The following is a brief bit of typically thoughtful prose composed in the aftermath of accidental comedy that was my nation's most recent Presidential election. Ah, the Mystery that is Democracy! As giggles subsided into gasps echoing down the bleak halls of recent history, I turned my literary attention to a true crisis in our time.

Yours in Confabulation, S. 2012

Cannabis Deprivation

Today, we have a President who has boldly sort'a proclaimed that he sort'a, kind'a smoked, uh, well, er, pot, actually choom or boo, in a time when our children need to hear this message. The ravages of Cannabis Depravation among our youth, particularly young, white males, is leading to a scourge of bad music and even physical deformities. The Lawrence Stanley Denton Foundation has well documented the instances of shrinking Hilarity Glands and overactive production of Seriousity neurotransmitters in the brains of weed starved kids. Another effect of the syndrome is formerly luxurious blond locks of hair turning white and falling out in clumps from the pates of previously handsome fellows in their late teens to early twenties.

In the most severe cases the Mary Jane malnourished are known to spontaneously grow wingtip shoes that cover their webbed feet, sprout uncomfortable worsted wool from their bodies in the form of poorly fitting and itchy suits and their faces blossom with horn-rimmed glasses that encrust their dilated eyes. They can eventually can be found prowling the streets of suburbia for days at a time accosting strangers with pleas that innocent, horrified citizens buy insurance from them. No. No. This is no joking matter. Yes. Yes. As the Revered St. Zimmerman said: "Everybody must get stoned!"

Indeed, it is difficult to overstate the immensity of the tragedy of Cannabis Deprivation Syndrome. Take the impact on just one community, Lavatown, NV. Once a thriving small city of suburban tracts surrounding the principle employer, The Lawrence Stanley Denton LavaLamp Factory, it is now a virtual ghost town. In the interest of full disclosure, The LSD estate endowed the research provided in this monogram through the good works of the Lawrence Stanley Denton Foundation, created as some small amends for the tragic proceeds of his cultural and financial empire and personal, willful abandonment of sanity while violating every law of god and man.

In any case, Lavatown, is largely abandoned. The LSD LavaLamp factory is shuttered and decaying, inhabited only by murders of crows and colonies of rabid bats that eat rampant beetles as big as small cars and gnaw on the skulls of hairless rats as large as cats. The streets of the once fair city are empty but for the clumps of white hair blowing like tumble weed in the desert wind. All of the grown ups have moved on, leaving their tidy homes for the safe shelter of dumpsters in Reno. They had no choice, of course. Their children were quite mad, prowling the streets with mom’s Pyrex mixing cups, knocking on doors that would never be answered, pleading “May I have a cup of choom? Will you buy insurance? Please vote for Willard “Mitt” Romney.”

In the early days of this catastrophe, The Centers for Unease Control (CfUC) proposed dumping large quantities of bong water into the local reservoir. The Bong Water Association, a major lobbying group, opposed this action and Congress refused to authorize Federal Agents to seize bongs except in the case of a Member of Congress of the opposing party getting caught actually huffing down a choker of kind bud. Thus, once again, our legislators found themselves in deadlock and reconciled to permit orgies in the offices of Senators with seniority to continue unabated, untaxed, and without interruption. However, it was stipulated that no more than three grams of the finest Peruvian cocaine, six magnums of expensive champagne, and four Thai trannies would be delivered between normal business hours (every ten minutes during two hour breaks between 1:PM and 4:PM). Otherwise, all the coke, hookers and booze was fine. But, no pot! “We have to draw the line somewhere!” proclaimed Senator Comedentures (R-AZ).

So, the CFuC turned to Plan B. Without explicit authorization, out of desperation, the Foggers, helicopter born bombs of a super-double-secret mixture of MDMA, 2Cb, and NO2 were deployed over the entire D. C. area. Alas, the only thing accomplished toward staunching the advance of the plague of Zombie Insurance Kids for Romney was the melting of their already quashed egos. Yes, already lacking any self-esteem or self-regard, the ego loss had no effect. The brave folks who executed this extraordinary and perilous mission did, however, come home to giggle quite a lot and hug everybody.

On September 12, 2012, Secret President of The World, Cheney V.4x, was informed of the unsanctioned and failed mission that he had sanctioned. He then made the most difficult decision of his life since he had to figure out if he wanted pickle relish on his hot dog, and mustard as well as ketchup. He ordered the “nukeyurl bombin’ of Lamptown.” “Do Belize, too. I’m sick of those whiners and I don’t care if they’re bilingual. I am too. Si, comprendo par lez voose!?!”; he continued. “Oh, do New York City, too! Pronto!!! Enough with that Jew bastard Mayor. Don’t tell Obama that Bloomass and The City are smoke. You don’t have to. Okay! You’ve got your fuckin’ orders.”

Twelve minutes and fourteen seconds after the order went out to Secret Military Command, fourteen million souls were no more casting a shadow upon liberty and All that is Right. Of those relieved of their corporeal baggage were some four-thousand and sixteen zombified Insurance and Romney election workers. A grateful nation bowed its head into a pile of radioactive ashes raining from a dark sky to give thanks to The Secret President and good riddance to Belize, that odious City of New York, its Jew bastard three-term Mayor, and noisy kids who smoked flowers.

Hic Finis Est, © Solomon 5/26/2012

Dear Friends,

My beloved is not by nature a vindictive woman nor violent. However, like many conscious and contentious citizens of our American Republic, she and I are both repulsed and called to action by members of the Republican party, many candidates for state or federal office. We cannot deafen our ears to their insistence on such principles as a pregnancy born of rape is God’s gift and that a victim of rape should have just gotten over it and enjoyed that sparkling moment enthralled in the embrace of her attacker. Thus, we came up with a practical plan to re-educate the thugs who counsel such notions. It goes something like this.

First you lash the bastard to an old chair with the cane removed from the seat. Use twisted barbed wire as the constraint. Next gag the idiot with duct tape. This works best if the moron has a mustache (more on this in a moment). Get that big, rusty monkey wrench out of the tool chest and clamp his nose. Clinch it real tight and let it dangle from his ruddy proboscis. Next pull out the razor knife and slash to remove his trousers and shorts. Do this slowly and careful-like; we don’t want to damage our volunteer. Now, we need the vice grips. These are good for the head of the penis, the center of the candidate’s thinking. Wind the tension screw tight to choke off any immoral thoughts.

The groaning subject of this ethical instruction will then be allowed a period of relaxation as he watches my beloved macramé a tidy but capacious sack for his scrotal area. This will only take two or three hours as he weeps and shudders. Once the handcrafted appurtenance is ready, it will be filled with steamy, hot mud and tied securely around his unmentionables. Now, simply wait for the estimable pubic figure to swoon and faint before ripping off the duct tape along with his well groomed mustache and perhaps most of his lips. This will rouse the student from his revery. At this point, you inquire, “What it as good for you as it was for me?”

Presently, we’re not sure what to do with our earnest student. We’ve already violated every local, state and federal law, as well as every law of God and man. We can’t have him blowing the whistle on us, so we staple his tongue to what’s left of his lips and take away the whistle. We leave the door to the shack out in the woods open in hopes that raccoons or feral dogs will consume the soon to be corpse. Hope springs eternal.

Res Ipsa Loquitor,

SCS

Dick Cheney on Gun Safety & Regulation!?!

