BlameBush!

Wouldn't You Give Your Hand to a Friend?

It speaks volumes about the forgiving nature of our French and German friends that they don't run the Shrub out of Europe on a rail, especially in regards to recent events. Last week, Bush asked for $100 million to help improve the Polish Army. Yup, the KILBASA KORPS! Congress must have thought it was some sort of sick Polack joke. The nation that caused WW2 will have new tanks and planes, and the once mighty French army that led the allies to victory in Europe lies in disuse and disrepair. Even De Gaulle's cherished 4th Armoured Division can no longer afford to feed it's goats, let alone armour them. It's no wonder the whole world hates us, but it explains Bush's weeklong European suck-up-athon. It's time to pay off his corrupt little minions, while at the same time wheedling for support from those he spent 4 years insulting with his swaggering.

Bush was too proud to crawl to our European allies and beg them to be equal partners in this illegal and immoral war before he started it, now he wants them to hop on board when Iraq is in ruins and there's nothing left to loot? He'll have to put a little icing on that eclair if he wants help out of this quagmire. He might have to take some of those lucrative rebuilding contracts he handed out to his Coalition of the Coerced and the Bribed, and give them to our REAL friends...yes, our bestest and most truest friends who stand by us in clear weather and are always there when they need us.

But Bush's tiny chimp brain can't comprehend the concept of "friendship". He thinks that a "friend" is obligated to obediently back your play whenever you pick a fight, or at least not side with your enemy against you. But what if your enemy pulls out a pair of brass knuckles and kicks both your asses? What will it accomplish for both you AND your friend to be beaten senseless? Worse - what if you defeat your enemy? Who is going to buy brass knuckles from your friend then? Poland? I don't think so. Your poor friend will starve and then you won't have anyone to keep your swaggering in check. Some friend you are!

Friendship is not about "tit for tat" or "you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours". It's not about demanding your friends fight along side your sorry imperialist ass in order to cash in on the loot. No, friendship is about giving without the expectation of receiving. In the past week, our NATO allies have made it abundantly clear that as friends, they're perfectly willing to lend a hand with the spoils of war without expecting anything in return - except for maybe control of our military, justice system, and economy.

But that's what friends are for.

Fear and Loathing in Anaheim

As fate would have it, I was nowhere near Barstow when Hunter S. Thompson passed into the great beyond. I was crouched under my kitchen sink with balls of cotton stuffed into my ears, waiting for the battery to die on my cellphone. The damned thing had been ringing nonstop for five days, driving me beneath the sink to salvage the tattered remnants of my sanity and curse the day I gave that devil-woman Paris Hilton my number.

It was the 2001 Mensa Colloquium in the heart of downtown Anaheim. As the only member of the Kent, Washington chapter with a mouthful of teeth, I was chosen to represent. Although I was still walking funny from the atomic wedgie I received at the previous shindig, I was grateful for another opportunity to petition the organization to change its name, preferably to something more gender-neutral. So I happily accepted the nomination and made travel plans.

In preparation, I ingested every heinous, over-the-counter, mind-enhancing herb I could get my hands on. Six shots of ginseng for starters, followed by 4 grams of crystalized guarana, nine hits of taurine, and to wash it all down: a gallon of pure grade, 200-proof caffeine freshly squeezed from Howard Schulz's liver by a disgruntled Starbuck's barista. By the time they threw me off the plane at LAX, I was ready to match wits with the best minds of the country. Of course, I hadn't slept in 5 days and the squirrels were closing in on me, but after a mad, 9-mile sprint to the hotel I was in excellent spirits.

"Do you f*cking know who I am? MY DADDY OWNS THIS F*CKING DUMP!"

The tall, leggy blonde in the hotel lobby was out of her mind, pounding her fist on the counter and screaming obscenities at the concierge like some crazed Norwegian hooker.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the young man with a face like a woodchuck replied calmly. "But with this Mensa thing happening, we have absolutely no vacancies."

