Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

Yesterday Dumbya, in an earnest impersonation of Alfred E. Newman, told us no worries, we’re not in a recession.

Oil up over one hundred seventeen dollars a barrel. Up from thirty or so under Clinton. You’re all aware, I’m sure, of the mortgage bloodbath. The job deficit. Half a million a minute in Iraq on CREDIT.

Those stimulus checks are on the way. Help you out with that two hundred percent increase at the pump. Yep, help to pay ExxonMobile. Richest corporation in the history of man. Sounds good. Nice little circle of larceny.

It goes on and on.

(CNN) — John McCain’s campaign sent supporters a fundraising e-mail Friday that claims Hamas approves of Democrat Barack Obama’s foreign policy vision, and is hoping for his victory this fall.

I guess there’s some truth to this but for fuck’s sake people, you think they’d put their money on a man like Doubtfire who thinks we can hang around for a hundred more years?

I an upcoming interview on 60 Minutes, Supreme Court Antonin Scalia says of the controversial decision which handed Bush the Whitehouse in two thousand that America needs to “Get over it”.

I hate that prick. You know, he and Darth Cheney are pals.

And once again we are being beaten about the head shoulders with the opinions of Jeremiah Wright. I will point out again, ad nauseam , there isn’t much of what he said that isn’t true. How goddamn sad our man is being impugned by the media for truths he did not even utter.

“In a fiery sermon in April 2003, Wright said: “The government gives them the drugs, builds bigger prisons, passes three-strike laws and wants them to sing God Bless America.”

“God damn America … for killing innocent people.”

“God damn America for threatening citizens as less than humans”

“God damn America as long as she tries to act like she is God and supreme.”

“We have supported state terrorism against the Palestinians and black South Africans, and now we are indignant because of stuff we have done overseas is now brought back into our own backyard. America is chickens coming home to roost.”

“Barack knows what it means living in a country and a culture that is controlled by rich white people,” Wright said. “Hillary would never know that.”

“Hillary ain’t never been called a nigger. Hillary has never had a people defined as a non-person.”

-All quotes from FOXNews.com

You motherfucking tell me what is dishonest or untruthful about any of that. America’s problem is that she cannot handle the truth. Goddamnit and goddman you who would question that. We are a society of cowards, hypocrites and cold calculating reptiles.

On September 18, 2006, Pastor John Hagee — whose endorsement Sen. John McCain (R-AZ) said this past Sunday he was “glad to have” — told NPR’s Terry Gross that “Hurricane Katrina was, in fact, the judgment of God against the city of New Orleans.” “New Orleans had a level of sin that was offensive to God,” Hagee said, because “there was to be a homosexual parade there on the Monday that the Katrina came.”

Now, that offends me and my sensibilities.

Shrillary is ahead in the popular vote if you count Florida and Michigan even though they all agreed they don’t count. That’s her new bugle from atop the hill.

Gimme a fucking break.

Anybody notice we’re not talking about the war?

It’s pretty bad again.

I believe the second and last time I heard my mother say the word “fuck”, her sentence was something like, “We are the best country on earth and we are going to fuck it up.”

The first time had something to do with me not vacuuming the astro turf on the porch in front of the trailer when I was fourteen.

I am in awe. I can’t believe this shit.

You people are as hopelessly gullible as a small gathering of primates. I don’t doubt they’d be embarrassed eventually.

They are ramming this shit down your throats because the only thing that gets you off is to gag on it.

Understand that this is a man who comes from just a slightly different place than most of you and I. That’s a good thing. Just consider, he has already seen what you are about to see and he may just be the man to help you through it. Change must come. It’s only now begun to arrive. The antidote will only come from a man such as this. I don’t see any others, and if you’re smart, you’ll be happy he’s here.

And stop worrying that he’s some sort of Muslim or that he hates America.

Don’t be a damn fool.

Drinks for my friends.

I’m at the kitchen table drinking the “decent shit” we opened while cooking. A rioja, I think. Can’t focus on the label. I’m housed.

He snuck corn into my stew just after he poured it.

The movie in my mind of Opie Cunningham rushing by in a flaming cape is on loop in my brain. It keeps getting funnier.

Carlo stumbles in the door holding the bundled red white checked table cloth from outside by the top with his right hand while supporting the bottom with his left. His face glows as he manages to release the top and settle the bottom so expertly on the table, the bottle of zinfandel still stands and all stew remains in the pot.

I can’t help but applaud Carlo Tarcisi as he relights the candle still in the stick. He rocks.

“Crazy that bastard running by on fire!”

I laugh. I may be housed but Carlo is shit housed.

He buries is head in his hands and cackles.

He lifts his head, opens his eyes, thrusts the wine at me, “grape!”

I empty it into our glasses and gulp. It is divine. So much better than the decent shit. Turley Zin. Everything from cedar and figs to cigars and plums. “Praise Baccus!” He shakes his hand and at me to assure me there is more.

Zin runs from his chin.

I flip him off and ask when he intends to tell me what I need to know.

“Any minute now”, he laughs crazy.

I remind him I need to be back on the ship tomorrow before sundown and that he told me I wouldn’t be safe here after tonight.

He looks me at my eye with sincerity, “I have much to tell you”. He points a deliberate finger at me right before his lamps go out.

His head hits the table hard enough to startle me.

He’s gone. Unconscious. Next.

Fuck me. Now what?

I pat, slap and shake his
dead weight. My legs cannot possibly carry him. Blowing out the candle and kicking off my shoes, I remind myself to listen for his eventual climb from inebriation to concsiousness. No sooner do I pull the blanket and I’m gone.

It’s dawn. The coffee is pungent, Carlo, smelling of fresh soap and shower, shakes my thumbs in each of his hands. Looks like Carlo passed conscious and now owns lucid.

Look at the big brain on Mr. Tarcisi.

I hate fuckers that can do that.

I plod to the table barefoot and there is buttered toast and jars of marmalade. A small plate of glistening hot sausages.

I hoover one. Fuck, it’s tasty.

I sip and chew for a minute as he looks at me.

I ask if he’s got any cold mineral water or maybe some champagne.

“Not much time and some ground to cover. I need to tell you what I know and see.”

He grips a pomegranate from the bowl on the table and slices it open. The intricate insides, the contrast of ruby candy nodules and mucus white layers startle me into imagining an open human torso with muscle, bone and blood fat internal organs.

I convulse while hot liquid rises to my mouth. Behold a dissected rodent from a fourth grade science fair. Pins in organs with tags naming them. The shrinking moldy rictus of it’s mouth is horrifying. Can’t help but see the stench.

I hold up a finger while my cheeks fill with vomit. I make it to the bathroom sink. Velocity is jet like, I’m grateful the volume is not nearly as spectacular. It goes on for a few minutes. The sausage shows up intact. My bile is day glow on top of the gravy that came before. I stomp my feet and seize. Crystal clear snot streams from each nostril to meet at my chin. Looks like a sling shot made of hand sanitizer.

I look in the mirror and cackle.

I cough some and clean myself up. Drop a deuce. Wash my hands again. As I open the bathroom door I hear him take a loud sip of coffee.

Outside it looks to be a gorgeous day.

There is a wooden box on the table.

It’s so odd. He’s definitely had a presence these last few days. His weight though, is so much lighter. Not so pregnant with consequence. Less evil. He doesn’t like it here.

I picture him dancing and playing a fiddle with it hot underfoot. Wearing a flaming cape. Maybe some fake devil horns.

“You are well enough to talk?” asks Carlo.

Precisely what was needed to preserve the fight as is.

A ten point thumping by the She-Clinton.

The rednecks, the Great Unwashed of Pennsylvania have spoken. We are reminded of their collective ignorance. Frustrating at the very least. College grads barely went for our man. Those without, overwhelming support for Shrillary. White, blue collar, by seventy percent for Shrillary.

I am white, of blue collar, arguably white trash, and my people are pissing me off.

The goddamn Catholics go for her. What the hell? No pun intended.

All of the sudden, It is about race again in an agonizing way.

I am profoundly disappointed and very much of the opinion that this divide manifested along racial lines.

There doesn’t appear to be any other logical explanation.

Lest ye be inclined to disagree, study the demographics of rural-middle Pennsylvania.

Um, it ends in ‘sylvania’, like Transylvania. Vlad the Impaler? Just sayin’.

He moves on to Indiana without missing a beat or step. He packs a much larger venue in Evansville than she does in in Philly. The speech does not disappoint.

Still on track to prevail, it will now last until June and I hope no longer.

I’ll be honest with you. Either one will turn Doubtfire into a punching bag when the time comes. Without a doubt. He’s weak, he may have legs but his hands are down on the issues. He has no way to defend himself on the economy, the war and change. You will see him bleed.

The point is this, she can win, but he will bring change. The race is now. The time to bring the best candidate is now, the better of the two will prevail in November. It will surely be a Democratic Commander in Chief.

This is the future, not the general election in November. It is now.

The electorate in Pennsylvania provided proof that they are fools.

The math doesn’t work in her favor unless she bowls seven or eight more perfect games. She won’t. Despite all that’s occured tonight, Shrillary has not shown any quantity or quality to suggest she can do that. The math is still not there.

Super delegates will not oppose the will of the people if only to avoid the perception of disenfranchisement for a third consecutive Presidential election.

Stupid Americans are notoriously stubborn. Then again, so are smart ones.

Trust me, it’s now.

Drinks for my friends.

I can barely bring myself to talk about it. I was both entertained and informed by the local CBS 2 news at eleven. I regret that I can’t exactly remember why.

I’m not yet prepared to say people in their forties shouldn’t smoke pot.

Laura Diaz still inspires lust but the whole team seems more vacuous than ever. Insipid. Ridiculous. She’s too skinny for me anyway.

