The Day After

        Ok, the dust is settling, though some still look forward to some kind of re-count, if only for tradition’s sake, and we have a new president, and he’s not white! This is nothing short of... well, you know. Everyone’s already said it, so I’ll assume you know (it rhymes with mistoric). But America’s shiny new black president is not the only news, oh my no. Voters in California have once again voted to deny gay couples the right to get married, but this time they went ahead and made it official with a constitutional amendment. I say there is more yet to be done in the cause of protecting marriage. We can’t let the gays settle down. That would mean we would have to change our image of homosexuals as drug addled, Satan worshipping sex addicts with the power to turn straight people gay just by looking at them! If they start getting married it will be that much harder to justify being so afraid of them. We can’t let that happen. Don’t you know that every time a gay couple gets married and angel gets sodomized. It’s in the Bible, look it up.
        I know that many heterosexuals who only got married to prove that weren’t gay, if gays can get married then no one will believe that they’re straight. What would be the point? Besides, I don’t want to do any thing that homosexuals do, they always look so much doing it, why do you think I don’t wear Abicromby & Fitch? But that’s not the point, the point is that gays are amoral heathens, and that’s how we like them, and the very concept of matrimony is not strong enough to handle that kind of people. I am especially grateful for this outcome for personal reasons. When California fist defined marriage as a union between and a woman, my wife and I could not keep our hands off of each other, we went at it like we’d just been released from prison, so glad were we to have that issue finally sorted out for us. When the State Supreme Court overturned the new definition, we began to drift apart, no longer able to understand why we got married. I mean, sure, we are madly in love and want to share the rest of our lives with only each other, but that’s why the gays want to get married! Ewww! After last nights vote I feel my fragile manhood becoming turgid with vitality. I think we might have some lovin’ in the near future. Fingers crossed!
        I would like say something else here about California. People don’t always understand California. Most folk outside the Eureka state think of its residents as gang banging minorities and syphilitic hippies all living off of the government or Zionist movie studio executive polluting the minds of right thinking, christian Americans, but they’re more than just that, they are innovators. No other state in the union continues to find such new and exciting solutions for discriminating against people who are not the same. California has had laws prohibiting the marriage of whites to minorities, and let’s not forget the internment camps, but they did not just rest on their laurels. No, they found a new way to keep people from thinking they are human beings. It should be no surprise that to find new ways to hate people that are different, America looks to the West. Congratulations California, you have done more than your part to make sure that gay people remain single and unattached. Way to go.
        And congratulations America, hopefully our new Executive will lead us to a better future where everyone will feel that they can make a difference in their lives and the live of others, and will actually make the sacrifices needed to bring about change. I wish the best of luck to the President Elect, and if he ever needs some ideas, California is waiting by the phone.

TIll next time, keep your hands above the covers.

Dr. X

Election Day, 2008

        Well, here we are at the dawn of a new political era. By the end of tonight America will have a new president. Record turn out at the polls almost guarantees it (term limits have nothing to do with George W. Bush leaving office, believe me). People looking to two men to lead us out of this “New Depression”, out of Gulf War II, and in to the good life of the American dream. Who will be our next leader? I for one do not believe that our nation will be helmed by a Viet Nam P.O.W., or a black elitist, not for long any way. I see the oval office occupied by either this country’s first P.I.L.F. or some one who honestly thinks we could do better, and will tell you so himself. Why do I envision a second string leadership? Simply because neither of the presidential candidates have a high survivability ratings. McCain is old, much much older than his years it would seem, and has been in plane crashes and prison camps and Arizona. None of those things tend to lengthen life. Obama, well that’s an other issue. At first glance he seems to be a healthy, vital man, but I doubt that he’s is bullet proof. America is, like it or not, for better or worse is a white country, and there are plenty of white Americans who will not truck with a black man holding the highest office in the land. Some people will say that America has come a long way since the days of separate water fountains and midnight lynchings, and I would agree, but I don’t think it has been a straight line that we have traveled. Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I wish Senator Obama ill or that I don’t have faith in our people, quite the contrary, we are a can do nation, and if someone wants to become president they can do it, and if someone wants to kill them, they can do that too. I have no illusions that we as a people have evolved in to a high minded, egalitarian democracy, it is not a sense of civic duty that is bringing out voters in droves. No, it's the worst kind of fear and loathing, and no two words could be found to describe it, I only wish the good Doctor could be hear to see this, the grandest demonstration of his ideas that could be imagined. Fear of a country turning in to a great big housing project complete with whores and crack dealers and crack dealing whores. Loathing of the idea of another four years of leadership that refuses to be held accountable for the way it has ignored human needs and rights.
The name of our country, the United States of America, refers to one government that has been alive and in practice for over two hundred years without interruption, this is rare in our world, hell the French are on there fifth republic since the revolution, and there are people from both sides of this that will tell you that it will be the end of our country if the other side wins. I say, bring it on. Out with the old (that is not a reference to John McCain’s age) and in with new. Bring on the post apocalyptic hordes. That would get people out of their seats. Never has a leader galvanized a people so completely as when Mad Max said “Two days ago I saw a rig that could haul that tanker. If you want to get out of here, talk to me”. You want to see a problem with dependancy on foreign oil? Just wait till you have to beg Humungo, ruler of the Waste Land for enough gas to get the kids to school, then you’ll see how good we’ve got it now.