"Can you read?" she snarled, pointing at her Mensa badge. "If you want to keep your shitty, minimum-wage job, you better get me a f*cking room N-O-W!!!!"

OH FOR THE LOVE OF GAIA WHAT'S THE FREAKING HOLD UP? I had a reservation! I shouldn't have to put up with this crap! Yet there I was...ten minutes until the Colloquium started and I hadn't even checked in yet. Mensa delegates from all over the country were already filing into the huge hotel conference room, their translucent skulls pulsating with excitement. The keynote speaker was probably making her way to the podium and this coked-up psychopathic whore was holding up the check-in line! I had to reason with her, calmly talk her down and then hustle her out of there before she ruined everything.

"YOU CRAZY BITCH!" I screamed. "I'M GOING TO MISS ANNA NICOLE'S SPEECH!"

Despite the 19 grams of Gotu Kola I had inhaled out of a dirty sock at the airport, I barely saw the flash of cold steel as it arced toward me. Chaos erupted. The woodchuck fainted. The bitch had a pigsticker the size of a Louisville slugger, and she was going to gut me like Mussolini. It was my worst nightmare: I was going to die within a five-mile radius of Disneyland.

Pull a knife on a 13th level Tai-Bo blackbelt and in one swift movement he'll dodge out of the way, pluck the blade from your grasp, and take the first three fingers of your left hand for souvenirs. But this was no time for half measures. I was coming down from the Yohimbe buzz and the squirrels smelled blood. One false move, and the little bastards would be kicking my severed head around the lobby in a twisted match of Guatemalan street soccer.

As Hilton lunged, I feinted to the left and whacked her across the back of the skull with a folding chair. She crumpled like a rag doll and the pigsticker went skating aross the linoleum. A couple of giant hamsters in security uniforms made a move towards me, then thought twice when they saw my vomit-encrusted Grateful Dead t-shirt.

There's nothing more frightening than a man in the throes of a Ginko Biloba binge. You can't speak. Your legs turn to rubber. Then the puking starts, and it doesn't stop until you're knee deep in the liquified vestiges of every meal you've had in the last 4 years. Drive through Seattle's Fremont district on any given Tuesday and you'll see them, crawling down the sidewalk like lobotomized carpet layers. The hamsters may own Anaheim, but they weren't about to screw with a deranged tai-bo monk twisted on Gink and drenched in vomit.

"Nothing to see here!" I shouted. Or did I think it? The St. John's Wort was starting to take hold. It was only a matter of time before they found me on the roof, butt-naked and reciting Sam Coleridge completely from memory. Then it would all be over. I grabbed the dazed heiress by the ankle and dragged her outside.

"When my daddy hears about this, your ass is grass!" she slurred as I bounced her off the hood of my VW beetle. "My name is HILTON! H-I-L-T-O-N! Ring a f*cking bell?"

"Listen to me, you dimwitted Swede!" I slapped her across the face Jimmy Carter style. "This is the goddamn Anaheim SHERATON!"

She stared at me in confusion and wonder for a moment, then suddenly opened her reptilian mouth and emitted a bizarre, sheeplike giggle.

"Gosh, you're hot!" she said with a wink. "Not a limp-wristed sissy like most Mensa boys. Wanna exchange bodily fluids?"

I tore off my hand-knitted tam and threw it on the ground. "I don't have time for this! The Colloquium starts in 5 minutes and I haven't even changed into my orthopedic underwear!"

Never mind the squirrels...they were suddenly the least of my worries. Strange vibrations were in the air. We were crossing into uncharted territory, and there was no indian slave girl to show us the way home. One wrong turn and little old ladies in horn-rimmed glasses would be watching grainy videos of my naked ass on the internet.

But wasn't that the American Dream? No..the American Dream is dead. Dead like Susan "Boom Boom" Sontag and Arthur Miller. Dead like the Great Gonzo, chunks of his brains floating in his final Bloody Mary...and Bush conveniently out of the country establishing an alibi. One by one, the progressive giants of our time are dying off, vanishing like Rapa Nui and Maureen Dowd is next...then we'll really be alone in the wilderness. What then? Where do we go from there? What does it all mean? What are we doing on this god forsaken rock? Where were my pants?

