Thursday, December 20, 2012
The Isle of Misfit Sex Toys
Another Christmas rerun deemed too raunchy and repetitive by those pussies at National Lampoon.
Hermey and Rudolph rode the little iceberg through the night until they got to a strange and desolate island. "This looks like just the place for a couple of misfits," said Hermey.
But they were not alone. Soon, Benny introduced himself. "Hi, I'm Benny and this is the Isle of Misfit Sex Toys," he said. Hermey was confused and asked, "Why are you a misfit?"
"I'm a pair of ben wah cubes and no little girl wants to play with a pair of ben wah cubes," Benny replied sadly. "I'm a misfit."
Gary Glitter was next . "I'm body glitter that looks like herpes. No, little girl wants to wear me when she goes out dancing," he said. "I'm a misfit."
"No woman wants to wear me when they play either" said a sad Consuelo. "I'm a frumpy, Guatemalan maid costume. This island will always be my home."
UPDATE:
I had to remove the rest of the post because the content filter at work wouldn't let me visit my own blog -- too many bad words. It gets more disgusting and more funny, promise.
I moved the entire bit to UncleMelon.com.
Hermey and Rudolph rode the little iceberg through the night until they got to a strange and desolate island. "This looks like just the place for a couple of misfits," said Hermey.
But they were not alone. Soon, Benny introduced himself. "Hi, I'm Benny and this is the Isle of Misfit Sex Toys," he said. Hermey was confused and asked, "Why are you a misfit?""I'm a pair of ben wah cubes and no little girl wants to play with a pair of ben wah cubes," Benny replied sadly. "I'm a misfit."
Gary Glitter was next . "I'm body glitter that looks like herpes. No, little girl wants to wear me when she goes out dancing," he said. "I'm a misfit."
"No woman wants to wear me when they play either" said a sad Consuelo. "I'm a frumpy, Guatemalan maid costume. This island will always be my home."
UPDATE:
I had to remove the rest of the post because the content filter at work wouldn't let me visit my own blog -- too many bad words. It gets more disgusting and more funny, promise.
I moved the entire bit to UncleMelon.com.
A George W. Bush Christmas Carol 2012
A beloved Christmas tradition, a rerun of me bitching about Maureen Dowd. I wrote this bit way back when I was a contributing writer at National Lampoon. There was only one slot for a Christmas story. Maureen got it. My Christmas was ruined.
The Beginning of It
Once upon a time, not just any time, but a special time, on Christmas Eve, George W. Bush was busy at his desk. Not really, he was busy on his couch watching football. His wife Laura was sitting with him. Laura was drinking a chocolate martini, and the combination of the increasing effects of the alcohol and the diminishing effects of the prescription drugs she took each night before she went to bed, emboldened her to speak without first being spoken to.
"George, it's Christmas Eve," Laura stated quietly.
Bush was quick to reply, "Fucking, yeah. Nothing like football and Jesus, reminds me of a Sunday."
Encouraged, Laura continued, "Isn't the tree beautiful?"
"Yeah, the servants did a great job."
"George, on Christmas, I sometimes think of those poor unfortunate Americans that are hungry or can't afford to buy presents for their children."
"Are there no prisons?" growled Bush.
Laura, startled, replied, "Yes, George."
"And the Army, the Navy, the Air Force, and the Marines -- aren't they having trouble meeting their enlistment goals?"
"They are, George. I wish I could say that they weren't," replied a teary eyed Laura.
Bush thought he might have to hug her in a comforting manner, but luckily he came up with some consoling words instead, "Its okay, momma. Dick and Rummy will figure out a way to trick those fools into joining up."
"Oh, George, that's not what I meant," admitted Laura. "I just wish that this horrible war was over."
"Laura," Bush calmly asked while checking his watch, "Isn't it time for your happy pills? Go to bed before I Patriot Act your ass." Laura got up and headed for the bedroom, crying quietly.
Bush sat there and started thinking about the true meaning of Christmas. Maybe Christmas wasn't about how much money his friends could make off of the war or revamping social security so that the last penny could be squeezed out of those smelly, old people.
Bush looked at his dog, Miss Beasley, and said these words out loud, as if practicing, "Maybe this Christmas we should do something to help those less fortunate than ourselves."
The nature of this outburst caused Miss Beasley to run and hide under the sofa. The words, having been said out loud, continued on their journey up through the chimney and out into the beyond, where they were heard by greater powers than a little black Scottish Terrier named after the doll once owned by a little blonde girl that eventually died of a heroin overdose after her lame television show tanked.
The Ghost of Bill O'Reilly
President Bush had looked at the knocker on the door to his bedroom countless times for it was exactly at eye level. It had a big, cool looking eagle that held the knocker part in its scary talons. As Bush went to open the door, what he saw was not the knocker but the face of Bill O'Reilly, conservative pundit and the host of The O'Reilly Factor on FOX News.
O'Reilly's face did not speak or move but just stared directly into the president's eyes. If there was one thing that upset George W. Bush, it was when someone stared him directly in the eyes. He immediately looked down at his feet -- a response he had developed at an early age. When he looked up, the face was gone and the knocker had reappeared.
"Humbug," muttered Bush. "I'm acting like a giddy, democratic school girl."
Bush locked the heavy door behind him and looked around the room. Everything was normal yet something felt wrong. Laura was asleep on her side of the big bed. Her meds lined up neatly on her night table. His pajamas were laid out on his side of the bed in putting on order. Bush quickly undressed, dressed and slipped under the covers.
He was only in bed a second when the ghostly apparition of Bill O'Reilly passed through the door. O'Reilly was draped in heavy chains that caused his face to contort during the minor exertion of breathing.
"Laura!" yelled George.
"The Xanax Queen will not help you, Mr. President," the ghost said quietly.
"Who are you and what do you want with me?" asked Bush.
"Better to ask who I was," quipped O'Reilly.
"Are you not my dear friend and conservative pundit, Bill O'Reilly?" said Bush.
"I was Bill O'Reilly. I was murdered today by the husband of the assistant I've been diddling," replied O’Reilly.
"I hate when that happens," joked the president.
O'Reilly responded with the required chuckle, "That's a good one, Sir."
"So, O'Reilly, how come you're not up in heaven? Why are you down here scaring the beegesus out of me?" asked Bush.
O'Reilly answered, "I am doomed to wander the earth in this horrible state. No rest, no in, no peace. Incessant torture of remorse -- and that's a lot worse than anything Lyndie England could ever dish out. Woe is me! And woe to you!"
Bush defended himself, "Hey, Billy Graham says I'm going to heaven!"
Agitated, O'Reilly lifted up his arms rattling the heavy chains. "I have it on pretty good authority that Reverend Billy is wrong about that. Trust me, I'm dead. I know these things. You better make a few changes, Mr. President."
"Changes? Don't forget who you are talking to O'Reilly," Bush said. "Hey, what's with the chains?"
"I wear the chains I forged in life," replied O'Reilly.
Bush looked confused, so O'Reilly tried to help, "Sorry Mr. President, 'forged' just means to make something, especially if it's out of metal. These chains are composed of the hypocritical bullshit I spouted in life. They are heavy, Sir, but your chains, Mr. President, they are going to be really, really heavy."
Bush was visibly shocked, "Is there no hope? Speak comfort to me, O'Reilly!"
