October 31, 2007
The governor of California is a magnificent specimen of humanity. Even ancient Greece never saw anybody like him, because the ancient Greeks never had the kind of drugs we got. Let's be real. The Governator is a walking cornucopia of pharmaceutical splendor. You don't get that big by being natural. I've been working out all my life and I still look like a fruit because I've been afraid to take steroids and end up with my legs amputated or permanently hooked to a dialysis machine.Anyway, I like to smoke pot, which never killed anybody. The governor, who also loves to get high, bless him, got it right when he said pot is not a drug, it's a leaf. Arnold has been smoking it all his life and it never prevented him from being six times Mr. Olympia, having a fantastic show business career, making millions of bucks and literally stealing the office of Governor of California from under the noses of the establishment politicians! Whatever he's smoking, I want some of it. That reefer is so fine it's got him twisted into believing he's a Republican. Yeah, right! Arnold's never even seen a freakin' Republican. Where, in LA? Don't make me laugh.Arnold has a comic book concept of Republicans. He relates to the part about making money, like any normal person, but if you put him in a room with some real Republicans, paranoid moralistic pricks, he would break through the wall like a movie just to get out of there!Not that you don't have plenty of tedious, sanctimonious blue state pricks. New Yorkers are so boring they should be made to wear a bag over their heads. A plastic one. And not just because of their crummy personalities. They're homely too. Take Rudolph Giuliani who's getting uglier every day. He was always very boring and plain, but now he's moving into negative territory. There's no law that says you have to get uglier as you get older, especially in these times of advanced training and cosmetic enhancement techniques, but you have to have something to start with. It's rare that the last horse out of the gate goes on to win the race. In order to age gracefully you have to have fitness and intelligence. An older face betrays intelligence or stupidity and Giuliani, sorry to say, inclines toward the latter quality.But if you look at New York politicians, from a standpoint of physical qualities they're all dogs. Bloomberg, Spitzer, Clinton, Schumer, D'Amato, Pataki blah blah blah. All dogs. Nobody with a decent appearance can even get elected in New York. The prerequisite is that you have to be ugly. Look at Rep. Gerald Nadler, who is a walking crime against humanity. My district used to be represented in the state senate by an incredibly obese porker named Fatso Putzo (I don't want to use her real name). She was a real porker. Her specialty was, big surprise, nutrition. One time she set up a booth by the 86th Street subway station giving away cups of coffee with the slogan "Wake up and smell the coffee." Even her freakin' campaign was about food! I refused to speak to her. You want to impress me? Put on some sneakers and run around the block, you dork!A muscular appearance in New York is considered a liability. It means you're an airhead. The way New Yorkers see it, if you are spending too much time on external appearances you're not a deep thinker. Like, if you're a bodybuilder you're not smart enough to become a structured finance accountant capable of inventing collateralized debt obligations that push the economy over the brink of disaster.Maybe it's time to give the idiots (of whom I proudly count myself one) a chance. I would issue a collateralized butt obligation backed up by women's backsides.Here you got great social deep thinkers like Bill O'Reilly advising show business artists that they're not qualified to state a coherent political opinion, and in the meantime he doesn't have the talent to tune a guitar. O'Reilly was shocked to see black people eating with knives and forks in a restaurant like normal people. Who elected this schmuck?These idiots make fun of California because the people in California go out in the sunshine, believe in good looks and don't go around in black clothes in the middle of August. As for being dummies, they got more money than we do here. They also have more athletes, artists and writers. I should have gone out there too, but I don't want to let driving interfere with my drinking.New York governor Eliot Spitzer could never get elected in California because he is a loudmouth, pencil-necked stiff. Schwartznegger would feed him for a snack to the school of piranha fish that he keeps in the swimming pool of the governor's mansion in Sacramento.But I don't want to stray too far from the reefer. When Arnold came out in favor of the reefer it made me love him even more. This country has got to get back to its old values, and I mean the really old ones, like from 10,000 years ago, when the Indians used to smoke locoweed. You don't hear about any Indians declaring War on Drugs. I like to smoke pot and work out. It's inspirational. When the Knicks used to smoke it they used to win games. Now they brought in the drug testing and they're in the toilet. The Dolan family should fly in a few tons of weed and distribute it to all the players. They should give some to the fans too. That would sure improve my team spirit!Look how the New York media jumped all over Arnie for saying pot was good for you, calling him loser and a whole lot of dirty names! Meantime they swallowed Bush's lame garbage about the Iraq war hook line and sinker, and now that they're shown up to be idiots they're crying "How could the president lie to us?" Wotta bunch of freakin' morons!Out in California they long ago approved a referendum to legalize pot (in the east here they don't like to talk about that). You can go to the doctor and tell him you got a hangnail or hemorrhoids and get a prescription for some pot which you take to a licensed marijuana store and buy some Maui Wowee. Now, that's what I call service! No more furtive street corner deals to buy catnip cut with oregano, just walk up to the counter like a solid citizen and declare, "Gimme a half ounce of Thai sticks and a couple of those blunts that I saw the governor smoking on Larry King."It's obvious that after 25 years of killing myself in the gym I still look like a dork because I haven't been smoking the right stuff.
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October 31, 2007
Now that the Red Sox won the World Series Rudolph Giuliani must be in heaven. His excuse for switching from the Yanks to the Red Sox was that they are both in the American League, but I know the real reason. The real reason that Giuliani likes the Sox is that they both like to go out wearing ladies' dresses.
The Red Sox's secret strategy for beating the Yankees involves equiping all their batters with rubber fly masks to freak out Joba Chamberlain. Chamberlain is insisting that the Yankees install mosquito netting over the pitcher's mound.
Knicks owner James Dolan says that to improve the Knicks' shooting accuracy he is going to line the basket rim with hair.A-Rod told the Dodgers that if he agrees to sign with them he wants them to build him a miniature New York like the one in Las Vegas, complete with a pop-up dummy of George Steinbrenner that he can run over with his own subway train. Former Dodgers manager Grady Little said he left the team for personal reasons. He woke up and found Dodgers owner Frank McCourt standing over his bed holding a knife.Sometimes people's pets come to exactly resemble them. Is that why Don Mattingly looks exactly like Joe Torre? Now that Mattingly is going out to LA he should feel right at home, since Steinbrenner passed him off to Torre like one of Ellen Degeneres' dogs. It's the biggest migration of New Yorkers to LA since Walter O'Malley brought The Brooklyn Dodgers to Chavez Ravine (until I was 25 years old I thought Chavez Ravine was a Mexican Jew).Las Vegas is scheduled to get its own NBA franchise, called the Las Vegas Crooked Refs. They're going to use hookers from The Mustang Ranch for cheerleaders and during half-time OJ is going to come out with a pistol and rob the fans. They say that everything that happens in Las Vegas stays in Vegas. They must be referring to OJ, because he is going to be staying there for a long, long time. They already have a nice jail all prepared for him in the secret underground dumps where they test the bombs.
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Posted on 10/31/2007
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October 29, 2007
Alas poor A-ROD we loved thee well
But all the financial negotiations started to take on a distinctly rancid fish smell
If one home-run hitter could make a team
We would have won the World Series
And reigned supreme
Everybody loves money
And you do too
But all the hands out all the time
Started to resemble feeding time at the Bronx Zoo
For the money we paid you to be a star We could bring in a busload of left-handed pitchers from the DR
A-Rod we love you but all this money-grubbing ain't funny
We need a team of ambitious young players
Who are willing to work for less money
The kind of loot that you're asking is positively obscene
For that kind of money you could buy your own team
Maybe you could go out to LA with Joe Torre
With a mansion in Brentwood and tons of glory
Just make sure you don't run into OJ
In case he goes crazy before they lock him away
He might be high on pills and take you for his wife
And you could end up running away from his knife
But if you end up wearing a Dodgers cap
The Mets and not us will have to run away from your bat
Some day on the moon when they send out a Moon Rover
It'll probably find the ball from one of your homers
And pretty soon your stack of cash will be so high
It will build a Stairway of Heaven up to the sky
But don't forget that New York is your friend
And we will cheer for you til the end
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Posted on 10/29/2007
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October 28, 2007
When Russian impresario Sergei Diaghilev first presented his Russian ballet and opera troupe in Paris in 1910 it was as though a thunderbolt had struck the European art world. At a time when the performing arts in Europe was stuck in a stagnant trough of moribund mediocrity, a spontaneous combustion had exploded in remote St. Petersburg, where the classically trained dancers of the Mariinsky Theater, ignited by the revolutionary didacticism of Isadora Duncan, had erupted in an atonal, countermeasured reaction to the conventions of classical ballet.
Sweeping into France like a Winged Victory, Diaghilev brought in his wake the innovative choreographic concepts of Michel Fokine; the set and costume design of Léon Bakst; the incomparable ballerinas Pavlova and Karsavina who inflamed the imagination of Europe and married royalty; and the centerpiece of the troupe, Vaslav Nijinski, a leaping, slithering faun whose sex act with a wood nymph’s scarf scandalized society and nearly provoked the collapse of the French government.
This is what the critic from The London Daily Mail had to say about Les Ballets Russes production of “Le Pavillion d’Armide,” presented in London in 1911: “One of the most enchanting creations ever seen on any stage.” Le Figaro described Bakst’s set and costume design for “Le Dieu Bleu” as “the zenith of decorative art.” No less an authority than Frances greatest living artist, the sculptor Auguste Rodin, wrote in Le Matin, “I would wish that…The Théâtre du Châtelet would arrange other [performances] to which all our artists might come for inspiration and to communicate in beauty.”
The European public is a fickle beauty like Thamar, the man-eating Queen of the Caucuses in the ballet of the same name, reclining on her divan waiting for the next unwary traveler to seduce and ultimately destroy. Only instead of luring victims by waving a scarf out of the window of her redoubt, as in the ballet, Europa lures them by waving euros and notes of pound sterling.
