Totally tubular!

And you all scoffed at convicted felon --
















"NO! I still have all my appeals!"

-- damn right you do! Go, you separatist Alaskans, go! And after your good name is cleared, we'll all rejoice. Now that's a country I wanna live in, the United States of Stevens. Wait, we'd have to replace all the logos of the military-industrial-entertainment complex. How about the United Stevens of America? God Bless Stevens!

Anyway, my tubes were tied yesterday and because they weren't working from dawn to dusk, and I, as a general rule, tend to refuse to watch the talking hairpiece brigade on my days off, I watched instead some light British comedy. And given the results of yesterday's election, I'm more convinced than ever that if I had been able to post, the following sonnet -- I use the term loosely -- completed Monday evening, would've been enough to launch the one true candidate over the top, far beyond both McFossil and Socialist Barack Hussein X.

Some demand we all vote for dead commies.
I know folks planning to cast a line for Nader;
still others wanna vote for their mommies --
hey, it's Palin, you gooper masturbator!























Soon the shit will stop for a short, brief, miniscule moment --
here's our chance! pass the berry Metamucil!
Yippee, the Return of the Perpetual Advertisement.
Oh sure, there's the brother or the fossil;


















the former an imperialist, the latter insane.
I'm sure some porn star is running, if that's your gig.
As for me, there's really only one campaign
worth a damn and we don't ever deign to rig.












So pull the lever for Diva or she'll fuck your shit up
so bad you'll be stuck the rest of your days peeing in a cup.

I was further dismayed on the generally half brother, half cracker bus this morning. Aside from not seeing any rioting outside -- don't let the police chiefs of Murka fool you. Win or lose, they riot, you know what I mean, wink wink, nudge nudge -- all those followers of Farrakhan looked the same way they do every morning with their dour masks of despair, knowing full well that another day of toiling for The Man awaits them.

Why are you sad? You all run the world now! You can't fool me, I saw that glimmer of mischievous hope in the corner of your eyes as you prepare to enact Hussein's cracker roundup plan for enslavement and socialist reedumacation in the ways of the Koran.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly VIII

Shit, no time to compose a thorough write-up.
"You'd rather not write about that clusterfuck."
True. So what should I do?
"Turn on the Automatic Post Generator."
Excellent idea, brain.

The Good: please type number of player(s): 16. You have selected Josh Cribbs. Do you wish to add commentary? N.

The Bad: please type number of player(s): 0. You have selected All of the Above. Do you wish to add commentary? N.

The Ugly: please type number of player(s): 0. You have selected All of the Above: Do you wish to add commentary? N.

Up next: accessing schedule: Thursday in Cleveland versus Denver.

Plumber? I hardly know her!

"I asked this man here why he wasn't checking out my ass like John and then he told me his real name is James Guckert. Wurzelbacher is so much easier to pronounce, isn't it!"

You know you've got problems with the header is far more comical than the attempted snark.

Won't someone please think of the children lazy?

I was horribly axe murdered last night so I'm writing this post from beyond the grave. You're welcome.














Before I go any further, bonne anniversaire, Louis the Stammerer.
Louis not pictured above with Agent Harvey Manfrenjensen.

Anyway, among internets circles, angry loners, the unemployable, esoteric cults of the tubes, and various and sundry pseudo-literati beholden to a dystopian vision of anarchy, November is more than turkey, cranberry sauce and Ohio State/Michigan games. Something Important® is supposedly happening next week, but I'm not referring to that claptrap. I'm talking about something far more hideous.

Sure, there's this blasphemy as well, but only lunatics and worshippers of the Old Ones would dare participate in such an unholy blight upon Odin's creation.

"You're both a lunatic and a worthless acolyte of Cthulhu."

That's right, brain! I knew there was a reason I kept you around instead of trying to sew something Frankensteinian. So, putting aside that piece of French Fried trash, here's what I've got so far for NanoMojo.

