The Peace Moonbeam Chronicles

Dear readers,

I'm going to be helping my friend Scooter at his news site for a while, go HERE for the latest hard-hitting news and commentary!

Ciao Baby, Peace

Remembering The King

June 26, 2009

When I heard the news on the radio that Michael Jackson had died, I immediately raced to Scooter's house.

You see, Scooter once spent a week living on the sidewalk outside of a Berkeley record store to be the first to buy Jackson's "Thriller" album. He knows every word to every song Michael Jackson ever recorded, including the sucky ones. Scooter spent over $6,000 to buy Michael's sequined glove on eBay (it turned out to be an Isotoner woman's glove spray painted silver, but he cherishes it just the same). Scooter knows all of MJ's dance moves, but unfortunately when he does them, his lack of rhythm coupled with his poor motor control combine to produce something that looks like a retarded Michael Jackson being electrocuted.

Anyway, I think you get the idea; Scooter Van Neuter is MJ's biggest fan.

Arriving at Scooter's place, I knew it was bad before I even got to the front door. Over the strains of "You Are Not Alone" I could hear Scooter inside alternately sobbing, singing along, and apparently talking to someone. I entered into the music-filled dark living room illuminated only by a few candles. As my eyes slowly adjusted, I found an obviously drunk Scooter sitting on the couch dressed in one of his MJ outfits kissing and groping his little ventriloquist dummy, "Donnie." Oh, good God.

I've seen some weird things in my life, but that scene is seared into my memory forever. As for Scooter, his overwhelming grief and desire to be close to Michael Jackson caused him to almost become his idol, and I guess that's OK, at least to a certain point.

All I can say is I'm glad Donnie doesn't have an attorney.

"Wrong on so many levels.."

Orack Hussan Van Neuter

June 8. 2009

Written by Van Neuter friend and colleague, Ms. Peace Moonbeam.

OK, several days after his apparent breakdown and abrupt switch from being a "God and country" conservative to a "spread the wealth" liberal, Scooter has found my last nerve and is riding it like an over-caffeinated spider monkey!

The "new" Scooter is bad-mouthing our country, insulting our troops, has stopped working and applied for welfare, is smoking dope all day, etc. - in other words, normal liberal behavior. What is definitely NOT normal is Scooter's retarded masquerading as a biracial Marxist with Muslim roots, and worse (if that were possible), taking on the moronic name "Orack Hussan" Van Neuter.

Scooter's cheesy makeover with grease paint, short dyed permed hair, and a hideous fake mole (chocolate sprinkle) has transformed him into a freakish parody of our beloved president. Couple that with the fact Scooter now punctuates his speech with pauses and "ughs" makes me want to rip his nuts off every time he opens his mouth. I'm THIS close to buying him a teleprompter just to hear him speak a complete sentence again.

Look, In all fairness I'll be the first to admit the "Obama" vibe is currently very hot, and Scooter/Orack has become wildly popular in social circles - hard to believe considering just a few days ago he had exactly three friends, and at least two of them hate his guts.

Orack is now hanging with a plethora of intelligent and beautiful people, including college professors and movie stars, and has already dumped Heather for another brainless skank, this one 100 pounds lighter with boobs the size of weather balloons. Still, gaining friends by poorly impersonating someone else is classless and wrong, even by Scooter's standards.

As a progressive, proud liberal it hurts me to say this, but I HATE this Orack character. If this is the price for Scooter becoming a liberal, it's too freaking high.

 

Orack's new liberal hottie

Scooter Surrenders To Liberalism!

June 5, 2009

Unbeknownst to all but a few of his closest friends, Scooter's Report Editor Scooter Van Neuter has been subject to an increasing number of personal threats over the last few months as a result of his articles critical of Democrats, especially President Obama (and his lovely wife).

Here's just one frightening example:

scooter vanpooper you suck you rightwing peice of sh*t!!! presdent obama RULZ and me and my frends WILL find you and rip your lying fingers off you bible luving AHOLE!!!!  YOU SUCK YOU LITTLE LYER AND WILL DYE SOON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  

sined YOUR KILLAZ                 

I've personally seen the affects these liberal threats have had on Scooter recently: Excessive drinking (he's worn out 2 "Margaritaville" margarita makers just since Christmas), surliness, nervousness, acting pissy, condescension, rude farting, inappropriate comments, spitting on children, clumsiness, unprovoked nudism, cursing, poor hygiene, little or no fashion sense, a careless disregard for small animals, non-stop nose-picking and booger eating/flinging, careless urination, speeding, poor diet, taunting the elderly, littering, talking during movies, unlawful use of vegetables, and some other things I can't mention on a family-friendly site.

Anyway, while reading his emails last night he seemed to just snap. Sobbing uncontrollably, Scoots grabbed the margarita machine and bolted. Pepe and I looked for him practically all evening and by 9:30 PM feared the worse, so we went back to Scooter's place and started dividing up his possessions - that's when we got the shocking call from Scooter's skanky fat girlfriend, Heather.

What she told us was almost unbelievable: Scooter, extremely insecure to begin with, apparently reached the point last night were he could simply no longer bear the overwhelming hatred and criticism from an increasingly-liberal public. Exclaiming he'd "rather have popularity than principals," Scooter then informed Heather he was now a (drum roll).... liberal (!)

But wait, it gets even more bizarre! In a desperate attempt to garner love and acceptance from his former critics, Scooter, with Heather's help (she once spent almost 2 weeks training as a cosmetologist) gave himself a "liberal-friendly" makeover. Supposedly he then went to the closest liberal hangout (a gay bar), where he was literally "worshiped like a god," according to Heather. She said he was beaming, and happier than she'd seen him in ages.

While I'm certainly relieved Scooter has finally come back to his liberal roots, the way he's gone about it gives me pause. Still, welcome back, Scooter.

Scooter finds acceptance as a liberal

Steering Aunt Nancy

August 9, 2008

Berkeley, California

As some of you may know, Senator Nancy Pelosi is Scooter's step-aunt, or something like that. What you don't know is that Scooter has recently been advising her on the energy crisis, as he's proved himself to be an expert in this field.

It's no secret that while Aunt Nancy is a competent politician, she has the I.Q. of a swim fin, and in a debate involving facts and numbers and stuff, she'd be roadkill without Scooter's help in formulating a scientific response to the Republicans' demands for more domestic oil production. Under Scooter's artful tutelage, Aunt Nancy gave an impassioned press conference this week where she skillfully countered the "drill here, drill now" arguments. Here's some excerpts from the notes Scooter prepared for his aunt:

• "Drilling new oil wells takes too long. Give me two dollar gas this afternoon or give me nothing!" (Jab air with finger.)
• "If producing more oil domestically does bring down the price of gasoline, religious hillbilly conservatives would be tempted to keep their Escalades, thus dooming our planet. I WANT TO SAVE THE PLANET!" (Pound desk during last part, strike pose, look serious.)  
• "More oil means more greasy fingerprints on everything. I ask you, don't housewives have enough work to do?" (Hold hands out, palms up, look feminine.)
• "Finally, to all the Republicans whining about wanting more drilling, I say, Hey, drill this!" (Grab crotch, exit to wild applause.)

The good news is that the mainline media gave glowing coverage of Aunt Nancy's strategic vision for America's energy independence. The bad news is it didn't last, as out of nowhere Barack Obama suddenly solved the whole energy crisis with his daring and brilliant "Add Air to Tires" strategy, effectively ending our country's dependence on foreign oil and saving the economy. Impressive!

While she hasn't publicly said anything, Scooter says Aunt Nancy is plenty PO'd at what she termed "the little lawn jockey's grandstanding." I guess I can't blame her, she and Scooter worked for over an hour on that speech.  

Face(lift) of an Angel

Note: I'm on vacation, so here is an auto-posted story from January 2006

 

August 1, 2008

Berkeley, California

My feminist friends think I'm nuts but I had to do it. As a divorced woman well into my fifties, I needed a little "help" getting back into the dating game. After much agonizing, I decided to get a little cosmetic surgery. Nothing really major, just a face, brow, and breast lift. The only problem, I didn't have much money and local doctors quoted me over $15,000.00 for the procedures. Luckily, my cousin Jean knew of a friend's aunt who had a face lift done in Argentina for a fraction of what she would have paid in this country. It was exactly what I needed.

After several hours of research on the internet, I decided to use Dr. Angel Fuentes, as his web page was clearly the most professional. I called the number and he told me he could see me at his Buenos Aires office as soon as I could get there. I couldn't believe my good fortune - not only did he say he was the finest cosmetic surgeon in all the western hemisphere, but his price was a very reasonable $1,450.00 for everything! The fact he sounded like Ricky Ricardo on the phone pretty much sealed the deal and I was on my way to Argentina the next morning.

After arriving, I checked into the stately but worn El Conquistador Hotel. The next morning I took a cab to the Fuentes Medical Center. I have to admit I was a little disappointed by the facility, as it was basically a small stucco building that looked kind of like a house. A sign hanging from the porch read, "Centro Médico De Fuentes y Transmisión Reparación," which I think means "Fuentes Medical Transition Restoration Center." There were several cars on blocks parked in the dirt front yard, and the whole place was very un-medical-like except for the discarded bandages, etc. in the garbage cans next to the garage. Then it dawned on me - I was unfairly judging this place by elitist American standards! I suddenly felt ashamed and realized I needed to approach this whole thing with an open mind.