Pennsylvania goes on the block tomorrow. Could be heaviosity.

I’m a little excited.

Wait.

Can I be anticipatory?

Laura Diaz is banging Jimmy the sports guy. I can tell by the way she introduces his segment. Pretty cozy. She calls him Jimmy.

Jim Hill is almost bad enough to be as good as Fernell Chapman or the late Hal Fishman.

Guess the Lakers are doing well and Kobe is happy. Thank Sheezus and Jimmy.

I hear Dumbya was on Deal Or No Deal. I watched that show once, for forty eight seconds.

I hear the Pope was here.

Pennsylvania goes on the block tomorrow.

Could be the big one. Be all to end all.

Were our man Obama able to keep within say, five or six points, most pundits would see him as victorious. You already knew that.

The official Brainspank forecast is for our man to do at least that well.

People are tired. The ones that aren’t actually stupid are tired of being called that and are actually paying attention. For what’s it’s worth, he didn’t call them stupid. He called them pissed off with good reason, and he was right.

Nearly the entire mainstream media labeled deliberate nuance a watercolor rendered by fingers. Fools. Looks like the people got it.

He is smarter, more inspired and far less beholding than the other two.

I imagine there were swaths of our history where a combination of such virtues may not have matched so perfectly with what is so desperately needed as of yesterday.

No free lunch. He will inevitably disappoint us. No human could avoid that. But, he is our best bet. Young, full of piss, vinegar and what I hope is a sincere and realistic helping of idealism.

I’m completely willing to cast my vote for this man and his wife. I imagine that will be your choice come November Pennsylvania, work with me here.

It is REALLY important you don’t screw this up.

Make America proud, you backward ass country fucks.

Drinks for my friends.

So I wrote a pretty incendiary piece earlier this week on Pope Benedict’s visit. I’m not here to apologize, keep your panties from bunching. No mea culpa here bitches, I’m just gonna elaborate.

I suppose it’s only fair I acknowledge that Pontiff Benedict spent face time with a handfull of sex abuse victims by priests during his visit this week. So noted. It was the right thing to do.

My friends and I have a saying we got from Chris Rock. “Don’t try to take credit for shit you should be doing anyway”, or something like that. What we really say is “Well, you know what Chris Rock says.”

I’m amused by the talking heads debating if what he’s done is enough. Can you guess what I think? Bet you can. My answer is, not even fucking close. I’m not unhappy about what he’s done. If the man has the courage of his convictions however, he has much more to do.

No need to pore over all the details. If you’ve been paying attention, you know enough of the story. Suffice it to say, it’s been a travesty, a cancer, a tragic malignancy that has left thousands damaged beyond repair. Thousands who’ve had their dignity and the innocence of youth stolen, absconded, by no mere evil priest, but by a culture of repression and rot both pervasive and systemic.

It is that culture that must be addressed. It is there that change must absolutely begin. At the foundation. The very roots. The condemnation of homosexuality and the ridiculous notion that priests must remain chaste to be holy. A culture of repression. A culture that is archaic and absurd.

How can one honestly believe that under such circumstances, under a bureaucracy so corrupt, that America is the only country in which such rampant and egregious abuse has been allowed to flourish? No fucking way. Watch this debacle unfold and you will surely learn that it is world wide. The real estate soaked by this stain will spread across the globe to wherever Catholics wield power.

Cardinals Bernard Francis Law (who now resides safely at the Vatican) and Mahoney, should be prosecuted to the fullest extent jurisprudence will accomodate. These two at least, are the epitome of an evil that you and I can only guess at. It’s bullshit that these men and countless others are allowed to remain free from punishment and incarceration. Pope Benedict, should demonstrate to America that he gives a mad fuck by cooperating in any process necessary to bring these men to trial.

They are goddamn pedophiles by association and compliance at the very least.

No more two billion dollar civil judgements. What is needed by the institution is criminal proceedings to pair the darkest of men with the fate and punishment they purchased long ago.

Unless and until such an action can be supplied motion by the pontifex in charge, Pope Benedict, the institution of Catholicism and it’s infrastructure will continue to decay and atrophy into obsolescence while it’s spiritual influence wanes.

Let me just say this. How can you people insist that I embrace your version of God while the rot from your basement invades your rafters? That is insane.

Drinks for my friends.

Here we go, live from the HQ of Brainspank:

She doesn’t look at him when he speaks. He does when she speaks.

Right off the bat, we start with the “bitter” wank, directed at our man Obama:

He’s cool. Well done. He shouldn’t have to answer this question again. It’s over. Polls are out. Little to no damage. Let it go. The man has acquitted himself with expertise and sincerity.

Shrillary tells us about her grandfather. She cannot let go of it. She attempts again with shameless abandon, to pump the issue and ends up rambling.

Stephanopoulos throws a save and Obama gets to rebut:

He fucking soars, elequent and to the point. Uses Hillary’s truthful statement circa nineteen ninety two when she said something like “What did you expect, I’ll be staying home baking cookies?” He was saving that, he wanted to see how far she’d go.

Then we go to Reverend Wright:

He is elequent and she takes the bait. Sheer desperation. Painful. She continues to disgust. Obama goes too long but makes good points. She steps in in real shit by admitting there is indeed “bitterness”.

Nobody notices.

Stephanopoulos throws a nice curve and calls her on her snipers in Bosnia:

She sucks at this. She is spins hard. Shrillary Bad Form.

Our man takes the high road and gives Shrillary a pass. This guy is a class act. Uses the rest of his time to go to issues and ties it in to the idea that we have bigger fish to fry.

Then Gibson throws our man a straight pitch on flag, country and patriotism. He rocks it. Points out it’s a manufactured issue. Stephanopoulos throws a low pitch about some Black Panther or Weather Underground member showing up at a party. He rocks that one too by pointing out the silliness of the question. We actually laughed. I guess Bill pardoned a few of the same people.

Shrillary takes a few chews on it and looks desperate. Doesn’t like the taste after all.

Commercial Break. Let me just say this. This man is Presidential. He is smooth and he is tearing her up. We want a man like this as President, as opposed to the man we have or the woman who wants it. A man who can think on his feet. He is killing.

Onto Iraq:

She does well, but she’s vague. Plan to be determined by advisors. Wes Clark sits with Chelsea and Philly Mayor Michael Nutter. Wes looks a little drunk. He’s slouching, his tie is wrinkled.

Sorry about your name there, Mayor Nutter. Seen The Hatter?

Barack is more definitive. Sixteen months is the goal. More specific, in that ‘we are in trouble now’ kinda way. We’re somewhere very close to the edge of fucked. Wants to talk to Iran.

Yep. He gets it.

They both kiss Israel’s ass and then there’s some acknowledgement by Shrillary and Stephanopoulos that the lie of Iran’s nuclear aspirations are true. Sheezus.

To her credit, she delivers a nuanced overview of the situation and some broad and comprehensive policy.

Barack talks to the eight hundred pound gorilla that is diplomacy with Iran. Forgive me, he get’s it. That shit is going to be a disaster soon. Um. Fierce Urgency of Now?

The Economy:

She pledges to roll back the tax cuts on the rich. A plan for relief for the middle class for health, medical and a pledge to not raise taxes on the middle class.

He says the same and raises her with the notion of tax cuts for the middle. He gives a far more extensive plan and overview. Asked about capital gains he says fair is fair. Billionares should not pay a lower percentage than their secretaries.

I understand he played a little ball. His wife, Michelle, was a class act last night on Colbert.

Ok, she’s hot.

Hills goes to prosperity of the Clinton era. She speaks of freezing foreclosures and interest rates. She panders to the locals a little.

His grasp of specifics and policy is breathtaking. Without exception he’s had a specific answer for everything that’s been thrown at him tonight.

Can’t remember his answer on this but it was awesome.

Commercial Break. At this point, I gotta tell ya, this man is so obviously, so blisteringly smarter and better prepared than her, she appears in my minds eye like a fish kissing the glass and getting stuck.

I can barely hear screaming, because it’s a brain scream. It’s like right before a high speed car wreck that even though you can see it coming, it sounds awful and you’re confused, so your brain makes a noise. Your mouth already did.

Guns:

I kinda don’t care. I mean, let’s do the best we can to keep them out of the hands of the crazy bastards and individuals certainly don’t need access to a weapon that can kill hundreds in minutes. That’s my policy.

Honestly they both do well, despite the silly follow ups by Stephanopoulos and Gibson.

Affirmative Action:

Isn’t this thing over yet? Our man does well. She does well. Wasn’t this thing supposed to be ninety minutes? It’s challenging my attention span. I need a smoke. I gotta refresh my drink.

Gas Prices:

She calls for investigations. Calls for release of reserves. That’s dumb. Otherwise she does ok in addressing the long term and the proactive tip.

He agrees and does a little better with long term answers.

I can’t be happier that ethanol wasn’t mentioned.

On Dumbya:

She jokes. He does very well. Are we done yet?

Commercial break. This shit is exhausting. I’m doing it live. My DVR doesn’t goddamn rewind so I’m bringing it to you raw, bitches.

Convention, Super Delegates:

She’s good. Hard to believe Wes Clark is in her corner. Then again, he’s an aging white man.

Our man goes larger, with issues and policy, an exceptional answer.

No post analysis from ABC. What? Weird.

Here’s mine:

He cleaned her clock. Better prepared and speaking from higher and more confident ground. Give the man a can of domestic beer. It is the best I’ve seen of him. His disgust and frustration was a presence, but eclipsed by his composure and poise. Passion and intelligence.

We need to get this thing over with so we can get on with getting the rest of it over with.

He really was extraordinary.

I’m clear.

Drinks for my friends.

cut & paste and watch it bitches.

