Green Hell

Musical/Comic Relief (Not for the Humorless)

I have a reason for posting this link. 

"The rest," as Aristotle wrote, "is episode."

 

How to Read Review-Blurbs

     The devil, as the adage maintains, is in the details. The details,in this case, are the ellipses. 

     The blurb: "a monumental piece...brilliantly written...makes the reader yearn for an earlier age..."

     The original review: "A monumental piece of shit, as brilliantly written as graffiti in a truckstop restroom; this literary atrocity makes the reader yearn for an earier age -- an age in which good money wasn't squandered after bad on utopian pipe dreams of educating the hopeless."   

Multiculturalism 101

    Hallo. My name is Lars. I am exchange student from SVEE-den, and I am very much into the --hur säger man? -- the Death Metal, youbetcha! 



     I'm also very fucking hung-over.
     That was one hell (no pun intended) of a party last night. Thanks to Ronnie, Sandra, and Kelly for having the presence of mind to pour what was left of me into a glass (Uh, I mean a chalice made from a human cranium! Yeah! That's the ticket!) and leave me on the porch where the wife could find me. 

     And since I've mentioned the wife, I'll also mention that we won't be boxing up even a single memento mori for the next couple o' days. Samhain may be over, but we still have Dia de los Muertos to celebrate. 

Just for Fun, or: Old Metalheads Never Die -- They Just Make You Wish They Would...

A few weeks ago, I decided take up bass again. I was practicing in the garage a few days ago, just minding my own business (and lowering my neighbors' property values) when the wife shot a few photos. 

Now boys and girls, I am not an Emo Rocker. I play metal, blues, and hardcore punk. Get me in front of a camera while I'm practicing, and I revert to type: a cocky, "showboat" motherf**** whom you want to kill after observing for five or fewer minutes. Maggie thought the photos were cute, so I posted them on Facebook. My mother thinks they're anything but cute, which is all the more reason to post them here. Mwahahahaha! 

We also posted them because they're amusing. I was having fun, and my sense of humor often runs to self-parody. The wife and I both grew up attending concerts, and at one point my room was completely wallpapered with centerfolds and full-page shots clipped from Circus, Hit Parader, Creem, and Kerrang. And I don't think I was alone in that respect. Ever notice how all rock musicians assume the same set of macho poses? Monkey see, monkey do -- and never mind that they're downright silly-looking. Naturally, I struck damn-near all of 'em whilst entertaining the wife. The only ones I missed were the Foot On Monitor Posture (try translating that one into Mandarin, Kung Fu types), and the Tandem Headbang. (I'll get to that one when next my cousin comes to visit.) 

All-in-all, it was just one of those fun afternoons. And we've needed a bit of fun for a while, now. This hasn't been a very humorous year thus far. The weather has been especially unsuited to gardening (too muddy to plough from March to May, followed by a heatwave that killed much of what we managed to plant, scalded fruit, and caused blossoms to drop). We follwed the Andrew Wordes saga from January to March, only to be present when he killed himself. Then my friend Walt died, and another bro called to tell me that he had a heart condition that required surgery. To reiterate: I've had precious little to laugh about this year.  

The bass is my brother's old ('84 or '85) Peavey fury. One pickup, one volume pot, one tone pot, no frills. I changed the strings out some time ago, and then left it in the case for ages. (That's a long story. I'll tell it some other time.) Despite the lack of bells and whistles, it's a good-sounding instrument, especially with the D'Addario Pro Steels I'm using. When I first plugged in and cranked up, I was amazed at the bright, punchy sound. For some applications, it's actually too metallic, so I might shop around for something else. 

Anyway, here are the shots. (And yes, dear; I know. Black Sabbath, Hawkwind, and Motorhead aren't the only bands on earth.  Thanks for reminding me...) 


This one's Maggie's favorite --probably because I hate it. I look like a constipated baboon enduring delirium tremens.


This one is the wife's least favorite. She was rolling her eyes and groaning when I struck this pose, as a matter of fact. And yes, it's 80's swagger at its worst -- I admit it. Happy now? Best comment so far is from my bro John (a.k.a. "He Who Sprains Drunkards' Ankles" -- and I can hear him now: "Well? You need to learn to tap out, you knuckle-draggin' Ulster gobshite..."). The comment: "Looks like the kind of dude Hawkwind would fire." 


She had fun with this one, too.

I'll cop to being a tad insulting at times. There's no sense in denying it. We live in an uncivil age, an age of toe-tromping, nose-picking savages who eat with the wrong fork break in line, and discuss their children's potty-training in public. Of course I'm insulting and abusive: proper etiquette is lost on the savages, and usually interpreted as weakness. My three favorite insults are "unlettered," "unwashed," and "unshod." Leave it to the wife to point out that I wasn't wearing shoes that day...


This one's my favorite. I was playing the intro to Black Sabbath's "N.I.B" when the sun got in my eyes. As I'm prone to stage fright when I haven't played in a while, I tend to look at a spot between the spectators' hairlines and the tops of their heads. This creates the illusion of eye-contact -- and keeps my trousers urine-free until I'm comfortable playing for an audience once more. The only time this trick fails is when the sun is shining directly into one's face, effectively blinding him. When this happens, the shamster appears to be scowling at the very people he's ostensibly entertaining. 

Well, that's all for now.

Take care.  

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