Tuesday, December 16, 2008

The three little children that died miserable fiery deaths

Once upon a time in an airliner flying above the Great American Desert there were three naughty children. They enjoyed kicking the backs of the seats of people that had never done them or their people any harm. Despite the patient pleadings of those people and stern warnings from their drink and drug addled mother they continued their naughtiness.

“They can’t throw us off the airplane,” said Jimmy the oldest most repellant boy. “We’re up too high!”

“They can’t give us a well deserved beating because they aren’t relatives and they stand to do some serious time, child abuse laws being what they are, if they lay a finger on us!” Said Maria, the noxious middle girl.

“Lets run in aisle and throw some of the tasty seasoned bits of fried dough, corn chex and pretzels the airline provided at passengers who paid full fair for their tickets.” Said Hector, the imaginative youngest cur and unholy spawn of Satan.

Soon the three naughty children were frolicking in the cabin and people many rows away came to despise them. An elderly woman undid their shoelaces and gave them a razor sharp pair of scissors she’d smuggled on board to hold while they ran around the cabin. The sky Marshall gave them his service revolver to play with in the hopes that an accidental discharge might kill the loathsome creatures. Everyone in the airliner offered controlled substances to the mother to sedate the noisome pack but she gobbled down the collection of opiates and horse tranquillizers herself and fell into a stupor. Various kinds of English and Spanish commands were tried to control the unruly trio but it was to no avail. They continued to annoy the paying passengers.

Because of air traffic delays caused by personnel cutbacks that saved money the airline could pass onto their executives in the form of well deserved pay raises, the airliner had to stay aloft for far longer than was expected so the three naughty children got to play long into the evening being hopped up on caffeine, sugar and Ritalin. For hours they played, kicked, and screamed until the youngest finally filled his pants with a partially digested broccoli and beans mixture that oozed out of his huggies and down his legs. This was the cause of much hilarity among his siblings.

All good things must come to an end however and in this case the airliner had pushed away from the terminal with just enough gas to get from Chicago to L.A. Because of cutbacks and labor troubles this fact wasn’t noticed by the cheaper if somewhat lesser skilled replacement workers now in charge of noticing things like that. The airliner was soon plummeting like a rock through the clear desert sky. It got very quiet in the cabin as the all too reasonable pleadings and prayerful wailing of adults replaced the insane rantings of children.

Some one or some thing must have heard because the temporary secretary that had replaced the striking pilot in this case was able to land the 737 with minimal damage even though she’d only been given 24 hours to study the manual and was only certified on Word for Windows.

Safely on the ground the three naughty children surveyed the cabin and began scampering through the debris and playing with the oxygen masks that hung down from the ceiling. They splashed through the residual jet fuel that had leaked into the cabin as the other passengers evacuated. A quiet man who had been in the row just in front of the kids, tossled the eldest’s hair and told them to stay in the plane until their Mom came to. “Do anything you want.” He said, “the planes a write off anyway.” He gave Maria a lighter he had modified to be not so child proof. He left the plane and shut the emergency exit behind him.

The passengers danced around the subsequent fire in celebration of their good fortune as the superstructure burned with a steady blue flame until it was a pile of twisted metal. The only injuries were to rescue workers who tried to enter the burning wreck to save the children. They were inadvertently clubbed by irate passengers who mistook them for baby harp seals in firemen’s turn outs.


Australia of the antipods, a blessed sun kissed land of beaches, great stands of explosively combustible gum trees and an odd looking collection of endangered agricultural pests is populated almost exclusively by descendants Irish settlers who sought their fortunes in either farming, prospecting or on parole.

The Brits selected it as a penal colony because they felt that the prospect of internment in its moderate climate, good air and clean water would terrify into good behavior any inmates dispatched there. When compared to the drafty, foggy and tuberculosis ridden climate the inmates were used to it was indeed terrifying, so terrifying in fact many never returned. Its only when you see the acres of pink Irish flesh basted in SPF 1000 sun block then burned to a ghastly crisp on Bondi that you realize the Pommy bastards might have been on to something.

Among the charms of the island continent is that death comes at you from a variety pack of different sources. Australia which is Latin for Southern Land means “Get Me The Fuck Out Of Here!” when freely translated from the aboriginal languages. It’s a wonderful place of great beauty and grandeur and some of the most dangerous flora and fauna on the entire planet.

One of Auz’s proudest claims is that it is home to nine of the ten most poisonous snakes on earth. There isn’t a cobra or rattlesnake in the top ten so unless you happen to be in southern Africa and step on a black mamba, you aren’t ever likely to stumble across anything as venomous as anything playing in Australian snake league. And what a large league it is, of 400 or so native species of snakes the majority of Australian snakes are venomous, the only place on earth that can make that claim

Although they make asps and sidewinders appear almost cuddly Australia’s killers have homely even prosaic names. Although being bitten by something called a Death Adder is pretty alarming, how bad could the bite of a Collett’s snake be? Well almost instantly fatal in fact, like wise the Taipan and both Brown Snakes. Yes, it seems that two species of the world’s ten most poisonous snakes happen to be called Brown snakes.

Thanks to either incredibly bad luck on the part of two Mr. Browns who independently discovered how lethal the snakes they were handling were thereby earning the distinction of having the species named after them or a profound lack of imagination on the part of Zoologist, two of the world’s deadliest reptiles have identical names. They could have named one the Khaki Colored Man Killer or Taupe Death Dealer but no, Brown Snake was good enough! I imagine this is a problem when a man goes to a doctor complaining of snake bite and the doctor has him describe the snake.

“Brown,” the patient answers and the doctor tells him to come back in a half hour and he’ll know which anti-venom to give him. The patient wonders why it should take so long to identify a snake and the doctor tells him it if he’s still alive in half an hour they’ll know he was bitten by the less dangerous of the Browns.

Of course there are many other deadly animals in Australia some surprisingly convenient for tourists and the unwary Australians to stumble over. There are huge salt water crocs that denizens of the out back are fond of poking at. There are a variety of man eating sharks swimming off shore, including the Great White, the species popularly credited with eating one of Australia’s prime ministers. Most heads of state have security details that rehearse scenarios to see how they’d react in a given situation; I wonder how many have to rehearse what to do when the old man wants to go for a swim?