Countdown: Bitter Battle + The Bitter Truth + War of Words

Pope Benedict XVI showed up today in America. Boy, am I excited. Did you know there’s like seventy million Catholics in this country? Did you know that by being Catholic you’re automatically full of shit? Trust me, I know a few Catholics and some of them are nice, but all of them, completely full of shit.

It’s true, I loathe Catholicism. Gays will burn in hell. Third world countries shouldn’t be allowed access to birth control because premarital sex is a sin. Then there’s the rampant and chronic ass raping of children by priests. That last one is a big one. I hear it just cost them two billion bucks. That’s maybe a day and half in Iraq.

I really could go on and on and on………

Allow me to lend you some perspective. People jumped all over Barack Obama a few weeks back because the pastor of his church was percieved by some to have insulted America. How could he belong to such a church? Why didn’t he leave that church and denounce that man?

Despite the fact that Jeremiah Wright spoke the truth, it occurs to me to ask this question: How the fuck can you people, nearly seventy million of you, in all good conscience, remain Catholic?

So I’m pretty sure I saw his image today.

I was walking along skid row and in a river of crap and piss, I glimpsed a piece of toast that made me think of this fuck’s face. True, it did look a little like Dick Cheney. Anyway, I was in a bad way, so I puked bile and snot after I was certain that I saw the face of the Pope in a slice of toast floating in human sewage running down the street.

None of this is true, by the way.

I was positive that what I saw was divine so I called every cable news show I could think of on a pay phone and asked them to meet me there in front of the booth. I had a pocket full of quarters from the the jerk off stalls earlier in my evening.

I’d lifted the countenance of the current pope in the form of a toast wedge from the gutter with my left foot and placed it neatly on the floor of the the last phone booth on skid row.

Guess what? They all came. Helicopters and vans. Crazy. I told them I’d been backpacking in the Andes for the last ten years. I ate grass and drank tea. I told them my meat of choice was yak. They nodded like it made sense.

I tell them it’s him and they’ll see because his ears and forehead are scary accurate in that morsel of toast.

I tell them, I can’t forgive this man for what he’s done and what he presides over.

I tell them he should be arrested while he’s in this country and I’m sure that’s when they decide to arrest me. I try to tell them how Cardinal Mahoney is Darth fucking Vader.

I end up in a cell. He ends up with the ass of any child he desires while candles and incense burn.

I’m just trying to make a point here. Both these fucks belong in handcuffs.

Can you believe this shit?

This fuck coming here?

Want a poster boy for religion as complete crap?

I do get carried away.

Forgive me.

I call them like I see them.

You know this prick was a Nazi?

Fuck the Pope.

Drinks for my friends.

I was reluctant to even address it. I was naive enough to think it was a dead or dying story. So overtly silly. I was wrong about it’s legs, but not about it being an incredibly stupid issue.

Our man Obama suggesting the downtrodden are bitter. Here’s the dumb part: They say he’s an elitist because of that rather benign, yet truthful observation.

Shrillary ran an ad today exploiting said concept. That woman is shameless.

I honestly can’t believe this shit.

I wasn’t so amazed when Jon Stewart revealed we’re on the same page tonight. No call beforehand, he never does. I was gratified when Jeffrey Toobin from CNN pretty much called it like saw it. Cool.

Ever notice how CSI Miami is version 2.0 of Miami Vice on HGH, but stupider? I watch five minutes until Daltrey screams and move on.

Anyway. There was goddamn hours long analysis of of this disgusting lump of head cheese tonight on every network as well as cable news.

Somebody help me out here. Who’s making all this Kool Aid? Who’s distributing it? Why are they drinking it?

I’ll bet it’s grape or cherry. Shit, it’s both.

Is this in any way as serious as lying about being under sniper fire on a diplomatic visit in a foreign country?

I’ve been on the fence about Shrillary riding this horse until Denver. She’s a close second and therefore a viable candidate. Who are we to deny her a finish in this race?

I no longer think that way. Too many glimpses into her toy box. I am done. She needs to walk away. She didn’t slam that shot, she sipped it. Bad form.

That’s her new name. Shrillary Bad Form.

You know what I hate? It’s the naked desperation. They are pale and sweaty as they utter this crap about being one of us as opposed to a black man from Chicago who worked his way up. It’s hard to watch because it’s so simple and because it’s bullshit. Doubtfire is descended from admirals. The Billary sits atop hundreds of millions.

McCain and Clinton are mired so enthusiastically and pathetically in this impetuousness, it’s become compelling evidence our man Obama can and will beat both of them.

There is fear in their hearts and they can’t hide it.

They want our man by the side of the road so they can have cold passionless reptile sex.

I’ve gone too far.

In all seriousness, Senator Barack Obama is no longer the mere best of three, He is the only one that has proven he deserves to lead you. Us.

Watch the ball. Don’t be stupid.

Drinks for my friends.

“So it’s not surprising then that they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren’t like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations,” he concluded.

Of course their bitter, I am.

Perhaps the only thing wrong with that sentiment is it’s being of maybe too broad a generalization. It is however, true in at least some contexts. Shrillary endeavors to use the remarks as an adhesive to affix a label of elitist to our man Obama.

Forgive me here, but that’s fucking absurd. Abandonded by his father at two years old, a mother who died young and eventually being raised by grandparents; in so many ways, Barack Obama is the epitome of the American ideal of a self made man. Whereas Shrillary and her husband sit atop a pile of filthy lucre so vast it would feed and clothe a third world country. Nothing wrong with that pile save for the component of hypocrisy Shrillary insists on injecting.

This is non-news on a slow news day as far as I’m concerned. I’m an agnostic and therefore not of a mind to give a shit about any of it. It’s transparently disingenuous. Silly season.

We can do better than this. The Little Bootlicker should be drawing this kind of fire for sponsoring the idea that those very people die for one more day, much less a hundred more years, in a pointless war based on lies and for aspiring to keep tax cuts to the rich permanent. If Shrillary is looking for an elitist, she need look no further than John McCain. Silly season indeed.

In light of that, this kind of rhetoric is destructive, irresponsible and smacks of desperation. It is more than likely that Obama will secure the nomination and Shrillary has just handed Doubtfire a box of bullets with our man’s name on them as well as emptying his piss bag for him. Way to go Hills. You continue to disgust.

Meanwhile, back at the conflagration, gas is four bucks a gallon, eighty thousand jobs lost last month, people are losing their homes right and left, a seven hundred thirty six million dollar “embassy” the size of the fucking Vatican opens in Iraq next month while our troops suffer more casualties and deaths last week than any other so far this year. How’s that “surge” working you pricks?

You’ve got be fucking kidding me.

Drinks for my friends.

“You’re a reckless man, perhaps stupid”, he says.

I tell him confronting him was liberating and I knew he couldn’t get in.

“How?” he asks. “How did you know that?”

It seemed pretty obvious I tell him.

“It seemed obvious that you were protected? That you were safe?”, he asks.

I begin to understand.

“Did you think I slept while you taunted your nemesis?”

I can only apologize. I am tired and doing my best. I meant no disrespect and regret if I took advantage. I tell him his hospitality has been abundant and kind. I tell him I’m very sorry.

“You are callow and shallow”, he says. “I hope I am here to help you because of your potential and not who you are now.”

He points me to the table and tells me to sit. “You are my guest”, he says.

“Breakfast” he claps twice and he is smiling.

Sliced heirloom tomatos, avacados and mild cheeses with fresh lox, capers and thick fresh cooked polenta. Grapefruit juice just squeezed and champagne in a bucket. Steaming mugs of the world’s best coffee.

He tells me half way through breakfast that he is disappionted that I did not think of him. “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction”, he says. “Your actions were costing you nothing. Who did you imagine was paying for them?”

I have learned a valuable lesson I tell him.

He smiles without teeth and says, “You must be new.”

I am, I tell him.

I wonder aloud what to do, and that maybe I should go back to the ship.

“We are not yet finished”, he says.

I tell him I like it here.

“Of course, you feel safe. You are not, however. Not for long”.

It happens slowly. Surreal.

Blood rushes to my face. Anger and frustration and fear and exhaustion and I can’t stand it anymore. I pound the table and stomp. I can’t breathe. I sweep breakfast from the table and trip to the door hitting it hard with my head. I fall outside onto the deck.

It is humid and warm and I realize I’m sobbing and laughing and rocking with my forehead in my hands. My head bleeds. The ship is going down in the open ocean. No place to go. I’m going to drown. I hate helpless and that’s what I am. Who the fuck is this guy who bleeds everywhere and why me?

He is dressed in khakis, brown sturdy boots and a button up collared shirt striped blue vertical. A wide straw hat and hands on his hips, he walks slowly from the garden up the path towards me and the steps. “Tantrum over?” As he comes up the steps he reaches for my hand. “I’ll need for you to clean up your mess this time”, he walks me in the door to witness plates, food and broken glass on a slate floor.

I tell him I’m sorry.

“I’ll get you a mop and broom”, he says.

I’m thoroughly ashamed after my little fugue. I try to be as deliberate and meticulous cleaning up as I possibly can. Mr. Tarcisi vanishes for a time. I am thankful.

It was probably instinct that didn’t allow me to wipe the champagne in it’s bucket off the table with the rest. I’ve long since finished dispatching my mess and settled down with a book Carlo has left open faced down on the table beside the couch.

The Art of War, chapter six, Weaknesses and Strengths. Motes bob in sun flowing through windows. I sip champagne from a flute.

The sun seems to gush and Carlo bursts through the front door bringing more noise and bustle with him than I would have imagined him capable of. He is full on grinning like a jack-o’-lantern.

“Hope you had a fine day. I see you found that book. I went wine tasting. Feeling better? My God you should see my tomatos.”

Mr. Tarcisi is hammered.