O'Reilly screamed like a banshee from the old country, "No comfort for you but a glimmer of hope. My time here is short. I have a lot of wandering to do down in Texas. You will be visited by three spirits. Think about what they say and what they show you."
"I'd rather not. I really need my twelve hours of sleep or I'm a grouchy Gus," said Bush.
O'Reilly screamed again, this time like a poor, black woman getting a backroom abortion, "This is your glimmer of hope, Mr. President!" The transparent spectre then turned and floated away. Before leaving, O'Reilly leaned over to fondle Bush's unconscious wife.
"Sorry Sir, some habits are hard to break," were his last words before he left the room, not by the door, but by passing through the wall.
Bush pulled the covers over his head, "Humbug, that's what comes from too many scotches and not enough pretzels." He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
The First of the Three Spirits
When the digital clock on the nightstand turned to 1:00 AM, the hand of the unearthly visitor grabbed the comforter hiding the president and ripped it from his grasp. Bush awoke to a strange vision -- a face childlike in its softness yet lined like an old man. It was his Chief of Staff, Karl Rove.
Bush was perturbed, "Rove, how many times have I told you? Unless it’s the Second Coming of Christ Himself, it can wait until morning! Oh, are you the first of my three spirits? Are you dead too?"
Rove smiled kindly, "Mr. President, I am your first spectral visitor but I am not dead. When I sold my soul back in the early seventies, I was forced to wander as a spirit from midnight to dawn when called by my master. Tonight, I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."
"I'm starting to wish I hadn't fallen asleep every year during the Mr. Magoo Christmas Special," complained Bush.
"Let's go Mr. President, we have a full agenda. Rise and walk with me," Rove took Bush by the hand and after a couple of steps, they were in a scene of winter beauty.
"I was born here!" exclaimed Bush. "This is New Haven."
"Walk this way," Rove said, "and no talcum powder jokes, please, Mr. President."
"Huh?" said Bush.
They walked through an old ivy covered building into a large room where a very drunk, cardigan-wearing, twenty-something Bush was receiving head from a comely high school girl. As she attended to his needs, Bush was puffing on a cigar and drinking Remy-Martin straight from the bottle.
"Damn, that's Angelina DeCarlo, she could suck your kidneys right out your peehole. I really loved her but Mother didn't approve. She was Italian, you know," reminisced Bush.
"Do you know why you are all alone this night?" asked the spirit.
"Everyone else was studying or writing papers. They never understood. Going to Yale isn't about learning stuff, it's about networking and making life long connections you can exploit in the future," Bush responded.
Rove nodded and said, "Come, we have other destinations."
Two steps later they are in rice patty waist deep in muddy water. It looked like a mine had just gone off and several American G.I.'s are scattered about, bleeding and moaning.
"God damn, Charlie!" yelled Bush. "I wish I could have been killing gooks. I know I would have been real good at it, but Mother wouldn't let me. She said I had more important work to do."
The pair took two more steps and were in a beautiful ballroom decorated for Christmas. A younger Bush was getting head from a dolled up debutante. The table in front of the future president was scattered with empty champagne bottles, ashtrays and half-filled glasses.
The younger Bush stood up and in a too loud voice said, "Let's get rid of these dead soldiers! I've got a hankering to drop a full payload on old Hanoi!" His sweeping arm cleared the table sending bottles and glasses flying to the floor. The woman got up on the table and with a glassy eyed stare lifted up her skirt.
"Ala-fucking-bama!" the older Bush's face lit up. "Can't say I remember that snatch's name. Probably never knew it, eh, Karl?" Bush gave the ghost a chummy elbow to the ribs.
Rove responded with the required chuckle, "That's a good one, Sir. We have one more stop."
"Can't I watch me hose that bitch?" asked Bush.
"Sorry Sir," apologized Rove. "We have to go."
Two more steps and they were in a small office in downtown Austin. "Bush for Congressman" signs adorned the walls. A younger Bush was sitting at a desk getting head from a pretty, campaign worker. Several lines of coke were laid out on a small area of the desk that had been cleared of papers. There was a loud knock then a young Karl Rove escorted Laura Bush into the office.
An excited Bush exclaimed, "Hey, that’s you, Rove!"
"And that's your future wife, Mr. President," replied the ghostly Rove.
The young Bush looked at the young Rove with an unimpressed expression, "Is that the best you can do, Rove? I'm gonna stick with Suzie here. You can have that butterface. Grab a line and a chair."
The young Rove introduced his companion, "Mr. Bush, I would like to introduce you to the future Mrs. Bush. This is Laura Welch."
A shit-eating grin appeared on the young Bush's face, "Well ain't this awkward!" Suzie lifted her head to get a look at the fiancé, but the young Bush pushed her head back down. "No need to stop that Suzie. I'm almost done. It's very nice to meet you, Miss Welch."
Laura reached out to the extended hand and gave it a shake. "It's very nice to meet you. Mr. Bush. I've heard all kinds of good things about you. I think I'm going to have a drink, if you don't mind, and maybe a line or two."
The spectral Rove grabbed Bush and they stepped out of the scene back into the White House bedroom.
"I should have married that Suzie," Bush complained. "She knew how to party and she was skinny as a filly. You and Mother made me marry Laura." He looked at his snoring wife with disgust.
"Have you learned nothing from my visit!" wailed Rove, "If you had married Suzie or Angelina or any of the dozens of whores you fucked over the years you would not be president today!"
The shear force of the ghost's voice sent Bush back to his bed and under his covers.
"I know you hate thinking," Rove said in a controlled voice as he floated through the wall, "But please Mr. President, please try to think a little about what you have just seen and what you will see with your next visitors."
Bush, still trembling, closed his eyes and fell asleep.
The Second of the Three Visitors
Bush awoke to a prodigiously loud snore from Laura. He looked around nervously. He was determined to be ready for his next visitor. No surprises this time.
"Georgie, Georgie, Georgie!" Bush turned his head and there before him, slightly transparent, was the Great Communicator himself, President Ronald Wilson Reagan.
"Mr. President, I'm so happy to see you!" exclaimed Bush. "You look great!"
"Well... no thanks to you!" replied Reagan. "What's with this stem cell research ain't in the bible so I'm not going to fund it crap, Georgie?"
Bush fell to his knees cowering before his hero, "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. It was bad advice from disreputable sources. I'll get that funding started immediately and I'll fire a couple dozen of those 'holier than thou' neo-cons first thing in the morning."
"Georgie," said Reagan. "Calm down I was only kidding. Well... you got to do what you got to do to keep this great republic of ours republican. Don't listen to my wife and son. I never did. Well... get on your feet. There's no reason to be afraid of me. I'm the Ghost of Christmas Present. I'm the jolly, happy guy that's supposed to remind you of a half-drunk Santa or maybe the Roman god of wine. Take my hand we have places to see."
Reagan and Bush took two steps and were in a homeless shelter in New Orleans. Reagan turned to Bush. "Well... hmmm, I don't remember why we're here. Do you know why, Georgie?"
"No, Sir,” said Bush.
"Well..." Reagan said, "Let's try the next place." He took Bush's hand and stepped into the beautiful living room of a Bel Air mansion. The huge room was all decked out in Christmas decorations. A large oil painting of Ron and Nancy Reagan was displayed over the fireplace.