Of course in Australia a critter doesn’t need to be big to kill you! Sydney is the home range of the Funnel Web spider, it’s about the size of you fist but it has the largest fangs of any spider, period. There is none of that bullshit about percentage of body size these fangs are bigger than camel spiders or tarantulas carry. The nice thing about the species is it’s aggressive, particularly when it has loving on its mind, it will attack a full sized human under the misapprehension the human is after its girl. Fun Fact: Female Funnel Webs live in holes that bare an uncanny resemblance to shoes, at least to Male Funnel Webs, so be sure you shake out the espadrilles before you put them on when visiting down under.

And don’t forget to check out Redbacks and White Tail spiders on your way to the morgue or the aptly named Paralysis Tick if hiking in high grass is your thing.

Of course you are only likely to encounter Funnel Webs in Queensland, Sydney, Adelaide and Melbourne but when you head down to their famed beaches death can stalk you in exciting new ways. Lots of dangerous things lurk under the waves, including more lethal snakes, blue ring octopuses and a venomous snail but aren’t considered interesting because they live to far out at sea to rack up a decent body count and their victims usually drown in terrified agony and are ripped to shreds by voracious sharks before they’re missed.

So lets just consider the killers of waders, Stonefish and Toadfish are considered the most dangerous fish on earth and freely available to be trod on in the surf. Victims of the Stonefish’s sting have been known to beg to be killed rather than endure the agony of the injury.

Varieties of jellyfish float on the gentle tide. Portuguese Men O’War or blue bottles if you prefer trail long strands of tentacles studded with stingers that inflict painful wounds and inject toxins. Fortunately the treatment for the agonizing injury is fairly mundane, just apply vinegar or urine to the affected area, it may or may not work. So if you see a bunch of Auzi’s peeing on one of their ilk, it may or may not be what it appears to be at first glance.

Ordinarily the Portuguese Man o’ War is the top of the stinging order when it comes to bobbing lethal blobs of goo but the Auzi’s go one step further and have box jellyfish, all species of which are venomous but with one variety deemed to be the most venomous animal on earth. That’s right the capo d’tui capo of venomous creatures great and small and it wasn’t discovered until some one stumbled ashore screaming “something bit me!” and then died. It is microscopic and apparently so lethal its copious previous victims were presumed to have had heart attacks and drowned. Fortunately medical science has discovered an anti-venom for this mini man killer so a victim of its sting can make a partial recovery with a minimum of disfigurement and surgery if he makes the agonizing ride to the hospital in time.

Urine is of no use for treating the Box Jellyfish sting but do pee on the victim anyway, you'll enjoy it and the victim will probably be dead in a short time.

Of course death stalks the tourist in Australia no matter where you go or what species you encounter. The Emu, a flightless bird is the third largest and most dangerous in the avian order. It has bad eyesight and an evil temper which when combined with its gently curious nature has produced some notable encounters of the last kind. Typically the bird will wander over to the unlucky tourist apparently interested in his head wear or whatever until it comes into visual range, realizes it’s a human he’s been stalking and in flurry of feathers and claws, guts the poor traveler like a catfish.

I could stop here but I won’t because in Australia death hides where you least expect it, kind of like a lethal Candid Camera. Australia has one of the very few venomous mammals: the platypus. Most venomous mammals are small shrew like creatures, not dangerous to man and very rare, Platypus are large, common and lethal. The males have a spur on a hind leg that is connected to a venom sack, the nice thing is when a male has hooked a victim he voids the entire sack into the victims blood stream since the Platypus has no control over the process.

I hope you found these tips handy if you fancy a trip down under. In spite of their incomprehensible English the Auz are a fair dinkum bunch O’lads with more euphemisms for vomiting than any other country on earth. So loosen up in this land of firsts, mosts and deadliest, set your mind at ease, sit back, relax and enjoy Australia until a Dingo eats one of your children.

Saturday, November 29, 2008


Recently I was involved in an archaic form of entertainment(?), the telethon. A telethon, in case you've been in a coma on a distant planet without cable for the last seventy years, consists of people begging and screaming at you to donate money between musical or comedy acts that make you wish they'd get back to begging and screaming at you for money.

Telethons differ from pledge breaks on Public Television in that the pledge breaks interrupt nothing entertaining, just the usual BBC documentaries and dreary BBC costume dramas where as nothing stops a telethon.

In the past these endless juggernauts of entertainment mediocrity aimed to wipe out diseases, cerebral palsy, arthritis and muscular dystrophy spring to mind. I have participated in telethons for Muscular Dystrophy, Arthritis and Easter Seals although I never understood why a concerted effort against piniped aquatic mammals was necessary or how they ever became associated with the resurrection of our Lord and Savior. And let me say with added emphasis I have nothing against the people fighting cerebral palsy but they never asked.

Lately with Arthritis apparently eradicated and Easter Seals exterminated I help out on the MDA or Jerry Lewis Telethon and a relative new comer on the Telethonic scene, the Armenia Telethon. It is a valiant and successful effort to raise money to pay for infrastructure and educational facilities in impoverished areas of Armenia.

Armenia is a small country in the Caucasus that has a view of Turkey (The Country) from every window, this would be less distressing if the Turks hadn't spent the best part of WW1 trying to exterminate the Armenians. To put it in perspective the Armenians regard their occupation by the Soviet Union as more or less benign, Stalin and Communism were apparently less lethal to the average Armenian than a determined Turk so we are talking some hard backed persecution vets here. At any rate, for 12 hours on Thanksgiving they raise money in prodigious amounts for their homeland, paying for new roads and schools so the Russians and Turks will have new things to destroy next time they decide to go Genocidal.

All this Telethon talk has reminded me of the time I did an Amish Telethon. We had to go door to door but we raised eighty seven dollars and a barn.

You see the Amish don't have telephones or television, so they'd have to go next door to a Mennonite family that had those things to call in. I'll explain the Amish in a latter blog.

Friday, November 21, 2008

Good Bye Columbus

As the Holiday Season draws to a close and by Holiday Season I mean the one between Halloween and Veteran's Day, my friends and I like to reflect on the various civil liberties and protections against unwarranted government intrusion that have fluttered down the old memory hole like a non-person being excised from history.

There is a curious universality to this, my right wing and lefty friends agree that secret government cadres are working against their particular political wing by compiling dossiers on their Internet porn preference and listening in on the politically dangerous telephone conversations they have with their Mom. I think this is a promising trend, it shows the government is using foresight and will be in a good position to help the right or left wing, which ever one wins, round up their Kulaks of choice.