I tell him to point me around the kitchen and I’ll make dinner. I assure him I can cook and after he directs me towards certain vegetables, soup stock and a slab of sirloin he points at with drunken conviction, I decide on a stew.

The kitchen windows face north but I’m able to enjoy the sunset to the left while I chop, cube, braise, boil and sear.

Carlo supplies a jammy rose’ for us to drink and soon joins me in the process.

He’s trying to make my stew into soup. It’s Summer he tells me. It’s Spring I tell him. He sighs when I spy cornstarch in his pantry.

I tell him to go fry something and that we’ll need a big ass zinfandel for this meal. He asks if I’m familiar with Turley. Fucking-A I tell him.

We eat on the deck with the wind blowing. Hurricane lanterns all around. My stew is delicious. Carlo has sauteed green beans and slivered almonds in olive oil and garlic and dressed them with lemon and an exotic mustard. The wine is an early two thousand Turley Zinfandel and it’s all plum, cedar and smoke.

Another day and no closer to what to do. I don’t mind.

I ask him how much longer I’ll be safe here. “Not after tomorrow night”, he says.

He touches me on the arm and says, “Understand, he is primitive in a way. He cannot see you if you do not move.” “He is here, sit still.” and his eyes lock with mine.

Richie runs along side the deck screaming and laughing wearing what looks like a goddamn cape that is on fire.

Running so fast I can’t see his face.

I take care to move only my eyes as I watch him run into the darkness, smelling his burning cape and the screeching pigs that gallop behind him.

I can’t believe this shit. Someone, somewhere, must be fucking kidding.

“Now”, says Carlo, “Into the house”.

I point to the wine and run for the front door.

Admonitory perhaps.

This whole thing with this ‘sect’ of the LDA in Laredo Texas, serves as one or both of the above. Once again religion rears it’s misshapen countenance right here in America. Texas of all places. Utah, Colorado and Texas.

I’m just saying.

An entire belief system built around the idea that the rape of children by middle aged men is somehow not just permissable in God’s eyes, but an act that is holy. When the sons that are produced by these holy unions come of age, they are seen as competition and discarded.

Now, if that were the history or legacy of my church, I’d tip the fuck out the door.

Kind of ironic that they’ve been under investigation in our own country for four years while we’ve had prisoners in Gitmo for at least as long because someone smelled a little sulphur.

Yep, God works in mysterious ways.

All religion is filthy. Greedy. Self serving and far more concerned about preservation of the bureaucracy than any individual or group.

“Imagine there’s no heaven
It’s easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today…” -John Lennon

Since it’s inception, the concept of religion has served to explain things, phenomena, coincidence and injustice for which humanity has no other logical explanation. It used to be that religion WAS science. Since inception, religion in almost every form, has accomplished this with lies, corruption and egregious criminality.

It is a very clear and consistent pattern.

The further time marches, the more religion is beset by reason and intelligence.

Let us not dive headlong into the history of wars, genocides and tortures perpetrated in the name of someone’s God. That’s not a book, it’s an encyclopedia.

Religion is at the wheel in our politics no less than any Middle Eastern nation.

Tax the goddamn churches and hang that fucker Cardinal Mahoney for making a career out of protecting pedophile priests. How is that not worse than the LDS whack jobs?

The answer is!

The Catholics are filthy stinking rich.

The single most insidious problem in the world community is and always has been, that in most places, we are are raised with the imperative that in order to be whole and complete, we must worship a God.

I’m calling bullshit on that.

How about self reliance and personal accountability? I’m not the world’s best adjusted human, but it’s worked for me so far.

I’m not here to tell you there isn’t a God. If there is one, I doubt most of us can understand it, and I’m sure as fuck the religions I know aren’t even close. As long as we’re on the subject, not all churches are bad. If you attend to socialize and find ways to do positive things, good for you. Good people are most often the people who make doing the right thing a priority.

At the same time, when I meet an overly zealous man, I understand the chances of him being full of shit are more than good enough for me to bet on.

My name is Michael and I am an agnostic.

Keep your Jesus off my penis.

Drinks for my friends.

The watch looks still to me, it reads five after nine. Everyone else can see the time as they admire it. People comment on it often. If someone asks me the time, I turn my wrist and hold it up or my answer will be a guess. Sometimes they say the time they see out loud as though I’m waiting to hear it.

I am.

If he’s of me, he must own his cowardice. I believe it. I see it in him. Just like me. He’d rather just fuck with me than confront me. He shows me what he can do but he never comes straight at me. A jackal. A pussy. Just like me.

I submitted to a bully once. I was in the sixth grade. I was confused. He wasn’t any bigger, he was simply more evil. Mean. For awhile, I was afraid. I went to ridiculous ends to avoid him. I stole a small hunting knife from a sporting goods store. I would duct tape the leather sheath to my leg before I went to school.

One day the entire student body sat in the gymnasium bleachers for an assembly. A giant red brick structure built in the thirties with an oval roof. Autumn. Cold inside. I sat with my friends and spit Skoal on the floor. All of us had our coats on. We did our best to smear the tobacco juice with our feet.

My friend Lance was next to me. He didn’t chew tobacco. He’s now some sort of nuerological physical therapist.

His last name was Dalton and I could feel him behind me. Everytime the crowd would jeer at the ridiculous film on nuclear attack we were being shown, he’d hit me hard on the back.

It didn’t take long for Lance to clock it, look me in the eye and say “Who is this fuck?”

Dalton had always been a coward. He’d always confront me with his friends around him or never at least in a crowd where there was a chance of me having an ally. I would back down, because my shame was my own. There was no one else to see it.

This was different. He’d grown bold. I don’t think he was very smart. He certainly hadn’t thought far enough ahead to understand the corner he’d backed me into. Fear is a great force multiplier.

I didn’t snap, but my decision came quick. I was humiliated and terrified. I spun around and swung as hard as I could for his head. He turned away in anticipation of the blow and my fist landed solid with a smack on his left ear.

I heard he spent the rest of the afternoon crying in the nurse’s office.

His meat has been under my fist.

It’s time for my fist again.

I am sure. I begin to understand him. It will be easier to lure to him to a mall or a bar instead of an empty field or a park at night. I will kill him. We are the same he and I. I am smarter. I wonder how well he understands that.

I will kill him.

Does he know to look inside to figure me out?

Does he drink wine with his meat?

I’m going to name him Richie Cunningham.

I will kill Richie Cunningham.

Opie is toast.

The night is pleasant. Barely a moon. I’ve been asleep, the fire is embers. The carafe of water is empty and I figure out that I can’t hold until morning.

Something I hate; finding a bathroom in a strange house in the middle of the night.

In a hotel room, I just bounce around until my feet feel cool tile.

Whatever, I’m like a fire hydrant. I feel good. Energy. I throw off the blanket and bounce up. Legs are good. Barely sore. Past the den and there’s a small bathroom with a light on the left just beyond the kitchen. Thoughtful of Carlo.

There’s an actual urinal with a chrome flush, what looks like a quartz puck and one of those low long toilets with a black seat and an identical chrome flush all municipal style. White tile. It’s clean and smells good with an institutional dispenser that spits brown paper when I turn the crank. A wall mounted soap sprinkler vomits pink powder when I push the lever back. I smell pine.

I piss.

I’m back in grade school.

As I’m draining I see the open door leading to the kitchen.

I decide to make my way back through the kitchen. It’s smaller in the dark.

I come around to the couch and sink back into it’s comfort.

I’m thinking I expect what’s next.

Richie smacks his hand on the windows. Running around the deck. Frustrated and in a frenzy. I’m spooked but I know he can’t get in or he’d be in.

I rush the window to challenge him. I bang on it with my knuckles and demand that he look at me. I want to see him. Close. So I do. Carlo’s yard is filled with dark swine and they have fear in their eyes. He doesn’t look at me. A pane of glass divides us.

I yell and flip him off. I mock and tease. I laugh at him. Scream and curse.

He’s sobbing and sucking back drool. He bleeds from all the openings in his head. He’s a mess. He’s in his underwear again.

I press my index finger and face to the glass and tell him I understand. I tell him I understand it’s him or me and that it will be me. I tell him I’ll kill him. He will die. It will be me.

He bounces off the front door. He screams in the yard. He even throws rocks at the windows. He leaves sobbing and sucking.

I stand and watch his retreat. He lights a fagot at one point and I’m able to see his pigs behind him.

He cannot enter.

I go to sleep.

Carlo is upset. It is morning. He bangs and mutters. Shuffles and stomps his feet. But I can smell the food.

I sit up and put my shoes on. I go to the bathroom I used last night, piss, and wash my face and hands. The water is cold and I wish I had a toothbrush. I enter the kitchen from the bathroom.

He is suprised, yet the look on his face takes but a second to fade to furious. I ask what over and over. Finally, I’m able to sputter that fear is a great force multiplier and I couldn’t help but confront that which I fear most.

“Perhaps you are a coward, if so full of bravery and force why did you not open the door?” He says.

Speculation bubbled over the weekend about the potential of Rice as a possible running mate for Doubtfire. On one hand, youth and and vitality along with femininity and well…………negro-ness.

How convenient.

She has not the grill, the charisma or the credibility. Yep, McCain and Rice. Can’t wait for that.

With all due respect, Condoleezza is a learned and accomplished woman. Yet, what’s that old adage about individuals rising to their own level of incompetence?

What I’m trying to shine a light on here is that under Dumbya at least, she sucks. I’m of the opinion that after fucking up the job of National Security Adviser prior to and after 911, she lied to Congress about it and then virtually disappeared as Secretary of State.

If the Bootlicker thinks this obsolete artifact from the sinking administration of Dumbya is somehow going to to act as a ballast against an unprecedentedly progressive Democratic ticket, you know, the one with a negro and the broad, then I must selfishly encourage it.