"Why'd my f*cking parents name me after the asshole mecca of the known universe?" Paris pondered. "It's all so f*cking Kafkaesque."

I glared at her. She had taken her shirt off and was pouring a can of Rockstar on her naked breasts to facilitate the tanning process.

"Oooh..." she purred. "The bubbles are making me all tingly!"

That was it! My fate was sealed.

"As your attorney, I advise you to give me your phone number immediately."

She flashed me a sly grin. "I'll give you mine if you give me yours."

Quote of the Day

"Half the population has no leave, period. If they don't show up to work, they don't get paid or they could lose their job." - Laura Paskin, spokesperson for the Economic Opportunity Institute, a progressive think-tank.

That really cuts to the heart of the problem, doesn't it? Every day across America, thousands of people face the tough decision of either going into work, or not getting paid. They're forced into an endless cycle of suffering, in which they must sell their precious labor to the highest bidder in order to put food on the table. If only the government could force employers to pay people for NOT working.

Alas, thanks to visionary democrats in the Washington State legislature, this once unattainable utopian dream is finally coming true. After years of trying, we are at last on the verge of a revolutionary new law which will require businesses to provide 5 weeks of PAID family leave to their employees. It's about time! I'm so excited, I can hardly wait to get sick. With my 4 weeks paid vacation and 5 weeks sick leave, I can relax and enjoy the summer taking care of my nine sick children in Jamaica. Or is it Hawaii? Decisions, decisions.

Of course, the greedy corporations are already in full whine mode. Whenever the Democrats come up with a way to make life easier for the little people, the rich fatcats threaten to cut benefits, lay workers off, or even flee the state in order to keep from going out of business. Well cry me a river. Perhaps they shouldn't be so obsessed with making a profit. Perhaps they should think of someone besides themselves for a change and sell a couple of those Ferraris in their 19-car garage. Or perhaps those few employees who are lucky enough to be healthy should work twice as hard for just an eency-weency bit less pay, so less fortunate workers can care for their sick Unlce Harry in Cabo San Lucas. Or was it Rio De Janeiro? Decisions, decisions.

It's called living in a society, folks. America was built upon a foundation of compassion and caring for the poor and the sick. And right now, I'm feeling a case of flu coming on. Since Bush is withholding the flu vaccine, I'll have to go all the way to Fiji to get shots.

Or was it Tahiti?

Condoskeeza; All Attitude, no Gratitude

Hooray, Hoorah and Whoopdee-doo; Condoskeeza Rice is our new SECRETary of LIES, thanks to a few DINO cowards in congress. Frankly, I find it remarkable that she only got 13 nay votes, considering how obstructive and evasive she was during the entire comfirmation procedure. She failed to provide the desired answers to any of Joe Biden's questions. Then she refused to take the blame for the quagmire our babykilling troops are hopelessly trapped in thanks to Bush's headlong rush to war based on lies and exaggerations.

As one of the key warmongers planning the illegal invasion of Iraq, why did she fail to predict Abu Ghraib, and all the other horrible mistakes that have been made? There's simply no excuse for allowing such blunders to happen, as they're all listed right there on the Democrat Party website. She could have logged on at anytime and 750,000 innocent Iraqis would be alive today. Instead, she chose to sacrifice the truth for the sake of politics. She skipped out on her responsibilities, and now she attacks the democrats for doing their Constitutional duty to bloviate loudly and shower her with soundbite-sized insults.

DOESN'T SHE KNOW HOW MUCH SENATOR BOXER HAS DONE FOR HER PEOPLE? Like loving parents, democrats have always fought to provide the black community with the tools they need to survive in a white dominated world. Yet instead of gratitude, she gives them attitude. I understand that she's a mind-numbed lapdog for the Shrub, but she had no call talking to Senator Boxer the way she did. And although he wasn't in the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, she never shows one ounce of respect for the esteemed Senator Robert Byrd, either. A staunch defender of minority rights with a 30 year record of accepting blacks as human beings, Byrd has recently eased his opinion of race mongrels and jews as well. Glaring at him whenever he greets her as "little missy" is unprofessional and shows a complete lack of respect for the only folks keeping Republicans from throwing her people back into bondage.