The black helicopters, Council on Foreign Relations, Bilderberg Group, Illuminati, the Masons (either Pamela, James or Perry and possibly Mason Reese and Mason Williams) Tri-Lateral Commission and Skull and Bones are stipulated by both right and left wingers as bete noires of their personal liberty, although I must have missed the passage of The Personal Liberty and Freedom Act since I still have to pay taxes and I 'm still not allowed to shoot my neighbors. My Commie and Wingnut friends are never the less convinced that the above stated groups' purposes are diabolical, that their given public raison d'etre is duplicitous and they're really dedicated to taking away the same liberties and freedoms that the left and right wings are so fond of taking away from their opponents.

Somehow the Rockefellers and the Jews are at the center of this universe of conspiracy, either as creatures of the United States government or the United States government being a creature of theirs. Since the Rockefellers are sort of the Beverly Hillbillies of World Domination with Nelson or David in the Jed Role and Happy Fitler (The trampy Philadelphia girl Nelson married after he divorced Mary, although not as trampy as that Megan chick who was blowing him the night he died.) as Granny I'm thinking maybe they've been in charge all along although judging by some delicatessens I've been in, it takes a Jewish mind to master chaos.

I had very serious doubts that our Government would be able to take away very much in the way of personal liberties, the Patriot Act, the Library Snooping Enabling Act and the We Want to Know How Many Times You Downloaded "Opps I did it again" And Shared It With Your Cousin Act not with standing. So far they haven't they haven't been very good at taking away Personal Liberties even from Al Quiada (This is America damn it, a Q its followed by a U no matter what the stinkin' Arabs say.) of the five hundred we caught and released about 450 have turned up fighting us again in either Afghanistan or Iraqu.

I thought we had little to fear that our poor incompetent Liberal democracy would turn into the soul destroying oppressive nightmare depicted in Orwell's 1984 unless Americans suddenly became law abiding. (By the by, I did put on my INGSOC jumpsuit the morning of January 1, 1984, faced the Telescreen and participated in two minutes of very satisfying hate over the continued sabotage of Oceania's war effort by the followers of Emmanuel Goldstein, just in case.) I always figured lefties were better at that sort of thing, since the giants of their pantheon, like Lenin, Stalin, Mao, Pol Pot, Castro and the guy in charge in China that had tanks run over all those students over in Tienanmen Square, are all giants because they are standing on mountains of dead Kulaks, the sine qua non of consensus left wing government.

But I would be wrong. Behold the new face of Big Brother, the nice lady in the lavender but business appropriate suit at the top. She's Helen Jones-Kelley and she just got thirty days of unpaid quiet time for peeping at Joe the Plumbers records with out a legitimate reason. She is head of Ohio's Department of Job and Family Services and like any good bureaucrat she was just exercising due diligence, investigating a private citizen that happened to ask Barack Obama a pointed question. She was particularly concerned that Samuel J. Wurzelbacher owed child support, received public assistance or owed unemployment compensation taxes. Although Inspector General Tom Charles disagreed Ms Jones-Kelley denied her search of Joe the Plumber's records was politically motivated since she did the same thing to any Ohioan who happened to surface on national media. With past practices and precedents like that that guide her she dumped the whole weight of government on the poor dumb idealistic shmoo.

She's probably back at the state capital by now, investigating anyone she feels she has a good reason to investigate because she's a good person that wants to do the right thing. So she's busy doing the right thing and poking around in lives that have done nothing wrong except attract her attention letting the ends justify her means as she goes along.

I love Big Brother.

Sunday, October 26, 2008

Res Politicata

According to reports lately received in California some kind of election is occurring beyond the far horizon. It is apparently between an Octogenarian and an Octoroon, I don’t know what those words mean but since between them and their running mates they have eight legs they are an Octoped. That is not important right now.

Lately political discourse has left me with many of the same questions African Americans have after seeing a Lawrence Kasdan movie, specifically: “Why are all these rich spoiled crackers carrying on like that and what is it they are carrying on about?” I have no idea.

I recently wrote a lengthy satire on our two year long electoral process based on Richard Henry Dana’s immortal yarn about merchant seamen called Two Years before the Mast. It was called Two Years before the Election and was 85,000 words of brilliant narrative about a lad who signs on as a volunteer for a Chicago politician and two years later, after learning the ropes of election rigging, emerges as a master politician albeit a corrupt Under Secretary of Commerce presumptive.

Having never read the Dana book my work was ambitious on too many levels and was largely incomprehensible to those who read it. This effort was reminiscent of my attempts to popularize Soren Kierkegaard, the philosopher and immortal author of "Fear and Trembling" in a sit-com. We got as far as the theme song, some jokes about the James Gang (William, Henry and Harry James, Harry wasn't much of an intellectual but he played a mean trumpet and was married to Betty Grable.) and a scene in the Long Branch public Library where Soren learns he can't take out "A Critique of Pure Reason" because some Hegelians have taken over the town. Fortunately my hard drive exploded before it was finished and I walked away with nothing to answer for although I now know how Lawrence Kasdan feels.

Of more concern are the propositions on California’s ballot which are as a rule in support of the trial lawyers full employment act. Usually they are about innocuous things like how much we should pay the state to dump asbestos and mercury in our back yards so the kitty cats will have a safe place to be wild but this year is different. A prop 8 seeks to prevent men from having a legally binding contract between them before they engage in anal or oral sex.

As much I enjoy watching men dress up in tulle before they can have sex and then watching them spend years in civil court trying to untangle a property settlement, which is, after all, what love is all about, I think Prop 8 is a terrible infringement on every man’s right to butt slam any anus that strikes your fancy.

I think that fostering marriage between men is a threat to other fundamental relationships. I am not talking about parenthood; we all know that issue, as in children, is impossible in these cases unless you’re a lesbian with a turkey baster and a male friend with romantic notions about turkey basters. No, I’m talking about the deepest attachment humans can have, the relationship between a captain and his helmsman.

Imagine my chagrin when I heard that a gay marriage ceremony and reception had torn apart the poorly maintained mask of civility between Kirk/Shatner and Sulu/ Takei. Will we will never again hear the words, “Set a course for Ipana 7, Mr. Sulu,” or the immortal response, “Aye, aye Captain!” Never again will we see Kirk and Sulu transporting down to investigate new life forms with Kirk investigating any attractive blue or green females and Zulu checking out the local bar scene to see if the men sing Karaoke and ejaculate in each others mouths. Of course Sulu is older, legally married and goes straight home after work so nothing like that could possibly happen now.

