July 24, 2008

The Balls of St. Mary's

New York is currently undergoing a renaissance of nudity. Nude restaurants, nude dance clubs, nude comedy clubs. Well, duh! Every few years nudity raises its ugly head, usually among segments of the population who have no business going about uncovered. People who look good in a bathing suit are usually content to wear one. Speaking for myself, I have absolutely no problem with the concept of exposing myself in public but I would need to be fit enough to make a good impression. Unfortunately, the economic reality of survival in New York implies long hours spent working just to make ends meet, and when I’m lucky enough to have a job it necessarily precludes spending enough hours in the gym to make an agreeable presentation of public nudity. Last year I was buff and nicely tanned but I was broke. This year I can afford to drink Stolichnaya instead of Georgi but my body looks like a piece of garbage. No way am I going to show this stuff off without some mitigating camouflage.

Then there’s the problem of gay guys, who’re already a problem for me even when I’m fully clothed. For whatever reason, a lot of them consider me to be totally adorable and I can’t seem get them (sorry) off my back. I wish I could elicit that reaction from women, who mostly find me horrifying. I am so repelled at the concept of other men that I would be terribly company in any nudist situation. I don’t have any problem about women, but, again, they have to be in some kind of presentable condition.

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Another aspect of bathing suits and lingerie of women is that I look at that kind of covering as gift wrapping for the pussy. Everybody knows that presentation counts for a lot. That’s why, even though you know what you’re going to get when she takes her clothes off, it’s still a big deal.

But absolutely the biggest problem about nudity for me personally is the unimpressive impact of my endowment to the humanities. What can I tell you? The women in Brooklyn say I must be a Dodger fan because I remind them of PeeWee Reese. It ain’t no A-Rod Louisville Slugger. In this I find myself in the company of Governor Schwartznegger, who is said to suffer from similarly unimpressive pole numbers.

It’s an old story in gym locker rooms about guys who kill themselves to get big, and then their wives are having it off with pencil-neck weaklings who happen to be endowed with a big dick. I knew this fatman who swore to me on a stack of bibles about how a bodybuilder actually used to drop his wife off at the fat guy’s house so that she could have sex with him, and that way the bodybuilder wouldn’t have to miss a workout. Let’s face it, you only got a limited amount of electrolytes in your body, so you got to define your priorities – sex or a big body. For a lot of guys there is no way their sex drive is going to beat out their male vanity on the ascending scale of priorities.

The problem is, the only muscle that doesn’t benefit from a rigorous bodybuilding regimen is your johnson. They have not yet invented a machine where you can lift a stack of weights with it. Can you imagine the scene in any gym where the guys could line up to do a set on the “Super Dick Blaster”? Oh, man, it would be worth the price of a gym membership jus to see a thing like that. Just remember, if you're standing in line to work out on that baby, don’t bend over to tie your shoe, not unless you want to end up in New Jersey in the Jim McGreevey Memorial Home for Male Unwed Mothers, where the baby pops out of your butt and they have to wash it off with a Karcher power washer to get all the brown stuff off. But that’s another story.

When I was a kid I had a nice size dick, relative to the rest of me. I never had any complaints from the girls. But over the years, all the working out and exercise inevitably made me bigger and my crank has diminished in size relative to the rest of me. Add to that that I’m currently working a 60-65 hour week, and coming off a very stressfull period of unemployment, after having gotten my arm mangled in a bus accident and then suffering an unbelievable bout of pneumonia which almost killed me, and my ding-dong is not exactly ringing “The Bells of St. Mary’s”, if you get my drift. The way things currently stand with me right now, I am not expecting this little acorn to grow into a mighty oak without a little cosmic intervention.

Lemme give you an example of how bad things are, as regards my masculine power surge: a couple of years ago, during one of my not infrequent periods of unemployment, I had gotten myself into thoroughly decent shape from working out 5-6 times per week and going to the beach every day. So, during a week’s vacation in Mexico (I said I was unemployed, not on food stamps), I decided that I looked fit enough to take some nude photos in the little zen garden they had in the resort. Whatever it was, maybe the light, I don’t know, the photos made me look chisled, which motivated me to want to show them around.

But show them to whom? I didn’t have a web site at that time, and I sure wasn’t going to show them to any men. And, like I said, women can’t stand me. So the potential audience narrowed down to one victim, my girlfriend’s sister, Marjolaine, who is over 18 and has presumably seen a couple of men in her life, so I figured my chances of getting arrested were pretty slim (like my pecker).