Inside, the waiting room was decorated like a living room which gave it a cozy and comfortable feel. When Dr. Fuentes came in and introduced himself, I knew I was in good hands. He was charming, professional, VERY handsome, and his insistence that I call him Angel put me totally at ease. After a brief examination, his assistant Juanita led me to the operating room which was very clean and even included a full kitchen. Once on the table, I was connected to an IV and fell into a deep sleep.

I awoke to Ricky Ricardo's reassuring voice telling me everything had gone well. Several hours later I was painfully transported by medical motorcycle back to my hotel, where for the next four days I convalesced. My recovery was painful but uneventful and the staff at the El Conquistador was great, outside of the fact someone took my credit cards, camera, and most of the painkillers Angel had prescribed for me.

       

Alternate Universe

Note: I'm on vacation, so here is an auto-posted story from May 5, 2006:

July 25, 2008

Chicago, Illinois / Berkeley, California

I guess my day started normally enough. I got up, woke the kids, fed the dog, and made breakfast. Scooter joined us at the table, said grace, quickly downed a cup of coffee and a piece of toast, then kissed the kids and me goodbye before bolting for the door, late as usual. While the kids brushed their teeth, I cleaned up the dishes while keeping an eye on the clock. I vowed to myself that we would all start getting up 15 minutes earlier so we could enjoy more time together without having to be so rushed. Sure!

Fifteen minutes later, I waved goodbye to the twins as the KinderCare preschool van pulled away. I reflected upon the day's schedule: nail appointment at 9:00, the Orkin man coming by at 11:30, lunch with the girls at 12:30, a volunteer meeting at GOP headquarters downtown at 3:00, and then home to meet the kids' van by 4:10. Whew! After reading a few Psalms, I jumped into my new Escalade (love it!) and headed for my nail appointment.

Patty's been doing my nails ever since we moved to Chicago and we've become great friends. She always has something to say about the state of the world, and today was no exception. "Did you see on TV that commie whack-job Cindy Sheehan is back protesting outside of the president's ranch? It's absolutely incredible that anyone would listen to that woman. What's happened to this country?" That was my cue to reassure her that the whole country isn't spinning out of control, that the ACLU and Ted Kennedy are not on the verge of closing down the churches, and that the Cindy Sheehans of the world are not taking control.

After my usual words of comfort, Patty did something I found strange: she put down the emery board, took both my hands, and leaning in close, whispered, "I fine you muy sexy." Not believing what I thought I heard, I asked her, "What did you say, again?" She said, "I fine you so sexy, I can' help myself from wanting you." Her breath smelled like a burnt bush doused in tequila, and I noticed she was unusually tan and sweaty. I stammered, "Patty, don't..." but she held my hands tight and leaned in to kiss me. Oh crap, I had to do something!

With all my strength I pulled my hands free, grabbed my purse, and swung it as hard as I could, catching Pepe on the side of his face. With a thud he flew backwards into the coffee table, sending the tequila, glasses, and bong flying everywhere. Once I realized where I was, I broke down in tears of happiness, knowing it had all been an awful nightmare. However, I was still pissed that Pepe tried to put the moves on me, but the severe concussion he suffered was probably payback enough.

I feel like one of those people who had a near-death experience, only to be given another chance at life. I am more determined than ever to rid this country of the conservative disease that this administration has created. Also,I'm definitely not drinking tequila any more with Pepe.

 

Hare Trigger

Note: I am on vacation. This is an auto-posted story from March 3, 2006:

July 18, 2008

Berkeley, California

This week we made real progress in the war against hunting. It all started with my offhand remark to some Bambi-killing Neanderthal that I'd consider hunting to be a sport when the prey is also armed. Scooter overheard this and paid a visit to a friend who designs human prosthetics and had him adapt a brain-triggered mechanism that could be linked with a firearm, and voila, the Hunter-B-Gon(TM) was born! Just like the prosthetic hand that grips when signaled by the brain, this trigger mechanism is activated by a small probe in the part of the animal's brain that senses fear. Cool.

I went to the neighborhood pet store and purchased the largest rabbit they had. I named him "Fluffy." Scooter immediately started Fluffy on an intense training program by dressing as a hunter and scaring the crap out of him repeatedly. Once Fluffy was conditioned, our vet friend inserted the little probe into his brain and wired it to the featherweight Kel-Tec P3AT automatic pistol we had taped to his body. It worked perfectly, as every time hunter Scooter jumped at Fluffy, we would hear the "clicking" of the trigger mechanism. Die, hunter! We were ready to release Fluffy into a popular hunting spot outside of town.

In a spirit of fairness, we posted signs in the area that said, "Caution hunters! Animals in this area are armed, and if threatened, will shoot!" We figured this would turn back all but the stupid ones, and they probably deserved to get shot by an animal. Scooter double-checked the apparatus, brushed and fed Fluffy, then loaded the magazine into the gun.

Fluffy took two hops, turned, and shot Scooter in the knee! Oh crap! Apparently scared by the sound of gunfire, Fluffy then shot me in the ankle, shot our car, shot the sign, then shot Scooter (the genius) again, in the crotch. At this point I started clubbing Fluffy with a tree branch as the homicidal bunny fired off another shot which thankfully missed me, but hit Scooter once again, this time in the elbow. Damn, that bunny really had it in for Scooter! Finally I killed Fluffy, but not before he looked up at me with a twisted little grin accompanied by one last "click" of the trigger - thank God the gun was empty.

While Scooter's idea of arming innocent animals was brilliant, his assumption that they possess any kind of reasoning skills was not. As for Fluffy, well, he almost killed us both, and frankly I enjoyed clubbing the snot out of him. One unfortunate result of this whole episode is that Scooter has applied for a hunting license and I fear for rabbits everywhere. On the positive side, Fluffy probably did the world a favor by shooting off Scooter's testicles - knowing he can't reproduce gives me a certain amount of peace.

   

Just Do it

July 11, 2008

Berkeley, California

This whole thing started when Scooter passed out while planting a rose bush in my backyard. After only a couple minutes of digging he was sweating like a priest at a Boy Scout Jamboree, so I went in to get him a glass of water. To my horror I returned to find poor Scooter unconscious in the dirt, his head in the hole! Not knowing what to do, I turned the hose on him, figuring he was overheated. Whether it was the cooling effect or not being able to breathe when the hole filled with water, Scooter quickly recovered. I sent him home while I planted the bush myself. 

It's no secret that Scooter is horribly out of shape. As you'd expect of someone who was on the bowling team during his nine years in college, he was at one time very athletic, but now has the general shape and muscle tone of a giant sea slug. With a severe sunburn Scooter's color could best be described as "chalky," and the last time he tried to lift one of those five-gallon water bottles he ended up with a double hernia, a near-fatal case of hemorrhoids, and three pulled muscles, including the one under his tongue. Anyway, after the rose bush incident Scooter decided he was going to get back into shape by running. I knew I could also use the exercise, so I told Scoots I'd run with him. We agreed to meet at my house the next morning at six a.m.

At seven forty-five Scooter arrived decked out in literally hundreds of dollars worth of new running shoes, socks, pants, shirt, jacket, wrist/headbands, and water bottles, all festooned with huge corporate logos from Puma, Adidas, Nike, Reebok, etc. To me he looked more like a rap star than an athlete, but if it makes him want to exercise, more power to him. After unloading his sack of protein bars, protein shake mix, and a six-pack of Mountain Dews, he proceeded to "carb up" for our run. After consuming two big mugs of protein shake, a bunch of bars, two mountain Dews, and maybe seven or eight cigarettes, Scooter pronounced himself ready to run. We were off!

For only nine in the morning it was amazingly hot, and after several minutes of running I was on the verge of perspiring. I turned around to check on Scooter and though he gave me the thumbs-up, he didn't look so great. Beside the fact he'd apparently wet his pants, his white face was drenched in sweat and he was noticeably foaming at the mouth and nose, which didn't seem normal. As I watched Scooter run, I couldn't help but picture him competing in the Special Olympics, as he had a similar running style to some of their less-talented athletes I'd seen. Suddenly these thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Track Star Scooter stumbling into a driveway and projectile-vomiting carbs all over the trunk of my neighbor's new Buick! Game over!

While I'm of the opinion he tried to do too much too soon, Scooter insists his inability to run even a short distance was due to his congenital birth defect of "spastic arches." Thankfully he's decided to return to a more familiar field of endeavor - we're going bowling as soon as he finishes carbing up on polish sausages and beer....

