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The National Association of Organizations and Alliances (NAOA) released a report today stating that there are now over 1.5 million organizations, associations, alliances and research think tanks in the United States.

“We were stunned at the sheer number of organizations that have formed in the just the last 12 months,” said NAOA president Mortimer Frangelica. “The number of think tanks has gone down as the country gets stupider but organizations and alliances are way up.”

These numbers, however, are being disputed by General Howland Misercordia of the American Alliance of Associations and Organizations (AAAO). “Our research shows a clear drop in the formation of new groups over the past 24 months. It’s very discouraging.” The General went on to say that his organization has been starting a grass roots campaign to encourage people to form groups of any kind. “We feel it’s a valuable activity and would like to see it grow again.”

Not everyone agrees. Franklin Popgoestheweasel, founder of the Mid-Atlantic Alliance for Organizational Group Formation (MAAOGF) believes there are already too many formal organizations in the United States. “It’s ridiculous. My damn kids are filing paperwork as we speak for a new alliance and there 7 and 9.”

Melissa Heywatchit and Gordon Spub, co-creators of the Alliance for Associations, Organizations, Foundations, Think Tanks, Research Funds and Charitable Trusts (AAOFTTRFCT) believe that only a group with a clear charter should be given government grants. “There are so many fly-by-night organizations applying for grants that there isn’t enough money left for legitimate groups like ours,” Spub said. Added his partner, “We started AAOFTTRFCT out of my garage and now we meet in a Dairy Queen. That’s legitimacy.”

The largest group of this kind in America is of course The National United American Organization for the Alliance and Association of Foundations, Funds, Charities, Trusts, Research Grants, Think Tanks, Booster Clubs, Shriners and Circus Performers (NUAOAAFFCTRGTTBCSCP). President Lafferty O’Gilligan declined to comment for this article.

Hey Dorothy, Check out My New Shoes

I had to buy new shoes this weekend. I work in an office environment so they needed to be “business casual” and they needed to be relatively inexpensive because I had already spent $52 and my left nut on a tank of gas. Seriously, when are we going to drop the oil speculators on a deserted island and let Ted Nugent hunt them for sport? I think that’s a reality show we can all get behind.

I went to Kmart. I don’t go there often but they have a good selection of nice, decently priced footwear. I found a pair of brown Thom McCann’s that was my exact size, 9.5 wide. Finding wide shoes at a department store can be a miracle along the lines of at least one movie a week coming out that doesn’t revolve around vampires. Considering myself Mr. Lucky I sat down to try them on. Let’s just say Mr. Thom McCann needs lessons in sizing shoes.

My size is 9.5 wide, always has been, still will be on December 21, 2012 when the Mayan calendar kills all of us in an Irwin Allen production. With this shoe I was able to get my big toe and a sliver of my arch inside. Shaking my head, I pulled a 10 wide off the shelf. This time I got all my toes in AFTER having them bound by a Chinese man who happened to be in the store purchasing air freshener and a bocce ball set.

Disgusted, I gave up on the brown shoes, pulling out a pair of black ones who were made by . . . Thom McCann. I thought, different style of shoe, let’s try the 9.5 wide. I was able to dangle my foot inside as though I was soaking it in Epsom salt laced water, but not as though I were actually wearing the shoes to work. I didn’t even bother with the 10s, instead went right to the 11 wides. Viola, my feet have a new home from 8:30 – 6:30 every Monday through Friday.

On the way to the registers I grabbed some new socks because I was feeling capricious. I had the approximate cost in my head when I went through the check-out line so you can imagine my initial shock when the clerk said, “That will be $657.18.” She took my fainting as a sign she may have done something wrong and rang everything up again. I will admit the new total of “3 goats and a lock of pixie’s hair” was better, but I was all out of anything from a mythological being since that Joseph Campbell party a few weeks ago.

I was finally given a total I could pay although it still didn’t seem right. When I was finished I found a quiet spot to compare the receipt to the tag on the shoes and they had overcharged me by $5. I won’t go into my trip to the service desk as I think you’ve had enough of my gross hyperbole for one day. I mean, 500 words about me buying a pair of shoes? Who do I think I am?

My Trip to the Supermarket or How I Almost Met Ringo Starr

I bounded into the local supermarket with unbridled joy. Work was done for the day and it was time for pie. Apple to be exact. I was on the hunt for a Tastykake apple pie. I sniffed the air. To the back of the store! That’s where I would find my quarry.

I walked briskly down to aisle 9 making a sharp right turn. My prize would be at the end of the row. Excitement rose in my blood as I thought of my first bite of apple pie goodness. I reached the display but before I could look for my confectionary Taj Mahal I saw something unusual out of the corner of my eye. Entering the paper goods aisle, it was Ringo Starr!

One of the Fab Four; a real, true mop top was in my lowly local grocery store. I ran pell-mell to aisle 7 and almost barreled right into the world’s luckiest drummer. Being an idiot I spewed words out at the man without thinking. “What was John really like? What the hell does Yellow Submarine actually mean? What do you consider your greatest triumph; playing Shea stadium or marrying Barbara Bach?” I had grabbed a stock boy and torn his apron off for Mr. Starr to autograph when a harsh realization hit me like a punch to the stomach right after eating 3 helpings of four-cheese lasagna.

The man in front of me was not Ringo Starr: Just an ordinary man with an in-cred-ib-ly BAD haircut. Wow. I made my exit with as much dignity as I could, running down the aisle mumbling “How do you walk around like that in 2012 and NOT be Ringo Starr? Who wears their hair like that?”

With that distraction out of the way I went to snag my pie. The disappointment of not meeting a former Beatle still hung on me like summer-time humidity when I saw . . . there were no apple pies. Before me stood a tower of cherry, a tower of lemon, a tower of peach and a messy pile of éclair, but not one apple. Was I to be spared no indignity in this market?