Dear Friends,

Now, let me get this straight. Dick Cheney is today the commentator on Faux News discussing issues of gun safety and the regulation of fire arms in our nation.

Okay, here we got a guy who got so blind drunk that he fumbled on the #1 rule of fire arms safety: one never points a shot gun at the face of anybody whose head you don’t mean to splatter. Cheney did just that and he fired. He almost killed the guy, one of his best hunting buddies and an old friend. Fortunately, Cheney’s hunting partner was only disfigured for life. No charges were pressed against the Vice President as his pal apologized publicly for getting in the way of a muzzle two feet in front of his shit-for-brains skull as an intoxicated man within a heart beat of having his own atom bombs flipped off the safety and pulled the trigger to blast away.

No big deal. Things were settled in an amiable, gentlemanly manner. Perhaps some money had to change hands, but we will never know. Of course, at the time of the near fatal shooting Cheney had already hijacked the Presidential administration of a half-witted fellow draft dodger to start two pointless and doomed wars and set the stage for WW3 with North Korea, South Korea, Israel, Iran, Russia, Turkey, Syria, China, my nation and all the NATO powers in that game. Nice piece of work and a tad more tricky than just blasting your friend in the face at point blank range with bird shot. That was small beans and of no lasting consequence.

Anyhow, Dick then retired from government work to pluck the heart from a dead man and have it plugged into his own rancid plumbing to resume his earnest efforts in defense of lunatics with terrifying weapons of mass murder and his inane, drug induced ramblings about the threats to our citizens’ safety perpetrated by neighbors with weapons of mass destruction that require us to own more weapons of mass destruction so we can be safe from lunatics possessing weapons of mass murder.

This all makes total sense. Well, if you buy the illogic of Faux News, it makes sense. Um, can we get the government provided heart of the dead guy back? We’d also like to be reimbursed on the federally provided surgery that saved your mendacious, cold gutted and shambling, undead corpse from the grave. Thank you, Former Vice President, Dick Cheney.

Well, it's often tough to look at the fat in the fryer, to see how it boils down to the gristle and grit. Somethings can seem complex when they are actually simple, I fear. We have to talk plainly and reasonably to our friends and neighbors, but pull no punches. What's going on in our nation would horrify our founders and most sensible folks today.

Res Ipsa Loquitor,

SCS

An Election Autopsy…

Willard "Mitt" Romney

Dear Friends,

It’s been a few weeks since the recent Presidential election. Now that we’ve had a chance to observe the aftermath, it is time to perform the autopsy on the Romney/Ryan/Rove campaign. What have we learned?

Well, most obviously, the GOP gets its revenge in losing by eating its own. Sure, they gave old Dick Nixon another shot at the prize, but we saw how that turned out in the blaze of deliberate, plain stupid and public self immolation of his career and reputation. They shan't repeat that sort of error. Yes, no sooner was Mittens sent to rut in humiliating defeat by a skinny black guy with bigs ear and a funny name, a lousy economy limping too slowly into recovery, the longest war in our nation’s history wheezing to an indecisive end at the hands of folks who make bombs out of camel dung and kerosene, Romney started to plead that he was just misunderstood and Obama outbid him for the approval of Americans. Then the PigFest® began.

Swiftly his own people were upon him, gnawing at his skull, shredding his carcass with their angry beaks until his viscera lay in the hot sun hanging over the merciless, dusty Desert of Losers. The flesh between his ribs has become dried jerky and the vultures plucked his pearly whites from slack jaws. His eyeballs and liver, of course, were saved as appetizers for the Big Donors, but more on that in a moment.

As to Ryan? He is finished. This freakish product of a Star Trek transporter accident that melded the corporeal forms of Eddie Munster, Eddie Haskell and the pathological, wounded mind of a child terrified by the knowledge of his own mortality while loathing all of those who represent the prospect of Birth that inevitably begets Death, everyone his senior or possessing a vagina. Paul knows that he is on The List. He’s lying low in his secret bunker. He’s reading comic books with a flash light under the bed covers. He is fervently praying that Mother, the Great Teat of The Grand Old Party, will not crash his own party and grind his flesh to paste under her elephantine hooves for his very poor grades in civics class and A.P. Pandering to numb skulls.

Paul "Puppy" Ryan

Then there is the matter of Karl Rove. I will now join with my good friends on the other side of the aisle and help toss the fat punk's carcass into the frier before throwing the bones boiled and shorn of flesh into the dumpster. The most admirable and reliable behavior amongst these thugs is how they detest the aroma of a loser, the stink of defeat, and will swiftly abandon their own after getting nothing but derision for the three billion spent trying unsuccessfully to buy a nation.

Karl "Porky" Rove

Qui Fueunt Sed Nunc Ad Astra, G.O.P.

SCS

Thoughts on Secession in 2012

Dear Mr. President,

I understand that a number of folks in several states in our union are unhappy that you won reelection to the Presidency. These states have citizens who have signed petitions to secede from our nation’s union. I’d like to help you out here. The following is a suggestion for an address that you might offer to our nation on this topic. By all means, do feel free to have the folks in the black suits airdropped from black helicopters seize all television, cable, radio and Internet operating centers to ensure that each citizen in our citadel of freedom has the opportunity to watch, listen to and digest this message.

With Warm Regards and Unflinching Support,

Steven C. Solomon

To: President Barack Obama

Fr: SCS

Re: Go F^*k Off Texas

Dt: 11/15/2012

Please pass this on to your staff, Mr. President. I believe it is a dandy concept, at least a sketch of a speech that needs to be made.

“My fellow Americans, I interrupt this baseball game (Kathy Lee and Hoda, soap opera, idiots yammering on Fox News, etc and whatever) to bring you an important message. It has come to my attention that a number of folks in several states of America are sore about the fact that a guy with a funny name and is supposedly black or not and born in America or Kenya, is an atheist and Islamic, a transexual married to a man and a woman, and is a communist who wants to kill your grandmother is still President. Okay. That makes total sense. Nobody likes to lose a race of any kind. Now you want to secede from the United States of America

In any case, I will focus my remarks today on the state of Texas for the sake of simplicity. I understand that you folks in the red states require any help that I can provide in terms of focus and keeping things simple. I am, after all, the Chief Executive of Helping Explain the Obvious to Cranky Idiots. So, here goes!

Now, Texas, you can petition the Congress to secede. I’ll begin with the upsides of letting you do just that. Then I will move on to the counter argument.

Well, first, please write Uncle Sam a check for your portion of the national debt. We’d also like the roads, bridges, ports and airports we built back. Pack up the military bases and all the folks that work at and for them. You have an outstanding account regarding your citizens’ payments to Social Security, FICA and Medicare/Medicaid since the date of your declaration of secession. You need to settle up on that. Oh, and what about the bills due on support for your substandard and ill administrated systems of higher and K-12 education. Also, we want all the food back that we bought for your poor, as well as the medication for the disabled since you decided to break up our relationship.

Then there is the matter of subsidies to your oil and chemical industries. They might prefer to move their operations elsewhere in a more profitable economic climate. Mexico might look good. On the other hand, maybe Mexico would prefer to just buy the infrastructure and move their workers up your way. Yes, we know how much you’ve enjoyed that cheap labor, but now those guys will be your bosses.