"Gosh darn it. Why are we at your house?" said Bush. He was starting to lose his patience.
"Well..." said Reagan, "There's no call for that kind of language young man. Look how nice our tree is this year. Well... I think we're done."
The pair stepped out of the mansion back to the presidential residence. "Well..."a confused Reagan continued, "You know the story, ahhh, rich people and poor people all like Christmas. Well..."
Bush interrupted by shaking Reagan's hand, "Thanks a lot, Sir. I've certainly learned my lesson. Thanks for coming. Get home safe." Bush climbed back into his bed and closed his eyes.
"Well... I'll be going then..." and with those words, the ghost of President Reagan disappeared.
The Last of the Spirits
The final phantom, shrouded in a dark cloak, approached the bed. The hood of the cloak left the face, if there was a face, in shadowy darkness. The only visible part of the ghost was its skeletal hand.
Bush fell to the floor -- again. He thought he heard the phantom mutter, "fucking idiot," but that was probably his imagination.
"Are you the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?" said Bush.
The phantom lowered its skeletal hand, pulled out a Blackberry and checked it for text messages.
The phantom slowly put away its Blackberry and bopped Bush on the head.
"Hey, that looks just like one of those video game things that Dick Cheney is always playing with," said Bush.
The phantom bopped Bush on the head again and gestured that it was time to leave.
"Ghost of the Future!" Bush exclaimed. "I fear you more than any spectre I have seen. But I know you mean to do me some good, and as I hope to live to be a better man from what I was, I am prepared to go with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me?"
The phantom said nothing, although Bush thought for sure that he once again heard most faintly the words, "fucking idiot." The phantom grabbed Bush's shoulder and walked him into the first scene.
It was the comfortable, downstairs living room in the old ranch in Crawford. A blonde woman was crying hysterically while an older Karl Rove tried to console her. Rove seemed to give up and retired to the big, red chair by the fire favored by Bush's mother.
The hysterical woman's crying turned to yelling, "How did I lose! You said I would win. I was supposed to win. It was my turn!”
Bush called out in recognition, "That's my Jenna! Jenna come here. Let Daddy give you a hug." Bush stepped forward and tried to hug his daughter but his arms went right through her body as if she was an image from a slide projector.
The old Rove spat, "It was your father, Jenna. You know that. He ruined it for everyone. All is lost. Everything I've done these last 50 years is for nothing. President Al Franken! I think I'm going to be sick."
"I hate him! I hate him! I hate him! I have no father! It was supposed to be my turn!" screamed Jenna.
"Come here little one," Rove said, "Come to Uncle Karl."
Jenna ran to Rove and gave him a hug but her sobbing would not stop. The phantom guided Bush a few more steps to the left and they found themselves in a poorly kept cemetery.
"This is not my family's cemetery!" declared Bush. "This is an unworthy place, it's so small, all overgrown and so close to busy streets. I can not be buried here."
The phantom raised its arm and pointed to a large, simple stone in the back corner.
"No! That is not my monument," said Bush, "It is too plain for a Bush. It is in the wrong cemetery. It will not contain my name. You are wrong, Spirit."
Bush ran to the site of the untidy grave. Using the light from the flashing traffic light at the nearby intersection, he read the words engraved on the stone.
George W. Bush
Born: July 6, 1946
"No, Spirit! Oh no, no!" Bush fell prostate on the grave and cried like a Mexican mother burying her first born after a failed border crossing.
The End of It
Bush looked up from his crying. He was in his bed! In his bedroom! In his White House! He looked over his shoulder. No sign of spirits and sunlight was filtering through the drawn curtains.
He ran to the window, opened it and stuck out his head. It was a clear, crisp winter morning. The sun was shining and the air smelled glorious.
“What day is today?” cried Bush, calling downward to young woman that was loitering by the gate protesting something.
“Huh?” said the woman, lowering her sign.
“What is today, you East Coast, left-wing, pinko, terrorist-loving, baby-killer?” said Bush.
“Today?” replied the young woman. “It’s Christmas Day, you dumb, rightwing, facist, war-mongering, baby-killer!”
“It’s Christmas Day!” said Bush to his unconscious wife. “I haven’t missed it! The spirits have done it all in one night.” He stuck his head out the window and yelled down to the helpful woman, “Get a job you dumb cunt!”
Bush looked at the digital clock, 8:00 AM. It was way too early to get up. So, he went back to sleep for a few hours.
In the Vice President’s office in the west wing of the White House, Dick Cheney, Don Rumsfeld and Karl Rove were relaxing after a hard night’s work. Each had a cigar and a glass of single malt scotch.
Dick Cheney, still wearing his Ghost of Christmas Future costume, lead the boys in a toast, “To another year!”
Glasses were emptied and refilled by Karl Rove. He pointed to the slide projector, “I think we’re going to have to update that power point presentation. It’s getting harder every year to scare him straight.”
“No fucking way. We’re just getting older, Rove, “ said Cheney.
”When you started checking your Blackberry right in the middle, Dick, I almost wet myself” said Don Rumsfeld. There was a Ron Reagan mask resting on his knee.
“What a fucking idiot he is, “ responded Cheney, “Your Reagan gets better every year, Rummy. Maybe next Halloween we should fly out to LA and scare the crap out of Nancy and that fag son of theirs. Maybe they’d both have strokes and we can be done with them”
“How about another toast?” suggested Rove.
“God Bless Us, Every One!”
The Beginning of It
Once upon a time, not just any time, but a special time, on Christmas Eve, George W. Bush was busy at his desk. Not really, he was busy on his couch watching football. His wife Laura was sitting with him. Laura was drinking a chocolate martini, and the combination of the increasing effects of the alcohol and the diminishing effects of the prescription drugs she took each night before she went to bed, emboldened her to speak without first being spoken to."George, it's Christmas Eve," Laura stated quietly.
Bush was quick to reply, "Fucking, yeah. Nothing like football and Jesus, reminds me of a Sunday."
Encouraged, Laura continued, "Isn't the tree beautiful?"
"Yeah, the servants did a great job."
"George, on Christmas, I sometimes think of those poor unfortunate Americans that are hungry or can't afford to buy presents for their children."
"Are there no prisons?" growled Bush.
Laura, startled, replied, "Yes, George."
"And the Army, the Navy, the Air Force, and the Marines -- aren't they having trouble meeting their enlistment goals?"
"They are, George. I wish I could say that they weren't," replied a teary eyed Laura.
Bush thought he might have to hug her in a comforting manner, but luckily he came up with some consoling words instead, "Its okay, momma. Dick and Rummy will figure out a way to trick those fools into joining up."
"Oh, George, that's not what I meant," admitted Laura. "I just wish that this horrible war was over."
"Laura," Bush calmly asked while checking his watch, "Isn't it time for your happy pills? Go to bed before I Patriot Act your ass." Laura got up and headed for the bedroom, crying quietly.
Bush sat there and started thinking about the true meaning of Christmas. Maybe Christmas wasn't about how much money his friends could make off of the war or revamping social security so that the last penny could be squeezed out of those smelly, old people.
Bush looked at his dog, Miss Beasley, and said these words out loud, as if practicing, "Maybe this Christmas we should do something to help those less fortunate than ourselves."