Glumly I shuffled around the store, completely lost in my despair. I questioned why God even invented apple pie if I was to be denied in my time of desperation. My internal whining was close to critical mass when inspiration took me out at the knees with a cross body check. Little Debbie makes apple pies! They’re a little sugary for my taste, the glaze on the crust making my heart beat like a humming bird, but they’re good in a pinch.

I raised my head again, proud and cock-sure, marching to the Little Debbie display with spring-loaded steps. I reached for my pie . . . and there were no apple, only 2 cherry and about 20 blackberry.

Dear Little Debbie Corporate Offices,

No one likes your blackberry pies.

Sincerely,

An irritated customer who wanted an apple pie

Before a major depressive episode set in, my broken and malfunctioning brain reminded me that the store sold its own brand of individual pies up front. The taste was less than a Tastykake pie but greater than a raw apple wrapped in a piece of shoe leather.

Having been bitten twice by the mosquito of disappointment I walked timidly to the front of the store to find the display of 10 for $10 pies. The large box that held the individual smaller boxes sat almost empty save for 4 cherry pies. No apple. In the entire store there was not 1 apple pie.

Defeated, I went back to the Tastykake display and selected a different pie: A baked 2^nd place medal that I would choke down with reserved joy. The store dealt me a final blow when I ran into Not Ringo Starr one more time. He handed the stock boy’s apron which he had signed. I looked at it. It read Dilbert MacGuffin or Dan Milton or maybe Cyrano de Bergerac, who knows? I thanked him out of learned civility, paid for my not apple pie and left the store.

I walked to my car humming “With a Little Help from My Friends” and dreaming of a world that never runs out of apple pie.

No Sub-stitute

There comes a time in every man’s life when he needs to eat several thick slices of meat and cheese between a cylindrical bread roll, topped by lettuce, onions and mayo (or possibly spicy mustard or horseradish depending on his mood). In my part of the country we call this concoction a “sub”, short for “submarine sandwich”. Other areas of the country called them hoagies, grinders, heroes, wedges, rockets, torpedoes, Poor Boys, Po’ Boys, blimpies, etc.

I stopped at a local grocery store on the way to work one day last week to pick up one of these delicious meat missiles for lunch and was shocked, shocked I tell you, at the price. This sub was around 6 inches in length and from the outside through the plastic wrapper appeared to have the normal ingredients for an Italian sub. The price, however, told me it must be something special.

Six dollars. Six pictures of George Washington, or 1 picture of Abraham Lincoln AND a picture of George Washington, all for some bread stuffed with meat, cheese, lettuce, onions and tomato.

I studied the ham searching for flecks of gold. Surely the salami must have been shat out by some rare mountain lion in the hills of Argentina. I scoured the cheese for an autograph of the great cheese maker Luigi Provolone. Was the lettuce actually shredded $100 bills? Perhaps the onions were shavings of pearl. The bread had a sheen as if it had been sprayed in sterling silver. There had to be something that made it worth $6 when just six months ago I was paying $4.

I know, you’re saying try buying one in a big metropolitan area where they’re $35.50 and a vial of O + blood. But I live in a small town. I work a small job. I have a small bank account. I just wanted a small sub.

I don’t remember what I had for lunch that day, but it wasn’t the delicious sandwich I had dreamed of. I believe the paltry sum in my wallet bought some kind of low rent TV dinner that was definitely “lean” with not much “cuisine”. Oh well, my desire for fine luncheon meats and cheeses will have to wait for better days.

Forest, Meet the Trees

I’m so excited that my muse Michelle Bachmann is back in the news. Apparently there is a bill making its way through congress that would disallow welfare recipients from using their welfare cards in ATMs that are inside casinos or strip clubs. Michelle screamed like an over-caffeinated pixie that this bill will finally stop welfare recipients from receiving government aided lap dances. Yes! Michelle is back!

Don’t get me wrong, I know our welfare system does not work the way it was intended. I know that it’s true that recipients are using the money to gamble at casinos, play the lottery and buy alcohol and cigarettes. For once I actually agree with Michelle on something. Not allowing them to use the cards in casinos and the like is a good and necessary idea.

What amuses me is that my Michelle went right to lap dances. Not cigarettes, not beer, not gambling, she went straight to the strip clubs. Is there a skeleton in Michelle’s closet, perhaps wearing pasties and a g-string? How did you pay for college, Michelle? Was that actually you dancing as Boom Boom LaRue at the Ministry of Flesh?

Did you ever notice that really conservative people talk about sex A LOT? Especially conservative politicians. Rick Santorum can’t stop talking about it. Yeah, when he talks about sex it becomes dank and Draconian, something to be performed when the Sun is in eclipse and wolves are howling outside your door, but man, he just won’t shut up.

The other thing conservatives do concerning sex is lie about it. If you have a conservative politician railing against the homosexual lifestyle with fire and brimstone stump speeches, you can bet the farm he spends his nights watching a Tom Cruise look alike in Top Buns or spending quality time with a staff member named Kyle. If your senator or congressman uses the phrase “family values” more than 23 times in every appearance and always has his wife and 4 adoring children smiling at him in a Stepfordesque pose, you know for a fact he has an apartment on K street where two girls named C’quanda and Ruby Red let him snort lines of coke off their breasts while they recite the bill of rights.

Anyway, I’m thrilled to have Michelle back in the news. The world is more of a multi-colored, musical peyote trip when Michelle speaks her mind and someone in the media records it. Keep fighting the good fight Michelle! No lap dances for the poor! No lap dances for the poor! No lap dances for the poor!

