August 31, 2007
TIP-TOE THROUGH THE TOILET A One-Act Play in the Verse Style of “Cyrano de Bergerac” Curtain Rises Scene: Minneapolis International Airport Men’s Room [Janitor with bucket and mop]
Every evening when the sun goes down
That’s when I make my working round Jimmy Johnson is my name Mopping toilets is my game I better do my job before the boys arrive If I want to escape this place alive I have to split before those nuts Start sticking things up each other’s butts
[Exits the stage]
Voice – Is he gone?
Voice – He already left.
Voice – Well-a one, two, three!
[Feet appear inside the toilet stalls and start dancing the soft shoe]
Voices – Let’s get down and do the toilet shuffle
Take it slow and don’t do no hustle
It’s time to do the Dancin’ Feet
In the toilet where the gay guys meet
Shuffle cool and shuffle neat size="4">
Hot dog’s what we like to eat
We must say it feels real fine
Packin’ fudge on the taxpayer’s dime
[First Head emerges from the toilet stall]
I’m Larry Craig from Idaho
Believe me, Bud, I like to blow
I’m just up here on vacation
From my regular spot at Union Station
[Second Head]
I’m Mark Foley The Pedophile Fool
I like my boys right out of school
My specialty is Congressional pages
But I’ll accept kids of all ages
I’m nice to kids I ain’t no meanie
I just like to suck a little weenie
[Third Head]
I’m Governor McGreevey The Gay American
I take it in the butt every chance I can
Sucking dick is what I love most
I blow guys from Coast-to-Coast
[Fourth Head]
Hi Folks, my name’s Barney Frank
I’m a nauseating skank
I got male hustlers shacked up in my home
My favorite dog food is Milk Bone
[All]
We’re a bunch of rancid pricks We just live to suck men’s dicks Hand-Jive in the toilet is our game Because we are completely lame We think we are ancient Greeks But we are just disgusting freaks
Mark Foley – Hey, Barney!
Barney Frank – What?
Mark Foley – I love you because you are a gay guy
Every little thing you say and do Your backside has a very special meaning It’s kosher because you are a Jew Whatever the other gay guys tell me I know that you will always be true I love you because you are a fatso And noone can suck dick the way you do!
Barney Frank – Hey, Larry! How about a kiss?
Larry Craig – Well, OK.But let’s get something straight between us…
Barney Frank – Like a dick?
Larry Craig – Lissen, I am not gay, OK?I am not gay.But I’m not against suckin’ a little dick if it’s for a good cause.
Barney Frank – Like what?
Larry Craig – Like a Republican fundraiser for George Bush.Let me put it to you this way:
A dick in the ass may be très continental But money is a senator’s best friend You got to show me a handful of green stuff If you want to stick it in my end A campaign is very expensive to run I don’t just go down on a guy just for fun So if you are waiting for me to bend over A check is what you have to send
Larry Craig – Mark, why don’t you tell us how it’s done in your neck of the woods?
Mark Foley – Well, when I want to get dicked up the ass down Florida way:
I go down to Miami to get fucked
On old Calle Ocho I quack like a duck For Latin people the duck is man’s best friend It signifies a guy who likes to take it in the end And when the ducks fly down to Old Miami And the gay guys dance in the street The dicks taste so sweet And they shake their culo to the Latin beat
Barney Frank – Wow!Let’s stop talking about it, and let’s do it!
Larry Craig – We can all fit in the Wheelchair Accessible toilet stall.
Jim McGreevey – Last one inside’s a rotten hemorrhoid!
[The boys rush in and lock the door]
“Bend over!”
“Stop blowing so hard.My nuts are flying off!”
“Give it to me harder!”
“Whoop-de-doo!”
[A squad of police enters the men’s room led by a plainclothes detective]
Detective – I’m Sergeant Plotz The Airport Dick
The mutherfuckers in this toilet are really sick There’s little kids who use this place My job is to see they don’t get a hot shot of jism in the face Open the door you freaks and submit yourselves to custody
Voice Inside – Slip your badge under the door so we can see
Sergeant – You’re all under arrest for gross indecency
Get your clothes on and come with me I’m taking you down to jail And we’re gonna hold you until you make bail [Arrestees exit from the toilet stall]
Larry Craig – I’m a senator and I demand special consideration
Sergeant – Sorry, Bud, you’re a deviant pervert charged with public masturbation and immoral solicitation
Larry Craig – This will ruin my electoral chances
Sergeant – You should have thought about that when you dropped your pantses.Let’s go!
[Curtain falls]
THE END
Don't Cry for www.200motels.net! Tune in for the wildest stories and jokes. You'll never see anything as
crazy as this anywhere else on the Internet
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 8/31/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 262 Times
 Send to Friend
|
August 29, 2007
Put on your dancing shoes and do the Republican shuffle down to the Minneapolis International Airport, where the Republicans are forming a conga line to suck cock in the toilet stalls of the airport terminal.
Senator Larry Craig, the winner of the hot dog-eating contest, will be demonstrating his technique for dancing the limbo under the toilet stall partitions while Rudolph Giuliani, America’s Pervert, models the latest Victoria’s Secret line of panty and bra combinations for cross-dressing attorneys.
Sign up for Republican congressman Mark Foley’s Internet mailing list of underage congressional pages to receive his daily briefing about hard-ons, wedgies and all-male camping trips where sodomy, buggery and circle jerks are concluded with an old-fashioned campfire weenie roast.
Hollywood choreographer Busby Berkeley had nothing on high-steppin’ Larry Craig, the hottest guy to dance for dick in the U.S. Senate. When asked where he developed his toilet stall shuffling techniques, he answered, “I used to watch a lot of Steppin Fetchit movies. As for the finger-wiggling under the stall partition, that comes from “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre”, where they lock the guy in the trunk of the car and he manages to squeeze his fingers out and wiggle them, right before Leathermask cuts them off with an axe.”
Nevertheless, Senator Craig insists, “I am not gay. I was dancing in the toilet because I’m a happy person. It’s great to be alive in Minneapolis in the summertime. I was just trying to make friends with the other guys in the shithouse.
“Also, a public bathroom is as good a place as any to influence voters. There’s nothing in the law that says you can’t suck a man’s dick to get his vote.”
