January 29, 2007
appreciate the need for some people to write even when they have absolutely nothing to say. To them I say, do the world a favor – jump off a bridge. You know yourself how vacant you are, why would you want to inflict it on the rest of us?
For a while when I was young I did alright as a writer. I wrote myself a comedy act that was pretty freakin’ good, in the style of Richard Pryor, you could say. It got me a lot of press coverage up in Canada and I even got taken on as the Montreal stringer for a New York skin magazine, High Society, ‘til I finally blew a hole in the envelope and was invited to leave town, but fast!
Arriving in New York, I tried the same formula here, but it was the Reagan Revolution and people weren’t at all in the mood to see anybody white doing that kind of material.
Anyway, I had another agenda in New York: to keep off the street. I threw myself into my job in accessory design and once I got stabilized in that I hit the gym like a maniac. My few lame attempts at getting on stage were doomed from the beginning, white comedy having painted itself into a corner of Woody Allen/Jerry Seinfeld self-loathing. My loathing was directed outward at general world stupidity and blundering, and nobody was paying money to see that.
Then, in the summer of 2001, I had a dream about a beautiful fashion model who was born with three eyes because of pollution, and the story, which was entitled “The Third Eye of the Needle,” wrote itself. The passage relating to Paris of the future, in the throws of civil war and terrorism, I wrote before, during and after the airplane attacks on New York.
I felt validated. It was as though I were a guitar string being plucked by a cosmic force in time and made to vibrate in the general timbre of the universe.
Now that I felt I had a commercial property to promote, I got on the telephone and stated to hawk it to agents. Soon I got a bite, an old crone named Dorothy Thompson, who read the story and felt it had possibilities. But she didn’t have a clue what to do with it, so I broke my back hawking it to film producers, and she was supposed to step in and close the deal.
Anyway, the whole project went nowhere, and Dorothy and I soon parted company, but I sure became adept at pushing that story – in bars, you name it.
About a year later, I became unemployed on a structural basis, which is to say an economic recession. Benefits were increased by three months and I spent the whole summer at the beach or writing like a European at outdoor cafes.
Now I had obtained the knack of commercial concepts; fully set pieces with a beginning, middle and an end. I whipped up some really cool synopses, one, called “A Symphony of Fear,” a murder mystery-police procedural-romantic comedy with just a soupçon of supernatural interest.
But what really got the ball rolling for me was the introduction of blog technology. Here was something I could really swing with! You write a few pages, you post it and you get some hits. Right away 20 people read what you wrote, which, believe me, it doesn’t sound like a lot, but try to get 20 people to read something any other way! I guarantee you that prior to this innovation, playwrights with more talent than Shakespeare and poets who possessed more genius than William Blake died without reaching an audience of 20 people.
Now that I have been able to scrape my way back to the comedy business again, where I never should’ve left, believe me, I got a double whammy – no a triple whammy. First I got a whole new act because my friends Gladys and Bob convinced me to go the improv route and work my harmonica into the act. Then I come home and transcribe the show for my blog audience.
Now, here’s the new twist! With the new interned video technology that’s sweeping the ocean, I’m recording my whole act on video for posting on these sites like Utube, where 30 million people in China can potentially see my act.
Shit, if I get wild and loose enough with my act, I could end up causing riots in China! Oh Happy Day! Millions of Chinese marauding through Shanghai, destroying everything in sight because they saw 200motels shove a dildo through the hole in a bagel!
So why the dour, bummer title of this article? Because right here in New York, which is constantly reminding the world how great it is, and how talented and modern we all are, which is like a blown out, beat up old boxer who believes his own advance promotion until he is pounded into the around for good, you still got the same third-rate hack writers wasting our time with relentlessly tedious profiles of wasted jerkoffs who are trying to pass themselves off as artists.
The case in point is a profile in New York Magazine by Ariel Levy about Dash Snow, who features himself to be an artist in the tradition of Andy Warhol, but for me the guy is a fucking moron who mounts articles from The New York Post on construction paper and then jerks off on them.
Ooooohhhh, pretty far out!
I went to design school in Paris, where if you were off by a millimeter the teacher ripped your whole pattern to shreds and you had to start over.
I operated a leather boutique in Montreal, where I made shearling coats and leather threatical costumes for strippers and rock stars by hand.
When I came to New York, I had to train for years under German leather experts who tore you apart even if you were working right, because when you’re that young, you’re not supposed to know anything, by general principle.
So this guy gets his face on the cover of New York Magazine for jerking off on newspaper clippings.
Oh yeah, I forget to mention….he comes from a rich family.
Art, now there’s a hoary concept! Blah blah blah it’s in the eye of the beholder. But to qualify a freakin’ moron like this Dash Snow, or that Mapplethorpe, or the other idiot, Warhol, as artists in the category as Picasso or Michaelangelo speaks volumes about the kind of world we’re living in today, where a guy who nails his dick to a board is considered art, but the person who ridicules the act is castigated as a philistine.
Just so I could have the feeling that I knew a little bit about art, I took two years to read “The Lives of the Artists” by the sixteenth century artist and intellectual Giorgio Vasari. Two years just to read a damn book about art – and it was in English!
And this guy jerks off a Post photo of Giuliani and he calls himself an artist.
Excuse me while I go hang myself. Fuck!
