A quick piece on Fred Thompson and his Love!!

At the RNC the inimitable Fred Thompson was so smitten with not only himself, but with his new crush Mistress Palin that he took a moment to make one of the most memorable and profound comments in Political Speech History. He said, and I quote (obviously) “…and she’s the only Vice Presidential Nominee who can field dress a Moose…” slamming his fist in a downward motion to make this an even more important point. (quick note: I’m not actually sure how accurate that quote is in the sense of it being word for word which is kind of the point of quoting someone…but what’s important here is that he said some shit about his admiration for the fact that she could indeed field dress a Moose…whatever that means). I myself could probably field dress Palin if only given two things: One, a lesson on “How to” field dress something you’ve hunted down and killed and Two, the opportunity to do just that!!! Also, I think Freddy said the thing about Palin/Moose/Field Dressing because, like most of us more sane people he wasn’t sure any of those Honkey’s were actually listening to his inane banter.

A Beach Story

**Once again, this was originally posted on the brightsideblog.com but I think it is worth putting here as well. Ruth has a thing about beaches and it is something I feel myself. My feeling about them is they are wonderful. Early in the morning or late at night is my kinda beach time. The rest of the time, especially when it is blazing hot like today, makes no sense to me. All those people with their obnoxious kids...no room...you can't really play music. And I'm a redhead....so I assume you get this. The following story has little or nothing at all to do with how I feel about the beach. It's not only funny but completely true. Sorry Beia...I hope the afterlife is treating you well and there is lots of water.

**WARNING:THIS MAY BE GROSS TO SOME!!

My friend Beia used to do this kind of thing all the time. For some reason the guy REALLY liked to poop. I don’t mean it was something he simply enjoyed. NO NO NO! This guy looked forward to it. He was often consumed by the very idea. He would start grabbing various newspapers and magazines in anticipation of a good poop. Once that moment arrived, he would spend no less then an hour on the hopper and I wasn’t the only one concerned after the first half hour had passed when he still hadn’t emerged but we all learned to accept it (except his mom, but who could blame her? If it were my child I would be calling the fire department.)

Anyway, there was also some connection between water and how it related to pooping for him. I am still befuddled by this. I mean….sure there is water in the toilet but how does being submerged in water make one feel the absolute necessity to let a loaf go and ultimately rise to the surface?? A bunch of us would go pool hopping every summer and invariably Beia would poop in whatever victims pool we found ourselves in that evening.

So Beia’s family and mine were members of The Bay Club on Long Island. This was a very White place. I don’t mean that the buildings and cabanas were all white (though most of them were just that). I am referring to race and socioeconomic status issues. I can not recall any members that were not fellow Honkeys. Everyone there had some parents with “Some” sort of money. The place had a huge pool with three diving boards set at different heights. Yes, there was a kiddy pool and a small heated whirlpool attached as well. There was also a private beach that was on the Bay which led right out into the Atlantic.

On my 12th birthday I received the most wonderful two person raft. It was black and yellow…it had oars and rope that went around the perimeter. Well…one day Beia and I decided to see how far out into the Bay we could go and, ultimately, if we could make it to the outer reaches and into the Atlantic. We get pretty far out there (uh…let me add that we were “far out there” in more ways then one) and then Beia hops over the side and into the ocean. I just assumed, foolishly I might add, that he was merely cooling himself off as it was mid July and we had been out in the mid day blazing sun for at least two hours and had belly’s full of Busch Beer. I too am like Ruth (by the way, Ruth….you must cease and desist referring to yourself in the third person. Paul doesn’t like that at all). I love the ocean. The smell of salt water…the water that seems to never end and challenges our knowledge that the Earth is round…looks pretty square to me when I look at the horizon. Also the hot (not literally) people walking around all buff and tan. It feels like a scene from Caligula may break out at any given moment and that would be just fine with me...but I digress. So Beia is in the water holding onto the edge of the raft and then the “Killer Loaf” rises to the surface. “JESUS CHRIST MAN!” is all I can say. Then to make things REALLY uncomfortable he manages to get his excrement into the raft. I grab one of the oars and do two things with it. The first is obvious. I fish the poop out and back into the sea. The second is more of a confession. I hit Beia over the head as hard as I could and knock him completely unconscious and watch his face lower into the water and eventually he starts to sink. I do not bother myself with this. I merely turned the raft around and head back to the shore. No one saw the two of us together as we headed out so why should anyone be surprise to see me come back alone?

