I apologize in advance for the lameness of the following post (not really)

I'm here to plug *clap* you up.

Jabbering Wacky

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
did something or other, I guess.
Tweedledee, Tweedledum, my brain
is awful mum, and awful, yes.

"Beware! Blocks writing epitaphs,
biting, clawing, 'tis quite bullish!
Bandersnatch! Run, snitch, 'fore it lops
your noodle into fancy dish!"

Jus' put that vorpal blade away,
gladly I'll serve me on a plate
here to catch the putrid runoff,
tulgy bits of, oh, wretched state.

Boiling thought bubbled in trouble,
for the Jabbering Wacky came
with an eye of schadenfreude,
at bumbling, fumbling prose so tame!

One, two! Buckle my shoe! Three, four,
lopped his head and grabbed a quick snack.
'Tis dead? Oh, too tired to check,
and I've really got to get back.

"The Jabbering Wacky's shit is
right and truly fucked up? Let's drink!
A glass, a bottle, a case, more!
Get sick; 'tis toilet or the sink!"

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
did something or other, I guess.
Tweedledee, Tweedledum, my brain
is awful mum, and awful, yes.

Tales From the Wheelie Bus and Other Assorted Indifference Songs

As always, we thank you old man electrified scooting machine driver and public transportationista regular for your maddeningly beautiful toupee that's so classically faux there's no need for a neon sign screaming TOUPEE LIVE NUDE GIRLS XXX but we must also thank the stranger who we may never see again for his maddeningly beautiful toupee and for the two midlife crisis gentlemen who got on at distinctly different stops for sprouting archetypal porn moustaches that would make John Holmes blush and for the lady sporting a lemon yellow and vomit green top that given its overt sheen could only be polyester for gifting to your fellow passengers our very own That 70s Show but next time bring Laura Prepon and Mila Kunis merci.


















Et merci to scienticians who have developed an anti-aging pill from Easter Island gunk. Sure, if I get to live forever I might finally compose some quality verse, but with the side effect of my head becoming a giant rock, is it really worth it?

















Et merci to Danny Boy and Sideshow Bob for curing your previous bout with yokelry and collecting autographs in July instead of October. 7+ million should be enough, even with your vast debit of hair care purchases.


















Et merci to The King for proving that even the greatest player on planet earth can be a fan of paranoid national security douchebaggery. Even us nonathletic sub-six foot white guys get dunked on. Happens to the best of us, pal.













Et merci to another King, Steve -- no, not that one, that one-- for your truly inspirational act. In order to safeguard my Innsmouth heritage, I'm voting no in the future. Try and chisel references to the Old Ones now, filthy hippies. Well, off to erect a plaque to onion rings.











One last thing, I hope none of you are still wishing you could be an Oscar Mayer wiener because they had to do something with his corpse, although I suppose not even the discerning gourmand could tell the difference.

Moscow Tea Party

Everyone knows Putin prefers two lumps and now, so does Obama.

Broken world

Go on, capitalist proprietors,
go on and shatter my precious worldview
with merchandising clatter battering
this disturbed noodle with cold cuts of doom!

COOKE HAM is now -- COOKED HAM? No! No! No! No!
Forgive cheating verse, but this proves a terse
warning: no, not pretzeldential dung of
Palin/Queztlcoatl 2012,

Mac the Knife's napalm dreams lining hell's shelf,
Jacko's corpse rotting in the LA sun;
no, none of that grisly fun -- something worse,
far, far worse than such a devilish curse.

Conjure six billion hearses, still too few!
Origin of that quick change, businessman,
I know all too well -- as should you! The return
of the Old Ones (at least not Cheney, whew)!

Let them cover up hidden agendas
of the planet's end, their holy grail.
These horrors need help now! Why? I'm sorry,
but Cthulhu is too big to fail.

Easy, like Sunday morning

As usual -- officially measured at 76% of the time by the American Statistical Association -- I've got nothing. That other 24%? Merely the illusory ramblings of a brain-dead cracker. Upon realizing this realization, I realized that I had to decide to steal a bit from Splotchy, but instead of offering a 60-second doodle of the first commenter's suggestion, I would offer instead to wax stupid poetic on the first commenter's topic of choice. Then I remembered that we're closed tomorrow and Saturday so I wouldn't get to it until Tuesday at the earliest, then I decided that that's a stupid reason financially speaking in these difficult financial times and I further decided -- who's the real Decider, italics, motherfucker -- to steal from the WaPo.

$25k to create a post advancing YOUR personal agenda!

Take advantage of my vast resources!

Nearly a dozen readers daily!

No personal checks! Canned goods are fine! No creamed corn!

When you're off patriotically blowing stuff up, make sure your fingers aren't part of the carnage. I can't keep the internets pointless all by myself.


















Dammit, Canucklehead Day was yesterday.













Hmmm, Captain America doesn't look too happy. Oh well, if I get patriotically blowed up, it's been nice knowing you. Fight Whitey.

Feeling Merovingian

You know, long haired, grimy, ready to lop someone's head off.