Personally, I don't think she's very bright. You can tell by the way she gave Richard Clarke that vacant stare when he came running down the hall screaming 'Al QAEDA IS GOING TO FLY PLANES INTO THE WORLD TRADE CENTER ON SEPTEMBER 11TH!!!!" that she isn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, even with the college education democrats provided her. She's certainly not the sort of person I'd want as Secretary of State.

But I'm sure she learned a valuable lesson today. She can call herself an indepedent woman and self-made success all she wants, but everything she is and everything she will ever be comes only through the good graces of the democrat party. Perhaps in the future, Bush's token minority appointments will show a little less sass and more fawning gratitude for those who made them who they are.

Johnny Carson's Secret Life

I grew up watching the Tonight Show, and like most Americans I was shocked and saddened by yesterday's tragic news: Johnny Carson was a smoker. Not of Mother Nature, mind you, but of TOBACKY grown right in Phillip Morris' basement by minimum wage child labor, probably using all sorts of nonorganic pesticides and fertilizers. According to paragraphs 2 - 15 of the AP story describing his bizarre habit, Carson was less a comedic genius than a chainsmoking nicotine junkie who hosted a late night talk show in between cigarettes. While giving us the gift of laughter, he was giving those around him lung cancer with second hand smoke.

While it's easy to be angry at Carson, we must remember that cigarette addicts are not criminals, but innocent victims of Bush's Big Tobacco buddies and their deceptive advertising. They shouldn't be punished, but rather segregated from society, taxed into submission, and forced to stand outside in the rain until they learn the error of their ways. But even after California reinstated the death penalty for smoking tobacco in public, the fiercely defiant Carson was rarely seen without a cigarette dangling from his lips.

In the end, even the shining talent of Bette Midler couldn't save him. The man who took us to bed every night died of emphysema in his Malibu home, surrounded by friends, family, and a huge pile of cigarette butts.

He will be missed. Especially by Bush, who made a dime for every cigarette Carson put into his mouth.

Hail to the Thief

I looked forward to participating in some anti-Bush protests downtown today, but I accidentally showered this morning and blew all my plans. So I went to work instead, and the boss brought a radio into the break room so we could all "appreciate the magnitude of this dark day in American history". Most of the Shrub's speech was drowned out by a loud, deafening screech. Then the Boss told me to shut up or get out - I guess Cheney put the heat on him. There's no room for free speech and dissent in Bush's America, especially during his highness' Unholy Coronation.

Abraham Lincoln, the last of the liberal Republicans, opened the White House to all Americans during his inauguration. He refused an armed escort, and could often be seen touring the city on his ten speed, windsurfing in the Potomac, or simply enjoying an evening at the theater without any personal bodyguards.

Not the Shrub. The Fourth Reich has DC locked down tighter than a cap on a bottle of prozac and cleansed of all undesirables. Progressive human rights groups like Molotovs for Peace, Nailgun Nudists, and The Gary Busey Fan Club were all brusquely turned away at the gates this morning. Americans with Disabilities and Machetes couldn't even get their wheechairs through the metal detectors. Just a taste of what the next four years will be like, I'm afraid.

Winston Churchill once said that "This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But, it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning." But then again, he was an fascist warmonger and a drunk, just like you-know-who.

Of course this is the end. The end of peace. The end of freedom. The end of hope.

Ride the King's Highway, baby.

Happy Birthday, Jesse Jackson's Friend!

Today, America celebrated the birthday of Jesse Jackson's good friend, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Dr. King marched with Jackson at Selma, and was a prominent figure in the fledgling civil rights movement that ultimately blossomed into the Rainbow/Push Coalition. But while thousands gathered to honor Jackson's pal, very little is truly known about him.

