as inspired malevolence or diabolical murderous genius. The Spanish Inquisition and the witch burnings of the middle ages – these were the Republicans of their times, in search of defenseless suckers to enhance their authority. The methods they use today are only slightly more refined – congressional investigations and grand juries – but the results are the same: Susan MacDougal in chains while her husband dies in another jail. Barry Bonds on the sellette and his best friend, Greg Anderson, in prison for an indeterminate jail sentence for refusing to talk about an activity that is not even proscribed by law, all so that the fat Republicans who judge them can continue to steal and plunder. Ten thousand dollar golf games, sweetheart deals with defense contractors, drafting legislation that permits corporate gangsters to legally steal from shareholders by backdating stock options. All this and more, ladies and gentlemen. No wonder they choose to lie low in the weeks before the election!
Oh, the Democrats are stupid! All this stealing going on for all these years, and they haven’t even been able to formulate a reason for why it should be brought to an end. But if being stupid means not having the brains to rob and steal everything in sight, then this writer proudly declares himself to be a freakin’ moron too!
The Republicans have gotten some (not so) unexpected assistance this week here in New York, at the Bellevue North Ding-Dong School for Overpriviliged World Elites, otherwise known as the United Nations, an establishment that lends substance to the maxim that “class” is a concept invented by stand-up comedians to explain an ethereal world of dignified behavior that they never experienced. This brings to mind the old Lenny Bruce routine about the comedian who complains incessantly that his agent never books him into “class” rooms. When his agent finally takes his complaints to heart and books him in to a high-brow nightclub in London, England, the guy gets on stage to do his act and all the lords and ladies end up throwing glasses and beer bottles at him. So much for class.
Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez had the opportunity to play a “class room” this week, and he brought the house down with a comedy act inspired by Richard Pryor and Flip Wilson. I thought he was fabulous, and so did most of the rest of the world, but Bush still enjoys some residual support among the weirdos who inhabit flyover country, and they screamed like stuck pigs when Chavez invoked images of a sulfurous underworld presided over by the grotesque, creepy embodiment of the banality of evil.
I certainly have no intention of getting all exercised over Hugo Chavez’s characterization of the embodiment of satanic evil. I thought it was hilarious, and I loved the gag about the sulfur.
The United Nations is a nightclub that plenty of comics would, pardon me, sell their souls to play. If you figure in the worldwide exposure that Chavez’s little joke got him, it was a very good career move.
But it’s been a hilarious week all ‘round. The opening ceremony of the General Assembly was marred by a military coup d’état in the Kingdom of Thailand that deposed the Prime Minister, Thaksin Shinawatra, who only heard about it when UN security guards ripped his visitors credentials off his neck and unceremoniously booted him off the premises onto First Avenue. Undeterred, Thaksin picked himself up off the sidewalk, walked one block up to the Thai Rak Barbecue Restaurant and got himself a job as maitre d’hôtel!
To people who say that the UN should move out of New York, I offer this riposte: where else do you get this entertainment value? In a one-kilometer radius you got Times Square, Bellevue Mental Hospital and the United Nations, and the three are interchangeably commingled. Throw in The New York Post, the Mother of All Comic Books, which treats the UN as local news on the same pages as the muggings and high school sexual assaults, and you have a recipe for high comedy. New Yorkers complain, but if this zany slapstick Keystone Kops Komedy were taking place in any other city, they would be ochre with envy. This opinion is shared by no less an eminence than His Majesty The Mayor who, vastly more sophisticated than his successor, a creepy little dude who was devoted to shuttering museums because he objected to the exhibits, states that what these diplomats debate is of no importance as long as they spend copious amounts of money. Right On!
New York was already in at a fever pitch of exaltation which permeated the city to its roots with the Yankees and the Mets winning their respective division championships within one day of each other, with baseball fans licking their chops at the prospect of another subway series. The bars and restaurants were jammed with rich foreigners and the weather was beautiful. Who needs the rest of the country anyway? We got everything we want right here!
In flew the leaders of 180 countries, each waiting for his chance at the podium. But the main action came from the tinpot, so-called non-aligned countries, already warmed up from several days of Bush- and America-bashing at their conference in Havana, ready to make an impact in the heart of the Great Satan. They arrived greased and ready to rumble. My sources, who are admittedly a bunch of inebriated lunatics that I meet in happy hour watering holes on Second Avenue, whispered darkly of shipments of contraband spinach seized from the diplomatic pouches of Iranian diplomats. Who can assert with complete assurance that airborne particles of contaminated spinach wafting from the wagons of Arab shish-kebob vendors on Sixth Avenue might not infiltrate the ventilation systems of the white shoe law firms that line that avenue, infecting attorneys and paralegals, paralyzing Wall Street litigation cases and shutting down the capitalist system? Not to mention dirty bombs lined with spinach leaves that could explode, spreading e-coli across wide areas of Lower Manhattan?