A Country Divided

It started with Iowa choosing Rick Santorum. The core of the earth shuddered at the seismic shift in ignorance. New Hampshire followed with a predictable win for Mitt Romney and there was calm.

South Carolina was next and the southern lords and ladies caused another disturbance in the force voting for dark lord of the Sith Newt Gingrich, whose fleshy jowls frightened undecided voters to pull the lever marked “racist adulterer”.

The scourge of every election, Florida, came up next and for the first time in decades the state was able to pull off a vote without court challenges, recounts or more than 10 % of the vote for Mickey Mouse. Mittens chalked up win number 2 and the Republican Party was officially taking the path of least resistance to Romneyland where everything changes, every day including opinions and election platforms. Speak into the microphone and tell Mitt what you want. He’ll prepare a speech just for you.

Everyone packed their bags and headed out west to Nevada. Each candidate put a chip down at the roulette table, the wheel spun round and round, the little white ball bounced, jumped and jived until it came up Romney. Mittens had win number 3. All was vanilla and pabulum with the world.

Tuesday, February 7, a day that will live in a small amount of infamy within certain factions of Mitt Romney’s campaign and the Republican Party at large. Three states holding a primary or caucus. All three are carried by the same person. A dark shadow, like a vulture gliding low over a dead raccoon in the middle of a residential street, passes over the country. Minnesota, Colorado and Missouri all fell to Rick Santorum.

Updated Scorecard:

Santorum 4
Romney 3
Gingrich 1
Paul 0

The Republican Party is a mess. They have no candidate running that a plurality of the voters wants. Their platforms and policies are a sad mixture of benefitting-only-the-rich tax modifications, couldn’t care less if the poor can afford health care and let’s allow the states to make their own laws on EVERYTHING. You want to give that kind of power to a state say, like Pennsylvania, who can’t even keep their roadways paved and whose capital city is $300 million in debt? Good idea.

Santorum suddenly has momentum and his ideas are the worst of all. He hates women, gays, poor people, non-Christians and apparently America because he’s forcing us to consider him a presidential candidate. If you’re not a rich, white, male, conservative Christian Rick Santorum has no time for you.

Personally I have no time for any of these losers but one of them just might be president in 2013. If that doesn’t shake you to the core of your being then you must a rich, white male conservative Christian-in-name-but-not-actions. We are a politically divided country and none of these mouth breathers is going to fix that.

Consolation Prizes

And now it’s time for America’s favorite game show “Who Wants to be the Republican Nominee for President?” I’m your host Alex Trebek. Let’s meet our guests!

Our first contestant is a former speaker of the house from Georgia whose hobbies include racism and adultery: Newt Gingrich!

Next we have the former governor of Massachusetts whose favorite quote comes from rapper Fifty Cent, “Get rich or die tryin’”: Mitt Romney

Our third contestant believes in closed borders and closed minds: welcome wacky Ron Paul!

Finally, our fourth contestant is a former senator from the Keystone state whose campaign slogan is “Don’t Google me, bro”: Rick Santorum.

Now let’s welcome our moderator for the evening, Snoop Dogg!

“Hey, hey, it’s the d-o-g down with the G- O- P.”

Uh, all right . . . whatever that means, Snoop take it away with our first question.

“Yeah, listen up, why hasn’t the chronic been legalized?”

Newt: Chronic injuries and illnesses are the scourge of American prosperity. In my administration we will pass health care legislation that thoroughly covers all chronic sicknesses, unlike Mr. Romney’s plan.

Mitt: Will your plan also cover diseases passed on through extra-marital sex?

Newt: Cram it Richie Rich

Ron: The only “chronic” problem this country has is joining things: NATO, the United Nations, NAFTA, wars. It has to end.

Rick: I feel like I’m chronically misunderstood. That stuff on Google about me isn’t true!

“What are you white pastries talkin’ about? I want you to legalize pot.”

Newt: Never.

Mitt: Not a chance.

Ron: Maybe

Rick: No.

“Damn, the G-O-P is a bunch of S-O-Bs. I’m out. Peace”

All right, thank you to guest moderator Snoop Dogg. Now it’s the audience’s turn to participate. Push the button for the candidate of your choice.

And the results are in. The winner is . . . Mitch Daniels. Wait, Mitch Daniels isn’t running. Ladies and gentlemen you have to select one of our official candidates. Let’s try it again. Push those buttons!

And the winner is . . . Ronald Reagan. That’s it, I’m done. I’m going back to the green room and smoke a blunt with Snoop.

Good luck America!

That's Debatable

Chris Wallace of Fox News said yesterday that all these Republican debates were stupid. There have been so many that the moderators are having trouble finding new questions to ask. People, we shouldn’t need a Fox News broadcaster to tell us 19 debates are too many. This is an ability that should be inherent to all of us. There are babies being born right now who’s first thought while lying in their mother’s arms is “Really? 19 Republican debates? I’ve been in the womb for the last 9 months and I know Newt Gingrich is a dbag.”

The original field of candidates was transparent in their faults. As a society we didn’t require even one debate to know all we needed. Every time Michelle Bachman speaks the music from the shower scene in Psycho plays in our heads. The republican voters rightfully discarded her quickly in a field somewhere in Iowa. She’s probably preaching to the rats that the corn stalks are un-American and should be investigated by the department of agriculture.

Rick Perry? HE’S FROM TEXAS! Why would you need more? But for you stubborn folks out there, Rick decided to open his mouth . . . and forget what he was talking about mid-sentence, ending with a doofus grin and an “oops”. Imagine that scenario with Perry’s finger a half inch from the button that controls our arsenal of nuclear weapons. Whoo doggies!