Don't Cry for www.200motels.net! Tune in for the wildest stories and jokes. You'll never see anything as
crazy as this anywhere else on the Internet
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 8/29/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 342 Times
Send to Friend
|
August 28, 2007
Tired of the same old rut? Learn new and interesting job skills at www.200motels.net, the thinking idiot's
comedy web site. Great stories and fascinating graphic design.
Be there or be nowhere.
www.200motels.net
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 8/28/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 290 Times
Send to Friend
|
August 22, 2007
Excuse me while I lull myself to sleep by banging my head with a sledgehammer. I can’t take it anymore. We as a society have finally reached the point of ultimate mental meltdown when Bush gets up before a convention of war veterans and declares that we can’t cop out of Iraq because it would be like abandoning Vietnam all over again.
Meanwhile, Bush was a Vietnam draft dodger, the same as Cheney, Giuliani, Romney and all those other pinhead patriotic freaks!
Not that I have anything against the draft dodgers. They were right. Nixon and Lyndon Johnson were psychos. Johnson had to resign in disgrace when it became clear that he was off his rocker, clearing the way for Nixon, who was impeached for hitlerite, megalomaniacal, delusional behavior. Nobody in his right mind would go off to get killed or maimed, or to ingest massive quantities of carcinogens like Agent Orange on the say-so of these madmen. Only a moron would buy into their harebrained megalomanic strategies.
Giuliani stayed out of the military draft by getting a student deferment so that he could study to be a hare lipped, cross dressing gumshoe attorney. Now he says we’re soft on Iraq. Cheney declared that he wasn’t inclined to be inducted into the army because he had better things to do. Now he’s the most hawkish on Iraq. Bush bought his way out of the draft by using his money and family influence to purchase a posting to the Texas Air National Guard, a summer camp for rich draft dodgers for which he didn’t even bother to show up.
The reason Dan Rather got thrown off CBS News is that he chose to expose the whole sordid mess about Bush’s war record, or rather, the lack of it, instead of meekly falling into line with the rest of the establishment and letting the truth fester beneath the surface like some vile blood blister.
But it doesn’t make the truth any less real. How Mr. Mission Accomplished and his nasty little gang of pricks can look themselves in the eye in light of all this blatant hypocrisy and lying is beyond the comprehension of anyone who pretends to lay claim to even the smallest island of reality.
Let me put it in plain English for anyone who has gotten lost in the verbiage of this article: Bush is a Vietnam-era draft dodger who is now claiming that we should have stayed and fought in Vietnam.
The only reason he is not being bombarded with a storm of rotten tomatoes is that half the country is stoned-out on Prozac and Oxycontin, and the other half has been rendered imbecilic as a result of chromosome breakage caused by industrial pollution. Then there is a third half, Republican scumbags who voted for this insane mess and would be happy to do it again because they are making money off the tax cuts, the skimming of medical spending into their pockets while vast numbers of Americans can’t afford to see a doctor and the profits from selling armaments for the Iraq war and its subsequent chaotic effect on spiking oil prices.
Bush is a lunatic, a hypocrite and a liar. But for his base, as he laughingly refers to it, he is doing a fine job of bringing home the bacon. As for reality, this is what one of his own flunkies had to say about it: “We are an empire. Reality is what we say it is.”
Don't Cry for www.200motels.net! Tune in for the wildest stories and jokes. You'll never see anything as
crazy as this anywhere else on the Internet
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 8/22/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 298 Times
Send to Friend
|
August 18, 2007
Forget all about this blog. My new
website, www.200motels.net is now
open for business, with the latest in
comedy, satire and commentary, and
with
advanced graphics to entertain the
discriminating reader.
http://www.200motels.net
Be there or be nowhere!
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 8/18/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 322 Times
Send to Friend
|
August 18, 2007
Once there was a king who told his tailor, “Sew me the coolest suit in the world.”
The tailor said, “Yes, Your Highness.”
The king said, “You better, otherwise I will have my priests rip out your still beating heart and feed it to the piranha fish I keep in the royal aquarium.”
The tailor went home and racked his brains, trying to come up with something that hadn’t already been done. In desperation, he called his son, who had an MBA from the Wharton School of Business. His son suggested sewing a suit composed entirely of bank notes. “Nah,” said the tailor, “that’s already been done by Jay-Z.”
“Well, then,” said the son, “How about a suit composed of collateralized debt obligations?”
“What are those?”
“CDOs are the hottest new structured finance instruments. They’re taking the world by storm. They are securities backed by the future proceeds of sub-prime mortgages issued to high-risk homebuyers. Since these mortgages are bad credit risks, the interest rates are a lot higher. It’s a real cash cow!”
“Thanks for the tip, son. You saved my life.”
So the tailor sewed a suit composed of CDOs and presented it before the king. “Looks cool!” exclaimed the king. “In fact, I think I’ll put it on and take a little stroll down Wall Street. Show the people on the street what real class looks like.” So the king, attired in his new finery, marched in a procession through the financial district, accompanied by trumpets and heralds and bankers throwing rose petals at his feet. All the financial analysts swooned. “Omigod, the king looks fantastic! Quick, call my tailor and tell him to whip me up one of those suits!”
The next day every banker on Wall Street was wearing a suit made of CDOs. It was like a new financial era had dawned. As it happened, though, a little girl walking with her mother asked, “Why are those men walking around dressed like that?”
“Why, those are the smartest men in the world,” said her mother.
“Then why are they walking around naked, dressed in worthless paper?” asked the little girl.
And all at once the bankers realized that the little girl was right. They were walking around dressed in suits that were composed entirely of PURE SHIT!
A generation ago President Ronald Reagan reinvigorated a depressed and demoralized financial establishment by pronouncing his revolutionary axiom, “Greed is good.” This dictum has been updated by George W. Bush, who has put into practice his own improved version, “Stupidity is Heavenly.”
What can the Republican administration and the Republican congress have been thinking when they enabled the banking community to put into place the mother of all ponzi schemes, otherwise known as sub-prime mortgages?
