I Invent a New Game at Work - Day 2

I invented a great new game at work called  Destroy the Pink Thing in the Urinal that Smells Like your Aunt Amy.

"Why is the game so much fun," asked Zack the guy in the cubicle next to me. Simple question with a very complicated answer. First, the pink thing in the urinal is a major part of the game and that pink thing in the urinal is the only colorful thing I see all day long. Work is full of grey and beige and gray and that's just the people.

This is the color of the walls of my cubicle, kind of a grayish beige.

The color of the bulletin board that is built into the cubicle? Beigy gray. The push pin is off-white. I'm sure they pay more to get entire boxes of push pins devoid of color.

The furniture is all gray and full of useless files.

The walls are painted grayish beige. The spackle is an off-white, some would call it beige. The light switches are beige and so is the thermostat, although it is a reddish, brown sort of beige that I'm sure was a huge risk for the designer.

The carpet is gray with hints of steel blue and old coffee.

I thought it would be nice to find out the real name of the pink thing in the urinal since I have, and will, be typing it out a lot. ChaCha.com says that they are called urinal deodorizer blocks, urinal cakes and urinal mints.   Someone asked ChaCha.com if you can eat the pink things in urinals. They do look like they might be minty or bubblegummy, tasty, I mean if they weren't generally sitting in pools of urine. ChaCha.com says that they "are not eatable, nor fit for human consumption."

This is the first time in my entire life I have read the word eatable. I still haven't heard it said out loud. Next time you see me try to slip it into the conversation. I'd appreciate it. Why use edible when you could use eatable?

Back to the game. Only Day 2 and things are begining to get exciting. A puddle is forming on the target. The suspense and action builds over time in this game but there are tangible results after just a short period of play. Another reason why it's so cool.

It's hard to see the puddle in the photo so try to imagine  the face of my boss set at 65% transparency sitting on the urinal cake. While its fun to imagine my boss in the urinal, it doesn't seem to be helping find the puddle. Do you think if I stuck a candle in a urinal cake and gave it to my boss on his birthday he might eat it? He's well-groomed but is stupid.

Try to imagine the face of my boss set at 30% transparency and offset slightly so that the puddle of urine is right on his lying lips. That's better. Those shiny highlights are not my boss' lip gloss, they're the reflection of the camera's flash on the puddle of piss.

Can you see the puddle now? Doesn't seem like much but things are going to heat up quickly. I promise.

More about the game tomorrow. Yesterday's post.

I Invent a New Game at Work

The game is called Destroy the Pink Thing in the Urinal that Smells Like your Aunt Amy. Don't give up yet, I'm better at inventing games than I am at naming them.

Before we begin I'd like to give a shout out to the interior designer that toiled on the men's room at work. The beigy/gray color scheme perfectly captures the nightmarish quality of my job in porcelain, tile and grout. Bravo!

Have I mentioned that my job sucks worse than Karl Rove with a mouthful of broken glass?

Back to the game. The goal is to destroy the pink thing in your favorite urinal before everyone else destroys the pink thing in the other urinal. Simple premise but deceptively deep with respect to strategy.

The key is to pee a lot and to aim for a very specific spot on the pink thing. I call it the target and so should you.

At work I pee a lot. I find it breaks up the monotony and allows me to get out of my chair without pissing off my boss. Funny that pissing on his time doesn't piss him off as much as blogging.

I was concerned about how often I pee until I read on answers.yahoo.com that frequent urination is caused by the uterus pressing on the bladder. I'm pretty sure I don't have a uterus. I know I have a bladder, a massive bladder that is always near capacity.

Back to the game. Imagine there's a clock on top of the pink thing and that it's set on 65% transparency. I like to imagine a Pugg clock available from Ikea for the low price of $14.99. Now imagine that the cleaning guy stuck the pink thing in properly so that it lines up at right angles to your hip bones, or in line with your dick if you'd rather. Aim for the 7:00 o'clock. Aim there everytime you pee.

All the other guys will not pee there. They pee towards the back end of the pink thing or off to the side. Through careful observation and a few angry conversations, I've discovered that these men fear pink splatter on their trousers.  I've also discovered that the size of my penis compares quite favorably to the other men at work and that guys don't like it when the guy at the other urinal looks at their small penises.

Do not fear the pink splatter. It doesn't happen. Those pink things have been carefully engineered and undergone excessive testing.

More about the game tomorrow. I have to pee.

Downton Abbey is Fiddler on the Roof for WASPs

I got to be honest, just like most guys, I watch Downton Abbey. I sit through an hour of fireplace cleanings and bed making and women with broken hearts because it might infinitesimally increase my chances of banging the crumpet with whom I share my couch.

