Green Hell

A Modest Proposal

"symbol (sĭm'bǝl) n. Abbr. sym. 1. Something that represents something else by association, resemblance or convention; especially, a material object used to represent something invisible."  -- American Heritage Dictionary

"mascot (măs'kŏt, -kǝt) n A person, animal or object believed to bring good luck; especially one kept as the symbol of an athletic team or other organization." -- American Heritage Dictionary

Having covered Roswell's "Benefitgate," John's Creek's Ocee Park Anschluß, and a fairly credible allegation that Milton "borrowed" its logo without crediting the designer during my brief career as reporter/columnist, I thought I'd suggest a new mascot for North Fulton:

So whaddaya think? Appropriate?

 

My Suggestions for Having Fun at the TSA's Expense

1.) Wear sweat pants -- but "roll commando."

2.) Before submitting to the search, read a few pages of extremely hot porn -- so that ol' Richard John Thomas Johnson-Jones is standin' at attention when yer turn comes up.

3.) Break wind during the search. (Eat nothing but turnips and beans the day before your flight.)

4.) If you do wear underwear, don't change it for a few days. The more skidmarks and "crotch snot"stains, the better.

Never underestimate the effectiveness of poor hygiene as civil disobedience, by the way. I use it whenever I'm called up for jury duty, and it works like a charm. Once, for example, I skipped my shower after coming home from work the day before. I drank rather heavily that night (being careful to dribble a little onto my shirt -- that stale beer smell is incredibly offensive), smoked an entire deck of generic "full flavor" cigs (the stale tobacco smell is just as nasty -- especially when you have long hair) slept in my clothes, "forgot" to brush my teeth, and wore my leather jacket to court the next day -- even though the temperature was in the '90s. When we recessed, I headed up Peachtree and had a lovely, onion-and-garlicky Mediterranean lunch.

5) Be sure to work up a good sweat before the search. Head for the john, drop trou, and wipe as much sweat as you can onto your hand. Be thorough -- and get your pits, as well. You want equal parts chicken soup, Limburger and "salt'n'vinegar." After the search, commend the screener on his professionalism -- and shake his hand.

6.) During the search, thrust your pelvis against the screener's hand -- preferbaly whilst singing John Lee Hooker's "Boom Boom" or Frankie Goes to Hollywood's "Relax."

7.) If you're traveling with a friend, behave as if you're both openly gay. Look at the screener often, and whisper to each other. At some point, stage whisper "I THWEAR that'th him." Giggle and wink at each other during the search. Before proceeding to the concourse, give him a phone number -- or, if you live in Atlanta, a Backstreet membership card.

Reflections in the Glass Toilet

Grrr.

The wife is watching Ghost Hunters, which leaves me in the unenviable position of taking in "sidestream television." Whilst enduring this legal form of torture, I saw a disturbing Allstate commercial.

I've since concluded that upon rear-ending an inattentive, coffee-swilling lawyer's $90,000 car; it's best to exit your vehicle, draw your weapon, and throw some lead into the base of the inconsiderate gobshite's skull. It's gotta beat the hell out of being sued, nicht wahr?

This is America, AD 2010 -- and we both know that you have more time than money...

Me For President!

“Silly Season” is nearly upon us, prompting “Tweedle Dee” and “Tweedle Dum” to subject the long-suffering public to their respective anointed ones’ empty, predictable, and utterly boring rhetoric.

Naturally, the Gentle Reader can expect Rudy, Mitt, Hillary, and Obama Lama Ding-Dong and the other sorry cretins (I exempt only Ron Paul from this less-than-elite fraternity) to lay on the bullshit as thick as hookers on pre-Giuliani 42nd Street. The campaign promises (nearly all of which will be lies) will fly thick and fast, the candidate with the most gullible supporters will win, and our once-great nation will still be fucked eight ways to Sunday.

It’s occurred to me, therefore, that even a guy with a moderate to severe affective disorder would make a better president than any of the prevaricating morons (Ron Paul once again excepted) who presently see fit to flap their gums and wave their dicks (yes, this includes Hillary) at any and all who care to lend them an ear.

Not that lending any of the pathetic bastards your ears is a good idea, mind you. The Republicans would almost certainly loan them to someone else at a usurious rate of interest, while the Democrats would undoubtedly attempt to redistribute them in a more equitable fashion.

At any rate, since, in my estimation, even a guy with mild/moderate cyclothymia could do a better job of running the country than these nose-picking simpletons, I’ll throw in my hat and announce my own intention to run for our nation’s highest office. If I pick my girlfriend as my running mate, we should be a shoo-in, as we’d be able to boast a few “firsts” if elected. Ergo, she is the obvious choice for VP. Should she decline my offer to run with me, I reckon I’ll tap Sluggo, my Bro, Wayne, or maybe the guy who sang for Quiet Riot, back in the 80’s.