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Posted on 1/29/2007
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January 22, 2007
The imminent candidacy of Barack Obama for the Democratic nomination brings to mind the classic story of the boxer Primo Carnera in the nineteen-thirties.
I’m not that old, but I know a lot from reading books, for which there is no substitute. People today got a telephone in one ear, an iPod in the other ear and a Blackberry jammed up their butt. Well, I’m here to tell you that you can get more fun from a one dollar used paperback than you can get from a five hundred dollar iPod.
Plus which, I look at time as a kind of string theory of warps and knots instead of a straight line, where you can reach one inch to the left or right and bump into the Mexican Revolution or Battlestar Galectica without having to cross the street.
Primo Carnera was a magnificent human specimen of a boxer from Italy. The guy looked fantastic on paper, huge and muscular. The only problem is, while he may have been fantastic in Italy, the United States had a much larger pool of talented boxers because of our huge population. But he looked stupendous. So these American promoters brought him up here, which was a long way to travel back in those days.
When they put him in to spar in the gym, they were dismayed at his lack of talent. But if you’re greedy enough, and if your greed is sharpened enough by a brutal world economic depression, which is the case that prevailed during the Great Depression, you will always find a way.
Since Carnera couldn’t win any fights on his own, they arranged to pay his opponents to take a dive. That way, they built him up in the standings. They also paid reporters to write sports articles about how he was an unbeatable Man Mountain of Iron.
They slowly promoted Carnera up the food chain until the public conception of him was that he was unbeatable. The only party who was not in on the gag was, unfortunately, Carnera himself. He had a convertible, a whole gang of women, a suite at the Plaza, you name it. He was a rube provolone from Calabria province who believed his own promotion, unfortunately for him.
Now his promoters prepared to cash in on their investment. They booked him a championship match against Max Baer, who was a psychopath, who had already killed two men in the ring, and they bet everything they could put together on Max Baer.
Baer demolished Carnera. He tore him up. Everybody went home rich, except Carnera, who got a one-way ticket on a tramp steamer to Argentina.
What has this got to do with Barack Obama? You figure it out. His biggest promoters are the owners of The New York Post, The New York Sun and every other nasty reactionary rag in the world. They are desperate to talk up any alternative to Hillary Clinton and her master strategist, whats-his-name.
They remember eight years of Clinton in the White House, with him making a monkey out of them on every occasion, and they’re not anxious to replicate the experience.
In addition, they know that the public has just about had enough of a vampiric medical system, which has been a cash cow for them, and they know that a Clinton presidency will for sure inaugurate a single payer system that will eliminate a big part of the top-end stealing that has been paying huge yachts, so that insurance executives can stand on the bridge like Admiral Hornblower with a nautical hat while people in the Bronx walk around with grotesque tumors sticking out of their faces that they can’t afford to excise.
There is no way to understate the depth of opposition to a single-payer medical insurance plan among America’s ruling class. You’re talking trillions of dollars being directed to the bank accounts of the super rich, and one woman and her husband spearheading a campaign to end it.
To top it off, I know nothing that would prevent Hillary Clinton from naming Bill as her running mate. Ha ha ha, Evita Peron minus the bananas! How about a little cootchie-cootchie in the White House, a conga line of left-wing policy wonks tearing up the meticulous kleptomanic Republican planning of the last six years!
The Republicans will do anything to stop her. We already know from the 2000 elections in what high regard they hold the democratic process. I’m surprised they haven’t taken a shot at her already!
But in the meantime they’re willing to give one last shot to try to woo dopey Democratic women away from her with Barack Obama’s pretty face.
He’s a political Primo Carnera. He got into the senate by default when his Republican opponent in Illinois had to withdraw over a nasty divorce scandal. He knows nothing, he’s done nothing. But, hey, the guy looks cute in a bathing suit.
If, by some fluke of politics, he got the nomination, he would be a sitting duck for Cheney and all those other Republican duck hunters. And they would make sure he stayed dead, not like that lucky duck down in Florida, who survived.
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Posted on 1/22/2007
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January 21, 2007
I’m shocked, SHOCKED, that all the deep thinkers who are bringing us the raw facts of the story concerning Michael Devlin and Shawn Hornbeck out of rural Missouri do not have even the wit or cultural perspective to put the story in its historical context.
And I’m not talking about Count Metternich or the Congress of Vienna, or the War of the Roses in England, but plain ol’ Mark Twain and the kids running away from home in that neck of the woods in the nineteenth century. Every American knows the story, but in the knucklehead world of modern society they have forgotten even our own culture, which is not that complicated to know.
These are the facts of the case, Your Honor: Shawn Hornbeck was sick of being dogged by his mother. Wash your face, go to school, do your homework blah blah blah…
One day this guy drives by in his pickup (or SUV, whatever…) and asks the kid, “Can I give you a lift?” Once the kid is in the car, the guy, who is lonely and has the mind of a child, says, “Let’s go play video games at my house.” He gets some pizzas (after all he manages a pizza parlor), takes the kid home and they play “Grand Theft Auto” til’ the cows come home.
Finally, he tells the kid, “You can stay as long as you want. I’ll take care of you. I’ve got a good job, and we can go camping and play video games.”