Work with me here. It’s a spectacularly dumb idea.

So stupid, they may have realized it themselves, an overt effort was made today by both camps to downplay the idea.

Oh well, we’ll see. I’m hopeful.

Again, bad grill, no charisma and zero credibility. Wanna see something funny? These two would be the Keystone fucking Cops.

I understand this scenario is unlikely, but I can’t help it.

It cracks me the fuck up.

I want to see this so bad, I’ll wear a diaper to the Republican convention so I don’t miss a thing. Please Santa, can I have this as an early Christmas present?

I think I saw this balloon floated on ABC News Sunday night. I’m thinking if it made it that far, someone somewhere is considering it.

That woman is a mess in front of a microphone and it would be the kind of contrast, indeed, the kind of comedy, America needs to see in their living rooms.

Forgive me, I’m a cynic but I still have a sense of humor and this would be excellent.

Fuck me, it’s so obvious and it could really happen. An old codger that the neocons won’t give any love to reaches out to an incompetent woman who happens to be black and thrusts her under the lights to woo the conservative base and women and black people in one fell swoop.

It’s genius, they’re both complete morons. She plays classical piano, has an assload of shoes from shopping during storms and is an expert on the cold war. Perfect. He craps his pants, has a bad temper and post traumatic stress disorder.

C’mon, this would be great.

This is better than Chuck Heston sucking dirt.

I can’t help it. I’m so sorry for the sandwich I’ve caused you.

Drinks for my friends.

Hey kids. Hope you’re all in the mood for a puppet show because I am. If you look close, you’ll see that many of the puppets have freckles and some even wear glasses. Be good to yourself!

A net loss of eighty thousand jobs last month. Three airlines go under in one week. Record foreclosures and an outrageously exorbitant bailout of Bear Stearns by the Federal Reserve, i.e. your money.

Celent, a financial research firm, is forecasting a loss of two hundred thousand banking jobs over the next twelve to eighteen months. That’s one tenth kids. Expect to see similiar fallout from virtually every other private sector.

We are fighting a pointless war, the cost of which is said to be in excess of one hundred thousand dollars a minute. It is not being paid for. Yet. America is waging this war on credit. Future generations will get this tab. The cost, the burden, in lives, money, respect and trust from the world community, to be borne by Americans for decades to come.

We renewed the Blackwater contract 🙂

Decades, at least.

Lest ye think this surge in Iraq is going well, they’ve twice attacked the goddamn green zone. Three dead yesterday. Two dead and seventeen wounded in the safest place in Iraq. Yesterday. They are killing people in the Green Zone.

Baghdad is burning again.

Five shootings in the San Fernando valley this weekend. Crime in the greater Los Angeles area is way up. Local news loves this shit.

Meanwhile, the asshats in Washington stand around wringing hands over the definition of “recession”. They’re gonna send us three to six hundred bucks apiece and they encourage us to spend it. That should do it. I would’ve said three fifty to six fifty, but whatever. Six of one, one half dozen of the other.

In the spirit of ad nauseam, we spend about seven thousand per public school student, around thirty thousand per prisoner. We incarcerate more people per capita than any nation on earth. On the face of the planet. More than half of our entire budget is for killing people and blowing shit up. We do not have universal health care.

The American middle class atrophies faster than the polar icecaps.

This is the legacy of Dumbya. His legacy is our perfect storm. It will be a long one.

This is fucked up. It is ridiculous.

I’m seriously starting to wonder if agriculture might not be the next hot job ticket. I’m nervous because I live in the city and there’s no place to plant carrots.

We, as Americans, mill around bleating like sheep over a black man or woman or maybe the guy who wants to pursue a pointless war indefinitely and an absolute clusterfuck of economic policies.

We are pathetic.

Everyone holds their breath over whether Pennsylvania will end up more misogynist than racist, and if so, to what degree. I’m over it. We’ll never get exactly what we want or what we need but can someone tell me why the fuck McCain is in this race?

Are there that many of us that are that stupid? He’s insane. How much you wanna bet we either catch him asleep or drooling on camera before the General in November? He’s seventy two years old. My mother is the same age, I wouldn’t vote for her and she’s not insane.

Sheezus!

As much as I hate to say it, we need you people. What do we have to do? You already know we won’t take your guns away. Chuck Heston took the dirt nap today and I’m wondering if they’ve pried it from his cold dead hands yet.

I couldn’t wait to make that joke.

We all want the same things. Safety and security. A decent living wage and a fair amount of personal freedom. Those things have all eroded over the past seven years, more rapidly than at any other time in American history.

Our founding fathers spin in their sarcophagi begging for a tachometer.

Aren’t there at least some of you that understand we need something new? C’mon. The sky is about to fall. No matter what we do it’s gonna get worse. How bad do you want it to be?

Don’t be stupid.

Drinks for my friends.

I just can’t stand it. The way life attempts to imitate art. The way art endeavors to imitate life. The circle closes rarely for reasons other than serendipity. It’s never on purpose. We spend our lives looking to make sense of it and it refuses. It walks away without a word. It could not care less what we think.

I’m sure of one thing. It reveals nothing to no one. There is no game and there is no fate. It is random. Despite prophecy, religion or dogma. I think the universe barely affords the concept of time for example. At the very least, it does so in a way we won’t conceive or imagine for much longer than we can conceive or imagine.

That is not to say justice should not be pursued. Philanthropy, yes. Self educate by all means. Aspire to kindness and compassion. Eat right and exercise if you must. People should strive to be as good as they can for a reason that is simultaneously as insignificant as it is fundamental; as far as we know we have but one shot. In that one run at it, we only have ourselves.

The only magic is brains and the only miracle is will.

A train of thought that sounds like a bowling alley in my head.

My legs are killing me. I seem to be gaining strength, but they go from sore to searing in seconds. I’m glad I remembered my cane.

“Coffee on the veranda?” His head bobs while the car absorbs the road.

I look him in the eye and tell him absolutely.

I hold his gaze and thank him as sincerely as I can. I tell him I have so many questions.

“We have time to talk today. My villa is not far.”

This is the furthest south I’ve ever been, everything looks tropical. The grounds are lush and manicured. Gravel and stone paths. Palms and grasses. Plump cactus and moss just a few feet away. Desert flowers. I glimpse a healthy stand of cannabis through some trees. A handful of fountains and sculptures. The air is perfumed with an organic that is damp and sweet.

It’s humid and cool.

I’m happy to be here. I feel much better.

The driver opens my door and it’s the last I see of him. He’s never looked at me.

Carlo walks me to the door. The house itself is fairly modest. Like an early twentieth century LA bungalow. Broad granite steps to a deck of thick hardwood trailing around the side. The entire roof, including the deck, is black to grey and the turquoise of oxidation. Is the whole thing under one copper shell?

The twin front doors are heavy and black. Carlo opens them with practiced effort.

Inside is rustic. A river stone fireplace with a heavy wooden mantle. Silver candlesticks, pictures in elaborate frames and brightly colored glass. A pot boils over a small flame. The floors are black slate and hardwood. Beautiful rugs and sturdy furniture. Plenty of sunlight diffused as the the deck wraps around the house excepting the north side.

The fog has not burned off completely.

On the right is the living area with a high ceiling, the fireplace and beyond that, what looks like a book lined den. On the left is a small dining area and a large kitchen facing north. The appliances look robust but not new. The floor and countertops are terra cotta. There’s a pot rack suspended from chains over and island. Copper and stainles steel vessels glisten. Blenders, juicers, toasters and processors, none modern, festoon the counters and gleam.

It smells of smoke and apples and good tobacco.

Carlo grinds coffee beans with some hand powered device I’ve never seen. While wearing some welding glove, he takes the pot off the fire. We sit on stools at a small but high iron table with a wooden top. There’s an old glass French press, a small pitcher of cream and small glass bowl filled with chunky brown sugar. Two spoons, two mugs.

My guess is someone forgot about the veranda.

From another mug, he pours the ground beans into the press and the boiling water over them. The aroma makes me crave it. He seals the top with the plunger up and says, “Now we wait.” He is smiling.

He retreats to the kitchen and returns with a small plate of fruit and bread. Strawberries, melon, papaya, mango, grapes and what is definitely buttered cornbread.

He raises his eyebrows, rushes to the kitchen and returns with a shiny pile of caviar and creme fraiche on a small bone china dish and an actual silver baby spoon.

He smiles and says, “Killer with the cornbread.”

He takes off his coat and I see he’s wearing suspenders.

“I have much to tell you.” He plunges the coffee patiently. “You already know, you are in mortal danger. You are beset by a hound.” He forces the plunger down a little. “He is mean as a snake. A doppelganger of sorts. He is not your double. He is not your………contrary or inverse, either, as they say. They are often the worst, as are the doubles.” He leans a little harder on the press.

“Those pale and vicious poltergeists will harass a man until his heart explodes in his chest like a fruit pie dropped on a kitchen floor. The good news is, it is not the worst. The bad news is, it is very bad. Perhaps, as bad as I have seen.

He pours the coffee and generous cream into my mug. It’s sweet enough for me to wonder if I missed him adding sugar. It’s the best coffee I’ve ever had in my life. Until I think about what he’s saying and what he may be about to say. He looks at me like he’s gonna tell me I have colon cancer. Like I’ll bleed from the ass for awhile and then die.

He’s getting real good at looking at me like that.

“He is about you. He is of you. You are related to this hound. It cannot last. One of you must go. You cannot both occupy this time and place for very long. I’m confident you understand that? One of you must kill the other. He will kill you. He’s as afraid as you are, believe it or not. But, he intends to kill you.

How do you know? How did you find me? Who are you?

He raises his hand. “You found me. I was not aware of you until you were within a block from me. Really, the rest is decades of me seeing and understanding these things. You already know, we are not all the same.”