I’m still uncertain.

As anyone with even a cursory knowledge of American history can attest, I certainly wouldn’t be the first insane president, nor the first Scots-Irish one, nor even the first one to hail from the South. Maggie, though? She’s my “angle” -- the first female, Hispanic/American Indian/Italian VP! We might even be invited to appear on Oprah!

Having just announced my intention to run, I think it only proper to begin making campaign promises, so here goes:

If elected, I promise to make lawn darts a Special Olympics event.

As we are already engaged in a war on an imaginary ideology (Islamo-Fascism), I will, in my capacity as Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces, declare war (with or without the consent of Congress) on: Mennono-Plutarchy, Jaino-Social Darwinism, Seventh-Day Advento-Communism, Judeo-Gynarchy, Wiccano-Patriarchy, Atheio-Theocracy, Presbyterio-Logical Positivism, and Confuciano-Anarchy.

I will establish several new, Cabinet-level departments: The Department of Crazy Old Hags Who Own Twenty-Seven Cats; The Department of Homeland Proctology; The Department of Frottage; and the Department of Social Retards Who Never Get Laid.

As Martin Luther King, Jr. is the only person in American history whose birthday is a national holiday, I promise to even the score by similarly honoring the birthdays of: the Lindbergh baby; Julius and Ethel Rosenberg; John Wilkes Booth; Joshua Norton; the Cleveland Torso Killer; and the guy who played Eddie Haskell on Leave It to Beaver.

I will, furthermore, do away with the oppressive and discriminatory regulations that prevent the mentally retarded from becoming neurosurgeons, fighter pilots, and Certified Public Accountants.

I will similarly remove restrictions that prevent the blind from becoming bus and/or taxi drivers, airline pilots, and – in the armed forces – snipers, spotters, and forward artillery observers.

In the same spirit of absolute equality, I will see to it that all law firms maintain strict racial/ethnic quotas, based upon the demographic makeup of the counties in which they operate. Lack of qualified applicants will not be considered a legitimate excuse. Firms refusing to comply will be shut down. The owners will be tarred, feathered, forced to ride shotgun with blind taxicab drivers for not less than six months, and then sent to Guantanamo Bay – dead or alive.

All foreigners desiring US citizenship will be required to say: “She sells sea shells down by the seashore” three times, fast, whilst chewing stale Fleer® bubblegum. Those who fail will be ridiculed, given a heavy dose of amphetamines and forced to play “Operation” for forty-eight straight hours.

In the spirit of compromise and bipartisanism, I will forbid oil drilling in ANWR, and order the Department of Energy to oversee the construction of a nuclear power plant therein.

I promise a chicken in every Frenchman’s pot, a pothead in every Frenchman’s chicken coop, and microwave French fries and chicken nuggets in every pothead’s fridge. Moreover, I promise to provide every chicken with an ounce of pot and a French tickler.

As foreign aid is all the rage these days (for all that we’re the greatest debtor nation on earth), I promise to earmark no less than one billion dollars per annum to the British Emergency Dental Relief Fund. Naturally, several billion more will be siphoned off to the Ad Council, that they might more easily run radio spots justifying said egregious waste of taxpayer dollars with such catchy slogans as: “The mother tongue is surrounded by rotting teeth.”

I might very well come up with a number of equally ridiculous campaign promises in the future, Gentle Reader. As none of the promises I’ve put forth in this tongue-in-cheek post is any more ludicrous than my competitors’ --and as my reasoning is certainly no shoddier than theirs— it’s entirely possible that I shall be elected. Therefore, it behooves me to promise everything to everyone, thinking no vow too ridiculous; no proposal too absurd.

Chew on that for a while.

The Evil That Was Moose

I’m in rather a nasty mood today, and I think I’ll take it out on Moose.

Why not? Payback is a Medevac, after all.

My last words to the heartless slag (before November of 2006, mind you) were: “Be that as it may, I love you.” Considering all the grief, woe and psychological agony she put me through, though, I honestly wish they’d been somewhat pithier.

“Fuck you, you arrogant, condescending trollop!”

“Eat shit and die, you pretentious ginch!”

Having said either would probably have lifted my spirits considerably (although not nearly so much as would have the simple act of spitting in her fucking face), and made the subsequent years of hell somewhat easier to endure. Unfortunately, love, as I’ve said before, is blind. In my case – as I’ve also said before – it’s also deaf and mentally retarded.

Even an off-the-cuff, “Git ta fuck, ye’ sassenach baw’bag!” delivered in tolerable – if imperfect -- Scots would have been better – and more appropriate – than my “Ochone! Ma’ very hert is sae sair scaithed, I maun lay me doun an’ dee frae wae!” reaction to the events of 3/16/89.

But hindsight, as the saying goes, is 20/20.