The latest victim of this deathly embrace would seem to be America’s National Football League, seduced by the lure of big euros into leaving the safety of its home country, where its market is saturated to the point of bursting. They have taken over London’s Wembley Stadium to present a regular season game between the New York Giants and the Miami Dolphins, cities craftily chosen by the league because of the large place they occupy in the imagination of Europeans. The official line is that all 80,000 tickets to the game have sold out, though that stretches the credulence of this observer, who feels that a lot of complimentary tickets must have been distributed to expatriate money managers working in the City of London to distribute to their employees.
Nevertheless, the international audience is going to be treated to a purely American exhibition of irrational exuberance. Both teams are set to put on a show complete with cheerleaders and truckloads of beer. What the European reaction will be to the arcane rules that have evolved with the American game is anybody’s guess, but I definitely feel that when the London sportswriters and theater critics pronounce their final verdict, the judgment will not be favorable to the Americans, particularly in light of the fact that their exhibition follows so closely on the heels of the Rugby World Cup, which just ended last week in Paris. The American game displays some glaring deficiencies when compared to rugby, notably that there is a delay between each play. Also, Europeans are not going to be friendly to the concept of defensive blocking, which prevents players of the opposing from enjoying a clear shot at the ball handler.
The reason this article begins with a reference to ballet is that shielded behind a wall of burly defenders, a sort of choreographed ballet takes place involving the offensive quarterback and his running backs that has evolved to a complexity that would astound even Georges Balanchine, what with the running patterns designed to confuse the opposition and pirouetting steps of the quarterback that would not be out of place in a royal command performance of “Petrushka.” It’s as though Nureyev were performing with a chorus of grunting sumo westlers in the execution scene of “Schéhérezade”, where the emperor’s janissaries kill all the women in his harem for consorting with the African slaves while Nijinski slithers across the stage on his belly like a water moccasin. You even got dancing girls in the form of cheerleaders.All that remains to be added would be a tenor like Chaliapine to sing the death scene from “Ivan the Terrible.”
The most seductive aspect of the NFL game from the standpoint of European spectator is sure to be that most optimistic of American innovations, the forward pass, which is unknown in rugby. This provides the clearest insight into the psychological distinctions between the Europeans, who are only permitted underhanded lateral passes, and the Americans, whose quarterback, after weaving and evading opposition tacklers with a dance that evokes Harlequin danced by Nijinsky in Folkine’s “Carnaval”, sets himself up behind a fortress of defenders and, posing like the Statue of Liberty, lets loose a rocket through the sky to the waiting hands to one of his agents, who is then permitted to gallop like a Palovtsian dancer, defenders trailing behind him to knock off potential tacklers, as he romps to victory in the end zone. It’s the American Dream writ small, a come-from-behind Hail Mary pass on a wing and a prayer designed to snatch victory form the steel jaws of defeat.Not to beat an analogy to death, but it’s the “Firebird” set loose from the hands of the hunter and returned to save him from the grisly clutches of the ogres. This one redeeming feature of the American game will certainly release a hormone of exhilaration in first-time spectators, but is it enough to enable the game to catch on in Europe?
Not likely. They are likely to view it as a diluted version of their old game, which they proudly vaunt as being played without safety equipment. Then there is the question of cultural rivalry. For British (and, even less likely, European) spectators there is no emotional attachment to watching two foreign teams. They don’t have a dog in this fight. Even if the NFL were to establish a London franchise, it would still be Americans playing against other Americans. At least with basketball, (and, in certain European countries, baseball), there are a lot of native players to stimulate nationalist sentiment. Unlike cricket, soccer and rugby American football is a parochial phenomenon limited to only one country, so international tournaments are out of the question.
Regardless of the critical reaction, and being a casual reader of British press publications I believe they will go after American football like pit-bulls just for the sensationalism, this writer’s guess is that British interest will sink like the Spanish Armada. But hey, I could be wrong. I’ve spent my whole life being wrong (anybody care to buy some Eurotunnel shares?). The average Briton is so closely wed to the American way of life that it’s practically a 51st state already, except that they drive on the wrong side of the street and their version of English sounds like an old Errol Flynn pirate movie. They might go bonkers for American football! And then the NFL – players, managers, team executives and league officials alike – will dance to the bank like the Dance of the Earth scene from “Le Sacre du Printemps”, drunken revelers being showered with pound notes and euros while the cheerleaders sing the Hallelujah Chorus. Right on!
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October 27, 2007
worst in Internet literary entertainment. 200motels.net will make your blood run cold.
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October 25, 2007
Aug. 25.City Council members are spending thousands of dollars to buy new garbage cans bearing their names – NY Sun.
ALL HAIL THE GODS OF GARBAGE!
Back in the halcyon eons of ages past illustrious nobility could achieve immortality by declaring themselves to be descended from the celestial deities and having temples and holy orders consecrated in their honor. Throughout the ages kings and emperors embossed their likenesses upon grand erections like the pyramids and the Taj Mahal to proclaim their passing through this mortal coil, thereby reminding future generations of their eternal greatness.
But nothing surpasses the modern age for scientific genius in mankind’s quest to achieve godhead through technological innovation like that truly magnificent tribute to human civilization, the New York City Garbage Can.
In a truly heroic attempt to transcend the boundaries of mere human existence and achieve the status of Olympian immortality, certain New York dignitaries are consecrating important sums of money to having their names affixed to that most ubiquitous of containers in the hope of increasing their fame and enhancing their prestige, as well they should! It was only a matter of time until we as a nation of high-class status seekers turned our attention to designer garbage. What stylish New Yorker wants to be seen depositing his dog waste or leftover fish heads in a greasy, common trash receptacle? Are we not the Imperial Masters Of The Universe? That is why branded garbage has finally emerged as the centerpiece of our civilization.
The only people who up to now have appreciated the value of garbage have been the Italians, who have jumped into it with both Gucci-clad feet. The illustrious Italian composer Fettucine even wrote an opera called “Te Amo Come Una Spazzatura”, about two garbage men who kill each other over a collection route in Patterson NJ. But now, as garbage becomes a vogue, everybody wants to get into the act.
As it stands right now the field of garbage promotion has largely been confined to municipal political leaders, but the time is coming when celebrities and philanthropists, faces beaming at the side of startling and breathtaking new receptacles of every shape and description, will be repeating the immortal words engraved on the Statue of Liberty, “”Send me your trash, your stinking rubbish.” And Americans of every shape and description will rise to the occasion like a crusade. “Yes!” they will shout, “I want to deposit my used Kitty Litter in Regis Philbin’s mouth!”
Just as consumers proudly vaunt their iPhones and Jimmy Choo pumps, so one day will they seek to establish their elevated level of discernment by their choice of rubbish bins. “I only throw my vacuum cleaner bags in Donald Trump, and my chicken bones in Al Sharpton,” will they proudly announce.
But why should this mania for branding and prestige be confined to the area of household wastes? What about The Larry Craig Memorial Public Toilet, or urinals displaying the images of other stalwarts of the National Republican Party, like Giuliani or even George W. Bush himself? Just as the citizens of ancient Athens used to elect their leaders by casting colored stones into a basket will we someday vote for our elected officials by taking a leak in the urinal of our choice! Cosmetics companies will vie for the top position in the garbage sweepstakes by inventing fragrances with names like “Saturday Night Vomit” and “Stinky Red Sox.”
And as the competitive pressure for larger and more grandiose monuments has come to more and more consume the competitive nature of the great leaders of history, so will our rulers strive to eclipse each other by greater and greater displays of magnificence. No longer content to adorn garbage cans, they will seek to project their fame from the sides of garbage trucks and even East River barges transporting industrial waste to sewage treatment facilities. For our richest, most prestigious leaders even that display of vanity won’t be enough, as they seek to excel each other in displays of extravagence, until one day you will able to take your family and spend the day smelling the garbage and admiring the scurrying rats, roaches and flies as you stroll through Staten Island’s newly renovated Michael J. Bloomberg National Garbage Preserve! Hallelujah!
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Posted on 10/25/2007
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October 23, 2007
The meaning of art is to enhance a miserable and brutish natural existence by the flowering of culture. Sometimes that expression can take the form of a flying leap executed by Baryshnikov as part of ballet choreographed by Balanchine. Other times the expression of art can be quite horrifying, as in a tableau by Hieronymus Bosch or an “Aliens” movie.
The amount of artistic expression necessary to satisfy a person’s need for beauty varies according to that individual’s capacity for fulfillment. Some people can be satisfied by a trip to Disney World while for others the earth, the moon and the stars are never enough. When I was younger I worked full-time as a designer, which would be quite enough creation for many. Yet I still found time to run around in search of other media of expression. I did a comedy act, visited galleries and museums, read three books at a time, played music, haunted art cinemas.
In retrospect I now understand that I was charging my batteries with the cultural arsenal to one day explode as a writer, though previous to the Internet I never bothered to write a word. For what reason, to show to a useless agent or publishing hack?Pearls before swine! Now that I have access to Internet technology to take my case directly to the mass audience, those bureaucrats can be excised as conveniently as cutting fat off a steak.
style="BACKGROUND-COLOR: #ffc0cb; ">A rich vein of inspiration has always been French cinema, and not just Truffault and Bresson blah blah blah, but other monsters of the cinematic world such as René Clair, Marcel Pagnol or Alain Resnais. A Resnais film that comes to mind at this moment of mounting political and labor strife in France is an allegorical comedy from 1980 entitled “Mon Oncle d’Amérique”, a title whose correlation to the story, like many pieces written by the narrator of this piece, rests only in the convoluted artistic thought processes of the creator, starring Gérard Dépardieu and Nicole Garcia. The film deals with young persons who try to make a go of it in the arts but are inevitably sucked into the deceits and heart-rending disappointments of survival in the corporate world.
What brought this nasty little comedy to mind is a scene wherein Dépardieu, absolutely distracted to wits’ end, attempts to hang himself with a length of rope. Unfortunately this comedic creation of Resnais a generation ago is finding its reflection in the labor relations world of contemporary France, where in the last year four highly specialized engineers for the auto manufacturer Renault have committed suicide, three on company premises.
The highly lucrative French automotive industry has a global reach, though French cars are not sold in the U.S. for reasons of distribution. Renault for years owned Jeep in the U.S. but sold it to Chrysler because French executives declined to live in Detroit.