“Let me put this as simply as I can,” he says. “Do not doubt that the randomness of life is in some way synchronized with all the things that we do not understand about the universe. It is what we do know that confounds us. All the while, what we do not know blows us along.”

He offers me a hunk of cornbread with caviar and creme. The bread is warm and sweet. The caviar is salty with marvelous texture in a creaminess of creme. It’s so delicious I need to replay what he’s said in my head.

I come up fighting. I can’t help but ask what he does know. I ask him who he is and despite myself I press him hard on just what the fuck is going on. I realize I’m pleading. I try to shut up.

“Do notlook at me like that. I am no wizard” , says Mr. Tarcisi.

“Your only chance is yourself, but I think I can help.”

I tell him I was hoping for a wizard.

I tell him I’m tired and I’m a pussy.

He doesn’t smile. He tells me my humor is inappropriate. He is angry. He seems much older than me.

He walks to the end of the kitchen and back.

He pushes the plate of fruit at me with the rubied finger. I reach and so does he. We chew and look at each other. We begin to talk like yesterday. We laugh and point at each other. At some point there’s not much coffee left, Carlo brings a single malt whiskey to the table.

We use our coffee mugs.

Next thing I know I’m asleep in front of the fire.

It’s twilight.

I’m on the couch under a thick cotton blanket. My shoes are off but my socks are on. Carlo has left a carafe of water and a glass on the low table in front of me.

His last words to me, “Sleep. You are safe here.”

I look past my feet and he’s in the den reading furiously, his fingers drumming on his forehead. He looks old from here.

I look up to a polished copper ceiling some twenty feet above me with the fire dancing across.

I head back to the party.

I wake and I’m blank. I’m alone. I understand that’s wrong, but it’s all I know.

I’m hanging over the opposite side of the bed I sleep on. There’s a tiny smear of blood on the bed skirt. I dab at it. It’s dry. Not sure what I expected.

Have I seen the last of Shirley?

Nope. The bathroom door clicks and she’s in front of me in my robe. Beaming with self satisfaction, she holds aloft a platter of steaming pastries. There is fruit and juice. Her cleavage strains against the robe. Sun bangs through the window and it’s warm. She feeds me pastries from the platter but I can’t taste them and I’m thirsty. I grab for the fruit but it’s dry on my tongue. I gulp juice but it’s air.

Blood begins to leak from her eyes. She screams.

I’m awake, still wearing this beautiful watch.

Here it comes. All of it. She’s gone.

I gotta piss like a racehorse and I’m shaking as it sinks in.

The mirror above the sink confuses me because I mistake it for blood. It’s lipstick and the message is incomplete. My name and a declaration that Shirley had a lovely time, then a smear that trails to the bottom of the mirror and her lipstick is in the sink along with the clear plastic cap.

I must have gone down after the blowjob. There’s no condoms, my junk isn’t sticky and there’s orange lipstick on it.

He killed her right there and then.

Right after a righteous hoovering. She went to freshen up and maybe spit?

There’s blood, viscera and hair in the shower. Blond hair. His knife is there too. Batteries not in the wastebin.

Let housekeeping wash the sheets, I won’t ditch the bed skirt. Absence being more conspicuous than a smear of blood I figure. We’ll see.

Carlo hammers at my door, calling my name.

Man I’m in trouble.

“How bad is it?”, he says when I open the door. He looks like he hasn’t slept, pale.

I wonder how he got on the boat.

Mr. Tarcisi probably boards airplanes at will.

I wonder how he knows.

I tell him what I know, and what I think I know.

He folds his hands and rests his forearms on his knees, looks up at me from the corner of the bed. The watch he wears is identical to the one he gave me.

He bows his head, then comes up with a grimace. He goes to the closet and pulls out a plastic bag for shoes to be shined. He doesn’t look at me as he collects the evidence, the bloody viscera, lipstick, knife and hair into the bag. He hands it to me and tells me to lose it while indicating the balcony with a nod of his head.

I’m outside and it’s chilly, I look both ways before letting it drop. I wait for it to hit the water, it seems too loud.

I slide the door shut behind me and he’s back in the bathroom methodically cleaning the mirror with toilet paper wrapped around his open hand. His hat is off, he sweats.

Holdiing up a finger he disappears out the door. Just as quickly he’s back with paper towels and a spray bottle of blue liquid he’s lifted from a cleaning cart. I soon understand that lipstick is very greasy. The blue liquid is a minor miracle. I’m able to make short work of everything.

I can’t help it. I sob. I choke. It’s overwhelming. I dry heave into the tiny sink. I’m a mess.

When I’m finished he’s behind me in the mirror with a sympathetic chagrin. “Shower, but be quick. We need to get you out of here.”

I’ve no idea where to go from here. This is all way too much. A woman has been murdered. An innocent woman. She was nice and she smelled good.

She suffered a violent dissection with a a dual D-cell powered, serrated knife. Not fair. It’s not fair and I’m in the middle of it. It’s entirely my fault.

I knew what would happen. I knew it absolutely. I fucking saw it.

I’ve just dropped evidence into the ocean.

Mr. Tarcisi hands me a towel. He is anxious for us to leave.

Before we leave the boat, we stop for eggs, coffee and a muffin with butter and jam, I insist.

By the time we’re in his car his impatience is obvious. Fuck me. Fuck him.

“I need to take you to my home for a bit”, says Carlo through a smile and a brown cigarette.

So, The Joint Chiefs chairman tells us today we’re fresh out of cannon fodder.

Admiral Mike Mullen admitted today that although additional US troops are needed in Afghanistan, we’re tapped. We have no more personnel.

The military said, nope.

In saying such a simple thing, Mr Mullen acknowledges what we’ve all known for some time. The back of our great American Army is broken. We are left without the ability to defend ourselves. Our men and women are bogged down and tied up in the stupidest and most disgustingly reasonless war America has ever engaged in.

Looking for something to be afraid of? There it is.

Did you know there’s a movement in San Francisco to rename a sewage treatment plant after Dumbya?

We are unable to prosecute, for all intents and purposes, what has always been the more important of the two fronts on “terror”.

Well, one didn’t matter at all and the other did kinda. It matters more now.

“There are force requirements there [in Afghanistan] that we can’t currently meet,” Adm. Mike Mullen said. “Having forces in Iraq at the level they’re at doesn’t allow us to fill the need that we have in Afghanistan.” -CNN

Meanwhile back at the ranch, Fire and death were lobbed into the Green Zone. Basra and Baghdad burn and die again. Turns out, we barely have the resources to take on al-Sadr’s Mahdi army. He was merely testing us.

We tell everyone it’s Iran’s fault

The future’s so bright, I gotta wear a welding helmet. And a hazmat suit.

This thing ain’t going nowhere but worse.

The economy. Duh.

We need a leader.

It’s amazing that our Little Bootlicker, McCain is a contender. I think he should have to reveal whether or not he’s in diapers well before the general in November. I wonder if he’s wearing a bag.

I don’t know what to make of this man. I used to like him. It’s been a while. He runs down the middle and literally alienates both sides while still polling well.

I guess the middle is big too. I’d hoped they weren’t that dumb.

With any luck we can collectively understand that old rich white men in charge is a bad idea, particularly if they have too much faith. Doubtfire doesn’t seemed to be consumed with Santa, but he’s wrong on all the issues.

I have but two questions, maybe three for Mrs. Doubtfire:

#1. How exactly are you going to win this war on a broken economy AND a broken military?

#2. What on earth made you run for President, what is your answer to number one?

#3. Are you serious about maintaining these tax cuts while staring at this black maw of an economic vortex?

#4. Do you understand these things at all?

He’s lucky to be getting a running start.

I know what it’s like when you’re trying to think but nothing happens.

He does too. Way better than me.

Look, the Republicans are used to various monkeys. Reagan was a bit of an orangutang. Bush Sr. was some skinny big eared sharp chinned simian. Dumbya is a retarded chimp. Doubtfire is a goddamn reptile. They confuse him while he confuses them.

James Dobson loathes The Bootlicker and that cracks me up. This guy reaches over two hundred million a day in a hundred and sixty countries by radio alone. Focus On The Family. Yes, that megalomaniacal douchebag. It’s these bastards that I really loathe. They highjack common sense with self righteous morality and an archaic set of standards that they barely pretend to live up to.

Before they’re done they take it upon themselves to press the flesh of their hypocrisy on as many as they can find and it means nothing to them that their beliefs have no place in politics, particularly if they are to remain sacred. Those beliefs aren’t sacred, they are for sale.

Anyway. Forgive me. It’s just that despite how much this matters, it’s still really stupid.

Try really hard not to be stupid.

Drinks for my friends.

I want to talk about politics.

There’s not fuck all to say. Same as it’s been for a week. For the first time in a long time, I’m not engrossed, pissed or excited.

The Reverend Wright conflagration seems to finally be on the wane. For this I’m grateful because he merely spoke the truth, as unpalatable as it was for those who are fond of plunging their heads into the sand.

I loathed the entire spectacle because he not only spoke from a justifiably angry heart, Senator Obama refused to disown him out of loyalty and integrity. There was a certain beauty and honesty to the story that America missed because the media didn’t foist it on a steaming platter.

They chose the opposite. The simpler of the two. I’m pretty sure they did that because they think we’re all stupid. I’m not surrounded by brain surgeons and physicists, are you?

He did the right thing.

Dominating the over twenty four hour news cycle this last week is whether Shrillary should walk away or not. No mad fuck opinion here. Once the primary process plays out, given the writing is on the wall, I would take exception if she doesn’t act responsibly. Otherwise, I’ve no real dog in this hunt and neither should you.