Whatever the outcome, try not to piss yourself.

Dr. X

Death and Rebirth

It has been far too long since my last posting, but that could not be helped. While making what any reasonable human would call a legal left turn on red, I was pulled over by the "5-0". It did not go well. At first the officer that stopped me seemed to almost have sense God gave a goji berry, but as he tried to explain to me why he would NOT make an exception for me with regards to city policy on open containers, loaded weapons and minors, I realized that my initial assessment was far to generous. So I decided to take action. "Step out of the veehickle (sic) sir" the constable told me, and proceeded to run me a roadside sobriety test, the breathalyzer test having been not so much inconclusive as incredulous. As I stood there touching the spot I would have sworn my nose was, with my right arm cocked and ready to fire, I let fly with  near lethal Bruce Lee style chop to neck of the storm trooper. WHAHCHAAHH! But the bastard was faster than me. So fast in fact that most people would have said that he didn't even move. At all. So my strike flew ineffectually past his left ear, and the shear force of the blow pulled off of my axis. As I struggled to recover my footing, the cop tried to take control, and pushed me towards the back of his patrol car, but I had other plans. Using physics to my advantage I was able to fall into the driver's seat of the cruiser and speed off in to the night leaving Roscoe kicking dirt by the side of the road. 

Lights flashing, sirens wailing, I careened in to the dark. Full of triumph and chemicals I congratulated myself for once again pulling my dick from the flames, when from the passenger side of the car came a cold metallic click click sound followed by a cold metallic feeling pressing insistently against the side of my head. Craning my eyes as far to right as they would go with out actually moving my head I spied the 12 to the 1 ADAM I had left behind in the dust. The face looking back at me, over the barrel of a gun that would make Dirty Harry feel inadequate, was at least as surprised as I would have been had that emotion, and most others, been artificially suppressed.  

Thus was my long absence begun. It was long, and it was painful, and I will speak little of my time away other than say that self delusion and the ability to completely suppress memories are grossly under valued skills. 

But, now I am returned.

The jails could not contain me. The walls of my prison were not high enough that I could not or' top them. You would be amazed what you can do inside the American penal system with a carton of cigarettes and a pretty smile. 

Till next time,

If you need me, maybe you can find

X

Your Money Is No Good Here Mr. Torrence.

Things have not progressed very far since the last time I posted. I still find myself drawn to the blasted Dirty Martini, the beast that ruined the old world.
Last night found me and some un-named cohorts in a vintage Golden Age hotel bar that looked like it was pulled right out of The Shining. In between haunting the other patrons the bartender managed to do more damage to my liver than Jack Nicholson with a fire axe. The atmosphere was distinctly plush and luxurious but ghostly, silent ballroom dancers fading in and out of existence and a creepy pair of twins kept asking if we wanted to play. By the third martini I was ready to stuff Scatman Crothers into the deep freeze, and after the forth I was ejected from the premises when they found me in the basement trying to stoke up the boiler to the point of exploding. But that was fine with me, I didn’t need to witness the bloodbath that was surely on the way. In the end, I believe I made great progress in finding out what all play and no work will eventually make Jack into.

‘Til we meet again, try not to step on your own dick.

X

To Insure Promt Service

I woke up this morning with my soul shriveling on the floor and a gang of Philippino stick fighters causing massive collateral damage in my skull. The previous night was spent dining on a bag of fortune cookies and several very large bone dry dirty vodka martinis. That man who invented the martini is a soul brother of Robert Oppenheimer, having unleashed upon the world a source of such destructive power which is all too deliciously tempting that it should take the simultaneous turn of two keys to allow it to be poured. The fortune cookies however are not so cruel. After extricating myself from the cabinet I had taken refuge in, I armed myself with a fire extinguisher for fear that the pure alcohol I was sweating would ignite at the smallest spark. Thus I hit the streets.