The Renault business model, with its Japanese partner Nissan, requires it to continue churning out an unprecedented number of new models each season.Renault is run by Carlos Ghosn, who formerly ran Ford’s European division and also worked for Volkswagon.Ghosn is demanding eight new models every year, which is double the previous number.
Technical jobs are a lovely way to work because machines and industrial production is an exact science without having to take into account the variables of human behavior, which is always a drag in a job situation, what with people constantly coming up with excuses why they can’t do the job. Carlos Ghosn has a solution for this – assign a man a backbreaking workload and if he doesn’t perform, you fire him. End of story. Maybe Sarkozy should bring Ghosn in to improve productivity in the French public sector, except Ghosn probably makes 20-30 times what Sarkozy makes.
Anyway, Ghosn breaks the backs of his engineers. This is how one technician described a normal day’s work at the Renault Technocentre in Guyancourt: work at the office from 8AM-8PM, go home, eat dinner, work at home 10PM-1AM.
No wonder these people are jumping out of windows: fourteen hours a day working out the specifications for which celanoid alternator to use to reverse the electrical charge in the windshield wipers for the Laguna III sedan.
Needless to say, the 35-hour workweek doesn’t cover these guys.Nothing does. That’s capitalism for you! But if the pressure is too intense you can always quit and go to work at a nice cushy job for French railways. There, all they have to do is work for 37 ½ years to qualify for a pension, right?
Wrong.Sarkozy, who never held a real job in his life wants to raise the bar from 37 ½ to 40 years, in the interest of fiscal reform, so he can push through tax cuts for hedge fund traders.
The only difference is that unlike the flying engineers of Renault, the rail workers are organized into unions, and when they go on strike they enjoy the support of a large segment of the overworked French general population.
The current rail stoppage, which is the first since 1995, has been going on for a week and instead of losing momentum it seems to actually be picking up steam.The largest rail union, the CGT, seemed to be in favor resuming rail service in order to facilitate negotiations with the government but in face of government intransigence over increasing the pension requirements, the smaller, more militant unions seem to be winning worker support for continuing the walkout.
At this writing the railway unions are being joined by eight public service unions, who are calling for a national strike for November 20 to protest the French government’s hard line with regard to salary increases.
They seem to be betting on public support and hoping that the hostility over the inconvenience will coalesce against the government. This is the first big move against Sarkozy of the type that forced Chirac to retreat so many times. Time will tell if his will is stronger than that of the public, and whether the pressure will bend him or cause him to break.
In addition to these nasty labor relations situations, the Sarkozy government is moving toward DNA testing to prove blood relations of the families of immigrants. This is not a subject I have meditated on very much, so I don’t have a formulated opinion, but it is already ringing alarm bells in France, with protests and street demonstrations in all the major cities.
While the perfect storm is building, Sarkozy has effectuated a state visit to the Kingdom of Morocco, where he signed several agreements with the Moroccan government for the €2 billion construction of a TGV rail line to link Tangiers with Marrakech, the sale of a naval frigate for the Moroccan navy, and a uranium extraction agreement.
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October 23, 2007
Welcome to Malibu, the world’s biggest weenie roast.
The fire started when flames shot out of Lindsay Lohan’s crotch and ignited Ellen Degeneres’ dog.
Larry Craig almost roasted in his Porto-San.
There has been property destruction but very little human injury because at the time of the fire the whole state was away in rehab.
Britney Spears was seen wandering down the Pacific Coast Highway asking people, “Dude, Where’s My House?”
Things are so hot, Mexicans are jumping over the fence in the other direction.
At the San Diego Zoo the monkeys have formed a volunteer fire department and are using the elephants’ trunks for fire hoses.
Things are so hot in Malibu, Mel Gibson thought he had died and gone to hell.
Michael Jackson dangled his kid over the edge of the balcony and the hot air made the kid go up!
Pee-Wee Herman was jerking off in the adult cinema and his dick got so hot he had to let go.
Hugh Grant, who was arrested in his car getting oral sex from a hooker, told the cop that getting blown was the only way he could stay cool.
But the only people who were happy were Cheech and Chong, who are standing downwind from Paris Hilton’s house and inhaling the smoke.
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October 22, 2007
VALERIE PLAME, SECRET AGENT Valerie Plame, the super-duper CIA undercover agent who was betrayed by her own government as revenge against her diplomat husband, Joe Wilson, has agreed to this interview with 200motels to tell her side of the story.
200motels – Ms. Plame, what can you tell us about your duties as an espionage agent?
Plame – My job was to make the Russians believe that all Americans are airheads and idiots.
200motels – Do you think you succeeded?
Plame – I know I did. Who would believe that I have any brains at all? Actually, I’m a rocket scientist with a degree from The Rocket J. Squirrel Institute of Ass-tro Physics.
200motels – I find that impossible to believe.
"> Plame – See, it works!
200motels – Were you in charge of recruiting agents?
Plame – You bet!I ran a whole network of Cuban exiles from my beach chair at the pool of The Delano in Miami Beach.
200motels – Did you ever go to Cuba?
Plame – Only once, but I can’t stand the smell of cigar smoke.
200motels – Did you ever work undercover?
Plame – I once infiltrated a planeload of European models who were sent to the United Arab Emirates to have sex with rich arabs.
200motels – That sounds exciting.
Plame – It was! Look, that’s where I got this Rolex.
200motels – That’s a beauty!
Plame – Yeah, it actually tells time.
200motels – Yeah, but it’s eight hours fast.
Plame – That’s because it’s still on Bahrain time. I haven’t figured out how to set it for the U.S.
200motels – You must have some secret disguises.
Plame – I was inspired by Mata Hari. Of course, she was a great dancer and I can’t dance at all, so I took a course in pole dancing at The Learning Annex, and that way I was able to infiltrate the Mustang Ranch in Las Vegas.
200motels – That’s a bordello. Did you learn any secrets?
Plame – Sure, but I can’t show you any of them.
200motels – Do you have any secret weapons?
Plame – Well, these Jimmy Choo stiletto heels actually have knives that pop out of them. And this studded belt from Rodeo Drive is really a secret control belt.
200motels - What does it control?
Plame – Well, these are not my real breasts…
200motels - You could have fooled me!
Plame – When I touch this button on my belt they shoot out sleeping gas.
200motels - I’m already passing out.
Plame - Don’t do that. If you fall down and I have to catch you I might break a nail.
200motels - Heaven forbid!
Plame - Now, these are my collection of Barbie dolls, but they’re actually remote-controlled robots with video capability. And when I press this button on my belt they explode.
200motels - Oh, how precious! Little remote-control bombs!
Plame - And this inflatable sex doll is fitted with a tape recorder, so after the guy does it to the doll and he falls in love with it, it records all the secrets he tells it, and we decipher the secrets back at headquarters.
200motels - Did you ever spy on Al-Qaeda?
Plame - Yeah, I put on this costume and the guys thought I was a camel and we had sex. I was able to collect a lot of DNA samples.
200motels – Wow, you’re a regular genius!
Plame - See, I told you! Come to www.200motels.net, the last bastion of CLASS in a nasty world!
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Posted on 10/22/2007
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October 18, 2007
PARDON MY FRENCH For the past couple of days I have been sitting on a piece I wrote about the break-up of French president Nicholas Sarkozy’s marriage to the impetuous beauty, Cécilia. I wanted to make sure I understood the circumstances of the affair before I expressed an opinion.I needn’t have worried. Things are pretty well unfolding as I predicted.
Cécilia’s divorce petition coincides with the first ominous rumblings of public discontent with Sarkozy’s take-no-prisoners approach to governing, a public transport strike to protest an attempt by Sarkozy to add two and one-half years to the time that a transit worker must work, from 37 1/2 to 40, to be eligible for a full pension. Some people might applaud this measure as fiscal responsibility, but others, such as the workers whose acquired benefits are at play, might be forgiven for believing that he is trying to turn back the clock to the bad old days of wage slavery. Despite the usual propaganda about the featherbedding French workforce, working conditions in that country are not optimal, and French workers manifest excellent productivity under frequently harsh conditions and intense competitive pressure. Whatever gains they have made in social progress have come at the cost of rigorous struggle, and they are not likely to give them back without a fight. If taking back benefits had been a viable option to control union activity it would have been adopted long ago, but it’s not, any more than it would work to try to coerce Cécilia Sarkozy to behave contrary to her instincts.
The reaction of the American press to the Sarkozy breakup has been hysterically funny. They have been fawning over Sarkozy since the moment he got elected with the same imbecilic affection that Bush showered on Putin when he looked in his eyes and saw his soul, Oh My God! They can’t believe that a wife would walk out on such a great guy. The New York Sun, which I call The Daily Backward, after running through every French cliché to be found in The Elements of Style (“Gallic shrug”, “vaunted sophistication in matters of the heart” blah blah blah), went on to compare Cécilia Sarkozy, first lady of France and former wife of television personality Jacques Martin, a woman who herself would not be out of character miming the Ida Rubenstein role in Fokine’s ballet “Cléopâtre” at the Opéra Garnier, with – are you ready for this! – Larry Craig’s dumpy wife, who stands by her man even as he gets caught soliciting weenie in a public toilet.
Then, by way of demonstrating that we also have worldly leaders, The Sun invokes Giuliani, who wears ladies’ dresses and panties, who moved in with gay guys (his own “Cage aux Folles”?) after his wife walked out on him to appear in The Vagina Monologues, whose current wife used to work as a medical assistant for a company that did vivisection on live dogs as part of its sales presentations (why Michael Vick’s attorneys never got around to mentioning that, I’ll never know. As usual, incompetent legal representation) whose only foreign policy initiative to date, which he is still bragging about, was when he had Yassar Arafat evicted from his box at the Metropolitan Opera.Oh year, that’s class!
Incidentally, in the same edition of The Sun (or is it the moon?“Is that the sun or is that the moon?”“I don’t know.I don’t live in this neighborhood.”), that paper’s Middle East expert, Youssef Ibraham, né Joe Schmuckley of Levittown, LI, advocates attacking Saudi Arabia and annexing its oil-rich Eastern Province as a solution for stabilizing the world oil market.Bravo! As the election draws near the list of potential victims continues to grow in size.