 

News From the North

By reader Syncrodox

July 8, 2008

 

The boys and I have been excited all week in anticipation of the great leader’s visit to Calgary. Of course I'm speaking of Stephane Dion, the leader of the official opposition and the head of the Liberal Party of Canada. Stephane has staked his political fortunes and the very survival of this nation (should he assume power in the coming election) on his brilliant "Green Shift" taxation program. The central theme of this program is that "carbon emitting" provinces like Alberta and Saskatchewan will be heavily taxed for our crimes against Gaia in an effort to fund more social programs for poor Jamaican immigrant youth in Toronto. You people would refer to them as gang-bangers but we Canadians have refined the terms.

 

For those of you unfamiliar with Canadian geography, Calgary is located in the southwest portion of Alberta. If you look at a map of Canada we are second from the left, the one with the slightly mischievous grin and the kiss curl. In American terms we are Texas without the pistols and Arizona without the ungodly heat plus we have one tenth of the illegal immigrants in the aforementioned states.

 

As such, we are considered by the rest of Canada (ROC) to be the James Dean of confederation. Rebels without a clue, if you will. Hillbillies who found oil beneath our feet just as easily as Uncle Jed when he fired that fateful shot into the swamp. Sadly, unlike you folk, very few of us have cement ponds and a nice granny. But I digress once again.

 

Calgary's claim to fame is the Calgary Stampede, ten days of balls to the walls boozing with a rodeo and chuck wagon races thrown in as an excuse. It began yesterday and we love it! One of the traditions of Stampede is pancake breakfasts where the eggs are cold, the bacon slimy, the pancakes doughy, all for free and served by minor celebrities (the channel 7 weather hottie) or our political idols.

 

The boys and I patiently waited in line to be served by Stephane. Lil Syncro got bored and lit up a joint (that brought up memories of his first Stampede when he was four, I nearly wept) and Syn and Dox started fighting over who was going to give our present to Stephane. Things very nearly got out of hand but I reminded the boys that if they didn't behave I'd do the whole hundred lot of Purple Mike stashed at home myself. That dummied them up.

 

We eventually made it to the front of the line and Dox got so excited he made such a big scene getting our present out of his Kokanee (awesome beer) cooler backpack, that he aroused the attention of Stephane's security people. In an instant, we were pepper-sprayed and tasered. When they discovered that we’d only brought this great man a gross of plastic knives and forks for use eating his hotdawgs like last year, they parked the taser and the pepper spray in favor of an old-fashioned beating.

 

Syncro

 

PS: I wrote this from my Blackberry in the back of a paddy wagon...Wha...f@7ck you....over my dead.....No .....No not the tas......

That...ouch is ..ouch all!

Change, Hope, Hashish

July 4, 2008

San Francisco, California

 

Wow, even days later I'm still so giddy I can hardly type!

Have you ever taken a bong hit that melts away the worries of this world in a euphoric wave of Zen-like contentment? How about the intense pleasure of listening to your favorite Grateful Dead song while enjoying the aforementioned bodacious botanicals, followed by the exquisite pleasure of biting into a chewy, warm brownie right from the oven? While most enlightened liberals would consider these things life's ultimate pleasures, they pale in comparison to sitting at the feet of The Master and drinking in the sweet nectar of hope!

Senator Barack Obama's San Francisco campaign stop this week was just what I needed to get out of the house and stoke my political fires. I called my good friend Pepe, as I figured he'd love to see and hear our next president (I also just happened to know that Pepe had some hashish and a full tank of gas). He came by early so we could sample the hash and get to the La Quinta Inn where Senator Obama was speaking in time to hopefully score some decent seats. As always, Pepe's lowrider smelled like it had been marinating in a mixture of oil, beer, urine, pot smoke, and sweat, and maybe it had. We fired up the pipe and grooved to some Santana as we headed to the hotel.

We arrived at the La Quinta plenty early and after several attempts to exit the car, and a like number of hysterical laughing fits, we finally made it to the ballroom. The place was lousy with Obama supporters, news crews, and more tie-dye than I'd seen in any one place since the early seventies. We were fortunate to secure two front row seats, thanks to Pepe giving the menacing stink-eye to a couple of nervous lesbians. While waiting for the thing to start we kept ourselves entertained by impersonating interesting individuals sitting throughout the room. At one point I blew Pepsi out my nose in response to Pepe's especially comical portrayal of the crippled guy sitting next to him. Despite the guy's obvious lack of humor, we had fun and time passed quickly. That was some really good hash.

At last, Senator Obama entered the room amid thundering applause and made his way to the podium. I swear he emanated a kind of aura like the one Jesus sports in all those paintings. Pepe disagreed, saying it was more like that of a giant bug zapper, and he was right. As Senator Obama gave his message of hope and change, Pepe became mesmerized, while I felt an intense swelling of pride for my country like never before! Unfortunately to my embarrassment (and the obvious discomfort of everyone within twenty feet of us) this turned out to be only a severe bout of gas brought on by the egg sandwiches and beers I'd wolfed down earlier. (Sorry folks!)

The rest of the night was a blur of inspiration as Barack set our hopes and dreams on a utopian future woven of peace, equality, harmony, free health care, and reduced greenhouse gases. His promises of gay marriage, drive-up abortion-on-demand, higher taxes, and torturing the rich were merely the cherries on an already perfect pie. Pepe and I went home satisfied with the knowledge that a powerful B.O. has an iron grip on our nation's political future!

News From the North

By our Canadian contributor, Syncrodox

June 30, 2008

 

First I would like to thank the incomparable Peace Moonbeam for the opportunity to share my observations from the semi-frozen north with her millions of progressive readers as well as the occasional regressive commenters (you know who you are).

That said, I feel a need to address a few of the historical indiscretions Canada has perpetrated on the United States. In the spirit of trans-national harmony, I would like to apologize for the War of 1812 and the whole “burning down the White House” episode (our bad) although the new one seems to be holding up well, despite the present occupant, but that's your problem. Regarding a more recent indiscretion, I apologize profusely for Celine Dion and what she did to Las Vegas! To think that what hard working Italian immigrants built in the harsh desert was nearly torn asunder by one anemic chanteuse from Quebec fills me with shame. She's back in Canada now and as soon as we can locate an ice flow she will be dealt with accordingly.

Which brings me to the topic of the day at The News from the North newsroom: Climate change. Not since the last time the climate changed has the change in climate been more pronounced and dangerous. As you may know we Canadians are experts on changing climate often, experiencing drastic and life-threatening changes in the climate as many as four times a year. As a result we have adapted ingenious strategies to cope with the greatest threat to mankind and Canadians in particular since the gonorrhea outbreak of 86. (Did I mention I'm Canadian?)

These innovations include toques, parkas, mitts (many connected by strings so you don't lose them), studded tires (they're not as sexy as they sound), sod houses, igloos, central heat, canoes, kayaks, rubber boots, mosquito repellents, cut-offs, beer, wind breakers and really big leaf rakes to name a few. I know some of the regular readers of The Peace Moonbeam Chronicles will be unfamiliar with many of these items but trust me,this is good stuff.

One of the most recent dramatic climate changes we've experienced is something we refer to as spring.This spring was exceptionally bad with the change from toques and mitts to rubber boots occurring virtually overnight. We were first alerted to the danger when the roof of our sod house began to leak prodigious amounts of water and the animals in the barn began raising a ruckus. Sensing the danger I leapt from beneath my sealskin blanky and awoke the kids.

Lil Syncro and his brothers Dox and Syn were unimpressed, but being good Canadians they slouched into action. (At this point I must share that I'm a single parent as Mrs. Dox left me and the kids some years ago to pursue her dream of becoming a bear whisperer. Sadly we haven’t heard from her since, but I digress…

Anyways, me and the boys managed to get the ’82 Ford Aerostar fired up and connected to the portable barn (formerly a 16 foot travel trailer). We headed out cross-country to my neighbor Noah's place. Noah is an odd character and has been mocked in these parts for building a canoe that nobody can portage but given the seriousness of the situation I knew he was the man we needed to see. Unfortunately the headlights on the Aerostar were burnt out and I managed to navigate us into the deepest part of the deluge. We barely escaped with our lives!

As daylight broke the clouds parted and we found ourselves washed ashore near Noah's ridiculously large canoe.The boys all made it but sadly we lost seventeen chickens, two goats, Arnold Ziffel XV, and both our gnus, “What” and “No”. They will be missed, especially No, as No gnus was a good gnus.

Since then I have devoted myself to mitigating climate change to the point that I'm now working for Canada's Barak Obama, Stephane Dion, except Dion is a pasty-white boring intellectual eating-a-hotdawg-with-a-knife-and-fork priss kind of guy, but the left-think is the same.

More about Stephane in coming posts but it just occurred to me, we aren't that different after all, are we?

Syncro

That is all.

PS: Happy Fourth!!

PSS: Any misrepresentations, impersonations or manipulations of persons, real or imagined, in whole or in part, is purely coincidental and not the responsibility of anybody.

That is all.

Holy Crap, We're Rich

 

From Kingsley Owusu

Bunburam Refugee Camp
Ghana

Dearest Beloved ,

I am  Kingsley Owusu,And I am contacting you because I need your help in the management of a sum of money and Gold,if only you're a good and reputable God fearing person to assist me handle my inheritance fund left for me by My Late Father before he died..