Broken down into bite-sized pieces that even I can understand, this is how the racket was set up: a mortgage broker unloads a house on somebody who can’t afford it for $250,000. The first year the mortgage is set at a low rate, but thereafter it fluctuates according to much higher market rates. This first year window of opportunity allows the mortgage holder to sell off the debt to a consolidator and cash out at the original $250,000, while the consolidator gets a deed worth upwards of $500,000, which is what the deal would be worth if the mortgage was carried out to term. The consolidator then flips the mortgage again to an investment bank at a discount off the $500,000. The investment bank bundles thousands of these mortgages together and issues securities backed up by the future income to be generated by all these mortgages.
All of these transactions take place in the window of opportunity period while the low teaser rate is in effect and the mortgagee is still able to make his payments. After the initial low mortgage rate expires and the interest rate doubles, the homebuyer craps out and the ultimate holder of the worthless paper is left holding the bag.
Theoretically, the scam should have been short-circuited when the bond rating agencies like Standard & Poors and Moody’s reviewed the transactions for purposes of rating the bonds, but these agencies are funded by the investment banks, and they didn’t do their due diligence. They passed the bonds with top ratings of AAA and AA. Once these worthless securities went into the investment pipeline with AAA valuations assigned to them, they were snapped up by financial institutions around the world. Most brokers are idiots who play video games and watch The Simpsons, and they enjoy having their thinking done for them. Their job is to invest money, and a triple-A rating on a bond ensures that the placement passes muster with their manager, which is all they care about.
The ratings agencies subsequently admitted that they had based their valuations not on any kind of independent research, but on criteria supplied to them by the bond issuers themselves, and it’s irresistible to suspect collusion between the issuers and underwriters of these securities and the rating agencies. They all would have a lot to gain, and the oversight system of checks and balances in the securities industry is flimsier than Paris Hilton’s nightie. If a congressional committee were to shine a spotlight on this mess and force the managers who signed off on these fictional ratings to testify under oath, then the whole sordid truth would eventually emerge.
In China these guys would be shot for economic sabotage, the same as they shot the head of their Food and Drug Administration for taking bribes. With the European and American central banks having been forced to spend close to five hundred billion dollars to maintain liquidity in the banking system to prevent a total collapse of the world economy, this scandal dwarfs Enron and World Com by a country mile. The worst is yet to come in September and October, when trading starts up in earnest. There is going to be some serious jail time handed down to these wiseguys when the whole thing gets adjudicated.
The curse of Cassandra in ancient Greek mythology was that she could prophecy the future, but that nobody would listen to her. I write for purposes of entertainment, and I sure don’t want to get caught up in a thing like that. But it sure looks as though these collateralized debt obligations are just the latest in a long series of rackets devised by overreaching accountants to enrich themselves by playing fast and loose with the world financial system. The obvious next question is: how many other worthless punchboard schemes are currently in circulation and, when we get through peeling away the onion layers of accounting shenanigans, what is at the core?
Forget all about this blog. My new website, 200motels.net is now open for business, with the latest in comedy, satire and commentary, and with advanced graphics to entertain the discriminating reader.
www.200motels.net
Be there or be nowhere!
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 8/18/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 393 Times
Send to Friend
|
August 16, 2007
Forget all about this blog. My new website, 200motels.net is now open for business, with the latest in comedy, satire and commentary, and with advanced graphics to entertain the discriminating reader. www.200motels.net Be there or be nowhere!
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 8/16/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 425 Times
Send to Friend
|
August 15, 2007
No amount of money can induce a French woman to go along with the program if it’s against her nature. Sometimes her resistance can be passive, as in Diderot’s “La Religieuse”, wherein the young novitiate refuses the priest’s injunction to accept an oath of poverty, chastity and dedication to Christ and is subsequently locked away by the nuns, to Molière’s “School For Wives”, where the young Agnès attempts to defenestrate herself rather than succumb to the advances of the much older Arnolphe.
More extreme examples, such as Joan of Arc, who was so contrary to male-dominated society that the French and English establishments of the day vied to send her up in smoke; or Charlotte Corday, who was pleased to puncture Marat with a dagger over some trivial matter having to do with guillotines and the French Revolution, will not be addressed for purposes of this essay in favor of the garden variety recalcitrants who hold up half of the French sky.
Contrary to the Anglo-Saxon female, who can be faithful to a fault and impossible to get rid of barring an enormous financial settlement, the average French woman will use whatever resources happen to be at hand to avenge herself on the male oppressor. The most obvious and commonly used weapon brought to bear is, naturally, sex. An overbearing male cuckolded by his woman can go down in flames like the Titanic, sunk by the ballast of his own ego. This apprehension of finding out that there are other mules kicking in his stall, as Muddy Waters so poetically termed it, has been a primal fear of men only second to castration, and it extends to other primates as well, as any sea lion or bush monkey will testify. Lions and gorillas routinely murder any offspring they suspect is the product of extracurricular activity.
Geneticists ascribe all this playing around on the part of females as a strategy for endowing their offspring with the strongest genetic inheritance, but the poet in his contemplation can conjure up other, equally compelling motives, among them revenge at their being born into a supporting role in life.
As Arnolphe frankly instructs Agnès in “The School For Wives,” “Men and women are partners in life, but not equal partners. Men rule and women obey.”
Being brought up in such a school is bound to stimulate the perversity in any independent nature, and Agnès finds her weapon in Horace, who is young and handsome. Even after being found out by Arnolphe, Agnès, knowing she holds all the trumps, confesses to him sweetly and quietly. No screaming and histrionics here. What difference if the knife is slipped in cleanly between the ribs rather than a hacking butcher job? She destroys her erstwhile oppressor with almost a whisper.
Sometimes a woman will lay low a man for something that was done to her by a previous man, or in anticipation that he will eventually deceive her. Maybe she wants to get one up on him just out of general principles.
Men generally don’t pursue such convoluted strategies in their extramarital affairs. Generally it’s just a case of straightforward animal aggression that motivates a man to go after a lot of women like a caribou. But in the case of women there are always tactical considerations. My first girlfriend in New York was a married woman named Claire. She was Spanish, from Bolivia, and she had married a WASP banker for social position and respectability. This banker, Thomas, had a triumphalist Anglo-Saxon mentality that drove Claire crazy, and she used to bitterly complain to me between our bouts of sexual gymnastics about his arrogant smugness and rituals of self-satisfaction. It meant a lot to Claire that I was broke, a struggling assistant designer, as though having a liaison with somebody beneath Thomas’ social class were yet another pin to stick in his voodoo doll. Finally, she left him for another, more highly placed banker, and shortly after she got rid of me too.