It was the best of a dark and stormy night, it was the worst of a dark and stormy night. Leon "Paddy" Czolgosz, the town's Irishman, stepped out of The Daughters of the Bohemian Yugoslavs underneath a dry sky. Oh sure, there was lightning, spooky, spooky lightning, but facing such an empty threat, Leon boldly reached into his jacket, one of those cheap, mass-produced faux-leather bombers that became such a hit during the war that was still raging with no sign of ending in what would probably be a rage, and pulled out a pack of American cigarettes, Winston-Salems. He tried to understand why a Yankee company would have a racecar-driving witch as its mascot, but there weren't any Yankees living in the Kingdom to ask and holding overseas contraband would get you an appointment before the town elders and being circumscribed by the fiery gaze of a gaggle of assassins is something you didn't want, especially if you were the only Irishman in Belgrade.

"Fuck," said Leon, catching the attention of passers-by and the stray rat that scurried for cover in one of the multitude of run-down or abandoned buildings strewn as far as smiling Irish eyes could see. Upon placing the cigarette between his lips, a stark revelation of minor annoyance cast its long shadow over the purple and orange twilight.

Throwing the unlit tobacco product on the ground to stomp it out as if it had been lit, which it wasn't because he had no lighter which was the source of his minor annoyance that had immediately expanded into a major one the very second he realized he would have to reenter The Daughters of the Bohemian Yugoslavs and ask someone for a light, he understood that he would indeed have to do his grave duty if he was to advance the cause of cancer which he didn't care about but stepping back through that portal in the form of a door was something he did because that meant game after game of whist and he was terrible at whist.

Well, time to use The Google to find future fun with captions so I'll have thirty days worth of posts. What else am I gonna do with November, something constructive? Don't be such a Yugoslav.

The Frighteners

"It's Halloween, don't fall asleep! Muahahahaha!"







"But we want 'em to fall sleep, Freddy. Easier ta steal their stuff, heh, heh."









"I was being facetious, you stupid fucker."







"You gots a Facebook? I gots a Facebook, too!"







"Dick, you are his father. *hhhhhohhhhhe* He's giving the rest of us supervillains a bad name. *hhhhhohhhhhe* You will rectify this."







"Grrr. GRRR!"







"Sith. *hhhhohhhhhe* Even Leatherface makes more sense and he's a mute. *hhhhhohhhhhe* Wait, what is that noise? Myers! --







*heavy breathing*

-- that's intergalactic copyright infringement! *hhhhhohhhhhe* I was doing that before --













"No, No, NO! *hhhhhohhhhhe* Hussein, you ignorant Stormtrooper, Jedi Mind Tricks take years of experience. *hhhhhohhhhhe* Johnny, show him how it's done."







"They aren't the ticket you're looking for."



















"Mumble, mumble, what a tool, mumble, mumble. *hhhhhohhhhhe* Leatherface, take this worthless rabble out, I've got an Empire to run. Did I pay the cable bill?"






*whirrrrzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZZZAAAARRGGHHHhhhh......*









*wink*







"What?!?!?!?!"









"Gosh darnit, Darth, the force is strong in this one, doggone it!"

Yeah, I know the Dark Lord of the Sith isn't as Halloweenie as the other maniacs pictured here, but be glad you got a fucking post out of me today at all. Well, time to go home, take the lunatic offspring out then return for the annual rite of watching my favorite horror flick while downing some adult beverages that will hopefully lead to slaughter, mayhem, cannibalism and all the other spooky crap we're obligated to do in honor of The Great and Terrible Lord of Monsterdom.

Our kids asked us why we never get dressed up. I told them I go as a lazy bum. My sometimes better half rolled her eyes. I suggested we go as pimp and prostitute. After more eye rolling, she said sure, but only if she could be the pimp. I said hell no, I ain't shaving these sexy gams.

Happy Halloween, especially to all you pagans who'll be dancing naked around a big bonfire. Watch out for flying embers. If we don't up the rates of procreation, the Invisible Caliphate will win and make us all get gay married in between abortions and persecuting Christians.

And that is something truly scary.

Halloween

This is from a couple of years back. It's not strictly about the holiday, though it was written around that time period, and elements of it color the scenery of the backstory, forever under lock and key.


Apocalypse rise, bathe in phantom hue,
illuminate ways for the unseen.
Look past autumn’s artistry and witness
no ghost descend.
Marbled thought stands watch,
whispers a prophecy in shame: the silhouette
will disappear before first sight,
melt in the summer of the underworld.

