A True Christmas Story

Usually when I have a story from my life I exaggerate the hell out of it for humor’s sake. Today I have an absolutely true Christmas tale that needs no hyperbole. I’ve been having trouble with mice getting into my trailer this winter. I plugged a hole under my sink and re-covered a spot in the living room where they were getting in. I’ve also been feeding them poison which they’re eating like candy. Still I hadn’t seen or heard one in about two weeks. Then it was Christmas.

2:30 a.m. Christmas morning I was awoken by a strange noise, like scratching and bumping around the wall behind my bed. It happened enough that I finally got out of bed and turned on the lights. I got a flashlight, shining it behind my nightstand and that’s when I saw it. Walking near my power strip was a brown field mouse dragging a piece of Dove chocolate. You may ask, “How could you possibly know it was Dove chocolate?” The answer is I could read the word “Dove” across the top of the square.

My first thought was “Am I still asleep. Is this a dream?” It was after all 2:30 a.m. But I quickly realized I had actually seen a mouse dragging a piece of chocolate. My next thought was “Where did it get a piece of chocolate from?” Suddenly it hit me. I ran down the hallway to my living room. My wrapped gifts were under my Christmas tree and there was the evidence.

My brother loves dark chocolate so I had taped a piece to each of his packages. The mouse had chewed away the foil from the piece of Dove chocolate and dragged it back the hallway into my bedroom. By the time I went back I couldn’t find him again so I figured he must have left the same way he got in. At 4:30 a.m. I finally went back to bed Christmas morning.

When I got up a few hours later I found that the mouse had nibbled at all the pieces of chocolate so it all had to be thrown away. He had also crapped on two of the packages so I had to re-wrap them.

Later in the day my brother came up to my place and we found a spot of the floor that had collapsed causing a hole between the foundation and the wall. We did a little MacGyver work, filling in the hole with garden rocks, shoring up the baseboard with a few pieces of fake wood my brother had in the trunk of his car and then covering it with a piece of left over tile from when I re-did my bathroom a few years ago.

That is my Christmas tale. If anyone from Disney or Pixar is reading this and wants to make a blockbuster movie from my story call, email, text, send a postcard, send up a smoke signal, carrier pigeon, a hand written letter on tasteful stationary, whatever. Let’s make a movie!

No Comment

I make the mistake of reading the comments section sometimes of articles I read online or of videos I watch on YouTube. I say it’s a mistake because it always makes me sad for the amount of ignorance that is displayed in these statements. Also defensiveness and vitriol. Comments sections sometimes resemble cesspools of nuclear waste.

At lunchtime at work I sometimes peruse a web site called Deadspin. It is in itself its own pond of sewage. Ostensibly a sports site, they run mostly stories that other sites don’t and then proceed to slag off the people involved. They also print rumors and conjecture. They admit up front of no proof for their post but write about it anyway as though their admission absolves them of guilt when the proverbial shit splatters the fan blades.

My favorite articles are the re-telling of supposedly bad behavior by sports commentators or journalists. Again, no fact checking is done, the stories could be true or complete fabrications, Deadspin doesn’t care. Usually in the comment section this will prompt people to write about their own supposed encounters with semi-famous people behaving badly. This will always be followed by someone commenting “I totally believe so-and-so would do something like that.” Really? Someone with a screen name that contains 3 expletives and has an avatar with a scene from a movie no one saw because that makes him ultra-cool and hip, writes a story and presents no proof beyond the phrase “I swear this is true” and you totally believe it? Of course, the next question is why I continue to read this kind of shit and I don’t have a good answer.

I like to watch videos on You Tube of heavy metal bands I’m not familiar with to see if I like their music. Reading the comments sections is an exercise in pedantry and juvenile behavior. There is always the inevitable argument over what sub-genre of metal the band is performing:

Metalhead #1: I love black metal!

Metalhead #2: This isn’t black metal. This is death metal.

Metalhead #3: No way. These guys aren’t metal enough to be death metal. This is pansy power metal.

Metalhead #4: You’re all idiots. This is funeral doom metal at its finest.

Metalhead #1: Funeral Doom?????? Are you out of your mind?????

Metalhead #3: Doom!!!!??? Justin Bieber is closer to doom metal than this band!!!!!!!!!

Metalhead #2: It’s DEATH METAL you $%%#$%

Metalhead #4: It’s clearly funeral doom. Maybe you could classify it as drone metal, but it’s not power, progressive, thrash, speed, dark, gothic, hardcore, emo, noise, nu, hair, punk, deathcore, Christian, emocore, powercore, screamo, symphonic, grindcore, experimental, stoner, industrial, sludge, melodic, technical, Viking, extreme, deathgrind, goregrind, neo-thrash, or post-thrash.

This conversation goes on for 8 pages worth of comments with the expletives flying fast and furious. Everyone is an idiot or a moron for having an opinion that differs from say, FatSam34 or IChokeOnMetal666. I’m an idiot for wasting my time reading the thread, but it makes me laugh.

If you decide to comment on this post about commenting on other people’s posts, be sure to call me an appropriate name, make up a new and colorful swear word and act like your opinion is superior to mine, even though that is pedantically not possible.

By the way, that video was totally German power pop glam metal. Morons. 