I e-mailed her the photos and she replied “I’ll tell you what I think after I get a magnifying glass.” Oh well! I think I’ll pop about a six-pack of Viagra, inflate my pecker up until it resembles a bicycle horn, photograph it with a telephoto lens, blow it up to screensaver size and e-mail it back to Marjolaine. That way it’ll get the consideration I think it deserves.

In the meantime, though, don’t expect me to go waving it around at no nude restaurants or comedy clubs, no way!

But personality is not the only consideration. There’s also the question of personality safety for my nuts, what with all of these lunatics threatening to chop each other’s balls off. And I don’t mean ancient history like Lorena Bobbit. I’m talking about more up-to-the-minute freakos like former NY governor Eliot Spitzer, who threatened to cut off state senate majority leader Joe Bruno’s balls off. As it turns out, Bruno retired with dignity while Spitzer’s walking around with dead air in his pants.

Then you got Jesse Jackson, who’s so jealous of Barack Obama that he threatened to cut off Obama’s balls on national TV. Jackson’s a class act. Maybe he should come out to Hymietown and do a few circumcisions while he’s at it. America owes Jesse Jackson a debt of gratitude. The country has not been confronted by a politician’s dick since Paula Jones was kind enough to describe for us every little twist and turn of Bill Clinton’s little porcine corkscrew member. And naturally, Anita Hill and Clarence Thomas will go down in history for immortalizing the patriotic proportions endowed by the Almighty on that most prolific of profligates, namely Long Dong Silver. How can an underdeveloped miscreant like myself ever hope to stand out in the light of such immense talent?

But for the pièce de résistance, you can’t beat Tricia Walsh-Smith who went on You Tube and threatened to cut off the balls of her husband, Philip Smith, president of the Shubert Organization and eat them for breakfast.

I wonder what her recipe is: hard boiled or poached? How about a nice plate of fried balls with scrambled eggs? It’s too bad she specified that she was gonna eat them for breakfast, because a nice lunch course of jellied balls swimming in their own semen might get her a Celebrity Chef gig on the Food Channel. Maybe she could puree them and serve them over the guy’s dick for supper.

OK, so It’s established, I ain’t going out nude in public, particularly to a nude restaurant where there’s cutlery. For all you know they could end up seating you next to Valerie Solanis, the militant lesbian who tried to kill Andy Warhol. She might still be hanging around, and you never know, you get seated next to her in one of those naked restaurants, and she’s got a pair of gardening shears in her Timberland bag.

In fact, if anything, I got a tendency to go in the other direction, with a suit of armor to protect me from Spitzer and Jesse Jackson in front and McGreevey from behind. The one thing that sticks out in my mind is that all these castrating freaks are Democrats. What’s with that? These nutsos are so deranged, it kind of makes you feel nostalgic for old Dick Cheney and his shotgun.


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Posted on 7/24/2008 ( Permanent Link )
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July 18, 2008

Just Like I Pictured It!

“Wow, New York, just like I pictured it!”

“Get in that cell, [asshole]!”
- Stevie Wonder "Innervisions"

If Diogenes haunted the alleys and darkened corners of 21st century New York with a flashlight in search of an honest man, he certainly would not find me remarkable.

Nevertheless, I am an approximation of how close you can come to honesty and still survive here. An old boss of mine once called me as honest a man as he knew, which essentially meant that I never stole from him (he had my phone tapped). Anyway, he was too busy stealing from our parent corporation to really monitor any activities I might happen to engage in.

New Yorkers lie to you for no reason at all, or just to keep in practice. That is why I totally discount any criticisms directed at me or my activities as coming from malevolent, scheming, maladjusted thieves. Yeah, I know, it takes one to know one blah blah blah. Most New Yorkers lie to take the path of least resistance, or to even the playing field. They’re swine. But the New Yorkers who tell the truth are even worse, since New Yorkers can no better afford to have their affairs exposed to the light of day than Nosferatu can afford to get a suntan. Every time the floodlight of transparency shines on a New Yorker, the result is a disaster. There is not enough band width in cyberspace to recount all the New Yorkers who have been maimed by exposure to reality, so let me just refresh your memory with a couple of recent examples: Governor Eliot Spitzer, the totality of Wall Street, A-Rod (but not Madonna. The publicity is right now actually helping her sell records and concert tickets). Anyway, Madonna is like Hillary Clinton, only more so. After what she’s been through there is no exposure left that can damage her.