Not long ago, I was relating the sorry saga of my involvement with the wretched bizzem to a friend. Eventually, I reached the end of the tale and the matter of my “death.”

As I finished the story, I heard – and not for the first time -- the words: “She must never really have loved you.” When I asked why, I received the following reply: “She didn’t even send your mother a sympathy card.”

The first person to draw the same conclusion had said: “She didn’t send flowers for your grave.” I’ve given the matter some thought, and found myself in agreement with the two friends with whom I discussed it. I’ve also decided that were I to sum up the “essence” of “Moose, Mk III,” I could pick no better example.

The soulless quality of “Moose, Mk III” – whom I affectionately dubbed “The Thing on the Doorstep,” owing to the outcome of my Greensboro foray and my fondness for H.P. Lovecraft at the time -- is captured perfectly in both observations.

To this day, I have no idea of what ol’ Moose had taken to doing for shits and giggles by 1989. Kicking cats, drowning kittens and pulling the wings off flies all come to mind, but they’re merely guesses. It’s not at all difficult to imagine her going bag snatching on Halloween night, or knocking small children’s ice cream cones from their hands, either.

Yes, I’d have to opine that by this time, Moose had actually become evil. Evil, as in: horns, tail and pitchfork… Evil, as in: “Damien Thorn with tits and the seemingly supernatural ability to suck a golf ball through a garden hose.” Given this, I’m reasonably certain she’d taken to getting her jollies from human suffering, like any other garden-variety sadist.

Now this is pure conjecture on my part, but when I superimpose Moose, the Spawn of Satan over Moose, the drama queen, it occurs to me that she simply must have gotten some mileage and entertainment value out of my “death.” Tragedies and traumas don’t exactly grow on trees, right? Therefore, there’s little or no sense in letting one of suicide magnitude go to waste.

“Garmonbozia!” I can imagine her growling upon hearing the news.

When last I spoke with her, ol’ Moose mentioned that she’d felt a certain degree of guilt after hearing the greatly exaggerated rumor of my demise (if I may paraphrase Mark Twain). Having given the matter some thought, I’m inclined to believe it was top-to-bottom bullshit.

What else would one say when receiving a phone call from one’s psycho ex-boyfriend, whom one had previously believed to be pushin’ up daisies, feedin’ worms and engagin’ in all the other thrillin’ activities associated with takin’ the long dirt nap?

“Aw, shit! I thought you’d bought the farm!”

I don’t think so…

Guilt, my ass. My guess is that my period of (presumed) repose in the local skull orchard provided her with trauma-drama go leor. I simply can’t imagine her passing up a single opportunity to milk it for all it was worth. As she was a very beautiful young woman, I don’t imagine she ever needed resort to scoring a “sympathy fuck,” but a load of feigned “guilt” over a crazy-as-a-shithouse-rat ex who’d ostensibly greased himself would have been just the thing to stir the paternal/chivalrous instincts of potential victims.

It would also have provided an excuse for being “complex” (read: a complete horse’s ass), and the opportunity to be “mysterious” or “a woman with a past”: all the very meat and drink of drama queens from sea to oil-slicked sea.

Moose raises the back of her hand to her brow. Heaving a great sigh, she tilts her head backward and closes her eyes.

“Oh, Abelard!” says she, in a tremulous tone, “There is a deep, dark secret I must share with you!”

“What?” he asks, a look of concern in his otherwise bovine eyes.

“I – I – Oh! The horror!” she exclaims, turning away from him and lowering her head, “I cannot say! I must not say!”

“Duh, tell me!” he implores, wiping barbecue sauce from his face with his sleeve.

“It’s too much!” she sobs, burying her face in her hands (but looking out the corner of one eye to assess the effectiveness of the performance).

“Just tell me!” he says, putting down his Viewmaster and taking a step toward her.

Assuming the hand-to-brow pose yet again, she continues:

“I love you, Abelard van Gelding, but before you dare give me your heart, there is something you must know. Once, long ago, long before I met you, there was an unstable lad whose love for me went unrequited. I rebuffed his advances, Abelard, and he…he…”

(She heaves a tremendous sigh, ending in a sob)

“He took his own life! Oh, Abelard! To this very day, I blame myself!”

“It’s not your fault!” says he, his index finger wrestling with an especially tenacious booger, all the while.

As he rushes to take her into his arms, the toilet paper adhering to the sole of his shoe trails behind him like a knight’s pennon.

“But I feel as if it were!” she exclaims. “Now come and roger my guilt away, you big stud, you!”

Naturally, I made up that entire scene, but I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to discover that it isn’t far off the mark. Over the years, I’ve figured out quite a bit about this veritable princess of perpetual PMS, and most of the conclusions I’ve reached are unflattering, to say the very least.