I don't think too much about the show. I don't wonder why a Monty Python bit about trench warfare that cost about  £2 (that's two pounds sterling or about $3 American) can look more realistic than this show because of the judicious use of dirt. I don't think about how fucking big that house is yet we only see four rooms. I don't think about why the chauffeur gets his own house and what does he do all day when nobody ever drives anywhere. I don't wonder what you call the female butler. I gotta believe that she has a cool name like butler or valet but what is it? And what does she do all day?

But once during a particular slow scene (ha, that's quite droll because every scene is slow, oh, so painstakingly slow and British), a synapse fired and I realized that I was watching Fiddler on the Roof. A Fiddler on the Roof for WASPs. Less facial hair, better frocks. Less singing, more eating. Less dancing, more stiff upper lips. Less Jews, more Episcopalians. But it's the same damn story.

They're both about these cranky, old dads that really aren't that bad once you get to know them.  They both have shriveled up shrews for wives that aren't that important and they both have three daughters that are the whole story.

Three daughters that drive their dads crazy. That's entertainment!

For the record, that photo of the Milkman sisters is really, really hot if you're an Orthodox Jew. Back when I was in yeshiva, we would dream of yanking it to a photo of three hot sheyne meydels wearing only their gotkes. Look at those bare arms!  We would dream because if we actually yanked it, the rabbi told us it would fall off and that the Italians would take it and make sausages for their pizza.

But which of these long suffering dads has got the worst daughters? And should the Fiddler on the Roof guy sue the Downton Abbey guy? And maybe I should pitch Downton Abbey: The Musical to Matthew Broderrick (I have an in with Matt).

Mary vs. Tzeidel
The most important daughters with respect to screen time, Tzeidel was played by a young Barbra Streisand in her film debut. Mary is portrayed by a hot, British hat.

Fiddler Dad sets up Tzeidel with a butcher that is fat, old and rich. Tzeidel falls in love with a skinny, wimpy, little shnook named Steven Spielberg. To be fair to her dad, this is before Mr. Spielberg emigrated to America and became famous and rich.

Fiddler Dad has to cancel the wedding to the butcher and reschedule everything, causing all kinds of trouble, including the loss of a significant deposit to the caterer.

The worst thing Mary does is kill a Turk with her vagina. Being a snooty British television show, we don't get to see how, but I'm pretty sure that the Turk died with a smile on his face. Sadly, Mary almost never smiles anymore because killing a Turk with your vagina was frowned upon by the British uppercrust. Personally, if I knew Mary's vagina killed a Turk I'd be first in line to be the next victim. Now that I'm out of yeshiva I dream of dying with a big, mother-effing smile on my face while my schmeckle is buried deep.

Mary and her killer vagina win this battle.

Sybil vs Hodel

The second most important pair of daughters are also the most attractive, unless you have a thing for gingers. Hodel falls in love with the tutor, Starskihutch. The tutor runs off to Moscow to be a cop or
to participate in the revolution and Hodel runs after him.

Sybil falls in love with the chauffeur, Branson. Branson runs off to Ireland to be a writer or to particpate in the revolution and Sybil runs after him. Branson is alarmingly short, like leprechaun short, and is very Irish Catholic, more Irish Catholic than Jackson Heights in the early 80s.  Starsky is Jewish and more or less regular-sized.

Sybil wins, but just by a nose. (The Anti-Defamation League can kiss my ass, it's a horseracing thing.)

Edith vs. Chava

Chava has a thing for White Russians and we're not talking vodka and cream. She does the unthinkable and falls in love with a cossak-loving Christian with a hoe. Dad is rightfully upset and tells her she is dead to him. That's tough love. My dad told me I was dead to him once but then I unexpectantly coughed up the toilet water, kicked him in the nuts and made good my escape.

Edith is homely and bored. She kisses a dairy farmer and tries to marry a rich guy named Anthony with a dodgey arm that is all talk and no trousers. There were a thousand hints that Tony One Arm was a pansy but I chose to ignore them because I don't like to be judgemental.   Upon further reflection, we know Tony's gay because Thomas the Bumsucker, a gay man with the single worse gaydar of any gay man ever in the history of gaydom, never hit on him.

Edith's abhorrent behavior has resulted in a significant amount of sighs, hurumphs, and mutterings.  That doesn't sound biblical but if you're rich and you're British that's the equivalent of spitting on your daughter and dancing on her metaphysical grave.

Edith wins big, big enough to call the match a tie.

Both fathers have shite for daughters and Downton Abbey is Fiddler on the Roof without the Jews. Can Matthew Broderick do a convincing English accent?

The End.

The Notre Dame Fighting Highlighters

Have you seen the greatest basketball uniforms ever created? Leave it to the Catholics, an organization that knows a thing or two thousand about eye-catching getups, to come up with a uniform that will actually help their team win.