The bed is a battlefield fraught with minefields and barbed wire, and the woman chooses her instruments of seduction with the same loving care that a man uses to select his weapons of war. Nobody goes through that much meticulous preparation unless there is an element of aggression involved. Aggression toward other females because her goal is to assert domination over them, and aggression towards men, whom she must dominate to assemble the elements of survival and procreation.
Rejection of powerful males is a very satisfying factor in the female game of one-upmanship. Dressing for success also means laying low highly placed males. How many times have you heard, “So-and-so tried to make it with me but I told him I wasn’t interested.” This option is not available in the animal world, where the dominant male generally gets his way, as well as being the case in primitive human societies. But in the western world, with its values of equality, female aggression toward powerful men is protected by the judicial system and given its head.
French-English animosity, which extends at least back to the many English invasions of France and probably a lot longer, is not a negligible factor in these latest culture wars. Add to that the natural Anglo-Saxon attitude of punitive superiority toward the rest of the world in general, and it’s a shock that any romantic relations would exist between French and English at all. But they do, for reasons of physical proximity if nothing else.
Nevertheless, the French-English conflict only pours accelerant on the already rampaging firestorm of sexual revanchism. Back in the1970’s, when the style was long hair and roaring Jimmy Page guitar solos, Prince Charles happened to attend a dance in Montreal. The Prince was a forerunner of the modern age of dorks and nerds, with his hair plastered down and his whiskey jug ears sticking out. He was really out of his element in Montreal, which is the second largest French-speaking city in the world. The prevailing look there at the time was a cross between Roger Daltry and the Hell’s Angels, and when the hapless successor to the throne of England asked a French girl to dance she blew him off. As she later told the press, “I didn’t like his hair.”
Ha-ha, the Prince of Wales being told to bugger off by a common French-Canadian from Ville D’Anjou or Chateauguay! That’s hysterical! Imagine that happening now, in a time when Monica Lewinsky conserves the Gap dress for posterity because it’s got Clinton’s jism stains all over the front of it!
In the latest instance of a French woman telling a powerful Anglo-Saxon to piss off, Cécilia Sarkozy, the wife of the French head of state, declined an invitation from George Bush for a weenie roast at Bush’s family vacation retreat at Kennebunkport, ME. One can only imagine what she told her husband. “Too low-end. Don’t waste my time. I don’t eat hot dogs.” Maybe she told him, “I don’t like Bush’s haircut.”
Anyway, Sarkozy’s got his own problems with his wife. She already ditched him once and ran off to New York with an interior designer, and Sarkozy, control freak that he is, had to follow her to the States to coax her to return with him to France. It’s too rich, right out of a stage farce by Molière or Beaumarchais.
The cuckolded president of France and his wild, wayward wife seem to have arrived at a state of equilibrium, but there is no doubt that she is holding a very strong suit of cards. As this one French woman once described the modern state of sexual relations to me, “You men have the money, but we have you by the balls.” However you care to describe it, the French presidency is now a co-presidency. Foreign leaders have to contend not only with Nicholas Sarkozy, but also with his wife, who is representing a constituency that has yet to be recognized or defined by policy planners or by the Fifth Estate.
Who can say Cécilia Sarkozy was in error when she declined to attend that tedious lunch? It’s a little peculiar to invite the President of France to a lunch of hot dogs and hamburgers, and even more peculiar that Bush and Sarkozy decided to wear bankers suits to an outdoor weenie roast.
The Sarkozys have acted in tandem before, when he sent her down to Libya to negotiate the release of the Bulgarian hostages. Who’s to say that her refusal to meet Bush for lunch was not orchestrated by the two of them to show the French public that even though he might be perceived as toadying to the Americans, his wife is representing a segment of the electorate that prefers to see them snubbed?
I maintain that when the Americans get over their initial euphoria at seeing Sarkozy elected president of France, they will find themselves severely disappointed, the way they were with Putin. They might end up waxing nostalgic for the days of Chirac, who was unpalatable to them but was nevertheless predictable, instead of these two loony, frenetic, freewheeling Frenchmen.
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 8/15/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 396 Times
Send to Friend
|
August 14, 2007
Forget all about this blog. My new website, 200motels.net is now open for business, with the latest in comedy, satire and commentary, and with advanced graphics to entertain the discriminating reader. www.200motels.net Be there or be nowhere!
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 8/14/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 302 Times
Send to Friend
|
August 13, 2007
It’s a beautiful day in Beijing. The sun is shining, the flowers are blooming and the birds in the trees are puking their guts out from the pollution. Next year at this time China will be hosting the Olympics, but there are still some minor details to be worked out – like breathing the air.
The Chinese government Minister of Sport, Hop Mye Butt, has stated that various elementary particles contained in the air around the Chinese capital may actually enhance athletic performance. “Lead and magnesium are vitamins which are necessary for producing strong bodies,” he said recently, “and arsenic may actually be good for you under certain conditions.”
If you believe that, we’d like to sell you a used bicycle.
While it says that short-duration events that do not require too much breathing would not be affected, the Chinese government has promised to mitigate the effects of pollution in long events like the marathon by providing the athletes with gas masks. If the pollution is too intense, the Ministry of Sport is also prepared to distribute night vision goggles so that the runners can see the track.
“The gas masks and night vision goggles notwithstanding, the 2008 Games will be a totally normal Olympics. We are building beautiful Olympic facilities. We even have American construction contractors to do the work,” said Mr. Hop, citing the firm of Capone, Gambino & Gotti, who participated in building the Minneapolis Bridge over the Mississippi River.
In addition to the regular competitions highlighted at normal Olympic games, Beijing has scheduled special events designed to accentuate the special Chinese nature of these games, such as the Shanghai rickshaw race, where skinny Chinese wearing pointy hats pull carriages bearing sweaty fat men wearing tropical white suits; a marathon swim across a lake filled with chemicals and green algae; and a bicycle race where deliverymen carrying bags of food on their handlebars navigate a crowded New York sidewalk.
The Olympic facility should be immaculately maintained, he added, citing the fact that China has an abundance of political prisoners and common criminals to keep the grounds well groomed. Mr. Hop has promised that the food served to the athletes will be subject to stringent safeguards to ensure purity and freshness. “We don’t plan to serve dog more than three times a week. Also, in order to respect ethnic sensibilities, we will not be serving food that offends dietary laws. For instance, we will not be feeding German shepherds to the Israeli athletes.