Show 'em what I mean, granny.


















"Go on, privatize my Social Security, motherfuckers."

Don't forget government cheese. Mmm, government cheese. My grandpa, before he succumbed to smokes and booze, used to get monthly deliveries of those vaguely daffodil-hued bricks, part of his WW2 Pacific theatre anti-sub pension one presumes.















I can't recall my grandpa ever saying 'motherfucker.' Said goddamn a lot, though. And I mean a lot. A cigarette, a can of Goebel(!) and a goddamn was the omnipresent three-course when my sister and I came to visit. We got the processed milk product which actually wasn't that bad, made a decent grilled cheese sandwich. No, I'm not going to paint -- oops, Microsoft Paint® -- up more moldy bread, even though it seems my brain is currently suffering the debilitating effects of such a deviously pervasive colony of spores, after having first been run through a toxic maze of slime, vomit and machine gun abominations, all without the benefit of a roll of string.

I hope the ever-present minotaur doesn't eat my skull -- what a fine bit of English language that is, skull, a syllable of ultimately unknown but decidedly foreign origin, unless the OED was written by a bunch of liars, deceiving us ignorant fools with an initially soft sound before aurally cracking hard and fierce with a whiff of the esoteric, skull, sssskull, SKULL! -- because, speaking to the vast army of my fellow headbanger types out there -- Tom -- here's some new Alice In Chains, a sinewy, overcast monolith that's slowly growing on me like a deviously pervasive colony of spores, just the way it should be motherfuckers; the new dude ain't the eerie Layne, but who is, his rotting corpse notwithstanding?


















A query, ladies and gents: who would win in a fight, Zombie Layne or Zombie Reagan?

"Those are zombie babes."

Those are Zombie Layne and Zombie Reagan, brain.

"Oh, really?"

Yes, really.















"Those are Zombie Layne and Zombie Reagan."

That's what I said. And sure, the former bag o' bones will be dehydrated and lethargic from all that smack, but I figure if he can successfully fend off the latter's perverse pincer assault of strips of decomposing flesh screaming in the melodramatic breeze and volleys of gooey, Brylcreemed clumps of hair -- which he should, in theory, be able to do since the Saint was on the wrong side of 90 when he signed up with the They Always Die In Three! fanclub -- he can stab the former pretzeldent in the marrow with one of the needles strapped around his waste like an old school heavy metal bullet belt.

And as long as Zombie Billy Mays has a ready supply of Orange Glow and Kaboom! to sell, I say let the blood flow, the putrescent flesh quiver and may the best dead, deceased corpse win.

Stalag 17

We're going to do what every young n' sexy couple does on their seventeenth anniversary: sit on the couch and watch DVDs while taking turns yelling at the kids to shut the fuck up infomercials until 3am in tribute to the world's greatest snake oil salesman that didn't hold public office.

As for the next seventeen years, what awaits?



I kid. Probably. Though if I suddenly disappear from the internets, well, draw your own conclusions.

Could you say that a little more sexfully?

"Not now, Harry, I just had a lot of work done."

Surprise! You're Dead!

Hey, appear on The Simpsons, and you die. Your own fault,














Ed,













Jacko.

Farrah throws a monkey wrench in said theory, but I'm sure someone even lazier than I can Kevin Baconize her.

Surprise, surprise!

"PYLE!"
"Golly, Sgt. Carter, why do you want me to put these in order from most to least surprising?"
"It's a test of your limited mental capacity, Pyle! Now get moving!"

1) United States 2, #1 world ranked Spain 0, their first loss in 35 matches.












"I guess that's what those Spaniards get for taking the land of our sixteenth-century white, Christian ancestors, right Sgt. Carter? Shame, shame, shame."

2) Shaquille O'Neal is traded to the Cavs for a second round pick, spare tank parts and an extra sandwich from the mess hall.



"Tony Danza? Dick Butkus? I'm confused Sgt. Carter!"

3) National Lampoon's Afghan Vacation















"Shazam! I think I finally understand this terrorism thing, Sgt. Carter!"













"Try again, Pyle!"















"Extra credit for Übermilf! Pyle, drop and give me twenty!"

Going to California Ohio

See, left coast potheads, you're not the only member of the union whose economizing is in a severe state of broke down fuckery. But our own Governator, admittedly not as steroided as Ah-nold -- of course, he also didn't take part in Batman & Robin, so score one for the Buckeye -- has found the perfect solution for the impending round of budget cuts that, sadly, doesn't involve growing pot nor Mary Louise Parker coming over chez Randal to be my dealer of love.














Oh Randal, let's bake.

"Wake up."

Huh? Oh yeah, the answer to our prayers:














Well, library patrons, there's always browsing copies of People at the local convenient store. One humbug!

Good luck not breaking down during the next minute, mentally ill. Two humbugs!

Latchkey preschoolers, mom just left for her minimum wage job, so here's your chance to run with scissors. Three humbugs! I won! I won!