I’d bet dollars to doughnuts that she got quite a laugh out of the letter I wrote her in ’89, as a matter of fact. Hell, I can easily imagine her and Sap #3 reading it aloud over and over again and howling with mirth, right before "sixty-nining" each other directly atop the stupid waste of time, energy, and emotion. That’s just the kind of girl she was.

I don’t know if she was still having her "lint trap" serviced by the same “Maytag man” with whom she was shacked up that March when the word of my “death” reached her ears. I honestly have no earthly idea. Were it so, though, then I can easily imagine her getting a good giggle out of it.

“Ohmigawd, Chester! Do you remember that psychotic dipshit I told you about? The one I was dating in high school? The one who wrote that hilarious letter? He actually went and offed himself! Can you believe that? What a pathetic fucktard! He really needs to get a life. Get it? Get a LIFE? Har har har!”

I can actually imagine all sorts of things about my favorite sociopathic, ball-busting harpy, come to think of it…

And I’ll do so in future posts.

Hope this one’s kept ye’ entertained.

1:37 P.M.: A Moment That Will Live in Infamy

Today, December 4, 2006, 1:37 p.m. - a moment which will live in infamy - Dave Bean was suddenly and deliberately attacked by the snooping noses of parties who shall go unnamed.

Dave was at peace with those fuckwits and, at the lack of hostility evinced by said parties, was still in conversation with a third party, for all that the Emperor and Empress were not looking toward the maintenance of peace, period... Indeed, one day after the Adversary's web squadrons had commenced bombing in Green Hell, the conspicuously absent Ambassador to Green Hell and his colleague delivered to the proprietor thereof a formal reply to a recent Green Hell message. Or so one would think. Ah, were this only the case... While this non-existent reply suggested that it seemed useless to continue the existing diplomatic negotiations, it contained no threat or hint of war or armed attack.

It will be recorded that the distance of Green Hell from the frontier makes it obvious that the attack was deliberately planned many years or even decades ago. During the intervening time the Hostile Government has to all appearances deliberately sought to deceive Green Hell by false statements, minus even expressions of hope for continued peace.

The attack yesterday on the Green Hell Acres has caused severe damage to Dave's continued peace of mind and generally cheery disposition. Very many of his good graces have been lost. In addition, Dave's
good intentions have been reported torpedoed on the high seas between the Chattahoochee and the Pacific.

Yesterday the Adversary's Government also launched an attack against Dave's digestion. Last night enemy forces just-plain invaded his space.

The enemy has, therefore, undertaken a surprise offensive extending throughout the Green Hell area. The facts of yesterday speak for themselves. The people of Green Hell have already formed their opinions and well understand the implications to the very life and safety of our nation.

As Commander-in-Chief of the Army and Navy, and a large fleet of turnip trucks, I have directed that all measures be taken for our defense.

Always will we remember the character of the onslaught against us. No matter how long it may take us to overcome this premeditated invasion, the Green Hell people in their righteous might will win through to absolute victory.

I believe I interpret the will of the readers and of the people when I assert that we will not only defend ourselves to the uttermost but will make very certain that this form of treachery shall never endanger us again.

Hostilities exist. There is no blinking at the fact that our people, our territory and our interests are in grave danger.

With confidence in our armed forces - with the unbounded determination of our people - we will gain the inevitable triumph - so help us God.

I ask that the readers declare that since the unprovoked and dastardly attack by the Enemy on Sunday, December third, a state of war has existed between Green Hell and the Japanese Empire. You want daikon? I got daikon...

David J. Bean, self-proclaimed member of the Newbomb Turk sect of the Ancient and Noble Order of the Hollywood Knights.

Do Me a Favor! Ban Guns Now!

Note: This is an old one in which I sarcastically mentioned that I thought
guns should be banned, in order to make my planned career as a criminal
and petty dictator easier. It's in the "Humor" section for a reason...

I wish more cities would ban guns. I hate to admit this, but I've done
B&E once or twice when I was younger. Not to steal anything, mind you, just
fishing for information. I took nothing but photos and notes, and left
nothing but fibers. (Note: This is what's called a "brown bag job.")

A buddy and I once caught fleas (the place was a real pigsty) doing this,
but that's another story.

Now if the homeowner had been home, I could have been shot, and that
really would have sucked! It might have also gotten blood and holes in my
borrowed cable TV installer's uniform, and then I'd've had some explaining
to do!

As long as there are nearly-bankrupt former Soviet republics out there,
there will be a source for guns for guys like me, but not for "Joe Average."
Shit, if I can't buy one on the black market, I'll machine a simple pen or
zip, and don't even have to do that, as they're easy to make. Naturally,
this stacks the odds in my favor.

Now when the big mushroom goes up and civilization collapses, I intend to
start a gang of bandits and rule the surrounding countryside with an iron
fist, just like "Kublai Kraus" in that animated Christmas special. I've even
got some war paint in the bureau (hidden beneath the fishnet stockings and
lacy panties) for the day that happens.