As for The New York Sun, who put these retards in charge of running a newspaper? I thought The Post was staffed with knuckleheads, but at least they have a sense of humor, as befits a comic book. Whereas The Post only costs a quarter, the pineapples at The Sun are betting that people will be willing to pay a dollar to read news items reprinted whole from the wire services; plodding, moralistic right-wing opinion pieces composed by certifiable lunatics; and cultural criticism by freshly-hatched journalism majors.
The only reason I read this idiocy is that I happen to live in a good zip code, where The Sun, in its slathering adoration of rich people, leaves the garbage in doorways for free so it can boost its circulation in hopes of attracting advertisers, which it doesn’t get anyway. People just use it as a doormat. Frankly, I’m better off writing my own news.
Come to www.200motels.net, the last bastion of CLASS in a nasty world!
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Posted on 10/18/2007
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October 18, 2007
THE WEATHER GIRL I’m starting to believe that newly elected French president Nicholas Sarkozy may not get to finish his complete term. Based upon my understanding of the French psychology, which may not be that great but still beats that of 99% of the Anglo-Saxon world, the first push is coming from his beautiful wife, Cécilia, who is dragging him into divorce court only a few months after he won the election by a wide margin.
Frenchmen love money, but it is considered to be an ugly character trait to be too maniacally focused on the making of it. Essentially, you’re supposed to do what you have to in your business life, but then you go home and have your life. The concept of a business person allowing himself to be defined as some kind of gonzo nutso caveman hunter-gatherer has never been the case in French culture even going back to the Romans and beyond, even six thousand years ago, when the Phoenicians founded Marseille on the Mediterranean coast, drinking wine and smoking reefer in the evening (the main boulevard of Marseilles, La Canebière, is named after the cannabis plant). Capitalism and money is a relatively new phenomenon. Archeologists haven’t found monetary coins going back more than a few millennia in France, but they have discovered art and musical instruments dating back more than 50,000 years.
I started to feel that Sarkozy was a little peculiar when the American neo-conservatives swooned over him in ecstasy. These idiots haven’t liked any foreigner since Margaret Thatcher, who was a repugnant individual. But I at first figured that they were relieved that the French had a leader who would at least address some occasional kind remarks with regard to this country.
Sarkozy’s Socialist opponent, Ségolène Royal, seemed unfocused about what she wanted to accomplish like her predecessor, Lionel Jospin. This seems to be why the Socialists are getting beat time after time – they are not projecting an image of resolve. The issues are not too different from those driving American politics, the economy and immigration, and Sarkozy seemed to have mastered them to a finer degree than Royal.
Nevertheless, adoption of the barbaric Anglo-Saxon concept of savage capitalism as the basic tenet for French economic life may be carrying things too far for a country that just recently threw off its chains. Socialism has been kind to France and, while the people may be desirous of having more money in their pockets they certainly are not manifesting much interest in emulating the American model, which anyway seems more and more likely to implode any day now.
Sarkozy’s designation of Christine Lagarde as finance minister seems to exemplify his approach to economic reform. Lagarde lived in Chicago for many years and worked at a law firm there. She is a vociferous proponent of the Big Shoulders approach. Unfortunately she may have learnt her lesson too well, as she is one of the objects of an insider trading investigation over the precipitous dumping of EADS shares that took place prior to the announcement of production delays involving the Airbus A-380 super jumbo airliner.
French people can be extremely indulgent with regard to the human frailties of their leaders, as to their own, but they have absolutely no patience for imbecility. The fact of Sarkozy being dumped by his wife, who is throwing away a life in the Elysee Palace, limos, designer dresses and jewelry, vacations in the presidential jet (which is sure to be a double-decker A-380 with two levels, a flying Versailles) and all the other perks just to get away from him is not going to be lost on the subway-riding public.This could well be the first nail in the coffin of his public image.
Sarkozy is not a normal Frenchman. His parents were immigrants and he may not even be sure what country he is leading. He may not speak French with a thick foreign accent like Napoleon Bonaparte, whose father actually fought as a maquisard against the 18th century French occupation of Corsica, but he may be a little overmuch of a striver.
One thing is for sure, if he turns out to be a bad fit for French society, they won’t suffer him to hang around until his term expires in 2012, as the Americans are wont to do with their losers. If a consensus is reached that he is doing an unsatisfactory job he will have to leave.Or watch the streets fill up…
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Posted on 10/18/2007
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October 16, 2007
When the Argentine military government felt their control collapsing in 1980 they invented a pretext for invading the Falkland Islands in the hope that nationalist sentiment would shore up their domestic support. In 1973 the military junta that had seized control in Greece engineered a coup in Cyprus right before it collapsed as well.
These rotten dictatorships were following a principle that was finally codified later by the US Secretary of Defense. Let’s call it The Rumsfield Axiom: “When you have a problem with no solution, evolve it into a bigger problem.” This is a vain hope, and as far as I know expanding the scope of an existing problem has never succeeded in resolving it within the framework of a global solution. All you are doing is buying time before the situation ultimately collapses, and then what have you got? Disaster!
The masters of both the Argentine and Greek dictatorship both ended up drawing life sentences after democracy was restored in their respective countries, which suffered convolutions that continue to reverberate to this day.
Even so, given the disintegration of the senseless military adventure in Iraq, the evolving collapse of political authority in Washington and the imminent collapse of the monetary system brought about by wholesale chicanery and thievery on the part of the investment banking establishment, the American people are now being asked to entertain the prospect of expansion of the war into Iran.
The justifications for this proposed widening of the war evoke a one-two punch of sophistry and double-dealing based on the reasoning that people who are not swayed by one reason will be carried by the second. It’s the kitchen sink approach: a) the Iranians are killing American personnel by infiltrating lethal technology and training personnel into Iraq, and: b) the Iranians are preparing to inflict weapons of mass destruction upon the entire world.
This essay will not even address the first assertion except to ask if, even to some extent it is true, does it constitute a casus belli for inflicting a full-scale invasion and massive bombardment of Iran when our forces are already stretched thin in Iraq and Afghanistan. One look at a map is enough to deduce that any country surrounded on five sides by neighbors is going to suffer a certain amount of infiltration in times of armed conflict. This is a point that was repeatedly stressed in the run-up to the war, and was discounted out-of-hand by military planners. The consequences of reacting to it at this evolved period could end up being infinitely more serious than what is currently entering the country.
Actually that infiltration of men and materiel, however significant it may be, may be the more compelling case for armed invasion of Iraq than that country’s highly touted atomic reactor, which is now being used not only as a justification for a proposed invasion and bombing campaign but also for an extremely costly missile defense system which will probably run into the hundreds of billions of dollars. Remember, this missile defense system was Bush’s original agenda when he assumed power along, of course, with an invasion of Iraq, which had been decided long before 9/11 ever took place.
The notorious Iranian atomic facility is budgeted at $1 billion, which is not very much money in today’s dollars (and getting smaller every day!). That is the price of one American stealth bomber, or a football stadium full of empty seats. Put another way, the new PATH commuter rail station scheduled for Ground Zero is budgeted for $2.2 billion. In another instance, the Russian government has consecrated an allotment of $16-20 billion for infrastructure upgrades to modernize the site of the 2012 Winter Olympics at Sochi in the Caucasus mountain range. One billion dollars for weapons of mass destruction? As Cheech and Chong were fond of saying, “Dude, this shit couldn’t get a fly high!”
I’m not defending an Iranian regime of bad actors and anti-Semitic pricks. They stink. Their intelligence service is composed of lunatics and murderers who blew up a Jewish charity in Buenos Aires and killed and wounded hundreds of people. I don’t care about Iraq either, except as a waste of American personnel and resources. Anyway, I am not writing this article to prove my bona fides. Think of me what you will! But after the big build-up to the war in Iraq to eradicate the WMD threat to the world all we found was a hamster wheel and no hamster.
With the 2008 elections coming up and the Republican Party heading toward an historic rout of the kind not experienced since Nixon and Watergate, the Republicans are going to be looking for a victim, to distract people from the Republicans’ endless chain of fuckups. That designated victim is increasingly looking like Iran, and we are the suckers.
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Posted on 10/16/2007
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October 15, 2007
Welcome to Staten Island, a fuming, stinking dump of a place where garbage is gold, and every time the Queen Mary II passes under the Verrazano Bridge an honor guard of sanitation engineers blows out a flatulent 21 gun salute God Save The Queen of gas from their butts. Garbage – the Italian-American Holy Grail. To the average citizen it reeks like stinking shit, but to the Italians it represents Mercedes Benzes, thick gold chains and walled fortresses on Staten Island.
Every thing I start thinking, bad things happen, and right now I’m meditating on how New York’s fashion queen, former mayor Rudolph Giuliani.Giuliani, who wears ladies’ panties, found his macho dream in Bernard Kerik, who originally began as his chauffeur. Kerik so impressed Giuliani with his low-end bridge and tunnel line of stoopid, nasty bullshit that Giuliani, thinking, “This is my kind of guy,” promoted Kerik to the head of the city Department of Corrections and eventually Police Commissioner.
Kerik ran the police department just like Giuliani pictured it:sticking toilet plungers up people’s asses, blowing itinerant African street peddlers to Kingdom Come with a fusillade of forty shots, blowing innocent people away for no reason and then releasing their sealed juvenile records to the press by way of justifying the shooting. Incidentally, the cop who was cleared by the grand jury in this last incident was in the news again lately for pulling his gun on somebody during a road rage incident on the Major Deegan Expressway. Real stable guy!
These slaughters of innocent people had one element in common – all the victims were people of color. And this was a conscious strategy that was put in place by Rudy Baby to inflict a race war on New York in the hope of appealing to his white electoral base in the outer boroughs. This evokes the mafia summit in “The Godfather”, wherein the New York crime families agree to restrict heroin traffic to the black neighborhoods because, as they so elegantly define it, “They’re animals anyway. Let them lose their souls.”