Have we really learned anything new about Mitt Romney through 19 agonizing debates? He’s rich, he’s a Mormon, he will say anything to get the nomination, and he’s brainless. He’s Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz and we saw the straw protruding from his scalp 4 years ago. Nothing’s changed. Call me when you find out he’s wearing ruby red pumps behind the podium.

Rick Santorum has been and always will be an ultra-conservative nightmare. All the debates have done is allowed a wider audience to hear the feces that leaks from his mouth. I would say that that was actually a good thing except someone listened and instead of phoning Pennsylvania and asking us to take him back, they VOTED for him. I’m looking in your direction Iowa.

Ron Paul is Ron Paul, always the outsider, which is strange because he has the pre-requisite racism needed to be a Republican politician along with the gutless denials of said racism. He wants to repeal the civil rights act, is an extreme isolationist and couldn’t give a shit if you can’t afford health insurance. It is a wonder he doesn’t garner more votes.

There are several more debates scheduled which is insanity. How many more times can Mitt Romney change his position on an issue before his head explodes. Actually, I’d watch that. Debate on, assholes.

America Picks a Candidate . . . or Not

It’s a battle royale for the dumbest state in the union. Tonight’s bout pits Iowa vs. South Carolina.

I was giving Iowa credit for brazen ignorance for casting enough votes for Google favorite Rick Santorum to come in second. But now it’s been announced that Iowa did a re-count and Santorum actually won the primary.

That’s 2 strikes against Iowa. They can’t do basic addition and enough of them them thought Rick “Massive Tool” Santorum would make a good president. This is a man who said that scientists “don’t have morals” and need to be government regulated. For Christ’s sake Iowa, come in from the corn field and join the 21^st century. To paraphrase Bill Hicks, “we’ve got thumbs now, we’re evolving”. You can have faith in God and still believe in science. It’s easy, I do it every day.

Santorum has said so many idiotic things I could write about them all day. I will mention one more. President Obama once gave a speech in France apologizing for some of the things done under President Bush in an attempt to repair broken relations with a traditional ally. Santorum criticized Obama for apologizing to people that “owes its freedom to the sacrifices of Americans”. While it’s true that the United States liberated France in World War 2, Rick seems to be forgetting that France assisted us in winning the Revolutionary War. You know, the one that allowed us to form an independent nation?

Rick Santorum: a vote for him is a vote for unfailing ignorance.

This brings us to Iowa’s opponent in the dumbass sweepstakes, South Carolina. Last night they threw their hat in the ring of shame by voting for Newt Gingrich by a wide margin over Richie Rich, uh, I mean Mitt Romney. I have detailed Newts faults and absurdities in detail in this blog before so I will only list them now. South Carolina decided the man they want for president is someone who is narcissistic, racist, misogynistic, closed-minded, inflammatory, egomaniacal, self-involved, self-absorbed, whatever the word is for someone who will bomb Iran while he sits safe and sound in a bunker eating Ding Dongs and watching a Two and a Half Men marathon, bloviating, an unrepentant liar, an exaggerator and though I can’t prove it, I believe flatulent.

Look South Carolina, I realize you weren’t given a lot of choices. It’s like being handed a TV remote to flip through American Idol, a Larry the Cable Guy movie, Survivor: Tijuana and Different Strokes re-runs on TV Land as your only viewing choices. But Newt Gingrich? I’m bitching at Iowa to enter our current century, S. Carolina you need to at least break through to the 20^th.

Newt Gingrich has been in American politics for decades. His failings have been widely detailed. His own party essentially fired him from his job as speaker of the house. He pretends to love his country when what he loves is himself and power. This information was all available to you South Carolina and still you voted for him.

So who wins the battle royale? I think it’s a draw. Both combatants swung wildly and missed altogether, falling drunkenly through the ropes and out of the ring. Now we move on to Florida. Oh God, Florida. We’re doomed.

Mittens

Barring something wild happening it looks like Mittens Mormon Flip-Flopper Plastic Man Elitist Millionaire No Common Sense Loves to Fire People The Candidate No One Really Wants Romney will win the Republican nomination for president. He’s already won the hearts and minds of a small percentage of Iowans and New Hampshirites and is now way out in front in early polling with an equally small percentage of South Carolinians. What are we to make of Mitt Romney?

Well, he smiles a lot. Every picture or video taken of him he has a giant, fake smile painted on his face, sort of like a clown without the makeup. It remains to be determined if he’s squirting seltzer down his pants, but my guess is ‘yes’.

He is an idiot. He passed some kind of health care reform in Massachusetts that very closely resembles what the Obama administration passed last year, but since most republicans don’t agree with it, Mittens has tried to deny what he did. That makes sense. I mean it’s not like they keep records of the legislation a state passes or that the governor has to sign documents or that people take pictures and video and report on it in the news on TV and the internet and you tube and political blogs blah blah blah.

He’s a bastard. Go online and Google Romney’s dog story. This asshole put the family dog in a kennel and then tied the kennel on the roof of the car during a 12 hour trip into Canada. Part way through the trip when one of his sons noticed the dog shitting down the back window out of pure, abject terror, Mittens became a man of action. He pulled over, hosed down the dog and the kennel, put the dog back into the kennel, re-tied it to the roof of the car and continued with the trip. Bastard.

He’s made millions by down-sizing companies and laying off hard-working people, all the while apparently laughing as if he were watching a Green Acres re-run. This election the number one issue is . . . drum roll please . . . job creation and the unemployment rate! Hmmm, Mittens doesn’t seem like a good match for this issue. It’s like an eHarmony meet-up between Paris Hilton and Tim Tebow.

So basically Mitt Romney is a smiley idiot bastard who, if elected president, would spend four years still trying to get people to like him, passing legislation and then backtracking, and denying suffering people unemployment while slashing jobs rather than creating them. Sounds like a fun 1460 days.