Since shrinkydink types claim everything's a phallic symbol, I intend to
call my gang the Tallywhacker Bandits (TallyBan -- get it? Ain't I just
ever-so-fucking witty?-- for short) just to piss them off, before I have
every one of them executed.

Since I like guns and ancient history, and intend to beat the whole
phallic meat -- I mean "symbol"-- thing to death, and will be doing my
damndest to bring back the Dark Ages, I'll probably change my name to "Avar
Johnson" or something else with an equally bad pun included.

Needless to say, I don't want other survivalist-type assholes with guns
pissing on my parade. When I assert my prima nocta rights, I don't need
armed resistance. I just wanna get my rocks off and go home uninjured, just
like any other perfectly normal Road Warrior-style bandit kinglet.

Oh, and it'll be open season on postal workers, 'cause I saw that movie
and don't need that kind of shit. Postal workers themselves tend to --
well -- "go postal" and the end of civilization is likely to be somewhat
stressful (they'll be unable to collect their benefits, and that might piss
them off considerable-like) so I'll have to nip that in the bud very
quickly.

Since I also intend to reinstate slavery (it won't be race-based, but
will depend upon taste in literature, booze and music, as well as upon
whether or not you agree with everything I say. You will be perfectly free
to agree with me, just not to disagree), I don't need armed uprisings.

Like my hero Pol Pot (now THAT's some fuckin' serious "killer Cambodian,"
dude! Gives new meaning to the term "getting wasted"...) I intend to zap
everyone with an education, or who wears boxer shorts (I wear glasses, so
that criterion pretty much gets shitcanned from the get-go). I'm going to
outdo "the Potster," though, and take us back to the year negative four!
This will be much easier if people don't shoot back at me. Hmmm. "Pol Potsie
Weber". Got a nice ring to it. Maybe I'll name one of my 500+ bastard sons
that.

The National Guard might be a pain in the butt at first, but I reckon
the ones with families will desert. When they do that, I'll pick 'em off
one-by-one, because I really do need some SAWs. I want one per six henchmen,
or is that overkill? A few M203s would be nice, too, once again at a 1/6
ratio. That might be too much, too, but I reckon "too much is never enough",
as Karen Carpenter once said. Or was it Mama Cass who said that? I can't
remember. Oh well, fuck it. Not important, anyway.

I'm actually gonna take a page from the Soviets' book and "up the ante" by
attaching one sniper/sharpshooter per squad. My henchmen will be plied
with plenty of booze, meth and viagra, too. See? The world is increasingly
fucked by the minute, ain't it? I think this is particularly brilliant
(you'd better agree, or I'll sentence you to life in the shit mines, me
bucko!) because one can only imagine the destructive potential of a
drunken, heavily armed slob who's horny as a three-balled billygoat, but
suffering from a case of "speedpecker."

I know I'd be pretty cranky (no pun
intended).

That's right, babydolls, you'd best not step on my fuckin' blue suede
shoes!

Admittedly, armor might be a problem, but that's what the penal battalions
are for, silly. Just strap a remote-detonated shaped charge to 'em, and say
"Go lay on that tank, Deadboy, or I'll Super Glue™ your butt-cheeks
together."

Now back to armed resistance, which I don't want or need: Women tend to
be cranky, overly emotional and irrational, so the 21st Amendment is toast.
The new rule will be "No scrote, no vote." Not that it matters much anyway,
as this will be a dictatorship, and I probably won't have the money to
waste on maintaining such charades as "free elections" for the benefit of
nosy foreigners (and I intend to illegalize them, too), but women
absolutely won't be allowed to vote. This is likely to piss them off a
bit, and I don't want to get picked off by a disgruntled member of my own
harem.

The easy-to-remember, idiot-friendly mnemonic rhyme for that'un'll
probably be something like "No shortarm, no firearm," but that doesn't quite
sound right. Needs some work.

I might allow the lumpenproles (Sounds like a pretty spiffy name for a
cartoon, doesn't it?) to do pointless things like sing "If I had a Hammer,"
but not while I'm trying to sleep. You see, the general public will be
living under Communism, while I and my henchmen reap the benefits of a
socially Darwinistic form of feudalism. That should make everyone happier
than a pig in shit. Since complaining will be illegal, it really doesn't
matter whether they're happy or not.

Anyone other than me caught making up patronizing, idiot-friendly,
easy-to-remember rhymes like "See a gun, call 9-1-1" or "If the glove don't
fit, you must acquit" will be sacrificed to Götoğul, the god of Turkish
prisons. Actually, I've heard that American prisons are worse, but that's
neither here nor there. There won't be many prisons in my "Brave New World,"
as everything will be punishable by death, even suicide!