The moral of the story? Teach your children early that just because you really enjoy pooping and there is water in the toilet bowl this does not make it O.K. to go ahead and defecate in a pool, pond, ocean or whatever body of water you find yourself in. You will also wind up dead!!

V Necks in Graceland

**This was originally posted in response to a response to a comment I made at brightsideblog.com which is hosted, much like a Cotillion, by Ruth Peterson who's a pretty funny broad when she's not being a total drag. Go there and be equally, if not more so, entertained.

My dear dear easily distracted friend….

I apologize for not really “getting into it” as it were so let me see if I can make this more patently clear for you.

I still own several V’s that are scattered all about my home from the minute you walk in the front door (much to my 94 year old landladies chagrin who puts up with it though she does increase the rent with great regularity).

Entering my home is much like entering Graceland in many ways. Most importantly it is a sad experience for the true fan. My tours start as early as six am and go until I have to call the police AND you have to book your “TOUR” about five years in advance…I’m that intriguing a fella.

It also starts across the street where you can find my mom and siblings cooking and singing respectively. There are many items to buy there. For instance, there are several V’s I wore around the world and they are hermetically sealed so they are still soaking wet with the sweat of yours truly. And the teenage girls literally can’t seem to get enough of them. Truth be told, not all of them are genuine artifacts that once adorned my Herculean chest. I give them to my brothers (especially Billy who sweats like an overweight 60 year old pregnant woman in an Ironman contest on the Equator) when they are heading out on tour to soak them “Real Good”. They are kind enough to do this but don’t be fooled. They get a healthy percentage of the cover charge and I often have to do them favors I don’t think your readers really want to know about as that may give them visions they can not ever get out of their heads. I myself spend the majority of my time with my therapist trying to exorcise them from my already rotting brain.

Just crossing the street to get to the “Goods” is much like “Crossing Jordan”! It’s a dangerous endeavor and not one I recommend for the faint of heart. First there are the local thugs to deal with and they like their job. Then there is the Crocodile, Piranha, Great White Shark and Herby the Love Bug infested moat to navigate. If you make it past either of these first two obstacles (and if you do you are a better MAN then my roommate Sally) there is the aforementioned four foot zero inch, 94 year old, cane wielding, Iron Fisted Portuguese landlord named Antonia who doesn’t take her job lightly at all…frankly she is tired of it which makes her all that much more dangerous a foe. She does offer you a headset for a nominal fee (which I don’t get a cut of) as a sort of self guided walk through experience with my warming voice to accompany you through which will no doubt be the only experience you will ever need again (We offer loaded shotguns to those quick enough to grasp this fact and even someone to do the deed for you if you can’t handle it yourself).

However, once past the Thugs, the Moat and the “Little Lady” things get very exciting indeed. First off, the stairs are adorned with many 7" recordings I had little or nothing to do with. They get stolen pretty much everyday and I simply go to some record store in Wisconsin and buy more…most of which are from the 50’s and early 60’s but no one seems to make the connection that they were recorded by “Artists” well before I was born (but it’s a small price to pay and, hey, I kinda like Wisconsin…big fan of cheese and football).

As you reach the second and third floors you are greeted angrily by a giant replica of “Shakes the Clown” who is quite obviously nonplussed. But he seems to get over it quickly as he too is ADD.

And then it happens!!!! You are welcomed into my home by whatever homeless friend of mine needs the money and ALL the magic of Disney World (or “Land” if you come from the West Coast) is right there for your taking. It’s “A Whole New World”…really…I mean that!! There are, however, ropes to your left and right (again, much like Graceland) to keep you “On Track” and guide you into my bedroom. You are asked to wait patiently at the door and then you are free to rummage through only one of my dresser drawers lined exclusively with V Neck T’s. I warn you though that the armpits of them all are yellow at best. Then you are asked to go down the back stairwell where you will have to climb out a very small window (that’s where the shotguns are).

I hope you enjoyed your visit. Please come again soon unless you are dead!!

“Was that clear enough…or was I being too obtuse???”