I'm a Rockefeller Republican, Sir
Here are some of my best posts, and this covers the early part of the year when I used a lot more filler and didn't care as much and then it covers the busy part of the year, when I worked really, really hard and came up with some stuff that made me uncomfortable.
I was also the inspiration for this song
When you live in New York City, as I did for many years, and work in the business world, you tend to overlap into what some might call "the entertainment industry" and what others might call "the playground of whores." I was never a man-whore, but I came awfully close on occasion. I won't bore you with the details. There are prudes out there, of course. Let me just say that I practically invented the practice of running around naked on the roof of a building in which I did not live.
Being Pathetic is What is Recession-Proof
I applaud a good Ponzi scheme. It shows a willingness to win at all costs. I say "boo! boo!" in the catcall vernacular to those who get taken by Ponzi schemes. It shows laziness and an inability to pay attention. That's why I'm able to turn my back on these people. Goodness, you can't be spotted talking to a Wal-Mart greeter or a liquor store warehouse employee. You simply cannot be seen talking to a man who now sells insurance on commission for a shady outfit like AFLAC. That duck annoys me to no end. And I like comical ducks. I like them a great deal, sir.
Helping my old friend Candy Spelling sell her home
And, much like the Spellings, I have a chunky daughter who is a major, major disappointment. It's a wonder I even let her into the house. Miranda is such a disappointment to me, on many levels. Yes, she can pilot a boat and straighten out administrative problems, but no, she can't attract a decent husband anymore. No Ivy League man would ever taste her soiled goodies. The bloom is off the rose, Miranda, and without a man, you might as well give yourself a one way ticket to spinsterhood and stop off at the Big Ass mall and stock up on supplies.
Pointing out the obvious is what I do best
Let me just state the obvious--this is why you don't tip the pizza boy or pay him a lot of money. True, once he realizes that the money he's making won't fix his Grandmother's Plymouth after he burns out the motor making one too many runs to the fat kids in the husky boy pants in the trailer park who subsist off Mountain Dew and Meat Lover's Pizzas, you're likely going to have to recruit another one to take his place, but I digress. We have had a recent spate of shootings in this country. Now, nearly 100% of the blame for those shootings goes to mental illness. Some goes to liberalism, the rest goes to the fact that the raising of the minimum wage has allowed people to go out and purchase more guns and more ammunition. Think I'm wrong? I probably am wrong, and I really should point out that this is not what I really think. I'm just trying to make the day go by faster.
BONUS coverage, because April was a weird month for me:
The Slutty E-surance girl is back to torment me
My God, have you ever seen anything that perky? Those things make perky look like someone's idea of being rode hard and put away wet.
I Have Never Worn Jeans or Sneakers
When I was 15, I got lost in the downtown Groton sewer system for about two months. I fancied myself living underground and becoming a kind of mole-rat person with super-sensitive eyesight and the ability to digest stolen food from a pizza restaurant that had a loose manhole cover behind it. I should write about my time as the Frisky Mole Boy of Groton. Technically, I wasn't a mole--I was a mole rat. I didn't do any digging. I subsisted off stolen or discarded food which I took down into tunnels someone else had installed. But I solved a few bank robberies, fell in love, and invented a curved stick that allowed me to run through sewer pipes while carrying pizza without falling. It was ingenious. Oh, and I had sex with forty women, caught eleven fugitives, and blew up a furniture store that was being used as an illegal gambling parlor.
Spraying Your Own People With Horrible Chemicals
Ah, the nostalgia of reading about sialorrhoea on a beautiful summer morning. Do all of the blogs you read talk extensively about how sialorrhoea can help restore democracy and freedom? Do most of them? Well, good for you.
July
Rachel Ray Has a Magnificent Ass
I am who I am because I love Rachel Ray's Magnificent Ass. It moves me to tears, it does. It's a ripe apple hanging from a tree in the garden of Earthly delights, and I cannot have it. I can see it, I can appreciate it, I can tell you how grand and special it is. But it is not mine. It is hers. She shares it with us, like a secret.
