Monthly Archives: September 2014

And I Approved This Message.


J.G.: Mmmmm…damn phone…mhello?

B.O.:  Are you watching this?

J.G.:  Goddammit…am I watching what?  Who is this?

B.O.:  It’s the President.

J.G.:  Mr. President? Oh shit.  I’m sorry.  I’m taking a nap, sir. Wow, I haven’t heard from you since….

B.O.:  Turn on CNN!

J.G.:  Hold on, sir.

B.O.:  You got it?  Is it on yet?

J.G.:  Judas Priest!  Give me a second.  This better be good, sir.

B.O.:  Fore!

J.G.:  What?  Four?  Sir, what are you doing?

B.O.:  Golf.

J.G.:  Oh no.

B.O.:  Just nine holes.

J.G.:  It just looks bad, sir.  You know, what with the world falling apart and everything.

B.O.:  Look, I don’t need a lecture from you about optics…just turn on your goddamn TV.

J.G.:  Aw shit.

B.O.:  What is it?

J.G.:  My cable got shut off again, sir.  Son of a bitch.

B.O.:  Okay, listen, my secret service detail quit.

J.G.:  What?  Quit?  What do you mean, sir?  They left?

B.O.:  And the Capitol Police. No, they didn’t leave…they’re just not working.   I mean, they’re all still standing around here, pretending to be working, I guess, but they’re not doing anything.  People are just fucking walking into the White House now.  Apparently one dude came running in with a knife, ran right into the  and went running straight for the East Room screaming about wanting to behead me, and no one did anything about it.  No one even said, “Stop.”

J.G.: That can’t be true.  If nobody did anything, what happened?  Is he still running around in there?

B.O.: You know how we have that really deep shag in there?

J.G.:  Yes sir.

B.O.:  Dude tripped on the carpet.  Hit his head on the edge of the table.  Knocked himself out.

J.G.:  You’re shitting me.

B.O.:  I’m crapping you negative, cracker.

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The Muricles of Yeezus.

AL MASADA, CALIF, Sept 15 (JG) – Claiming to be a messiah, rapper Kanye West has begun to perform miracles during shows on his “I Said I’m Jesus, Goddammit!” tour.

Over the weekend, Mr. West stopped his show to heal the sick, insisting that he would not perform one more song until “those unbelievers ova dur get on they feet,” referring to a section of of the arena reserved for wheelchair-bound fans. According to witnesses, it appeared that a miracle might actually take place as one such fan attempted to rise from his wheelchair, only to immediately fall forward, slamming his head against a safety rail, suffering a broken nose and a concussion.

Unable to pull off that miracle, Mr. West next attempted to make the blind see and to raise the dead, but was met with even less success. Clearly frustrated, Mr. West then attempted what witnesses described as “a few low-rent card tricks,” and then stormed off the stage. “It was weird,” said one concert-goer who had paid over $5000 for a VIP package that included front row seats. “He was going up to everybody in the first couple rows saying, ‘Pick a card, any card,’ and we would, and he would say, ‘Three of clubs!’ and he’d be wrong and he’d get mad and try again with the next person. After about 10 times, he just said, ‘Fuck y’all,’ and left.”

There were no calls for an encore, and most who could walk were making their ways toward the exits before the house lights were turned on. Others just rolled out the same way they’d come in.

Kanye West rose to fame after making a sex tape with his now wife, Kim Kardashian, several years ago while he was a back-up dancer on her “Ass Big as Alaska” tour. Rolling Stone Magazine recently called him “the Hootie and the Blowfish of hard-core rap,” and he was honored with a guest appearance on Cartoon Network’s “South Park” last year.



Due to credible threats from everybody from under-aged and over-zealous readers, radical Islamic militants, and outbreaks of Ebola and Dengue fevers, as well as World War III, I have been forced to retain professional personal security services.



This is Biscuit. Or, as he says when he calls me in an emergency “This Bicuit!” Or, if there’s an emergency and he’s already been hitting his afternoon Benzedrine and grappa, “Thiscuit!”

Biscuit is my new bodyguard, head of security, road manager, hype man, and fixer. I have never seen him without sunglasses on. He is not allowed to carry firearms as a condition of his probation, but he is an absolute menace with his BB gun rifle. I have yet to see him shoot, but he keeps bludgeoning the hell out of people with the butt of the thing, so much so that part of his nightly routine is to repair the the gun with duct or masking tape.

His resume, such that it was, was handwritten on a cocktail napkin from The Hideaway Lounge. It said BISCUIT in huge letters at the top, and then had bulleted qualifications, of which one was “former seal.” Of course, I thought he was indicating former membership in one of the Navy’s elite SEAL teams, but such was not the case. Biscuit very much believes that he was a seal, you know…water mammal, black eyes, flippers, aggressively cute…in a past life and had a particular fondness for mackerel.

Biscuit Trivia: Not only is Biscuit his given name, but he has two older twin brothers, both of whom are named Balloon.

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That’s it. That is absolutely it.

I don’t necessarily actively watch much TV, but the TV always seems to be on, usually with the volume loud enough to be heard in other rooms, which is where I usually am. Normally the noise is effortlessly tuned out, but whenever something “relevant” comes on, I hear it. And so it was the other night when what with my wondering ears did I hear but the sweet, sweet sound of Sid Vicious singing “My Way.” I sprang to my feet to find out what the hell was going on. What could it mean? My mind raced through various possibilities as I ran into the room whence the sound came. Had Sidney Vish been frozen along with Bruce Lee and Elvis in the late ’70s to be revived once the economy had improved? Had the determination been made that the economy is clearly never going to get better and we may as well just bring back the boys to kick a little ass and have a bit of fun? There were oh so many wonderful scenarios passing through my transom when I sock-skidded around the corner and saw the TV. A car commercial. For Acura. No Sid. No Nancy. Acura.

I believe what I now experience each time that commercial comes on is what David Wallace called The Howling Fantods, what HST called The Fear, and what modern psychology calls Cognitive Dissonance. Call it what you will, now instead of sudden elation and the urge to overthrow monarchies, I just have a weird goddamn fit and end up cussing at everything in a Tourettish display of contempt.

I think I’m getting an ulcer. Surrender is imminent. Send whiskey.



When the history of World War III is written, the pusillanimous failure of the United States to act throughout 2013 and 2014 will be blamed directly for the length and ferocity of the war.