Please for your information I want this fund to be invested out side Africa to any Country Abroad. Please I requested your help immediately. And with your help it is going to help the both of us.

Firstly, I want you to know that my father was killed by his political opponent September 25th 2004 when he was about going to London for investment , while I was in school. Since then I have been living with my mother, who was the former Managing Director of Food/drugs Agency Sudan.

My father willed in cash,This money is USD 15.5 million American Dollars which he deposited with I.C.B bank here in Ghana and the Gold is 22. karat 218 kilograms that was deposited in Goil Oil Services Company Limited here in Waja Kasoa city in Ghana. My father was a very rich Gold farmer and he was poisoned by his business colleagues and now I want you to stand as my guidance and appointed beneficiary as foreign partner and receive the money and the Box of Gold in your country since I am only 23 years and without father.

I contact you therefore to confirm if you can accept me into your life as my guardian, because since my parent left me, my uncle have claimed all his landed property and some other account with banks in Sudan before the War started. My Uncle was asking me if there is any other of my father property information I have. Which I refuse to disclose this to him, since I do not trust him any longer over his greedy and wicked act towards me. I am afraid he will seat on the money if I should tell him or let him about this fund. If I do, he is going to frustrate my entire life and effort.

Presently my mother and I are here in Ghana to notify the security company and the bank of the claims and we are staying in the refugee camp. Therefore I want you to advise us on how best we can invest this money in your country because my father never wanted the fund to be invested in Africa to avoid suspicions and due to market instabilities coupled with economic and political situation facing Africa.
 
Dear Beloved. Apart from investing the Money with you, I will compensate you with 35% of the total Money and all your expenses on this transaction will be paid back to you immediately the money arrived to your country/account.you are going to manager the investment for some period of years before you hand it over to me.

Please as you show your willingness forward to us your full name address and Tel/Fax number earnestly awaiting your response. On the receipt of your contact details we shall present your name to the security company and the bank as our appointed investor,

Please contact me on this email for further detail. (kingsleyowusu1111@gmail.com)

God Bless You.
Kingsley Owusu

 

 

June 28, 2008

Bunburam Refuge Camp, Ghana

Yeehaaaa! If you don't think Scooter and I haven't been celebrating like rock stars since he received the above email, you're crazy - we have! I have no idea how this Kingsley Owusu guy knows Scooter, or why he might think he's a "good and reputable God-fearing person," but apparently Scooter is going to be stinky rich because he does. The really good news is that Scooter's agreed to give me 5% of the 35% he gets to keep of the 15.5 million dollars - by his calculation 6.3 million buckeroos :)  Even though we're friends, I made him put that in writing before I'd agree to help him :)) Scooter will retain all the "22. karat gold", as he wants to make it into gigantic jewelry pieces like the ones 50 Cent wears.

As for investing Mr. Owusu's money, after weighing all his various options, Scooter went with the only thing that could guarantee the kind of high return and zero risk he was seeking: limited edition commemorative plates from The Bradford Exchange. By his figuring, we could buy the entire issuing of the new "Lizards of the World" plate series, thus giving us the sole ability to set the price on the international market. Brilliant! Why do I have a feeling this will be the most valuable plate series ever? Ha! Scooter called the the vice president of the company and ordered every set, plus the remainder of the popular "Tractors of the Soviet Union" series just because he could. 

After contacting Mr. Owusu, we learned that all we had to do to secure the loot was to pay the standard Ghana cash/gold transfer tax, a mere $5,000. Scooter was careful to get Mr. Owusu's specific written assurance that we'll be reimbursed for this fee once he makes it to the ATM machine in the neighboring refuge camp. Fortunately Scooter was able to sell his car for what we needed (he's ordered a new Mercedes anyway), and we sent Mr. Owusu the funds via Western Union, as per his request. Afterward we threw a huge backyard party, which gave us a chance to use our new plates (Note: next time use plastic sporks as regular forks scratch the lizard pictures all to hell).

OK, it's been a few days and that butthole Kingsley hasn't sent us our money or gold yet. We did receive a package from him, but it contained only a little piece-of-crap carved donkey that Scooter's going to hang from the rearview mirror of his new Benz. We are now in Ghana at the Bunburam Refuge Camp going door to door (actually cardboard to cardboard) trying to find Mr. Owusu - obviously he's hurt or had a seizure or something and needs help. Meanwhile, back home some moron from the Bradford Exchange is clogging our answering machine with threatening messages, which I'm sure is illegal. When we get hold of Mr. Owusu, he's gonna pay extra for our mental duress, and you can take that to the bank.

Remaking Michelle

June 20, 2008

Berkeley, California

This week the global edition of the New York Times ran an article titled "Michelle Obama to get subtle makeover." This in itself would normally not be a big deal, but it just so happens the consultant brought in to do this makeover is an old friend of mine, (Fabulous) Frankee Felaesho! I called Frankee (Fab) to get the inside poop on his Obama overhaul.

According to Fab, there were several areas the campaign staff wanted to address in response to negative public perceptions. He faxed me his Makeover Action Plan (MAP):

 

Perception: Michelle Obama hates white people

Remedy: Instruct Michelle to (1) start referring to white people as "white people" instead of "Nazis," "crackas," and "peckerheads" (2) quit spitting on white people (3) try to befriend a white person, at least socially.

Perception: Michelle Obama is ashamed of/hates the United States

Remedy: Teach her how to lie convincingly. (call Bill Clinton?)

Perception: Michelle Obama is an elitist

Remedy: Have Michelle Obama (1) visit a Wal-Mart at least once a month (notify press in advance!) (2) trade her stretch Lincoln limousine for a stretch Buick limousine.

Perception: Michelle Obama is always angry

Remedy: (1) Increase her (a) Prozac (b) dietary fiber (c) thong size. (2) Keep white people away from her whenever possible.

Perception: Michelle Obama comes across as "too black" for many white voters

Remedy: Discourage her from (1) wearing that bone in her nose at least in public (2) using profanity-laced Ebonics (3) calling everyone "Dawg." 

MISCELLANEOUS: Change makeup (a few shades lighter maybe), hairstyle, and wardrobe (no tribal wraps/animal skins). Cover/conceal "Kill Whitey" tattoo. 

________________________________________________

I liked the plan and congratulated Fab on another fabulous makeover. While he didn't know if the changes would be enough to sway public opinion, Fab was quick to compliment Mrs. Obama, saying that outside of the name-calling and spitting, she was "at times not a bad person."

We already knew Michelle would make a great First Lady, now she'll look and act the part.

 

Big Oil: Fueling Our Discontent

June 12, 2008

Berkeley, California

 

This gas thing is getting ridiculous, and I decided I wasn't going to sit idly by while the big oil companies and George Bush sucked every last cent out of my welfare checks. I called my friend and assistant, Scooter, over to discuss a plan to strike a blow against Big Oil. Scooter showed up with a bag of mushrooms and two bottles of Bailey's for what promised to be a marathon strategy session.

In order to come up with an action plan (AP), we first needed to determine what our end objective (EO) was to be. Scooter and I were in agreement that we needed to somehow get the gasoline (G) to the consumers (C) in a way that would deprive the oil companies (OC) of their obscene profits (OP). The only way to do this was to somehow get the G before it went to the stations (S). We concentrated on how we might divert transport tankers (TT) to our clandestine "People's Station" (PS), or as Scooter wanted to call it, "Freedom Station" (FS) where protesters could fill up for free. Finally after the most mentally exhaustive thirty-five minutes of my life, we had our EO and AP to get the G TT to the C's PS (or FS) thus depriving the OC of their OP. Scooter then threw up all over my new couch. Nice.

Wednesday morning Pepe's nephew Hector liberated a tanker truck from a 7-11 when its driver got out to fill the station's tanks. Hector then drove the three blocks to Pepe's house where the most brilliant part of our plan took place - we emptied the fuel into Pepe's empty swimming pool! Scooter and I had correctly identified a residential swimming pool as the perfect storage container, as it could hold thousands of gallons of fuel, look perfectly normal from the air, and (this is the really brilliant part) we could pump the gas into cars through a long hose just by backwashing the pool! Genius? No doubt. Hector ditched the truck in Oakland and got himself a Slurpie.

Out front of the house, cars were lining up in response to our post for free gas I'd placed on the "Anarchist Today" website. Scooter, dressed like an old-time gas station attendant (nice touch), manned the backwash hose while Pepe in the backyard stood by the switch at the pool pump, waiting for Scooter's command. I wielded the camcorder to document this dramatic event. Scooter placed the vinyl hose to the filler neck of the first car and shouted to Pepe, "Fillerup!" The People's Station was open for business! After some gurgling, the vinyl hose swelled and the gas slowly began to flow. It worked beautifully! Scooter turned and gave the thumbs-up sign to the camera.

Approximately one second later a burst of gasoline erupted from the hose with such velocity that the blowback not only immediately blinded the now-screaming Scooter, but also caused him to drop the hose - yikes! On film the dancing blue vinyl hose looked like a giant Water Wiggle (TM), only the water was 86 octane Chevron with Techron, and the people being sprayed weren't frolicking, but hysterically running for their lives! Fortunately Pepe quickly hit the switch when the first torrents of fuel rained down on him in the backyard. 