Or even the gas emitted from people who, having ingested this damnable substance in Greek diners, transmit its diabolical contamination like Saddam Hussein’s weapons of mass destruction from their backsides in closed environments like elevators or subway cars. Does FEMA have a contingency plan for inserting tubes up people’s asses and collecting the gas for burial deep beneath the Nevada desert? There’s not a moment to lose! The only solution is for former EPA chief Christie Whitman, who was shamefully derelict in her duties on the aftermath of the World Trade Center disaster, to personally test the backsides of potentially contaminated victims and distribute hazmat suits and respirators.
As for Chavez, people out there in flyover country should get a life! Americans routinely demonize anybody they don’t like. They have sent out safaris to hunt down and kill targets like Patrice Lumumba and Che Guevara, who never did a damn thing to this country, plastering photos of their corpses across the front pages of tabloid newspapers like big game trophies. This hunting and killing of people for crimes no greater than seeing things differently than us never bothers people, so why are they so thin-skinned about having a little fun poked at Bush, who wasn’t elected and who, since he assumed power, has made a complete shambles of everything except looting the treasury?
If I were Chavez, I would have gone even farther. I would have held up a cross and screamed, “Get back, Satan!” Anybody who has seen my comedy act knows I’m not kidding. Not for me the understated swill that passes for comedy these days. Shit, one time at the Mango Club on Ocean Drive in Miami Beach, I stripped down naked at the bar, put on a pair of snakeskin panties that I had bought for $2.00 in a bargain store and danced on the bar to win $500 from a German tourist, making me one of the highest paid lap dancers in South Florida. Not bad for an ugly fuck like me! If you don’t believe this, I have got my girlfriend Magpie, who was holding the money, to bear witness.
Now, there might be people out their in cyberspace who are asking themselves, why should I read anything that this nut case is writing? Well, I’ll tell you why! Because nobody ever paid Tim Russert or that mentally challenged dwarf Katy Couric $500 to dance naked on the bar in Miami Beach, that’s why! And if you don’t believe that, you better leave right now, because this blog will bring you down so much!
The only problem I have got with Chavez is that he decided befriend that abominable insult to humanity Ahmedijihad to kill the Jews in Israel. What the fuck does Chavez know about Israel or about Jews? Why doesn’t he stick to what he knows? He and that other moron are screaming bloody murder about what Israel did to Lebanon, but when Hizbollah infiltrated Israel to kill Jews, kidnap Jews, torture Jews and hold Jews for ransom nobody said shit. Maybe the next time these jokers get up to do their act, they should take a minute to explain the reason that every gun in the world is aimed at the heads of the Jews. You want your country not to be blown to smithereens? Easy, lay off the Jews, you imbeciles!
Regardless of the threats to our security, not to mention the insults to their leader, Bush, the Republicans are loath to return Ahmedijihad and Chavez to their little banana republics. They make Bush look attractive by comparison, which is no inconsiderable feat considering that even his own suckers are turning on him, and the Republicans, eager to keep them in the U.S. until the election, have booked them transcontinental speaking tours right up to election day.
So, all you folks out there in the heartland, don’t despair. You don’t have to travel all the way to New York to join in the fun. These monkeys will soon be coming to a zoo near you!
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Posted on 9/23/2006
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September 17, 2006
BAILIFF: Hear ye, hear ye! The New York City Court of Criminal Insanity, Judge Leona Buttsley presiding, is now in session. All rise. Here come da’ judge! Here come da’ judge! Court’s in session. Court’s in session. All rise!
[Judge Buttsley enters. Climbs up to the bench and sits down. Chair makes a farting sound like a whoopee cushion]
CHAIR: Faaahhrrttt!
JUDGE: [Screams] When am I gonna’ get this chair fixed? Every time I sit down it sounds like Saturday night in the Russian Bath House!
Where’s my little dog, Titwiggle? Titwiggle, where are you my darling? Titwiggle! Titwiggle! [To Bailiff] Have you seen my little Titwiggle?
BAILIFF: No, ma’am, but I shure would like to!
JUDGE: Shut up, you jackass! Oh, here’s my little poopsie. Give mama a kiss. Get my dog some water! While you’re at it, run across the street to Junior’s and get me a bacon and egg on a roll. Tell them it’s for me. And they better not charge me if they wanna’ stay open. I’m a judge, dammit!