Oh, you do get to keep the Alamo in this deal. Well, unless the new landlords tear it down to build condos for drug kingpins and former Latin American dictators. That will be your problem and the rest of your former nation will see about a trillion dollars returned to the Federal government. Yes, we downsized as you wished and are financially better for it.

Now, there is another way to scratch this itch that you have, this desire to reinstate the failed Republic of Texas. Let’s look to history as the issue presently on the table is not new. Indeed, it was settled by Congress, the Supreme Court, another tall, skinny guy with big ears in the Oval Office, and the most horrific war up to its point in history. Remember the Civil War? I’m a professor by training, so I’m going to give you a history lesson in terms that even folks challenged by a public system of education that teaches that Jesus rode around on dinosaurs and that the world is 6,659 years old can understand it.

So, forget about Honest Abe as the President. He’s a short order cook in this presentation. Picture old Gus at the Mope On Inn Diner. He knows how to whip up an omelet in a jiffy; a three egg omelet. He knows that you got to break the eggs to make that omelet.

The first egg is a vision that dates to the founders of this nation, The United States. Those folks back in 1776 had a concept for a nation that would be a democratic republic and span the entire continent to serve as a beacon of freedom for the entire globe. They saw the resurrection of an ideal not executed in two thousand years: free people sharing their commonwealth (think about that word) and collectively executing the will of the majority without trampling on the wishes of a minority.

The second egg is the notion that what this nation is about will never be altogether achieved but always strived for. We will always work toward that more perfect union that remains forever on the horizon as a goal. The nation had to be united and the our states indivisible lest we might as well have just thrown away that first egg.

The third egg was delivering the People’s franchise in those first two efforts. Everybody, every man and woman of whatever race, religion or no religion, wherever they came from on this planet or in this land had to have skin in the game. Else wise, those first two eggs got busted for nothing. Half a million folks would die in bloodshed beyond what any in Lincoln’s time could have yet imagined and half the nation would lay in utter ruin for no purpose. Thankfully, Lincoln was a fine short order cook.

So, Texas, here’s your omelet. Don’t worry about splashing it with pepper sauce. You can have extra onions if that pleases. Some folks like their’s with beans and tangy cheese. You can have it any way you want it, but you do have to sit with the other folks that amble into The Mope On Inn and abide by their chatter.

Thank you and good tidings to all in our United States.”

The Future is Now!

Dear Friends,

I present to you at no charge an exclusive look into the recent past, our present and near future as it may be. I am no mind reader nor savant of any kind. I cannot reliably prognosticate nor see into the future. I just read the writing writ upon the mists of Time as the river flows by.

Since the simultaneous rise of electronic computing, advances in modern prosthetics, medicine, surgery and brain science it has been a recently realizable dream to meld Human with machine. You encounter the present result each day when you notice an individual with a small neural implant on the back of his skull attached to a microphone in his ear. That part looks like a hearing aid. The implant’s interface to his brain looks like he’s pasted a quarter-sized piece of Silly Putty® to the left rear of his head, just above the hairline. He is a deaf person given the chosen gift of hearing by technology. He is a Cyborg; a Man Machine.

He is not alone. Today you are starting to see folks with funny looking glasses. They are blind but they can see by means of machine vision that communicates through digital to analog pulses to their Visual Cortex. It doesn’t work all that well yet, but it hold the promise of much better performance. Why settle for normal Human vision when you could toggle a switch to see like a butterfly or bee, see into the radio spectrum or perceive a night sky full of Gamma Ray Bursters making the best fireworks you could hope for?

Meanwhile, a lady in a wheelchair, a paraplegic, took the first sip of orange juice she’d had in thirty years without the help of an aide whom she communicated with only by blinking her eyes. She recently simply thought about having that beverage and a computer wired into her head told a disembodied robotic arm on a rolling table by her bed to give her some refreshment. It obeyed. She controlled a machine that, albeit temporarily, was part of her. She did it by wishing for a drink. That simple.

Well, it wasn’t really that simple. To get to this point of modest Human/Machine integration, a code had to be cracked. It’s the toughest code we know of this side of >Why and How Does Anything Exist?<. The code I refer to is the code of our most basic cerebral and sub-cerebral nervous functioning. It is the code clacking, gurgling and ticking behind our every physical and verbal expression, our very thoughts, both conscious and unconscious. A machine with such capacity would truly be a Mind Reader. Such machines have already been demonstrated in prototype to construct the words that a person is thinking and shine digital images of their visual imagination on fluorescing screens.

Flash forward to 2016. The United States unveils the federally mandated Mind Meters® to be installed in every airport, every ATM, every 7-11 and intersection where there is a stop light. Citizens can no longer get to the curb from the cab without having their minds scanned.

What sort of problems will pop up when brain scanners are perfected and installed on every corner. How will my nation’s economy and social fabric be ravaged as millions of folks from all walks of life leave their jobs to take online courses so that they might qualify as a Homeland Security Mind Readers and thus be able read the rampant pornographic thoughts of airline passengers and all the folks at banks or just walking down Main Street during lunch hour?

Surgeons will leave anesthetized patients in mid-appendectomy on the operating table. Lawyers and real estate speculators will leave money on the proverbial table to lunge at this new opportunity. The food service industry will become bereft of illegal immigrants working the dish washers as they flock toward the opportunity to find out what other illegal immigrants are really thinking about that skinny girl in the summer dress. “Is it what am I thinking or even dirtier?” Grandmothers will abandon their charges in bassinets to examine the secret thoughts of those swarthy fellows with their Mind Meters® as they also mine the imaginations of the very proper business man visualizing a lady’s underwear as she in turn tunes in a “suspect” for a reading of his response to another’s response to the response of another grooving to the spike heels of that “looker” as he ponders what’s on top of those long legs and her girlfriend monitors the entire situation. Teachers will ignore their classes while staring out the window to relentlessly scan the visual imaginations of folks on the town’s streets for signs of secret assignations underway while the kiddies are doodling on the margins of forty year old text books.

The economy will collapse, as will our culture, in a heaving sigh of an infinite loop consuming its own tail. No real work will get done. Children will be left unfed, ill educated and unattended. Every aspect of our civic life will be corroded. Commerce will sputter and belch and eventually swoon in a faint like a Victorian lady mortified that her bloomers were showing at the grand ball.

Oh, that has already happened. We don’t have to wait for 2016 and the perfection of Mind Meters®.

Hic Finis Est,

SCS

Remember Richard Noble, Our Veterans, Wars Well Over…

Dear Friends,

Remembrance Day in England and Canada is on November 11^th. It’s like what we in the USA used to call Armistice Day and, after the Second World War, Veterans Day. Most of my country’s citizens have no idea where Flanders Field is or that it was the battleground for one of the lousiest and most brutal battles of World War One. It is the site commemorated by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae in his poem “In Flanders Field” that bestowed upon us the tradition of old veterans handing out red paper poppies on a day that honors their service and the sacrifice that they, their comrades and friends and their families have made.

It is said that the broad territory of Flanders, fought over tooth and nail with every weapon from the newfangled tank to bayonets and bare hands, sprouted in an abundance of tiny crimson flowers as the soldiers’ last blood had seeped into the soil and silence fell. There was no sound but the wailing of the wounded and the far away weeping of mothers and lovers.