In conclusion I’d like to apologize to any reader who thought by the title that this was an article on winter outer wear. No harm was ever intended to gloves, hand warmers or Isotoners.

Fun with Spell Check

I’ve noticed that the spell check in Microsoft can give you some strange suggestions when you misspell a word. For instance, if my last name, Hivner, is in my document it would like me to change it to “Hivers”. While this may be a way for me to avoid the IRS for a while I don’t think my Mom would approve. With this in mind I did an experiment, typing up some famous quotations along with the names of the person who said them. Then I took a few of the letters out to give spell check something to do.

Albert Einstein said “Imagination is more important than knowledge.” His lesser known cousin Ale Eaten said, “Iodination is more imp tat than college”, which I think is just as profound if you really think about it.

“Four score and seven years ago . . .” is of course the beginning of Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. Words you may not be as familiar with are “Four sod and Sven yaks ago . . .” which is of course the start to the Geyser Padres from unknown antebellum politician Bathe Lingo.

Poet Robert Frost wrote these immortal words, “Two roads diverged in a wood and I took the one less travelled”. Under the pen name Rover Fest he wrote these slightly less memorable words, “Two rams veered in a woody and I hook the one less railed”.

British leader Winston Churchill was once cheekily quoted as saying, “I am easily satisfied with the very best.” His alter ego Wisdom Circle had even more cheek when he said, “I am easily stiffed with the very bust”.

American Writer Mark Twain had this to say about the human psyche, “Everyone is a moon and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.” An unknown writer named Mask Taint who was trying to mimic his hero has this to stay, “Urine is a monk and has a dry side which he never sags to dayboy.”

As you can see you have to be careful with spell check or you can end up wiring a very sage bog pet.

Damn it!

In the Dark Iowa Night

What are we to make of Rick “Pennsylvania’s Greatest Embarrassment” Santorum’s near victory in the Iowa caucus? If you watch TV news shows or read any news web sites you would think by the smothering coverage that this was the biggest event since politics was invented by a few over-intellectualizing Greeks. But let’s take a look at some facts.

1. The voter turnout for the Iowa caucus was around 5%. 5. Five. FIVE. One, two, three, four, five. Looked at another way this means 95% of the voters in Iowa stayed home to watch The Bachelor. MSNBC, Fox and the others of their ilk would have you believe this was a very important event but 9.5 out of every 10 Iowans didn’t give a shit. If the state itself didn’t care, why should the rest of us?

2. Does the winner of the Iowa race eventually win the nomination? No. Iowa voters have only managed to choose the future winner twice in the past 30 years. In other words they are successful about as often as I win on a lottery scratch off ticket. For all we know Michelle Bachmann will magically be written in on ballots in the other states and win the nomination, sweeping her way to the White House and plunging the country into 4 years of eye-gouging insanity.

3. Rachel Maddow made an interesting point last evening that maybe one of the reasons Santorum did so well in Iowa was because he hasn’t been vetted yet and the reason for that is: no one, not one person, nada, zilch, nobody . . . thinks he can win. We haven’t paid attention to Rick “Google Problem” Santorum because we don’t think he’s got a chance. Maybe the good people of Iowa haven’t heard the ignorant shit he’s said over the years. Get ready remaining 49 states, your ears are about to bleed.

In the end, the Iowa caucus made news only because it was the first one on the slate. Even the people who live there couldn’t be bothered to come out and cast a vote for Grumpy, Dopey, Sneezy, Sleepy, Bashful, Happy or Doc. The winner in Iowa clearly has no historical precedent so who cares?

The last time Santorum ran for the Pennsylvania senate, as the incumbent, he got flushed like a turd into the Susquehanna so it’s surprising to now see him win anything, much less a primary for the nomination for president. But what does it ultimately mean?

Not a damn thing.

Happy New year

The holidays are the time of year when we take a hard look at all we have to be thankful for in the past 12 months. As someone trying to establish a writing career and using this blog as a stepping stone, I find myself thankful for all the people and things that give me subjects to write about.

Politicians—It’s a given that politicians are horrible people. They all claim to get into the profession because they want to help their country, county, city or municipality grow and progress. In fact, they are in the game to reap whatever spoils they can for themselves and their family while screwing over the people that elected them. At the same time, they have to appear to be doing “something” so they can continue to get elected and not lose all the graft they’ve accumulated. 2011 was a banner year for any humor writer as the Republicans put up not 1, not 2, not 3, not 4, but 127 ill-qualified, mentally unbalanced, narcissistic, not-a-good-idea-between-them candidates for the 2012 presidential election. We laughed along with Herman Cain as he forgot what Libya was. We chuckled at Mitt Romney attempting to squeeze a personality out of his ass cheeks. We cringed every time Michelle Bachmann opened her mouth because we weren’t quite sure if she was just being ignorant or was truly delusional. We shook our heads when Donald Trump said he does very well with ‘the blacks’ because we knew the only thing black about Donald is his soul, which he obviously sold to the devil years ago somewhere in the swamps of Jersey. So I say thank you to the American politicians for another year of their idiocy.

Shopping—I’m a little different than most guys in that I like to shop to an extent. I was raised by my mother and I went shopping with her as a kid and now I enjoy it as an adult. My shopping trips in 2011 have given me plenty to write about, from inattentive clerks to bonus cards that are so difficult to attain the store franchise has gone out of business by the time you finish filling out the form, to one memorable shopper in a grocery store who said something to her child that found its way to my ears which led to my stomach and I almost vomited. Hopefully 2012 will lead me to more store adventures like Walmart before Christmas when I picked up a blanket from the site-to-store desk. I told the clerk my item was a blanket and she began her search for it in a drawer that only a comforter for a pixie would have fit in.