The nature of this outburst caused Miss Beasley to run and hide under the sofa. The words, having been said out loud, continued on their journey up through the chimney and out into the beyond, where they were heard by greater powers than a little black Scottish Terrier named after the doll once owned by a little blonde girl that eventually died of a heroin overdose after her lame television show tanked.
The Ghost of Bill O'Reilly
President Bush had looked at the knocker on the door to his bedroom countless times for it was exactly at eye level. It had a big, cool looking eagle that held the knocker part in its scary talons. As Bush went to open the door, what he saw was not the knocker but the face of Bill O'Reilly, conservative pundit and the host of The O'Reilly Factor on FOX News.
O'Reilly's face did not speak or move but just stared directly into the president's eyes. If there was one thing that upset George W. Bush, it was when someone stared him directly in the eyes. He immediately looked down at his feet -- a response he had developed at an early age. When he looked up, the face was gone and the knocker had reappeared.
"Humbug," muttered Bush. "I'm acting like a giddy, democratic school girl."
Bush locked the heavy door behind him and looked around the room. Everything was normal yet something felt wrong. Laura was asleep on her side of the big bed. Her meds lined up neatly on her night table. His pajamas were laid out on his side of the bed in putting on order. Bush quickly undressed, dressed and slipped under the covers.
He was only in bed a second when the ghostly apparition of Bill O'Reilly passed through the door. O'Reilly was draped in heavy chains that caused his face to contort during the minor exertion of breathing."Laura!" yelled George.
"The Xanax Queen will not help you, Mr. President," the ghost said quietly.
"Who are you and what do you want with me?" asked Bush.
"Better to ask who I was," quipped O'Reilly.
"Are you not my dear friend and conservative pundit, Bill O'Reilly?" said Bush.
"I was Bill O'Reilly. I was murdered today by the husband of the assistant I've been diddling," replied O’Reilly.
"I hate when that happens," joked the president.
O'Reilly responded with the required chuckle, "That's a good one, Sir."
"So, O'Reilly, how come you're not up in heaven? Why are you down here scaring the beegesus out of me?" asked Bush.
O'Reilly answered, "I am doomed to wander the earth in this horrible state. No rest, no in, no peace. Incessant torture of remorse -- and that's a lot worse than anything Lyndie England could ever dish out. Woe is me! And woe to you!"
Bush defended himself, "Hey, Billy Graham says I'm going to heaven!"
Agitated, O'Reilly lifted up his arms rattling the heavy chains. "I have it on pretty good authority that Reverend Billy is wrong about that. Trust me, I'm dead. I know these things. You better make a few changes, Mr. President."
"Changes? Don't forget who you are talking to O'Reilly," Bush said. "Hey, what's with the chains?"
"I wear the chains I forged in life," replied O'Reilly.
Bush looked confused, so O'Reilly tried to help, "Sorry Mr. President, 'forged' just means to make something, especially if it's out of metal. These chains are composed of the hypocritical bullshit I spouted in life. They are heavy, Sir, but your chains, Mr. President, they are going to be really, really heavy."
Bush was visibly shocked, "Is there no hope? Speak comfort to me, O'Reilly!"
O'Reilly screamed like a banshee from the old country, "No comfort for you but a glimmer of hope. My time here is short. I have a lot of wandering to do down in Texas. You will be visited by three spirits. Think about what they say and what they show you."
"I'd rather not. I really need my twelve hours of sleep or I'm a grouchy Gus," said Bush.
O'Reilly screamed again, this time like a poor, black woman getting a backroom abortion, "This is your glimmer of hope, Mr. President!" The transparent spectre then turned and floated away. Before leaving, O'Reilly leaned over to fondle Bush's unconscious wife.
"Sorry Sir, some habits are hard to break," were his last words before he left the room, not by the door, but by passing through the wall.
Bush pulled the covers over his head, "Humbug, that's what comes from too many scotches and not enough pretzels." He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
The First of the Three Spirits
When the digital clock on the nightstand turned to 1:00 AM, the hand of the unearthly visitor grabbed the comforter hiding the president and ripped it from his grasp. Bush awoke to a strange vision -- a face childlike in its softness yet lined like an old man. It was his Chief of Staff, Karl Rove.
Bush was perturbed, "Rove, how many times have I told you? Unless it’s the Second Coming of Christ Himself, it can wait until morning! Oh, are you the first of my three spirits? Are you dead too?"Rove smiled kindly, "Mr. President, I am your first spectral visitor but I am not dead. When I sold my soul back in the early seventies, I was forced to wander as a spirit from midnight to dawn when called by my master. Tonight, I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."
"I'm starting to wish I hadn't fallen asleep every year during the Mr. Magoo Christmas Special," complained Bush.
"Let's go Mr. President, we have a full agenda. Rise and walk with me," Rove took Bush by the hand and after a couple of steps, they were in a scene of winter beauty.
"I was born here!" exclaimed Bush. "This is New Haven."
"Walk this way," Rove said, "and no talcum powder jokes, please, Mr. President."
"Huh?" said Bush.
They walked through an old ivy covered building into a large room where a very drunk, cardigan-wearing, twenty-something Bush was receiving head from a comely high school girl. As she attended to his needs, Bush was puffing on a cigar and drinking Remy-Martin straight from the bottle.
"Damn, that's Angelina DeCarlo, she could suck your kidneys right out your peehole. I really loved her but Mother didn't approve. She was Italian, you know," reminisced Bush.
"Do you know why you are all alone this night?" asked the spirit.
"Everyone else was studying or writing papers. They never understood. Going to Yale isn't about learning stuff, it's about networking and making life long connections you can exploit in the future," Bush responded.
Rove nodded and said, "Come, we have other destinations."
Two steps later they are in rice patty waist deep in muddy water. It looked like a mine had just gone off and several American G.I.'s are scattered about, bleeding and moaning.
"God damn, Charlie!" yelled Bush. "I wish I could have been killing gooks. I know I would have been real good at it, but Mother wouldn't let me. She said I had more important work to do."
The pair took two more steps and were in a beautiful ballroom decorated for Christmas. A younger Bush was getting head from a dolled up debutante. The table in front of the future president was scattered with empty champagne bottles, ashtrays and half-filled glasses.
The younger Bush stood up and in a too loud voice said, "Let's get rid of these dead soldiers! I've got a hankering to drop a full payload on old Hanoi!" His sweeping arm cleared the table sending bottles and glasses flying to the floor. The woman got up on the table and with a glassy eyed stare lifted up her skirt.
"Ala-fucking-bama!" the older Bush's face lit up. "Can't say I remember that snatch's name. Probably never knew it, eh, Karl?" Bush gave the ghost a chummy elbow to the ribs.
Rove responded with the required chuckle, "That's a good one, Sir. We have one more stop."
"Can't I watch me hose that bitch?" asked Bush.
"Sorry Sir," apologized Rove. "We have to go."
Two more steps and they were in a small office in downtown Austin. "Bush for Congressman" signs adorned the walls. A younger Bush was sitting at a desk getting head from a pretty, campaign worker. Several lines of coke were laid out on a small area of the desk that had been cleared of papers. There was a loud knock then a young Karl Rove escorted Laura Bush into the office.
An excited Bush exclaimed, "Hey, that’s you, Rove!"