Reminded of this story, I have to mention Richard Noble. I met him when I was about thirty years old. He was then over ninety. He was the first American pilot to fly into that terrible rain of shit called World War One. He had to learn French before leaving the family farm in Hadley, Mass. He then had to spend his past few month's savings to take a boat to France and talk his way into getting a pilot's license. The USA did not issue them as it had no military air force nor commercial air. Then he had to talk the freshly minted RAF into giving him a Sopwith Camel from which he could drop grenades from the open cockpit of his rickety and infernal beast made of cloth and slats of wood with a load of sputtering steel weighing down its barely controllable craziness in flight. He tossed those little bombs down on guys close enough to rip up his flying machine with large caliber rifles and gatling guns and thus kill him after first inflicting a lot of bloody hurt. 

I was privileged to meet this guy. Even as he neared the century mark, he was ram rod straight and brighter than a full Moon on a still, clear night. I do not recommend war, I argue against most, but there are occasions when I get reminded not to confuse the war with the warrior. If you got folks coming home from war, I recommend just thanking them for their service and seeing where the conversation might lead, if anywhere. You both might learn something that was unexpected.

Hic Finis Est,

SCS

Ad Astra George McGovern

Dear Friends,

We lost George McGovern last night. The guy was a true hero in war and for peace. Like so many of his comrades, he did not speak much about what he did to earn his medals of valor in WW2. He did not, however. discount the record that he once brought home in one piece the crew of the B-24 Liberator bomber that he piloted with one engine shot off and another aflame, 110 bullet holes drilled through the craft. But, he did not make much of that.

He did describe his time in war a hell, and by his subsequent devotion to peace and giving food and care to those that suffered in war, in poverty, in hunger, I surmise that he was conscious of not only the hell he endured, but those caught up in all the world's wars.

He went on to endure a second hell, going toe to toe with the most ruthless President our nation has yet known. He dared a man with atom bombs and the world's biggest secret police to an honest fight. His opponent was so cowered by McGovern's courage that he resorted to dirty tricks and thievery to win the battle and thus ultimately lost everything. In the course of this domestic battle, of course, Nixon plunged an entire region of Asia into war and killed more than 4 million innocents. Nixon delivered the very hell that McGovern had warned of and knew too well.

But, George never expressed bitterness about that defeat. As in WW2, possibly the only war that we might generously call a good war in our recent history as a nation, McGovern was clad in the armor of humility and a good sense of humor as he returned from the battlefield. This guy George was, indeed, a hero and he dared against all odds. We lost a good one last night. I'm very grateful to have been around in his time.

Res Ipsa Loquitor,

SCS

Senator and Hero George McGovern

Paul Ryan's Mind…

Dear Friends,

I am not a mental health professional, but I am a writer. Thus I know and can explain the narrative of this sick punk's story clearly. He's a hurt little puppy who has seen all of the older men in his family, including his dad, die in their mid-fifties. He resents his mother who had to adopt the role of authority in his life as he was tutored by priests on the inferiority of women.

He deeply fears growing old and thus perversely worships his own male body by torturing it to excess. In the disguise of perfecting it, he self-flagellates like the celibate monk that he is not and can never be given his obsession with sex and the unknowable power in a woman's womb that he strives unsuccessfully to control. He is hiding behind the smile of a man terrified of his mortality as he bargains with the very devil of his imagining that he seeks to defeat. He is doomed and lashing out against the unstoppable future. This dude's way in life makes the deal that Faust struck look like a good bet.

Res Ipsa Loquitor,

SCS

Attention: Voters in the United States of America!

Dear Friends,

This man is a dangerous, unprincipled, compulsive liar and a religious fanatic He believes that it is his destiny to usher in a "New Jerusalem on Earth" to create a global theocracy administered by the priests of The Church of Latter Day Saints (Mormons). This mission will be accomplished following an apocalypse in the ancient Holy Land. Thus it was foretold to crazy Joe Smith by an angel named Maroni and supposedly from another planet while the extraterrestrial angel was vacationing in the woods of upstate New York.

Willard "Mitt" Romney

We cannot allow this lunatic have his hands on nuclear weapons. Let me make it really plain: we do not want this bozo to have his finger on the button that will provide him with what he believes are God given tools to invoke Armageddon. If you doubt this, do your own research on The Church o' LDS.

I should finally add, I don't personally give a damn what anybody believes. I'm an atheist and all religions seem pretty whacky to me. From animists to onion heads in saffron robes, any stripe of Christian, the several of Islam, folks that pray to elephant headed fat guys, the several flavors of Jews that I grew up with… the entire spectrum. All I'm saying is that it is not a good idea to give a deceitful yokel who is looking forward to the end of The World the means to pull off such a stunt.  

Res Ipsa Loquitor,

SCS 

The Crisis in America

Dear Friends,

There’s been a lot of talk, gnashing of teeth, sympathy expressed, and just plain foolishness spewed after the shootings in Colorado. I’d like to make a few points from my own perspective as clear as possible.

Hand guns and assault weapons are horribly imprecise weapons. Assault weapons, semi-automatic rifles of large caliber, make up for the deficiency in their accuracy by spewing a large number of lethal projectiles in a big hurry. Pistols are good for making hamburger out of human flesh at close range.


At long range, except in the hands of a well trained shooter with good vision, time on his hands and a clean shot at a well lit enemy; well? They are not reliable at hitting the intended target. This ain’t like it seems watching western movies.

I can tell you this most assuredly, as I have had the opportunity to train on hand guns. I’ve also had the stimulating experience of being fired upon. I am grateful that pistols make very poor weapons at any range aside from those circumstances found on a target field.  Else wise, I would not presently have a head on my shoulders to make this report.

In any case, the idea of arming ordinary citizens without real training, I mean REAL TRAINING as a deterrent to psychopathic criminals or even just plain thugs is absurd. First, a nut case who is intent on spraying a crowd with bullets, tear gas, and is wearing a flak jacket, helmet and a gas mask, is likely not afraid of seeing his corpse on the evening news. He’s wagering that he won’t be around to see that news and/or is so far gone that he really hasn’t thought things out all too well.

Second, letting loose more lead flying in a darkened theater full of panicked and wounded people is only likely to cause more carnage. Even in simple situations, a home burglary, a bored perimeter guard on duty at a Marine base in Guam, a kid trying out his new BB gun, whatever, four out of five gun shots are taken in accidents. It is seldom the intended target that gets the bullet. More often it is either the baby sleeping in the room next door or the terrified homeowner plugging his own foot.

So, let’s please get a grip. More weapons of carnage, good for nothing but making holes in people and most likely to kill the innocent, are not going to make anybody more safe. We can honor the spirit of the 2^nd Amendment in such a way as we do the 4^th (we do allow folks to have their car registration and driver’s licenses revoked) and stop this homicidal nonsense.

Oh, one last thing! This guy Holmes, this mutant freak, this damaged child managed to get thrown out of one gun shop while trying to buy weapons acting “weird and making monkey noises”, got thrown off a rifle range for the same sort of simian gesticulations and behaving like a “frightened animal” in the weeks before his attack. Nobody called the cops. No. The gun shop owner referred him to a web site to get his six thousand rounds of ammo. His neighbors watched him tote in enough explosives and grenades and weapons to blow up the entire building and kill hundreds of people. Nobody called the cops.