“In Beijing, when we serve you a hot dog at the Olympics, we won’t be kidding,” he concluded.
Forget all about this blog. My new website, 200motels.net is now open for business, with the latest in comedy, satire and commentary, and with advanced graphics to entertain the discriminating reader.
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 8/13/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 402 Times
Send to Friend
|
August 12, 2007
Forget all about this blog. My new website, 200motels.net is now open for business, with the latest in comedy, satire and commentary, and with advanced graphics to entertain the discriminating reader.
www.200motels.net
Be there or be nowhere!
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 8/12/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 412 Times
Send to Friend
|
August 11, 2007
[Scénario : Le président Bush a acueilli le président de la République française, Nicholas Sarkozy, le 11 août 2007 pour un déjeuner dit « en famille » à sa maison de vacances à Kennebunkport E.U.]
Bushy : Soyez le bienvenue.
Sarko : Est-ce que vous aimez mon complet ?
Bushy : Très élégant. J’admire surtout les bottes de cow-boy et le chapeau Clint Eastwood.
Sarko : Je les ai acheté a la boutique Johnny Hallyday dans la rue St. Honoré. Cela a couté pas mal cher !
Bushy : J’en suis sur. Et votre charmante épouse, Cécilia, ne vous a pas accompagné ?
Sarko : Non, la salope ! Elle réfuse de manger les hot-dogs. Vous savez, les françaises sont très dificiles. C’est comme les chats. Des qu’on laisse la porte ouverte, elles s'enfuient. Quand elle est allée en Libye elle a refusé de rentrer ensuite, et j'ai dû m’y rendre le lendemain pour la chasser. Les femmes, c’est comme dans une pièce de Molière. Elles ne respectent jamais les commandes.
Bushy : Bon. J’éspere que vous aimez la nourriture américaine.
Sarko : Pas du tout. C’est déguelasse. Mais je suis toujours prêt a tout faire pour améliorer les rélations bilaterales, surtout avec les pays riches. Qu’est-ce qu’on mange ?
Bushy : On commence avec les hot-dogs. Ensuite il y a des Big Macs et des pizza-bagels, c’est a dire des bagels cuits au four avec la sauce de tomate et le fromage.
Sarko : Chouette !
Bushy : Pour le dessert on vous propose les Twinkies.
Sarko : C’est quoi, un Twinkie ?
Bushy : C’est un gateau bourré d’un sous-produit pétrolier.
Sarko: Quel bonheur!
Bushy : Vous vous est bien amusé durant votre séjour en target="_blank"> Amérique ?
Sarko : Pas du tout ! Il y a pas grande chose a faire dans le New-Hampshire. Comment les gens supportent de se faire chier comme
ça, je comprendrai jamais. Moi, je préfere les croisières en yacht sur la Mediterranée. Mais je supporte encore moins Paris au mois d’août. Ça pue, dans la chaleur avec les fromages pas frigorifiés (quelque fois je me démande si ce n’est pas l’odeur du cul des femmes mal lavées), et ces viellards qui crévent partout. Ouf ! Les petits français, c’est des paysans, pas doués pour vivre en ville. Et ils ne supportent pas cette chaleur de chien qu’absorbe le béton dans l’étè. Faut les arroser avec les Karchers, surtout dans les cités. Comment vous faites en Amérique ?
Bushy : On fait construire des piscines dans les quartiers défavorisés. Mais souvent il n’éxiste pas les budgets pour le remplir d’eau, le résultat que les gens s’habituent à jouer dans le piscines vides. C’est pas si mal. Est-ce que vous avez envie de visiter d’autres endroits aux Etats-Unis ?
Sarko : Evidemment je voudrais faire mes hommages au lieu de naissance d’Elvis Presley à Memphis. Et pour visiter Mickey a Disney World. Mais à part de ça, l’Amérique ne me fascine guère, sauf la bourse de Wall Street, bien sur. Et comme vous le savez déjà, je suis sportif. J’aime sauter, comme j’ai sauté dans le bateau des photographes. Je voudrais essayer de sauter la clôture de sécurité que sépare le Méxique de San Diego, comme font les méxicains.
Bushy : Alors, amusez vous bien. Et ne vous en faites pas, je ne dirais à personne que vous etes juif.
OUBLIEZ CE BLOGUE! VISITEZ MON WEBSITE A www.200motels.net
C'EST DU VRAI!
Forget all about this blog. My new website, 200motels.net is now open for business, with the latest in comedy, satire and commentary, and with advanced graphics to entertain the discriminating reader.
www.200motels.net
Be there or be nowhere!
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 8/11/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 425 Times
Send to Friend
|
August 09, 2007
Forget all about this blog. My new website, 200motels.net is now open for business, with the latest in comedy, satire and commentary, and with advanced graphics to entertain the discriminating reader.
www.200motels.net
Be there or be nowhere!
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 8/9/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 469 Times
Send to Friend
|
August 09, 2007
The trend toward the installation of foot washing stations in public toilets for members of the Mohammedan faith to ritually cleanse their feet before praying toward Mecca five times a day is much to be praised. I tried to use one once, but unfortunately I was loaded and I forgot to remove my tan Beatle boots from Payless Shoes. As it happened, the boots were Made In China and they turned out to be made of pressed cardboard instead of leather, with the result that they disintegrated.
For Muslims to wash their feet five times per day is a salutary habit, which I applaud, but the effort would be more profitably spent washing their hands, particularly for the halal food vendors who line the Avenue of the Americas by the Hilton Hotel on West 53rd Street. These guys do a brisk business, but there are no public toilets in the neighborhood, so it is anybody’s guess what hygienic procedures they have in place for being there all day and all night, y’know what I mean? Frankly, you don’t hear them screaming about washing their hands, only their feet!
Anyway, I belong to the Church of Latter Day Schmucks, otherwise known as the Morons. My religion requires me to wash my butt five times per day in order to pray with my backside raised in the direction of Crawford, Texas, which is the ancestral home of our spiritual leader, George W. Bush. But as yet there are no butt-washing facilities in Manhattan. How do I ever expect to pass through the portals of heaven with an unclean butt? If I were to get run over by a garbage truck with my butt in a state of insalubrity, no Moron minister would administer the last rites of the church to me, putting my eternal butt at risk of spending eternity in a state of funky purgatory.