A lot of people don’t know this, but Rudolph Giuliani comes from a family of made guys in the mafia. His uncles were made guys for sure and his father as well, if I’m not mistaken. A lot of Giuliani’s past behavior suggests that he is a mafia sleeper cell who has for a goal to bring the mafia to the zenith of the American power establishment.
The reader can laugh off this characterization of Giuliani as lunacy, if he wants to, but his protégé and golden boy, Kerik, is on the verge of getting indicted for trying while he was Commissioner of Corrections to intercede on behalf of the Gambino crime family with a city regulatory agency that was investigating a mob-owned company that was competing for a contract to operate a waste disposal facility on (ta-ta!) Staten Island.
Kerik, who was convicted last year of taking bribes in the form of free contracting work from the mob on his home in the Bronx, is accused of setting up a meeting with the city inspectors and trying to pressure them into ending their investigation while he was Commissioner of Corrections. Instead of caving in to Kerik’s pressure, the inspectors did the right thing, denying the application and reporting Kerik’s interference to the feds.
Giuliani later went on to appoint Kerik as police commissioner and then eventually to recommend him for US Director of Homeland Security. Oh boy, can you picture this mutt as being responsible for national security! The whole United States would be subject to the delicate ministrations of the Gambino crime syndicate. Tony Soprano would be head of Civil Defense. There would be slot machines in the fallout shelters. As in “Catch-22”, firemen would reach for the fire hose and instead find an IOU signed by Sal Paluzzi! Like in the Deutsche Bank Building fire.
Now, with all the nasty facts emerging about Bernard Kerik, Giuliani is taking responsibility for an “error in judgment” for conferring so much power in such a vile creep as Kerik. That’s like my former employer, Helmer Pato, admitting to a “misunderstanding” and an “error” when I caught him forging my signature on articles of incorporation for the dummy shell companies he was using to hide his assets from the tax department and getting me in nasty shit that took months for me to extricate myself from.
Now Giuliani is running for president on the Republican ticket. He evidently believes that even after eight years of Bush ripping off everything in sight there is still something left to steal, like a vulture waiting for the hyenas to get their fill so that he can swoop down and pick through the remains. Of course, the really big money, Social Security, is still there to steal, the Democrats having stopped Bush from looting it only at the last minute. Let Giuliani become president and then you’ll have the money from Social Security being funneled into the Frankie Two-Fingers Pension Fund. Pension funds is something these weasels have got experience in.
And let’s not forget former Westchester County DA Jeanine Pirro, another symbol of moral probity, who tried to hire Kerik to bug her husband’s cabin cruiser for proof of marital infidelity at the same time her office was railroading innocent guys into 20-year jail sentences for crimes they never committed. Her husband, who is also totally mobbed up (like she’s not, right?), himself served time for tax fraud even when she was county prosecutor. He filed fraudulent joint tax returns that she herself signed, though she managed to avoid going away with him, even keeping her DA gig as he was in the big house, by claiming that she just signed what he put in front of her without reading it. Wotta genius!
I always thought Giuliani was a schmuck, especially the time that he tried to shut down the Brooklyn Museum because he didn’t like one of its art exhibits. What a putz! Rudy, I got a deal for you: you no mess with the arts, and I no pick up da garbage!
But back to the garbage. Giuliani is a sterling example of why America needs the Republican Party – as a garbage can for human refuse ha-ha! Giuliani, Kerik, Larry Craig, Bush, Cheney…The Republican Party is a waste treatment facility where the garbage emerges stinking worse than it did when it went in!
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Posted on 10/15/2007
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October 13, 2007
Ann Coulter is a pinhead, loudmouth, bleached-blonde, hatchet-faced phalangist prick. The reason she has been able to thrive for so long is because people thought she was funny. Like any virus, if she is permitted to continue to thrive she will end up causing inestimable damage to the national body politic.
This writer rejoices that she has finally turned her venomous attentions to the Jews, for now she reveals her true nature to be that of a flat-out nazi propagandist soul sister of that vile piece of Australian kangaroo shit, Mel Gibson. Maybe they can get together to sing a midnight serenade duet of “Fuck The Jews” in the middle of the Pacific Coast Highway.
What is absolutely shocking is that no Jewish people are prepared to confront these satanic swine face-to-face and call them out for the fore flushing whores that they are. I would love to be the one to do it.
As for Al Gore, I’m not sorry for the awful things I wrote about him. Believe me, I love the guy and I adhere to the same beliefs that he does.But we voted for him and he let the country down by not sinking to the same level as the Republicans and forcing them to back off. Sometimes you have to get inside with a man and trade punches with him.
#ffd700; " color="#804000">Gore personally is the big winner. The Republicans stole the 2000 election, but now their shit has totally fallen apart and they are shown up for the useless morons they are, while Gore has an Academy Award and the Nobel Prize. But what about the country and the millions of people who voted for him and relied upon him to represent our interests? He crapped out on us by not calling a national strike and marching on Washington DC with millions of Democrats to protest the stealing of the election by the Republican swine. A show of resolve would have scared them off, I really believe that.
He was a pushover. He better watch out that they don’t steal his Oscar and his Nobel Prize medal the way they stole the election, just walk up to him and rip the freakin’ decoration off his neck like a Times Square chain-snatcher.
I’m sticking with Hillary Clinton, she would never let herself be pushed around like that (I hope). 200motels.
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Posted on 10/13/2007
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October 11, 2007
One of the reasons for Britain’s historic commercial success is its commitment to free expression as a necessary component for the generation of material wealth.This axiom has been severely tried during periods of national stress, and a ruthless and efficient security apparatus has evolved over the centuries to maintain an equilibrium between the personal liberties of the individual against the collective interest of the state in social stability.
One problem with this structure arises when the police are called upon to maintain political orthodoxy, as they are inevitably are. Sometimes the threat to society is real, as during the Reformation, when the Protestant establishment imprisoned and executed English Catholics, whom they considered to be a fifth column in the employ of the Pope and the Catholic kingdoms of France and Spain.Sometimes those efforts are misplaced, as during the long-running surveillance and harassment of writers like Oscar Wilde or George Orwell, who were merely a little freaky or expressed unfashionable opinions.
The English have always been expected to enjoy their liberties within an extremely narrow band of conformity.It was permissible to be a Fabian Socialist or even a communist as long as one’s personal values aligned with Victorian prurience.This remains the case today, but Victorian taboos concerning relations between the sexes have been largely replaced by a new and equally tiresome dialectic, that of political correctness, which has actually incorporated some aspects of nineteenth century priggishness into a shining new package of militant conformism.
This utterly tedious new standard, which was pioneered in the US but voraciously consumed by the British, proscribes not only the perceived sexual exploitation of women and persecution minorities, but even the expression of any opinion or conduct that these groups might find objectionable or discomforting.
The use of police apparatus in enforcement of these taboos, where school teachers called the cops to arrest a girl for expressing the opinion that she worked better outside of a group, combined with ever-encroaching security measures first envisioned by Orwell in “1984”, such as cameras with face-identifying features and miniature flying drones with video capabilities, are making the British Isles a much more constricted environment for any person of even minimally expansive nature.It’s as though Aldous Huxley, George Orwell and Anthony Burgess dressed for the witches scene in Macbeth, had cooked up a particularly nasty brew of maledictions to inflict on British freedom of expression.
People are mostly too cowed to complain, but dissatisfaction with their state of political conformity cannot lie too far beneath the surface, because if things were really as hunky-dory as the establishment insists they are the new prime minister, Gordon Brown, would not have retreated at the last minute from calling a snap election that he had virtually promised the public he was going to call.
Brown was right to relent.His is a tenuous position, and not just because the new Conservative leader, David Cameron gave one successful speech.Brown, who at first seemed such a refreshing change from the theatrical showboating style of Tony Blair, has speedily revealed himself to be a thoroughly turgid individual.The same thing happened in Japan, where, after a prolonged command performance by the long-haired Elvis impersonator Junichiro Koizumi, the public thought it was ready for the a more pedestrian style of leadership, only to be deceived by the thoroughly somniforic incompetence of Shinzo Abe, whom the Liberal Democratic party was obliged to jettison in short order after suffering devastating losses in elections for the upper house of parliament.
But in the case of Gordon Brown, there is more involved than just a case of personal style.Cameron is no ball of fire either, though the fact that he can deliver a decent speech once in a while is bound to stand him in good stead.Brown’s problem is the Conservative promise to cut taxes if elected which, if it gains traction with the public, will not only appeal to the cheap scrooges of society but to every discontented segment of the British electorate, with the result that the whole structure of government could collapse like the arch supporting a Roman aqueduct that has had its keystone pulled out.
If Tony Blair had not been ensnared in the politics of American imperial expansion in Iraq he would have emerged as one of Britain’s historic prime minister instead of merely a successful one.This writer believes he sold out his country’s interests to the Americans because they held something of a personal nature over him, possibly relating to a youthful indiscretion.But no matter, without the Iraq war Blair would have had the political strength to hold Gordon Brown off indefinitely and remain prime minister for fourteen or even eighteen years.
Brown presided over a period of solid growth with low inflation as Chancellor of the Exchequer and has always been described as a solid behind-the-scenes operator.He should have stayed behind the scenes.As a leader he is thoroughly unremarkable, having none of the personal attractiveness of a Sarkozy, a Putin or even a Bush.Even if he engaged a PR firm to sharpen up his colorless image, the end result would inevitably evoke a comic turn by Peter Sellers in “I’m All Right, Jack.”
If the British Labour Party has any instinct for survival, it should immediately call a leadership convention to replace Brown with a leader who could combine intellectual erudition with elegant personal magnetism, somebody along the lines of Canada’s wildly successful former prime minister Pierre Eliott Trudeau, God Bless Him, whose personal qualities accomplished what no army could, the cementing of that country’s confederation.
If the Conservatives succeed at promoting their tax cuts proposal it will draw not just cheap people, but every other segment of British society that is disaffected with modern life or political correctness.Sophisticated Americans, never believing that the American would succumb to such lunacy as Reagan’s massive tax cuts laughed them off as lunacy – until he won and thoroughly changed the complexion of American life for the worse.Years later Bush was derided as an imbecile – until he cleaned out the treasury, not leaving even two nickels to rub together.If Cameron is allowed to go uncontested he will get in and stay in for a very long time, doing indescribable damage to society.He must be met head-on with an aggressive public relations campaign reminding Britons of the material and social benefits they derive from their social services, and what life would be like if they were deprived of them.