Essentially, what I’m talking about is an updated Huckleberry Finn, where Huck floats down the Mississippi on a raft with escaped slave Ol’ Jim, never to go to school again. The difference between nineteenth Missouri of Mark Twain and the twenty-first century world of modern life may appear outwardly transformed, but it is just a blink of an eye in human history, and people’s motivations don’t change. Rafts down the Mississippi are no longer feasible with huge chemical barges and oil tankers, but kids still want to run away from home to get away from a sourpuss mom who’s nagging them every step of the way.
The idea of this kid being molested by a half-wit diabetic amputee is too absurd to be seriously entertained. Admittedly, Devlin did a bad thing keeping these kids in his house while their parents were frantically hunting for them – one for four years, no less. But given the facts that are leaking out on a daily basis, it looks more like he was running a clubhouse for runaways that a dungeon for abused victims.
The one kid, Shawn Hornbeck, had a bike, a cellular phone and internet. Now it turns out he was dating girls as well. Give me a break! This kid was no more of a prisoner than I am. In fact, given the hours I have to work to survive in New York and the way my girlfriend, Magpie, hounds me the minute I walk in the door of my apartment each night, this kid was living the Life of Riley.
The law states clearly that even if a kid does not want to go home, you are prohibited from keeping him away from his parents. And given the brainless hysteria that is condensing around this case, Michael Devlin stands to end up purging a heavy prison sentence.
But the facts of this case also speak loud and clear about the difficulty the public has seeing circumstances in their true light. The fact is, people have a vested interest in believing whatever they’re told, because it’s too much trouble to think for themselves. That’s why these news commentators and public policy deciders get away with so much: the public has shifted the burden of responsibility onto them and are loath to second-guess them.
Nevertheless, even if the news announcers and journalists who are driving this story with a jackhammer are stupid enough to believe that it’s a straightforward case of child molestation, the executives who shape the agenda are not. They know perfectly well that they are doing a railroad job on Devlin, and they don’t care as long as it drives up ratings.
This game of intentionally lying or misrepresenting or half-reporting the facts just to get ratings is a dangerous one and it leads to tragedy on a personal scale, like in the Devlin case, or on a mass scale, as in the corruption of the media during the Iraq war.
Nobody is expecting this kid, Shawn Hornbeck to step up and come clean on his own and tell the truth, that in the land of Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer, he played hooky for four years. When I was fifteen, my commitment to the principles of truth and justice was somewhat less than total. Plus which, even if the kid hadn’t been molested, which at this point I have no particular reason to believe that he had, the social pressures against him saying that he hadn’t, from Oprah on down, would prevent him from admitting it.
In today’s world you are nothing if you have not been molested at least once. Now Oprah is also jumping on the molestation bandwagon too, tearfully recounting her own adolescent molestation tragedy.
Not to be outdone, I would now like to reveal my own molestation tragedy, which happened when I was only 24 years old. One day, while I was sleeping on a park bench in Brooklyn, a fat lady sat on my face and farted.
Ooooh, the humiliation I have endured since that infamous day! To this day I cannot look at a woman’s fat, blubbery butt without breaking into tears of shame.
But life is about redemption and forgiveness, and if I were to run into that woman today, I would hug her butt and tell the fat, stinking buttocks “All is forgiven.”
I don’t know if it’s feasible but the governor of Missouri should appoint some decent, responsible adult to question Shawn Hornbeck, no-nonsense, and get the real facts of the case out of him in plain English before a publicity-starved Mike Nifong-style district attorney jumps on the media circus and railroads Michael Devlin into a black hole for eternity.
So who can you believe to tell you the truth? Essentially, nobody. Not even me. Especially not me. There’s an old saying, “Don’t believe anything read, anything you hear and only half of what you see.” That last part has to be updated to “anything you see,” now that doctoring of images has been perfected.
Get some books and read them. Develop a comprehensive worldview of culture. It may be a ridiculous parody of reality, but it might sometimes help you to know when you are being deceived.
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Posted on 1/21/2007
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January 20, 2007
I been around the world
From Bombay to Montreal
But I'm proud to hang my hat
On the banks of the Houston Ship Canal
Where the sweet smell of ethylene glycol
And methylene oxide meet
And the effluent streams of methanol
Disintegrate your feet
Where toluene and styrene share a moonlight kiss
And hydrochloric acid has an odor worse than piss
Oh carry me back to the Houston Ship Canal
Where fish sprout legs
And dogs lay eggs
And birds grow toes
And Mother Nature holds her nose
On the banks of the Houston Ship Canal
Where life is such a hoot
To feel my boyfriend's tumors growin'
Through his protective asbestos suit
One night my boyfriend kissed me
As the dead fish went floating by
And he whispered to me I love you
But our respirators got in the way
We took a moonlight cruise
On the styrene monomer barge
By the petroleum tanks
Where the gas leaks stank
And it smelled real rank
As we held our nose
And it weren't no rose
'Cause it curled our toes
Where the radon beamed
And the fishes screamed
On the banks of the Houston Ship Canal
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Posted on 1/20/2007
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January 15, 2007
he way I see it, Donald Trump and Rosie O’Donnell would make fantastic blow-up balloons for the Thanksgiving Day Parade. They already look like grotesque caricatures of themselves, and they’re fat as freakin’ balloons. All it would take is to insert a tube into their butts and inflate some helium.
Where does Trump get off calling Rosie O’Donnell fat? What is he, Mr. Universe?