The fire investigator later determined that it was probably a spark in the switch that ignited the shower of fuel and incredibly strong fumes given off by a large swimming pool full of gasoline. Outside of Pepe losing all his exposed body hair in the initial explosion, thankfully nobody was seriously injured. The good news was that even though five houses, two storage sheds, twenty-two cars, and one swimming pool were completely destroyed, investigators couldn't prove exactly how much gasoline had been in the pool, and ended up issuing Pepe a ticket for "improper storage of a flammable liquid."

While some of the people who lost everything might possibly disagree, I was satisfied that we had successfully struck a powerful blow for the common man, and sent the big oil companies a message that we will not be trifled with.

The Art Of Campaigning

June 6, 2008

Berkeley, California

 

With Hillary all but out of the running, I figured it was time for Scooter and me to support future President Barack Obama in some meaningful way. We met at my place for bong hits and brainstorming.

After several hours we were unable to think of a way we might help the Obama campaign, but had knocked off a plate of brownies, two cans of Cheez Whiz, and a whole pound of bacon. Finally, after discussing the fact we had seen no posters for the Obama campaign locally, we decided to use our gifts (Scooter's formal art training and my flair with words) to create a poster campaign for our neighborhood. While enjoying an incredibly moist Sara Lee bundt cake, we got to work.

Since Barack already has this whole "change" theme going on, we decided to work off that. Drawing upon W's only successful ad lib of his administration where he responded to someone's cry at the World Trade Center disaster that they couldn't hear him, I crafted the tag line "Change? - I hear you" for our poster. It was simple, direct, and worked perfectly with the idea Hussein was going to change something. Unfortunately I had to travel to Oregon for my niece's graduation, but left Scooter instructions on where to place the posters once he completed them.

Upon arriving back home, I was shocked to find my front yard full of Afro-American protesters being led by Al Sharpton himself! I was hardly out of my car before I was surrounded by reporters and camera crews yelling questions, and angry black people calling me the most hateful names. Only when someone thrust something into my face did I realize what was going on. After much pushing and shoving, I managed to get into my house and frantically called Scooter, only to get his answering machine with a message saying, "I've moved to China, please contact Peace Moonbeam if this call has anything to do with posters."

For the next three hours I sat on my couch staring in disbelief at the poster and fantasizing about killing Scooter or least his idiot art teacher, while the cacophony of angry shouts and chants grew louder outside.

 

 

Postscript to this story: I have since spoken to Scooter and he swears his rendition of Obama is simply a flawed best effort, and is in no way meant to portray the candidate in an unfavorable light. 

What Happened Was This

May 30, 2008

Berkeley, California

This week ex-Bush Press Secretary Scott McClellan's tell-all book "What Happened" was released to huge fanfare. Scooter came over Wednesday morning with a copy and breathlessly exclaimed this was his "ticket to the easy life." Sometimes Scooter gets like this when he's had too many Mountain Dews for breakfast. When he finally calmed down, he explained that the whole country was talking about this book and it was selling like Love Lube at a Gay Pride parade.

It took me a bit to finally understand that Scooter wasn't excited about the dirt this book dished on Chimpy McHitler, but rather the huge money that could be made on an insider's down-and-dirty account of a popular political figure. My worst fears were realized when Scooter produced several Big Chief tablet pages titled "What Happened Was This by Obama campaign insider, Scooter Van Neuter." Oh great.

I was anxious to see what kind of shocking expose could come out of Scooter's roughly two week's employment with the Obama campaign. I started reading:

Senator Obama sells himself as the candidate of change, but the man I worked for didn't even change his underwear that often. I also noticed he didn't change his car's oil at the manufacturer's recommended intervals, and rarely, if ever, changed his mind. One day I asked Hussein for three quarters so I could buy a U.S. Today, and he didn't have it. Candidate of change? I think not!

Although I believe Senator Obama to be a basically decent man, there's no doubt he's been led astray by the people he surrounds himself with: his minister, evil wife Michelle, and black activist friends to name just a few. Many a night I remember hanging out in the hot tub doing tequila shots and PCP with Barack, Michelle, Louis Farrakhan, and Reverend Wright. They spent most of their time talking about harming white people, specifically me. Once Reverend Wright kicked me in the nuts just for fun, something I'm sure he wouldn't have done if I were black, or at least more muscular. 

To all the world Michelle seems like an educated, well-spoken candidate's wife, and in some ways that's almost true. In character with her "I've never been proud of this country" remarks, behind closed doors Michelle displays an incredible hatred for this country, primarily focused toward white males in general, and me in particular. After an unfortunate incident with a kielbasa, she once referred to me as a "retarded pervert," a comment that pretty much says, "I hate America and everything it stands for." The thought of this vicious commie skank becoming First Lady gives me colon-clench like you can't believe....

I didn't need to read any further to know (a) this was absolutely awful (b) probably 85% made up, and (c) the makings of a best seller. After negotiating with Scooter for a cut of the profits and getting his promise to leave my name out of this steaming pile of literary pony-loaf, I placed an urgent call to a publisher friend of mine.

 

 

Operation Scooter Save

May 23, 2008

Berkeley, California

I'd had enough of Scooter's ridiculous support and adoration for John McCain, and this week put in motion a plan to rescue my deluded friend from his conservative hell.  

After intense planning and calculation, I engineered a course of action guaranteed to succeed, provided every step was unerringly executed with clockwork precision. After days of intense preparation, my elite hand-picked team sprang into action last Tuesday at 11:01 a.m. sharp. Operation Scooter Save was in motion!

11:01 a.m. Pepe, disguised as a Caucasian businessman, leaves the post office with a registered package sent by George Soros (head of MoveOn.org) at my request.

11:23 a.m. Pepe arrives at the park and after placing the package in a crumpled sack, leaves it in the trash can by the softball field.

11:25 a.m. Pepe's cousin Hector, dressed as a park maintenance worker (he is a park maintenance worker), empties the trash can into the back of his utility vehicle, then drives to the parking lot by the tennis court where his nephew Sonny rides by slowly on a motorcycle and grabs the sack, then proceeds to the Quiznos sandwich shop by my house.

11:39 a.m. Once at Quiznos, Sonny orders a tuna salad sandwich, then slips the package to the cashier with his money. The cashier (Pepe's Aunt Cecilia) then places the package in a Quiznos wrapper and hands it to the next person in line, my little nephew Bobby, disguised as a midget accountant having lunch. Bobby takes the package and rides his bike to the Doubletree Berkeley Marina Hotel.

11:58 a.m. Bobby arrives at the Doubletree Hotel parking lot and hands the package to Pepe's cousin Juanita, playing the part of a loose Republican named "Sexi." She goes into the hotel bar and takes a seat at the third table from the door.

12:23 p.m. Scooter arrives at the hotel bar to meet a girl he's been having phone sex with since hooking up at the "McCain 2008" web site forum. He introduces himself, presents her with a partially-melted chocolate bunny, then takes a seat after an unsuccessful awkward attempt to kiss her.

1:30 p.m. After having drinks, Juanita says she's hungry and suggests they go out to her car to eat some sandwiches she brought. Scooter readily agrees.

1:34 p.m. Once in the car, the the effects of the six Kahlua and creme de cacao cocktails he's had predictably cause Scooter to aggressively kiss and grope Juanita.

1:35 p.m. When Scooter removes his pants Juanita snaps a quick photo with her cell phone camera, then hands him the package. Scooter opens it to find a note informing him that Sexi is in fact only thirteen years old and is the daughter of Stone Phillips, host of Dateline's "To Catch a Predator."

1:42 p.m. After regaining consciousness, Scooter continues reading the note, which tells him he will not be reported if he swears to denounce John McCain and heartily supports Barack Obama for President. As an added incentive, there is a bundle of cash, new tee shirt, and a bag of Gummi Bears, Scooter's favorite food.

1:43 p.m. Juanita exits the car, leaving a shaken but relieved Scooter wearing an "Obama '08" tee shirt, eating Gummi Bears, and clutching $22 in cash.

1:45 p.m. Juanita phones me with the news that Operation Scooter Save has been a success.

 I love it when a plan comes together.

On The Campaign Trail With Scooter McCain

May 15, 2008

Berkeley, California

OK, Scooter's psychotic empathizing with John McCain has gotten totally out of hand. It's one thing to adopt the hairstyle or even mild mannerisms of somebody one admires, but Scooter's total metamorphosis into McCain by way of elaborate theatrical makeup, wardrobe, acting, and vocal inflections is beyond weird.

Yesterday we went shopping at the mall, and while there Scooter probably signed over a hundred autographs as Senator McCain. Later at the urging of onlookers he even gave an impromptu speech from atop a table at the food court. After flashing some very realistic Vietnam torture scars, Scooter McCain spoke out against the presumed Democratic challenger, Barack Hussein. He accused Obama of being "a space alien sent to enslave the white middle class" and other things, some of which I think he just made up. While the audience enthusiastically ate it up, I watched from inside The Gap so as not to be associated with the whole retarded charade.