The Bathroom Conspiracy

I spent this Friday evening cleaning my bathroom. I know, what a way to spend a night but even though as a single male I can live in a fair amount of my own dirt, even I have limits. When the hair in the shower drain compiles so high it creates a new life form who slowly gains sentience, it might be time to clean.

When the dirt on the shower curtain hardens and breaks off in chunks and you examine it only to find gold flakes embedded inside, it’s probably time for some soap and water.

When you buy a toilet brush made from tungsten filaments and after two hours of scrubbing using an industrial mining drill to turn the brush, you still can’t get the toilet bowl clean, you may have waited too long to clean the bathroom.

When you find out friends are telling people the most terrifying moment of the lives was using your bathroom and that the visions of gargoyles eating their face took a month to subside, that is definitely a sign you have waited too long to clean.

So I spent my Friday evening scrubbing my shower and toilet, sweeping and mopping the floor and washing down the sink and counter tops. I should be good until next December. Kidding. I’ll probably do it early, maybe around Thanksgiving.

House Mouse

I have a mouse. And I don’t mean a “pet” mouse, I mean a fat brown vermin who has decided it’s too cold outside and he wants to live indoors. My first discovery of my new friend was Sunday morning. Watching TV I thought I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. A few minutes later he popped his head out from under the TV stand, flipped a tiny mouse finger at me and was gone again.

I don’t have anything against mice as long as they stay outside. This one took up residence without even asking or chipping in for rent. I tried to play nice. I drew up an agreement splitting household chores and the bills, but he refused to sign. He hired some lawyer from the back of the phone book who’s trying to sue me saying that the mouse’s family lived here before I moved in so I’m actually the squatter. He claims his great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great grandfather is the original tenant, having dug a nest under my home years ago.

So now I’m due in court in a few weeks to defend my territory. Who knew mice could be so litigious? The whole thing may be settled long before the first word of testimony though. I set out some poison and he ate the entire box. Greedy bastard.

My Thankful List

God for directing my path

      

Family—without you I have nothing

Friends—thank you for accepting me as the doofus I am

My car eventually needs about $1000-$1200 of repairs but it still runs. Woohoo!

The election is over! Ding dong the campaign is dead!

Music—without it I would go insane

Books—without them I would go insaner

Pizza—the basis of my food pyramid

My new job—health insurance, vacation and paid holidays—friends I haven’t seen in a long time

The night sky—a thing of beauty on a clear evening

Dogs and cats—I don’t have one of my own at the moment but they are amazing animals

Movies and TV shows that make me laugh—Monty Python, MST3K, Hogan’s Heroes, The Big Bang Theory, Galaxy Quest, Office Space, The Office, The Kids in the Hall, David Letterman, Conan O’Brien, Craig Ferguson, NewsRadio, Looney Tunes, Rocky and Bullwinkle,  The Daily Show, etc.

Stauffer’s Milk Chocolate Star cookies (my box is almost empty)

Baby Back Ribs (droooooool)

decent health since I really don’t take good care of myself

a good dentist who is helping me fix my bad teeth

good landlords who haven’t raised my rent once since I’ve lived on their property

a day off from work

people who will voluntarily put themselves in harm’s way for someone they don’t even know (police, firemen, military, etc.)

I live in a free country

There are many more but that’s good for now. Happy Thanksgiving.

It's Car Repair Man!

Last Wednesday I was still a mild mannered inhabitant of the planet earth, walking zombie-like through my days as an office drone, eating frozen pizza and channel surfing through 118 channels of reality shows and programs that are labeled “comedies” but really just kind of make me sad. Then the muffler strap on my car broke. I looked at it and thought to myself “I can replace that”. Instantly I was transformed into “Car Repair Man”!

Now understand that there are monkeys in the jungles or Borneo that know more about cars than I do. Also know that tools and I do not get along. I swear at them, they refuse to work the way they’re supposed to and it devolves into me yelling at inanimate objects until the neighbors calm me down using cocoa laced with mood stabilizing drugs. But the muffler strap looked innocent enough.

Wearing the cape, fur boots and glittery golden mask of “Car Repair Man”, Thursday morning I jacked my car up to take the rear tire off to give me more room to work. With the lug nuts removed I pulled on the tire . . . and it didn’t budge. I kicked the tire and it called me a jerk. I hit the tire and it called me stupid. Reaching into my superhero utility belt I pulled out a can of WD 40, spraying a generous amount around the wheel spokes. Still, the tire would not move. But we superheroes have a steely resolve. I went back to hitting and kicking the tire with the flailing arms and legs of a child throwing a hissy fit. It didn’t work. By now the tire was laughing at me, telling the brake rotor jokes about my genetic makeup and cultural heritage. I have to admit the tire had good material. It could have paneled with Carson easily.

I reached again for my WD 40 releasing a mighty stream of the lubricating liquid until the tire had no choice but to surrender. As I pulled it off it said in a weary voice, “Tell the left side suspension  . . . I love her.” Finally having room to work I took a good look at the broken strap. It was still held on by a metal shaft stuck through a 3 inch thick hunk of rubber. The technical car name for this is “that rubber doohickey”. For removal I had to spray a lot of WD 40 into the hole, grab hold of the strap with a pair of pliers, twist that rubber doohickey 180 degrees and pull like hell. The technical term for this maneuver is “holy shit is this really how you take one of these bitches off this is such a pain in the ass why won’t it come off I don’t want to waste the whole day replacing a $28 muffler strap I have other stuff to do please come off you piece of shit”.