It’s very unlikely that Superdelegates will even attempt to subvert the will of the people. In the context of a gigantically criminal, incredibly specific and therefore surgically effective disenfranchisement that’s gone on for eight years, particularly unto Democrats, I’m assuming we all agree that would be really fucking stupid.

The reason I’m not running for President is I would have invited that bitch to take a walk. With her husband. You two are a serious braintrust; do the math. Not gonna happen unless maybe Billary has an an early October suprise.

There’s still a lot of us that are at least scared enough to forget to hope.

Don’t forget how crazy it is. A powerful and ominous cleric in Iraq with his own army, gets a bug up his ass and chaos occurs with a finger snap. We really have that shit under control.

I’m get some solace from the idea that Muqtada al-Sadr is making our Little Bootlicker McCain look like a doddering chimp.

Did you see the clip of Lieberman schooling Doubtfire?

I loathe Lieberman.

Doubtfire has hitched his little red tricycle to this ridiculous turned pathetic war and “The Surge”. Oh, and permanent tax cuts for the wealthy and “overhauling” social security. How much you wanna bet he’s already got presenile dementia?

The economy is swirling down the shitter. Tricycles don’t float.

Biggest, best, boldest thing we can do for the economy is end the war and start investing in infrastructure. See, that can be steady enduring jobs, education, more money in the community and less for the plutocracy, the corporate monoliths. The evil pricks.

It’s not just freeways and potholes. I’m imagining government sponorship of R&D and technology for green and environmentally responsible industries. Like it or not, that is our future. Or we’re all dead.

Here comes Al Gore. He’s not interested in politics. He’s gonna Guru. I say let him.

This is what it is. If you ask one hundred Americans who their ultimate President would be, probably twenty or thirty would have different, unique answers. This whole thing will ultimately be decided by one or two, maybe five, in a hundred.

See what I’m saying? Keep your eyes on the ball.

Drinks for my friends.

Top Stories

Technorati Profile

We talk politics and religion. Celebrities and ordinary people. He’s friendly and charismatic. A quick smile and eyes that seem easy to read. I can’t help but like this man. We smoke and drink and talk. We tell each other excellent stories.

After a time, Carlo looks at me and says with some gravity, “Let’s us visit my shop, you and I. It’s just round the corner and up the street.” I tell him I’ve suffered an injury to both legs and can’t walk far. I’m conserving energy for my return to the ship, I say.

“I have a car”, he says, “I’ll get you back in time”, he flips open his phone.

Like the movies, an immaculate black Mercedes sedan emerges from around the corner. The sound of it’s slow rolling tires is something I can’t help but exalt. “Wait, bring your drink, get him a refill!”, barks my new friend, Carlo Tarcisi. Once inside the car, our drinks are passed to us through the open windows.

I’m drinking snake bites. Bad idea. Carlo sips from a tumbler of what looks like cold medicine with weeds in it. Who knows? I haven’t ordered or bought a drink since he sat down.

“I’m going to sell you a watch my friend”, we’re in the back seat, charging up a hill. He smiles big. Teeth immaculate.

“A good watch at a good price”, he says.

I don’t feel like I need a watch. I’ve had no success with them. They quit working or I lose them. I like watches. I’ve always admired them. I’m kinda broke, most likely unemployed. I say nothing. This is a bad idea. I look out the window.

Past twilight.

No shit, I’m confused. Some cosmopolitan oddity that I’ve just bonded with on a muddy sidewalk in a third world country wants to take me to his store to sell me a watch? What the fuck?

Flags go up.

How do I get myself into this shit?

Who is this guy?

I look at him and he nods his head while patting his knee. He’s composed but anxious and I don’t know what to make of it.

We get to the place and the driver puts a fedora on his head before stepping around. He opens the door for me, then Carlo.

It’s dark. There’s a single lamp at the end of a long road. It’s a spooky business district that probably evacuates just before sundown. Curbs but no asphalt. Sidewalks but no street. I swear I hear bats.

I cannot afford to succumb to fear. I can’t allow it. It’s dark.

“No worries my friend, you’re safe”, he says, looking me in the eye while he pulls out his keys.

I tell him I’m fine and remember my cane.

My shoes are noisy as fuck. His aren’t.

I’m a little light in the head and breathing hard.

Then.

The shop is a wonder. A storefront on approach, labyrinthian inside.

I see herbs and soaps and salves, potions, lotions and concoctions.

Bird’s eggs, fossils, telescopes, globes, animal fetuses in in backlit jars, glass eyes, pipes, cigarettes, cigars, lighters, maps, watches, real skulls, human bones and tusks. Guns, rusty knives and swords.

Dragon Flies, Wasps, Beetles, Scorpions and Black Widows. All giants.

Masks, odd statues, anatomy books, velvet paintings, pinball machines and an impressive array of gumball dispensers. I smell hot greasy fries and ketchup.

Everywhere I turn there’s something to covet. This place is fucking unbelievable.

Cool paintings. Old posters. Unopended model rockets from the seventies.

Look closer, there’s a beaker pale green and bubbling with a two headed rodent bobbing. Organs floating and churning in red or yellow aqueous.

Old Swamp Thing comics illustrated by Bernie Wrightson in portective mylar.

A popcorn cart.

The more I look, the more I see.

There are live owls in the rafters. Almost completely silent but not at all shy about clocking me. There’s five at least and they never stop shooting beams through me.

You know, owls are fierce predators but the biggest ones weigh a mere few pounds. I could take one out with a badminton racket easy. For five, I’d probably need a bat.

He reaches under a dusty counter for a tray of watches, and I’m dismayed. It just reminds me that I don’t understand what’s happening. I’m confused. Why would this guy bring me here to sell me a fucking watch?

I mean, Carlo Tarcisio has far more going on than selling watches to dipshit drunken tourists with an unexplained handicap. At least in my estimation.

The owls mock me.

I look deliberately at the tray of watches for the first time because I don’t know what else to do. Craftsmanship. Nice watches.

There are maybe a dozen and he goes through them with rapid grace, naming the brand and features, weight and thickness, jewels etc. He smiles while he does this. He’s proud of them and pleased to offer them to me. His hands are fast and old.

I know enough. I’ve admired exclusive watches. Bezel, band, movement, crown, case and crystal. These are gorgeous. They are real. I’m sure.

I tell Carlo that although I literally just got off the boat, I have no money. I apologize to him if I’ve somehow misrepresented myself, allowing him to think I was a man of means and in the market for a luxury timepiece. I am embarrassed and still very confused.

He calls me by my first name, smiles and says, “It’s a gift. Pay with friendship and honesty.”

This starts to confuse me further, so I tell him I’d like to buy him one last drink before I go back to the boat.

The Owls compose a very complex chord.

He beams at me and seems lit from beneath, “I would recommend this one, Swiss movement, light in weight, still detailed in a way that appeals to one or both sides of your brain and you clearly don’t favor gold.”

Just like that and it’s on my wrist.

It is silver and glistening. A black detailed face with a style that doesn’t afford contemporary simplicity any more than a nod. Despite Carlo’s words, it’s heft is still impressive.

He’s given me an authentic and beautiful chronograph for the sum of nothing. I’ve made it clear I have no money to spare.

I remind him I’m good for a drink and he says quickly, “My friend, it is time we get you to your boat.”

He tells me on the way that I wear, “the aura of troubled”. I look in his eyes and tell him I’m haunted and it’s as bad as he can possibly imagine. He looks at his old hands in his lap and says, “I know”.

I knew he knew.

“We made friends today, you and I. We are not finished”, he’s smiling. “You like your new watch?” I tell him it’s fucking awesome. “Wear it to bed”, he says.

We approach the boat and He breaks character to become nearly ferocious when he grabs my collar to say, “Tell no one you’ve met me. Say nothing of it. I will find you tomorrow.”

I barely have time to thank him and I’m hurrying up the plank without knowing why.

Ever seen those electric meat carving knives? My mom had one and could slice up a holiday turkey like a goddamn samurai. Even as a kid I worried a little about that appliance. It disturbed me. I made my peace with it when I realized it was only formidable for the length of the cord.

I guess now they’re available battery operated.

After finally figuring out how to work the fucking lock on the door of my suite, He’s sitting on the end of my bed flicking one on and off. He’s in a pair of tighty whities and the blood from his eyes runs down his chest to stain them.

I back out as soon as I see him. He screams HA, but I can’t tell if it’s angry or amused.

I find a bar, I don’t know what else to do.

In the middle of the ship there’s a glass elevator that starts in the lobby, near the bar where I sit, and goes all the way up. He mocks me from it. Dabbing at his eyes to write my name on the glass with the blood on his fingers. At first he writes it backward. Then he get’s it right and he’s delighted.

I understand this will be a long night.

Looks like I’m all but forced to weigh in on this ugliness yet again. I’m doing so because well, Hillary did so today with all the panic, recklessness and shameless irresponsibility of a desperate woman who again demonstrates a glaring sense of entitlement for our nation’s Presidency.

I’m sure you’re all aware That Senator Obama delivered a compassionate, sincere and very personal disquisition on race in America last week in response to his Reverend’s sermons from the lectern. A speech that was as refreshing in it’s honesty and eloquence as was the absence of a cowardly mea culpa or spineless abandonment of a life long friend.

He took the onus off himself and placed it squarely on us. He did so by talking to us like adults.

I’m compelled to point out; a fair amount of what Reverend Wright said was true.

As she read from a prepared statement in response to a question today, she essentially said she indeed would have walked away from that church and it’s Reverend and followed up with the callow observation that we are free to choose our friends but not our relatives.

I don’t buy this shit for a minute. This, a transparent attempt to draw attention away from a blatant and chronic lie about ducking and hiding from sniper fire in Bosnia, by exploiting racial divisivness in the same breath. The only chance Shrillary has is to keep as many white people from voting for Obama as possible. The most efficient means of course, play the race card.