And she, with that mouth of hers, insisting upon referring to her same-sex partner as her wife, it’s enough to make you VOMIT!
I’m all in favor of equal rights for civil unions, but the day some guy says to me, “I’d like to present you my wife, John” all bets are off. That’s where I pull an inflatable male sex doll out of a bag and say, “I’d like to introduce you to my wife, Mel Gibson.”
Even on our best day, Americans are a bunch of freaks. For a president we’ve got that geek, George Bush. The New York Post reports that out in Hollywood, where schlock never sleeps, they’re making a science fiction movie about a guy with half-a-brain, and I can’t understand why they don’t use Bush to portray the guy. He’s getting his ass handed to him in Iraq on a daily basis (while the rest of us are being dragged along, kicking and screaming, for the ride) and instead of just cutting his losses and getting out, he’s sending another carrier fleet and an additional 20,000 soldiers for what he’s calling a “surge.” At the same time, like a halfwit poker player who’s getting cleaned out hand after hand, he’s now raising the stakes by threatening war against Iran, when everybody knows he’s holding a hand of pure shit.
[Before every Republican nut-job in the world jumps on my back for impugning the American soldiers like they did with Kerry, let me say that all the shit I’m referring to is the contents of the stinking bucket of offal that Bush and his idiot “advisers” are carrying between their ears]
But I don’t want to stray too far from the centerpiece of my little shelf of ghoulish specimens, the matched pair of Donald Trump and Rosie O’Donnell, and their little harelip dyko handmaiden, Barbara Walters. Anybody who does not believe we are a nation of freaks would do well to take a minute to contemplate this monstrous little ménage à trois of syncophantic succubi.
Barbara Walters never had an original thought in her life. She worships the ground Henry Kissinger walks on. She has never written anything I can recall, and her speech patterns and subject matter are intentionally soporific. Just seeing her face on the tube induces me to pass out. That’s her charm. She is a bland product of mass-marketing. Spending five minutes watching Barbara Walters speak is the equivalent of driving down an endless cowflop-pasture country road in a suffocating hot car listening to grandma drone on endlessly, spilling the hot dope about her rich relations. Where’s the button for the ejector seat?
See, here we got fat, clueless Rosie O’Donnell, “The Queen of Nice” (excuse me while I puke!), who is such a jinx, who attempted a lifestyle magazine modeled on herself, yet, and a multimillion-dollar flop of a Broadway show showcasing another bloated has-been, Boy George of all people, from a generation ago and who looks it. This Boy George ain’t no Rocky, though it might be amusing to cast him as the wasted old drag queen who comes back to suck one last cock.
In the other corner, you got Trump, who has always been an enigma to me. Trump was born rich, and he has been able to parlay his family money into a three-ring circus, with him as the ringmaster and all the acts.
To hear him speak, as I was finally able to do during his war with Rosie O’Donnell, he reminded me of another rich guy I used to know, who was born into a family with money and who managed to not lose it. But, believe me, the guy was no ball of fire, and neither is Trump.
In the eighteenth century French stage comedy, “The Marriage of Figaro,” Figaro, who has cunningly maneuvered to keep his intended wife out of the clutches of the Count, laments in his soliloquy that it takes more ability for a normal man just to survive on a daily basis than it does for a born monarch to rule a kingdom. Every time I see or hear Trump, I remember that there are millions of people in New York who would run rings around him if a system of equality ever existed.
I readily concede that too much modesty can kill a man. New Yorkers want you to be humble – so they can be in charge. Nevertheless, the culture of celebrity as it’s presently configured is weighted way too much in favor of money and childish, masturbatory infantile Page Six self-congratulation that pushes aside the more enduring eroticism that results from immersion in the wealth of classical culture that is our world patrimony.
In the fine Public Television series “I Claudius, “ which was a kind of highbrow sitcom taking place during the reign of the Roman emperor Augustus, one of the blighted female characters exclaims, “I want to be a God!” Back in those days, you could be promoted by imperial decree to the status of God and have temples erected with priests and holy orders appointed to worship you in an official religion.
This kind of senseless striving seems ignorant and comical these days until you analyze the current scramble toward deity that is a daily occurrence in our own culture: without an official program in place for reaching the status of God, people are improvising their own path toward immortality, erecting their own temples and tribunes – Trump Tower, Trump Casino, Trump World and, God help us, Trump Magazine.
Indeed, even as Trump ridicules Rosie O’Donnell’s ill-conceived and failed attempt at literary immortality, his own mess, called TRUMP, naturally, is prominently on display at midtown kiosks, the front cover adorned by a blonde in a business suit, undergoing her own wardrobe malfunction.
Without even slowing down in my own mad rush to oblivion to stop and peruse this tome, I can pretty well imagine the editorial conceptualization that led to its assuredly stillborn emergence. “People want to know what it’s like to be me. We’ll show them my buildings, my casinos, my wardrobe, my women, my helicopter, my jet, my money, blah-blah-blah…”
It’s a wasteland. So, instead of these clownish caricatures who are only serving to highlight the blighted condition of intellectual and cultural deprivation we are currently enduring, who could serve to infuse us with the inspiration that the wealth of our nation so obviously merits?
Arnold Schwartznegger? Absolutely. Six times Mr. Olympia, a fantastic movie career and visionary governor of California. God Bless America!