Success! At last the old strap was removed! Angels descended from the clouds to sing me a chorus of triumph while I stood with my arms akimbo, beaming a beneficent light as “Car Repair Man”. Putting the new strap on took less than 10 minutes. The tire was back in place in another 5 and it was time for me to change back into a mild mannered citizen of Earth.

Look! In the driveway! Is it . . . some guy? No! Is it . . . another slightly different guy? No! It’s Car Repair Man!

It's Conservative Pundit Dirty Limerick Time!

I can’t stand the cabal of conservative pundits that pollute the air waves, spewing their bile and flinging their feces around like enraged monkeys. I believe they are contemptuous of their “fans” that have made them rich by listening and watching their programs and buying their insipid books. They simply hit upon a way to get rich. They feed a certain segment of our population ignorant, racist and disingenuous fecal matter and for some reason the people eat it up like mashed potatoes.

I have been laughing my ass off listening to them try to spin the reason their boy Mitt got flattened like new asphalt by a steamroller. I decided the only real way to show my churlish discontent was with . . . dirty limericks:

There once was a blowhard named Limbaugh

Who liked to lick men’s sweaty balls

His tongue became swollen

Even more than his belly and

Now Hannity won’t take his midnight calls

There once was a vile piece of shit named Coulter

Who believed everyone but her falters

She’s an attention whore

and nothing more

quoth the raven fuck the rancid bitch

There once was a man named Hannity

Who babbled nothing but inanity

He’s a weak minded fool

And that’s not being cruel

I think he’s a tranny isn’t he?

There once was a station called Fox news

Who sang the Obama liberal blues

They told only lies

Then screamed weak alibis

Hey Karl Rove, fuck you!

There once was a man named O’Reilley

Who spewed horseshit while smiling

He thought he was great

But was really filled with hate

Right back at ya you skinbag full of bile

Election Rant

For the love of God get this election over with I can’t watch another political TV ad or listen to another radio ad or receive another email from the Democratic party of York County asking me for money you’re asking me for money you should be giving me money I’m in debt because I was out of work and then had to work two jobs to make ends meet and you’re asking me for money shut up leave me alone and do you believe I’m going to make my decision on who to vote for due to your ads I couldn’t care less you’re all liars anyway none of you tell the truth about anything and it’s no better on the state level ad after ad after ad each contradicting the previous one lie lie lie lie lie lie lie the money you spent on all these ads that no one is paying attention to could have started businesses which then could have hired people putting them back to work it could have stocked soup kitchens and shelters with food clothing blankets anything they needed it could have funded cancer research Parkinson research ALS research there are so many better places that money could have been spent please please please please please end this election

Radio Daze

Over the past month I’ve posted several comments on Facebook about my local radio stations. I’m starting to feel like a grouchy old man yelling “Hey you DJs, get off my lawn!” The thing is I don’t even listen to the radio much, only when I’m in the car going to and from work, so maybe an hour a day. And yet in that short time many things manage to irritate me.

I have 8 different stations programmed into my car stereo and yet can’t find a song to listen to:

Station 1: And now our 43^rd traffic update in the last 20 minutes. Of course we’re starting two counties over, 150 miles from wherever you are. We’ll get to the accident on your route only after you’ve gotten caught in the traffic jam it created. (On a side note it seems like at least twice a week in the Harrisburg area a vehicle fire is reported. Cars are just bursting into flames in the Pennsylvania capital city)

Station 2: Do you have warts? Hey, who doesn’t? Dr. Womp’s patented wart removal system is the only proven . . .

Station 3: Billy the Bozo here with your afternoon drive time joke of the day, taken directly from this month’s Reader’s Digest . . .

Station 4: That was Train finishing up a 32 song two hour commercial free jam here on 103.2 The Middle of the Road Light Rock Station. We’ll be back in about an hour after these messages.

Station 5: Come on down to the Bigtown Used Car Emporium and Carpeting Showcase for our semi-annual President’s Day sale . . .

Station 6: I’m Mitt Romney and I approve this message . . .

Station 7: I’m Barack Obama and I approve this message . . .

Station 8: That was Led Zeppelin and in a few minutes we’ll have some Red Hot Chili Peppers. You know last night I tried watching Dancing with the Stars, because, you know, my girlfriend loves that show. So I’m watching it, and tell me if you think this is weird by either calling 309-4567 or hitting me up on twitter @boringdjwon’tshutupaboutpersonallife, I was really taken by the dancing ability of that chick that stars on that one show on Fox. You know, the one that takes place in a city, can’t think of which one . . .

That’s what I get to listen to on my drive home. I just want a song or two to sing along to, let off some of the stress of the day. But all I get are commercials, traffic reports about roads I don’t travel and wacky DJ patter.

All right you hippy radio guys, get off my property. Andy Griffith is coming on and then I have to go to bed before the sun goes down. And play a song once in a while! Something young and hip, like Benny Goodman or Glenn Miller. Bah!

Nightwalker

I go for walks at night through a near-by housing development. I carry a flashlight but I’m so familiar with the streets I don’t have to use it often. Usually only if I see an animal moving ahead do I turn it on to see what I’m dealing with. I’ve come close to a few skunks this summer. The other night I walked this one road I don’t take often because there are no working streetlights and after the sun goes down it’s as dark as Dick Cheney’s soul. About halfway down the street I heard a noise behind me. It was a skittering or scratching on the pavement. Just heavy enough to let me know it was there, but light enough to make it sound creepy.