Speaking for myself, truthfulness is an element of malice. I love shining the light and watching the little creppy-crawlies scatter to hide in the cracks. Of course, that’s wishful thinking – nobody is scared of me. Not yet, anyway. But I still enjoy finding a pressure point and squeezing the spit out of it. Unfortunately, when you have a hobby like that, the only birthday cards you get are from undertakers asking to be remembered in your will.But no matter. I lost a whole lot of friends this year when I insinuated that Barack Obama was a paid agent of the Republican Party in their effort to derail a Hillary Clinton candidacy, which would have been a mortal blow to them. Hillary Clinton has been tied to the whipping post more times than Madonna, but she keeps on ticking. In Obama the Republicans have got a nice marshmallow Easter Bunny that they can tear apart and consume at their leisure.

In this they will be assisted by the New York press corps, who need fresh suckers to sacrifice to boost circulation during the perennial economic crisis.

They certainly have been having a field day with Obama, and he hasn’t even been formally awarded the nomination yet. Just this week Jesse Jackson threatened to cut off his balls and the New Yorker Magazine featured him on its cover all duded out in his Kenyan goat herder suit with his wife looking for all the world like Black Panthers moll Angela Davis, Kalashnikov in hand.

Obama has no political past, resembling a drifter from a Theodore Dreiser novel, and you can portray him in any colors you like. He’s a self-described community activist who somehow managed to become a millionaire (I never bothered to help anybody, and I’m still broke). No question that the Republicans are going to have a field day with him. The New Yorker, which is undoubtedly in cahoots with Hillary Clinton, made one last stab at showing the Democratic Party what they can expect in September, but to no avail. The Democrats are absolutely determined to run off the cliff in an election year when they should have scored an historic electoral triumph, snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, the same as last year’s Mets, who blew a 7 ½ game lead in the last two weeks of the season. When somebody is determined to self-destruct, all you can do is stand out of the way so that when the bullet exits his head it doesn’t wreck you too, as collateral damage.

Meantime, the Democrats are virtually giving John McCain a free pass on the patriotism issue. It’s common knowledge that as the son of a Navy admiral, nobody was willing to try to stop him from performing aerial acrobatics over North Vietnam, causing him to be shot down, and then, sensing he had a future campaign issue in flyover country, refusing to leave the Hanoi Hilton even as his captors were begging him to go. Where is the New Yorker cover portraying McCain lounging around the pool at the Hanoi Hilton, being served an umbrella drink by Ho Chi Minh wearing a waiter’s uniform as Jane Fonda performs a jackknife dive off the diving board, surrounded by clouds of anti-aircraft flak? Apparently, the New Yorker doesn’t have the stomach to feature a thing like that.

Oh, Lord, please hear my prayer! Let me get good traction as a writer, so that I can roast John McCain, Barack Obama, The New York Post, The Times and Tina Brown (what do I care about freakin Brittney Spiers or Lindsay Lohan?) on the same spit like a Brighton Beach Turkish shish-kebob, with plenty of hot sauce!

And let’s not forget Colombian hostage Ingrid Betancourt, who spent six years in FARC captivity because she was too stupid and headstrong to heed the pleadings of Colombian police and military, insisting on driving right into a FARC roadblock. Talk about a dumbass Latin bobblehead!

Betancourt, who grew up and was educated in Paris, obviously thought her native Colombia could benefit from a touch of French civilization, using her high social connections in Bogotá, where she was a government minister, she put herself up for president on an ecology ticket. Not to say that Colombia, the lush, green tropical land that had inspired Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ literary school of magical realism, is not indeed in need of environmental consciousness, but with a century-long history of violent factionalism and civil war that has caused the violent death of upwards of a million citizens and unbelievable social dislocation and misery, probably the last thing most people could wrap their minds around was saving the forest habitat of the three-toed tree sloth.

Hey, what do I know? Barack Obama became a millionaire trying to lift people out of poverty. If you do good for others some of it has got to rub off on you, right?

So, here’s Ingrid Betancourt, barnstorming around Colombia, compliments of the Colombian government transportation infrastructure, with her campaign manager, another chic young thing in designer jeans, disseminating her message of saving the environment and building a political base. A lot of the territory was in guerilla hands, and the only way was to get from town to town was by military helicopter. One day there was no helicopter to take her where she wanted to go.“No problem,” she said, “we’ll just drive there.”

The police and the army told her, “You can’t drive there from here. That’s FARC territory. You have to wait until a helicopter becomes available.”

“Nonsense,” she retorted.“What would the FARC want with sweet, charming, cultivated little ol’ French me? I’m not involved in nasty old adversarial politics. I’m trying to bring people together to save the speckled tree frog (with me as their leader, naturally).”