The French elected Sarkozy because they felt he might materially improve productivity without hurting social benefits.Anyway, they know they can stop him if he goes too far.I don’t see the British as having the same social solidarity as the French, who can mobilize millions of people into the streets.If Cameron gets in, people will just pathetically accept it like they did with Thatcher, or like the Americans have done time after time.Cameron should be stopped now, but it will require effort.
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Posted on 10/11/2007
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October 10, 2007
I used to take continuing education courses at The New School, anticipating that when I finally got committed to the mental hospital at Creedmoor I would have the prior training to weave the best baskets in the asylum. Creedmoor eventually turned me down, so I am still running around as part of New York’s general population of deluded nut cases.
But the enduring lesson I learned was that The New School is too smart to segregate their bathrooms by gender, particular in Greenwich Village, where it is located, of all places, where all distinctions of gender have been broken down completely and every single person is defining his own sexual preference. Lookit what you got there: women with beards, men with vaginas, people who have developed the art of cross-dressing to the degree that you can’t figure out what they’re getting at, as if they’re time travelers from the planet Oryx. You don’t need no Halloween parade, just go downtown!
The new school has an open bathroom policy that is inclusive of everybody, which is the only sane way to go in the Village, otherwise they would need fifteen different lavatories labeled: Men, Women, Men Who Are Women, Women Who Are Men, Trans-Sexuals, Sex Changes, you name it!
Nobody seems to mind very much sharing the same toilet. The women don’t squawk about having to share the loo with the men. New York women are the nastiest creatures in the world anyway. However nuts they are, they are not prudes. A recent survey in The New York Post (where else?) revealed that 80% of New York women approve of whips and handcuffs for sex, so it’s not likely that they’re going to get exercised by some guy taking a leak in the next toilet stall. Maybe Larry Craig ought to start going to The New School. The only problem for him is, the guy with whom he is playing footsie in the next stall might turn out to be some big, tough bull-dyke lesbian like the one who is suing the Caliente Cab Café in Sheridan Square for ejecting her from their ladies toilet because they thought she was a man.
I have often patronized that establishment. They used to offer a cheap brunch of Mexican-style swill and unlimited watered-down margaritas. The place invariably stank from last night’s stale vomit, and the rag that the bartender used to wipe the bar reeked of the bile so that he might more efficiently distribute the olfactory misery to every corner of the stinking saloon. For the management of this barnyard to so militantly enforce the inviolability of their reeking toilets is in itself an eloquent testament to the witless prurience of turn of the century New York. Thus has it ever been.
In her lawsuit the offended party alleges that the bouncer came in and ejected her from the ladies toilet even though she offered to show him her drivers license affirming her to be a member of the female sex. He wasn’t in the mood to peruse no stinking drivers license. The way he figured, if it looks like a dick and quacks like a dick it’s a dick. End of story. It’s an understandable misunderstanding. From her TV appearance and her picture in The Post, the plaintiff in this suit looks not only like a man, but like OJ, minus the glove.
The management, if one might be permitted to so describe this gang of witless thugs, offered to sit down with the complainant in order to palliate her outraged sensibilities if she would waive monetary damages, but who is kidding whom? Like everything else in New York, this case is ALL ABOUT money. After seeing the $11 million in damages awarded to the Knicks marketing director for “sexual harassment,” the Female OJ of the Caliente Cab Café figures that she’s in line for a harassment suit of her own.
With regard to the Knicks, that lady was perfectly content to live in an Animal House environment, with stinking jock straps flying through the air and interns happy to give up some leg if it would lead to a paying job, until she realized that she was the next useless appendage to be excised from the enterprise. It was only at that point that her Victorian sensibilities emerged to the fore.
This Knicks lawsuit italicized every monstrous tendency extant in the New York business environment: employees behaving worse than a pack of savage hyenas on the African veldt; the boss, who is, naturally, the owner’s son (so much for the Praise of Nepotism!), presiding over the whole mess like a coarse, illiterate blackguard Pirate of the Caribbean; a clutch of lazy, grasping attorneys billing $600/hr. who never even wasted the energy to coach the witnesses not to say “Bitch” and “Ho” on the courthouse steps even as the trial was in session.
In my mind (or what’s left of it) there is a direct correlation between the paralysis in the Knicks front office, the sloth of their attorneys and the Yanks poor pitching performance in the playoffs.It all comes down to the same thing – an inability to function. People are rooted to their chairs. The decision makers are taking a pass on anything even vaguely resembling work. A team of vigorous attorneys that would have taken the trouble to control the case would have shown up the plaintiff for what she was, a grasping desperate hypocrite. But she was helped by a group of men who are incapable of functioning as a team, on or off the court.
She has been followed down the primrose path to State Supreme Court in quick succession by a gang of female Madison Square Garden security guards who, emboldened by the Garden’s stunning display of dysfunction, hope to shake a few bucks off for themselves. Meanwhile, across town at Bloomberg Media, more females, emboldened to the point of voracity, like female wolverines who have caught the scent of a wounded moose, have pressed a suit against the mayor’s eponymous company with the knowledge that as close as he is to announcing his candidacy for president, the last thing he is going to wish for is some loudmouth (is there any other kind) females on the courthouse steps tearfully accusing him of being a prick and persecutor of women.
Oh, why did I have to be born a white male and miss out on all this loot?!! I have already been cleaned out by women and now I am practically reduced to playing the harmonica in the subway while these dolls are being chauffeured around town in limousines. I don’t even have the money for a sex change!
I only have one hope left: put on a dress and go hang around the men’s room at the Caliente Cab Café.Maybe the imbecilic bouncer will mistake me for a woman and throw me out, then I’ll have a lawsuit too!
In the meantime, all these idiot lawsuits are giving impetus to the Republicans’ drive for “tort reform,” which essentially boils down to old ladies not being able to sue the bus company after they get run over. Even as we speak, the US Supreme Court is entertaining an appeal by the Bush administration to exempt stockbrokers from being sued for selling worthless Enron shares to hapless suckers. It’s the little idiot nuisance suits that get all the headlines, but the big money is rarely as interesting.
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October 09, 2007
OK, I killed myself after the Yankees lost last night, and now I’ve come back from the dead and I feel better. No use crying over spilt milk, but it drives me nuts to give so much satisfaction to the Yankees haters who inhabit bridge and tunnel-land.
No point being sentimental over Joe Torre. He’s got his money. When you work for a creepy prick like George Steinbrenner, who is old and lost his marbles long ago even when he was young, you always have the Bat of Pericles hanging over your head by a thread. Unfortunately, the Yankees is also a business operating on a razor-thin profit margin.Steinbrenner kept Torre long past his expiration date even though the Yanks have been crapping out year after year in the playoffs.
As Cleveland so pointedly demonstrated, the Yankees’ problem is concentrated in their pitching. How their management let it get to this point should be the subject for a Marx Brothers comedy (it’s too funny for today’s comedians, except for Leno).
But what the Yankees demonstrated is that just being a New Yorker does not get you a free pass. You still have to deliver the goods. In fact, the fact that you live in New York is supposed to demonstrate that you manifest some god-like qualities. Here we got New York senator Hillary Clinton running against New York mayor Rudolph Giuliani with a possible challenge by New York mayor Mike Bloomberg. The rest of the country can suck wind, y’know what I mean?
Bloomberg is moving closer and closer to Clinton’s positions, which means to me that he considers Giuliani and the Republicans to be flatter than last year’s beer and is setting himself up as the only alternatives to Hillary for people who approve of her positions but can’t stomach her personally. I can’t understand what drives these Hillary haters – she’s not any more obnoxious than anybody else.
Bloomberg is probably right.Giuliani’s candidacy will certainly destroy the Republican Party before he himself fizzles out like an inflatable sex doll with a puncture hole. That is when Mike will make his move. The way he will put it is: this is an election, not a coronation. That’s why I am presenting myself as an alternative to Hillary Clinton, so Americans can have a choice.
This is a good strategy, and if Mike decides to go with Arnold Schwarznegger for his vice-president a Bloomberg/Schwartznegger ticket would be the darling of the celebrity and business media, leaving Hillary The New York Times, The Nation magazine and such minuscule pockets of serious thinkers as exist in this society, sorry to say. But what it will do is invite comparison of Michael Bloomberg’s past performance as a public official with Hillary’s.
New York is a city of interests. Sometimes Bloomberg’s expressed sympathies for the entrenched interests that dominate life here at the expense of the general population cast him in an impolitic light, which is the case regarding Consolidated Edison, the electric and gas utility, whose infrastructure is so obsolete that people’s dogs are getting fried alive as they walk them down the street. Some actual people have also died as well.
Con Ed is really a comical presence in the city, with its trucks decorated with a big thumbs-up on the side with the motto “On It.” Yeah right, On It! It might be more appropriate to show the board of directors with the thumb up its butt and the slogan “Sit On It.” Not that it’s the fault of the repairmen. They are charged with keeping a rotting system functioning while its board of directors drains the company of its profits, some of which should be set aside for infrastructure upgrades, to the unbelievable tune of 10% yearly dividends for common shares, rain or shine. Meanwhile, whole neighborhoods go without electricity for as long as a week at a time in the summer.
The utility defends this hemorrhaging of resources by stating that shareholders have bought the stock in anticipation of high returns on their investment and a reduction of dividends might result in a loss of share value. In fact, despite the rotten infrastructure and service, which might be compared to a seedy provincial city in the Congo Republic, for which New Yorkers are obliged to pay the highest electricity rates in the US, Con Ed has now applied for yet another rate increase, this one to pay for the damage caused by the system overload of the August 2006 blackout, which reduced all of northwest Queens to shambles for an entire week.
During this charming episode, when grocery stores lost all their refrigerated food and people were dying from heart attacks from the stress of trying to get some sleep in their air-conditioned cars, Bloomberg, not even bothering to visit the blighted area for much of the week, much less sending ice, actually applauded Con Ed and its CEO for doing a fine job!