I did not scream like a small girl. If the guy in the white house at the corner with the azalea bushes says I did he’s lying. Did he talk to you? He’s a jerk, don’t listen to him. I did not scream or run away with my arms and legs flailing about like a baby giraffe learning to walk. I did freeze and peek over my shoulder.

I’d like to tell you what I saw, but I’m not sure. If only I’d had a FLASHLIGHT I could have illuminated the creature. Oh yeah, I had one. And didn’t turn it on. *sigh*

What I could make out was the size of a small dog or a fox. It was too big for a cat, and didn’t move the way they do. It didn’t move like a rabbit or possum. The legs were too long for a raccoon. Convinced it was either a dog or a fox and knowing it had stopped and was staring at me from behind I took a tentative step forward. That’s when I heard it.

“I have not dismissed you yet.”

The voice was stern, but smooth as a finished piece of oak wood. There was a hint of a British accent as well. As soon as I had thought of it the creature said:

“You’re wondering about the accent. I was educated at Eton.”

Now is when I should have yelled as if a vice were squeezing my lemons, but I was oddly calm. The voice was soothing as well as commanding respect.

“This is my road. No one walks here without paying me tribute.”

“What do you want?” I asked.

“A sweater vest sewn on the loom of a troll and 47 fast food ketchup packets. Not one more or one less.”

“That’s really what you want?” I asked incredulously.

“I have spoken!”

I heard the same clicking footfalls trail away from me and I knew he was gone. I continued on my walk although I was shaking from the experience. Sweat was creeping from my scalp even though it was a cool night. Who, or what, had I been talking to? I kind of liked that street despite it being dark, but to walk on it now I needed to find a troll. I mean the ketchup packets were easy, but a troll? We’ve got some sprites and a kelpie in the neighborhood but no trolls that I know of.

As I departed the development my mind was still roiling with the night’s events. I passed a trio of teenagers walking the other way, giggling about something. One of them even had a British accent.

Bored at Work

I was bored at work one day this week so I wrote my name down and assigned each letter a number. I ended up with:

3, 7, 17, 8, 18

I added them together for 53. I multiplied them for a total of 51,408. When I subtracted each digit I got -47 and when using division ended up with .000024. I then added all the numbers together for a total of 51414.000024. Using my assigned number system and the word “zero” to stand in for the 4 zeroes I gave myself a new identity: Eadad Zerobd. Don’t ask me how to pronounce my new last name because I don’t know. I then proceeded to create a back story for the new me:

Eadad Zerobd, originally born in Lithuania, left his home country when he was thirteen as a member of the Lithuanian National Circus. Starting out as an acrobat, after a ruptured spleen and a large bruise in the shape of the Strait of Hormuz, he was transferred to toe nail clipper for the elephants. He formed a quick friendship with “Peanut”, a 12 ton Asian bull elephant. One evening in Brussels at a pub called “A Place to Get Drunk” after too many Belgian Blam Blams, Eadad and Peanut went on a rampage through the city streets, destroying cars, buildings and killing two Finnish tourists.

Afraid to go to jail, Eadad disguised himself as a Frenchman by carrying a loaf of bread everywhere he went and smelling like cheese. After a few months he stowed away on a ship carrying scrap metal to New York harbor in the United States. Unfortunately the ship’s name was Harbinger of Doom and Eadad was found hiding in a sack of potatoes in the kitchen. He was thrown overboard. It looked like the end of the line for Eadad until he was taken in by a pod of humpback whales.

The whales created a blowhole in Eadad’s back, taught him to breech and how to consume a ton of krill every day. It was an amazing life in the water. Eadad was sorry to leave his cetacean friends but he had ballooned to 456 pounds from all the krill and could barely breathe much less swim. He came ashore and started walking on the beach to lose weight while living in the burned out body of an ’87 Impala and eating discarded tacos from the dumpster at Loco Flacco’s Taco Hell.

Even after he had lost the extra weight, Eadad continued walking, finally ending up in Pennsylvania. He took a job as a state representative and lives comfortably off of kickbacks from the bagel, croissant and muffin consortium.

Yep, sure was boring that day at work.

The Tao of Chocolate Chip Cookies

I had Chinese for lunch and my fortune cookie told me “this is a wonderful time in your life to look inward for answers”. Now I’ve taken advice from snack foods before. A cinnamon roll told me once it was my lucky day and I should play the lottery. 227 losing tickets later I couldn’t pay my rent but Mrs. Henrietta Lautenschlager von Urm had an oversized check written out for $151 million so she and her pug dog Wellsley could move into a mansion with carpeting on the ceiling (Mrs. Von Urm was a bit of an iconoclast).

You’d think I would have learned, but a few years later while eating a container of caramel corn one of the kernels whispered to me that I should loosen up and dance in the rain as if no one is watching. One lightning strike later I have a titanium plate in my head that picks up FM98.7 The Cornstalk out of Demoines every Thursday night during Moondog Murphy’s Six from the Sixties show. Really Moondog? You have to play “I’m Henry the 8^th”every week?