Animal rights activists will be employed in my baby harp seal
slaughterhouse/whale oil rendering plant/snail darter cannery. All day long,
they'll be serenaded by my voice, crooning "Wouldn't this be easier if you
had a gun?" just to rub it in. The rest will be drafted and sent off to die
when I declare war on Honalee.

Greenie-weenies will be employed in my special pollution factory. Can't
claim the credit for that one; I swiped it from an episode of Captain
Planet, in which I -- along with the sugar-wired, tubby little Happy
Meal-eaters of America (my excuse for watching it was that I was 26,
unemployed, sitting around in my bathrobe and high as a kite) -- was
expected to believe that a multi-billion dollar corporation had been set up
for the sole purpose of manufacturing toxins to dump on the rainforest. (I'm
gonna illegalize rainforests, too, BTW). They'll only be allowed outside for
the annual burning of the Yule tire.

(Message for "Kooky": Fork over the fucking comb posthaste, or I'll
definitely take a giant shit on you. The chick is, in fact, the ginchiest,
and I'm getting very tired of hearing her whining.)

Well, I guess that's about it.

Nighty-night, sleep tight, and don't let the crab lice bite,

© David J. Bean, 2004, 2006

Chop-Mocky (AL)

Note: I've been into martial arts and self-defense for quite some time now. It's not a subject that I take too seriously, for the sake of my own sanity. As many older and wiser people in the field have told me: "The subject is too serious not to laugh at."

Some time ago, there was a discussion of teamwork in the martial arts on Marc MacYoung's Animal List. Upon reading it, I (being in a weird mood at the time) decided to take it literally, and further decided to "run with it" by making up my own martial arts "team." The following sarcastic and unbalanced post is the result. What can I say? I have an odd sense of humor.

Teamwork in the martial arts, eh?

It can be done. Here's my idea of an all-star martial arts team.

Wladislas "Pimples" Jablonski, Offensive Lineman: Jablonski is the most
versatile of offensive linemen, being able to play any position --
especially the mount -- and to dish out some of the most offensive lines
imaginable to female students without even knowing they're offensive!.
("Hey baby, wanna tie me up with your obi and spank my ass with the
rubba-chuks?"). Prefers to deliver said lines during "real life self-defense
drills," during which his offensiveness is magnified tenfold by his body
odor, halitosis and pizza-like complexion. His handprints -- in
seemingly-indelible potato-chip grease-- appear on certain parts of every
female student's gi.

Mort "Pit Bull" Armbruster, Center: Armbruster is the quintessential center;
always managing to find himself right in the center of any conflict that
materializes in the school, even if he has to start it. Memorable lines:
"Fuck you! You didn't even touch me!"; "Nice punch, Tinkerbell!"; "I can't
kick him in the balls, Sensei. He ain't got none!"; "I thought this was
Brazilian jujutsu, not Greek!"; "Hey Bob, I was bangin' Suzi here out in
the parking lot during the Iaido seminar, and she said you have trouble
gettin' your 'katana' out of the scabbard!" and of course, "Just try that
move on ME."

LaMarcus "Too Fast" Washington, Left Guard: Your guard must never be left
down when dealing with this guy. All fast-twitch muscle, and the words "hajime" and
"yame" mean absolutely nothing to him. 'Nuff said?

Clement "Nuoc Mam" Liederkranz, Right Guard: Right Guard is one thing you
won't find in this gent's possession, along with soap, toothpaste, shampoo,
etc. His headlock is particularly dangerous, motivating some opponents to
tap out before he even completes it. Owing to an exclusive diet of goat
cheese quesadillas and canned bean dip, proper peristalsis is something that
hasn't occurred in his alimentary canal for years. If he teams up with
Jablonski for tandem situps during physical conditioning, fatalities can
result. It's rumored that he can take a dump from a freeway overpass and
shatter the windshield of an oncoming semi.

Vinnie "Trouser Snake" Balducci, Tight End: Imagine Andrew "Dice" Clay with
access to Liberace's tailor, squeezed into a five-foot-five package. Wears
custom-made satin gi -- with sequins and fucking rhinestones, fer cryin' out
loud! -- that prominently displays his "tight end" and the two pairs of
socks he shoves into his supporter. This stunted Steve Reeves can also be
counted on to draw as much attention to himself as possible during physical
conditioning, shrieking and groaning his way through that last set of
chin-ups like a sailor taking a wizz after a week at Subic Bay.

Earl "Truffles" Carmichael, Wide Receiver: Widely known for receiving (and
transmitting) every fungal infection known to man -- including some to which
only women are usually susceptible-- this walking biological weapon just
loves to grapple, of course. And he's damned good at it! Between the
jock-itch, ringworm, athlete's foot, jungle rot, etc., striking him
anywhere is good for a minimum of fifty bucks worth of antibiotics, and
putting any kind of finishing hold on him is like trying to squeeze
slime-mold off a dead tree. Teammates' favorite prank: Spraying him with
Cruex and hollering, "I'm melllllllting!"