As we all know heterosexuals only engage in sex after getting legally wed, it’s the law you know, check it out its in all the literature. The marriage institution remains popular because quality masturbatory aids are so hard to find on the Internet, heterosexuals are compulsively law abiding and they enjoy the lengthy court proceedings that are required to extract themselves from wedded bliss.

Now I have many male friends and almost none of our activities involve showering and massaging each other, putting our penises in each others body or dressing up real smart and making snarky comments about whoever isn’t present. But I’d like to think that if ever that changed I wouldn’t have to go through the trouble and paperwork of marrying somebody just to smoke his dick. Vote yes on Prop 8 and keep government out of gay sex unless it involves Mark Foley, Larry Craig or Barney Frank. Do your homosexual friends a favor and keep gay sex freely available for the Priests, users of public restrooms and American Idol winners that enjoy it without the crushing burden of Government regulation.

Friday, September 26, 2008

Non, Je ne Regrette Rien

The best and brightest of French engineering suffered a major set back in their race with the Mayans to end the world. The Mayans famously renowned for their prowess at pyramid construction, skill at ball games involving severed human heads and carving big impractical pocket calendars out of stone had predicted that the world, or at least this cycle of time, will end on December 21, 2012. The French gamely took up the challenge and constructed a machine that, at least some people think, could end world before the Mayan imposed deadline.

The Large Hadron Collider is a 27 kilometer (17 miles for those still using God's ordained system of measures) ring tunnel designed to let scientist observe the destruction of atomic particles by smashing them together at nearly the speed of light. In other words its exactly the same as the time you put all those firecrackers in your cousins model of the Forestall and blew it up by ramming a model of the Bismarck, similarly packed with explosives, into it except its in a big ring in France surrounded by super conducting magnets at or near absolute zero, operated by CERN an acronym no one has figured out yet, funded with billions of euros and you're not hiding it from Mom or are high as a kite from huffing the airplane glue fumes. One possible side benefit to the reams of information we will reap by having Frenchmen smash things is there is a minuscule chance, and by minuscule I mean a one in three chance, they will accidentally create a black hole that will swallow the world.

As one who thinks being perched on the event horizon with one eye on the singularity and the other on the rest of the universe red shifting away into infinity is the perfect metaphor for my life,
(shit, thats the way the universe appears to observers who assume we're in an expanding universe not being sucked into a collapsing black hole which would produce identical observations. Note to self: call CERN and see if anyone answers the phone.)
I love these little ambiguities, particularly when I'm being reassured by engineers from a country that produced the Renault.

Things were going swimmingly at CERN, they were running tests, everybody looked smart in their clean white lab coats and invitations to the end of the world gala had gone out when a power bus melted down and pooped the party. A power bus by the way is usually a charged bar or power supply that other devices get their power from, they are usually bars of copper or iron, how they melted one at absolute zero I can't say. At the very least we will have to wait till April to find out if the French have created something at least as lethal as their grooming habits and sexual practices.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Anyone can laugh at himself...

Hurricane Ike beat up on Texas so bad they're changing it's name to Tina.

Saturday, August 23, 2008


You have got to see this! I was listening to NPR (Don't flame me, I was only listening to learn the enemy's plans. And where do you think Rush gets all his material?)

At any rate I was listening to a show called Market Place, its supposed to be your superficial market round up show but they were discussing the recent brouhaha over how many houses McCain owned. They got around to pointing out that both McCain and Obama have done pretty well then brought up a book called Richistan by Robert Frank. Mr. Frank divides the rich into Upper Richistan (Over $100 million) and Lower Richistan (Over $10 million) anybody below $10 mega large is merely affluent.

As an example of some one living in Upper Richistan they offered Ed and Edwina Rogers. The Rogers are "Super Lobbyist" so I assume the made that large pile lobbying, if so maybe things are even more out of control in Washington than we all suspect. I'm sorry I can't be more snarky, Mrs. Rogers comes across as a pleasant, down to earth lady with just one tiny little quirk. She wraps gifts in money.

Not Republic of Tonga notes either, she uses American dollars, the old lucky buck, the diaper, the green back, add your own favorite nickname. She buys rolls of dollars from the Bureau of Engraving and Printing and cuts them into the appropriate sized squares for whatever trinket she is wrapping.

I know its just paper, just paper backed by the full faith and credit of the United States and we all know what a joke that is! She made the money honestly, undermining the integrity of politicians so she can do with it as she pleases. I'm sure the Fed is happy to print more, so where's the beef?

A commentator on the Market Place was troubled by the piece:
Mr. Frank has wonderful credentials, with numerous awards to his credit and he is a well known expert in economics. Right? So he needs a second job as a political hack for the Left? How come?
Of course Mr. Frank wasn't involved in the video piece he just wrote a book about the rich but he's correct about Mrs Rogers' practice about using dollars to wrap stuff. If you ever needed an image to get people on the barricades this one fills the bill. If you ever needed a metaphor for a dysfunctional economy this is one to put next to the wheelbarrows full of Wiemar Republic notes the Germans had to push around to purchase bread or Marie Antoinette suggesting the sans culottes eat cake. We all know how Hitler and Robespierre used those metaphors and how that worked to the betterment of man.

At a time when people are losing homes, we are losing our manufacturing base and shipping billions to oil sheiks and rogue states for oil perhaps its time to be a little circumspect in the vulgar displays of wealth.

Ah who am I kidding. It's Thermidor! I'll see you on the barricades.

Friday, August 22, 2008

Rusty the reluctant reindeer

Rusty was a caribou, a species of deer that roams the frozen white expanse of the tundra steppes above the Arctic Circle in North America. Thanks to the extermination of their natural predators, wolves and the like, caribou now migrated across vast expanses of the far north with nothing to worry about except Eskimos, drunk Canadians on snowmobiles, Americans taking pot shots from helicopters and Australian nature show hosts working out their reptile fixation. Consequently encounters with non English speakers other than Inuits had generally been benign, leaving the younger untested members of the herd to suffer from or indulge in, depending on your point of view, a certain unrelieved naiveté as they munched on acre after acre of lichen and moss.