Everything was going surprisingly well - Scooter is actually a much more entertaining speaker than the real McCain, employing an intriguing mix of blusterous bravado, graphic tales of jungle torture, and the liberal use of gutter profanity to keep his audience's attention. It wasn't until an Asian man waving a Sharpie approached Scooter McCain for an autograph that things went horribly wrong.

Obviously suffering an empathetic flashback from the savage imaginary torture he would have received years earlier, Scooter grabbed the man by the hair and repeatedly rammed his head into a Orange Julius slurpie machine, as the guy's wheelchair careened into a group of Young Republicans! Holy Pope-on-a-rope! Fortunately, mall security guards arrested Scooter before he killed the little guy or irreversibly damaged the delicious frozen delight-dispensing device. Later the cops released him after he signed some autographs and posed for photos.

This can't go on any longer, either Scooter snaps out of it, or I'm getting a new friend and assistant. I'm serious.

Something Pale This Way Comes

May 9, 2008

Berkeley, California

Being around Scooter has become increasingly difficult since he's thrown his support behind that crabby old conservative, John McCain. Pepe and I have spent hours trying to reason with Scooter, explaining how McCain won't retreat from Iraq, raise taxes, give us free health care, etc. While agreeing this is probably true, Scooter claims the angry old albino is still better than either a "serial liar or racist ex-crack addict who wants to change things but won't say what things or how he's going to change them." Obviously, Scooter's been listening to too much talk radio.

Pepe and I planned to take him to the park for a Code Pink antiwar protest, figuring the protesters would be a positive influence and hopefully re-ignite Scooter's deep-seated hatred for the war and the conservatives that started it. Pepe picked me up at my place, then we headed to Scooter's squalid rental house. Upon arriving, both of us were amazed that Scooter had actually done some painting, picked up most of the beer cans and larger pieces of garbage, and even mowed the few patches of weeds and crabgrass he calls a yard. It almost looked respectable except for the gaggle of "McCain for President" signs in the front yard and the huge new flag waving from a piece of pipe he had duct-taped to the side of his house.

Not wanting to be seen anywhere close to the signs, Pepe honked the horn to alert the conservative pinhead to our presence. What happened next was like something out of an old "Twilight Zone": Scooter came through the front door wearing a suit and tie(!), and as bizarre as that was, it was his ghostly pale complexion and short, white hair that prompted Pepe to scream something in Spanish, throw the car into gear and step on the gas, leaving Scooter in a cloud of acrid blue smoke. With his usual dramatic flair, Scooter had transformed himself into a retarded parody of his candidate and idol, John McCain! In an effort to get his image out of our heads, we went back to my place and drank the rest of the afternoon.

Pepe is too scared to go back, so it's going to be up to me to somehow deprogram Scooter before he joins a country club, or something worse.

A Liberal Loss of Faith

May 2, 2008

Berkeley, California

Something strange happened the other day. Scooter and I were hanging out at Pepe's place, doing some mushrooms and tequila while celebrating the absolute certainty that there will soon be a Democrat in the White House. Pepe had CNN on and we were watching Barack Hussein reply to the latest wacko statements made by his ex-minister. In rebuking the man Obama had recently referred to as a "father figure," Barack not only threw Dad under the bus, but backed over him repeatedly until all that remained was a putrid stain on the pavement. I thought this was a good move by Hussein, but Scooter evidently thought otherwise.

Obviously still pissed-off over Barack's firing him, a drunken Scooter angrily dismissed Obama's actions and said he hoped Hillary would "club him like a baby seal." This prompted an even-drunker Pepe to proclaim that "only a fool would think that a lying phony with huge calves like Hillary would ever deserve to be elected President." Over the next hour, these two pinnacles of political intelligence argued over which of their two candidates were the phoniest and most dishonest. Finally I had to diffuse the situation, as Scooter and Pepe were getting pretty worked up.

"At least either of them is better than some cranky old albino war hero whose only claim to fame is he's an honest centrist," I said, laughing. Pepe murmured in agreement, but Scooter just stared off in the distance, like he was in a trance or something. "Scoots," I said, "what's the matter?" He finally turned to me, and with tears welling in his bloodshot eyes blurted out, "I CAN"T DO IT, I HATE BOTH OF THESE FREAKING BOZOS! I'm...I'm voting for the albino..." He got up and left Pepe and I staring at each other in numb disbelief.

Later when I went by Scooter's place to see if he'd sobered up yet, I noticed he'd put a McCain sticker over the Hillary sticker he'd put over the Obama sticker. This was serious. I went home to think about what I could do to rescue my friend.

Scooter Goes To Hell

April 25, 2008

Yonkers, New York

OK, this was a weird week.

Scooter was totally despondent over being recently fired by Senator Obama. Drinking wine coolers like they were water, he became so obnoxious and surly I was ready to knock the snot out of him. At Cracker Barrel the other night he knocked an old lady into the ceramic cookie jars as he tried to get in front of her. When she protested, he smacked her across the face with one of those big strips of taffy, and got both of us ejected.

I decided the best thing for him to do was channel that negative energy into some positive protest, and as luck would have it, one of the most radical conservatives in the whole world had just arrived in New York - Pope Benedict XVI. We were off to Yonkers where we planned to picket the Pontiff at a big prayer bash/youth rally at St. Joseph Seminary.

We arrived early to get a good place on the sidewalk, and set up our pro-choice and pro-gay marriage signs. While we waited for the Pope to arrive, Scooter drank heavily and shouted anti-Pope slogans while I took a nap. Pretty soon the place was jammed with a bunch of hyperactive well-groomed Catholic kids and a bunch of news reporters.

Finally, at around 4:15 about a zillion police motorcycles roared up, followed by the glorified parade float that is the "Pope-mobile." As the Pope and his bodyguards came through the crowd, an extremely drunken Scooter hopped around and screamed like a maniac. Suddenly, in the midst of his profanity-laced rant, Scooter gagged a couple times then spewed like a pink volcano, finally collapsing in a fetid heap at the Pontiff's satin slippers.

What happened next was the weird part: the Pope pushed aside his bodyguards, fell to his knees next to Scooter, and placing his crucifix on Scooter's forehead, started chanting some Latin gibberish. Good grief, he thought Scooter was possessed! After thinking about it for a second I realized the old guy might be on to something. After several minutes of pious exhortations, Scooter slowly blinked open his eyes, looked up at the Pope with a sedate smile, then kicked the Pontiff in the nuts with both feet! Yikes!

Needless to say, the Pope's bodyguards beat Scooter unmercifully, then turned him over to the Yonkers police who continued to pound him with a spirited fervor usually reserved for pedophiles and mass murderers. Scooter's bail was set at $500K, and the whole story was stifled at the request of the Vatican.

All in all, we've maybe had more effective protests, but few this dramatic. It was a good day.

Damage Control

April 18, 2008

Somewhere in Pennsylvania

Wow, what a week! Who would guess everyone would go so crazy over Senator Obama's comments about the middle class "clinging to religion and guns" in their bitterness over the economy? I suppose the answer to that question would be "everybody." Even a retarded yak knows you don't diss the average hick American's guns or God, but what can I say, for all his charisma and charm, Barack Hussein basically has the IQ of a piece of toast. Fortunately, one only has to look at George Bush to see that intelligence isn't an absolute prerequisite to be President of the United States.

Our group quickly mobilized to shunt the negative effects of our candidate's well-meaning-but-moronic comments. The first thing I did was bring in my longtime friend and assistant, Scooter Van Neuter. Scooter's job was to put together a small town meeting in rural Pennsylvania where Senator Pinhead could interact in a folksy way with regular middle class Americans, thus showing he wasn't a foreign-born, Harvard educated, blue-blooded elitist politician.

Last night the Senator and I arrived at the town hall in Frackville, Pennsylvania. Scooter had done a good job selecting this little backwater dirthole and also notifying the press - you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a reporter. We entered through the back door and Scooter took the Senator into the bathroom for makeup and a change of wardrobe. I went into the meeting room and took a seat.

Once my eyes adjusted to the glaring news lights, I about wet myself: The small group of townspeople Scooter had rounded up appeared to be illegal immigrants and transients! Most were holding Bibles, wearing guns, and all were dressed like they just stepped out of Hee Haw. Holy Moses smell the roses! When Senator Obama made his entrance wearing nothing but overalls, an NRA cap, and a huge rhinestone-studded crucifix, I almost barfed. While I understand the symbolism Scooter was going for, the outfit pretty much made Obama look like a hillbilly pimp, if there could be such a thing. Everything went downhill from there.

Thankfully, the meeting lasted just ten minutes, as only two "townspeople" could speak English and they were both drunk and belligerent. Senator Hayseed gave a quick speech about his childhood "growing up in the country," where his only companions were "My trusty six-shooter and Jesus Christ." The whole thing was a freaking disaster and we got the hell out of there as fast as possible. Just outside of town Hussein fired Scooter and me, then left us on the side of the road holding five dollars and an NRA cap.

Frankly I guess we shouldn't complain, we signed on for "change" and walked away with folding money, which is more than we'd probably get from a Republican.