[Pulls out a penis pump] What the fuck is this doing in my desk?
BAILIFF: That’s from Judge Schmuckley in night court. He says it relaxes him to decide cases better.
JUDGE: Well, tell him to get his own courtroom. There’s no room in the drawer for my vibrator! Lord! It’s only ten A.M. and I’m already a bundle of nerves. I need a drink! [Pulls a bottle of whiskey out of her bag and takes a swig] Nothing like a hair of the dog that bit you, I always say. [Dog barks] Not you, my darling!
[Addresses court] You scumbags are making my little Titwiggle nervous. [To dog] There there, my little goo-goo gai-gai. Mommy will protect you.
[To court] I’m in a real bad mood today. I’m having my period and somebody took my parking space, so all you scumbags might as well go directly to jail, because that’s where you’re going anyway. [Prisoners groan] SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU MORONS!
CHAIR: Faaahhrrrttt!
JUDGE: Bailiff, call the first case.
BAILIFF: People versus Rose Palazzo.
DA: Defendant was standing in front of her domicile when the complainant told her, “Good morning.” Upon hearing this, the defendant smashed him in the head with a garden rake, spat on him, jumped in her SUV and ran him over and tried to shoot him with a .357 Magnum, but the gun jammed. When police arrived, she was hitting him in the head with the butt of the gun.
JUDGE: [To defendant] Is that right?
DEFENDANT: Fuck you, ya’ prick!
JUDGE: You know, I like your style. I’d like to offer you a job as head of security in one of my hotels. Case dismissed.
[Complainant jumps up. His arm and head are wrapped in a plaster cast] Your honor, I protest!
CHAIR: Faaaahhrrrrrttt!
JUDGE: [Bangs gavel] Bailiff, arrest that man! Thirty days for contempt of court. And put him in chains. I don’t want him escaping. [To complainant] Didn’t your mother teach you not to talk to strangers? Next case.
BAILIFF: People versus Mayor Michael Bloomberg.
DA: During the heat wave last July, when a hundred thousand residents of Queens were deprived of electricity for a whole week, Mayor Bloomberg didn’t even bother to visit the borough, and he praised Con Edison for doing a great job.
JUDGE: People were dying, all their food was ruined, businesses were destroyed and you didn’t even visit the area?
BLOOMBERG: The air conditioning in my limousine was broken.
JUDGE: And what is this shit about how we owe a debt of gratitude to Con Ed?
BLOOMBERG: [No response]
JUDGE: On the basis of the evidence I have before me, I find you guilty of being derelict in your duty to the people of Queens. If the Upper East Side had been hit with a one-week blackout, you would have stormed the barricades like the French Revolution.
BLOOMBERG: I think your verdict is ill-considered, your majesty.
JUDGE: Talking back is only making things worse. I am now prepared to impose sentencing. Bailiff, open Curtain Number One.
[Bailiff opens Curtain Number One]
BLOOMBERG: Why….it’s an exercise bicycle.
JUDGE: Yeah, but it’s attached to an electrical generator. Your sentence is to keep pedaling until you generate enough electricity to light up every air conditioner in Astoria.
BLOOMBERG: I object!
JUDGE: Get on the bike and start pedaling, schmucko, or I’ll see to it that you end up as filler in some impending New Jersey marsh reclamation!
CHAIR: Faaaahhrrrrtttt!
[Bloomberg gets on the exercise bike and starts pedaling]
JUDGE: Next case!
BAILIFF: People versus Tim McGreevey, Governor of New Jersey.
DA: Your honor, while Governor McGreevey’s wife was giving birth to his first child, he was busy getting fucked in the ass by an Israeli spy in a toilet on the New Jersey Tunpike.
JUDGE: How do you plead?
MCGREEVEY: Your honor, I am a gay American.
JUDGE: To me you look like a degenerate sodomite. You like dicks up the ass?
MCGREEVEY: Well, every once in a while, if it’s lubricated.
JUDGE: Then you’re going to love this! Bailiff, open Curtain Number Two.
CHAIR: Faaaahhhhhrrrrttt!
[Bailiff opens Curtain Number Two and reveals Osama Bin Ladin]
JUDGE: Governor McGreevey, I sentence you to get fucked in the ass by Bin Ladin so many times that your butt is busted open like the Holland Tunnel at rush hour.
BIN LADIN: After all these years in the desolate mountainous regions of Pakistan with just a goat for sexual companionship, I now have a gay America to sodomize. Rest confidant, your butt will be the object of a vigorous jihad. You will be my wife.
MCGREEVEY: Thank you your honor, I have always dreamed of being raped by a forceful bearded villain in a long robe.