Mayor Bloomberg? He is capable of being a good manager for our country, and it’s possible that he would elevate people of great intellectual and artistic stature to positions of prestige and influence. If his infrastructure initiative gets traction, it will elevate him head and shoulders above all the other politicians in a country that is crying for an upgrade. My money’s on him.
It’s interesting to note – both these guys are Republicans, like a flower springing from a stinking pile of manure.
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Posted on 1/15/2007
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January 10, 2007
This writer has startling information that Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein never died, and that his staged execution was a clever strategy by the Bush administration to deceive world opinion.
A high-ranking administration source who got drunk in a New York bar told this writer that rather than going to his death in a calm, dignified manner, Saddam begged and pleaded for his life and promised to aid in crushing the Iraq insurgency in return for executive clemency.
In a startling revelation, he said that President Bush agreed to keep Saddam alive on a provisional basis, and that the Iraqi dictator was being held in a secret compound in an undisclosed location in Iraq.
The administration source said that the man who died was one of Saddam’s doubles, who was told that he was taking part in a staged execution and that he would not die. That was the reason for his outwardly calm composure during the filmed execution. Only when the trap door dropped did the unsuspecting man learn his true fate.
The source said that Saddam Hussein negotiated clemency for himself and his family in return for information leading to the arrest of insurgency leadership, and that Saddam himself would personally intercede to try to crush the rebellion.
In return, he was promised by the Bush administration that he would receive plastic surgery to change his appearance, and that he would go into the Witness Protection Program, with a new identity and a home in an undisclosed location in the United States.
The Monster Lives!!!
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Posted on 1/10/2007
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January 08, 2007
The Express Train To Your Butt
Mayor Bloomberg introduced a line of condoms with the symbols of New York’s subway lines on them. When I saw this, I was inspired by the muse of Shakespeare to immortalize this moment of history in verse. So here it is, folks, the moment you’ve been waiting for – The 200motels Poetry Corner!
I got a pack of Subway condoms
And took the train to your house fast
Because I wanted to beat rush hour
And catch the express train to your ass
Your mouth was Lincoln Center
And your titties were Times Square
But I was in a hurry
To get down to South Ferry
And smell the fish that swim down there
I put the D Train on my dick
And the N Train on my nuts
I rode the A Train to your ass
And stopped off to buy a Metropass
The B Train stands for Blowjob
And the F Train stands for Fuck
I looked in vain for the P Train
But I didn’t have no luck
There’s no P Train to the pussy
Unfortunately for me
But a blowjob on the B Train
Made me happy as could be
I rode the G Train to your G-Spot
Bounced on you and told you thanks a lot
Baby let me jump your turnstile
You can pull my emergency brake
When the train goes in the tunnel
You can make believe that it’s a snake
I got a condom with Mayor Bloomberg on the front
He wants to inspect your juicy cunt
So baby spread your legs real wide
So me and the mayor can come inside
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Posted on 1/8/2007
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January 07, 2007
The big trend today is saving people. I couldn’t figure out where this is coming from. This is New York, where mugging people and robbing them is the national sport.
Then I saw all the loot these people were getting. Checks for fifteen grand, free vacations, going on Letterman. So I said, “I got to save somebody.”
So I’m walking around, looking for somebody to save. I was getting tired!
All of a sudden I hear, “Help me! My baby, my baby!” I look up and I see this building on fire, and the woman is at the window with a baby.
I scream, “Throw me the kid!” She pitches the baby. But I missed, and the baby lands on the sidewalk. Splatt! I should've worn my glasses.
People start screaming at me and shaking their fist. Hey, they didn’t take it so bad when Matsui missed that fly ball against Boston and broke his wrist for the rest of the season. Geez, people are funny about kids!
I figured I better get out of there, and I ran down into the subway.
I get down to the platform and I hear this guy screaming, “Help me! Help me!” He’s on the tracks and the train is coming.
I say, “I’ll help you. Gimme your hand.” The guy grabs my hand, but his hand has got all this GOO on it. I pull away my hand. “Yecch!” So the train rolls over the guy. But I think he was all right – it only dragged him a couple hundred feet.
But I didn’t come here to talk about that. I wanna talk to you about The New York Post, America’s Ass-Wipe. No comedian can afford not to read The Post, because it’s a trade journal for morons, which I proudly count myself.
If you read The Post the first thing you learn is, Don’t live on the first floor. This poor guy was minding his own business in his own house, lying on his sofa watching “Little Schmuck on the Prairie” when a Trans-Am crashed through the wall, ran him over and killed him
Now, a lot of people are gonna say, “It was the drugs.” Well, I’m here to tell you that I’m on drugs all the time, and I haven’t run over anybody.
Of course, I can’t afford no nice car, either.
But I decided to do some research about people driving up on the sidewalk and running over people. And I found out that it mostly happens in Brooklyn, where the people are so fat that they have a lot of problem squeezing in behind the steering wheel.
Brooklyn is a city that is so fat that the borough president, Friedman, tried to put the whole city on a diet. See, he found out that when these fat slobs eat calzone and egg roll together, it produces intestinal gas like a jet engine that pushes them forward in the driver’s seat and jams their foot down on the accelerator, then they drive up on the sidewalk and kill pedestrians.