And last but not least:

Dave "White Trash" Bean. MVP (Most Vitriolic Prick): Writes shit like this.
Sews John Deere, Budweiser and Naval Flag patches to his gi. Brutally
overuses alliteration and does to similes what Derrida did to philosophy.
Paints face like a mime before performing kata. Asks questions like, "Yeah,
but kin ye' drink strychnine and handle rattlers?" during "ki
demonstrations."

Rebel yells in place of a kiai. Mounts "jackalope" head above kamiza, uses
same as an ashtray. Nips from a hip flask in between drills. Takes great
delight in tormenting the opposite gender: Forms middle and index fingers
into a "v" and sticks tongue into the groove when bowing to a female
sparring partner. Says things like: "Yew almos' as feisty as mah sister!";
"Oh yeah, baby! A little more to the left!" or; "Yer marriage ain't doin'
too good, is it? Ah kin tell!" during randori, and occasionally stops
fighting and sighs heavily for no particular reason.

Favorite prank: Soaking supporter in water/constarch mixture; crumpling
said while still damp; sprinkling a few drops of urethane varnish here and
there; drying it in the oven, and leaving it on the bench in the locker
room.

(Just kidding about most of that stuff.)

©2004, 2006, David J. Bean

Bothersome Thoughts For The Day (Updated)

It's occurred to me that whereas a certain kind of person insists that we're all basically the same "beneath the surface," the same kind of person becomes terribly upset when it's brought to his attention that many of our commonalities are actually of a rather negative variety.

*************

More damned gray hairs in my spiffy goatee. Worse still, they've begun to "colonize" my moustache, as well. The moment of ultimate, cosmic, near-Lovecraftian horror, however, arrived when I found a couple -- never mind.

I'm not even forty yet! How can this be happening?

I know! I must have caught it while talking to a certain person over the telephone! That's the only possible explanation!

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I've heard it said that love is blind. At various unfortunate points in my life, however, I've found that mine goes far beyond this ever-so-cute description. Mine, gentle reader, is at times a cross between the Who's "Tommy" and South Park's "Timmy".

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Speaking of South Park: What the hell is a "South Park Libertarian", and should I be offended over having been called one?

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If, as the interventionist crowd believes, we are the world's policeman, quis custodiet ipsos custodiens? A solidly neocon "review board"?

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If the guy who wrote the song really didn't care that Jimmy cracked corn, why the hell did he bother writing it?

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I've often wondered what Abraham Lincoln would be doing, were he alive today. My best guess is that he'd be frantically trying to claw his way out of his coffin.

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Every time I see a photo of Franklin Delano Roosevelt with his trademark cigarette holder, I find myself compelled to utter "Wak! Wak! Wak!" -- just like Burgess Meredith in his role as "The Penguin." Anyone else ever experience this?

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If a tree falls but no one is around to hear it, is it safe to assume that nobody really gives a shit what kind of sound it makes?

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"This is my rifle, this is my gun! This is for fighting, this is for fun!" No, stupid. That's your pecker. Now I can see why you were never even considered for OCS.

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If biology is the science of life why isn't analogy the science of the anus?

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Owing to the vehement response to which the use of the epithet invariably gives rise, I've resolved never again to refer to a woman as a "dumb c**t". Calling anyone "dumb" is rather insulting, come to think of it.

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Is "playing hookey" the same thing as taking the role of a "John" in a play about prostitution?

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I just discovered that homophones have nothing to do with either BellSouth or Cheshire Bridge Road.

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Question for eugenicists: Why does "natural selection" so often need your artificial help?

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Apology to one who shall go unnamed: Sorry about the whole hair incident. It ain't exactly got sights, ya know?

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Life Imititates Hawkwind Dept: I, too, once "took a ride in a silver machine" when I was nineteen or so. Man, was my Dad ever pissed-off when he found out! It seems Mercedes don't exactly grow on trees, for all that it's easy enough to wrap one of the former around the latter! Why, by the way, is it called "joy-riding" when you're in for an ass-kicking when you get home?

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Speaking of Hawkwind, I caught them at a gig at the Masquerade in Atlanta back in '95 or thereabout. My buddy Sean was definitely correct: That wasn't Stacia onstage. Couldn't have been. That many years down the road, a single pirouette would have bludgeoned the first three rows of the audience into unconsciousness.