My point is I have no reason to listen to this fortune cookie, but I’m a sucker for words typed on rectangles of paper. I began my inward journey with the question: Why? I’m not sure what answer I was expecting but I received a Jungian treatise on the disingenuousness of my psyche that I would even ask that question. I only understood about every fifth word and wondered why my soul was so much smarter than me.

I decided to press on and next asked: When? I girded myself for another lashing of words and concepts I couldn’t grasp, instead receiving the answer “Thursday”.

By now I was more confused than I am when I watch an old Italian-made Hercules movie. I shouldn’t ask “why” and “when” is Thursday. What did it mean? I tried again and asked: Are fortune cookies reliable forms of life philosophy?

The answer came not from my inward machinery but from a chocolate chip cookie I was eating at the time:

“Pour yourself a glass of milk and stop trying to figure it all out you schmuck.”

I didn’t think the “schmuck” comment was necessary but the milk was cold and the cookies tasty. Maybe that’s all I need right now.

Stealth Mitt

The Romney campaign announced today a new strategy their calling “Stealth Mitt”. According to spokesman Ronald McDonald, the plan is for Mitt to disappear. No more speeches, promotions, appearances or press conferences. “We want to play to Mitt’s strength’s,” McDonald said. “His biggest asset is not saying anything. Silence is Mitt Romney’s secret weapon.”

From now on, the campaign said in a press release, no matter what happens in the world, regardless of the severity of the incident, Mitt Romney will have no comment. Assistant communications director of the Romney camp, Bozo Theclown, said “Mr. Romney keeping his thoughts to himself is what’s best for the country. Let the Democrats keep yapping. We’re on lockdown until the election.”

Asked what they’re going to do about the scheduled debates, assistant to the assistant campaign director Michael Scott had this to say, “Uh oh. I mean, of course Mr. Romney will be allowed to, uh, what I mean to say is, future president Romney will be speaking at the debates. Yes.”

Romney’s top policy advisor, Ass Hat, is said to have been the architect of the new strategy. Mr. Hat refused comment for this article but assistant policy maker Barnum Bailey told us “We have every confidence in Mitt Romney to win the presidency. But it’s our job to make the task smooth for him and keeping Mitt out of the public eye is easier for everyone concerned.”

Obviously it remains to be seen whether this new strategy works for the republican candidate but the public seems to be all for it. In a poll conducted by Blind Dog Research, 57% of those asked were thrilled to not have to look or listen to Mr. Romney anymore. 23% were glad he wasn’t going to embarrass the human race any further. 11% asked “Who is Mitt Romney?” 3% wondered how hot dogs were made. 2% were angry they had missed voting in the election and then happy when told they hadn’t missed it, although most admitted they probably won’t vote anyway. 2% believe Mr. Romney looks like their uncle Floyd who they always found “nice, but kind of peculiar”. 1% asked to borrow $20 from the poll takers and 1% rapped their answers in undecipherable street slang.

Mitt Sings the Body Politic

New from Capitalist Pig Records its Mitt Romney Sings the Body Politic. 2 CDs filled with the best of Mitt. There’s his number 1 hit, “Poor People”:

Poor People sung to the tune of Randy Newman’s “Short People”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uFmv22ghzQw

Poor People got no reason
Poor People got no reason
Poor People got no reason
To vote

They got dirty hands
Beady eyes
They walk around
not believin’ my lies
They got runny noses
And messed-up teeth
They wear worn-out shoes
On their socialized feet

Well, I don't want no poor People
Don't want no poor People
Don't want no poor People
`Round me

Also on CD number 1 there’s “It Ain’t Heavy, Its Foreign Policy”, “Place me Gently Jesus in the Soft Hands of Off-Shore Bank Accounts” and Mitt’s disco favorite “Stayin Alive (on Minimum Wage)”.

Leading off CD number 2 of this astounding collection is Mitt’s personal favorite, “47 Percent Freeloaders”.

47 Percent Freeloaders sung to the tune of Nena’s 99 Red Balloons

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=14IRDDnEPR4

You and I, in a hedge fund shop
Buy some stocks with the money we've got
invest them ‘til the break of dawn
Now we’re rich, all the moochers are gone

Back at home, losers’ hands are out
Yell the message, "Give me what you got”
hot sun in the summer sky
47 percent freeloaders go by

47 percent freeloaders
encouraged by the do-gooders
red alert red alert
They’re trying to escape from the dirt

The socialism machine springs to life
trying to cause trouble and strife
no love or respect
47 percent freeloaders expect, expect, expect

When I’m the president of this country
the rich won’t have to worry
everything I do will be for them
Thank God I’m not a Dem

CD 2 is filled with dozens more like “Severely Conservative” , “Let’s Take the Dog on Vacation”, “I Want Money” and “Imbecile”:

Imbecile sung to the tune of Super Freak by Rick James

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QYHxGBH6o4M

I’m a very stupid man, the kind you don't nominate for president
I will always let you down, once you get me in the spotlight
I like the boys on Wall street, they say I'm their all-time favorite
When I make my move to the White House
I’ll be impossible to please
I’m pretty boring now (I’m an imbecile)
The kind of man you read about (in the Wall Street Journal)
I’m stiff as a board (I’m an imbecile)
I’m a disappointment (to everyone I meet)
I’m all right, I’m all right, I’m all right with Ann, yeah, he-he-he
I’m an imbecile, imbecile, I’m super-dumb, yeow
Everybody sing, imbecile, imbecile

Mitt Sings the Body Politic, available now wherever fake recordings are sold!