My first stop was the local diner where I planned to offset my condition with a liberal application of grease and salt. “Gimme two eggs with bacon and cheese on a buttered roll” I told the woman behind the counter. “Well,” she said, “we have a special with two eggs, bacon or sausage, homefries and toast, but we don’t have egg sandwiches.” I can’t say what my reaction to this looked like, but judging from the way she retreated into the kitchen it must have seemed fearsome. “WHAT? NO EGG SANDWICHES!?” I bellowed, “What kind commie crap is this? The egg sandwich is the back bone of the industrialized world! This affront will surely affect your Zagat rating!” It was at this point that I noticed the crew of busboys moving to surround me and I knew action was needed. “LE MIGRA!” I yelled by way of diversion, and as the lead man turn to see, I swung the fire extinguisher in a high whistling arc connecting with the soft upper shoulder shattering his collar bone. “I saw them pissing in the soup tureen and there was an ear lobe in the Cobb salad!” I found many times the best way to escape an unhealthy situation is to incite a riot, and this day proved the rule. As the waiters and busboys scrambled to look nonchalant and reassure the cliental that all was well I continued to fan the flames. “I have video tape of them putting Mad Cow Disease in the bacon! What do you really think is in that eclair? SOILENT GREEN IS PEOPLE!!!”

On that note I knew it was time to abscond. Within minutes the customers would overturn the tables and set fire to the Rock-O-La jukebox and beat the waitstaff with broken chairs. I’ve seen it happen before, though I won’t say where for fear of prosecution. Suffice it to say that a wise restauranteur would never show me a bill, knowing by instinct alone that my actions for good or ill could decide the life or death of his establishment.

Hours later, as I sit here still half dead and trembling, I can smell the burning formica and flesh wafting up the avenue from where the diner once stood. The lesson to be learned today dear friends, is don’t come between a man and his egg sandwich. It can cost you more than your life. Also, rot gut scotch will serve as a good remedy for short terms DTs.

My hands just now have stopped shaking enough to return to being a productive member of society, whatever that is, and as such I must leave you now dear friends.

Until next time, don’t drink the milk. It’s spoiled.

X

Scooter, we barely knew ya'

Well it looks like Ol’ Scooter is going down and I for one am glad to see a man receive the recognition he deserves. That’s right, any one who would so selflessly rat out one of our nation’s covert operatives and put an end to their career to send the message “Shut up, your going to ruin our war” should be held high and pointed out as the yard stick by which to measure this administration. All to often people see what needs to be done and stop short, making excuses like “Oh, that’s illegal” or “That would be unethical” or even “That might put some one’s life in danger”, but not our I. Lewis “Scooter” Libby. The Scootster is a man of action, the kind of man that understands that things like ethics and morals and national security and regard for human life or even common courtesy have no place in running a country, especially when it comes to winding up for a good war. Why if he hadn’t acted, Joseph Wilson might have proven that Iraq wasn’t trying to buy uranium and stopped us from opening up the can of whupass we had been working up. But Libby did act, and thanks to him we didn’t have to find out that there was no reason to be in Iraq until it was too late to leave.

Now two years and two thousand American dead later, the Scootmiester finally gets his do. Or does he? Maybe, just maybe, some one higher up took action and is so humble that they decided to give credit to a loyal aid instead. Knowing what I do about the current White House, I would not be surprised to see such leadership tempered by such humility. Who knows?

I also wonder what reward the president has in store for his loyal service. Perhaps he will make him Ambassador to Gabon and o Tome and Principe! Or maybe he’ll appoint him to the Supreme Court. That would be sweet!

Well, enough of this crap, I going to follow the president’s example and go on a drinking binge! I’ll see you again with blood on my knuckles and puke on my shoes.

‘Til then, don’t trust the white man!

X

Onions & Leaks

What else could top a juicy cheeseburger but a nice slice of Bermuda Onion? What else would suffice to cover a steaming bowl of Chili but some diced Spanish Onion? With out the noble bulb parisians could only offers the world “French Soup”, Outback Steakhouse would have to serve a “Bloomin’ Turnip” and let’s not speak of what would become of perennial favorite the “Funion”. I bring this up because an important member of the Allium cepa genus is under attack, not by fungus or some plant clap, but by the White House!