"And that's your future wife, Mr. President," replied the ghostly Rove.
The young Bush looked at the young Rove with an unimpressed expression, "Is that the best you can do, Rove? I'm gonna stick with Suzie here. You can have that butterface. Grab a line and a chair."
The young Rove introduced his companion, "Mr. Bush, I would like to introduce you to the future Mrs. Bush. This is Laura Welch."
A shit-eating grin appeared on the young Bush's face, "Well ain't this awkward!" Suzie lifted her head to get a look at the fiancé, but the young Bush pushed her head back down. "No need to stop that Suzie. I'm almost done. It's very nice to meet you, Miss Welch."
Laura reached out to the extended hand and gave it a shake. "It's very nice to meet you. Mr. Bush. I've heard all kinds of good things about you. I think I'm going to have a drink, if you don't mind, and maybe a line or two."
The spectral Rove grabbed Bush and they stepped out of the scene back into the White House bedroom.
"I should have married that Suzie," Bush complained. "She knew how to party and she was skinny as a filly. You and Mother made me marry Laura." He looked at his snoring wife with disgust.
"Have you learned nothing from my visit!" wailed Rove, "If you had married Suzie or Angelina or any of the dozens of whores you fucked over the years you would not be president today!"
The shear force of the ghost's voice sent Bush back to his bed and under his covers.
"I know you hate thinking," Rove said in a controlled voice as he floated through the wall, "But please Mr. President, please try to think a little about what you have just seen and what you will see with your next visitors."
Bush, still trembling, closed his eyes and fell asleep.
The Second of the Three Visitors
Bush awoke to a prodigiously loud snore from Laura. He looked around nervously. He was determined to be ready for his next visitor. No surprises this time.
"Georgie, Georgie, Georgie!" Bush turned his head and there before him, slightly transparent, was the Great Communicator himself, President Ronald Wilson Reagan.
"Mr. President, I'm so happy to see you!" exclaimed Bush. "You look great!"
"Well... no thanks to you!" replied Reagan. "What's with this stem cell research ain't in the bible so I'm not going to fund it crap, Georgie?"
Bush fell to his knees cowering before his hero, "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. It was bad advice from disreputable sources. I'll get that funding started immediately and I'll fire a couple dozen of those 'holier than thou' neo-cons first thing in the morning."
"Georgie," said Reagan. "Calm down I was only kidding. Well... you got to do what you got to do to keep this great republic of ours republican. Don't listen to my wife and son. I never did. Well... get on your feet. There's no reason to be afraid of me. I'm the Ghost of Christmas Present. I'm the jolly, happy guy that's supposed to remind you of a half-drunk Santa or maybe the Roman god of wine. Take my hand we have places to see."
Reagan and Bush took two steps and were in a homeless shelter in New Orleans. Reagan turned to Bush. "Well... hmmm, I don't remember why we're here. Do you know why, Georgie?"
"No, Sir,” said Bush.
"Well..." Reagan said, "Let's try the next place." He took Bush's hand and stepped into the beautiful living room of a Bel Air mansion. The huge room was all decked out in Christmas decorations. A large oil painting of Ron and Nancy Reagan was displayed over the fireplace.
"Gosh darn it. Why are we at your house?" said Bush. He was starting to lose his patience.
"Well..." said Reagan, "There's no call for that kind of language young man. Look how nice our tree is this year. Well... I think we're done."
The pair stepped out of the mansion back to the presidential residence. "Well..."a confused Reagan continued, "You know the story, ahhh, rich people and poor people all like Christmas. Well..."
Bush interrupted by shaking Reagan's hand, "Thanks a lot, Sir. I've certainly learned my lesson. Thanks for coming. Get home safe." Bush climbed back into his bed and closed his eyes.
"Well... I'll be going then..." and with those words, the ghost of President Reagan disappeared.
The Last of the Spirits
The final phantom, shrouded in a dark cloak, approached the bed. The hood of the cloak left the face, if there was a face, in shadowy darkness. The only visible part of the ghost was its skeletal hand.
Bush fell to the floor -- again. He thought he heard the phantom mutter, "fucking idiot," but that was probably his imagination.
"Are you the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?" said Bush.
The phantom lowered its skeletal hand, pulled out a Blackberry and checked it for text messages.
"What you are about to show me, are they things as they must be or are they things that might be given current conditions," Bush proceeded, "I mean are these the shadows of the things that will be, or are they shadows of things that may be, or are they things that might be if I don't... Oh, forget it. Now, I've given myself a headache."
The phantom slowly put away its Blackberry and bopped Bush on the head.
"Hey, that looks just like one of those video game things that Dick Cheney is always playing with," said Bush.
The phantom bopped Bush on the head again and gestured that it was time to leave.
"Ghost of the Future!" Bush exclaimed. "I fear you more than any spectre I have seen. But I know you mean to do me some good, and as I hope to live to be a better man from what I was, I am prepared to go with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me?"
The phantom said nothing, although Bush thought for sure that he once again heard most faintly the words, "fucking idiot." The phantom grabbed Bush's shoulder and walked him into the first scene.
It was the comfortable, downstairs living room in the old ranch in Crawford. A blonde woman was crying hysterically while an older Karl Rove tried to console her. Rove seemed to give up and retired to the big, red chair by the fire favored by Bush's mother.
The hysterical woman's crying turned to yelling, "How did I lose! You said I would win. I was supposed to win. It was my turn!”
Bush called out in recognition, "That's my Jenna! Jenna come here. Let Daddy give you a hug." Bush stepped forward and tried to hug his daughter but his arms went right through her body as if she was an image from a slide projector.
The old Rove spat, "It was your father, Jenna. You know that. He ruined it for everyone. All is lost. Everything I've done these last 50 years is for nothing. President Al Franken! I think I'm going to be sick."
"I hate him! I hate him! I hate him! I have no father! It was supposed to be my turn!" screamed Jenna.
"Come here little one," Rove said, "Come to Uncle Karl."
Jenna ran to Rove and gave him a hug but her sobbing would not stop. The phantom guided Bush a few more steps to the left and they found themselves in a poorly kept cemetery.
"This is not my family's cemetery!" declared Bush. "This is an unworthy place, it's so small, all overgrown and so close to busy streets. I can not be buried here."
The phantom raised its arm and pointed to a large, simple stone in the back corner.
"No! That is not my monument," said Bush, "It is too plain for a Bush. It is in the wrong cemetery. It will not contain my name. You are wrong, Spirit."
Bush ran to the site of the untidy grave. Using the light from the flashing traffic light at the nearby intersection, he read the words engraved on the stone.
George W. Bush
Born: July 6, 1946
Died: December 24, 2012
LIBERAL
"No, Spirit! Oh no, no!" Bush fell prostate on the grave and cried like a Mexican mother burying her first born after a failed border crossing.
The End of It
He ran to the window, opened it and stuck out his head. It was a clear, crisp winter morning. The sun was shining and the air smelled glorious.
“What day is today?” cried Bush, calling downward to young woman that was loitering by the gate protesting something.
“Huh?” said the woman, lowering her sign.
“What is today, you East Coast, left-wing, pinko, terrorist-loving, baby-killer?” said Bush.
“Today?” replied the young woman. “It’s Christmas Day, you dumb, rightwing, facist, war-mongering, baby-killer!”