Caribou are not, as a rule, an ambitious species, beyond becoming the occasional hunter’s trophy or featured extra in a National Geographic Special, they aspire to be nothing more than the wandering ungulates they are by birth. By any estimate this should have been the golden age of the caribou; abundant pastures, no predators and a trend toward global warming that promised even more pastures. What more could a Caribou desire than a mouthful of moss and/or lichen, the prospect of more of the same, plus a bunch of other Caribou asses to follow all the while being left in peace by species that otherwise would be trying to make a meal of you.

This equation failed to take into account Rusty, a young Caribou, who while living in a Caribou paradise, wanted more. Rusty stood out in the herd. As an adolescent he was a troublesome Caribou even for a subordinate bachelor male Caribou. He acted out in the usual subordinate bachelor male manner, i.e.: challenging dominate males for breeding privileges, scent marking territories clearly not his own, smoking and drinking while being sullen and uncooperative. His elders were prone to accept this as normal adolescent behavior but Rusty insisted on taking it a step further and began hanging out at salt licks, leaving his antler velvet lying around, playing music and writing bad poetry.

It is of course our human nature to be tolerant, particularly of youthful artistic adventures. Isn’t the judgment of poetry ultimately subjective no matter how jejune? Aren’t opinions rarely germane across generational divides and after all might this not be the first effort of what might presage a Caribou Renaissance? All fearfully and frighteningly true but then consider this exemplar:
I have big antlers on my head,
They go from ear to ear,
And every time I go to bed
I know that I’m a deer.

Remember this was written in snow with urine. It’s enough to make any thinking critic reconsider his convictions about the length of Buck season. Even if the career of e.e.cummings hadn’t already made you reconsider your position on gun control or something by Edna St. Vincent Millet hasn’t inspired you to Aztecesque fantasies about ripping her still beating heart from her chest and devouring it in front of her dying eyes, insipid doggerel like Rusty’s could drive a reasonable person or literate caribou, of whom there are none, to violence.

The caldron of emotional magma that lurks under the thin basaltic surface crust of civility that governs relations amongst the literary elite ruptured with astonishing vehemence. An editor at Harpers had to be restrained from beating Rusty to a pulpy death with an annotated copy of “The White Goddess”. Had a Department of Fish and Game warden not chosen that moment to pitch an article on an imaginary revival of interest in the work of Robert W. Service, its unlikely Rusty would have survived. Rusty would have been a former Caribou.

A more easily discouraged even numbered-toed ungulate might have given up after being battered by a book that thick but not Rusty, he continued to bleat out his deepest, darkest, most secret thoughts and dreams in poetical verse much to the annoyance of all involved. Rusty decided musical accompaniment was what he needed to properly get his message across. His hooves precluded any virtuosity on stringed instruments and keyboards and the expectoration of cud hopelessly fouled the spit valve of any wind instrument he played, so he abandoned those haphazardly mastered instruments and took up the drums. He was soon an above average percussionist, as it required no musical talent. Still Rusty was a songwriter and at the urging of his band he, like Karen Carpenter before him, left a sandwich on the tom-tom and moved from behind the trap set to the microphone and center stage.

The tundra has been described, not frequently but often enough, as “Starved for Entertainment” so except for an occasional road company of Riverdance or other rhythmic Irish tap dance extravaganza Rusty didn’t have much competition. Soon he was playing at all the Caribou functions, the annual kick off the migration party and mixer, the annual Bucks-defending-their-harem-of-females-for-breeding-privileges Festival and of course the Halloween Dance. It was at the latter that Rusty heard the music that changed his life.

Rusty and the band, an accordion player from Banff named Pierre, were on a break when the DJ put on the seminal classic, Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer. It turned out that the plucky little French Canadian Pierre had lived among the Seminoles after being shunned by his more fastidious people for consorting with caribou and had learning the Creek dialect spoken by the Floridians. He was able to translate the song, originally written hundreds of years before by Cherokee sachem and alphabet inventor Sequoia and then popularized by sportsman and baritone Gene Autry.

The song spoke volumes to Rusty. The classic tale of a young reindeer finding his heroic destiny as the pilot, captain and first among equals in an intrepid band of Reindeer as they magically transported their jolly old elf on his appointed rounds captivated Rusty. He listened to it endlessly, as it was exactly what he wanted to do.

Rudolf’s condition prior to finding his calling was particularly evocative to young Rusty who identified with his outsider status and isolation. He too had been laughed at and called names, he too had been excluded from games, Caribou games in his case not reindeer games but still he thought the parallels were uncanny. The final proof to cross his well antlered if dim little mind was that he, Rusty, shared a first initial with Rudolf.

Rusty accepted the story at face value having little in the way of education. Caribou are rarely well schooled being migratory cervidae with no fixed habitations, literature or language, at best they are as literate as an L.A Unified School District graduate. Rusty had no idea what Christmas was, who this Santa character was, where he might be located beyond a general “North Pole” address and how to get in touch with him. He also conveniently forgot that he was lacking in three key assets that Rudolf possessed: A bright red nose, the ability to fly and that he was, after all, a Caribou and not a reindeer.

He was munching on lichens growing on a mountain of Joseph Campbell literature dumped there by an unscrupulous publishing baron when he had his epiphany. He was fairly certain that Santa was not located on the migratory route of his herd. He would have to search further a field than he’d previously thought if he wanted to pursue his dream. He would be alone for the first time, a risky venture for him or any other herd animal that relied on numbers for protection. Finally he decided that his life as a Caribou would be blighted if he didn’t at least try to locate Kris Kringle and the indomitable band of reindeer he hoped to call brothers.

He decided to go to Paris.

He stowed away on a tramp steamer called The Harbor Queen sailing from Halifax and headed to Europe. This is no small feat for a four legged, antlered, 300-pound artiodactyla and speaks volumes about the quality of the intoxicants being used by the merchant marine even if the ship was laden with a cargo of fine quality hat racks destined for the best hat rack emporiums of the continent. After about the third day at sea the crew changed from their street clothes into their “boating outfits” and Rusty found out why it was called a tramp steamer. Shortly thereafter he was discovered hiding in a cargo hold and brought before the skipper, a man who went by the nom de mer: Captain Scabbard.

