Friday, October 9, 2015


Turn Your Home Into An Arena Of Terror And Shame By Reading This


Dateline / Washington: President Boner To Go Away

President John Boner announced yesterday that he is stepping down from his position as Speaker-To-Animals in order to spend more time with his family and his expertly-crafted hairpiece. Upon hearing the news, Boner's family locked him out of his Georgebushtown Double-Wide home and he was forced to spend the night with a sheep, hooker, or kitchen appliance by himself.

Poor Boner. Since the exit of Lil' Eric Cantor, Boner had come under increasing pressure from members of the Amerikanischer Tea Partei who live in his pants to secede from the USA, end Medicare, divert the nation's Social Security funds to Lloyd Blankfein for His amusement, and provide treats to America's deserving wealthy.  Because Freedom. But Boner could not do this -- he could not wear his pants. The Powerbars that Be had a sad, and America didn't care, because Hillary!  Jebby!

Boner had been recently described by some Parteigenossen as "sick, old; his coat was no longer shiny and his nose was warm" -- clear signs, they said, that he should be taken out behind the House Barn and put down -- but humanely, with a shovel, or volume 2 of the House Rules.  Rather than allow himself to be publicly shamed, Boner ran away.

He is gone now. But we should remember his relentlessness, his turgid imbecility and Aspergerish mien withal. Remember how he sat behind the Pestident during the annual STFU Address and the teevee showed him making sour faces and farting into the seat cushion.

He accomplished so little for so many, and allowed the few so much; a Lickspittle Running Dog who cried on command, thought Gustav Klimt was a clothing designer, and who never stopped thinking of the Girl he left in his behind.

 (Britches 'n Cecil / ©2009 Paul Corrigan:  Hey -- We Want More!)
Boner was last seen with Britches and Cecil, thinking of additional, last-minute Crumby Presints he could leave for all of us, on his way Out The Door That Is America -- that's the one spray-painted gold, with that cheesy lamp beside it.

 Dateline / Again Washington: President Mikky To Go Away Too, Also

Righthandy Guy to President Boner, Kevin McCarthy looked as if he was set to become Presidenty himself. But like a becalmed Sturgeon in a reduced-watershed Sacramento Delta, he too failed to find enough Tea Partei to live in his pants. Then, he marched proudly out to expose himself before the Press. Many wanted to look away, but America is a strong place which no deodorant can tame -- so we looked anyway, and it was cheesy, but it was real.

Mikky Tells The Press The Truth About Potomac-Town

McCarthy told everyone that Chopin's Etude No. 3, Op. 10 in E Major, was the equivalent of Proust's  "Remembrance Of Things Past". Many agreed. Many more thought Chopin was a brand of Chinese frozen food, or an ice cream Treat For Our Wealthy.

Then McCarthy told the Press that he had been in Washingtown a long time, and knew the Trooth: Alien beings who felt nothing (because they were Plant Matter), who were birthed from huge seed pods, replaced us while we slept.  "You're next," Mikky said to America with a smile. "I haven't slept in a thousand hours, I don't have the votes, and I need a new face." And then he -- like 2% of the Frog species of the Earth this year -- was gone too.

Dateline / You Know Where: Sad Vlad On Every Corner

Sad Vlad Desperately Seeks Totoro Approval. Think We're Kidding? Maybe. Or, Maybe Not.
Strutting and preening in a way designed to make even the simple Yak desire him -- Sad Vlad, The Putin, Botox Wrestler and All-Around Guy, got the better of everybody, again, by driving his military vehicle into downtown Middle East and parking in a handicapped zone.

The Nato, an all-but extinct creature in Europe, looked on and whinnied or grunted or keened -- you know; that noise that Natos make. Other major countries stood around and watched, fuming, with arms crossed, the very picture of being offended by simply unspeakable rudeness. Well; I never, they huffed.

"That's your fucking problem," Sad Vlad replied as he loaded a crate of Extra Pony-Size Trojan-Ezy into his armored car. "You never. I always."

Many Tea Partei members in that America found themselves curiously aroused by the melding of manliness and Cluster Munitions. If only we could do that, they thought to themselves privately as they watched the Russian BombCam footage on teevee. If Lil' Boots were here, then President Cheney woulda shown that Eye-sis. Guess we'll have to root fer the Russkis!