A certain publication that has chosen this pungent flower as it’s masthead has found itself the latest target in “The War Against Terror”. The issue is over the paper’s frequent use of the presidential seal which oft times accompanies stories lampooning the Bush administration, including a spoof of W’s weekly radio address. Tenants of the executive mansion say that the use of the seal in these cases is inappropriate and degrading to the office, which of course has never looked better. The White House apparently having nothing better to do sent big kid Trent Duffy to tell the Onion to “Shut up, or else!”. To which the Onion responded, “Nana nana nana, you can’t make me!”.

I for one am glad to see the oval office finally focussing on the important issues. Fuck the war in Iraq, the economy, the environment, that shit’s not important. No. It’s about time that W concentrated on stopping people from making fun of him. I mean here he is, the leader of the free world and some guy’s picking on him right out in the open as if he had the right or something. If you can’t respect the man then respect the office, and if you can’t respect the office then you haven’t taken your pills.

The Onion should keep in mind that White House has an enormous arsenal to bring to bare against nay-sayers. They could assign them “Enemy Combatant” status and lock them up in Gitmo, or ignore their pleas for help when their homes are demolished in a storm, or expose their spouse’s secret identity. Yes the beat goes on and I. Lewis “Scooter” Libby is being prepped for the beating it seems. The case of Valerie Plame and the leaking of her name, rank and serial number to the “Press” is getting hot and heavy and Karl Rove and the boys are playing a first class game of “I didn’t know she was a spy ‘til you told me” in which each contestant tries to prove a greater level of ignorance (some thing the Bush crew has been training tirelessly for over the last five years) and put the blame on a lower ranked administration member. A truly skilled and ambitious player might even make Valerie Plame believe that she outed herself. Why not? They got everyone to believe that crap about why we had to go to war. Well, everyone but Plame and her husband Joseph Wilson who criticized Bush for essentially being a lying, war mongering, oil grubbing boob with his head up ass (of course I’m paraphrasing).

I look forward to seeing just how the Onion will cover the upcoming indictments and trials. I wonder, will they use language that the president will be able to understand when Dick Cheney reads it to him like a modern day version of the Three Little Pigs.

Speaking of pigs, it seems I’ve loitered here longer than is safe and must retreat back the sordid under belly of this land I love and wait until next time it’s safe to surface.

‘Til then, keep it in your pants.

X

Things that piss me off.

I know, it’s been a long stretch since my last entry, but it’s hard to find a Starbucks with wireless internet that doesn’t have my likeness on the wall. Many have given me up for dead, but this is hardly the case. Well, not entirely. The details are foggy, but the involvement of a German yachtsman is a certainty, and this haunts me. Images of him in his red and white striped shirt and little navel hat dancing around a flaming suitcase flash in front of my eyes whenever I think of tropically named cocktails in Polynesian designed drink-ware. The possible connections frighten me. Or perhaps it’s the that the barista looks like a fed I once burned on a coke deal. You just can’t trust the kind of people Starbucks hires these days.

But I digress. There never seems to be enough time think about all the things that really piss me off, although I think I have made some progress in that regard. To start with, People Who Say “Squozed” When They Mean “Squeezed”. Generally, these are the people that have enough trouble with existing words in the english language and they have no business inventing more. People Whose Cellphones Are Still Set To Corporate Branded Ringtones. What the fuck? Are you getting paid by Nokia for the advertising, or are just a lazy asshole? Not that the two are mutually exclusive. David Letterman. People At The Supermarket Who Pay By Check. These tend to be old people, very old people. They feel technically savvy for using a ball-point pen, and believe swiping a card can steal their wizened souls. In the time it takes the to pay for their groceries you could grow old enough to find yourself involuntarily reaching for your own check book.