The captain was furious to discover Rusty had stowed away and vowed to make him work his way across the Atlantic. After being dressed like an English schoolboy and thoroughly caned, Rusty learned that there was more to being a sailor than just working on a ship. After a solid couple of hours of “heave hoing”, and “yo ho hoing”, the afternoons amounted to pretty much straight “hoing” and then there were the preparations for the evening galas and musicales the crew threw every night before raffling off the privilege of tucking in the cabin boy. Rusty soon got into the swing of things aboard the Queen; it was, after all, rutting season, and soon he became popular with the captain and crew in a way only a Caribou can be popular with sailors.

The men of the Queen filled Rusty in on a number of details that weren’t covered in the song and they put a face on Santa, not to mention Dancer, Prancer, Donder, et.al. They told him about the forgotten Reindeer, Chet and Dave imprisoned in the nineties for money laundering, of Santa’s associate Major Hummel that handled elf interrogation and Ingrid Clause, Santa’s evil twin sister, she bitch of Arctic. They told him Santa lived in the far north of Scandinavia and that a people called the Sámi or Laps kept reindeer and supplied Santa with replacements whenever Vixen and Dasher were laid out by Peppermint Schnapps or whatever gorge turning alcoholic concoction they drank to forget their drab tepid lives. He should ask for Sven if he ever got there because he was in their words, “Personally working the pimp hand, for the Reindeer hook up.” What ever that meant.

With his new knowledge Rusty was more determined than ever to get to the North Pole and immediately jumped ship under the misapprehension he was in Helsinki while in fact they were tethered to a Sunoco Refinery in Marcus Hook, near Chester Pennsylvania. It wasn’t long before Rusty discovered that the natives had only rudimentary knowledge of Finno-Ugric languages and so after soaking up the atmosphere in that exotic port he tried to sneak back aboard the Harbor Queen. Unfortunately his souvenir trinkets and keepsakes short-circuited and began to buzz and vibrate madly, making a frightful racket.

Captain Scabbard was again furious and only partly mollified by the gift of an afghan hand knit by the happy Keystone State inhabitants or the hand massager cunningly shaped to get to all those hard to reach places and insisted that Rusty appear in the crew’s home movies, even though by doing so Rusty would have to forgo any chance of national political office.

A much more mature and sophisticated Rusty arrived in Helsinki some time later. The movies had been stolen and released by a mail order company and although Rusty sued the royalties barely covered his legal expenses. His manager had absconded with the rest leaving Rusty with only the income from the web site, his clothing line, his book and the movie deals.

A worldly-wise Rusty stepped onto the quay and turned his face into the biting wind from the north. Instinctively he knew his way; he strode confidently forward. The quest for his identity and destiny was about to begin and all because, in all his travels, in all his meetings, no one had ever told him there was no such thing as Santa Clause. He hitchhiked north; no mean feat for a thumb less four-legged animal on a strange continent. He thought of the life he had left behind; the migrations, the lichen, his band, Pierre, and wondered what would become of him.

Eventually a sympathetic French truck driver, coincidentally also named Pierre, hauling little tiny cheese balls with a laughing cow on the logo to the snack cheese starved far north, stopped and picked him up. He promised to take young Rusty with him in exchange his company and some cruel but inventive sexual favors. Rusty readily agreed having dealt with the tastes of Frenchmen before and explained the nature of his quest while pulling on the tawdry, ill fitting stockings and garter belt Pierre provided.

Pierre had never heard of any Scandinavians named Sven but after taking a long drawl on his Gauloise he remembered a Sámi named Irv who might agree to take him into his herd. It was a start, thought Rusty, still as clueless as the day he started about the mythological nature of Santa Clause and likely to stay that way if he relied on Pierre to smarten him up. In his fools paradise he thought perhaps he could pay his dues in another Reindeer herd and graduate to the majors later. At least it would get him away from Pierre, he could deal with the sex but his breath would knock a buzzard off a shit house.

Rusty was frantic with anticipation when Pierre turned his Semi off the highway and into the little town of Hemet Finland. Pierre got out of his truck and exchanged blows with a lanky local fellow. As disturbing as that image is to the impressionable, it was different than it sounds, and uglier. Apparently this was Irv, and Pierre had actually run into him with the truck, that’s right he hit a Sámi with a semi and every time they had met since they engaged in fisticuffs dancing around each other until one is beaten nearly senseless.

Irv, who appeared a bit fragile for a Sámi, seemed to get the worst of the “Lap Dance” and after some shouting, gesturing and intimidation by Pierre, reluctantly agreed to take Rusty into his herd. Rusty took it as a good sign that not just anyone got to run with the reindeer. Irv’s point of view was somewhat different; a deer in stockings and garters, accompanied by a Frenchman, particularly at this time of year, was somehow tainted in the simple folk wisdom of his people and probably should be handled with rubber gloves and a full haz-mat suit.

Never the less Pierre had prevailed so he showed Rusty to his stall or biohazard isolation ward as they called it in his quaint native Patois. After a lengthy quarantine, purges, emetics and a battery of blood test that came back negative Rusty was put on a rich and nutritious diet of oats and hay. Rusty was famished and was too busy eating to try to explain to the none caribou conversant Irv that if he ate like this for long he’d be too overweight to guide Santa’s Sleigh some foggy Christmas Eve. He didn’t even notice when Irv secured his feet to the floor. He paused when Irv cinched a good leather strap around his genitalia but having spent time with Pierre he assumed nothing could surprise him. He barely felt the razor sharp edge of the gelding knife as Irv drew it across his testicles.

Afterwards Rusty lost all interest in poetry and becoming one of Santa’s Reindeer; he just ate and ate. Soon he was plump enough to provide Irv’s family several hearty and nutritious meals. As Joseph Campbell observed: “Follow your Glee.”

Monday, July 21, 2008

A Landmark for PODM

Its been a great ride at Products of a diseased mind, since 1957 we have provided fiction and commentary that nobody noticed, nobody wanted and nobody read. We are proud of our record of over fifty years on the Internet without a single comment and pledge to continue putting out more of the same uncalled for postings that no one is clamoring for on the web.