Hillary, you ingnorant slut.

You continue to disappoint. My own mother mentioned she glimpsed a cut-throat passive aggressiveness in you that she’d only observed in the very worst of her female bosses.

Nevermind that your efforts may ultimately be the Democratic party’s demise in a season that was once filled with possibility, potential and hope. Nevermind how proud and delighted I was to have our very first woman and our very first black man as genuine and viable candidates for the leader of the free world and for the longest time, race and gender were not at issue. Nevermind what you and your husband have done to soil what was shaping up to be a glistening Clinton legacy. Nevermind all of that and more.

Have you no shame? No integrity? Is there a line that you won’t cross in order to clutch that brass ring?

If for no other reason than your own posterity, I implore you to let it fucking go. You are embarrassing us. You are staining this process. You ARE an embarrassment to America.

Take a lesson from your own daughter, who when asked about Monica Lewinsky today, you know the intern that sucked your husbands dick, told the questioner it was none of their business. I would suggest that to be far more appropriate an answer as opposed to your obviously prepared remarks today.

And by the way, for you to allow James Carville’s cheap shot comparison of Governor Richardson to Judas without immediate repudiation is just more of the same. Shame on you. Rovian tactics indeed.

It is largely up to you whether or not this contest becomes a protracted battle in Denver this summer. If you allow that, it most certainly will be at the expense of us all. The time for you to walk away is fast approaching. Do the math.

Drinks for my friends.

No matter the situation, it’s hard to blame anyone who’s had enough.

I’ve seen the solution in my dreams. The beginning of it anyway.

Nobody knows how things end.

He hasn’t been around for awhile. You may think that’s a good thing.

I do not.

The longer he goes missing, the more anxiety I own.

I look for him harder.

It’s been three weeks now and not hide nor hair.

Nothing.

Quiet.

He performs this vanishing conspicuously. He knows what he does and so do I. If I’m not thinking about him, I’m trying to forget him. Either way, he is a monster in my mind’s eye. He sits at a grey metal desk under a bare bulb in the very back room of my dreams. He sits in there and breathes and sucks back drool and there’s fucking boars stinking and squealing.

Right now the door is closed. Not a sound. Like they left. I hate that.

I still can’t walk worth a shit. My knees and ankles are beyond sore. I fall down sometimes because if I don’t, the low note plucked by my leg travels up my spine and leaves me dizzy and sweaty and unable to stand anyway.

His is the opulent lobby to my nightmares. A cancerous entreaty to my darkest place. An invitation I’m unable to resist. I understand that half my my misery is my own responsibility. It always takes two. Do I miss him?

In absentia, he gnaws at me.

I’ve got to get the fuck out of here.

It’s the wrong thing to do but I decide to run.

I book a five day cruise to Ensenada.

Last minute, but with help of William Shatner, I get a pretty good deal.

I buy a nice cane for myself. The handle is a knife.

You’re not supposed to bring booze onboard but I’m successful with a big ass bottle of Maker’s Mark. As soon as we sail, I head down to duty free and pay a buck twenty for a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue. I feel like whiskey.

I look into renting one of those chairs for the handicapped. I tell them I have sprained achilles tendons. I lean on my cane. I think about flopping. I want one of these fuckers.

Ultimately they give me one, candy apple red, but express their displeasure at my not having reserved one. I tell them it just happened. Pricks.

I hole up in my suite with my knife cane and some righteous hooch. I get myself a good heat on. I play with my knife and cane. I feel armed. Prepared. He won’t follow me this far. He’s forgotten. Haven’t seen him for weeks. I drink more whiskey. I’ve got both bottles open now to compare them but there’s no fucking contest. Um, Johnnie Walker Blue?

I light a cigarette and remember I have a balcony. I can smoke pot and cigarettes on the balcony with a drink and the ocean speeding by.

So I do that. It’s wet out.

I decide to look around.

Night on the boat is windy and rainy. I explore her from stem to stern. Five floors. I leave my chair and use my cane wherever I need to. She is a floating city. Food whenever and wherever you want it. Drunk people everywhere. I’m not interested in talking to anyone. I really just want to observe. The ship is awesome. It’s huge.

I get a snifter of good cognac and step out on the bow. It’s beyond some theater and down some stairs. Completely dark save for a veiled moon. I say a toast my rabbit Watership. My tears mingle with the rain and are taken by the wind. I throw the glass into the sea.

I’m glad no one can see me climbing these stairs. I am fucked up.

Back to my suite I order room service.

A grilled cheese sandwich. I hope the sandwich has an impaled olive and a pickle on a toothpick cause that’s what I picture. I kinda wake up when she asks if there’s anything else and I say, chicken nuggets, a side of bacon and some chocolate milk.

I watch an interesting program on the ships engines.

I remember answering the door and smelling the food. I’m not sure if it was the boat or me but gravity was a motherfucker. I know I was still dressed.

Black olives stabbed through the sandwich with a green plastic sword. Cool.

I wake up kinda slow. The ship isn’t moving. I look out the window at what must me Ensenada. I go outside to smoke to make myself puke so I can get that over with. It’s a nice view.

On my walk back in, a humid and cloying cloud of whiskey does the trick. All I’ve got is bile and it emerges with violence as does the snot from my nose. I’m used to it. I’ll rehydrate and get some protein and a little fiber. Some grease.

No sign of him the first night.

I’m on my first Gin Mary by twelve thirty. Haven’t eaten shit. It’s overcast and a little drizzly but warm in the tourist section of Ensenada. Strange place. Stray from the obvious path and it gets weird in a hurry. Flies on meat and shoeless kids selling chiclets.

I left the chair behind. My legs are killing me until I find a place to sit but I look around and see that it would have been an embarrassing clusterfuck in that chair.

I can’t help but pay attention to how heels click on the muddy sidewalks.

When in doubt, wear boots. I did.

There’s a man who’s feet make no sound although his shoes appear ordinary enough. He strides with an umberella as a walking stick and I’m sure he’s not an American.

He wears a trenchcoat and his hands are very old. He wears a simple ruby in a gold band on his right middle finger. His suit underneath the coat is the color of vanilla ice cream.

Both pant legs clean, even the cuffs.

I see him walking across the street. Again and again. Back and forth. He has Colonel Sanders facial hair yet his face is very young. Hardly any lines at all.

I’m nursing the mother of all dumbovers.

Eventually he makes eye contact and acknowledges me though I can’t say he smiled or anything.

Within just a few minutes, he’s at my table extending his hand and asking to join me. Despite the weather it is crowded. I invite him to sit. He says his name is Carlo Tarcisio. I wonder if that’s Northern Italy. I can’t tell by looking at him.

I tell him my first name.

After the very third drink, I forget all the rules. What time thew boat leaves etc.

The ring on his finger constantly sounds the same note against his glass.

Carlo doesn’t mind buying and we seem to be hitting it off. I barely think about the boat and how hard it’ll be to get back on two half useless legs while shithammered. When my mind does wander there, I feel like dropping a deuce, so I table the notion for further examination once I’m back on the boat.

I dream of a knife. It’s not the first time. The hilt is steel. The blade is hollow glass. Inside is a liquid. It looks like absinthe.

Our man Obama’s been getting the shit kicked out of him this week. It’s been anything but pretty. Anything but fair.

Finally, CNN takes it upon itself to provide a more thorough context to the sermons by Reverend Wright they’ve bludgeoned us with all week ’til we’re torsos with tubes sticking out the tops of our necks. Turns out, he makes a little more sense than we’ve been allowed to glimpse thus far. Big suprise.

If you think injustice doesn’t exist in this country you’re an idiot and probably a racist. Just reminding you to think about a walk in his shoes.

But you already knew that.

You’re aware, if you read me regularly, that I’ve no patience for this kind of crap. I vehemntly object to events of this nature being injected into my politics. Not by a long shot do the least of my reasons include the conviction that religion has no place in a any political contest under any circumstances ever. I’m more than confident that any of the candidates are vulnerable and easily impugned based on something as inconsequential as who their goddamn pastor is and what he or she has to say.

In the instance of McCain, our little bootlicker, can you say John Hagee? If Hagee isn’t an evangelical whack job, I’ve never even smelled one. I know I have, because they stink like rotting flesh. This guy Hagee is a human shitsmear.

Hot on the heels of that, is race. The eight hundred pound gorilla that our obsequious and recalcitrant mainstream media refuses to stop reaching for the backs of our necks in order to get us to stare at. Once again, an issue that deserves no purchase whatsoever in this contest.

Doubtfire even considered an invitation to speak at Bob Jones University and endorsed a white supremacist running for Lt. Governor of Alabama, George Wallace Jr. in ’05.

See what I’m saying?

Today, Bill Richardson, Governor of New Mexico, former Presidential candidate and Clinton machine consort as well as Democratic super delegate, endorsed our man Obama.

He said:
“Senator Barack Obama addressed the issue of race with the eloquence and sincerity and decency and optimism we have come to expect of him,” he said. “He did not seek to evade tough issues or to soothe us with comforting half-truths. Rather, he inspired us by reminding us of the awesome potential residing in our own responsibility.” -NYT

“The reaction of some of Bill Clinton’s allies suggests that might have been a wise decision. “An act of betrayal,” said James Carville, an adviser to Hillary Clinton.” -Austin Statesman

Whatever the eventual fallout, Mr. Richardson has effectively locked the door behind him on the idea of running with Hills. I’m gonna go ahead and look at that as brave and wise. He knew he was on the short list for assistant manager.

There is a chance that the fever has broken.

Forgive me, but I’m here to urge you once again to move on from this collision of toddlers on tricycles. There’s really nothing to see. Don’t mistake the ruptured ketchup pillows for blood. It’s the twenty first century, they all wear helmets.

Move along.

Drinks for my friends.