I’m no fan of the cops where it concerns my own ill behavior, but they are there for a reason. Next time you see a kid toting heavy weapons, an old guy taking a little kid into the shower, don’t keep quiet. Don’t call the guy’s boss, a football coach. Screw your head on and don’t wait for a neighbor to make the call. You are the neighbor or the friend or the coach. It will be less embarrassing to be wrong, if your judgement is not right, than see a little girl shot or another ten year old boy raped in the shower.

Res Ipsa Loquitor,

SCS

Cannabis Deprivation

Cannabis Deprivation

Today, we have a President who has boldly sort'a proclaimed that he sort'a, kind'a smoked, uh, well, er, pot, actually choom or boo, in a time when our children need to hear this message. The ravages of Cannabis Depravation among our youth, particularly young men, is leading to a scourge of bad music and even physical deformities. The Lawrence Stanley Denton Foundation has well documented the instances of shrinking Hilarity glands and overactive production of Seriousity neurotransmitters in the brains of weed starved kids. Another effect of the syndrome is formerly luxurious blond locks of hair turning white and falling out in clumps from the heads of previously handsome fellows in their late teens to early twenties. The mangey clots of hair roll like silver tumble weeds down the empty streets. 

In the most severe cases the Mary Jane malnourished are known to spontaneously grow wingtip shoes that cover their webbed feet, sprout uncomfortable worsted wool from their bodies in the form of poorly fitting and itchy suits, horn-rimmed glasses that encrust their dilated eyes, and eventually can be found prowling the streets of suburbia for days at a time accosting strangers with pleas that innocent, horrified citizens buy insurance from them. No. No. This is no joking matter. Yes. Yes. As the revered St. Zimmerman said: "Everybody must get stoned!"

Indeed, it is difficult to overstate the immensity of the tragedy of Cannabis Deprivation Syndrome. Take the impact on just one community, Lavatown, NV. Once a thriving small city of suburban tracts surrounding the principle employer, The Lawrence Stanley Denton LavaLamp Factory, it is now a virtual ghost town. In the interest of full disclosure, The LSD estate endowed the research provided in this monogram through the good works of the Lawrence Stanley Denton Foundation, created as some small amends for the tragic proceeds of his cultural and financial empire building and personal, willful abandonment of sanity while violating every law of god and man.

In any case, Lavatown, is largely abandoned. The LSD LavaLamp factory is shuttered and decaying, inhabited only by murders of crows and colonies of rabid bats that eat rampant beetles as big as small cars and gnaw on the skulls of hairless rats as big as cats. The streets of the once fair city are empty but for the clumps of white hair blowing like tumble weed in the desert wind. All of the grown ups have moved on, leaving their tidy homes for the safe shelter of dumpsters in Reno. They had no choice, of course. Their children were quite mad, prowling the streets with mom’s Pyrex mixing cups, knocking on doors that would never be answered, pleading “May I have a cup of choom? Will you buy insurance? Please vote for Willard “Mitt” Romney.”

In the early days of this catastrophe, The Centers for Unease Control (CfUC) proposed dumping large quantities of bong water into the local reservoir. The Bong Water Association, a major lobbying group, opposed this action and Congress refused to authorize Federal Agents seizing bongs except in the case of a Member of Congress of the opposing party getting caught actually huffing down a choker of kind bud. Thus, once again, our legislators found themselves in deadlock and reconciled to permit orgies in the offices of Senators with seniority to continue unabated, untaxed, and without interruption. However, it was stipulated that no more than three grams of the finest Peruvian cocaine, six magnums of expensive champagne, and four Thai trannies would be delivered between normal business hours (every ten minutes during two hour breaks between 1:PM and 4:PM). Otherwise, all the coke, hookers and booze was fine. But, no pot! “We have to draw the line somewhere!” proclaimed Senator Comedentures (R-AZ).

So, the CFuC turned to Plan B. Without explicit authorization, out of desperation, the Foggers, helicopter born bombs of a super-double-secret mixture of MDMA, 2Cb, and NO2 were deployed over the entire area. Alas, the only thing accomplished toward staunching the advance of the plague of Zombie Insurance Kids for Romney was the melting of their already quashed egos. Yes, already lacking any self-esteem or self-regard, the ego loss had no effect. The brave folks who executed this extraordinary and perilous mission did, however, come home to giggle quite a lot and hug everybody.

On September 12, 2012, Secret President of The World, Cheney V.4x, was informed of the unsanctioned and failed mission that he had sanctioned. He then made the most difficult decision of his life since he had to figure out if he wanted pickle relish on his hot dog, and mustard as well as ketchup. He ordered the “nukeyurl bombin’ of Lamptown.” “Do Belize, too. I’m sick of those whiners and I don’t care if they’re bilingual. I am too. Si, comprendo par lez voose!?!”; he continued. “And, do New York City, too! Pronto!!! Enough with that Bloomass Jew bastard. Don’t tell Obama that Bloomass and The City are smoke. You don’t have to. Okay! You’ve got your fuckin’ orders.”

Twelve minutes and fourteen seconds after the order went out to Secret Military Command, fourteen million souls were no more casting a shadow upon liberty and All that is Right. Of those relieved of their corporeal baggage were some four-thousand and sixteen zombified insurance and Romney election workers. A grateful nation bowed its head into a pile of radioactive ashes raining from a dark sky to give thanks to The Secret President and good riddance to Belize, that odious City of New York, its Jew bastard three-term Mayor, and noisy kids who smoked flowers.

Hic Finis Est,

S

© Solomon 5/26/2012

Mitt.V.2x and His Rise and Demise…

Dear Friends,

As we left Mitt V.2x, he was ready to join the campaign in the guise of Mitt V.1. Nobody should be the wiser, or so it is supposed. There were, admittedly, some kinks to work out, but things seemed to be sailing smoothly until a stop at A.B. Won Pat International Airport, Island of Guam for a little meet and greet with the local League of Women Voters prior to the upcoming Republican primary, now an apparent cinch. Little Ricky was out of the race and likely headed toward an anguished end after thorough debriefing on that cannibalism incident. Word has it that “Uncle Dick” himself, fresh from his deal with getting a working heart from that kid dead in the mysterious car wreck mix-up, was going to personally supervise. Anyhow, Newt is the only remaining trouble spot, though surprises can always pop up on the trail to The White House. Options have to remain open. ~ Ed. Note.

Mitt.V.2x is now on wheels and ready to roll. He is poised at the edge of the runway after being debarked from his private jet, having been borne prostrate and in servo-lock mode by his manservants before greeting the press waiting on the tarmac. Once made erect and placed on his robo-motorized skateboard, he was activated with an injection by Doctor Wellbody: 120mg of WhooHooYeah® (Adrenochrome HCL), a fine product from the good folks at Phiztter Pharm® (a wholly owned subsidiary of Bain Capital, Inc®). Administered directly to the base of his skull and into the brain stem of the marginally mutant replicate human, the effect was immediate and electrifying.

Apparently extensive company funded and FDA approved field tests of the medication on cloned human beings of perhaps inbred genetic inheritance from generations of polygamous sires of a common and deeply weird great-great-great grandfather had not been conducted. Who knew that the fervently enthusiastic banjo playing genes of old Parley P. Pratt would suddenly engage and their impulses emerge with such gusto as the inanimate Mitt clone sprang to life with the giddy zest of a good ol’ time picker. Mitt seized the plinky-plink meskeeter-box from a young Biff Puddfusser. There Biff was, the son of steely eyed Rear Admiral Puddfusser (thrice decorated former quartermaster of the USS Brigham Young) in shock in the front row of the Yellow Hollow Pacific High School Blue Grass band as the stately handsome and likely Republican candidate for President of these United states come over on a CREDO Model 7 Board® to swipe his instrument in a swoop with a whoosh.