Born Jesse Louis Jackson in a poor household in Greenville, South Carolina, he attended the University of Illinois on a football scholarship and later transferred to North Carolina A&T State University. He attended Chicago Theological Seminary, and later joined the Southern Christian Leadership Conference to help a fumbling Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. get his shit together.

Dr. King was often photographed at Jackson's side, carrying his suitcase or simply gazing up affectionately at him. In return, Jackson served as Cyrano to King's Christian, feeding him all his best rhymes while selflessly taking none of the props for himself. Yet as symbiotic as they were, the two didn't always agree. They had a brief falling out over the famous "I Had a Dream" speech, which Jackson penned and King went through with a Sharpie, crossing out every instance of the word "hymie". But despite their disagreements, their friendship endured the test of time.

In in April of 1968, Jackson was standing on a motel balcony in Memphis, Tennessee when shots rang out. Dr. King dropped Jackson's luggage and fell to the ground, assassinated by a white Republican with ties to Halliburton. He died in Jackson's arms, his last words something to the effect of "Why aren't there any black NASCAR drivers?" He would have been 76 on Saturday.

Yet although Dr. King is gone, some believe his spirit lives on inside Jackson, spontaneously springing forth from the Reverend's annointed cakehole to put his stamp-of-approval on business dealings. The world owes this great man a debt of gratitude. Dr. King, too. For it is because of Rev. Jackson's tireless work that we've come closer to realizing King's dream - his AWESOME dream of having his birthday celebrated with a paid holiday for federal employees at taxpayer's expense, and a street named after him in every ghetto. However, there's still so much more work to do, so many more miles to march until we reach the promised land. And as long as there's still an ounce of blood to be milked from Dr. King's rotting corpse, Rev. Jesse Jackson will not lay his weary head to rest.

Stingy Americans Finally Cough Up The Loot

I apologize to my readers, but I must take a brief break from blogging about Susan Sontag to address a very important issue. It appears that after much cajoling from the International Community, stingy Americans have finally coughed up some of their precious loot for the victims of the deadly tsunami. In an unprecented show of generosity, people all across the country dipped into their wallets and forked over a grand total $200 million in disaster relief aid.

I smell a rat. Generous though it may seem, there's bound to be an ulterior motive behind this sudden display of altruism. At the very least, Bush and his evangelical cronies have their greasy, Halliburton-oil stained paws in the proverbial cookie jar. Whenever a such large sum of money changes hands, there's bound to be some GOP skulduggery afoot. That's why it's imperative that a trustworthy international organization such as the United Nations take charge and handle the transfer of all private donations to the disaster-stricken countries.

In order to insure that our donations make it to those who truly need it, a methodical plan of action must be followed so that not a single dime is lost due to graft or other sleazy shenannigans. Under the watchful eye of the United Nations, the $200 million in American currency should be packed into five unmarked steamer trunks, loaded onto a Ryder truck, and driven to the New York City office of Sen. Hillary Rodham Clinton. With an armed escort, Sen. Clinton will personally deliver the three trunks of cash to the esteemed M. François Delattre, consulate general of France. M. Delattre will then carefully load the funds into his illegally parked Renault Alliance and proceed to the United Nations building, where Dr. Gunter Pleuger, German ambassador to the UN, will handcuff himself to the large suitcase and take a cab to La Guardia. Secretary-General Kofi Annan himself will meet him on the tarmac, take posession of the funds, and board a private jet bound for Thailand. Upon arrival in Phuket, he will hand over a plain brown paper sack full of your generous donations to the UN-appointed "Ambassador of Peace", former President Bill Clinton. President Clinton will evaluate the situation, work together with local authorities, and then cut Madame Lao's Go Go Bah a check for seventeen dollars and thirty-five cents, which he will write off on his 2005 tax return.