These are all subjects I’ve spent sometime on and have for most part exorcised their poisons from my being. With the exception of David Letterman, which for reasons I won’t get into, I won’t get into. But the thing that today sucked me into a vortex of anger is the exclusion of the letters “X”, “Y” and “Z” from the naming convention applied to hurricanes. Currently the Florida coast is being threatened by Hurricane Wilma, the twenty third named Atlantic storm. After this, if some atmospheric anomaly has enough gusto to put the fear of God into the National Weather Service it will be named using the greek alphabet. How lame! Who wants to have their roof torn off by Hurricane Beta, when they could cry out “DAMN YOU HURRICANE XUXA! Why have you wrought this destruction upon me!”? Doesn't that have more of the drama you’d expect? More OOMF? More esprit du jour? And besides, once you got done with Hurricane Zdenek you could move on to historical figures with alliterated names, such as Betty Boop and Tiny Tim and Where’s Waldo! How much fun would that be!? But no! In the future historians are likely to think the country was ravaged by roaming hoard of drunken frat boys! Which brings me to George Bush. The man is simply a boob. What can be said about him here in this public forum that you wouldn’t rather pay a whore to say in private. Now I’m not some bleedingheartrightwingliberalpussy, but come on folks, he will end the world if he has his way. Does he even know that he is responsible for the whole country, not just Crawford, Texas? You half expect him to show up in a Tee-shirt reading “Someone toppled a sovereign nation and all I got was this stupid shirt”. I mean here’s a man who doesn't see the irony in calling himself both a “war president” and a “right to life president”. In some towns across America police cadets are given a special I.Q. test to make sure they are dumb enough not to get bored waiting to beat someone, so why can’t a similar wisdom be applied to the highest oblong office in the land? And no points for spelling your name correctly.

Well, I’ve gone on too long and the barista is looking at me over his shoulder and talking in to his sleeve, so I must leave now.

Until I can come up for air again, try to keep your nuts out of the fire.

X

FOR SALE: ONE SLIGHTLY USED AMERICAN MADE ORBITER/RE-ENTRY VEHICLE, GOOD MILEAGE

The world is holding it's breath and waiting to see if the seven NASA astronauts on Discovery will have to hold their breath and wait. After a two year hiatus during which the National Air and Space Agency put the remaining shuttle fleet up on blocks and ran the motors in reverse to roll back the odometer, the shuttle Discovery returned to space with a clean bill of health. That is until the bird strike, and the two foot chunk of foam fell off the brand new external fuel tank on launch. "Minor details" says NASA, "no worries" they say, "we build 'em tough round" here they say. And then they noticed that the filler between the all important heat shield tiles was falling out. "Stand by" they say, "we are looking in to contingencies" they say, "we can rescue your astronauts by February" the Russians say. Myself, I can't say I'm surprised to find that the high tech instructions on how to fix the problem include the word "wiggle". Maybe on future missions they might make sure to bring some bondo and a can of Crylon as well as the hack saw they will use.

If Big Brother is watching, how are my ratings?

I've had a lot of free time on my hands of late (not by my own choice, the courts just won't listen to reason), and I've spent it poking the slimey underbelly of the American media and smelling the end of the stick. I've been crawling the so-called "Discussion" boards populated by the twisted souls who bring the nightly doses of sorrow and misfortune to the masses through TV and print. Attracted by the smell of blood and death, they are vampires the likes of which Dracula would simultaneously admire, cower from and revile! Sure, they seem charming enough, they even get us to invite them in to our homes, with their smiles and snappy sport coats and perfect hair. They wait until we're in our favorite chair with a beer in hand, and WAMMO! they hit you with the most repulsive aspects of humanity, murder, rape, war, Nascar, anything that will suck your soul and leave you an empty wreck of a shell. Never do they offer solutions. Oh sure, they might tell you the warning signs to look for to know if your refrigerator is plotting your demise. They may even show you how to tell if your neighbor is molesting your compost heap, or if your town is being overrun by whores and pushers, but they don't mention the important stuff like what will the girls really do for twenty bucks or which pushers will front you a ten piece on credit til the next time you see him. But if some unknown hermit dies from auto erotic asphyxiation, then they can't work hard enough to expose the growing trend of of masturbatory mishaps, complete with information on which plastic bags fit best over the male or female head. Not that I don't need to know, but I prefer to get my information on such subjects from the traditional sources, like priests and the J.C.s.

But I don't want to sound like a negative Nelly, turning on the ten o'clock news saves you the time needed to find snuff films on the internet, and truth be told we all wanted to see Bill Clinton's mark on Monica's dress. In the end , as much as I may feel the majority of the industry should be locked in the bottom of an outhouse of a dysentery ward, I must admit I am a fan. The subtle turn of phrase that issues forth such prose as "the moment of silence heard round the world", the vacant gleam in the eye reflecting the wisdom of the teleprompter, and enough hair spray to alter the earths atmosphere. Mmmmmmmmm, thems good eats. Fuck Jim Lehrer, journalism is for pussies!

After much consideration, I want a job in TV!

Whores, Philistines and Fascists!

My kind of people.