JUDGE: Oh, shut up, you swine!
CHAIR: Next case.
BAILIFF: People versus Mel Gibson.
DA: Mel Gibson stood out in the middle of the Pacific Coast Highway and screamed out “Fuck the Jews!” at the top of his voice. He made a movie portraying the Jews as insidious Christ killers and condemned the Jews as being responsible for all the wars in the world.
JUDGE: How do you plead?
MEL GIBSON: Not guilty on the basis of my First Amendment freedom of expression, your excellency.
JUDGE: Yeah, except the First Amendment doesn’t count for shit in my courtroom. Inciting racial hatred in a country composed of minorities is a recipe for national self-destruction. Plus the fact that I’m Jewish.
MEL GIBSON: I protest. You are a disgrace to the criminal justice system.
JUDGE: Coming from a stinking nazi scumbag like you, that’s a badge of honor. I pronounce you guilty as charged.
CHAIR: Faaaaaaahhhrrrrrtttt!
JUDGE: Bailiff, open Curtain Number Three.
[Bailiff opens Curtain Number Three, revealing Russell Crowe holding a cell phone]
JUDGE: See, we got your Aussie compadre, with his weapon of choice, a nice heavy telephone. New York doesn’t have capital punishment, so I can’t sentence you to death, but I hereby order Russell Crowe to bust your fuckin’ nazi skull with his electric boomerang.
And just to liven things up, we got a special mystery guest, Naomi Campbell with her cell phone. So these two maniacs are going to give you the New York City asskicking you so richly deserve.
You two, FUCK HIM UP!
[Russell Crowe and Naomi Campbell attack Mel Gibson and beat his head to a pulp, using their cell phones.
MEL GIBSON: Owww! Oooooh! Ohhhh!
JUDGE: [Addressing court] Well, my little Titwiggle is tired, and it’s time for her nap. So the rest of you morons can go back to Rikers until I’m good and ready to convict you.
CHAIR: Faaaaahhhrrrrrtttt!
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Posted on 9/17/2006
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September 10, 2006
So what if the upcoming ABC miniseries about 9/11 doesn’t exactly conform to historical reality. What did you expect from ABC TV, which is owned by The Walt Disney Company? These are the same geniuses that were going to serve us up Mel Gibson’s rendering of the Holocaust that portrayed Hitler as the innocent victim of the scheming Jew bankers.
Who cares if the script is a patch-up job that they made up as they went along. What do you think, that these guys are geniuses? No, they’re Hollywood writers, who are more concerned with putting coke up their noses and screwing Hollywood starlets that they meet at parties than sitting home like monks and reading every page of the government commission report. Anyway, knowing the facts might have actually messed them up if they were instructed, as seems likely, by ABC executives to portray Clinton as a moron to keep the Republicans happy.
My problem is, given the tools at their disposal, Disney did not go nearly far enough in making a satirical farce out of 9/11. The actual fact of the event was tragic enough, but the sanctimonious handkerchief wringing of society has reached toxic levels of gaseousness that make me afraid to turn on the TV. By doing what they do best, creating nonsense, The Disney Company could have produced a heartwarming little world of 9/11, with cute little forest creatures scampering through the World Trade Center complex while the airliners crashed into the twin towers.
The following is this writers scenario for an animated Disney feature about 9/11, called:
BAMBI FINDS HER MOTHER IN THE RUBBLE!
It begins in the mountains of Afganistan, where Osama Bin Ladin, the Grinch Who Stole Ramadan, is flying around on his magic flying carpet from “The Thief of Baghdad.”
“It’s high time that evil ruled the world,” he declares, twinkling his moustache with a malevolent gleam in his eye.
Jiminy Cricket appears as a little devil on Bin Ladin’s shoulder. “Why don’t you infect the world with anthrax?” he suggests. On his other shoulder appears O.J. Simpson. “Let’s do it the old-fashioned way and cut them up with knives!”
Bin Ladin decides to convene his advisory council, Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. The gang’s leader, Captain Hook, suggests, “Let’s take my flying pirate ship and crash it into the Universal Theme park in Orlando. That will teach America the power of evil.
Porky Pig raises his hand. “I h-h-have and idea. M-me and the Three Little Pigs will hijack some airliners and crash them into the World Trade Center. T-that will make the world stand up and take notice.”
Bin Ladin stroked his beard and thought for a minute. “You know, I like that. Thousands of Crusaders and Zionists would explode. I kind of dig it.” He instructed Porky Pig, “Take the Three Little Pigs, the Wicked Wolf, and Captain Hook. Go to the States and enroll in flight school. There you can learn how to crash airliners.