Friday, July 18, 2008

A modest proposal

Recently, and by recently I mean something that I still remember that happened in the past, The Supreme Court or SCOTUS as no one calls it, issued a landmark decision on a Washington D.C. law banning handguns. It found the D.C. law unconstitutional based on the second amendment. The amendment reads as follows: A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

After much comment by the POTUS (President of the United States), SOTUS (Senate of the United States), HOROTUS (House of Representatives of the United States) the various factions resumed the name calling and bull shit slinging necessary to keep the game going, namely the future employment of anti-gun nuts. No one in their right mind believes that criminals are going to obey any gun law, any more than illegal aliens are going to start obeying border and immigration regulations when tempting, lucrative fruit harvesting and house keeping jobs are available. Unless of course we can convince both groups to become elected politicians at which point obeying the law becomes optional.

In an effort to stop the madness I have a modest proposal. Below are a few alternate amendments that I hope will spark a national debate equal in depth and wisdom that the Second Amendment debate has generated.

A healthy, hearty breakfast, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to make and eat pancakes, shall not be infringed.

Style, affordability and comfort, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to buy quality foot wear shall not be infringed.

Lethargy, sloth and ennui, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to watch c-span’s coverage of the House of Representatives shall not be infringed.

Lethargy, sloth and ennui, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to watch The Golf Channel shall not be infringed.

Absorbency, thrift and quality, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to purchase ShamWOWs from Finch on late night TV shall not be infringed.

A vigorous, abundant sex life being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the middle aged men to sing about the wonders of erectile dysfunction remedies shall not be infringed.

Geeks, freaks and tattooed ladies being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the women to drink and smoke during pregnancy, shall not be infringed.

Lion tamers being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to have whips, wear jodhpurs and protect themselves with chairs, shall not be infringed.

Baseball, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to not see accounts, rebroadcasts or recreations of a ball game with out the express written consent of the commissioner of baseball, shall not be infringed.

Monkeys, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep the filthy things in cages shall not be infringed.

Roadside attractions, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to collect string shall not be infringed.

Professional wrestling, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to watch fat guys in Speedos fighting masked Mexicans with folding chairs shall not be infringed.

Lawn furniture, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to furnish their patio shall not be infringed.

Fringed buckskin jackets, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to have fringe on them shall not be infringed.

Low hanging fruit

I apologize for following up a rant about the town all the surviving kids from The Lord of the Flies moved to with another rant ripped from the headlines but this was hard to resist. The brilliant comedian Jay Leno called politics show business for ugly people and apparently the military, at least the top brass, has become a category of show business for people of another sort as well.

The Air Force's top leadership sought for three years to spend counterterrorism funds on "comfort capsules" to be installed on military planes that ferry senior officers and civilian leaders around the world, with at least four top generals involved in design details such as the color of the capsules' carpet and leather chairs, according to internal e-mails and budget documents.
Don't ask and don't tell anybody General but I have some fabulous swatches and color samples you should see. What course at the academy covers this?

Air Force documents spell out how each of the capsules is to be "aesthetically pleasing and furnished to reflect the rank of the senior leaders using the capsule," with beds, a couch, a table, a 37-inch flat-screen monitor with stereo speakers, and a full-length mirror.
Who do these guys think they are, congressmen?

The internal Air Force e-mails, provided to The Washington Post by the Project on Government Oversight (POGO), a nonprofit Washington group, and independently authenticated, make it clear that lower-ranking officers involved in the project have been pressured to create what one described as "world class" accommodations exceeding the standards of a regular business-class flight.

"I was asked by Gen. [Robert H.] McMahon what it would take to make the [capsule] . . . a 'world class' piece of equipment," an officer at the service's Air Mobility Command said in a March 2007 e-mail to a colleague, referring to the mobility command's top officer then. "He said he wanted an assurance . . . that we would be getting a world class item this week."

I can't wait to see how they've tricked out their Humvees when they tool up to the red, white and blue carpet at the Military Awards Dinner to pick up their Patsy. The Patsy, short for Patriot, is the award given to the best military procurement officer every year. It is a gold statue of a naked taxpayer covering ambiguous genitalia with an empty wallet.

Maybe we could drop a few of these comfort capsules on insurgents, preferably with the Brass strapped in and see what effect that has on morale. Its good to see the Pentagon has gotten the word about fiscal responsibility and stopped buying those $500 dollar hammers and toilet seats.

Thursday, July 17, 2008


Great fleas have little fleas upon their backs to bite ’em,
And little fleas have lesser fleas, and so ad infinitum.
And the great fleas themselves, in turn, have greater fleas to go on;
While these again have greater still, and greater still, and so on.
Dean Swift

I came upon this interesting tidbit here and thought it bore reviewing, it is quoted at length below. I have removed some extraneous clap trap about the national issue of homelessness by the estimable Michael Stoops, with my apologies, as it was not germane to the point I am making.
BOLINAS, Calif. — Ricky Green wandered into this town some months ago, a stranger just a bit stranger than most. He had shed his middle-class respectability — a job as a graphic artist in the 'burbs — strapped a guitar over his shoulder and landed here on what he told people was "a spiritual journey."

Bolinas seemed like a good fit. The unincorporated town of 1,600 on the Pacific coast is Marin County's most blatant throwback to the Summer of Love, a hippie haven that is bent on stopping tourists from spoiling its laid-back groove.

The 33-year-old Green, prone to age of Aquarius-speak about the moon and the stars, already looked sort of like a local.

As one resident, Bill Boman, put it, "He had this Jimi Hendrix vibe."

But Green never quite meshed with the Bolinas social fabric. The night of June 23 proved how much he remained an outsider, in a liberal enclave stubbornly averse to strangers.

Six young people — including two juveniles — allegedly attacked and stabbed Green with a viciousness that is forcing Bolinas to search its soul for meaning.

"I'm not surprised that an incident like this happened in Bolinas," said Michael Stoops, executive director of the National Coalition for the Homeless. "We have found that these kinds of incidences happen everywhere. There was an incident just last month in Cleveland. It's no longer a big city thing."

"Why are these attacks happening?" Stoops said. "The main reason is that you can't go anywhere in society without coming across homeless folks. And there is this antipathy or scorn towards them."

Detectives are still investigating the Bolinas attack. But by all accounts, Green confronted a group of young people that had been drinking. He was angry about an altercation another homeless man had the day before with some youths.
Apparently he pointed out some contradictions in their anarcho/syndicalist position, vis a vis the homeless.
The attack happened on the beach. Green was stabbed multiple times and pummeled with a skateboard, flashlight and bottles. While he was down, the mob kicked and jumped on him.