After 10 minutes of looking at these horrendously ugly, retina-melting uniforms, the opposing teams eyes begin to water and many start to projectile vomit.  This often results in easy layups for the Fighting Irish.

You can't deny that day-glo green is a classy color. When I think of day-glo green, I think of those glowing sticks they sell at concerts that you can get 12 for 25 cents, or that cheap yet cool, green slime that gets covered in dog hair and pizza crumbs the second you get it out of its package.

Mike Brey, the head coach of the Notre Dame basketball team, when asked about the nauseating uniforms replied, "The dudes like 'em. If it helps me recruit better dudes, I'll wear the uniform."

This quote reverberated throughout the Catholic World. There is another significant Catholic institution that is having trouble recruiting dudes, namely the priesthood. The new pope was quick to jump on the day-glo bandwagon.

World Poetry Day

In 10th grade I was in Honors English. I was in Honors English for two reasons. The first was that I had almost failed 9th grade english and various adults concluded that I was bored. The second reason was that my friend Bob, who spent 9th grade in Honors English, said it was full of hot chicks that were friendly and liked books.

Hot 15-year old girls that liked reading?  I told my guidance counselor that I was up for the challenge. Sign me up for 10th grade Honors English! That summer my dreams were filled with me reclining in the shade reading Emily Dickinson to a tear-streaked goddess while my hand fidaddled with her intellectual cootch.

By April I was again almost failing english. Turns out I wasn't bored, I was stupid. Eleventh grade would find me back in good old regular english with the hot chicks that liked to make fun of me. But before the inevitable demotion, we were assigned a poetry project for poetry month. Twenty pages of poems, rhyming not required and actually discouraged because it was considered too low brow.

March 21st, while eating lunch, Bob remembered that our poetry assignment was due next period. He began scribbling into his spiral notebook. Forty minutes later he had twenty pages of crap. I decided that getting a hall pass to get a notebook from my locker and then scribbling for 40 minutes was not how I wanted to spend my lunch. I decided to lose a letter grade and hand in the project a day late.

A week later Mrs. Uhrlich handed back our poetry projects. She held Bob's 20 pages high above his desk and ran her fingers along the edge that had been ripped from his spiral notebook. Little pieces of paper fell down on Bob like a last gasp spring snow. Then she said the words that still make me snigger.

"This is the worst poetry project in the anals of english history."  She said anals not annals. Shit, that year of suffering was suddenly worth it.

When she got to my desk she remarked that my poem was reminiscent of Ogden Nash. Sadly, even with an extra 24 hours I had only managed a few lines. She made sure to tell the class I was 19 and seven eights short of a completed project.

I got a C. Bob got an F. Here's the poem.

The foot sat upon the floor
Odor escaping from every pore.

That C still pisses off Bob. He also hated "the foot." He thought it should have been "a foot." When I closed my eyes and visualized my poem I liked to think that there was a disconnected foot on the floor.

Bob is a lawyer now. I got to be a contributing writer at National Lampoon for a very short time. Mrs. Urhlich went on to star in two short stories I wrote later in the school year, Gracine Urhlich, Space Cadet and Gracine Urhlich, Woman Marine. They both got Bs.

Horsing Around with Horse Meat

or are you hungry enough to eat a horse... meat... dinner?

This whole horse meat scandal is stupid. I think about horse meat like I think about anal sex. If you can't tell the difference, what's the big deal?

Apparently some of the big food companies agree with me. Instead of hiding their horses, they've decided to ride them to the winner's circle and even bigger profits. Blackened Black Beauty in Cajun Cream Sauce is nutritious and delicious.

I've already tried the Hungry Man Salisbury Seabiscuit and Gravy and it's mouth watering. A pound of horse is just what you need when you're heading around the final turn, you can see the finish line but your energy is begining to lag.

The good folks at Lean Cuisine have started a new line of meals called Lean Equine. Horse meat is 38% leaner than cow and just as tasty. Celebrity horse Mr. Ed will bring his unbridled enthusiasm to the endorsement of these frozen delicacies.

Children are a growing segment of the consumer population. Good growth requires good nutrition which means plenty of horse, and the best way to get your little ones to chow down on horse is to buy them a My Little Pony Meal. Just look into Rainbow Dash's beautiful blue eyes as you eat her cousin, generously seasoned with Mrs. Dash.

Finally, even a major fast food chain (that will remain nameless because their lawyers sent me a cease and desist order the last time I dared to make fun of them) have added horse to their menu. The Filet-O-Flicka is not just for Lent. Enjoy the meaty goodness of horse all year round!

Glory Days: I was in a band, Jackie and The...