Light in league with the dark –
a libation beneath the heavens to beseech the season,
all for the tongue of whom is on the throne of blood,
all for the mouth of the one.
To clean the foulness in my heart,
barren chambers pump away to the dirt –
a dirge echoes over an earth
emptied of flesh and hope.

Lonely blades radiate through panes,
patterns roam temples of dust
where I recite tempered fables, where cold breezes blow
shadows outside, my bed.
Solitary flights fancy the stars,
Cassiopeia where I wished you’d be.
But I only see dreaming trees, moss in slumber,
Faustian pleas humble at the feet of the deaf –

equilibrium crash on broken masonry,
rubble feeding dew-haunted thistles.
Vaulted harmonies are buried,
soon to be joined by vain recollections
as you travel to cities in new lands,
peopled by thieves, a village fête, the hangèd man
and a coward who clings to forgeries read in the leaves –
the living dead.

BRAND FUCKING NEW SLAYER

I wonder what the over/under is on how many were driven away by the headline alone. Sorry if I scared anyone off. Not really.



What the? indeed. I would love to program the above in your fucking iPod, Jessica and Billy Goldberg, and turn it up to eleven twenty. I think it matches the couch just fine, especially when I read aloud the entry on the subject of the song itself, which will truly bring out the velvety sheen of your wide-plank wood floors. Think of it as spoken word with a soundtrack. Pass the fava beans. I hope that Chianti is nice.

Welcome to the world you live in.

Full Disclosure®

"Yasser, my main man! How've you been?"
"Oh, being dead takes all of my time. It's a bitch."
"Laugh, chuckle, at least you don't have ring around the collar!"
"Chortle, wheeze! Say, where's Randal?"
"Shit! I forgot to send him the invite!"

My fellow Americans, my friends, the Most Important Election In Our Lifetime® is taking place next Tuesday. In case you've forgotten, and I know you haven't, here's our platform, so much better than the stale collections of empty promises of all those other jokers, no?

Because of this Important Moment In History®, I felt it only right to be honest with you, the hard-working men and women of Real America®.

Tonight, I had dinner with a man -- and I use the term loosely, the sick, traitorous bastard -- who dares criticize Things Most Sacred®.

"You're at work. You had dinner with yourself. Ramen noodles."

Technically, I didn't lie.

"Technically, you're an asshole."

True.

"Among other things, Israel was described there as the perpetrator of terrorism rather than the victim," Palin said at a rally in Ohio. "What we don't know is how Randal Graves responded to these slurs on a country that he professes to support."

I've also described another country I profess to support as a perpetrator of terrorism. I'm too embarassed to say which one, but I will give you a hint: it starts with Real and ends with America®.

I'm hanging my head in shame as I type this.

Of course those are Real Tears®.

"If there was a tape of John McCain in a neo-Nazi outfit, I think the treatment of the issue would be slightly different," McCain said in an interview with Hispanic radio stations.

He'd no doubt garner rave reviews.























Hey, I don't have photoshop. Use your imagination.

Things That Are Scary, pt. 666

Boo.

So I'm on the bus this morning, angry at the world because you know how it is when listening to an old CD -- I wonder whatever happened to the host -- on new technology; even turning it up to eleven doesn't always drown out the banality of public transportation conversations.

It's 6h15 am. Shut the fuck up and look out the window.

And would it kill you to brush your teeth?

Seriously, even if I'm only one seat away I should not be able to smell your carefully cultivated halitosis. But what really got me was the following. In my quest, dashed because of the darkly tinted plastic advertising mesh affixed upon the glass outside, of trying to catch a glimpse of hot business chick cleavage find a portal to an old memory that I know lies hidden within the rapidly shifting and disappearing details in the skies, I noticed, while we were stopped at a red light, this:











Except these were larger and, yes, blue.

This proves once and for all that Cuyahoga County is indeed Real America®. Now if we could only update our nuclear arsenal. I don't like the way Summit County has been rattling its saber.

Ye Olde Basketballe Preevywe

"Verily, who shalt be this Kobe?"