Next thing you know, Mitt.V.2x is wranglin’ with those silvery strings, liquid notes are a’flying as a crazy drizzle of mercury from some heavenly cloud wreathed like it was smiled upon by god’aw’mighty. And, he’s a’yoddlin’ like what’all!!! “Yo-dee-lae-hee-hoo-hee-ha-ha-ha!!!” It was grand, alright!

Then the drug wore off. Mitt.V.2x got stiff as a board, turned all greenish, the Nutty Putty plugs in his head popped out of his fevered skull. His brain was boilin’. The straw cowboy hat flew off his skull like a skillet top on firecracker. The speech program chip melted back to its “normal” or default state and Wiilard, er, Mitt.V.2x could only be heard to gasp and murmur as he drooled to repeat again and again, “I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me. I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me.” Next, the projectile vomiting and profound flatulence started. Must have been those Micronesian spicy wild boar hot dogs with Cycad relish that set off his ill-trained sphincters and tender digestive glands.

The entire crowd, the ROTC cadets, Reserve troops and their officers of the Joint Force Headquarters-Guam at Fort Juan Muna, that little band, all their teachers from Freaklin HS, even the cops and Secret Service guys run for cover. But, the candidate is frozen stiff as a toad under a rock in February up in Wasilla, AK, near where you can see Siberia (that’s in Russia, y’know) on a clear day.

Next, a fearsome gust of ocean wind came up. It was all downhill from here for Mitt V.2x… indeed it is! His undead frame slowly animates under the meteorological pressure of tropical breezes and slowly, then more swiftly, he rolls and accelerates on his rubber wheels along the sloping grade of the runway toward a providently placed gap in the fence. Disaster is averted as the fake Mitt skid-addles just so fine into the marshy rift between old and indigenous farmer Hector Hoothefukahwey’s place and the airport runway strip. Fortunately for the phony Romney, Hoothefukahwey was nearby, slopping his hogs, as he heard a “splursh” sound, some subsequent gurgling and ran to investigate what all was going on at the edge of his small farm.

He discovers a man lashed to a skateboard, dressed in a nice pair of overalls but with holes in his head. The apparent corpse is as firm and upright as a plank of Ifil, the official state tree of Guam. The tall and handsome greenish creature startled Mr. Hoothefukahwey in saying: “I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me. I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me.”

Of course, Hoothefukahwey understands that he is presented with perhaps both an opportunity and a burden, here. He opts for the former. “Can ya slop the hogs?” The reply, “I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me.” The wise farmer takes that for a yes. This specimen is fit to slop the hogs alright and likely will work for vittles and a stay in the barn. Hoothefukahwey has such accommodations in the stall next to the old barrel where Bossie’s noggin is cornin’ to make the head cheese. Hoothefukahwey’s a generous man so he fixes a fresh pile of straw a’top the manure and sets up the “presidential candidate” on his skateboard for a night’s rest before turning in himself. He carelessly leaves the wick on the kerosene lamp on the sill still lit before heading in to get some few hours of dreamless slumber ‘till the sun comes up.

Hoothefukahwey awakes before dawn to a horrible fire in and out and around the barn. Pigs are running every which way. His prize and only goat, Eulie, is perched with all fours atop the slender fence post by the corner of the barn as flames lick her ankles and she bleats terribly. Through the smoggy, cindered smoke of the dung fed pyre, Hoothefukahwey can see the silhouette of a large man erect and with an odd emerald glistening goop slathering from his ears, bubbling, frothing and seemingly with a life or energy of its own. This figure is apparently immune to the scorching flames engulfing his limbs. The strange man again slowly murmurs the phrase “I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me. I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me…” over and over as the conflagration consumes his fancy-pants overalls and his skin peels away from the undying body in rags of flesh burning in its own fat.

As the sun finally rises over farmer Hoothefukahwey’s small slice of island paradise, now a smoldering wreck reeking of pork renderings and sizzled excrement, his hovel a pile of ashes, his livestock barbecue, the corpse of the stranger that came to him with so much promise of low-cost labor still looming upon his skateboard, standing tall, quietly, gently, reasonably pleading “I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me. I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me.”

“By the gods Puntan and Fu’una, by all the gods of The Chamorro!”, weeps poor farmer Hector Hoothefukahwey, “Take this beast from my life! He has laid waste to all that I have owned, taken my livelihood, my pigs, my only goat, and my home. And, he won’t shut the fuck up!!!”

The Mitt.V.2x continues to intone “I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me. I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me.” Hoothefukahwey can only weep.

Hic Finis Est,

S

Mitt the Undead…

Dear Friends,

Editor’s Note: As we left off in our last post, the Romneys had quite a situation on their hands. Young Willard “Mitt” Romney was a corpse, nice hair cut chewed off, brain devoured by the insane beast Santorum. Little Ricky was now in the hands of “The Law’, sequestered and out of touch with his handlers and the press in a secure location in the bowels of a secret Federal prison below one of many cloud hidden mountains hollowed by centuries of coal mining in the wilds of Montana. Per Executive Order sDC143593.B-45045.a539G he would likely not be heard from until a Marshal Court convenes at US Base Alpha Omega in Senegal in 2013, if ever. There is a history of military planes mysteriously disappearing en-route to undisclosed locations, all hands lost over the vast mid-Atlantic.

Of course, the Romney family was not entirely unprepared for the demise of young Willard, er, Mitt, his skull gnawed, his scalp ingurgitated by the demon possessed Catholic cannibal Santorum. They had seen their plans to arm The Church of Latter Day Saints with atomic weapons thwarted more than once before. It was old George’s 1968 campaign for the Republican Party Nomination against The Devil Nixon, that Quaker snake in the grass, that yanked the football out of their hands. Then, as Willard, er, Mitt, competed with John McCain in 2008 for his own nomination, the foreign born and Episcopalian menace cheated the elders yet again from their true destiny as the most powerful and ruthless rulers of The World.

This time, nothing would stand in their way. The clan leaned back and stared at their great progenitor, Parley P. Pratt. He was the wily great-great-great grandfather of Mitt, and his life and demise stood today as yesterday as a beacon of hope against hope and perverse cunning in the face of doom. The inspirational tale is inscribed in the margins of the old family bible, or as it secretly known among The Select, “The Great Book of Hoohah”.

While returning from a horseback missionary trip to the southern United States in 1857, Parley was being tracked by one Hector McLean, he the legal husband of one of Pratt's then fourteen wives, Eleanor McLean. Pratt had met Eleanor in California, where Pratt was presiding over a church mission. In San Francisco, Eleanor had joined the LDS Church and had also had her oldest sons baptized before running off to Salt Lake City with the not so right Reverend Pratt. 


Hector’s belly was swollen with murderous rage at his now former wife’s conversion and elopement, termed a “Celestial Marriage” with Parley and his harem. Oh, there was also the small issue of Pratt kidnapping Hector’s kids.