So off she drove into the bush. They got about five miles until they ran into a FARC roadblock commanded by Juan Valdez’ half brother, Octavio Guevara Valdez, who had run away from the coffee plantation and become a FARC commander.

“What do we have here?” he exclaimed, twirling his greasy moustache.

“Ingrid Betancourt sweetly explained, “We’re off to grandma’s house with a basket of enchiladas. But first I want to stop in San Juan del Maricón to exhort the people to combat global warming.”

Octavio said, “Well, you can travel more comfortably in the trunk of my Toyota.” See, in Colombia hostages are such big business that there is a huge industry built around custom-built air-conditioning for the trunks of cars, so that the valuable merchandise does not expire in the hundred-degree heat while you are in the process of extorting money from their families. If you look in the Medellín Yellow Pages, this is what you see:

Pablo’s Custom Air-Conditioning

Car trunks our specialty

“Keep your hostage as fresh as the day you disappeared him.”

Colombia’s largest selection of blindfolds, handcuffs and instruments of torture.

Anyway, to make a long story short, Ingrid Betancourt became a national hero in both Colombia and France because of her own stupidity. In this country, John McCain became a national patriotic icon because of his insistence on doing stupid dog tricks with his F-14, at the cost of millions to the taxpayers.

So why am I still broke? Because of all the dumb-ass mistakes and blunders I have committed in life, I have never done anything stoopid enough to put myself in the same class of doghouse as these freakin morons.

That’s why everybody hates the Clintons: sure they have their peccadillos, but they never connected with the average dork on the street by doing a monumental screw-up like letting the World Trade Center get destroyed by being too lazy to beef up airport security after getting an intelligence briefing that terrorists were getting ready to use airliners for flying bombs, or promoting a world class sophistry like “Greed is Good” (instead of “Enterprise is Good”) and allowing of class of thieving imbeciles to bring the world banking system to its knees by running amok, totally unregulated, and flooding the market with worthless mortgage securities based on the sale of houses to economic basket cases at usurious rates of interest.

The latest statistics indicate that the US spends double the rate of other industrialized countries on a health care system where 15-20% of the population is not even covered, with the vigorish going to the big insurance combines. So why are AIG and all the other monster insurance conglomerates at the point of bankruptcy? Because they invested a huge portion of the money they chiseled in worthless CDO’s ha-ha! No honor among thieves. Jeez, wotta buncha schmucks!

The New York Post reports (oh it’s gotta be true!) that the wives of investment bankers who lose their jobs are running out on them. Pretty soon you’re going to need a hard hat to take a walk down Wall Street for fear of getting hit in the head by bankers jumping out of windows. Don’t bother withdrawing your money from the collapsing banks because with the dollar losing half its value relative to the euro since Bush stole the election in 2000, pretty soon it won’t be worth the paper it’s written on anyway.

What’s the solution? What do I look like, a genius? If I was so smart I would be going broke (I’m already there), my girlfriend would be running out on me, and I’d be papering my outhouse with worthless securities. All I can say is, maybe this country’s overdue for a social revolution. We should’ve stuck with Hillary.

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July 06, 2008

THE A-ROD & MADONNA SHOW!

[they all rush out]

[A-Rod, Madonna and Joba Chamberlain are at the Great Kills Garbage Dump in Staten Island, where they are standing up to their butts in garbage]

Madonna - Whew, this stinks worse than my last movie!

Tony the Garbage Man - Wow, this my lucky day!  I'm the luckiest garbage man in New York City!  A-Rod, Madonna and Joba Chamberlain all at my garbage dump!  What are you looking for?

A-Rod - A gym bag full of money.

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July 03, 2008

Welcome To My Nightmare

A couple of weeks ago, after Wang Chien-Ming broke his foot while running around third base in a game against Cincinnati, where the Designated Hitter Rule does not apply, Yanks Baby Boss, Hal Steinbrenner, went ballistic.  "Why doesn't the National League adopt the Designated Hitter Rule and join the 21st century?" he railed.

He went on to moan that baseball pitchers have developed into specialized pieces of equipment, and they shouldn't be subjected to such mundane pursuits as batting and running bases.  In this, Yanks manager Joe Girardi, to his everlasting credit in my estimation, brought Steinbrenner up short, rebutting, "Baseball is an athletic sport, and running is part of the sport."

Right on!