“It’s Christmas Day!” said Bush to his unconscious wife. “I haven’t missed it! The spirits have done it all in one night.” He stuck his head out the window and yelled down to the helpful woman, “Get a job you dumb cunt!”
Bush looked at the digital clock, 8:00 AM. It was way too early to get up. So, he went back to sleep for a few hours.
In the Vice President’s office in the west wing of the White House, Dick Cheney, Don Rumsfeld and Karl Rove were relaxing after a hard night’s work. Each had a cigar and a glass of single malt scotch.
Dick Cheney, still wearing his Ghost of Christmas Future costume, lead the boys in a toast, “To another year!”Glasses were emptied and refilled by Karl Rove. He pointed to the slide projector, “I think we’re going to have to update that power point presentation. It’s getting harder every year to scare him straight.”
“No fucking way. We’re just getting older, Rove, “ said Cheney.
”When you started checking your Blackberry right in the middle, Dick, I almost wet myself” said Don Rumsfeld. There was a Ron Reagan mask resting on his knee.
“What a fucking idiot he is, “ responded Cheney, “Your Reagan gets better every year, Rummy. Maybe next Halloween we should fly out to LA and scare the crap out of Nancy and that fag son of theirs. Maybe they’d both have strokes and we can be done with them”
“How about another toast?” suggested Rove.
“God Bless Us, Every One!”
Turns out I just couldn't draw George W. Bush or Laura worth a damn when I was writing this bit. I have drawn them okay before, here's proof. I like the O'Reilly, Rove and Cheney.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Throwback Thursday - JV Tennis Bob Melonosky Super Jock
I was a jock back in high school.
We all used to make fun of John, the guy without glasses. When he double-faulted I used to yell, "Go throw a football, Johnny Unitas!" Coach would laugh and pat me on the heinie in a manly way.
That's Lisa Rubin discussing strategy with Coach. I used to play mixed doubles with Lisa. Her glasses would fog up when I pounded my topspin groundstrokes in her service box.
We also sometimes played tennis together.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Pound the Budweiser's Tuesday Tweets of the Week*
On October 19th, twitter had a meme called #BoringHorrorMovies. For the twilliterate, that means Boring Horror Movies. I went batshit crazy and you missed the fun because you do not follow me on twitter. Here are my boring horror movie tweets in roughly the order I tweeted them.
The House of Frank Epstein
The Ex Has A Cyst
Psycho Somatic
Rosemary's Abortion
Night of the Leavened Bread
Interview With a Damp Liar
I Know What You Did Last Summer Because I am Your Teacher and I Have to Grade Your Paper
Godzilla Talks About Golf
The Last House on the Left has a For Sale Sign
Night of the Unleavened Bread (because it would be more boringer and way more horrific)
House of Wax Poetic
Abbott and Costello Meet Bill Maher
Stephen King's Shit
Children on My Lawn
*IN TECHNICOLOR! When I tweet,
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Fun with Twitter: I Have a Conversation Of Sorts With Steve Martin
Yesterday I had a conversation with Steve Martin, my idol/hero/favorite person ever. Before twitter this would have been impossible. Thank you twitter!
I have been a Steve Martin fan forever. You haven't really laughed until you've rolled on the red shag carpeting in the basement of Dave Cunningham's house laughing at "Let's Get Small" while really high.
Just like Sam from "Freaks and Geeks," I had a Steve Martin Best Fishes Poster hanging on my closet door. And if I had ever managed to get a girl into that bedroom, while she gazed at the greatness of Steve, I could have recited word for word every SNL bit, every track from every album and every scrap of dialog from "The Jerk." Poor girls didn't know what they were missing.
"I was raised a poor black child" was my standard pickup line throughout the 80s.
So,when the REAL Steve Martin tweeted this yesterday I was ready, willing and able to respond.
Okay, its not his best work. I think it probably falls somewhere between the 82nd rendition of the Wild and Crazy Guys when Bill Murray replaced Dan Akyroyd and "Cruel Shoes."
Within a minute I replied with "When my twitter account isn't funny I put bologna in its shoes." And then followed within seconds with a carefully crafted additional reply, "Darn it, should have been I put bologna in the little bird's shoes." I had created comedy gold, spontaneously, within the constraints of 140 characters. I awaited my idol's response, confident that my genius could not be ignored and that a possible mentor relationship might arise with little bird wings.
While I waited, I was disappointed to see that a guy nemed Chesney had snuck in and broken up my comedic run with a little ass kissing. Oh well, maybe it actually added to the timing.
So what did I get from Mister Bigshot Steve Martin? Nothing. Nada. Zilch. A bupkis sandwich.
Could it be that Mister Bigshot Steve Martin's personal assistant doesn't remember that bit?
Just like Sam from "Freaks and Geeks," I had a Steve Martin Best Fishes Poster hanging on my closet door. And if I had ever managed to get a girl into that bedroom, while she gazed at the greatness of Steve, I could have recited word for word every SNL bit, every track from every album and every scrap of dialog from "The Jerk." Poor girls didn't know what they were missing.
"I was raised a poor black child" was my standard pickup line throughout the 80s.
So,when the REAL Steve Martin tweeted this yesterday I was ready, willing and able to respond.
Okay, its not his best work. I think it probably falls somewhere between the 82nd rendition of the Wild and Crazy Guys when Bill Murray replaced Dan Akyroyd and "Cruel Shoes."
Within a minute I replied with "When my twitter account isn't funny I put bologna in its shoes." And then followed within seconds with a carefully crafted additional reply, "Darn it, should have been I put bologna in the little bird's shoes." I had created comedy gold, spontaneously, within the constraints of 140 characters. I awaited my idol's response, confident that my genius could not be ignored and that a possible mentor relationship might arise with little bird wings.
So what did I get from Mister Bigshot Steve Martin? Nothing. Nada. Zilch. A bupkis sandwich.
Could it be that Mister Bigshot Steve Martin's personal assistant doesn't remember that bit?
Friday, October 12, 2012
King Paul Ryan Joffrey of House Lannister
Paul Ryan is the reincarnation of evil King Joffrey, Protector of the Realm, the bastard son of the incestual fornification of Cersei and Jamie Lannister. It all makes sense. They look alike and they think alike.
The Lannisters are the richest family in the Seven Kingdoms obsessed with gold and power. Paul Ryan is obsessed with gold and power. King Joffrey is reckless, cruel, whinny and blames all the problems he creates on others. Paul Ryan is yadda, yadda, yadda.
And they both have the same plan for dealing with the "small folk" or "the middle class" that get in their way.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Eva Longoria Dating Mark Sanchez: The Doctor is In
Tim Tebow Obsession = Gay
Eva Longoria Obsession = Not Gay
Thursday, September 27, 2012
I Did It! I Humiliated the NFL into Capitulation
Risking almost certain legal action in the form of a cease and desist order, I defaced the vaunted NFL Shield and humiliated those billionaire, yambag-sagging to their knees owners into doing the right thing.
Posted yesterday, and with over a dozen views, both Charles Barkley and Aaron Rodgers gave me props in tweets, sent out soon after the announcement. I expect thanks from all you NFL fans in the form of sexual favors, everlasting friendships or everlasting gobstoppers.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Where is Roger Goodell?