Mitt Romney's Haikus for the Middle Class

I don’t care for you

Never have and never will

I suck hard and long

You love our handouts

Can’t you get a job you bums

Vote for me I’m cool

The forty seven

Bonded by hatred for me

I’m still rich thank God

Mitt Mitt Mitt Mitt Mitt

I love the sound of my name

President Mitt yeah

Money I have lots

Money you have none oh well

I’m okay with that

Freeloaders you are

Poor people make me itchy

I scratch with gold bars

I don’t care hear me

It doesn’t affect my day

No soul to disturb

I don’t make mistakes

Never say I’m sorry no

Poor people suck it

When I’m president

The world will suffer badly

I’ll be in Cayman’s

Poor people can ride

Atop my car like Seamus

Then I can’t see you

No taxes for rich

No taxes for me and Ann

Give me your money

Conventional Wisdom

Welcome to the first annual People Who Don’t Watch the Republican or Democratic Conventions Convention. We have a long list of speakers prepared for day one so let’s get started. Oh, and if you’re peckish, in the back of the VFW hall we have a wide assortment of luncheon meats, Albanian goat’s milk yogurt, durian flavored thumb-print cookies, bitter coffee and watered-down tea.

Now, our first speaker is here to tell us some details of the republican convention which he watched from the comfort of his Loungeman 3000 easy chair while sipping a tallboy of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Please welcome arc welder Gary Melch.

Gary: Yeah, uh, thank you, thanks. It’s nice to see everyone, all  . . . six of you. Uh, I was supposed to fill you in, on, uh, what happened at the, um, convention there. But you see I didn’t actually watch it like I’d planned. After I settled into my chair there and popped open my beer I couldn’t find the remote so I ended up watching that Honey Boo Boo show. I didn’t know she had sisters and they have weird names too. I think one of them is Snickers and another is called Rutabaga and the oldest I believe is Chickenfoot. Anyway I saw maybe three hours of that. By then I was drunk and the show actually started to make sense . . . a little. At least I could understand what they were saying which was frightening.

Thank you Gary, for nothing. Go get yourself a sandwich. Our next speaker watched, hopefully, the Democratic convention and is going to fill us in. Please welcome local cheese log taste tester, Kitty McFiggins.

Kitty: Hello. I was asked to come here today to speak on the Democratic Convention. As far as I know the president spoke, and probably the vice president and maybe some other people. I’m sure the speeches had to do with things that the Democrats believe in and possibly some bad things were said about republicans.

Kitty, it sounds as if you didn’t watch the convention at all.

Kitty: Well, no. You see I was . . . sort of . . . with Gary . . . at the Red Lobster.

All 3 nights?

Kitty: No, just the first one. The next night we went to the United Methodist Church Social, Barn Dance and Covered Dish Spectacular.

And day 3?

Kitty: I’d rather not say.

Gary: We were in my Uncle Munchy’s camper.

Kitty: Gary . . .

Gary: We were naked.

Kitty: GARY!

Gary: I was out of beer but still had a tallboy, if you know what I mean.

Kitty: Oh, Gary.

All right, all right, Get off the stage, both of you. Well, this has been a tremendous waste of time.

Sort of like the conventions.

Lapdog

Here Mittens, here boy. Come on, where are you Mittens?

I’m right here.

Ok, come on boy, over here to the far right.

I’m actually comfortable where I am.

No, no. Remember, you said you were “severely” conservative. Now get over here before I smack your nose with the constitution.

I really don’t want to change my positions.

You’re not serious are you? You change positions every day. You flip and flop like a trout on the bottom of a fishing boat. Besides, if you want to be president you’ll do what you’re told. Here, read the party platform.

This . . . is . . . horrifying.

Yeah, it’s good stuff. We had some young, female delegates who objected to a bit of the language but we told them to shut up and bake some cookies. I love cookies. Anyway, the Republican Party isn’t about youth or women; it’s about old, rich, white men. Like you.

I’m not that rich . . .

And I’m not a liberal journalist so don’t try to sell me cow shit and say it’s mud pie.

Huh?

Son, we didn’t choose you as our candidate because we like you or think you can win or because we believe in you. We chose you because we had to pick someone . . . and . . . you were there. You’re like Mt. Everest. Why will people vote for you? Because you’re there.

But my ideas . . .

The less said about them the better. Mum’s the word. Now I’m going to roll the party platform up into a tube and tie it up with strips of flesh from the working class. Then I’m going to throw it and you’re going to fetch.

I have a fundraiser to get to . . .

Fetch Mittens! Come on boy; bring the toy back to your master. That’s a good boy, who’s a good boy?

Mustainica

In case you don’t know who Dave Mustaine is: guitar player and one of the founding members of Metallica. The band’s nickname in the early days was Alcoholica because of how much they drank. They kicked Dave out of the band for drinking too much. Let that sink into your brain for a minute while you drain your second glass of Chardonnay of the night. Dave then formed his own band Megadeth and they have been one of the most successful metal bands around for about 25 years. Dave also graduated, by his own admission, to abuse of every conceivable drug that can be bought, stolen or manufactured in a storage shed by men with no teeth and gray skin. After 13 trips to rehab Dave was finally clean. Good for him and I mean that. But now I’m wondering about the deleterious effects those drugs had on Dave’s brain.