Exactly. He finally gets a team around him post-Shaq, then he's the MVP? You see who the dude above had to ball with? Fucking hell, man. No one loves playing with 20/20 hindsight more than sports fans -- I guess 30, 7 and 7 doesn't go as far as it used to. Okay, maybe Republicans if the Democratic clowns do indeed take the White House and veto-proof majorities in both chambers. Slash the military budget! Universal health care! No more police state! We've got a spine! Sorry, daydreaming again. But about politics? Come back naked ladies, come back!

And before anyone asks, no, I don't give a fuck that Ted Stevens got convicted. Let me know if Alaska reelects a felon. That would be comical. And about those would-be cracker assassins, I see a song in the future.

Everyone considered him the Cowart of the county.
He'd never stood one single time to prove the skinheads wrong.
His mama named him Danny, the folks just called him Nazi,
But something always told me crackers were reading Danny wrong.

Laugh, damn you, laugh.

Atlantic: The question for Boston is, can the defending champs match last year's intensity? Pay no attention to the loss of James Posey, they'll manage that just fine, but 66-16 won't happen again. The question for Toronto is can Jermaine O'Neal play enough meaningful minutes or is he destined to be a walking injury forevermore? If it's the former, they'll push the Celtics. The question for Philadelphia picked up this year's version of Carlos Boozer and that'll have them fighting for a top-four seed. The Knicks finally did something right. I know that former superstars don't always make the best coaches or front office guys, but Isaiah Thomas was in a vomit-inducing class all his own. You do realize they're still paying Jerome James, right? Don't expect more than 30 wins this season, but at least they won't be a complete laughingstock. The Nets cleared a shitload of cap room to make a run at the monstrous 2010 free agent class. Good luck!

Central: Detroit has the most depth in the division and arguably in the league and will therefore finish on top again. Big fucking deal, you can keep your regular season titles. We've got the best player on planet earth and finally -- finally! -- someone other than LeBron or Z that can score. Praise be unto thee Mo Williams, for thy shalt score many balles in thy basket, ah-men. Boy, the Bulls sure did underachieve a wee bit, huh. The various laws of averages and affiliated corollaries indicate that they likely won't suck as much ass this time around; too much talent. Speaking of talent, the Pacers might have more than you think. If there's a sleeper playoff team in the east, it's these dudes. What about the Bucks? Between Michael Redd and Richard Jefferson and if the rest buy into Scott Skiles' defense first, second and third mentality, perhaps these guys are the sleeper playoff team.

Southeast: Dwight Howard is ridiculous, though I'd still love to see him snag an Olajuwon-esque assassin mentality. Remember when Hakeem destroyed MVP David Robinson in the Western finals? Hedo Turkoglu (can he duplicate last season?) and Rashard Lewis are definitely above average, but this is a one-and-done playoff team. Did the Heat really win the title only a couple of seasons ago? A healthy Dwayne Wade and Shawn Marion, despite having zero on the bench, should be enough to sneak into the playoffs, maybe -- assuming Wade doesn't get hurt and they're out of it so early they trade Shawn to the Lakers for a six-pack, a sandwich and a second round pick in 2012 -- even if Michael Beasley is indeed turning out to be a head case. Sorry Agent Zero, no chance to beat the Cavs yet again, but at least you'll have more time for your blog! Oh, D.J. Augustin, I feel bad for you. Hopefully for your sake, poor Raymond Felton will take all the Larry Brown brunt. Hope you enjoyed that little taste of the postseason, Atlanta. You'll miss Grecian Formula more than you think.

Southwest: Following in the footsteps of the 2006 Saints, the Hornets became America's team, and America found out that these guys are pretty good and that Chris Paul is fucking brilliant. Frontcourt depth is still thin, but they've got enough to hold off poor Houston, forever doomed to succumb to injury despite talent and guts all over the roster. Good luck with Artest, though. Oh, the Spurs, age is cruel, unavoidable. I still maintain that with a healthy Manu, they would have knocked off the Lakers, but not having done much to add depth, the title days may be done, although would it really surprise anyone that with a healthy Ginobili in May and June, they win the whole thing without having home court even once? Can't be done? Right. Speaking of done, the Mavericks window certainly is, but they'll be springtime fodder for someone. Young Memphis will have a horrid record, but O.J. Mayo, Mike Conley, Marc Gasol and Rudy Gay sure will be fun to watch.