On top of everything else, all this butt gas from the fat people in Brooklyn is depleting the ozone layer and producing global warming. Things have gotten so bad that chunks of Brooklyn are breaking off and floating out to sea, and by the time the fat walruses who are sunning themselves on the rocks are able to roll over and figure out what’s going, they have drifted so far out into the ocean that it’s too far for them to swim back.
So I’m thinking to myself, this is a great chance for me to make money and save Brooklyn at the same time.
So I designed this little beauty. [Produces a blown-up kiddie balloon taped to the end of a drinking straw] Here it is, ladies and gentlemen, The 200motels Butt Gas Collector. I should rake in millions with this cool shit!
Lemme show how it works. You take this tube and stick it up your ass like this [Bends over and jams the drinking straw between his legs from behind with the balloon appearing to stick out his butt].
Now you blow gas into it [Produces a duck call whistle and blows on it].
[Duck call: “Splaart!]
[Stands up and shows the thing to the audience] Now, when the balloon is filled up, you call Con Ed, and they send a guy over to empty the gas into a tank, which they use to heat houses.
Someday people will say, “Thank you, 200motels. You saved the world!”
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Posted on 1/7/2007
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January 06, 2007
SOMETIMES I LIKE TO TRY OUT SOME OF MY IDEAS ON THE VANITY FAIR WEBSITE TO TRY TO GET SOME AUDIENCE REACTION. THE PEOPLE WHO READ THAT WEB SITE ARE REALLLLLY PECULIAR! THIS WOMAN CALLED ME EVERY NAME IN THE BOOK, AND THEN TRIED TO BOOK A DATE WITH ME. WOTTA DORK!
apfedbeth
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Posts: 367
Member Since: 7/25/05
Re: THE BUTCHERS OF BAGHDAD or how not to hang a man
Posted: Jan 5, 2007 12:38 AM in response to: 200motels
in response to: 200motels
I tried. I read this one. I tried to do so with an open mind and now, after the past however many months of bypassing 200 of 200's threads I'm in the same place with the same opinion.
There is such an obvious nature to just how hard you work to appear controversial, and you actually find yourself funny... I always end up shaking my head wondering if you actually believe this tripe, are you THAT ignorant? Or! is it just really, really cold in your mom's basement and typing randomly warms up your fingers?
200motels
Posts: 106
Member Since: 7/9/06
Re: THE BUTCHERS OF BAGHDAD or how not to hang a man
Posted: Jan 5, 2007 9:03 PM in response to: apfedbeth
in response to: apfedbeth
i'm sure that if you keep trying, you will eventually morph into the portosan that you so so richly deserve to be
apfedbeth
message user
Posts: 367
Member Since: 7/25/05
Re: THE BUTCHERS OF BAGHDAD or how not to hang a man
Posted: Jan 5, 2007 10:12 PM in response to: 200motels
in response to: 200motels
Well 200, you surrrre told me. A portosan? Seriously? LOL. Not going to call me a bitch, or break out the ol' c-word you're so fond of? I used to think you were only somewhat pixilated, but now I am (personally) quite certain you are just daft.
OR! Perhaps your writing is so elevated it is beyond my comprehension. Feebly trying in vain, yet falling short, I just don't 'get it'.
I'd say reasonably we can agree that it is safe for you to believe that you are far more intelligent and wittier than I could ever hope to be. Transversely, I can believe you are bigoted and banal. Fair?
200motels
Posts: 106
Member Since: 7/9/06
Re: THE BUTCHERS OF BAGHDAD or how not to hang a man
Posted: Jan 6, 2007 9:03 AM in response to: apfedbeth
in response to: apfedbeth
always happy to hear from the bloated bags of intestinal gas who populate our nation's heartland. the only exposure i get to you dorks is when you come to new york in your walmart shorts and fanny packs.
you sound like a republican to me. i'll be around to crow like a cock when the present failed policy explodes in your face yet again, and you republicans are forced one more time to eat a healthy helping of shit pie
love, 200motels
apfedbeth
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Posts: 367
Member Since: 7/25/05
Re: THE BUTCHERS OF BAGHDAD or how not to hang a man
Posted: Jan 6, 2007 12:50 PM in response to: 200motels
in response to: 200motels
Your powers of perception are STAG-GER-ING!
200 motels- you are so very typical- and by that I mean obvious in the most wannabe of ways. You think that by saying I wear a fannypack, am hot for the Wal Mart machine somehow makes it true. Here's a little McNugget... I'm FROM NY. My mother is from NY- more than half of my family either currently resides there, or is from there. I'm an active liberal, not playing party politics, as it is not condusive to my industry, but I am very liberal. Apparently you don't read what anyone writes on here aside from responding to your own uninformed blather. I'm President of a medical nonprofit organization. (please feel free to visit our web site @ www.apfed.org) VERY difficult to be a diehard Republican with the state of healthcare in our country. But you would know all about that because you read BOTH VF and The Village Voice.
Rather than just spouting off at the mouth (read: keyboard) like all other internet-only blowhards, why don't you dig into the trenches to actually make a difference in someone's life before casting your virtual stones. Armchair Monday morning quarterbacking--- also known as a guy who reads one article, forms an opinion, and then blogs about it thinking he's got alllllll the answers is sooooooo 2002.
In case you haven't noticed- the good guys won the election.