Now, things did not end well for Parley. Eventually he got shot up good by Hector and took a full two and half days to die in agony, slowly bleeding to death amidst much praying and wailing by the righteous of his community, as there was no doctor within two hundred miles. Still, he made it two years between stealing the wife and getting caught up with in Utah. In the meanwhile, he had sired about a gross of young Pratts and therein lies the inspiration for the Romney Mob’s grand plan. Always have a backup!

See, after taking a whopping mess o’ ass whippin’ from the treacherous Nixon Monster, old George did not slink off to merely lick his wounds whilst enjoying the boobie prize of being appointed his new boss’ Secretary of Housing and Urban Development. No, he set his staff busy organizing a secret plan at the behest of his true overlords back at The Tabernacle. Romney had sired a son back in 1947. Yes! Willard “Mitt” Romney would be cloned in a secret installation powered by mystically inspired technology deep in the bowels of the most Holy of Holies, far underground and secreted from spying eyes by the Great Salt Lake. There the clone had gestated for the past sixty-five years, naked in an artificial womb, fed a nutrient slurry by tubes drilled into his skull, waiting for the day he might be called upon should disaster again strike The Romney Mob and their Mormon Mafia. That day had come!!!

Now, the Mitt V.2x was physically identical to the V.1 model in physiognomy and stature, indeed in every obvious detail, except… well, the creature had spent six decades submerged in a giant tube of formaldehyde and peroxide perfused gelatinous aspic (six tons were allegedly hoisted by the Romney Mob from the old Meyerson & Lipschitz Gefilte Company back in 1947, but the charges were never proven). Thus his complexion was rather sallow. But, artificial tanning lotion gave the new model a “good enough” tangerine look for the campaign upcoming in Florida’s primary. There were also those vacant skull plugs for the nutrient broth that had to be piped into his skull. Those could be plugged up with Nutty Putty®, so that was not a major problem unless his brain started to a’fever.

More of an issue was the fact that the “New Mitt” had never eaten solid food in his entire six-plus decades. Doctors for the Double Secret Tabernacle Celestial Medical Cooperative knew that this would ensure that their creation would be entirely incontinent and prone to shitting his pants in the face of all the corn dogs, blueberry pancakes, cheese grits, peppered mac n’ cheese, raw oysters, fried grasshoppers and various other regional delicacies that must be consumed on the campaign trail. Thus he was equipped with a state of the art and scientifically designed odor-neutralizing full body diaper. From neck to ankles, cuff to collar this brand new Republican front-runner would be swathed in yummy, fragrant warmth. Both the candidate and his electorate would be protected for up to one full month from poop and urine flowing effulgently from the Mitt V.2x Artificial Candidate Alimentary System®. However, this solution presented yet another challenge to getting the newly minted man out on the road.

You see, the full body diaper was rather bulky. The New Mitt looked like the Michelin Man once the dang thing started to expand all full of Contained-fragrance/Fragrance-Enhanced® potentially presidential excrement. The top Mormon Costume Engineers, the guys (they’re all guys) who design the vestments and sacred underwear for the lady folk to sew, they got to work on Double-double Super Secret Project X-M2 (The New Body). It produced, after an intense two weeks without sleep in their underground lair a very stylish set of XXX-L farmer’s overalls. The Elders deemed them perfect for the upcoming Romney campaign stops throughout southern and western states, and the Romney Mob Board of Misdirectors approved the final design for production.

Yet again, however, a roadblock to getting their new man into action loomed. The human-like, though handsome blob that emerged from the gelatin tank had never spoken nor even learned to speak in his nutrient rich but soundless incubation. This situation was addressed with the implantation of a small digital chip, modified from a talking greeting card purchased at the local Piggly Wiggly®. He could now say, “Hello. I am Mitt Romney. I am Mitt Romney. I hope that you will vote for me. I hope that you will vote for me.” over and over and just flawlessly.

Still, he had also not learned to walk, use a pen to write, nor understand that a pen was, indeed, to write with. They went through a gross of Bic® pens as Mitt V.2X chewed and sucked on them, occasionally stabbing himself or his tutors in the face with the sharp end. As a result, the entire project was delayed for two additional weeks as the candidate was fitted with a glass eye and crowns on his front teeth. Eventually, in exasperation, the team went back to the drawing board.

There was sufficient room in Mitt’s sacred overalls to conceal a mechanized armature, a wearable robotic skeleton, developed by Top Secret Super-Duper Secret Mechanized War of The Angels Team Yoo-Hoo. Visionary scientists worked in the sub-sub-sub basement lab below the cave beneath the Tabernacle’s lower basement sub-floor. Again striving relentlessly without sleep in total darkness but for the light of Divine Inspiration, their prototype was refitted for rapid deployment in support of the Mitt V.2x campaign. With this complex device and remote robotic control, the faux man could manipulate, albeit crudely, writing implements and be of no danger to himself nor others when handling such things as forks and corkscrews. The only thing missing was the walking module.

Now, here’s the brilliant part! With the extra-extra-extra large denim hick outfit he was starting to look the part of a real conservative candidate with appeal in cowboy, cotton and petrochemical states. The team solved the problem with the Nutty-Putty oozing out of the holes in his head by duct taping a straw hat down just over his ears. That nicely completed the ensemble. What was needed now was to garner the attention of the youth vote, you know, the hep crowd.  A remote controlled skate board would not only solve the walking problem and get him out to meet and greet and mechanically shake the hands of regular folks who had no money, but really get the attention of those chicks who dig rebels on skinny rubber wheels. Some of them are old enough to vote, even.

Stay Tuned…

Little Ricky Santorum…

I walk into my office HQ for Anton Saurian, Private Dick, at the usual hour. It’s the crack of noon. I toss my fedora across the room to land, as always, precisely upon the noggin of my prized antique bust of Lady Columbia poised atop the file cabinet to the rear of Ms Gillary’s desk and my petite but ample assistant pours me the customary lunch of chilled gin with hemp garnish from the holy Dewar Flask of the Hell Bent Sacrament. I barely begin to cleanse my sinuses with its rank yet zesty perfume, feel the giddy yet pernicious warmth of its flavor tumble toward my gullet, as she plops the dossier upon my desk. I light a cigarette and regard her with cold dispassion belying the tension in my loins.

I know this is not going to be good news. Gillary glares at me with that concerned mommy look and her pose, like that of a 19^th Century Prussian Field Marshall standing for a portrait, demands that I give the work immediate attention. Well, I do love a woman in uniform, but could do without that battle steed in the picture. Whatever. I quaff my treacherous confection, suck hot gas into my lungs, and open the file. Might as well get to it, whatever IT is.

Dag’nam’itt! It’s a pile of hurt for a former associate in a certain business that needs no further discussion. He is now a guest of the Governor, under arrest and in the custody of the Sheriff while awaiting his day in court later this afternoon. Before I even dig into this pile of poop, I can see that things are not looking good for my old acquaintance and apparently new client, Little Ricky Santorum. At the top of this steaming mess of pooty is the mug shot. Little Ricky looks like hell.

Beneath the license plate upon his chest bearing the banner “Inmate: 200114” I can see that his trademark sleeveless sweater vest is in tatters. He was always a snappy, if conservative dresser. He is beat up pretty good, too. The boys downtown must’a had a good time with him. More troubling, though, is the lady’s wig, a sort’a Monroe kind’a job, and the lip stick smeared across his kisser. His mascara is run. He must’a been bawlin’ like a baby under the relentless rain of fists hammerin’ at his mug before they drug his tarted up carcass into the lock-up. He’s also gained a lot’a of weight since I last saw him and sports quite a set of falsies.