A few days ago in Singapore, Dave said that President Obama staged the shootings in Colorado and Wisconsin just so he could impose a ban on guns in the United States. Yesterday on Facebook I saw Joe Lynn Turner post that Dave was speaking the truth and he offered him congratulations. Oh, Joe Lynn Turner was the singer for the band Rainbow back in the 80s. I’m guessing even less people know who he is than know who Dave Mustaine is so I’m assuming his post was mostly a grab for attention. Well done Joe Lynn, now off you go, back into exile. No, your Facebook privileges have been revoked for a week, you can’t play Bejeweled Blitz.

So, let me get this straight: the shooting at the theater in Colorado and the shooting at the Sikh temple in Wisconsin weren’t just random events. Obama, in his down time between dealing with a bad economy and a presidential election coming in November, hand-picked a whacko and said “I have a job for you”? Then he sent his new slice-of-bread-short-of-a-sandwich henchman out to murder people with assault weapons so he could make a new push to ban them.

The thing about these kinds of conspiracies is the sheer number of people who would have to be involved and keep their mouths shut. The president can’t take a dump without a hundred people knowing about it so how would he stage two mass murders without the following being in on it: secret service, NSA, CIA, FBI? Now consider that you’re hinging your entire plan on an unbalanced person. If they carry through with the attack what’s to keep them from shouting to the world that “President Obama hired me to do this! He paid me in Snickers bars and expired coupons!” Ok, everyone will just say “he’s crazy” and move on, but once he opens his mouth, the idea is in your head.

I’m not buying it. Much like the people who want to believe we never landed on the moon, the whole idea breaks down under the weight of the number of people that would know the truth and would have to not talk about it. You can’t tell your best friend that you were once a woman and swear them to secrecy without them spilling the news to someone the next day and suddenly your neighbor is calling you “Betty”. It’s human nature to gossip. The president is not going to be able to perpetrate mass murder and not have someone screaming about it.

Dave wants his theory investigated. Well Dave, I’m quite sure there will be an investigation. Get ready for the federal government to climb up into your ass and camp out there for a while. Those tent pegs are going to hurt going in.

An Election Elegy

Now that Mittens Romney has chosen his VP candidate in Paul Ryan, people keep asking me what I think of Ryan. Hmm. He wants to privatize social security which in my opinion is one of the most destructive ideas a politician has ever come up with. He wants to get rid of Medicare which would injure my mother and every other poor to middle class senior citizen in the country. His budget, which other republicans eat up like chocolate pudding, has been called by most economic experts “unworkable” and “a fantasy”.

So, what do I think of Ryan? As I construct my answer I realize even I can’t say that many swear words in a row and feel good about myself. He is, in a nutshell, someone I will never understand in a million years. Maybe it’s because I’m not rich, but I can’t not care about the vast majority of the American population the way Ryan and Romney don’t. They’re liars and deceivers. I don’t know how anyone cannot see that.

Mitt Romney made $20 million last year and technically didn’t have a job. His wife goes on campaign stops filled with run-of-the-mill working class people and wears a $900 shirt. How do these people who are cheering for him not vomit all over his designer shoes?

There is a hue and cry for Romney to release his taxes. We don’t need to see them. We already know he has off shore accounts in the Cayman Islands. He’s a tax cheat. There is no reason to have accounts in the Caymans other than to cheat the taxman. Again, explain to me how republican voters aren’t incensed by this. Why would you vote for this man?

In the 2008 Democratic primary I voted for Hillary Clinton. I did not believe Obama had enough experience and should have waited to run for president. When he won the primary I voted for him. I didn’t drink the Kool Aid of hope and ‘yes we can’, I just knew I couldn’t vote for the politician John McCain had become. In 2000 I would have crossed my party and voted for McCain had he won his party’s nomination. But in 2008 he was a different candidate, a desperate one with no original ideas left. So I voted for Obama. Once again I had essentially voted for the lesser of two evils instead of someone I really believed in.

If I had to grade Obama I’d give him a C for his first term. I don’t think the Affordable Care Act is perfect but at least he did something. He seems to have surrounded himself with a cabinet of functionaries, but not visionaries. He didn’t listen to the leading economists about the short comings of his stimulus package and here we are four years later in very much the same swamp of unemployment, high gas and food prices and zero confidence that we are elevating, not descending. I am supportive of his general ideas but his methods of implementing them are not working.

In November I will once again vote for Obama because I don’t have a choice. Mitt Romney has only one idea and that’s to make sure he stays rich. The man can’t think on his feet and his over seas trip recently proved he was even more inept at foreign policy than Sarah Palin. I wonder if he can see Europe from Massachusetts?

Getting Mooned

Six years ago the planet Pluto was downgraded from planet status by attention seeking scientists. One of the ridiculous names offered for Pluto now was trans-Neptunian object. Another was the less eloquent “lump of rock in space”. They settled on dwarf planet. Recently they have discovered a fifth moon orbiting Pluto giving the little ex-planet 5 times as many as big bad Earth, who as of this writing, is still considered a planet by a group of men and women who can’t even agree on the definition of “planet”. I decided to ask Pluto his feelings on his many moons and his lesser status, which because of the lengthy delay in communications between Earth and Pluto, he didn’t even know about yet.