This business of feet and garbage trucks is more than idle conjecture. New York Times editor Jill Abramson got her foot broken when a garbage truck ran over it while she was standing off the curb waiting for the light to change. One of the instantly forgettable revolving door holders of the title “National Treasure” that The Times likes to bestow on its mediocre, middlebrow journalistic hacks, Abramson was recently quoted in Page Six of The Post screaming at the top of her lungs to a playwright at a dinner party that “We [The Times] are the arbiters of good taste in New York.” One ventures to bet tht this Hebrew “arbiter of good taste” wishes in retrospect that she would have been washing her feet with Fatima bin Laden and the rest of the harem at the Islamic Cultural Center rather than standing in a gutter yakking it up on her cell phone when Tony Mozzarella roared past in his garbage truck and flattened her little tootsie like a discarded Budweiser can on West 43rd Street.
What about washing the pussy? Sometimes in the summer you get on the subway and the whole car reeks like a pot of boiled shrimp. If Mayor Bloomberg really cares about updating the infrastructure like he says, then he should consider installing bidets on subway platforms for the girls to spritz their bushes before getting on the train. That way I could get home without my business suit reeking like a fish inspector at the Fulton Fish Market.
I agree with ritual cleansing, but life in New York is a little different than tiptoeing barefoot through a field of Moroccan camel dung, where foot washing makes eminent sense. We need to update some of these ancient customs to conform with contemporary New York reality.
Forget all about this blog. My new website, 200motels.net is now open for business, with the latest in comedy, satire and commentary, and with advanced graphics to entertain the discriminating reader.
www.200motels.net
Be there or be nowhere!
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 8/9/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 481 Times
Send to Friend
|
August 06, 2007
Forget all about this blog. My new website, 200motels.net is now open for business, with the latest in comedy, satire and commentary, and with advanced graphics to entertain the discriminating reader.
www.200motels.net
Be there or be nowhere!
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 8/6/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 329 Times
Send to Friend
|
August 05, 2007
Saul Bellow once wrote how he was acutely aware, growing up in Chicago, that he was not tough. Chicago is the city of heavenly bruisers, and they are not big on eye contact or the other social niceties. When a man looks you in the eye in Chicago, you know you are in a world of shit.
Likewise, Winston Churchill dislocated his shoulder while debarking from a launch in Bombay harbor. Back in those days the technology for mending torn rotator cuffs did not exist and Churchill instead knew he would be permanently disabled, so he henceforth decided to let his brain do the talking instead of his fists.
Now, these people were primarily writers and intellectuals, though Churchill displayed great physical bravery as a news correspondent during the Boer War. They knew that one bright idea was worth a hundred broken noses.
Unfortunately, people have not gotten smarter in the modern world, despite all the modern technology, which has brought the wisdom of the ages into our homes with the click of a computer mouse. In fact, mutherfuckers are stupider than ever. The prevailing wisdom seems to be: why do I have to know anything if I can bring it up on the Internet. Bravo!
The result is a kind of reverse evolution that produces bigger and bigger idiots with each passing day. A world culture that originally began with great beauties like Helen of Troy, Andromeda and the Goddess Diana of ancient Greek mythology has narrowed to nearly the vanishing point, producing modern abominations like Lindsay Lohan and Brittany Spears, who make Paris Hilton look like a class act by comparison.
And reigning over the whole sordid mess is Mr. Dumbass himself, George W. Bush, who single-handedly destroyed the economy, presided over the shambles of Hurricane Katrina and (lest we forget) inspired the current Endless Summer of Iraq, which is due to wind down in 40 or 50 years.
Supporters of the Iraq War point to our previous success in South Korea as an example of how a country can be successfully occupied and pacified. To that lot I say, look at a map. Korea is a peninsula, surrounded on three sides by water. Once the north was sealed off there were no avenues of infiltration except by sea, and we controlled the seas.
All right! I’m not here to play armchair strategist. I had enough of that when I was 12 years old. When I became a man I cast aside childish things, which is what George W. Bush should have done. His father, who was no genius either, had a better grasp of the situation. After expelling Iraq from Kuwait, he stopped at the Iraq border and refused to proceed any further.
Clinton also took a soft approach toward Iraq. He enforced an embargo and no-fly zone. Sure, Saddam Hussein was a sneaky prick and he managed to circumvent the embargo by trickery and bribery, but he was essentially painted into a very narrow corner.
At this point the reactionary classes said, “Enough is enough. There is too much going on in this country that is outside of our control. The treasury is loaded with surpluses that should be in our pockets and every day that goes by without a war our people are getting soft and our defense industries (of which we are the majority shareholders, naturally) are withering on the vine. We need tax cuts and we need a war. A long war!”
The only Republican candidate that they had who didn’t look like a bloated, floating corpse in the New Orleans flood was George Bush, who fit the part perfectly except that he was an absolute moron. But with the kind of money he had and the kind of money he had backing him up, what the fuck does brains have to do with it? A ventriloquist dummy would have served just as well.
So the Republicans stole the 2000 election in Florida, where Bush’s brother was governor, and they stole it in the U.S. Supreme Court, where never existed a more revolting collection of desiccated stiffs and political hack attorneys. Anybody who holds that collection of dorks to be sacrosanct needs to be reminded that the U.S. Supreme Court serves at the pleasure of congress, who can change its composition any day of the week by a simple majority vote, same as appointing a federal dog catcher.
The Supreme Court is the highest administrative court in the land, but that’s all it is – an administrative court, the same kind you go before to get a ruling on admissibility of evidence in a misdemeanor case or to get a decision on a contested traffic ticket. Most people don’t know this, but the justices are acutely aware of it, and that is why their rulings don’t stray too far from political or social orthodoxy. As one of America’s most astute political analysts, a man named Mr. Dooley who never existed, put it, “The Supreme Court reads the papers.”
All the hullabaloo about who will be the decisive vote on the Supreme Court is just so much Three Card Monte to distract the boobs. It ought to be a game show:
“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to ‘You Be The Judge,’ where the surviving contestant gets to fill the existing vacancy on the U.S. Supreme Court. I’m your moderator, former New York State Judge and Westchester County Prosecutor Jeanine Pirro.