Thank you, Rachel. This old, crying man with a happy face and a smile only for you...I break down trying to finish this. I do.
August
Damn You, Marxist Pants
Why go around in ripped pants, dawg? That's what I said today, in good fun and camaraderie, to my homies when my son and I went to Sam's Club so that we could ghost ride the whip in the parking lot. Today, it was absolutely beautiful weather, and when I wasn't coming unglued and blogging like a maniac, we were out with Toby and Darryl and Demetrius from my son's role-playing club. I felt loose enough to get on the roof and dance, and I didn't fall off this time, which is a huge plus because the Suburban is, what? Seven and a half feet off of the ground?
BONUS:
Capitalism Beats the Hippies, Once and For All
Filthy hippies, I hope all of you are washed into the gutter and flushed into a blackened, oily sea full of horrid birds and starving fish. Your time is over. I sneer at you because I won. The counterculture lost. Capitalism, money, and properly cut hair won. Letting it all hang out and letting you freak flag fly lost.
September
No One Who Rates Prostitutes Online Actually Uses Them
If I was chief of police, the first thing I would do is fire everyone, and bring in all new detectives. Then, I would say, you cut a deal with anyone, I will hang you. Now, go round up the guys who run things, and break them. Bust up their homes, tear down their businesses, and burn their favorite place to the ground. And then, tomorrow, we'll do it all over again until people get the message. Do you think that would have an impact on crime? Perhaps. But, I can guarantee you one thing, there would be judges, politicians and clergymen clamoring to have me shot in the head before sunset. C'est la vie.
October
Grow Your Own, Dr. Greenthumb
This old conservative must step down from the soap box and clearly admit that our war on drugs has failed. Using weed hasn't hurt Willie Nelson at all, now has it? Look at Willie--he is 76 years old and he has transferred at least twelve metric tons of marijuana through his system. If ever there was a poster child for legalizing weed, it's Willie.
November
I Shall Attempt to Win the British Bad Sex in Fiction Prize
Sex with her was a process of figuring out why I was chasing around a moving mouse. That’s what it felt like to me, her thing. It felt like a white, pink mouse that was trying to escape from an anaconda that was too inexperienced to hunt properly. An anaconda that needed glasses no optometrist was skillful enough to make. This mouse was dampened by her excitement, a bottle with French writing she took out of her purse, and a rolling mist through the sewer. That made it difficult for me on my bare knees to find any kind of traction. Everything about her was freshly scrubbed and smelling of old soap, soap applied without any passion. If she had worn perfume, it was drowned out by the riot of smells that I had learned to ignore. I fumbled, figured out the sticky problems, put right the gravity and the friction, and I learned to chase the brillo pad textures I felt with my thigh like a horseman on the hunt for a fox that had been running around without any common sense.
December
Don't Criticize What We Wore in the 1970s
It’s true—I had a husky boy phase, but I outgrew it. I played football and lost twenty pounds in two weeks. I toughened up. I cowboy’ed up. I got angry. I stared at myself in the mirror with nothing but disgust on my face and I clenched my fists and made myself slim enough to wear jumpsuits and mesh T-shirts. I was always frisky, and with that added energy, and some pills, I was fine. Nervous and jumpy sometimes, but I always worked with our family doctor to get the amphetamines to work with me, not against me.
Men could wear whatever they wanted to wear, so they went with tight pants, plaids, open collars, nylon and polyester. It was what we did. We wore whatever they were selling in the stores, you see. There wasn’t a Gap (right? Gap came about because kids needed part-time work in malls, correct?). There was Montgomery Wards. You went there, bought seven or eight shirts, some suit coats that fit, pants that didn’t split when you bent over, three belts, a few pairs of shoes, some socks, and I always went commando. I learned to go commando because they don’t sell underwear in India for husky boys.
Posted via web from An American Lion is on Posterous
The Baby-Sitters Club Book Number 8 (a classic)Ann. M. Martin (New York Times)Taking a page from Broadway and George Lucas, Scholastic Inc., the children’s book publisher, is trying for a revival — with a prequel attached.