“And if you see Bambi’s mother, kill her.”
Bambi, in the meantime, is searching for her mother in the woods. She goes up to Smokey the Bear and asks, “Have you seen my mother?”
Smokey says, “I saw some hunters shoot her and tie her to the head of their car.”
“Omigod! They killed my mother!”
“I think they just grazed her. If you hurry you might be able to rescue her. The car had New York license plates.” Bambi runs onto the highway and hitches a ride on a tractor-trailer going to New York.
In the meantime, The Seven Dwarfs, Schmucky, Dorky, Putzy, Snarky, Giulani and Maricony, are gathered in the House of Representatives to vote Articles of Impeachment against President Bill Clinton. Putzy the Dwarf addresses the assembled legislators:
“This Clinton has gone too far already. The country’s at peace and the economy is booming. If we let Clinton continue, the American people are going to get used to living in a civilized society and the Republicans will never get back in power. We have to get rid of him now, so we can let the demons of ‘Fantasia’ into the treasury to loot all that money.
“Otherwise, Clinton will pass a national health plan, and all the insurance executives will have to own smaller yachts so that (gasp!) black people can have medical benefits!” All the assembled dwarfs threw up their hands in horror at this prospect.
“Fortunately, we have got the goods on this prick, Clinton. I have here in my hands dirty photos of Clinton in the Oval Office, engaging in unspeakable sexual perversions with Cinderella and the 101 Dalmatians.”
The assembled dwarfs shield their eyes with their hands, opening their fingers just wide enough to see the photos. “Omigod, the swine!”
“He’s giving it to her right in the Seat of Government.”
“So here’s the plan,” continues Putzy. “We impeach Clinton and replace him with Dopey, over there.”
All the dwarfs turn to Dopey, who is sitting on a stool with a duncecap on his head, reading “My Pet Goat.” Upside down. “Dopey will do anything we tell him.”
Dopey jumps up, yelling, “That’s not fair. I’ve got my own ideas, like invading Iraq and declaring war on France!”
“Thank you, Dopey. Now, everybody in favor of our plan, raise your hand.”
All the dwarfs raise their hands.
Meantime, Porky Pig and The Three Little Pigs enroll in the Heartland Flying School. Porky tells the instructor, “W-we don’t care about taking off or landing. We don’t even care about flying.
“A-all we care about is crashing planes into buildings.”
The instructor says, “Let me get back to you on that.” He calls his local law enforcement officer and tells him, “I think I’ve got some potential terrorists at my school.”
The local agent called Washington and speaks to the counter terrorism officer, Goofy. He tells Goofy, “There’s little porkers here who want to fly planes into buildings.”
Goofy responds, “Don’t bother me. We’re busy trying to impeach that prick Clinton for a blow job. That takes priority.”
When Bambi’s mother wakes up, she’s tied to the hood of a car traveling down the Henry Hudson Parkway in Manhattan. She quickly chews through the rope and escapes into Riverside Park, the driver of the car, Dick Cheney, chasing her and shooting off a shotgun. As he blasts away, he screams, “You dwatted wabbit! I’ll get you yet!”
One of the crows from “Song of the South,” who happens to be sitting on a park bench and smoking a cigar, tells Cheney, That ain’t no rabbit. That’s a deer.”
Cheney turns and, wildly pointing his shotgun at the crow, said menacingly, “We are an empire, and reality is whatever we say it is. I said that was a wabbit. You got a pwoblem with that?”
“No, boss.”
Cheney runs away, chasing and firing his shotgun at Bambi’s mother. The little doe runs as far as she can until, weak from loss of blood, she collapses. Just as she is about to pass out, a vision appears before her. It’s Peter Pan, who says, “Little doe, I will not abandon you in your hour of need. This pixie dust will heal your wound and give you the strength to find your child. Just go down to the Staten Island Ferry, and when you get to Staten Island, look for the Cartoon Animals Shelter. They’ll get you home safely.”
So Bambi’s mother, using the bicycle path adjacent to the West Side Highway, starts down toward Battery Park.
Soon after, Bambi, having had a harrowing crossing of the George Washington Bridge, where she almost got squashed into road kill in several instances, finds herself at the same bench in Riverside Park where Dick Cheney had tried to kill his mother.
As before, the black crow from “Song of the South” is sitting there smoking his cigar. The crow says to the doe, “I say, I say there, my dear girl! You wouldn’t by any chance be trying to locate the other deer who just passed by here?”
“I’m searching for my mother,” said Bambi.
“Well, beware of a stupid white man with a shotgun. This guy is totally berserk.” And the crow flies away.