My own stupidity—Sad to say I have provided myself an abundance of material. I got a speeding ticket, met bigfoot in the woods of a local park, I found out I’m too old to exercise as parts of my body started to fall off and I found things in my medicine cabinet that had been expired for 7 years. I would like to say that I will do better in 2012, but I know me. My personal inanity will only grow and I will be forced to share it with you. I’m sure in the months to come I will injure part of my body, try to fix something and have it rebel against me with an attack reminiscent of a Roger Corman movie, or sight a UFO from my yard on a night when the moon is low and the swamp gas is rising.

Here’s hoping 2012 brings me many things to write about and publish on the world wide web of internet tubes. Hopefully you will all stick around to read my ramblings. Happy New Year.

The Rise of the Newt

America, what the hell? Newt Gingrich? Are you serious? The process for choosing a Republican nominee for President has already gone on longer than the director’s cut of a JRR Tolkien movie and now that we’ve finally gotten to the final act, we’ve moved the Newt to the top of the list?

For a while Mittens Romney was the front runner and I can see why. I mean, he’s an idiot with the thought processes of an amoeba, but I could see how he was ahead. First, he looks presidential. This should have nothing to do with it, but this is America, and let’s face it, we don’t elect people for the right reasons. Second, he changes his mind on issues with the frequency of a Disney tween star doing something scandalous, so when you listen to him he’s always saying just what you want to hear.

Then for a time Herman Cain was the popular choice. This didn’t bother me though, because I knew he would do something stupid and ruin his campaign. He just had that buffoonish, cartoon presence that made me say, “Oh yeah, this guy will immolate himself eventually. Let’s sit back with a cold beverage and watch.” Boom, Herman can’t remember what Libya is! Boom, one, two, three women accuse him of sexual harassment! Boom, another woman claims to have had an affair with Herman for over a decade! Goodbye Herman, you were good for some laughs. Infamy is calling, walk into the light.

But now. Now. Darkness has descended over our country. The Republican voters have been polled like members of a trailer park kidnapped by aliens, and they have spoken in percentage numbers. They have, for the moment, chosen Newt Gingrich.

Are you shitting me?

The same Newt Gingrich that was kicked out of congress 20 years ago by his own party? The same Newt that left his first wife while she was in the hospital to marry his mistress? The same Newton Gingrich who left his 2^nd wife (the ex-mistress) to marry his new mistress (wife #3)? The same Newt who paid to have several companies create fake Twitter accounts for him so it looked like he had over a million followers? The SAME Newt whose entire campaign staff quit, en masse, because he went on vacation rather than campaign? This is the man Republicans would vote for if the election were held today?

Deep breath. Deep breath.

WHAT IN THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? How can you think . . . I mean what . . . he has never . . . morally bankrupt . . . a lifetime of bad ideas . . . how can you believe that he can . . . I mean . . . for God’s sake he’s Newt Gingrich!

All I can say is, I’m not a republican and bear no responsibility for this unholy choice.

A Thanksgiving Day Tale

There once was a turkey named Larry who lived in a small wood next to a hunting shack. The shack was owned by a very bad hunter named Earl. For ten years Earl had been trying to shoot Larry to eat him for Thanksgiving dinner. Instead, for the last ten Thanksgivings, Earl ate General Tso’s chicken and beef dumplings from Mr. Sing’s House of Chinese Delicacies and Non-Denominational Wedding Chapel. Also two years ago he married 3^rd shift waitress Darlene Lumpholz in a ceremony presided over by Mr. Sing and witnessed by long haul trucker Darryl “Dirty Deeds” Hufnagel. They were divorced 6 days later.

Larry the turkey was worried this year. He was getting older and although he was smarter than Earl, Larry was afraid he would get caught. He had decided that it was time to make peace with his nemesis. He went to Earl’s door and was invited in where the two combatants shared in a feast of Frosted Mini-Wheats while Earl relayed the dream he had had the night before where he won the lottery, ran off with Katie Couric and then drove in the 24 hours of Lemans in a soap box derby car.

They spent hours discussing their differences like how much Earl wanted to eat Larry and how much Larry really did not want to be eaten. What they found in the end is that they were very much alike. They commiserated over stories of their domineering fathers. Earl’s wanted him to go into the family business of lard production while Larry’s repeatedly told him he was a bad gobbler and wouldn’t live past 6 months in the forest on his own. After a few ribald jokes and shots of . . . wait for it . . . Wild Turkey, Earl and Larry were friends. As offerings that signified their new trust, Larry gave Earl one of his tail feathers and Earl gave Larry his Dale Earnhardt commemorative flashlight.

Brimming with renewed hope and confidence Earl reconnected with Darlene at the Thanksgiving evening buffet at Mr. Sing’s and they were re-married with Darryl “Dirty Deeds” Hufnagel once again looking on and toasting them with a tall boy of Schlitz.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Herman Cain Falls Down the Rabbit Hole

Herman Cain is the latest of the Republican presidential nominees to distance himself from the pack, in a bad way. At least 3 women from his past have accused him of sexual harassment and while he was rope-a-doping his way around that problem, he gave an interview where he was asked his opinion about a pretty big news event of the past few weeks and he drew a blank. So I decided to imagine what it would be like to interview Mr. Cain.