“As you know, the field has been narrowed to our two last contestants, one of whom will get thrown off the island (Staten Island), and the other of whom will be awarded his/her black robe and gavel.
“And our contestants are: Landsdorff Putzl, appeals court judge for the nineth district, the moderate reactionary.”
“Howdy, folks!”
“And Bluto R. Mahogany, former U.S. Attorney for the District of Columbia, the reactionary moderate.”
“Hi y’all!”
“Landsdorff, we’ll start the questioning with you. What is your position on a woman’s right to choose?”
“Waal, I believe that a woman has the right to as many shoes as her closet will hold.”
“Now, Bluto, what is your position on medical marijuana?”
“I think that those freaks should get off the weed and take oxycontin like the rest of us.”
Blah blah blah. Who cares about those jokers anyway? Look at what they did to Clinton, ruling that the phony Paula Jones lawsuit could go forward while he was in office and plunging the country into an idiot show of blowjobs and cum stains on Gap dresses, with the end result that FBI Director Louis B. Freeh ended up devoting the agency’s whole energy to impeaching Clinton while the al-Queda terrorists were practicing crashing into the World Trade Center on flight simulators. Good job there, Lou!
Now that the Democrats have regained control of congress and are almost certain to retake the White House next year, if the present composition of the Supreme Court dies not comfortably suit them, they can add a couple of seats and fill them with their own stooges or, better yet, eliminate a couple of judges.
“Mr. Thomas, your resumé says that your last job was as a Supreme Court justice. Can you tell me why you were let go?”
“I was downsized.”
Everybody’s playing fast and loose with the rules. Generally speaking, when a country goes to war it needs to produce a casus belli to satisfy international world opinion that all the savagery and suffering of innocent populations, all the market disruptions and transmigrations of refugees, all the bitter enmities and savage loathings have a factual basis in reality.
This Bush attempted to do, citing the yellowcake uranium, the mobile WMD laboratories, Saddam Hussein’s nasty character. The UN turned him down cold and the only allies he was able to bring into the enterprise with him were Tony Blair, for reasons that have yet to be rationally explained; Australia, a country that is still living in the past era of Anglo Saxon triumphalism, Italy under the leadership of Silvio Berlusconi, who always follows the money; and a few tin-pot countries who sent miniscule numbers of troops to the Coalition of The Willing hoping to qualify for foreign aid largess (don’t make me laugh!).
Never were more vacuous assertions set forth as reasons for mounting an invasion. Even the Trojan War was at least predicated on the kidnapping of a woman, Helen, who was the consort of Menelas, the king of Greece. This historical incident was dramatized in an allegorical stage play by the illustrious French playwright Jean Giraudot, a diplomat and classically educated intellectual. The play, “La guerre de Troie n’aura pas lieu,” which became a smash hit when it was presented at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées in 1936, presents the lead-up to the Trojan War with parallel allusions to France as it emerged from World War I and was faced with the prospect of a sequel against a revanchist Germany under the leadership of Adolph Hitler.
The play, which is written in modern language, concerns Hector, commander of the victorious Trojan forces against an unnamed enemy, who is aghast to find on the day of his return to Troy a Greek warship commanded by Ulysses moored in the harbor and demanding the return of Helen, who was kidnapped by Hector’s brother, Paris. The Greek ultimatum: return Helen immediately or we will sack Troy.
Hector’s war-weariness is reinforced by the prediction of his soothsayer sister, Cassandra, that Troy will be destroyed in any war against the Greeks, and the apprehension of his pregnant wife, Andromache. But there is a large pro-war party of old men and non-combatants who enjoy having the sexy Helen in Troy, and who would rather send the fighting men off to fight a suicidal war against the much more powerful Greeks. All attempts by Hector to explain the reality of the situation to them are scornfully rebuffed. As one old man puts it, “It’s impossible to discuss the concept of honor with these war veterans. They are really abusing the fact that we can’t insult them as cowards.”
Even though Paris and Helen have long since tired of each other the inertia of the situation and good sex is keeping them together. Hector finally manages to convince Helen to return on the Greek vessel, but his troubles are far from over because the Greek soldiers who have disembarked are intentionally behaving provocatively. One Greek officer, Oyox, drunkenly insults Hector and Paris and tries to goad Hector into a fight by propositioning his wife, Andromache. Still, Hector, mindful of the calamitous consequences, refuses to rise to the bait. When all else fails, Oyox punches Hector in the face, knocking him down. Still, Hector refuses to react, drawing cries of derision from his own soldiers and sailors.
In a face-to-face meeting with Hector, the Greek commander, Ulysses, admits that the retrieval of Helen is just a pretext and the real reason the Greeks desire war is the wealth of Troy’s warehouses and agricultural lands, which the Greeks covet. Hector and Ulysses come to an understanding that will allow Ulysses to leave with Helen, and Ulysses will try to persuade the Greek king, Menelas, not to declare war against Troy.
Unfortunately, the brutish Oyox is killed by a gang is killed by a gang of Trojans before he is able to return to the ship, setting off the ineluctable logic of war, Hector is killed by Achilles, Andromache is enslaved and the child of Andromache and Hector is thrown live on Achilles’ funeral pyre.
“La guerre de Troie n’aura pas lieu” is a tragic and prescient stage play, which predicts the inevitable logic of war. The beauty of it is in its hero, Hector, the war hero who abandons his pride and permits himself to be insulted and smacked around in front of his own people by a drunken stooge in a vain attempt to avert a massacre. Compare that with little Bushie, Mr. Mission Accomplished; Mr. Bring'em On, who exhorted the Iraqi insurgency to give us their worst shot, which they did with armor-piercing projectiles and horrific roadside bombs producing scores of thousands of amputees and brain-damaged service personnel, not to mention thousands of cancer and nerve damage cases produced by policing a hideous, filthy toxic wasteland. Bush and Cheney, both Vietnam draft dodgers, callously invented vacuous pretexts for sending American soldiers into a meat grinder and to this day insist on piling more and more bodies into the furnace while all the time inventing new and improved justifications for the senseless waste of American manpower and treasure.