But Steinbrenner is not wrong either.  Baseball seems to be in an evolutionary stage.  If you can alter the evolutionary characteristics of dogs every two years, think what you could be able to accomplish with baseball players:

"Yeah, in this cage we got Yankee Joe.  We bred him for long arms for catching fly balls.

"And over here we're breeding a thick, muscular guy who is built like a fire plug so he can be a catcher and block home plate.

"This guy's biological parents were both Olympic hurdlers.  And this one's were acrobats from the Bejing Opera.  They should be great for jumping out of squeeze plays.

"We are gonna field a helluva team."

So, Steinbrenner is not wrong to see the Yanks as a bunch of performing robots, like in a Japanese car factory.

(The only problem is, all his Asiatic stars seem to be breaking down.  First, Wang.  And now Matsui is on the DL for his knee, before that it was his elbow, and before that his wrist.  Matsui is a great star and a great Yankee, but we can't get the spare parts in stock fast enough to keep him in the production line.)

But the evolutionary form of pitchers seems to be evolving into a fat, blubbery dude who can shake like a Jell-o, with skinny little string beans for arms, who can generate a lot of motion with all that fat, and then the little arm shoots around from the centrifugal force and flicks out the ball like the tip of a whip, like Zorro The Spanish Fox!

This is evidently the same kind of blubbery earthquake motion that is generated when fatso golfer John Daly swings the golf club.  Just don't stand behind him because, being a gross, disgusting tub of lard, Daly generates a lot of intestinal gas that blows out of his butt when he swings the club, and you stand to get knocked down by a backdraft of stinking methane gas, especially if he was at Hooters before the match, wolfing down shitloads of Buffalo chicken wings and cheese nachos.  Ugh!

But you can't expect John Daly to run.  And forget about Roger Clemens, Joba Chamberlain or David Wells.  Cleveland starter C.C. Sabathia doesn't look so slender either.  He must chow down on Dominican garlic mofongo and beans and rice until his butt erupts like an explosion of volcanic gas forming a new island chain off the coast of Hispanola.

But anyway, now the Yankees have brought in a new starting pitcher, Sidney Ponson, who exactly fits the aforementioned inflatable fatman profile.  He loves bars, and he's not too much in awe of authority, which is why he got sacked from his last job pitching for the Rangers, even though he was doing a fine job for them with four wins and a .300 ERA.  Evidently, he told management a joke that they didn't think was so funny.  Texans aren't that smart.  Even they admit it.  One time, when I was vacationing in Mexico I had occasion to drink with a group of Texans at the pool bar over the course of several days.  One day, as a joke I congratulated them on Lance Armstrong by joking that Armstrong, who lost a testicle to cancer, had proven that "one Texan ball is worth two French balls anytime."  The Texans just looked at me like I was an escaped lunatic from the moon.  But don't worry about me: that's not the first time that has happened to me.  When the Yankees picked Ponson up, out of desperation , with Wang, Kennedy and Hughes on the DL, they didn't consider how the Texans had reacted to him.  Yankees front office knows what morons Texans are.  They have to deal with Dallas all the time.  Look what a moron Bush is.  When he gets things wrong, he high-fives the joker sitting next to him.  He figures, "That idiotic little knee-slapper will go down great in Houston."

Ponson started out real hot in his first appearance with the Yanks, shutting down the Mets with six fine innings of scoreless pitching.  But if you're thinking of coming out to his welcoming ceremony into the rotation, don't wear your judicial robes.  Ponson hates judges.  He hates them so much, in fact, that back in his home, the ancient Caribbean pirate haven of Aruba, he served 11 days in jail for beating up a judge.

Eleven days for beating up a judge!  If you beat up a judge in Brooklyn you get eleven freakin years!  If they were handing out 11-day sentences for beating up judges in that fair borough, the line of enthusiastic participants, armed with bats and 2"x4"'s  with protruding spikes would stretch around the courthouse and all the way up Flatbush Avenue to the Metrotech Center.

It's probably better that they are handing out longer sentences for assaulting judges.  Look at it this way, with a long sentence, there will probably be time the corrupt, thieving prick who sent you up the river to eventually join you there for a reunion after he himself gets nailed for corruption.

Anyway, Ponson at least claims to have an alibi for his whereabouts on the night Natalie Holloway disappeared in Aruba, so keep your cell phones in your pockets.  You can't pin that one on him.

But Sidney Ponson probably won't last any longer with the Yanks than he did with the Rangers.  When Jason Giambi tries to get him to put on the Magic Gold Panties that all the Yankees have to wear, Ponson will probably just blow a blast of hot gas out of his butt.

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