Where is Roger Goodell?
The NFL is a joke. The owners are pulling a Romney, making everyone miserable to save $3.3 million.
That's the equivalent of 3.3 cents to an NFL owner. Woody Johnson doesn't bother to bend over to pick up 3.3 million dollars. It's not worth the effort. Jerry Jones? He fell asleep at halftime, and he, in theory, lives in Dallas where it wasn't midnight.
Roger Goodell earns $20 million a year to do nothing. See, I told you that the NFL owners consider it pocket change.
So, where is Roger Goodell?
Hiding under a really, really big pile of money.
Sexting Mrs. Seau.
Holed up in a love shack with Robert Craft and Ricki Noel Lander.
Shredding all the proof linking pro football to traumatic brain injury.
Lighting the owner's Cuban cigars with 1,000 dollar bills while they take turns buggering him.
Fiddling while Rome burns.
In negotiations, with Archie Manning, trying to get him to impregnate his wife.
Spooning a drooling Jerry Jones.
In the ESPN chapel, tebowing Golden Tate.
Hopefully, I will add punchlines that are actually funny. I'm calling in the Replacement Writers to take over. Any ideas?
The NFL is a joke. The owners are pulling a Romney, making everyone miserable to save $3.3 million.
That's the equivalent of 3.3 cents to an NFL owner. Woody Johnson doesn't bother to bend over to pick up 3.3 million dollars. It's not worth the effort. Jerry Jones? He fell asleep at halftime, and he, in theory, lives in Dallas where it wasn't midnight.
Roger Goodell earns $20 million a year to do nothing. See, I told you that the NFL owners consider it pocket change.
So, where is Roger Goodell?
Hiding under a really, really big pile of money.
Sexting Mrs. Seau.
Holed up in a love shack with Robert Craft and Ricki Noel Lander.
Shredding all the proof linking pro football to traumatic brain injury.
Lighting the owner's Cuban cigars with 1,000 dollar bills while they take turns buggering him.
Fiddling while Rome burns.
In negotiations, with Archie Manning, trying to get him to impregnate his wife.
Spooning a drooling Jerry Jones.
In the ESPN chapel, tebowing Golden Tate.
Hopefully, I will add punchlines that are actually funny. I'm calling in the Replacement Writers to take over. Any ideas?
Thursday, September 20, 2012
That's the 2nd Most Exciting E-mail I've Ever Seen
I got an e-mail from that guy.
It said, and I quote "Wanted to know if you had some time this week or next to discuss working together." Mr. Skin wanted to work with me! Finally, my singular talent was being recognized. I would spend the rest of my life getting paid for doing something I truly love, looking for glimpses of naked chicks.
Strangely, the e-mail was not from MrSkin@MrSkin.com, it was from BobJohnson@MrSkin.com. I fired off a reply stating that I would only discuss my future career with the actual Mr. Skin. Bob Johnson's e-mail came back surprisingly quick. In Mr. Skin's world, "working together" meant hosting some banner ads on one of my sites, CircusAfterDark.com -- a site that the bean counters at Mr. Skin identified as having "Lots of Hot Celeb content and highly targeted traffic."
I held back the tears. Crushed, I informed Mr. Johnson that CircusAfterDark.com got about 50 visitors a day. At the current click-through pay rate, I estimated that I could expect a $5 check from Mr. Skin in about 300 years.
The first naked boobies I ever saw on TV was on local Channel 9 in NYC. It was an accident. Someone forgot to cut the nude scenes out of an old movie shown late at night. It was the greatest 5 seconds of my life. My friend Rick spent the next five years scanning the TV Guide every week for the movie and amazingly, the nude scene kept popping up until inevitably, years later, the censors got busy censoring.
For an extremely rare, UncleMelon.com How to Eat Pussy t-shirt* name the movie and the owner of the aforementioned boobies.
* Readers of the blog PoundTheBudweiser and members of their family are not eligible for this contest.
Strangely, the e-mail was not from MrSkin@MrSkin.com, it was from BobJohnson@MrSkin.com. I fired off a reply stating that I would only discuss my future career with the actual Mr. Skin. Bob Johnson's e-mail came back surprisingly quick. In Mr. Skin's world, "working together" meant hosting some banner ads on one of my sites, CircusAfterDark.com -- a site that the bean counters at Mr. Skin identified as having "Lots of Hot Celeb content and highly targeted traffic."
I held back the tears. Crushed, I informed Mr. Johnson that CircusAfterDark.com got about 50 visitors a day. At the current click-through pay rate, I estimated that I could expect a $5 check from Mr. Skin in about 300 years.
The first naked boobies I ever saw on TV was on local Channel 9 in NYC. It was an accident. Someone forgot to cut the nude scenes out of an old movie shown late at night. It was the greatest 5 seconds of my life. My friend Rick spent the next five years scanning the TV Guide every week for the movie and amazingly, the nude scene kept popping up until inevitably, years later, the censors got busy censoring.
For an extremely rare, UncleMelon.com How to Eat Pussy t-shirt* name the movie and the owner of the aforementioned boobies.
* Readers of the blog PoundTheBudweiser and members of their family are not eligible for this contest.
Monday, September 17, 2012
Throwback Thursday - Receiving a Major Award
In 1976, at the Humboldt County Fair, Best Buggering - Ewe. I keep it next to my Peabody, Emmy and Booker in the box in the storage unit.
I know what you're thinking, that's one fine-looking velour windbreaker. I still wear it on chilly nights. And yeah, I daddy warbucked Little Often Annie behind the pig racing venue. Sadly, Britney Spareribs did not join in the fun.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Star Wars Mashup
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Glory Days - Books I Writed Part XIII
More books from the box in my mom's attic.
The Dork That Could Fly, 1997. A sequel to the highly regarded 20th Century Fox film of 1986, The Boy That Could Fly. High School guidance counselor Harvey Peckerman learns the secret of flight by waterboarding that "autistic" troublemaker. Harvey chooses to use his flying ability for good including partying with a Marylin Monroe drag queen and banging the cute, curly-haired girl from the movie who is now over eighteen and legal in all 50 states.
Made Fun of her 10th Grade Art Project, 2003. Myrna was the girl of my dreams. She was gorgeous, smart, a great little cook and a whore in bed. What a dame! Everything was perfect until I made fun of the bust of Julius Caesar she made back in public school.
Too Much Mascara, 1989. When this horrible war was over, I was gonna take her back with me to Kansas, get hitched, and make us a family -- just like my daddy did and his daddy before him. But Sgt. Flint was never gonna let that happen. He didn't think the problem was Mabelline. He thought Sue Lee was a Jap, a dirty Jap spy. One of us was going back to the States in a box.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Japan Cheats at the Olympics and I Give Up on the Olympics, Again
That's the cutest cheater in Olympic history, Kohei Uchimura, relishing the rewards of an appeal well done. Cut to Bob Costas thanking us for joining him.
Why didn't the British team appeal their scores? Why didn't the Ukrainians appeal their scores? Why doesn't every gymnast that has ever fallen off an apparatus appeal his or her scores? Let's ask Bob Costas. Oh, wait, he's cut to another commercial.
It's not only the obvious, amateurish (not in a good way) bullshit of changing scores after the fact so that a favorite team can win medals that has forced me to turn off the olympics for good, again.