Sheriff's investigators said up to 20 witnesses watched the beating, but no one stopped it.
Apparently a committee of locals observed the action and collectively decided that Mr Green's opinions were deviant enough to warrant intervention and re-education.
Green, found semiconscious and bleeding profusely, was airlifted to a hospital in Santa Rosa, 50 miles away. He spent nearly two weeks there recovering from lacerations to the head and body.

Five people have been charged with attempted murder.
Things were going fine until representatives of the capitalist insect showed up.
In Bolinas, where everyone knows, or knows of, the victim and the suspects, the attack is raising hard questions. Bolinas wears its xenophobia proudly. For decades, a group known as the Bolinas Border Patrol has torn down all signs pointing the way to the enclave from Highway One. But now, some wonder whether Bolinas' inbred hostility to outsiders exploded the night of Green's attack.
Others are pondering whether the attack means that Bolinas, despite its barefoot youth, loose-roaming dogs and pony tailed, tie-dyed 60-year-olds, is more like the rest of society than it wanted to admit.
That thought is especially jarring. Bolinas fancies itself special. The town keeps a "free box" outside the natural foods store for anyone to donate or pick up clothes or household items. A few years ago, it passed a ballot measure officially declaring itself "a socially acknowledged, nature-loving town" that likes blueberries, bears and skunks. The town saloon has the word "peace" outside, written in seashells.
Can't we all just get along with people we agree with? Why can't a a bunch of pious self righteous liberals be allowed to segregate them selves? How do you expect us to live in peace and harmony with all mankind if we can't lynch the occasional intruder? What good are human rights and tolerance if you can't beat the crap out of an outsider?
"I knew of Bolinas as a peaceful place," said Boman, a musician who moved to Bolinas several weeks ago. "What has happened to the children of the revolution?"

Almost no one else approached for this story wanted to talk, be quoted or have their name used.

Still in shock, Bolinas is trying to understand what happened and make amends. Anguished town meetings are taking place, with discussions focused on finding solutions to disaffected youth.

But there are some hard feelings for Green here, too.

Derek James, a bartender at Smiley's saloon, approached a reporter to say Green had been causing trouble in town for months. He had been barred from Smiley's for harassing people, James said.

"He was getting into people's business," he said. "I really felt like something was going to happen."
You may not agree with what I say but I'll defend to the death your right to a damn good thrashing until you do. You don't change a man's opinion by silencing him but a smart man shuts up after a thorough beating. How could anyone disagree with that? As Achilles said in an interview with People Magazine: "Its better to serve on earth than rule in Hades."
The other day, fresh out of the hospital, Green was spotted back in town. (He proved elusive, always a step ahead of visitors trying to find him. The Associated Press was unable to reach him.)

Many were relieved to see him back on his beat. But James could not believe the news.

"I know a lot of people in this community," he said, "are not really happy to see him back."
I am always delighted to receive lectures on morality from perfect little people in their perfect little towns, where tolerance is increased by distance. Like fleas, they rely on a host society for their substance and life yet resent sharing it with anyone they deem not their type. I guess the parasites have gotten fed up with their parasites, good luck Mr. Green.

Thursday, July 10, 2008

You Might Be a Talaban,If...

Against my better judgment I’m publishing this post my brother says he took from a military newsletter although it might be from Jeff Foxworthy’s latest album. My Bro was one of the brave men and women defending our country from migratory whales under terrible conditions at Point Magu . He learned just enough in boot camp to kill me quickly but painfully if I got fresh.

He has promised to stop embarrassing the family by appearing in Hair Club for Men commercials if I published it which sold me. Of course I have nothing but the highest respect for Islam and any other religion that keeps women in bags, I intend to study it as soon as I get tired living in the 21st Century. So for the three or four of you that haven't seen this yet, and if you're reading this blog you don't get around much so its probably new to you, here goes.

You Might Be a Taliban, If...

1. You refine heroin for a living, but you have a moral objection to beer.
2. You own a $3,000 machine gun and $5,000 rocket launcher, but you can't afford shoes.
3. You have more wives than teeth.
4. You wipe your butt with your bare left hand, but consider bacon “unclean.”
5. You think vests come in two styles: bullet-proof and suicide.
6. You can't think of anyone you HAVEN'T declared Jihad against.
7. You consider television dangerous, but routinely carry explosives in your clothing.
8. You were amazed to discover that cell phones have uses other than setting off roadside bombs.
9. You've ever uttered the phrase, “I love what you've done with your cave.
10. You have nothing against women and think every man should own at least one.

A Cautionary Tale

Once upon a time there was a famous school for baking in the City of Venice. Although graced with stunning architecture, enhanced by the clever window treatment the Venetians invented called blinds, and located on a stunningly beautiful lagoon the Venetians were never the less a restless bunch that sought adventure and new experiences especially in the epicurean sphere. The head instructor was famous for sending out master bakers who's culinary master pieces delighted the Venetians. But the bakery business is more than just dough and yeast, you are only as good as your last pie crust and the baking teacher was desperate for something new to tickle their jaded palates.

He sent a young apprentice abroad and when he was done with her he was told to roam the fair cities of Verona, Cremona, Parma, Mantua, Padua, and other places in Italy Cole Porter didn’t mention, looking for the tastiest confections.

After squandering his master’s money in the flesh pots of Rome he was eventually summoned home so he picked up a few things at a Pepperidge Farm store and started back. It was a long trip and the lad got hungry, one by one the bags of cookies and pastries disappeared. As he approached the outskirts of the water sodden city a committee of local luminaries greeted him with much fan fare. The Doge himself greeted the apprentice and congratulated him for his long hard journey. The lad gave the venerable old man his last bag of Florentine Pogens and went to see his teacher.

The baker, seeing he was empty handed asked what he had to show for his efforts. The young man replied: “I am sorry teacher, The Doge ate my homework.”

The people of Venice rioted and caught The Doge, Pietro IV Candiano knocking back the last of the tasty morsels. Furious, they locked him in the palace with his son and burned it to the ground.

Anybody can Blog

I’ve been away from my blog for about six months because I couldn’t think of anything that could make the political process we’ve just been through any funnier. I spent the time going door to door for Hillary Clinton explaining that Barak Obama was an African American. A lot of people didn’t know that.

My reader has been clamoring for new stuff, so I guess its time to clean up the desk: They changed the name of the seventh planet because nobody could say Uranus without snickering, its now called Urectum.

Thank you, I’ll be here all week.