“Thanks for the advice, Mr. Crow,” says Bambi, who scampers into the bushes.
The Republicans succeed at getting Clinton thrown out of office, and they replace him with Dopey, who puts a sign on his desk in the Oval Office reading “The Schmuck Stops Here.” When Scooby Doo rushes to tell him of a plot to crash airliners into skyscrapers, Dopey flies into a rage, screaming, “I don’t swat flies. Tell me, did you pour all the French wine into the sewer?”
“Yes, chief.”
“Did you clean all the money out of the treasury like I told you?”
“We’re working on it.”
“That’s not good enough. Get Larry Brown and FEMA down there and tell them to get all the money out. Cheney and I are going to do a white glove inspection, and there better not be one penny for the Democrats to use for social programs, or I’m going to personally put a bucket in their hands and transfer them to New Orleans.”
At that moment, Porky Pig and The Three Little Pigs board an airliner at Newark Airport. The plane is piloted by Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck. As they take off, Mickey says to Donald, “I have a hot date with Minnie, and she promised me that she’s going to give me some mouse pussy.”
“Quack!”
Once the airplane is in the air, The Little Pigs swarm into the cabin. “Allah Akbar!” they cried. “We are the troops of Osama Bin Ladin, and we are taking command of this airplane to crash it into the World Trade Center.”
“What do you hope to achieve by doing that?” asks Mickey.
“Our imam promised us each 69 sows and all the garbage we can eat for eternity.”
“Well, you can suit yourselves. But me and Donald are getting out of here,” and Mickey and Donald bail out with parachutes.
On the ground, Bambi and her mother catch sight of each other just as the buildings explode above them.
“Mama!” cries Bambi.
“Bambi!” cries her mother. They embrace just as the towers start to crumble, only to be saved by Clifford, The Big Red Dog, who carries them to the Staten Island Ferry, from whence they are able to return to their home in the forest, and all the little animals throw a party in their honor.
THE END
If you thing that this is the stupidest, most nauseating story you have ever read, wait until the real Disney 9/11 movie airs on ABC. That movie, with many scenes that everybody, even the producers, admit are complete fabrications, sounds like a Republican campaign commercial showing the Democrats as a bunch of idiots, punctuated by a speech from Bush right in the middle of the show.
So! Which movie is stupider, mine or Disney’s? Let history decide.
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Posted on 9/10/2006
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September 03, 2006
My friend, a classical guitarist whom I call Segovia, used to brag to me about his refined sexual techniques with women. “No woman can leave me once I have touched her. The delicate fingering techniques I derive from my classical guitar training drive the girls crazy until they are begging for my cock.”
I figured, this guy is really smooth. His longtime girlfriend was real cute, and the women seemed to admire his sensitive, artistic personality.
Compare that with me, whose philosophy might charitably be described as, “Bend over and spread ‘em, Baby, here comes the Express Train to your Butt!”
I’m the type of dude who comes to the bar and the women move down one seat in the other direction. New Yorkers have never had a problem telling me, “I don’t like your face. (Gee, thanks for making my day) The only people who seem attracted to me are masochistic gay guys looking to get their asses whipped. No Thanks!
So imagine my shock when the guy comes to me one day crying, “My girlfriend moved out and left me.”
“What happened to banging out ‘Rhapsodie Espagnole’ on her box?”
“She hooked up with a harmonica player.”
I hit myself in the head like The Three Stooges. “You dummy!” I thought to myself. “I should have learned to play the harmonica.” Lips, tongue, sucking, blowing – harmonica players must get laid a lot, because the girl figures she’s going to get “Follow Me Down to Old Virginie” blown on her G-Spot while her clitoris gets tickled with “Under the Boardwalk.”
It just goes to show you that sex is a no-win situation like the paper scissors rock game. Somebody is always going to beat you out.
But my friend Segovia is a musician and not a philosopher. He didn’t care about the philosophical triangulations of the situation, only that a totally lovable piece of ass had escaped into the wild. And he happens to be right. Your sexually horny years can’t be replaced, so all that fun goes right out the window if you don’t use it, like all your money disappearing because you didn’t spend it. A lot of prudes will fight me on this, but people should make hay while the sun shines.
I explained my insight to Segovia. “Where you are going wrong is that you are confusing love and sex. Love is a process and sex is an act. You think that you are devastated because a woman left you. In reality, you are really unhappy because a specific part of her left you.
“Love you can get later, even when you’re eighty. Sex you need right now. You have to think of the pussy as separate from the woman.”
“200motels, I think you’re an idiot!” he cried, inconsolable in his grief at being abandoned. “How can you relate to women like…like a commodity?”