I'll let you know when I am back in NYC on business. I'm figuring early April. We'll meet up at one of those tony little hot dog stands you're so familiar with and then we toss barbs in person. Otherwise, I'd be happy to recommend a REAL restaurant.
200motels
Posts: 106
Member Since: 7/9/06
Re: THE BUTCHERS OF BAGHDAD or how not to hang a man
Posted: Jan 6, 2007 6:34 PM in response to: apfedbeth
in response to: apfedbeth
i think i'll pass up any date with you, lady. frankly, i'd rather be in philadelphia. as for the republican business, you strike me as such a repulsive individual, i just naturally assumed you to be a red-state person.
anyway, the world is full of nauseating democrats as well.
spare me the personal details of your life, and i'll spare you mine. i'm very happy with the state of my writing, and that's all i care about.
call me anything you want, but i'll just assume you to be a drip in any language. after all the little wannbe digs, you try to arrange a date with me. that's rich!
apfedbeth
message user
Posts: 367
Member Since: 7/25/05
Re: THE BUTCHERS OF BAGHDAD or how not to hang a man
Posted: Jan 6, 2007 6:42 PM in response to: 200motels
in response to: 200motels
Meeting someone rather than exchanging this drivel online is makes for a better understanding. I wouldn't call it a date... hardly. LOLOLOL Perhaps some of your writing would actually begin to come together, but then, you'd have to actually be a real representation of yourself to be open to that idea.
Good enough. You can continue to assume away- I'll get back to real life.
Sayonara.
THIS BROAD NEED PSYCHIATRIC HELP, OR AT LEAST A BIG DICK! GEEZ, WHAT A MORON!
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Posted on 1/6/2007
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January 03, 2007
I don’t care to address the wisdom of invading Iraq and executing Saddam Hussein. I think I will leave that to the eminently qualified knuckleheads who have made such a fine job of completely botching it at every phase of the campaign.
I just want to take a minute to illustrate the superiority of Internet journalism, where people who actually know something have the opportunity to step in and contribute the expertise gained from a lifetime of actually doing things, as opposed to the deep thinkers who are hired right out of journalism school, and who spend the rest of their lives opining about things they know nothing about.
Managing people is not so different from managing donkeys. You wouldn’t hitch some donkeys to a wagon and tell them, “Pull this wagon to Dodge City.” They will end up eating grass, having sex and sleeping. No, you send somebody with the donkeys, and he directs them to Dodge City.
People who majored in government and then went to work in Washington have no concept of what it means to direct workers. They never even managed a 7/11, and journalists even less.
One job I had was managing an industrial bakery, and you can’t turn your back on workers, because the minute you sit down, they will sit down.
One night I got a call from an irate citizen who happened to see one of my drivers dump a whole load of bread on the sidewalk because he didn’t want to return to the bakery with it.
I wrote down the location and walked over to one of the assistant managers. “John,” I said, “take two men in a truck and pick up the bread from the sidewalk.” I gave him the paper with the location.
A little while later, I saw him again. “I thought I told you to go to 33rd Street and Tenth Avenue and pick up the bread from the sidewalk.”
“Oh, it’s OK,” he casually allowed. “I sent Tony and Eduardo with a truck. They should be there now.”
I screamed, “What? You didn’t go with them? Don’t you understand? Tony’s an alcoholic and Eduardo’s a moron. They’re never going to pick up the bread!”
I ran out and took another truck and I drove down to 33rd Street and Tenth Avenue. Sure enough, there was bread all over the sidewalk, and Tony and Eduardo were nowhere to be found.
I called Tony on my cell phone. “Where the fuck are you,” I screamed.
“We’re on Sixth Avenue.”
“Well, what the fuck are you doing on Sixth Avenue? I’m here looking for you monkeys and there’s bread all over the sidewalk!”
“We couldn’t find a place to park.”
“Well, get your fucking asses over here now and pick up the bread, you moron!”
A little while later they arrived in the bakery van. Eduardo said, “You want a beer?”
Bad as these guys were, at least they were Americans. Arabs are ten times worse. Trying to get them to do something is ten times worse. Adjacent to this bakery where I worked was a garage that the boss had leased to an Egyptian named Zizou, and he rented out hot dog carts to Arab shish kebob peddlers who sold the food to office workers in midtown. Unfortunately for me, part of my job was to make sure they kept a respectable sidewalk so that the city inspectors wouldn’t hit us with sanitation summonses.
It was here that I developed a grudging respect for Saddam Hussein’s draconian methods for keeping order. If you didn’t stay on top of them every hour, the sidewalk quickly came to resemble a war zone, with garbage dumpsters overflowing onto the sidewalk from every imaginable kind of filth, machine parts and enough butane gas cannisters to blow up the George Washington Bridge. When I walked inside the place, it was a pandemonium of grease, debris, chicken parts, stopped-up drains, you name it. These guys were solidly packed with huge, hard hands, and they worked all day with huge knives for chopping up the chicken. These guys were a lot harder to control than my guys, who were relatively peaceable Latin Americans and low-end Americans. The Arabs, with their big knives and greasy moustaches were like wildcats. When they fought with each other they screamed like hysterical maniacs and you never knew how far they would go.
Put Anderson Cooper in the middle of this shit!