This is the kind of myopic idiocy one could expect from a boss but not from the mayor of New York when hundreds of thousands of its citizens are reduced to a state of desperate crisis.
[Of course, I don’t recall Hillary Clinton getting out there to pitch in and lend a hand either. And I personally avoided to going to Astoria as though it were a plague-infested medieval Italian village as well. Nevertheless, if anybody in this city would have had any brains, they could at least have sent trucks into the blighted neighborhood to distribute bags of ice]
Nobody expected Mike Bloomberg to ride in like a cowboy and clean up Dodge, but his open endorsement of blatant corporate looting, as at Con Ed, or his perceived indifference to a disgracefully corrupt situation, as in the affair of the Deutsche Bank fire where, like a tragic Keystone Kops comedy, two firemen died when they turned on the hose and one drop came out because the mob contractors had disconnected the standpipe connection and fire inspectors were either paid or intimidated from inspecting the demolition site, could definitely come back to haunt him in a general election against Hillary Clinton.
Clinton is going easy on Obama and Edwards, but she won’t be so gentle on Bloomberg, who might be perceived as representing a genuine threat to her interests. You can be sure that her catapults will be loaded up with rich New York mud and ready to fire at Bloomberg’s canary yellow Ralph Lauren sweater even before he announces his candidacy.
New York is the worst place in the world to live – unless you count all the others. An electrical grid ready to burn out any minute; steam pipes bursting and scalding people, even as the utility demands another rate increase to be able to continue to pay its vigorish; the mafia getting its cut at Ground Zero and performing its usual impeccable workmanship and fire inspectors publicly stating that they didn’t bother to inspect the site because it was too much trouble for them to put on their protective equipment; a mayor who is content to let the universe unfold as it should and wants to do the same thing on a national level; one baseball team that goes into its last 15 games with a 7 ½ game lead and blows it; another baseball team that spends $200 million on salaries and yet can’t construct a competent pitching program; the Knicks, totally fucked!
But New York is more than the sum of all its dysfunctions. People are still going to crowd in here no matter what.Where else are you going to live? Paris? No beaches. Miami? The jobs pay slave wages. LA? I don’t want to let driving interfere with my drinking. Forget it!
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October 09, 2007
Hi folks, I’m Larry Craig for the Toilet Channel.You know, wherever I go in this great country of ours people, especially the police, ask me “Larry, with all the responsibilities you have, voting against health insurance for children, voting increases for the Iraq war budget, how do you find so much time to inspect public toilets?”
Well, when you love a pursuit as much as I do and are totally devoted to it, you find the time. If you like to get falling-down drunk and shoot your friends in the face like the vice-president, you’ll find the time to do that. If golf is your interest you can always find a lobbyist to foot the bill for a deluxe round at St. Andrew’s Golf Club in Scotland.
Me, I have always entertained an enduring interest in having sex with strange men in public toilets. Let me qualify that: I don’t enjoy getting it, I enjoy giving it. Because the Bible says it is better to give than to receive, and I represent a deeply religious constituency.
When I am down on my knees in those toilet stalls I have an excellent opportunity to do an inspection of the facilities, so I carry along with me this high intensity-beam pocket flashlight. Also, those tile floors can be hard on the knees, and that’s where these Everlast kneepads can come in real handy sometimes.
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But the most important accessories I carry are these gold-engraved business cards identifying me as a United States Senator. They have gotten me out of more scrapes than you can possibly imagine. In fact, they have gotten me dates with some really cute cops. Believe me, this airport cop in Minneapolis was an anomaly. I had his background checked out and I found out that his grandmother was a member of the Minnesota Farm Labor Party during the depression of the 1930’s. So there, the guy’s a commie!
The stress of conducting the public’s business can overwhelm a person, what with the Mexicans and the Frenchmen constantly trying to undermine our way of life. So I like to relax a little by touring the toilets of America and meet my constituents. The reason I get to see so many is that I rarely leave the airport. I rush off the plane, meet a guy, play him a little saliva symphony on the skin flute and still have time to make my connecting flight.
Nevertheless, despite the vast number of airport toilets in the US and the odds against running into somebody that you know, it sometimes happens that I run into various of my senate colleagues in the commission of their duties in the adjoining stalls. Fortunately, all of these senators have been Republicans like myself, so there is very little conflict of interest, though once I ran into former New Jersey governor Tim McGreevey, who was conducting his own inspection tour. Now, Governor McGreevey differs from myself in that he prefers to receive his campaign donations through the back door, whereas I am rather a more oral person. But no matter, we both agreed that doing it with men in a toilet stall was less objectionable than doing it with a woman in the oval office like Bill Clinton because between men there is more of a collegial atmosphere about it, like between monks in a cloister, if you will.
In closing, I would like to ask the viewing audience, regardless of their party affiliation, not to judge me too harshly for a minor indiscretion. Remember, right now the Republicans are the minority party in congress but that could change at any time, and then I might be sitting in judgment of you. How would you like them apples?
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October 08, 2007
O House That Ruth Built How can we live up to your glory The world needs a Shakespeare To do justice to your story You are the inspiration For the heart of our nation The Yankees of today are living legends that tread the earth Nothing can live up to their inestimable worth
A-Rod, Jeter, Joba Chamberlain Against such a brilliant line-up No team could ever hope to win Mariano Rivera, the pitcher of the Golden Arm Who protects the Yanks from late-inning harm Johnny Damon fled the thankless Red Sox for New York’s embrace To become our iron slugger and home run hitting ace A-Rod holding up the team with homer after homer And standing guard like a sentinel in the third base hot corner
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But what of the immortal pantheon of Yankee gods from ages past
Do their spirits still not endure to inspire the modern age? Just as their images live in enduring bronze statues cast Do they help us to relive past glory with every turn of history’s page The Immortal Ruth, whose name is engraved on every brick and stone On the coliseum of glory that every fan calls home Joe DiMaggio the home run slugger and RBI machine Whose glory on and off the field made him America’s king Whose exploits as a hero never ceased to grow And won him the eternal love of Marilyn Monroe Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris The home run slugging twins Countless glories for New York they helped The Yankees win Elston Howard and Satchel Paige and Reggie Jackson too Proved that the only color that counts is the Yankee blue Don Larsen, Whitey Ford and every pitcher who ever graced our bull pen Were the spearhead of the shining lance that for years enabled us to win
And lest we not pay homage to The Yankees’ brilliant leadership Which would be like not recognizing the captain of the ship Casey Stengel, Billy Martin, Joe Torre we owe you all our thanks For guiding and inspiring our priceless heroes, THE YANKS
Now a new generation takes its place In the on-deck circle of up-and-coming aces The Three Young Kings Melky Robinson and Phil Have many years before them to show us all new thrills Not since ancient times has the world seen gargantuan heroes such as these To bring us future glory to The New York Yankees
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October 07, 2007
Americans hate New York City for the same reason that the rest of the world loves us, because everything is happening here. We suck all the oxygen out of the whole rest of the country and all eyes are constantly on us.
You don’t have to come here if you don’t want to. New York doesn’t need anybody. Anyway, whether you visit us or not your money winds up here eventually. Choke on it. At the beginning of the baseball season, when the Yankees were clutching and suffering from terrible pitching and fielding, when the collective neurotic dysfunction of the whole team had landed it in the cellar, when they had to call in a priest to perform the last rites on manager Joe Torre’s leadership, the rest of the country was singing and dancing in the streets that the Bombers had finally fizzled out to a damp firecracker.
Oh boy, were the rubes living in the catbird seat, watching Yankee fans wring out their soggy handkerchiefs! The chief beneficiaries fo this hex were the Mets. With all the Dominican stars the Mets have got playing for them, not to forget general manager Omar Minaya, this writer seriously believed that they were sticking pins in Yankee dolls in a secret Santeria ceremony. The only Yankee to be immune to the Santeria hex was A-Rod who, being Dominican himself, received a secret midnight visit from Benny Katz, the Santeria rabbi of Sosúa, who rubbed Rodriguez’ bat with consecrated chicken fat and prayed to Moses, Jesus and Gombi. As a result, even as the team sank deeper and deeper into the morass A-Rod continued to explode.
Now, New Yorkers are very phony and superficial people. They speak with phony accents, and you believe you’re speaking to a Shakespearean actor like John Gielgud only to discover that the guy’s an illiterate stevedore from Jersey City. New Yorkers will tell you a lie even when the truth will work just as well, just to keep in practice. They only love money and they only love winners. When Mother Teresa visited New York somebody stole her wooden bowl that she ate gruel from. Aristophanes, the legendary Greek who wandered the streets at night with a lantern in search of an honest man, came to New York and ended up in the alley behind The Gentlemen’s Club II in Long Island City with the lantern lodged up his butt. During the time of their slump, all the Yankees fans took a powder. Not one Yankees fan was to be found anywhere.
Except me. I’m too stupid to get with the program. That explains why I’m broke. No matter! I was still trucking around with my Yankees cap and t-shirt, and when former fans would mock and berate me for sticking with that bunch of losers, I would preach forbearance and patience, like a moron. Everybody suffers from a breakdown, I counseled. Even as a stupid billygoat eventually finds his footing on a steep, rocky mountain trail, so the Yankees would eventually recover their composure and once again claw their way to the top.
I was like a mystic crawling through the desert. One day I happened to find myself on the oceanfront promenade at Riis Park in Rockaway, Ground Zero of Mets fans. My Yankees t-shirt was filthy and torn, from people grabbing and ripping it, spitting on it, even. Nonetheless, I refused to take it off, for I had taken a holy vow not to remove it until the Yanks started winning again.
At this moment I was confronted by the evil of all evils, a Mets fan. He showed me the finger of contempt and started cursing at me. “Boy, what a loser! What are you doing around here wearing that stinking, filthy rag?”
I explained to him meekly, like one of Jesus’ little lambs, “I’m waiting for the Second Coming, when the Yankees shall once again arise and the whole world will amaze at their glory.”