“Since you invoke the law of supply and demand, I just happen to have this news article from The New York Post (it’s gotta be true!) dated last week announcing the arrest of Eliazar Juarez, 23, of Long Island City, who offered an undercover cop two hookers for $40.00.”
“Wow! Two girls for forty bucks!” he exclaimed, immediately brightening. “That’s really cheap!”
“Why do you think I kept the article? I’m going over there myself. Imagine what you could buy with a c-note!”
“That works out to FIVE GIRLS.”
“Six, if you bargain the guy.”
“He might not have that much pussy in stock. But six girls! Even Schwartznegger probably never did six girls.”
“Forget Schwartznegger. Body builders don’t have big dicks, or at least they look smaller because the rest of the guy is so big. Also, the steroids shrink it. All Schwartznegger has got is his little skinny wife, and she don’t look so happy.
“But the reason I’m showing you this article is that as a commodity, the price of pussy is actually dropping.”
And it’s driving the pimps crazy! I interviewed this one guy, Willie Cadillac, who runs a string of whores in Hell’s Kitchen, and he told me that the price resistance is ferocious.
“How’m I supposed to keep up my front? Cadillacs ain’t cheap! My bitches need crack."
"Yeah, we need crack!"
"And these m’fuckahs coming in from Jersey and they want a blowjob for twenty bucks. What can you get for twenty bucks these days?What do they think, that blow jobs grows on trees?”
His aspect grew dark. “These Spanish mutherfuckers with their cheap imported hookers are killing a market I done spent my whole life buildin’ up. Pussy is my whole life. If I get my hands on this sumbitch Juarez, I’m gonna pop a cap in his ass!”
Like the real estate market, the market for Manhattan pussy is totally inflated. The women are using subliminal psychology to build up the price points by working out hard in the gym and letting you know in advance “I’m High Maintenance,” so that you don’t complain about the sticker shock.
But as with so many products in the marketplace, the actual customer satisfaction is much less satisfying than the packaging. The women are not showing any artisanal expertise for satisfying a man’s cock. There’s no culture, as in the cultural erotic traditions of the ancient Chinese and Indians, or the depth of European civilizations. The pussy is too much like modern culture, raw and unrefined. It’s like a blow up sex doll with a string you pull at the neck and it talks. Only when you stop pulling the string, these Barbie Dolls don’t stop talking.
The only sexual refinements they have taken any interest in developing seem to be in those that end the encounter sooner. In a lot of cases the energy you have to expend convincing them to spread out in the first place leaves you with hardly any animus to achieve the act. Second, like a carnival barker or a waiter at a sidewalk café, New York girls have specialized techniques for getting you on your way soon, in time for the next customer.
“See, I have this thing I do with my hand, and the guy thinks he’s getting a blow job when he’s actually getting a hand job,” said Daisy, who I met at Cha Cha’s bar on the Coney Island boardwalk, where I actually conceived the concept for this commentary. “With the condom on he don’t know what’s happening anyway.”
Latex aside, compare this last statement with Madame Chang, proprietress of the Shining Lotus Friendship Club on Pell Street in Chinatown.
“My girls love you long time. When they suck your dick, it’s like the rising sun of the east. I always tell them, No use hand, only mouth.
“My girls make happy ending and never a complaint. You come now?”
Maybe later. With the intense foreign competition and the cheap Asian imports the price of pussy is collapsing in Manhattan, where the aging population of men and the increased interest in sports and computer games is depressing the market. The situation has become so critical that the market is in danger of collapsing completely and wonderful moneymaking opportunities could be lost forever. Like a syndicate buying the rights to a particularly exquisite piece of ass and selling time-shares. And don’t tell me this is exploitation of women. A lot of these girls just don’t feel like getting jobs. Hell, I’d to the same thing, except I’m ugly, and there’s no market for men’s butts.
Since chains of brothels have already had IPO’s in Europe, it wouldn’t be absurd to suggest the same thing in this country. Imagine a bond issue where the bonds are backed up with the butts of hookers like the New Jersey Turnpike. Or even for private capital to invest. Like Wal Mart. Now, there’s a concept! Let’s see, I need barbecue briquettes, new tires and , oh yeah, a blow job!”
The revenue possibilities are endless. Women’s butts could provide a continuing source of tax revenue for states and municipalities. Just attach a meter to the pussy and charge for all the dicks going in an out. Hell, that’s a job I fight would for – reading the meters on women’s asses.
But before America can reap the rewards of women’s asses, we as a nation have to take responsibility for intelligent exploitation of this valuable, pardon me, asset. And that involves protecting domestic pussy against cheap foreign imports.