CO: So, Herman, what the hell is up with you?
HC: I’m bloviatin’ as fast as I can.
CO: Uh huh. What I mean is: What is wrong with you?
HC: I guess its time I came clean. I used to snort pepperonis while running Godfather’s Pizza. That’s my dirty little secret.
CO: What do you think of Libya?
HC: Ah ha! A gotcha question! I’m ready for ya’. Libya is a country in northern Africa with a population of 5.6 million. Its main export is oil and its leader is Muammar Gaddafi.
CO: Gaddafi is gone. Dead. Rebels overthrew his oppressive regime after 40 years. Any of this ringing a bell?
HC: Right! Libya. Right . . . I just have so many pizza recipes twirling around in my head . . . let’s see Libya . . .
CO: Forget it.
HC: No! I want to answer. The truth is I’m not sure about the details of the Libyan coup, but whatever role Barack Obama played, it was wrong. He handled it wrong with a capital W.
CO: What exactly did he do wrong?
HC: Right . . . well, he didn’t do what I would have done . . . in the first place.
CO: Which is?
HC: First of all . . . the bombs . . . that . . . and secondly . . . Obama is just wrong . . . he did something, and I don’t agree . . . things would be different . . . if . . . no, that’s . . . Obama was wrong. End of story.
CO: I’m speechless.
HC: I do that to people. It’s my charisma.
CO: Is that another word for aneurysm because I think you’re giving me one.
HC: Herman Cain!
CO: Why do you sexually harass women Herman?
HC: Loves me some women! Wait, I mean . . . women are . . . women have . . . You know I have a tax plan based on the number 9. Did you now that? Could we . . . talk about that . . . maybe . . .
CO: I’d rather talk about the harassment claims.
HC: Falsified! Falsified claims made by gold diggers who want Herman Cain’s pizza money! Money that I will get to keep more of under my 9-9-9 tax plan.
CO: The one that you stole from a video game?
HC: Yes! No! I came up with that myself one night on the campaign trail. I do not play video games! 9-9-9! Libya! Gold diggers! Obama’s wrong! Thank you!
CO: Thank you Herman. I need a sedative.

Adventures in Shopping

I have a cell phone mainly for emergency purposes. I don’t text, I don’t tweet, I don’t watch Israeli action movies on it, I don’t take pictures of every single thing I see and post it on Tumblr, I can’t land a Harrier jet on an aircraft carrier, I can’t control the route of a city bus, I can’t read John Grisham’s latest tome of good lawyer vs. bad lawyer. I carry the phone with me and occasionally make a call.

To save money I have a Tracphone. There is no $80/a month plan with so many conditions and provisions you need a major in accounting with a minor in international law to understand the contract you are signing in blood. To keep a Tracphone active you add a minimum of 20 minutes to the phone every 3 months at a cost of $20. If you miss your end date, however, then you have to call the company, talk to a man with a Pakistani accent named Steve and jump through hoops to get it reactivated. I believe the last time I had to purchase an elephant and teach it to use its trunk to blow “Melancholy Baby” on a trumpet before my service was restored.

Last Friday was my last day to get a new card to put minutes on before my phone deactivated. I went first to a local grocery store I knew sold the cards. The store was packed with what appeared to be lunatics from an asylum, wandering the aisles, gape-mouthed and drooling. I bobbed and weaved through the throng, got to the Tracphone display stand only to see the $20 cards sold out. Oh, they had plenty of the expensive cards: 200 minutes, a years worth of minutes, enough minutes to connect with the other side and call your dearly departed Aunt Gertrude to ask why Uncle Fred can’t stop farting when he walks. If I had wanted to take out a loan from the man named Murray who sat behind a desk snacking on oyster crackers, I could have had my card.

Instead I got back in my car, fought the traffic to drive through the intersection to the Rite Aid on the other side of route 24. I wandered the empty aisles until I found the display and . . . they were sold out of the $20 cards also. “What’s going on here?” I thought. Have I stumbled onto a vast, global conspiracy to deplete the stock of Tracphone cards? Were their men in black suits watching me, recording my thoughts and catching my skin flakes in tightly wrapped tin foil? Were the Lizard People using Soviet manufactured satellites to track the bar code imprinted on a computer chip that was embedded in my left nostril?

I decided it was all a coincidence and left the store in a huff, giving an odd glance to a man in a dark suit perusing a copy of Global Conspiracy Magazine. I drove to yet another grocery store where finally, I found my $20 phone card.

I should have ended my painful shopping trip right there but no, I made the fateful decision to buy a few groceries. It was during my time in the bread, egg and cheese aisle that I heard the thing that haunted the rest of my weekend. I was happily picking out a package of provolone cheese when a family passed behind me. It was a Norman Rockwellian scene: A mother with her three children in tow, shopping for the family’s basic needs. One of the children asked if they could buy a particular item. I couldn’t understand what the child said but the mother’s response flattened me.

“No,” she replied, “those always loosen you up too much.”

I have never vomited in a grocery store and I was determined to keep that streak alive. The bile that rose in my throat from the graphic image that popped into my head with a devious grin, stayed in my mouth. I choked on it. Choked hard. I ran to the check-out, barreling over an old woman trying to choose between extra-absorbent and super extra-absorbent paper towels. I showed the clerk the items in my hands, threw a wad of money at her and ran from the store.

Once in my car, I wept openly. The world was a darker, danker place and my innocence had been tossed into the trash. I hate shopping on a Friday night.

An Encounter in the Woods

I was taking a walk through a local state park, enjoying the turning fall leaves, when I almost caught Bigfoot. He tried to tell me he was just a hairy man on a mountain bike but you can’t fool me. After all, I see those Jack Links Jerky commercials almost every day. I think I know Sasquatch when I see him.

I was deep in the woods when I came upon a sylvan glen. A placid breeze wafted across my skin as a yellow-red leaf broke away from its home on a gnarled tree limb and drifted to the semi-hard ground in front of me. Suddenly the calm was shattered by a horrible huffing and puffing. Leaves on a nearby bush were swatted aside and he appeared: Bigfoot!

Huge and as wide as a barn door, only his head was covered in dark fur. I was surprised to see his body encased in blue and silver spandex. He rode a steed made of hardened aluminum with round rubber legs. I had never seen a creature like it. The Bigfoot species must have spent hundreds of years breeding and taming these beasts to use as transportation through the forest.