“Yeah, you fuckin’ moron!” he screamed. Then he hocked a big goober of phlegm right onto the Yankee emblem on the front of my once-proud shirt, that I had bought in 2000, when we had the subway series and they floated actual subway cars down Broadway on flat-bed trucks in a triumphant victory parade reminiscent of Roman emperor Vespasian’s procession of 51AD.
The guy said, “Lissen, stoopid, as long as you’re here, I just took a crap and there was no toilet paper in the bathroom. Why don’t you give me that piece of shit Yankees shirt so I can wipe my ass with it?” All the people standing around, who were all from Queens and were all Mets fans, started to laugh. “Take off the shirt and let him wipe his ass!” they screamed. “Fuckin’ Yankees ain’t so hot now!” “How you like it now?” “Let the guy wipe his ass with the Yankees shirt ha-ha-ha!”
I meekly removed my precious shirt and gave it to the guy, who pushed it down the back of his pants and cleaned his butt with it. When he pulled it back out it had a shiny brown skid mark right down the front of it, right on the Yankees emblem!
I put the shirt back on. Now the guy was really worked up. “Every day the Yankees get their ass kicked the whole country rejoices. We’re sick of the Yankees and we’re sick of Manhattan acting like they’re better than us!”
“What if the Yanks get back on top?” I asked.
“Never happen. You’re just a bunch of stooges. Now the Mets are king. Go back to the city and tell all the other Yankee faggots that you are now our slaves and we rule the world! Now get th’ fuck outta here before I lose my temper!” My girlfriend and I walked away. She said, “How can you wear that shirt after he used it to wipe his ass? It stinks!”
I said, “I want this to remind me. I’m only taking it off when the Yanks get back on top.”
For months I wore the shirt, refusing to take it off or wash it. I kept the smell of the Mets fan’s butt in my nostrils as I fervently prayed for the Yankees to regain their power. One night I was alone in the darkened parking lot of Yankee Stadium, praying to the big Yankees sign. My knees were torn and bloody from having crawled all the way up from the East Side of Manhattan as a gesture of faith, like an Indian Sufi pilgrim crawling thousands of miles to the shrine at Amritsar. In the depths of my delirium I say a shimmering portal of light begin to glow in front of me, scaring the dickens out me, and through this dazzling curtain he stepped into my presence.
Not Jesus, you schmuck, BILLY MARTIN!
He had his manager’s uniform and cap on, and his World Series ring .I started to sweat bullets. “Billy!” I exclaimed.
He blew his cigar smoke in my face. “Kid,” he said, “all your praying and crazy stunts and that stinking t-shirt are distracting me and the boys up there in The Big Yankees Dugout In The Sky. You’re throwing us off our game, right in the middle of the final game of our series against the Brooklyn Dodgers. We’re in extra innings.”
“Yeah?Wow! What inning is it?”
“About nineteen thousand, I think. Why don’t you lay off and let the universe unfold as it should? Get a life!”
“But Billy, there’s nobody left who believes in the Yankees. Everybody is driving German cars and going out to the Hamptons and paying $100 a pound for lobster salad.”
Billy reflected for a minute. Then he told me, “You know what the palm tree said to the hurricane? ‘Stop blowing so hard. My nuts are flying off.’ You’re a regular Mother Teresa.”
“What do you mean? I’m a sinner! I think impure faults. I lie, I steal, I have unprotected sex with non-human species!”
“So start your own church. That way you can make the rules.” With that Billy Martin turned his back on me and strode back into the ring of flames, leaving me alone in the dark parking lot.
I sprang into action. I ran around to the back of the Fairway Supermarket and found some old cardboard boxes. Using my trusty box-cutter I cut out some really, really neat wings and a halo, covered them in aluminum foil and attached them to my body. I got a milk crate and took it over to the entrance to the stadium.Getting up on the milk crate, I started to preach to the assembled masses who were streaming in to see the game:
“Brothers and sisters, welcome to The First Church of the Yankees. I’ll be honest witch yez. Billy Martin appeared to me in a shimmering rain of light and told me to preach the Gospel of Baseball to yez! Look, we been going through hell. We got guys like Igawa who can’t pitch for shit; Carl Pavane, who got paid forty million bucks, and he doesn’t even show up anymore!We got injuries, psychological dysfunction, mental and spiritual indecision. Steinbrenner’s senile. Through it all, Joe Torre’s imitating the Sphinx of Egypt. Our pitching stinks and we don’t have any left-handers. Remember, God can’t be everywhere at once and that’s why he invented left-handed relievers. You can’t pitch Andy Pettitt every night!
“Joba Chamberlain is only allowed to pitch one inning every two games. What if they would have done that to Catfish Hunter or Whitey Ford?Remember, any muscle not in constant use will tend to atrophy and wither away!
“There is a spiritual imbalance. Nobody wants to steal bases any more. Too much work. The stadium is infested with squirrels, which is a sure sign of demonic possession.
“But the worst of it, the absolute worst, is the indifference and moral relativism on the part of the fans, who are the sea in which the Yankees must swim to survive. Everywhere I go, I hear the same defeatism, ‘It’s a game,’ I hear, ‘It’s just a game!!’
“Well, I’m here to tell you – IT’S NOT JUST A GAME! THE YANKEES ARE LIFE ITSELF!!! What would New York be without Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig and Joe DiMaggio? Without Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris!
“We have to go back to the old ways and be ready to lay down our lives for the Yankees, like they have laid down their lives for us!”
Now the crowd was getting hot. They were turning into a rowdy army of baseball fanatics, just like I pictured it. We started to sing The Yankee Anthem, which I had just written:
Oh Yankees Yankees
Kings of the world
We swear allegiance
To your flag unfurled
Never again the world will see
A team as great as the Yankees
Your glory is great as the skies
And nobody beats you at catching flies
Yankee Stadium is where it’s at
The world will bow before the glory of your bats
A fastball a slider a change-of-pace
Nothing can top your bullpen ace
Oh Yankees the world will never see
A team to equal your gloryyyyyy!
AMEN
The whole Bronx rose up as one to sing The Yankee Anthem, and I realized I wasn’t leading an army anymore, I was leading a crusade! I exhorted the mob, “Let’s march on Shea Stadium, Satan’s nest of demons, and annihilate the infidel unbelievers from the face of the earth!”
We marched down Bruckner Boulevard, across the Whitestone Bridge and onto Shea, only to discover that the godless Mets had already engineered their own comeuppance, contriving to blow a seven and a half game lead on the last day of the season. Mets fans, stupefied by the unspeakable horror of their curse, were pitching themselves en masse over the edge of the upper level. Me and my army of Yankee crusaders could only bear witness in mute horror as the obese, bloated corpses of Mets fans exploded like water balloons upon impact with the expensive seats.
Me and my gang fell to our knees and begged forgiveness for their immortal souls from the pantheon of Yankee gods assembled in the heavens. But I still had one piece of unfinished business – the creep who had wiped his butt with my Yankee t-shirt, which I was still wearing. I marched my army down through Queens to the promenade at Riis Park, where we found the bastard and surrounded him.
Quaking, he pleaded insanity: “Believe me, I forgot to take my meds that day!” His knees were knocking in fear.“I wish I could make amends.”
“Well, you can,” I told him, whipping off my Yankee t-shirt, which like a heroic flag, was ripped and torn, covered with spit, urine and butt stains from months of abuse from Mets fans. “Your butt loves my shirt so much, right? Well, now it’s going to love it even more. I’m commanding you to shove it up your ass.
“And just to help you, I’ve got my assistant, Chuck Schwartz, formally of the seventieth precinct of the New York Police Department, who is an expert at shoving toilet plungers up guys’ asses. Chuck, come on up here!” Chuck Schwartz appeared before the crowd, a shiny new toilet plunger in his hand. “Chuck, I commanded, “take your weapon of mass destruction and install the t-shirt up his ass, and MAKE SURE YOU USE THE BIG END TO DO IT!”
Chuck expertly bent the Mets fan over, pulled his pants down and, using the rubber of the toilet plunger, rammed the Yankees t-shirt up his ass. As he withdrew the plunger from the guy’s rectum it made a huge sucking sound, which resounded up and down the beach. The guy moaned, “Oh, fuck, I’m gonna need a truss!”
Well, the Yankees made the playoffs but, unfortunately they had to play against Cleveland, which, stinking like a huge outhouse, is consequently infested with flies, which got in Joba Chamberlain’s eyes, and he threw away the ball, and with it the game.
Things turned out better for me, though. I have my own church now, right on the spot where Billy Martin appeared to me. It’s the only church where you can buy beer and hot dogs during the service, and I’m making good money from the concessions. We have our own ladies’ auxiliary of girls in hot pants and knotted t-shirts, and I preach the gospel according to Casey Stengel. Every time the Yanks hit a homer, pinstripe-clad monks ring the church bells, which can be heard peeling throughout the Bronx and Manhattan too.
Over the alter I have a stained glass window of two catcher’s mitts joined together on prayer, with the motto “There’s always next season.”
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Posted on 10/7/2007
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October 03, 2007
-Is your pussy fresh?
-We serve the freshest pussy in New York. Every morning Patty goes down to the Fulton Fish Market and selects it personally.
-Because I don’t want to eat any pussy that’s been lying around for too long. It starts to smell gamy.
-Well, we also have the aged pussy, but that’s an acquired taste.
-I know. I tried some once but it was too dried up.
-Can I get you a drink before you start?
-Yeah, I’ll have a Golden Shower.
-Salt or no salt?
-I'll have mine with salt.
-Are you ready to order?
-How’s the French pussy?
-Strong. The girl sits on cheese for a whole day.
-I see you also have Latin American specialties.
-Our chef is from Colombia. Down there they like to stuff the pussy with condoms full of plastic explosives. It’s hot and spicy, but it can kill you if you’re not used to it. We also have our Mexican specialties like Chocha Grande con Guacamole, which has this green stuff coming out of it.
-What about the Pineapple Pussy?
-It’s garnished with tropical fruits and stuffed with a banana and two coconuts.
-And the Canadian Pussy?
-It’s covered in maple syrup.
-I’ll have that with an order of butt pancakes. And the Dick-On-A-Stick.
-OK, but that comes separate.
-Why’s that?
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Posted on 10/3/2007
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