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Speaking of Hawkwind yet again, did anyone ever notice that Lemmy had a tendency to rip himself off at times, beyond taking his HW material with him when he founded Motorhead? Just listen to the bass line of "Brain Box Pollution" and compare it to "On Parole." Then compare the bass line of "The Watcher" to that of "Nightmare: The Dreamtime"

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Best topical humor/utter-disrespect-for-our-"betters" line I've ever heard from a buddy: "I knew Kip Kinkel, and you, sir, are no Kip Kinkel!"

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Most embarrassing line I've ever actually remembered hearing from the same buddy, who was "babysitting" me one night when I was a bit tipsy : "No, Bean! We are NOT going into a bar called "Uranus" to watch midget wrestling!"

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Best comeback I've ever heard when someone shouted "You suck!" at a really bad bar band: "Not on your budget, dirtbag!"

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Ugliest hooker I've ever seen: The one wearing the orange halter-top and white shorts in Daytona Beach, Florida. My ratbag buddy J.R. just had to say: "Check that out, Bro!", leaving me traumatized for life when I did. For weeks afterwards, I had hideous nightmares of two Nagasaki "Fat Man" bombs in free fall, one released just milliseconds before the other, and of two elephants in a fight to the death beneath a white drop-cloth.

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Ugliest hooker I've ever had try to part me from my hard-earned swag: The one in Pensacola, Florida, whose boyfriend was also her pimp.

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Most disgusting and pointless post I've ever composed: This one! And you just read it! Haw!

Take care!

© 2006, David J. Bean

Still Deranged After All These Years

To Daddy, who was born on June 28th 1938.

On the 28th of June 1914, Archduke Franz "Bo Diddley" Ferdinand, heir to the Hapsburg throne, and his ironically named wife, Sofie (a.k.a. "the Duchess") chose to celebrate their fourteenth wedding anniversary by making a ceremonial visit to the province of Bosnia-Herzegovina. My granddaddy was six or seven years old at the time, but that's irrelevant, as he had nothing to do with the subsequent proceedings, for all that we Beans are somewhat unruly at times. Their visit was taken as an act of provocation by neighboring Serbia, the residents of which were commemorating St.Vitus (One wonders if they did so by dancing) and the battle of Kosovo, in what was the most important annual festival of the Serbian nation.

This poor timing pissed a few people off, to say the least. As the ducal procession made its way through the streets of Sarajevo, a retardate by the name of Cabrinovic hurled a grenade at the Archduke's car, forgetting that cars have roofs. His missile bounced off said marvel of engineering, and exploded beneath another vehicle. A fragment grazed the neck of Duchess Sophie, at which point the military governor of Bosnia-Herzegovina, one Oskar Potiorek, began licking the blood away with sufficient gusto to leave a hickey upon the royal neck. The Archduke wasn't having that shit for even a second, and commenced to opening a big ol' can of whupass on the unfortunate Potiorek, who subsequently repented of his "goth" lifestyle and invented miniature golf.

After losing his way, setting himself up, and inviting disaster on more than one occasion, the Archduke decided to visit an officer who had been wounded in the grenade attack, and had been sent to a nearby hospital. As the procession turned from Appel Quay to Franz Josef Street, Potiorek, holding a raw Wiener schnitzel to one of his black eyes, ordered the third car to stop, muttering: "Payback is a medevac, sumbitch!" and "tossing signs" at a young man standing on the corner.

"How you like me now? How you like me now?" screamed said young man, one Gavrilo Princip, in a heavy Serbian accent, as he stepped forward, held his revolver sideways, and fired twice into the car from a dozen or fewer feet away.

"Go Dawgs! Sic 'em! Woof! Woof! Woof!" roared the assembled crowd, besotted with Miller Lite and sporting UGA sweatshirts.

The first bullet struck the Archduke in the jugular vein, while the second lodged in the abdomen of the Duchess, which goes to show that only total assholes who watch too many movies -- and congenital idiots -- refuse to use their sights. The duchess fell to the floor of the vehicle, her head between the Archduke's knees. "Soferl! Soferl! Don't die!" said he, "Live for my children. Say, doesn't this remind you of prom night? And since you're down there anyway, how's about one last 'hummer' before I buy the farm?" Turning her bloodstained face to her husband, the Duchess said: "Faggot! I told you to ask for directions!"

Princip was later elected mayor of Provo, Utah. Potiorek became a renowned interior decorator, whose skill carried over to the decor of his provocative and avant garde miniature golf courses. Cabrinovic played guitar for a Southern Boogie outfit for six months before dying in a tragic batting-range accident (some music scholars insist that had he lived, "He woulda been even better than Duane Allman, an' that ain't no shit, neither!"), and World War I broke out two months later. Millions lost their lives, but many of them were French, which goes to show that every cloud has a silver lining, and if ever I catch that grimy son of a bitch who short-changed me in that Paris hotel when I was seven years old, I'll bust a bottle over his "frawg haid", no matter how old he is these days.

Happy Birthday, Dad! I love you!

© David J. Bean, 2006