Northwest: Hey Jazz, I think Kobe just made another free throw. Outside of Houston, the toughest team in the league, but I wonder if they're as tough in the noggin to get past the hype machine surrounding that team from Southern California. Yes, Oregon, your long Jail Blazer nightmare is over. 75-year old Greg Oden appears healthy, there's Roy and Aldridge and Outlaw and Fernandez. Good times. Not good times in Mile High. Now that Camby is gone, I'm hoping for a return to old school Nuggets ball, lots of 145-138 losses. Can Iverson chuck it up 2000 times? Minnesota won't be very good, but they're doing a decent job -- shocking, I know -- of rebuilding with Al Jefferson, Mike Miller and Kevin Love. It'd be nice if Randy Foye could remain healthy. Oklahoma City, take solace in the fact that you have a team, because it's going to be bad.

Pacific: Yes, with a healthy Bynum, the Lakers are going to go 73-9, yadda yadda yadda. I heard this shit in 2003-04 when Malone and Payton joined Shaq and Kobe. How did that turn out? Still, they'll be very good. I miss the Suns. The real ones, the NBA version of Air Coryell or those Warren Moon Oiler teams. Enough talent remains to steal a playoff series, but that's all. The Warriors? From, statistically, the greatest upset in NBA history to, within two short years, losing Baron and getting hit by the stupidity of last year's best player and probably missing the playoffs. How 'bout them Raiders? Baron Davis and Marcus Camby won't stay healthy, so the Clippers join Golden State on the golf course. Sacramento has Kevin Martin.

Eastern playoff teams: Boston, Detroit, Cleveland, Orlando, Philadelphia, Toronto, Miami, Washington.

Western playoff teams: L.A. Lakers, Utah, New Orleans, Houston, San Antonio, Portland, Phoenix, Dallas.

NBA Finals: LeBron is on a mission. [insert sports cliché of your choice] With another scoring option at his disposal, The King overcomes a mediocre-at-best bench to lose in the Finals to -- barf -- the Lakers, whereby 87 quadrillion talking hairpieces proclaim the greatness of Kobe -- is he best ever? -- while conveniently ignoring his superior supporting cast and the near triple-double LeBron lays on his punk ass night after night.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly VII

"Told you I can catch!"

Yeah, that's why the Browns lead the NFL in dropped passes.

The Good: Yes, for the 85th straight week, Jamal Lewis. The dude simply runs angry. Derek Anderson continued his impersonation of Bret Saberhagen by not chucking the ball to the other team this time out. The run defense, overall, didn't do their impersonation of a sieve. Shaun Rogers had quite the sequence in the third quarter, stuffing Jacksonville on a 3rd-and-3 then blocking a field goal attempt then recovering the loose ball. We only had one penalty! One!

The Bad: The defense permitted 11 of 20 third down conversions. That's bad. We made Matt Jones into Randy Moss. Also bad. We nearly handed them the game with some classic Martyball in the last minute. Extra bad.

The Ugly: The Steelers getting smacked around by the Giants! HAHAHAHA!

Up next: at home versus The Fucking Ravens.

There, that's better

Dearest Randal, I'm so sick of gazing upon that inconceivably putrescent shot below that I'm afraid you're going to have to be punished.

"Wake up, you bastard."

Huh? What? Oh. Well, back to traipsing from working on the next paper for class, watching le football américain, deciphering my horrid handwriting in an attempt to add last night's work to the rest of the story and lounging about the house with a lot of pussy. You know, our cats.

I'm a flasher

Of fiction. Are you kidding me? Ripped Matthew McConaughey I ain't, plus there's that whole indecent exposure misdemeanor. But I gots me some smrts and that's always extra sexy. Anyway, get your mind out of the gutter and listen up. Übermilf has kindly demanded that we write -- well, just click over there for the rules if so inclined to pen your own masterpiece. Gather 'round and I shall tell you a tale spun in the grand tradition of beloved Halloween blankets of yore, except that this one is ratty and full of holes, causing you to die an icy death from extreme boredom and -- wait, let's let The Man read it, he can make anything sound spooky.