And Sad Vlad didn't stop there. He was spotted in a submersible, dashed down to Crimea, jetted off to New Ork and told a roomfull of people that Russia was On The March and would Be Great Again, by Soso's Last Underpants!  ('Soso' =  a nickname for 'Joe'; you can fill in the rest if you are licensed to do so.)

Vlad said he was building a new coalition with that Iran, and kicking the indecisive, candyassed Amerikanyets' Middle Eastern foreign policy to the curb. Bizarre Al-Asshat, Killer Dentist of Syria, would be propped up. Screw the Saudis and the UAE and those guys -- they'd come around, or else. He'd put a saddle on a Nato and ride it around, or he wasn't the Leader Of The Fee-Based World. "Take that, John Carey," Sad Vlad bellowed. "My face job is better than your face job!"

Fortunately, Sad Vlad said all this in Russian, without formal translation, and the roomful of people he was speaking to were a busload of tourists from Canada in the Tiki Room of a Holiday Inn in the South Bronx. Vlad's wranglers hustled him back to the big UN building in time for him to address the assembled nations and say more or less the same things. "Come and get me, Coppers!" Vlad growled, then looked up towards the heavens and shouted, "Top Of The World, Babushka!"

Dateline / Murrika: TRUMPOLA !

Be Still, My Weasel. (Photo: David Becker / Reuters)
Donnyboy can no longer control the Weasel Who Lives On His Head. It speaks to him; it purrs. He has listened and repeated whatever it says.  Whatever it has told him to do, he has done. And because the USA likes warm cheese and Amerikan Idle, and everything is now Reality Teevee, the antics of Donnyboy's faux-bling candidacy has fascinated the Americans (but not as much as whatever Sports Franchise Product we are supposed to be watching now).

Citizens understand in their bowels that they have no power. That the Game Is Rigged, in ways which -- if we bothered to read documents on Wikileaks -- would induce vomiting. So life for the powerless becomes theater, "Reality Teevee"; and suddenly the spectacle of politics makes sense: It won't make any difference what we do. We don't choose -- "They" choose.

You buy many things. You toil at jobs. Daily, you consume your own body weight in foods rendered from sugar, whale fat, and abused animals. You text. A lot. You watch teevee. You daydream about Taylor Swift and unconsciously imitate that little hop-step she has perfected. You keep saying It's possible for anyone to become rich in America; we're the land of opportunity. I can win the Lottery. I can make a profit in the Market.

Against that backdrop of rabid hope, a Donnyboy candidacy not only makes sense; it has an odor of inevitability about it (which smells just like the interior of a 1939 Mercedes).  Hell; in these conditions, even a Grand Turtlebear Bachmann candidacy makes sense.

But now, Donnyboy's luster, all Palmolive and Sprinklies from the soda fountain, has begun to soften in the heat. The Weasel is tired, and whispers even more nonsensical things for Donny to repeat. It dreams of escape -- of leaving Donny bald, with the Weasel finally able to live in seclusion, where it can repair itself from the PTSD it suffered during Donnyboy's marriage to Ivana.  It dreams of a Mrs. Weasel.

This was Donny's last Fifteen Minutes, and it came with commercials.  Only, Donny believed it was real; the Weasel -- old, bleached and tired -- knew better. As it always has.

Dateline / Murrika: We Who Are About To Die Want You To Go Instead

Be Selective.
As a Dog, I sleep. I enjoy the sleep. I doze where and whenever I have an opportunity. But you tend to miss stuff, and when you discover (for example) that the Selective Service Act is alive 'n well in USA -- just when you thought it was safe to put your hand in a fishbowl; Ha Ha Ha Ha, but WTF???
...yesterday’s emphasis on battlefield prowess with the people skills required of troops more recently focused on counterinsurgency. At a time when U.S. military action has become defined by targeted airstrikes, ships jockeying in the South China Sea and a reluctance to place boots on the ground, the Army is seeking to reassert itself on the strategic stage, experts say.

About a week ago, Selective Service pamphlets began showing up again in U.S. Post Offices across the country. With conflicts on the rise across the globe, the U.S. program has once again shifted into high gear to register all eligible U.S. males, legal and illegal, between the ages of 18-25 in the event a U.S. military draft becomes necessary. The timing of the move is sure to raise questions about what may be shortly coming down the pipe in terms of an “inevitable” global conflict.

And it turns out to be true. Male animals between 18 and 25 must register. Must. Well, I mean; Holy Shit. When did this happen??


  1. THIS is the future - you got to live it, or live with it

    Firesign Theatre

  2. and eventually, at a time to be determined, get out of the way