Worship With Barack

April 11, 2008

Chicago, Illinois

I have to say, it's nice being back to work! I owe Senator Barack Obama a huge debt of gratitude for putting me on his staff as his personal assistant - I'm incredibly jazzed!

At first I was unsure which Democratic candidate I was going to support. Being an ardent feminist, my obvious choice was Senator Clinton as she's a little more like a female than Obama, but Barack's vague similarity to an Afro-American trumped that, what with all the white guilt I rightfully carry. Plus I really like the idea of "change" and a "new tomorrow," and "uniting the country," and other upbeat stuff he says that makes me feel good. Sayings like that clearly illustrate he's the most qualified candidate to lead this country through troubled times, and on top of that he's got a beautiful smile!

My first day on the job with Senator Obama was last Sunday, when I accompanied him and his bitchy wife to their quaint South Side Chicago church. The Obamas, like myself, don't much care for the old-time judgmental Jesus, but are just crazy about the new enlightened Black Jesus who loves abortion but hates America, especially ruthless slave masters like George Bush. Amen to that!

Even though I was the only white individual in the church, I felt right at home except for the comments of "Kill whitey" and "Whitey must die," etc. (I don't hold that against the minister, he was just making a sermon point). The only real negative thing was the incident in the ladies room where at knifepoint I was force to give "reparations" consisting of my purse, watch, and shoes. Oh well, at least now I feel like I've done my part to undo the injustice of slavery :)

All in all, I think the service brought me closer to God, but also pretty much made me hate myself. I don't think I'll go again.

Next time: Report from the campaign trail.

Astronauts and Space Cadets

February 10, 2007

Berkeley, California

Signs that the Bush administration has made this a not-so-kinder and gentler nation is evidenced by the recent arrest of NASA astronaut Navy Captain Lisa Nowak for attempted kidnap and murder. No administration has ever produced killer astronauts with the possible exception of Herbert Hoover's, but I'm not totally sure about that.

Anyway, so the story is this Capt. Nowak drove halfway across the country to Florida, wearing a diaper so she wouldn't have to stop(!), with the intention of kidnapping and possibly killing this other skinny chick who had been eyeballing this hunky astronaut fly-boy that Nowak apparently had the hots for. Talk about "Days of Our Lives!" Anyway, she wasn't successful and got arrested, charged with multiple felonies, and then released wearing some kind of GPS tracking thing. You think that's weird? What comes next makes that seem tame.

Just two days later back in Florida, famous celebrity Anna Nicole Smith, America's premier space cadet, is suddenly found dead in her hotel room. Capt. Nowak is nowhere to be seen, and the connection is simply too obvious to overlook. Speculation is that the gravity of Ms. Smith's enormous breasts possibly pulling in astronauts from the nearby space center simply made her too much of a threat in Capt. Nowak's mind, and you can figure out the rest.

What turns a decorated female astronaut into a killer? What makes a traveling killer astronaut wear diapers? What makes a diaper-wearing female killer astronaut kill other women who attract astronauts? The questions are nearly endless, but the fact remains: a space cadet is dead, the world waits for answers, and astronaut Nowak, wherever she is, isn't talking.

The Endless War

January 11, 2007

Berkeley, California

Even as an activist child of the 60s, I've never seen our country so divided over a war. Even with the other countless outside dangers facing our country, we are being held captive by a conflict that most of us didn't ask for, and are seemingly now helpless to stop. The worst part of this whole thing is that even after all this fighting, the end is still nowhere in sight. I personally worry that there will be no end, just bleak never-ending headlines every morning and ever-increasing numbers of Americans dividing into ever-distancing camps of opinion. Is there any hope for an end to this war between Rosie O'Donnell and Donald Trump?

Similar to Bush's merciless invasion of Iraq just because of years of UN resolutions violations, mass rapes, gassings, torture, etc., Trump stormed Rosie's ample shores over her insignificant remark impugning his lack of morality. Trump's response characterizing Rosie as a loser and hideously ugly, fat foul-mouthed dyke, although true, was not only terribly insensitive, but also an affront to fat ugly dykes everywhere.

It's not hard to see who's good and who's bad in this conflict:

• Rosie O'Donnell - hard-working, slender and beauty-challenged oppressed liberal butch lesbian mother just trying to make it in the world.
• Donald Trump - Disgustingly wealthy capitalist who rides around in a big polluting limo with his trophy wife bedecked in fur. Obviously attained his riches on the backs of the poor and disadvantaged. Has freakish gold hair featuring waves that have no apparent beginning or end.

With Scooter's leaving, I've reached out to Sunshine in an effort to put our past differences behind us, and fortunately she has agreed to come back as my assistant. As it turns out, she is a close personal friend of Rosie, and sent her a letter of support and a gigantic cheese cake from us to say, "We women and women-like beings need to stand up to the Donald Trumps of this world, and not go hungry while doing so."

I don't know how this battle is going to end, but I'm hoping that now the Democrats are back in power, maybe Nancy Pelosi can enact some powerful legislation to tax rich lesbian-hating dorks like Trump out of existence. We'll see who has the power then.

A Dramatic Claus

December 15, 2006

Berkeley, California

This week Scooter called to tell me he had gotten a temporary job through his cousin Ronnie, who is GM over at Westpark Mall. Because the regular mall Santa had come down with the flu, they desperately needed a stand-in. Scooter begged Ronnie for the job, even to the point of making a big scene in his office, crying and threatening to kill himself, until Ronnie finally relented. Scooter told me he was determined to bring a new degree of dramatic realism to the Santa Claus character. He was also excited by the prospects of scoring with some hot single moms. The fact he absolutely hates kids didn't seem to dampen his enthusiasm for the gig.

I have to admit Scooter really worked hard preparing for this job. Whereas most people would be satisfied with just being able to Ho Ho and merely look like Santa, Scooter decided to "go deep" into this character, and in his words, "Peel away the veneer of this jolly, yet tortured soul who drives midget slaves to manufacture luxury goods in a remote hidden sweatshop." Cool. He reasoned that in order to supply all the world's children with toys in just twelve months, Santa would have to be on stimulants, sleep deprived, and mercilessly driving his elves. It stood to reason the real St. Nick would have to be skinny, high-strung, and mean. Scooter felt his "edgy" Claus would be the perfect vehicle to showcase his dramatic acting skills, and hopefully get him some chicks.

I was at Westpark Mall last Tuesday when Scooter/Santa made his entrance. While the kids didn't seem too concerned, several parents were noticeably taken aback by Santa's gaunt appearance and hyperactive mannerisms. I felt Scooter's insistence that his "elves" wear leg irons to highlight their forced servitude was a little over the top, but that's just me. On a positive note, his politically correct costume featured a turban and Orthodox Jewish hair and beard. Finally a Santa for all people!

It was fascinating watching Scooter dramatically plumb the depths of this character as he maniacally coddled the children then berated them, all the time screaming at the elves to build more toys, while continuously popping diet pills and chocolate-covered espresso beans. The fun all came to an end when a terrified two-year-old peed all over Santa's lap, causing jolly old St. Nick to cut loose with a stream of profanities and jumped up so fast he flung the little rug rat over the velvet ropes and into the Hickory Farm's sausage display! In the ensuing fracas, Scooter took out the kid's charging 250-pound mom, two mall security guards, and cousin Ronnie with a six-foot fiberglass candy cane, before finally being dropped by an elf's two-fisted uppercut to the nuts. Wow!

Fortunately for Scooter, he was charged only with simple battery, but his cousin Ronnie was fired, and no doubt the mall will be sued for millions. In retrospect, I guess Scooter probably took the character too far. Just the same, I'm proud of his attempt to strip away the fantasy surrounding this workaholic midget slave-master. Scooter said it was the best job he's ever had, and easily the happiest 14 minutes of his life.

Mammal/Fish

December 8, 2006

San Diego, California

There was recently an incident that illuminated the inhumane treatment of innocent creatures at one of the country's leading theme parks, Sea World. It seems that a captive killer whale at the San Diego park named "Kasatka" had pulled one of its trainers underwater during a performance in an apparent cry for help. It must also be noted that Kasatka had bitten other trainers before, further pointing to the obvious effects of abusive treatment suffered by the fish/mammal/whatever-it-is. Scooter and I knew we had to help this poor thing before it went crazy and killed everyone in San Diego.

Our first order of business was to settle an argument concerning the correct name of this fish. Scooter insisted this type of whale is called an Orc, but I know for a fact an Orc is one of the creatures in the video game "Warcraft." I was calling it an Oreck, but Scooter correctly pointed out that an Oreck is a brand of vacuum cleaner. Ultimately, we settled on "whale" or "mammal/fish."

After considering the logistics, we decided against rescuing Kasatka, as we probably couldn't get it into Scooter's Suburban, and even if we could, knew there weren't enough of those little hanging pine tree air fresheners in the world to mask the fishy smell that would be left behind. Our only option was to somehow comfort the beast and give it the means to cope with its situation. After reflecting on his own struggles with depression, Scooter came up with a plan that was realistic and certain to work: we would utilize the wonders of modern medicine, and give Kasatka and friends a low-level dose of Ritalin so they could successfully cope with the rigors of theme park life. I can personally vouch for what this wonderful drug has done for Scoots, why does a whalefish deserve less?