It's also NBC.
Bob Costas might as well be hosting The Bachelorette. Every second last night was carefully manipulated by the network. Remember, it all happened five hours early. NBC producers carefully cut tape, changed sequencing and added drama before every commercial break.
The adorable, freckled-faced Ukranian gynmast that cries when he finds out that the Japanese have stolen his medal? Let's cut away from the hapless Americans for 30 seconds so that we can show him not fucking up a routine around 9:30 PM. The bushy haired cutie pie cheater from Japan? Give him some time earlier in the hour so that we can really, really hate him when it counts.
Why don't I like the olympics? For the same reason I don't like Say Yes to the Dress, The Bachelorette or Whose Sleeping with a Kardashian.
Why do the olympics get such great ratings? Same reason Say Yes to the Dress, The Bachelorette, and Whose Sleeping with a Kardashian make a ton of money for their respective networks.
But Bob, it ain't sports. And this sports fan is going back to baseball.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Glory Days - Books I Writed Part XII
More books from the box in my mom's attic.
Junk Yard Whores: No Blondes Allowed, 2000 -- Cute and perky Annika Svenson moves to town to fulfill a lifelong dream. The other girls are mean because they are jealous of Annika's blonde hair. Hilarity and soliciting ensue.
Even Baby Jesus Can't Untangle the Christmas Lights, 1994 -- The Callahan family asks Baby Jesus to untangle their Christmas lights. Baby Jesus tries His best but even with His considerable super powers He just can not do it. Baby Jesus gets frustrated, has a feeding and then falls asleep in the arms of Mrs. Callahan. God bless us all, everyone.
Nancy the Nympho in The Butcher, The Baker and the Candlestick Maker Wear Out a Rubber, 1992 -- A novel with a title so long, the printer left off the last word due to budget constraints. This was the forty-seventh Nancy the Nympho Classic Adventure I penned and it's one of my favorites. I got to use the term buoyancy chamber which sounds cool.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Glory Days - Books I Writed XI
More books from the box in my mom's attic.
Saved By A Shark, 2000 -- After she is tossed overboard by her two-timing, millionaire boyfriend, Cindy is saved by a Great White Shark. The shark carries Cindy in his mouth all the way home to Kennebunkport. Then he eats the boyfriend. Cindy sets her orphaned shark free to roam the world's oceans with a kiss on the nose. Roger Ebert wrote in the Chicago Sun-Times, "I haven't cried this much since I had to sit through Born Free."
Hugh Hefner: Outer-Space Marine, 1995 -- A misguided attempt to get a novel serialized within the pages of Playboy and get myself venerealized within the walls of the Playboy Mansion.
White Men Can't Jump, 1991 -- Sgt. Gary "The Pure" Gallafan's only desire is to remain chaste for his fiancé, 43-year old virgin Christine O'Donnell. The horny denizens of the Island of Lipstick Amazons only desire is to perform sexual favours for Gary, over and over again. Will Sgt. Gary be able to jump the three foot fence standing between almost certain pleasure and his freedom? Here's a hint. He's white.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Throwback Thursday - My First Date
If memory serves, her name was Cheryl, she was the daughter of my mom's co-worker and that's the closest I got to her all night.
I believe she smelled good and looked satiny.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Carmelo Anthony and Stephen A. Smith
Is Stephen A. Smith just Carmelo Anthony's bitch? Or has he become the new Pedro Gomez?
At ESPN, it's all about the access, my man!
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Willard "Mitt" Romney: King of the Rats
Mitt is not Mitt Romney's real name. His real first name is Willard. Willard Mitt Romney.
Everyone knows that Willard is the guy that sleeps with rats. And talks to rats. And caresses rats gently as he plots his revenge on all those that are not incredibly rich, or Wall StreetScumbags Rats, or have teased him about his hair and his love of rats.
Why did Mr. and Mrs. George W. Romney name their youngest son Willard?
Wikipedia would have you believe that Willard "Mitt" Romney was named after hotel magnate J. Willard Marriot, one of his father's closest and poorest friends. But we know who controls Wikipedia, don't we? No, not the Jews. Please, try to concentrate. That's right, the Scientologists... or the Mormons. Same difference, they both hate women, worship in strange and unusual ways and secretly blow washed up movie stars while they sleep.
Willard Mitt Romney is the King of the Rats. The rats do his bidding. When he speaks to the rats, the rats obey. We have no evidence concerning actual rodents but rats with two legs? Rock solid sources. Just ask all the regular folks fired when the Rat King was running Bain Capital.
The investigative journalists at PtB may not be very well paid, and they may not be very good and they may not be journalists but they are thorough and think about toupées a lot.
Have you ever seen Willard "Mitt" Romney without his toupée? Neither have we. So, in an effort to keep our investigations complete, we had one of our interns fire up the photoshop and defrock Mr. Romney -- with frightening results.
Great Scott! The plot thickens.
Put yourself in poor Mitt Romney's sh... Ouch, that's not just an oxymoron that's an oxy-unfuckingbelievable! Okay, put yourself in young Mitt Romney's shoes. Yes, I know that you, me, and the State of Mississippi can't afford his shoes but it's called empathy. Try it. You Republicans can sit this one out. I don't want you to hurt yourselves.
Mitt or Willard. Flip or flop. Pretentiously ridiculous or smothered with bubonic plague. Poor, little rich boy.
*Yes, I noticed that Mitt Romney only lets the white rat sit on his shoulder. Let's not jump to conclusions.
Everyone knows that Willard is the guy that sleeps with rats. And talks to rats. And caresses rats gently as he plots his revenge on all those that are not incredibly rich, or Wall Street
Why did Mr. and Mrs. George W. Romney name their youngest son Willard?
Wikipedia would have you believe that Willard "Mitt" Romney was named after hotel magnate J. Willard Marriot, one of his father's closest and poorest friends. But we know who controls Wikipedia, don't we? No, not the Jews. Please, try to concentrate. That's right, the Scientologists... or the Mormons. Same difference, they both hate women, worship in strange and unusual ways and secretly blow washed up movie stars while they sleep.
Willard Mitt Romney is the King of the Rats. The rats do his bidding. When he speaks to the rats, the rats obey. We have no evidence concerning actual rodents but rats with two legs? Rock solid sources. Just ask all the regular folks fired when the Rat King was running Bain Capital.
The investigative journalists at PtB may not be very well paid, and they may not be very good and they may not be journalists but they are thorough and think about toupées a lot.
Have you ever seen Willard "Mitt" Romney without his toupée? Neither have we. So, in an effort to keep our investigations complete, we had one of our interns fire up the photoshop and defrock Mr. Romney -- with frightening results.
Great Scott! The plot thickens.
Put yourself in poor Mitt Romney's sh... Ouch, that's not just an oxymoron that's an oxy-unfuckingbelievable! Okay, put yourself in young Mitt Romney's shoes. Yes, I know that you, me, and the State of Mississippi can't afford his shoes but it's called empathy. Try it. You Republicans can sit this one out. I don't want you to hurt yourselves.
Mitt or Willard. Flip or flop. Pretentiously ridiculous or smothered with bubonic plague. Poor, little rich boy.
*Yes, I noticed that Mitt Romney only lets the white rat sit on his shoulder. Let's not jump to conclusions.
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