The point I am trying to illustrate is, you don’t just give these guys a rope and tell them “Go hang Saddam Hussein.” You send along a responsible person to supervise them. Somebody who says, “No cameras, no cell phones and no talking. We’re taking a man’s life here, so be respectful.” And then you stand there and make sure that they do it.
But like I say, the people who run this government have no work experience, and the so-called reporters, even less.
Bush told the Iraqis, “Execute Saddam Hussein,” but he didn’t send anybody to supervise them. You would think he would have learned something from the pictures that leaked out of Abu Ghraib, but not this guy!
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Posted on 1/3/2007
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January 01, 2007
For Saddam Hussein’s last wish, he requested a blowjob. So they shoved a live grenade up his ass and pulled the pin.
In his hometown of Fukkit, Iraq, all the funeral hearses got crushed by American tanks, so they had to make due with a garbage dumpster pulled by a team of pigs. Instead of a twenty-one gun salute, he was saluted by a squad of suicide bombers.
The Arab custom is when a dignitary dies, they throw some virgins in the grave with him to accompany him on his trip to heaven. But there hasn’t been a virgin in Iraq since the Americans arrived, so they had to throw in some sheep instead.
I don’t feel bad for Saddam Hussein. You live by the meat grinder, you die by it. I believe he knew in his heart that something like this would happen to him. But he was compelled to follow the logical trajectory of his life, like we all are. I have never kept firearms around because I know my own nature. It’s too easy to point one and pull the trigger.
But let’s get one thing perfectly clear about one thing: the decision to execute Saddam Hussein was not decided by the bunch of bozos that constitutes Iraq’s puppet government. They are entirely occupied by stealing money – it’s their only job. Any policy decision of consequence concerning Iraq is decided by the Bush administration in Washington D.C.
The decision to execute Saddam Hussein was taken in the Oval Office by Bush and his advisors as a Hail Mary play to boost his collapsed approval ratings, and the immediacy of the decision was heightened by the fear that the incoming Democratic congress might complicate the situation by insisting on a role in the decision-making process.
I have written before and I still believe now that the Democrats should steer clear of deciding policy for Iraq beyond investigating intentional deceit and past policy blunders by the Bush administration, otherwise they will eventually be tarred by part of the blame when the whole policy implodes. This started out as Bush’s war, and when it ends it should end as Bush’s war. Otherwise the Democrats will pay the price for participating in a flawed and self-destructive policy. If the Democrats get involved they will receive part of the blame, and if they try to cut off funding for the war, they will get all of the blame from Republicans eager to get off the hook themselves.
But I want to assign a major part of the blame for this fiasco on our craven and insistently toadying press establishment for constantly and insistently parroting the administration line, starting with Judith Miller and her bosses at The New York Times and working down the food chain to lesser worms like Ralph Peters and Norman Podhoretz at the idiotic New York Post, and including the shallow idiots who feed us our daily diet of baby food at the TV news networks.
Even concerning the execution of Saddam Hussein, which anybody with even half a brain knows was a White House public relations gimmick, not one of these idiots has even suggested that Bush had anything to do with the timing of the execution, preferring to perpetuate the official line that the timing and method of the execution was a purely internal Iraqi decision, as though the so-called Iraqi administration has even the power to decide where the PortoSans are placed.
These news media outlets are controlled by corporate directors who understand nothing more immediate than the selective dating of their stock options, and their interest in the honest and transparent conduct of American policy affairs never extends past their self-serving perceptions of their own self-interest.
The Iraq war is the least of it. The worst of it is the public looting of the Treasury that has lasted since the beginning of the Bush administration, and the blatant and wholesale stealing that has driven the dollar down 50% relative to the euro.
If the stealing continues unabated, we will eventually reach the point where foreigners go to harder currencies, refuse to roll over our debt and insist on getting paid, which run on our Treasury will destroy the dollar and drive us to ruination, like Argentina. Then, when we are broke, we will really find out who our real friends are.
These imbecilic newspaper writers and TV announcers, who were hired precisely for those qualities of servility to corporate interests, are a big part of the problem, and they deserve a large portion of the blame for the current state of affairs. They are afraid of the Internet, and they should be, because the Internet bloggers, who don’t owe a debt of fealty to anybody, have the collective power to knock these bums out of the box.
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Posted on 1/1/2007
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January 01, 2007
For your next French vacation, don't forget to sample a slice of their delectable shit pie. This gallic delicacy, which can be found at the gourmet shop of the sewage treatment plant located in Paris' 12th arrondissement, comes in creamy or crunchy textures, containing peanuts, corn and other delectable taste treats. Don't forget to tell them, 200motels sent me!
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January 01, 2007
This woman demonstrates the traditional French
recipe for marinating her butt with mackerel in
preparation for the traditional French New Years feast
of "Butte Poissoniere," which explains the
Frenchmen's historic obsession with seafood.
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January 01, 2007
This Frenchman prepares to enjoy the
traditional New Year's feast of France's
national dish, "Butte
Poissoniere." Bon Appetit!
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January 01, 2007
In France, if you can't find a public toilet you can dial one up on your cellular telephone!
Just dial 999-PP and punch in your location, and in a matter of minutes a worker will deliver a hand-held urinal for you to relieve yourself without having to leave an unsightly stain on the sidewalk.
For female users the service also provides sit-down toilets or a portable birdbath to wash the pussy.
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Posted on 1/1/2007
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