The tragedy of our present situation is that our intellectual class has not evolved any artists or writers possessed of the historical depth of culture to define these monstrous realities.
Forget all about this blog. My new website, 200motels.net is now open for business, with the latest in comedy, satire and commentary, and with advanced graphics to entertain the discriminating reader.
www.200motels.net
Be there or be nowhere!
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 8/5/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 309 Times
Send to Friend
|
August 03, 2007
Forget all about this blog. My new website, 200motels.net is now open for business, with the latest in comedy, satire and commentary, and with advanced graphics to entertain the discriminating reader.
www.200motels.net
Be there or be nowhere!
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 8/3/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 348 Times
Send to Friend
|
August 03, 2007
Yeah, Brooklyn After Dark! It ain’t no Disneyland. When the sun goes down the eagle flies and all bets are off.
On our way to Coney Island Beach my girlfriend, Magpie, and I stopped off at one of the conveniently located liquor stores on Brighton Beach Avenue for a pint of Cossack Vodka. It being the height of summer, we determined that a moonlight swim was in order before the Natalie Cole concert just across the street from the boardwalk, in Asher Levy Park.
The beach was animated at dusk with beautiful Russian girls in expensive bikinis, their less beautiful parents showing unsightly bulges in no less expensive bathing suits, bodybuilders with shoulder-length bleached-blonde hair, plus assorted psychos and freaks who looked as though they were on a day pass from Bellevue.
The sun shone brightly as it descended in a scarlet ball of fire to the west, resembling the opening credits for a Charles Bronson cowboy movie. A sprightly breeze animated choppy waves as Magpie and I frolicked in the surf. Big waves crashed into the shore, and Magpie and I bounced around happily like little waterlogged tennis balls, diving into the surf, doing the breast stroke, the back stroke, floating on our backs. I had brought along a mask and snorkel, and that was fun for a while, but I could barely see beyond my arms in the brown, murky mulch, a far cry from the crystal waters of the Caribbean, to be sure!
Coney Island Beach/Brighton Beach may not be Cheeseburger in Paradise, but you won’t hear any complaints from the immigrants who migrated there from the former Soviet Union. For somebody who traces his origins back to Kazakhstan or some little shit industrial city situated in the Ural Mountains, Brooklyn is paradise. The beaches may not be as pristine as those that line Israel’s seafront, but the money is American, and there’s no way you can beat that.
The lifeguards had ended their shift at 6:00, and the beach patrols in little green dune buggies blew little party horns and tried half-heartedly to coax swimmers out of the water. This the city is obliged to do to protect itself from giant lawsuits in case a swimmer drowns. Naturally the swimmers ignore the warnings, but that is not the point. The point is, if somebody drowns, city lawyers can claim, “We took every reasonable measure to warn him.”
Magpie and I left the beach as night fell, just in time for the Natalie Cole concert. You could see and hear perfectly from the boardwalk, which is much more agreeable than sitting in folding chairs across the street at the band shell. Natalie Cole was in excellent voice, and she sang a variety of genres from Nat King Cole material to disco to blues and rock. We found ourselves next to a lively group of black people who called themselves “The Jazz Family.” With their beach chairs, their voluminous picnic food, their dancing feet and their enthusiasm for soul music, The Jazz Family were the stars of the boardwalk.
The first pint of vodka having long previously bit the dust at the beach, I ran over to Brighton Beach Avenue for another pint of rotgut, which we cut with pomegranate juice. Magpie lost her mind and I had to lead her back onto the darkened beach so that she could take a leak. Magpie can’t hold her liquor, particularly when she’s happy. She has almost gotten us arrested any number of times for trying to sweet talk police officers who don’t have any sense of humor. Also, she loses control of her motor functions and I have to lead her around like the guy in the Times Square subway station with the dancing dummy that he ties to his legs. The only difference is, Magpie ain’t no lightweight. At 5’9”, she’s larger than most men. She’s strong as an ox. She can bring home fantastic loads of groceries and, one time, when we got snowed in at JFK Airport, instead of quietly acquiescing and sleeping in the airport waiting area, she marched across a field of waist-deep snow in her Miami shoes lugging two huge suitcases to catch a bus that would take us to the subway so that we could sleep in our own beds in the city.
Magpie is the kind of girl every peasant farmer dreams of marrying. She’s intelligent, she keeps an immaculate home like a European. And, she’s so strong you can hook her up to a plow and she’ll furrow 40 acres. But when she gets loaded she’s all dead weight, and I was already carrying a big backpack filled with our beach supplies.
The full moon in the eastern sky shined portentously red, while to the west the lights of Coney Island beckoned like a Greek fable. Out to sea the huge cruise liners leaving New York Harbor glistened like miraculous jewels of the universe like the Fellini movie “Amarcord” where the simple people go out to sea in boats to be dazzled and amazed by the ocean liner, but what we have in modern New York is so much grander, more like science fiction.
After Magpie finished her feminine business on the beach, we went back to the boardwalk to see the remainder of the Natalie Cole show. In the summer the people of Brighton Beach are the luckiest in the world, and I’m a die-hard Manhattanite who’s testifying to that. Even late into the night the boardwalk is hopping. Kids playing ball in the sand under the protective glare of streetlights, overfed Russian couples having their promenade, rollerbladers holding hands, wild kids on bicycles with boom boxes attached. One joker even had a tiny television attached between his handlebars, I kid you not!
On the avenue cops’sirens blared an incessant howl, reminding you that you might be at the beach, but you were still in Brooklyn. Groups of motorcyclists roared by, rich Harleys dressed up with fantastic light shows like Christmas trees, super jazzed-up “Too Fast Too Furious” Japanese Ninja bikes painted iridescent green and orange, the female passengers holding on for dear life in the back, their butts stuck up in the air like a fertility ceremony.
The show finally ended and The Jazz Family turned on their own boom box, alternating John Coltrane saxophone pieces with Sam and Dave soul music. I went over to speak to them. The men shook my hand and presented me to their charming women. Eugene from Far Rockaway told me, “New York is brutal, man, but we shall persevere.”
Forget all about this blog. My new website, 200motels.net is now open for business, with the latest in comedy, satire and commentary, and with advanced graphics to entertain the discriminating reader.
www.200motels.net
Be there or be nowhere!
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 8/3/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 344 Times
Send to Friend
|