CO: So, the International Astronomical Union has downgraded you from planet status . . .

Pluto: What! How? What? When did this happen?

CO: 2006

Pluto: Crap, my email service out here is terrible. Damn you AOL.

CO: Sorry to have to break it to you like this.

Pluto: What did I ever do to the IAU? I bought tickets every year to their Costume Ball and Fish Fry even though I obviously wasn’t going to attend, and this is how they repay me?

CO: Their main reason was your small stature.

Pluto: Typical. The little guy is always getting picked on. Every time I pass inside Neptune’s orbital path he tries to consume me. Jupiter keeps bragging that he has storms bigger then me. I can’t help my size. I am who I am.

CO: They have recently discovered your 5th moon.

Pluto: Goody for them, I already knew it was there. He sings Bread songs all day long. How many times do I have to hear “Baby I’m a Want You”?

CO: How do feel about having 5 moons to the Earth’s one, but being designated a dwarf planet?

Pluto: I’m simply more “attractive”. Get it? Ba dum bum. I’ll be here all week. No, seriously, I have nothing against Earth as a planet, it’s the scientists. They’ve been slagging on me ever since Clyde Tombaugh discovered me. Clyde was my only real friend on Earth. We used to commiserate over personal problems; his was family stuff mine was the painful itch of asteroids. HA! I’m killing me.

CO: I didn’t know you had such a . . . good . . . sense of humor.

Pluto: Oh yeah, I’ve been working the clubs in the Kuiper Belt for years under my stage name: Shecky Neptune. I’ll do anything to piss off Neptune, he’s a jerk. The IAU should reclassify him as a jerk planet. Hey I have to add that to my act!

CO: Ok, well I have to go.

Pluto: See you around the Oort Cloud.

May I Help You?

I would not want to be a salesman because even when they’re just doing their job, they can be very annoying. I took my mom to a store over the weekend and while she looked around I wandered over into the men’s clothing section. To say it was slightly devoid of customers would be to say I mildly question Michelle Bachmann’s sanity.

As I looked over a display of Van Heusen polo shirts a salesman snuck up on me like cocaine found Charlie Sheen.

“May I help you sir?” he asked politely. “Just looking around” I responded. His face kind of squished up as if he had eaten some bad curried goat and it was re-entering his esophagus. I thought I heard him mutter “Great, another just looking asshole. No commission today. Looks like I’ll be eating the mold off my shower curtain for supper again tonight.” He took out a mascara brush and painted a smile back on his face.

“We also have shirts on sale by Chaps, Polo, Izod, Nautica, Aeropostale, Hilfiger, Calvin Klein, Artie Feinstein, Jesus the Divine, Sing Sang,Wing Wang, Skip-to-my-loo, Blah Blah Bloo Bloo and on and on and on.”

“Uh, thanks, I guess,” I said, a little weary of the man at this point.

The salesman started following me around throwing rose petals at my feet. He pulled out an oboe at one point to play a Beethoven concerto while I pondered my purchase and was quite good. I wept during the second movement.

I decided on two shirts, paid, and was met with thunderous applause from his meaty hands. “Thank you, kind sir. This is the greatest gift I have received since my father brought me my Xanax from Canada. You are a prince, sir! If anyone ever condescends to you I will wound them with the sharpness of my words. If you are attacked physically I will hire a brute to defend you. If you hunger I will plant for you a field of wheat, if you are cold I will quilt you a blanket constructed of scenes of our newly formed friendship.”

“All right!” I finally yelled, a bit too loudly. “Thank you. I’m going to wander over to sporting goods now.”

The salesman clapped his hands together 3 times. Four burly men carrying a bamboo sledge ran out from a back room. I was lifted onto the sled and carried to the sporting goods department while the salesman sang a madrigal in harmony with a perfume girl. I was taken from the sled and laid on a bed of goose down. The salesman bowed with an exaggerated flourish finally walking away. As he did I heard him say to the perfume girl, “The jerk bought 2 shirts, both on sale. My take is $1.50. Looks like unsalted crackers for lunch.”

I don’t think I’ll go shopping for a while.

Not Quite the 1%

I’ll be retiring soon, just wanted to let everyone know. I’m coming into quite a tidy sum of money so it’s time to move to the beach and look for change with a metal detector before napping the afternoon away.

Myself, my sister and one of my brothers run a store on Café Press called Yoe Creek Designs. Here’s a link:
http://www.cafepress.com/yoecreekdesigns
Go there now and buy something. I’ll wait.

We received a check last week. Unknown to us we were part of a class action lawsuit. Someone sued Google, won a settlement and we get a cut. It had something to do with Google’s Ad Words advertising program which we’ve used in the past. Yes sir, right there it was in the mail. A fat, juicy check for . . . $0.65. Split three ways I am now the proud possessor of 21.6 cents. Suck on that Google.

It feels good to stick it to the man. Even though technically I didn’t do anything or even know it was happening, it still feels good to be on the winning team. I love the smell of litigation in the morning.

Not sure if I should put it all in a money market account or just invest part of it. I could buy that stick of gum I’ve always wanted or an ounce and half of Coca Cola. I could always go the real estate route. Maybe put a down payment on a Bic pen that I will later use to fill out a loan application. So many decisions to make now. Having money can be a burden.