None of this makes any sense. Ricky always kept in fine trim. He is a kind’a health nut and I know his Missus cooked healthy. The deal with the make-up, the wig is also odd. Yeah, he’s a pretty boy, alright, but not a flamer. He might get a beer or a few in him and spout off about what he called the “gay menace.” I give it no never mind at the time, but he does seem kind’a preoccupied with what other fellows might be up to behind closed doors. Then again, he has fourteen kids with Mrs. Santorum and likes to mention how big his John Thompson is. So, I figure him for a real man and this thing with his appearance going all to shit and showing up dressed like Jane Mansfield just doesn’t square with my previous impressions.

It gets worse, though, as I dig into the documents. He’s arrested for being involved in a “disturbance” in an alley behind the Cat-Cat club on Market Street. A kitchen worker at the joint is sent out to empty trash in the dumpster. He’s shocked to find a blond, supposed woman in a miniskirt and fishnet stockings apparently asleep or passed out cradling a male corpse who is seemingly scalped in her blood soaked arms. She turns out to be he; my pal Ricky. The deceased man is subsequently identified as one Willard Mitt Romney (born March 12, 1947), reported missing from his campaign for the Republican primary for President of the United States the night prior. DNA testing of the contents of Ricky’s stomach are currently underway to determine if they contain Mr. Romney’s hair cut.

Now, it gets even more worse. Roused from his perhaps inebriated slumber, Ricky assaults the officers summoned to the dumpster by the club’s owner, the well respected Manuel Castro de Garcia. Santorum is seen on police video raving about Cactchoolics, Moomest perspecuctions, Chewish anti-papist plotters and Oberbombers as he takes repeated taser hits and the massive application of mace, seeming to be energized by the experience. Finally, in a frothing fit of what appears to be continued howling in Esperanto, he is brought to his knees although this is not visually recorded as an officer mashes the alleged assailant’s face into the cruiser windshield in front of the camera. There is, however, a sound that indicates that Ricky is being beaten thoroughly with a trash can or trash cans on his head and shoulders.

Well, I got’ta go. Little Ricky is down at the station and I’ll give the punk a look-see for myself. I suppose that then I’ll then head over to the mansion and see how the Missus is fairing. The coppers likely have been in touch with her, and if they haven’t she may have noticed her missing underwear or the VISA bills for those high heels she never bought. I know her brood of shitty brats, and I’ll wager they don’t even notice that dad hasn’t called home or are grateful for the circumstance. As for that Romney clan, they’re on their own, I reckon.  That mob knows what to do in these tight spots. The patient execution of wrath by the courts may satisfy them to balance the account with the loss of their beautiful prince and his high priced scalp. Maybe not. Yes, they do know what to do…

Hic Finis Est,

S

Madness!?!

Dear Friends,

What is going on in my nation? Have we lost our minds? In the states of Ohio and Virginia, it has been resolved that women who wish for or require abortions must now submit to vaginal probes for ultrasound against their will. By federal law, this procedure is deemed to be rape. The conservatives reckon that’s okay ‘cuz the woman forced to be probed has already had her vagina probed by some other fellah and it don’t much matter that a doctor is sworn to first do no harm, such as poking a lady with a vibrating thing-a-ma-jig in a medically unnecessary procedure to provide her with “information” that she already knows, that she is pregnant, and may cause harm to her uterus.

Oh, then there is the movement to deny women of contraceptives under any circumstances, whether they be used for hormonal treatment of cancer or birth control. Rape is okay. Incest is just dandy. But, we must not let women take progesterone

Well, of course, the folks promoting this legislation don’t know how to spell progesterone and are not women. In fact, they barely even have testicles. They do have a series of wives in many cases, some abandoned as they lie in a hospital bed dying of cancer (hello, Newt), yet they are not permitted the medication that would prevent the birth of a half dozen kids who would not be cared for by the creep that left his wife (the first of two, so far, Newt) to die from a terminal illness.

Okay, okay… let me slow down here. I don’t want to lose you. Arizona’s legislature is now proposing to outlaw the word gay in public schools. Good idea. Our kids will no longer have to listen to that miserable song by that Jew bastard Bernstein as sung by the whore Natalie Wood in “West Side Story.” Even better, we can throw out all the books with the word “gay”. Less books is good, ain’t it Bubba! I suppose this will also eliminate the dictionary, or at least page 164 of the OED, if you idiots know what that is.

Then there’s the thing with no contraception, again. Wait a minute. More extra marital and unwanted pregnancies? More babies with no food nor safe home? So, they’s supposed to git knocked up by Dad or the boy down the alley in the trailer park, have a baby and go on the dole. Yeah. That’ll work. Serves them girls right for having vaginas. Otherwise G-d would not have made vaginas to splurt out babies for rich white guys to support with their hard earned dollars garnered from dispossessing poor folk of their homes and jobs whilst getting us into yet another war paid for by the future taxes of their newly born children who can’t find jobs.

Oh, did I mention the proposal in the Oregon State Legislature allowing teenagers to carry concealed weapons into their public schools? Yes, this great idea is seen as a deterrent to the now too frequent shoot-em-ups by the young’uns blasting away at their teachers and class mates. Just brilliant! Let’s make everybody safe by having the least socialized and least mature beasts of our kind armed when they go into their civics class. What sort of person would want the job of being a teacher knowing that if he hands out a D- grade on that essay about Ben Franklin, that he and a number of his students would end up in the morgue? I know! It would be Mr. Eldinkoomph, the weird guy that plays the organ at church on Sunday and treats his favorite students to soda and cake at his trailer after school.

Well, finally, we come to Rush Limbo. Poor guy. His best explanation of why he is not anti-women is that he was a judge at the Miss America Pageant. He got paid to watch a bunch of busty ladies in skimpy swim suits play the violin and testify that they were in favor of equality for all Humankind. Who is the whore? Of course, not he. He skidded off the dais to go on a sex tourism mission to find the embrace of a young transexual in an impoverished South American nation relentlessly seeking hard cash and exporting cocaine.

Now, let’s imagine an alternative world, not one full of punks bent on ruining the lives of their spouses, their less well off friends (if they have any friends), and having secret thrills with boys with boobs while smashed on Oxys and coke. A guy that looks and talks like Morgan Freeman is President of the Galactic Federation. A fellow with a weird name from a place in what used to be called the Bronx in a nation that once prospered and was called The United States of America; his name is Neil deGrasse Tyson, and he is The Minister of Science and Universal Understanding. Women are respected in all meaningful ways. They are not on pedestals nor subjugated. Men know their place and their obligations as the ones that can open jars and can change the kid’s diapers. They might even learn to cook something more than salami and scrambled eggs.

Yeah. Maybe, someday pigs will fly, and we won’t have to put up with annoyances like Limbaugh. Someday, perhaps, people will be free to love who they love. We might no longer fight stupid wars over oil and water. Our civilization, so called, might be nourished by the rain of photons pouring over us from our Mother Sun. We can all get fed. We shall look to the stars as destinations, not mere glimmers in the arch of heaven. Let’s go. Let’s go. Get on with it!

Res Ipsa Loquitor,

S