Right after high school, I played guitar in a band.  If you hung out in the small clubs on Long Island that actually had live music, you probably remember us. We played mostly surfer punk, some rockabilly, and always did a kickass Freebird because there were always these dicks in the audience who thought they were funny and screamed for it during the whole set.

I'll never forget our first night. We were friends with a band that had a regular friday night gig. They got a better one-time gig and asked us to cover for them. The owner was pissed but we brought along enough friends that were serious drinkers so he let us go on.

We didn't have a real name so we used Jackie Spank and the Monkees because we liked to masturbate a lot. Luckily, Rick the drummer, had a great look and a great looking girlfriend with a camera, so I have photographic evidence.

That one night became our regular gig. We thought it would be funny to change our name slightly every time so The Monkees became The 1-Outs became The Chickens.

Jackie Rub and The 1-Outs

Jackie Choke and The Chickens

Jackie Mast and The Urbators

Jackie Mix and The Baby Batters

When we finally got the chance to record a demo, we went with Jackie Jack and The Offs.  Then Jack went to college so we became just The Offs. I still have a t-shirt.

Chris Culliver - Gayest Homophobe Photo Ever

Hi guys, I'm Chris Culliver, hate-filled scumbag. I'm looking to hookup with a like-minded individual. Don't let my chiselled exterior and full bush scare you boys away. I love walks in the park, rainbows and unicorns with really long horns.

Gayest photo of a homophobe ever? I don't know -- but it probably makes the top ten.

If Chris Culliver had aimed his hate-filled remarks at blacks or Jews or Muslims or women, the 49ers would have suspended him. But attacking gays? NFL don't have no problem, Cully-In-Da-House, ppl!!!

I know what you're thinking, don't pick on poor, not-so-bright Chris Culliver, his brain don't know what his heart be thinking. Have you ever visited his twitter account? Might be the poor guy spells with his gall bladder. Is 29 his number, and his IQ? Wait, give the guy a break. He apologized didn't he? Did he?

Chris Culliver spent his college career as a Fighting Gamecock of the University of South Carolina. Uh oh, here come the hundreds of football/homosexual euphemisms or if Chris were spelling it, youvisms. Do you have to take the SAT to go to South Carolina, wear spandex and dry hump a Bulldog, Gator or the occasional Aggie?

So, once again watching the Super Bowl will be like watching Dick Cheney and Rush Limbaugh mudwrestling. There's nobody to cheer for. You end up sitting there and hoping they both choke to death on slop.

On one side is a probable double murderer and cheater whose close personal friend named Jesus Christ told him to retire, and on the other side is a hate-filled, homophobe from San Francisco.

Pass me a beer, the wide reciever is beating the man to man and going deep in the end zone.

My Dick Reviews The Hobbit

Today's guest blogger is a frequent contributor of insightful posts and unsightly stains, my dick.

The Hobbit sucked. End of review.

There are no women in The Hobbit --  except for 2 minutes of the frigid Queen of the Elves. When that Queen Elf looks at you with her cold, blue eyes, your mighty sword wants to crawl back into the scabbard and not come out again until we get back to The Shire.

No women.

Peter Jackson: "But Dick, there were no women in the book."
Me: "Hey Peter, you stuck a whole lot of crap in the movie that wasn't in the book but you couldn't find a place for a female of any species?"

What if one of the 17 indistinguishable dwarves was a women? She wouldn't have to be a gnarled, misshapen dwarf, she could be like that Mini-Me Aragorn. Maybe a shrunken down version of Liv Tyler? Perfect in every way and 3 feet tall.

The last vision I have of the gorgeous Princess Arwen was that one up there. Aragorn was out of town on business and we met behind the dunes on the plains of Rohan. Inset your favorite LOTR euphemism here. I'd go for something that includes hobbit holes.

So, on the standard scale of At Least One Woman of Childbearing Age Per Movie Please where 1 Desireé Cousteau is no woman present and 5 Desireé Cousteaus is an old  Super 8 mm found only in the seediest sections of Alderaan  called Deep Inside Princess Leia, I give The Hobbit 1 Desireé.

If you can figure out the connection between The Hobbit and Ms. Cousteau, you will win a rare, Uncle Melon How to Eat Pussy t-shirt*.  Here's a hint, it's exactly three degrees of separation.

Other posts by my dick:

My Dick Discusses The Debt
My Dick Discusses the Winter Olympics
My Dick Discusses Avatar 3D
My Dick Explains Why the Blind Side is So Popular
My Dick's Thoughts on Patrick Swayze's Passing


*Disclaimer: Friends, family and readers of this blog are not eligible for this contest.

A Christmas Card Mashup

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.

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.

"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

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!”

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.

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.