What, like Strickland, an American governor of an American state in America was gonna reverse the Bobby Taft, American/Ken Doll, American tax cuts?

















Maybe you want that oversize novelty check in the hands of anti-competition socialist commie homersexual jihadists, but I still love this country, dammit.

Title of post

1) Eye-catching introductory paragraph so overflowing with witticisms that it'll feel like someone took a wizz on your Hush Puppies.

2) Series of tangentially related anecdotes that may or may not include Tales From The Wheelie Bus.


















3) Sublimely crafted conclusion that determines the current tide of insanity engulfing both here and abroad can only mean one thing: that our miserable species has been stricken with the triumphant mark of Satan! Woe is us and such.


















I eat imaginary entities for breakfast! And also eggs!

"I didn't know Cthulhu had vocal cords."

Oh sure, but he's a quiet kind of slime. Generally keeps to himself when not devouring civilizations.

"That's nice, but one of your posts just isn't complete without you know what."

A death metal YouTube?

"No, dumbass."












Ha ha, fooled you. Did we start bombing Iran yet? Like anyone gives a rat's ass about Afghanistan. We gotta bomb someone worthy of scorn. Revolutionizing is for Real Patriots, you effete Orientals. Speaking of Real Patriots --


















"Grrr. Brilliant idea. Why I not think that? Grrr. Three grand buy lunch of third world children. Grrr."

Great. Cheney's been reactivated. There goes my plans to hike the Appalachian trail without fear of buckshot.













"Go on and hike, filthy hippie, I'll be safe behind my hi-tech shield!"

I know that if I were truly serious about security, I'd see about attaching a rider to the next bill outfitting members of Congress with their own, personalized Popemobile. And when they're on the floor ranting and/or raving, or crying if they're John Boehner, they should have to don a suit of armor. Never know when some bomb-thrower will be in the stands.














Don't forget to take into account wind resistance and gravity, otherwise all you'll do is nuke the poor clerk.

What is it, boy? Fire? Earthquake? Hippies?

Real America® being far too occupied with the ritual gathering of cheap fireworks, charcoal briquets and Busch Light while coveting the neighbor's wife and/or goodies and/or the goodies of the neighbor's wife to notice such blasphemy, I on the other hand am well aware that every coastal neighborhood situated outside that holy and righteous enclave of breadbaskets and tax-exempt churchery will be saturated with naked pagan fire dancing tomorrow evening in celebration of the summer solstice through the reenacting of traditional heathen favorites like out-of-wedlock fornication, blood sacrifice and painting the town green as a sign of solidarity or some other worthless crap.

"Actually, tonight is more likely. Even naked pagans have work on Monday."

True, but I can still take solace in the fact that their beloved longest day of the year marks the triumphant (for me) beginning of oh so precious daylight being stripped from the endless cavalcade of sweaty sacks n' racks --











-- yes, it is -- through the slow creep of cold shadow and shadowy cold, muahahahahaha, etc. So get your hedonistic and illegal public displays in while you can, filthy witches, 'cause guess what's just around the corner?


















No, not that --













That.

"It's still June, dumbass."

Shut your noisehole. I take my joys where I can find them make them up.

Accident of Birth

Once again, sharp, timely commentary about current events was rattling 'bout my bus-travelin' head this morning, the necessary ingredients to skillfully bake comedic (and tasty) peanut butter cookies about our continuing Rock Star Energy Drink® Blowed Up Real Good tour skying its way through the wilds of Waziristan, whereby I smarmily point out that if you dozens of Afghan Wigs didn't want to be unmanned surveillance aircrafted to death, you should have been born a blonde-haired, blue-eyed Murkan cracker chick, but then I remembered that once upon a time, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed Murkan cracker chick was abducted, which was like the greatest national tragedy since 9/11 according to the nice teevee man with well-coiffed noggin so I guess it does suck to be you after all, although I believe yesterday's attack did get Al-Qaeda #76, #77, you're up, what kind of lunch meat would you like we're out of maple ham I'm sorry, but I couldn't make said commentary rise to poorly-written, coherent invective, so you get poorly-written, incoherent invective instead, nothing honestly but weak justification to post some ever topical, skullcrushing (and wicked) riffwork because I know how much you all hate the metal.

Sorry to drone on.















Thank you, thank you, I'll be here all week. Yeah, I know today's Friday. It takes me four days to come up with material this bad.

Speaking of bad, and despite my impeccable patriotic credentials, I must grudgingly give some credit to the Ayatollah of the Fourth Reich. I don't recall Chimpy and his Puppetmasters demanding that we stay off the street or we'd pay, don't think we won't pay, way back in 2000.

"That's because no one was on the street except the bums that were there the previous November."

Jawohl, but I don't remember state-sponsored armed thugs getting their gun on inside dorm rooms either. Now that's fucking hardcore. America, when did you turn into a nation of candyasses?


















See, this old lady is throwing the horns. What's your excuse, wuss? Well, off to apply for Froomkin's WaPo slot. Hope they permit swearing. Rock on.