She was suddenly gripped by an invisible yet manifestly clammy hand. Reason, in violent spasm, struggled against the onset of debilitating catatonia -- no, dearest baby Jesus, the hand wasn't -- human. Frightened far beyond the inability to think and with her mental faculties on summer vacation even though it was autumn, her motor skills rapidly shut down. The brakes were out as her mind crossed multiple lanes of sanity and crashed into abject, primal horror, every defense mechanism shattered, white-hot shrapnel flying away from her gentle soul with prodigious, sinister speed, illuminating the scene that circumscribed her fragile psyche.

She was surrounded.

North. South. East, and all the compass points between, past the gnarled trees and the old yellow house, the last one on the left; framed by the tenebrous night they were. Rivulets of sweat cascading off her trembling brow somehow turned a putrescent shade of red -- the moon? No, the sky was clear, the stars mocking her with each pulse of light -- she spun around, dizzy, looking for the faintest break in the wall of them, the smallest crack that would carry her frame past the hell of no-man's land that lay twixt her final breaths and perhaps, if she was lucky -- or cursed -- one more hour on the good earth.

Screaming for help was over the horizon of impossible, for the simplest, monosyllabic noise she was unable to summon from her throat, from the depths of her weakened body that knew only the erratic thump of her heaving, straining heart.

The wind, or what her agitated mind had thought was the wind, grew louder, opaque, oppressive. A solitary voice coiled around another; a third, a fourth, hundreds, thousands rocketing up from the blackest pit, an abyss so vile, so venomous, a cacophony split apart, giving birth to a second pandemonium that made the premier cower before this fresh, rotten evil. Wave after wave of aural terror shredded the dying air around her. A scream, oh god, a scream at last! instantaneously lost within the harrowing, deafening din that echoed until nothing was left but silence, and the end.

"Doggone it, darn right, you betcha...doggone it, darn right, you betcha...doggone it, darn right, you betcha...doggone it, darn right, you betcha..."

Is it hot in here or is it just you?

I have no idea if that line would work as I'm a married man and thus poorly versed in the realm of romance. I also have serious reservations about the finding of a new study as it doesn't mesh with my personal experience.

"What personal experience? You've been hitched for sixteen years."

Believe me, I know.

Looking to improve your romantic odds? Get your date a steaming cup of coffee.

That's the implication of a new study by researchers who wanted to see if there was any connection between physical and emotional heat.

To their surprise, they found that people who held a cup of hot coffee for 10 to 25 seconds warmed to a perfect stranger. Holding a cup of iced coffee had the opposite effect.

From dawn to dusk, caffeine is flowing through my veins. Not literally just yet, as I'm still trying to perfect my homemade IV without offing myself via exploding circulatory system. All these steaming cups of beans and I still hate all most some -- see, one does indeed mellow with age -- of you fuckers.

Iron Constitution

I'm sure many of you remember when I wrote about the Border Patrol SUV parked outside a downtown Cleveland hotel for a few days.

"Of course they do, that's the one time you didn't dull the purple pain of your banal, oh so banal prose with a picture of a scantily-clad lady."

Shut up, brain or I'll stab you to death with a Q-tip. Anyway, thanks to those communist Muslim fundamentalist Nazis over at the ACLU, I recently found out why it was here: I'm living in a Constitution-Free Zone®! Sure, it's fascist, left-wing propaganda, but check out this cool map!














One of my classmates spent a couple of semesters a few years back up in Quebec studying the life and habitat of the nearest frog enclave, and he said that he received far more grief both to-and-fro on the Murkan side of the fence than from the gentle Canadian hippies. Probably didn't help that he's a brother; you know how they are, been plotting to bring down the government for decades.

Oh well, at least I've got nothing to hide. Long ago I learned my lesson, and thus keep my porn, weed and out-of-state fruits and vegetables in my basement next to the meth lab and S&M dungeon.

One more thing. I don't like being disappointed in my fellow Murkans, really I don't, as it pains me more than my posts pain you, but this is just silly. Moviefone.com recently ran a poll for our favorite movie pretzeldent and I can't believe Han Solo tore down the voting wall when there was such an obvious, nay, duh, choice.













America, there you go again.

"whisperwhisperwhisper"

Wait. The 1980s weren't a movie?