Our friend Pepe was able to use some of his connections south of the border to get us 900 pounds of generic Ritalin and some dynamite fresh herb. We smoked the herb as we loaded the bags of pills into the Suburban, then headed for Sea World. Once there we donned fake "fish trainer" outfits we had made and dumped the pills into carts Scooter had labeled, "Big fish food." A security guard waved us through the rear service entrance and we made our way unhindered to the main complex of giant pools.

Under the watchful eye of the clueless security guard we shoveled the "food" into the water, then returned to the truck for another load. In only 30 minutes we distributed all 900 pounds of pills into the several large pools. Allowing for dilution, I scientifically calculated this whale dose was approximately equivalent to a human taking two pills every day. The neat thing was that since the mammal/fish can't leave the water, they would get this constant supply of happiness for days or even months. You could almost feel the calm fall over this cruel facility as the pills dissolved into the depths.

Just as we were leaving, something big broke the surface of the water, a loving Kasatka had come up to thank us! Scooter crouched down by the edge of the pool and reached out his arm to pet the gentle leviathan. Suddenly the overgrown carp lurched out of the water and clamped onto Scooter's hand like a bear trap! Scooter's high-pitched screams of, "GET THIS M/F OFF ME!!" echoed through the night as I grabbed my shovel and started tomahawking the bloodthirsty bundle of blubber like a Comanche on crack. Finally Kasatka released Scooter's bloody hand, then slowly rolled upside down like a capsized tuna boat. HOLY OVERDOSE! As I noticed several other whales bobbing to the surface tits-up, I reflected on how I was never very good at mathematics and measuring. I snapped out of it and noticed Scooter had grabbed his shovel and was beating the comatose whale in the general area where he figured its nuts were. I pulled Scoots away toward the exit and we fled the scene.

Thankfully, all the fish didn't die, just some of them. The good news is that Kasatka survived and now seems very relaxed in its environment, hardly moving at all. Thank God we were able to help this poor creature.

Swim in peace you big M/F, swim in peace.

Wal-Mart Sucks

December 1, 2006

Berkeley, California

While there are plenty of conservative evils in our society that demand protest, lately there's one that eclipses all others. After ignoring this menace for too long, Scooter and I sprang into action this week, devoting all our energies and talents to confronting and destroying one of this country's biggest threats. Of course I'm referring to that evil juggernaut of right wing capitalism, Wal-Mart.

We chose the biggest shopping day of the year to pummel this "bargain bully" - the day after Thanksgiving, or "Black Friday" as it's come to be known. Scooter, as usual, prepared our protest signs ("Wallmart=DEATH, I dont 'heart' Wallmart") while I engineered our strategy. My plan was for us to get there early, so we could set up right in front of the doors. I had some local small retailers (the worst victims of Wal-Mart) supply me with coupons worth tens of dollars to give away to the arriving shoppers, which would effectively divert most of them to these stores and cripple Wal-Mart's sales on this most important shopping day of the year, sending ripples of fear throughout the giant chain.

Scooter and I pulled up at the neighborhood Wal-Mart before dawn and took our position directly in front of the main doors. We displayed our signs and sung some cool protest songs as the people started arriving in numbers. We noticed most Wal-Mart shoppers are the same people you see on "Cops," except most of the men had shirts on and weren't drunk enough yet to start beating their flabby chain-smoking wives. I started handing out the free coupons, but for some reason nobody seemed much interested in 10% off organic incense or 15% off macrame checkbook covers, and not one person left. A 500-year-old security guard made Scooter pick up all the coupons the people were throwing down as they hurried into the store.

In a final desperate attempt to keep these misguided dupes from entering the store, Scooter and I made a human chain in front of the doors. After regaining consciousness, we went inside to buy some Band-Aids, and not only were they on sale but Scooter found and bought a Toshiba VCR for like $20! I came across a George Foreman Grill for almost half price and a Sonicare electric toothbrush that was almost free! I can see why liberals hate this place, the whole setup is geared to make you shop out of control, and we did.

There's no doubt Wal-Mart sucks, and after these big sales are over, we're resuming our protest.

The Homecoming

November 24, 2006

Berkeley, California

Happy Thanksgiving!

This year I had so many things to be thankful for I could hardly count them all: the Democrats stormed both Houses, Iraq war going from bad to worse, Republican Senators and Evangelists exposed as pedophiles, homos, and druggies, and many others. I was so looking forward to celebrating the holiday with my family, but unfortunately they were all busy and couldn't make it. Also, my new assistant Sunshine quit Monday and stole $300 and my new clock radio. I was depressed and resigned to spending Thanksgiving alone.

I woke up Thursday morning to somebody repeatedly playing "Shave and a Haircut" on my doorbell and by the time I got to the door I was ready to drop-kick whoever it was into the next century. I flung open the door and there in front of me wasn't the pair of Jehovah's Witnesses I was expecting, but Scooter! My initial reaction was to turn and run, but I noticed he didn't stink and wasn't wearing a beard, so I just stood there and asked, "Are you Scooter or Kareem?" He replied, " Mohammad sucks, call me Scooter," and then I broke down in tears and hugged him tightly. As we both sobbed in tender embrace I suddenly became aware of the fact he was kind of humping me, so I kneed him in the nuts and went to the kitchen to start preparing a celebratory feast.

Once Scooter was able to get off the floor, he joined me in the kitchen. As I prepared the turkey, he told me all about his stay at Guantanamo and how the other inmates turned on him after someone noticed in the shower that he had been circumcised. Oh oh! From that point on they accused him of being an Israeli spy and tried numerous times to kill him. In a stroke of genius, he pasted pages of the Quran all over his body, so they couldn't harm him lest they damage them. Brilliant! He was released after renouncing his faith and ratting out some of his former friends. He said he was sorry he tried to kill me, and I knew he meant it.

We drank lots of tequila and cooked up a storm. Finally, late that afternoon everything was done and we sat down to eat. When Scooter asked to say a prayer of thanksgiving, I marveled at the life-changing transformation he had obviously undergone. Unfortunately what followed was a rambling, drunken intonement giving thanks for his release from prison, turkeys, tequila, me, puppies, his mother, gentle rains, and some other stuff I don't remember. After downing another shot of tequila he continued, beseeching God to send hellfire and damnation on all the jihadists in prison that tried to harm him, and also on that girl he met at the convenience store who turned him down for a date yesterday. He was in the process of asking God for the bloody dismemberment of his old gym teacher when I cut him short, as the food was getting cold and I was losing my appetite. Everything was delicious except for the green bean casserole Scooter made, as it had a distinct smell of ammonia and contained his wristwatch.

I couldn't be happier Scooter is back and no longer a Muslim. Even with the Dems yanking us out of Iraq there's still plenty to protest, and with Scooter's artistic ability and my brains, we can, and will, change the world.

Bold Party, Bold Plan

November 17, 2006

Washington DC

After six years of Republican lethargy, we Dems are moving forward with bold plans to fix this country. The American public asked for change and we're going to bend them over and give it to them, fast and hard!

By far the most urgent need is to achieve victory in Iraq. As we discussed earlier, the only way to achieve this victory is to leave as soon as possible. Some prominent Democratic leaders have called for pullouts within four to six months. Are you kidding me? What are they waiting for? For Halliburton to make MORE money? For MORE innocent Iraqis to be photographed playing "Twister" naked in prisons? I say everyone out by Saturday, last one leaving kill the lights.

One thing Bush hasn't understood is the fact that just the act of having soldiers over there in these Arab countries has turned zillions of formerly peaceful Arabs into terrorists. I know for a fact that if I saw Arab soldiers down the street from my house, I'd strap on bombs and go blow them up, or at least try to cut their heads off or something. I've done some figuring and with the Dems' proposed "Forces Leaving Early Expeditiously" plan (FLEE), I calculate over 378.3 terrorists will not be created every week we are gone. These men and women will instead most likely become professors, doctors, and nurses. Also, without Halliburton around, the Iraqis can create their own companies to do whatever Halliburton was doing, and the billions these companies earn can build malls and water parks and stuff. Result: happy Iraqis working at high-paying jobs, shopping and having fun, not blowing things up.

As expected, the Republicans are crying a river over our plans to exit Iraq gracefully with dignity, but no big surprise there - you'd cry too if someone took away your oil wells. The biggest whiner is the Iraqi government itself, "Oh boohoo, our government will collapse, hundreds of thousands of people will die in sectarian violence, Muslim extremist groups will take over, blah blah blah." Oh please, over here we're battling for stem cell research and tax hikes, fending off Evangelical homo-drug addicts, etc., and you're complaining about a few heavily-armed over-stimulated camel jockeys? Give me a break.

When it's all said and done, there's nothing wrong in Iraq that the ACLU couldn't fix, and the sooner we send some lawyers over there and start suing the crap out of the troublemakers, the quicker that rat's nest will become civilized.

Troops out, lawyers in, build water parks. All better.