The way I see it, this could be done by the President appointing a National Pussy Department and paying subsidies to the women not to give pussy, like wheat.
Or, better still; issue the women vouchers every time they get fucked. The voucher would look like this:
RECEIVED
ONE PIECE OF PUSSY IN GOOD CONDITION
from
HELEN SCHWARTZ
signed
200MOTELS
This way, you get the pussy, the girl sends the voucher to Washington, they send her a check, and everybody's happy.
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September 02, 2006
If you’re looking to go down to Mexico and get lost permanently, there has never been a better time than now.
Because when the Mexican presidential elections blow up in their face like an exploding tamale all bets are off for a continuation of civil society South of the Border Downnnn Mexicoooo Wayyyyyy.
The Mexican election ended in a dead heat, and both candidates are declaring victory. The Mexican electoral commission (which is definitely going to be the subject of a comedy blog on this site) seems poised to throw the election over to the conservative candidate based on a result that gives him a lead of less than one percentage point.
The left-wing candidate, who is the former mayor of Mexico City, has taken over the city center and promises to form a provisional government right in the middle of the capital and hold massive street demonstrations throughout the country.
Mexico has been simmering in a pre-revolutionary situation for a long time now. In the southern city of Oaxaca an ugly pay dispute involving underpaid schoolteachers and a corrupt governor has erupted in revolt, with the left-wingers in open rebellion. They’ve taken over the downtown along with some radio stations, burning tires and broadcasting revolutionary propaganda over the airwaves as the federal police and army troops wait, seething, on the outskirts of town. People have already died.
A neighboring state, Chiapas, has been in open revolt for fifteen years. The leader of the revolt, a Mayan Indian named Comandante Marco, has achieved rock star status in Mexico going to negotiations in the capital and supporting social movements, and is at least as big a star in the country as singer Gloria Trevi, who is a legend in her own right.
Comandante Marco never appears without his trademark ski mask, which he wore in the jungle while he was fighting the federales. He’s like one of those lucho libre dudes who never takes his mask off, even in the shower.
Maybe he should run for president. Now, there’s a story for you! Comandante Marco ties the election, and they decide to hold a lucha libre wrestling match in the middle of the Zocaló, with a hundred million Mexicans watching on TV and going bananas. Now, That’s Entertainment!
Unfortunately for people who love Mexico, this is not going to happen. The actual prospect is for huge demonstrations involving millions of people going on until the military decides to restore order, which will in its turn stimulate retaliation. Somewhere in this mess will be the covert hand of various foreign intelligence services, because a lot of countries have an interest in Mexico.
Since the electorate is split evenly down the middle, the fight should continue for a long damn time and touch every region of the country. People who like to vacation in Cancun and in the Mayan Riviera will be shocked to know that the civil municipality that encompasses this area, Solidaridad, is one of the poorest cities in Mexico, with its own sordid history of corruption and violence, and the previous governor of the state is now serving a prison sentence. The place is so uncool that developers have been arrested for stealing sand from public beaches for their seaside condo developments. In a time of national turmoil and revolt it’s unthinkable that Cancun will be spared widespread social instability, and that’s putting it mildly.
Try to imagine! Columns of military and revolutionaries criss-crossing Mexico in trucks and trains, fighting pitched battles. Men lined up and shot by firing squads while just a few meters away victorious fighters drink tequila and feel up the women as a cheesy mariachi band belts out its ten thousandth rendition of “Volver,” bandits going nuts and firing their kalashnikovs into the air.
Fuck the computers and the banks! Blow them away! The future is staring us in the face, and guess what it is: Pancho Villa and the Mexican Revolution all over again! Only this aint’t no freakin’ Sergio Leone spaghetti western. This the real thing, dude!
The left-wing presidential candidate, Obrador, has said as much. “Real change in Mexico has never come about as a result of elections.”
That’s about as frank a declaration as you’re likely to hear about his intentions. Maybe he learned some lessons from Al Gore here in the States. When the Republicans stole the Florida elections with riots and corrupt judges, Gore, instead of pitching a tent in the National Mall and calling millions of outraged Americans into the streets, which he had the power to do, went off and grew a beard. If he had been a real American male he might have changed the course of human history, but instead he caved in. It doesn’t matter how many movies Al Gore makes. The Republicans cut off his balls and ruined him, and we all pay the price.
So if things are too hot for you up here, get your butt down to Mexico, where they are even hotter. The great mystery writer B. Traven decided to do that, and he was never heard from again. I’d like to believe he died with a bottle of tequila in one hand and a compliant señorita in the other on a sun-drenched beach in Baja California. But the nature of his art took him to darker places.
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