With the full resources of the United Nations at our disposal, there's really no need to entrust our hard-earned money to shady, fly-by-night religious operations like Mercy Corps or the American Red Cross. Perhaps with more fashion statements from celebrities like Leonardo DiCaprio and Sandra Bullock, flyover America will be encouraged to donate their incomes directly to the United Nations and the Democrat Party, rather than simply blow it all on beer and ammo.

Susan Sontag Update

As of 11:35 am Pacific Standard Time, Susan Sontag is still dead.

Thousands Pay Final Respects to Susan Sontag

It was too good to be true. It had to be a dream. But as the sweet aroma of pot and patchouli filled my nostrils, my heart leapt with joy. After all these years, I was in Berkeley once again.

Yes, while mouth-breathing sheeple descended upon New York's Times Square to stare at a stupid neon ball last weekend, we Berkeley-bred intellectual elites were back at the ol' alma mater to pay our final respects to Susan "Boom Boom" Sontag, her lifeless body scheduled to visit the campus on a 15-state publicity tour for a posthumous Nobel. In an outpouring of grief not seen since Bush murdered Timothy Leary, millions of free-thinking progressives dropped their bongs and crawled out from under their sinks to say farewell to the courageous firebrand that dared speak out against the imperialist American agressors and the jingoists who love them.

Yet although Boom Boom is gone, her spirit walked among us that day, a ghostly gadfly mingling with her fawning admirers. Indeed, I could almost envision her glowering countenance, her eyes burning into my flesh as condescending bromides poured from her succulent lips like regurgitated prunes at an old folks home.

"Oh Susan, Susan!" I sobbed, wringing my hat in my trembling hands. "Death, that has suckt the honey of thy breath, hath had no power yet upon thy beauty!"

Suddenly, as if in answer to my girlish cries of despair, a helicopter descended from the clouds like a heavenly seraph and slowly lowered Boom Boom's casket to the ground. The crowd surged forward, and police fired into the air to keep back the throngs of aging hippies and wild-eyed young progressives desperate for a glimpse of her holy remains.

In honor of the event, Berkeley students and staff agreed to cancel all previously scheduled riots and postpone any school-sponsored martyrdom operations until Monday. That apparently wasn't enough to keep the pigs from showing up and trampling our free speech rights, and many of us were very nearly intimidated by their presence before the ACLU showed up and ran them off.

But as the police fled the area, chaos mysteriously erupted. Thousands of unemployed Philosophy majors yanked the needles from their arms, streamed out of People's Park, and converged on the campus. A mob of sneering feminists stormed down the Mario Savio Steps and grabbed pieces of Sontag's shroud, causing her corpse to tumble out of the casket and go rolling down the Ho Chi Minh Memorial Walkway. Apoplectic with grief, a large gaggle of New York Times columnists threw themselves atop her lifeless body, crying, "With our blood and our soul we will redeem you, Susan Sontag!", and wear nearly trampled by a stampede of burly lesbians who pounded their chests and flaggelated themselves with the customary rubber dildos. In a matter of minutes, the entire campus was a raging river of tie-dye, turtlenecks, and tears.

I tried to make my way to the front, but in the pandemonium I was knocked to the ground by a pair of communist rastafarian drag queens, whom I immediately recognized as my former Political Science professors. They helped me to my feet and we pressed forward together. I came close enough to brush a finger against Boom Boom's gorgeous long black locks before a legion of two thousand Starbucks baristas pranced onto the campus, reciting nihilist poetry peppered with catty remarks. They rushed into the crushing mosh pit of shirtless Sontag fans, threatening to scratch the eyes out of anyone who stood in their way, and lifted her delicate carcass up onto their shoulders.

Tears welled up in my eyes and my heart sank so low it nearly shot right out my catflap. Having briefly touched the flowing mane of Athena, I now watched as her white, shrouded figure drifted away on a sea of hands, like a feminine napkin floating down the Hudson.

Susan "Boom Boom" Sontag will continue her farewell tour across America this week, after which she will be given an enema and buried in a shoebox at an undisclosed location.

Lay her i' the earth, and from her fair and unpolluted flesh may violets spring!