Knowing this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance I chased after him. He turned onto another path. I cut through some painful brambles to catch up, leaping and grabbing hold of one of his steed’s rubber legs. The creature dragged me twenty yards before stopping and then Bigfoot spoke!

“What the hell are you doing man?” he screamed at me. What a strange, guttural language! I tried to communicate back.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I reassured him.

“I’m going to hurt you if you don’t let go of my bike!” he bellowed back. I had no idea what he was saying but he was clearly upset. I tried reaching out and stroking his spandex skin.

“Good boy, good boy,” I said sweetly, in a sing-song voice. He looked down at me weirdly then through yellow, gritted teeth said:

“Dude, if you don’t move your hand right now, I will snap it off and SHOVE IT DOWN YOUR THROAT!”

He was roaring now, flailing his arms about like a mountain gorilla. Perhaps they’re related somehow physiologically? I backed off, not wanting to overexcite him.

“What is wrong with you?” he yelled at me in his odd language, spittle flying from his lips. I held out my hands in a gesture of fealty. Finally he calmed down, turned and got ready to ride off on his animal. I had to act fast, my moment was slipping away. I grabbed a hefty tree branch from the ground, swung and caught Bigfoot in the back of the head. He went down in a heap, tangled with pieces of his steed.

I dragged his carcass to my car. He’s in my garden shed for now. When I’m done studying him we will make our grand presentation to the International Sasquatch Convention in Belgium next summer. I have a lot of work to do between now and then. I’m still trying to decipher his language. Last night he said to me, “Let me out of here NOW, you *&6%&^* piece of $#@#. I’m going to kill you! When I get my hands on you I’ll break every %^$#@@&(* bone in your ^&%#@@#$% body, let them heal and start over again!”

If only I knew what that meant, I could be the first person to communicate with one of the great mysteries of the world. When I take him his dinner of dried leaves and stink bugs I will try again.

Billy Goat, Billy Goat, Get Off My Bridge

I have been occupied. I opened my blog up this morning and found four protesters eating corn muffins and drinking half fat, low foam lattes with just a whiff of cinnamon. When they saw me they lifted up home made signs and began shouting slogans through mouthfuls of crumbling baked goods. The slogan wasn’t very catchy:

“Irrelevant blogs clog the arteries of the internet thus making it more difficult for discerning readers to find blogs of more noteworthy content!”

I told the three young men and one woman that they sucked as protesters to which I received this retort:

“Yeah . . . well . . . you use too many big words.”

They then began chanting “No big words! No big words! No big words!”

I asked them what exactly the problem was.

“We don’t like your blog,” the tall skinny one who hadn’t bathed in a few days said smugly. “And we’re going to sit right here on the admin page until you delete it.”

“Yeah!” added the female whose lazy eye kept wandering to the donut I had sitting on my desk.

I asked what specifically they didn’t like about Cosmic Overdrive.

“You don’t write about what’s important to us. I don’t care if you go to Office Max or you don’t like grocery stores that sell lawn furniture. And these politicians you write about, who are they? I’ve never heard of these people.”

You mean the one’s who are running for the republican nomination for the office of president of the United States, I asked?

“Yeah, duh, who cares? We want to read blogs about video games and snowboarding and protesting.”

Just because you don’t like what I write doesn’t make it irrelevant or mean you have the right to demand it not exist anymore. If you don’t like it just don’t read it, I told them.

“You can’t tell us what to do!” they screamed indignantly. “Fascist! Fascist! Fascist!”

That’s it, I tried to be nice. I’m getting out the taser.

“Run!”

Too late, you pissed me off.

ZAAAAP! ZAAAP! ZAAAAP! ZAAAAP!

I didn’t want my blog to become a police state but they pushed me. All four are down, splayed out all over my admin page. Oddly enough the girl’s lazy eye is still dancing over my donut. I hope I don’t get any bad press from this incident.

Oh no. There’s already an article about it on Huffington Post. Damn it.

Contractual Obligation Post

I didn’t really want to write a blog post today but then I was informed by myself that I was contractually obligated. Apparently sometime during the summer I made myself sign a contract I had written that forces me to write on certain days. I can be such a jerk sometimes.

I’m trying to figure out how I knew how to write a contract in the first place. I know me, and a law degree is something I don’t have. I have half a jar of peanut butter, a glass Snoopy bank filled with pennies, a lifetime supply of sarcasm and assorted notebooks filled with ideas, observations and knock-knock jokes but I don’t have a law degree.

Wanting to breach the agreement, I simply refused to write, but I was too smart for myself. I had had a clause put into the contract that if I refused to write a blog on this date that tomorrow I would be forced to write a sonnet about kittens sleeping on rainbows while John Denver songs play in the background. I didn’t know I could be so cruel.

It only got worse as I read further. If I don’t sit down and write a poem on Wednesday, I’ll force myself to watch Katy Perry videos on You Tube. By Thursday if I don’t have a short story started I will have to watch a marathon of Joey Lawrence’s sitcom on the Family Channel. Where did I come up with these heinous punishments? Why would I subject myself to these vile tortures if I don’t comply with my contract with myself?

I wanted to hire a lawyer to fight the contract, but I told myself I couldn’t afford one. I may have been lying, I don’t know if I can trust myself anymore. Feeling I had no choice I’ve taken a drastic measure. I’ve hired a hit man to kill me and make it look like an accident. I know it sounds crazy but I will not let me control myself with flimsy legal papers.

I have to go make my dinner now. Funny . . . I don’t remember that ottoman being right in front of the refrigerator where I could easily fall over it and hit my head on the kitchen counter.