Archive for January, 2012

Hooptie Jesus.

I AM a lineman for the county.

January is not a salesman’s best month.  I’m angsty.  My road rage dogma is about to overtake the Karma it doesn’t understand why it wants to run down. I get angry when the sales dice catch frost.  I was killing it up until Christmas.  Right up until Savory Santa Day.  Angsty.

So anyway.  Every driver of every other car is a clown disguised as an ordinary idiot looking to make a left turn from the far right lane on a one way street clogged with pachyderm buses. Nobody at the downtown Ralph’s can operate the goddamn automated parking system and everyone in line wants to put something back they can’t afford or commit the egregious societal sin of initiating a price check.  Non-ruminant ungulates.

They tell me time flies when you’re having fun.

My problem is that I’m sick of being yanked into believing there’s a difference between the sizzle and the steak.  Too few chomp on both.  Obama breaks his populist bottle on the 2012 masthead and the banks will grease him in.  Meet the new boss; same as the old boss.  To his right is Mittens Romney.  Guy Smiley.  An elitist (he even speaks French), 1% asshole in magical underwear that Christian evangelicals despise and  conservatives as well as neo-conservatives distrust with gorgeous malice.  He’s only gotten this far because he looks presidential.

They have their man and are content to let the fools wear silly hats and run circles to distract us.

Ever seen that Star Trek episode written by Harlan Ellison?  “City On The Edge of Forever”?  I’m not sure it has anything to do with what I’m talking about here but maybe this does:  http://www.thedailybeast.com/videos/2012/01/15/the-case-against-liberal-despair.html

Hooptie Jesus!  I’ve just been informed by Politico that the Salamander has prevailed in the South Carolina primary.  Rockin’ good news Peanut.  It goes without saying that he won because he’s a doughy, white, unapologetic racist and the proud people inhabiting this definitive notch in the Bible Belt have made themselves heard.  Here in America we call that brand of democracy appealing to the lowest common denominator.

Republicans are so willing to forget that Gingrich was thrown out of Congress for being a mendacious hypocrite and that Reagan was a closet liberal before he devolved into a clueless, stumblefuck meat puppet.

The chances of a consensus being reached before the big stupid GOP hootenanny have just decreased by enough to have me smirking gratified. If it does end up going the distance, Mittens and the Salamander will have shredded each other so vociferously that Obama’s grin will be garnished with carrion.  Never mind that you get what you pay for and he has been. Obama. Paid for.

Maybe, just maybe, these jackasses will implode so spectacularly, wreck themselves so thoroughly, that elected Democrats will have no choice but to abandon the facile partisan bullshit they’ve been all too content to occupy themselves with and actually take a swing at representing the people that elected them as opposed to the plutocrats that bought them.

I have a dream today.

Drinks for my friends.

I have mad kitties.
They puke everywhere.

Life is increasingly absent normal.

I have children here.

I try very hard to just be shy.  I realize I can be a ginormous presence.  Being among children makes you feel loud and large.

Being around children teaches you how to be humble.  An example of how to be shy.

My kitties are mad.  Everyone in this place is crazy and even my kitties are female.  I’m  the lone testosterone ranger among five estrogen fueled womenfolk.  Whenever I’m this outnumbered, I call my mother.  She tells me my Father’s toenail surgery wasn’t the success we’d all hoped for.  I’m not at all happy to hear it because I’ve inherited the same malaise.  I know this clinic that will treat an ingrown toe for a hundred and fifty bucks.  I just need to know what they do for a sum that paltry.

I’ve come to accept that our vote doesn’t count.  That Obama’s suit is nearly as empty as that of Dumbya.  Presidents don’t drive.  They never have.  The reason the Republican reality show is so vividly absurd is because the Powers That Be already have their man.  Do the math.  Look at the money and where it came from.  Where it comes from.  Where it goes.  Trust me all that fear, if Obama loses, he won’t be walking away but he won’t be running.  I’ll be shocked if he whifs it.

Presidents are mascots.  The Senate are pious ascots and The House are jackoffs.

It’s not real.

Manufactured for your disdain and delight.  We bring you Liberal vs. Conservative.  Asshole vs. Dickhead.  Moron vs. Wimp.

You are all staring at something shiny.  Wolf Blitzer is as full of shit as Brit Hume.  Goddamn those are dumb names.

It’s true, comedians are your best bet.

Honestly, I wouldn’t blame you for going on about your business.

The dumb ones never sit it out.  We can always count on the functionally stupid.  Has there actually been 17 Republican debates?  For what?  It’s retarded.  The candidates are retarded.  I realize how politically incorrect that word is but I can’t be bothered.  It’s fucking retarded and so are way too many of us.  Something shiny.  All creepy dolls who’s eyes open when you hold them upright.  Mitt Romney as the lusty but vacuous power forward with the skinny calves, weak knees and ridiculous magic underwear.  Newt the vainglorious, cherubic blowhard short stop and Santorum, the disturbingly homophobic, sanctimonious gym coach of the ignorant and incestuous.  Michele Bachmann was a nun with a spear through her head constantly having difficulty getting through revolving doors and I weep at the loss of The Donald and anything Palin.

We never had it so good.

It’s not real.

Drinks for my friends

My refrigerator has genuine schoolgirl on it. Vivid crayon art with shiny decals alongside dry homework with what appears to be an outstanding grade; fastened to the faux stainless refligerator/fleezer door with magnetic cat sphincters. Inside are more half empty cups, dishes, containers, bags, trays, bowls, jars and sometimes sacks than I can suffer frequently.

The ones with booze in them are mine.  The ones in the side door that are slightly blue from a dash of Powerade.

Clear bags with meat in them and plastic envelopes full of delicious sharp cheddar cheese.  Jars of pungent, somewhat exotic mustards and other condiments like capers and kalamata olives.  Fish, BBQ and  teriyaki sauces.

I’ve glimpsed chunks of stuff in various stages of decay.  I hear carnival music when I open the door.

Sometimes there’s ice cream in the freezer.  Sometimes not.

There’s a giant pasta bowl in the elbow of the kitchen with a few kinds of fruit, cloves of garlic, some onions, shallots and I think I saw limes this morning.  Maybe they were avocados. There’s microwave popcorn in the cupboard along with more often than not turkey chili and ravioli in a can.

Chrome blender.  Chrome toaster.  Sleek black coffee maker and a stocky fire engine red bean grinder.

I find myself naked, eating rubbery high fructose corn lozenges out of a slender foil packet in the middle of dark mornings.  I have to pee.

I try to make sure there’s good canned tomatoes, decent pasta, aged parmesan, olive oil …………..

The kitchen and its contents aspirate so vigorously, I imagine it as a stop motion montage.  All of us speeding around supernaturally, cooking and eating.  Exaggerated moments of consumption.

I think about a certain food, one I’m sure I just saw, and it’s been gone for at least a day or two.

I always find something but I never know what it’s gonna be.

Drinks for my friends