American Fez

Incredible Incarcerations

Although most of us live behind gates, at least one percent of America's adult population is currently serving time behind bars. If our prisons still crewed chain gangs, then I calculate that we'd have enough inmates to form a human chain-link fence encircling the entire state of Arkansas. This would an interesting and amusing experiment, rather like an installation by those cheeky environmental artists called Christo and Jeanne Claude.
Of course, this also means that today is a great time to invest you rmoney in designer labels that specialise in manufacturing clothes with vertical arrows printed on them, such as the Calvin Klein Jailbird range, Donna Karan Riker's Island, or Papillon Pour Homme.

Sitting Bullshit

I am Dripping Tap, warrior chief and shaman of the Ablution tribe. For many moons have we roamed the tiled plain. This is our sacred land: from high on Cistern Ridge to the vast sweep of the ceramic basin; from deep Tub canyon to the turbulent mouth of the Toilet waters. Our ancestors first squeezed toothpaste here, taught us how to aim properly, plucked their nose hairs in the ritual manner, irrigated armpits and corralled the great herds of wild turd. For these are the happy hunting grounds of the toenail trimmer and the denture flosser, skills passed down from the ancients to both brave and squaw alike. We were blessed with close, comfortable shaves, the secret of distilled anti-gingivitis fire water was made known to us, and our peace pipes never required the attention of Liquid Plumber, not even the valve under the sink.
But then the pale face came with his baskets of potpourri, lavender bath salts, and cheap "art" prints of Gainsborough's Blue Boy on the wall, forgetting to flush and leaving behind his heavy bacterial build-up in the shower, wet towels left on the floor, and curly pubic hairs on the toilet seat. The Old Ones shake with rage and the ornamental brass fittings tremble. I, Dripping Tap, seek freedom for my people, so I'm going to build a jacuzzi and promote ladies' nights.

My Cosmopolitan Moment

Desperately needing to revitalize our love life, last night my wife decided to indulge in some light role playing, and so, after dinner, we entered our leather upholstered dungeon dressed as Hilary Clinton and Barack Obama.
Since I obviously look more like Mrs. Clinton than my wife does, Cheryl was forced to "black up" all over, a necessary gender reversal adding even more spice to what promised to be an extremely steamy evening.
Foreplay consisted of a four hour debate where we questioned each other's positions on what positions we liked. But unfortunately we had not bargained for how much my negative campaigning would affect Cheryl's sex drive, and so there were some very heated exchanges:

Obama: There has been enough talk already. We need to have sex now.
Hilary: You say we need to have sex now, but you don't explain how you actually intend to have the sex, what kind of sex it will be, or even who's going to pay for it all.
Obama: I'm just asking you to believe. To believe that I have the ability to bring about real change in the bedroom.
Hilary: You can't just hope you're going to have an orgasm, Senator.
Obama: Oh just shut up you sterile old cow face.

At midnight we gave up and reverted back to our regular Panzer Commander and the Milkmaid scenario, since they are much more likable and interesting characters.

Strip Mall

The oil-slicked asphalt is stapled to the ground by rusting metal bollards. It provides space for fifteen cars and contains exactly none. But there are resilient weeds, empty plastic shipping pallets, and oblong stucco boxes housing random retail space: donuts to go; a Tuxedo King; automobile insurance sales; two Tae Kwon Do Schools; a discount shoe store; the Law Offices of Des O' Lation; and an bankrupt gym. The windows of these buildings have nearly shattered themselves with the effort of trying not to cry. Hold that grimy styrofoam coffee cup up to your ear and you can hear the blubbery static of a polyester sweater being pulled over an obese body. In the distance a foot odor insole flaps in the rancid wind.

Mother Russia, Wicked Stepmother United States

How ironic that the Russian people adore their virtually autocratic President while we are forced to endure with gritted teeth and clenched fists whichever obnoxious oaf our electorate dislike the least. I guess we won the cold war but lost the lukewarm peace, or something like that.
Still, at least our leaders are the good guys, even if we don't like them. Just look at the situation in Kosovo for instance. Nice to know we are supporting the Balkan sex slave trade.
But I should bite my tongue because, unlike the United States and its friends, I don't think an argument between Serbians and Kosovars is any of my goddamn business.
 

The Snows of Clintonmanjaro

Hilary Clinton's campaign reminds me of a some Himalayan mountaineering expedition gone wrong; suddenly imperiled by a powerful and unexpected avalanche; forced to rub the last two sticks of Texas and Ohio together to build a fire; constantly harried by the looming, abstract figure of the Abominable Obamaman.
Every single day is a struggle for mere existence in this frozen Hell. Should she return to base camp and wait four years until her next ascent? Or will she soldier onwards, forced to drink her own urine and gnaw on human bones in order to survive? Personally, I couldn't give a sherpa's turd.
Meanwhile, in the Andean kingdom of his mind, conquistador McCain thinks he has discovered El Dorado....  (to be continued.)

Of Dog-Eared Men

My life is an open book. In fact it falls open at yellowed pages twenty-seven and twenty-eight, where I have underlined the two short paragraphs that make me seem like an interesting and worthwhile person.
Unfortunately the illustrations on page twenty-seven are of extremely poor quality, especially the drawing captioned "That's me!" since it actually looks absolutely nothing like me: I am not really a half-human, half-spider beastman.
When I made the arrangements to have this open book of my life published I told Thames and Hudson that the title should be 'Art of the Phallus Magus,' but for some reason my instructions were ignored and it hit the shelves as 'World's Funniest Three-Toed Sloth Jokes,' which I don't like at all, but luckily my life is an open book, so potential readers can't see the cover or spine.

Schleist Contra Schlepst

I adhere to only one political credo: Schleistianism, based on the political thought and writings of Otto Schleist, the renowned seventeenth-century Austrian philosopher and yodelling polemicist. His acclaimed book of thinking, 'What I Think Is What I Yodel' has been my constant bedside companion throughout these dark days of Presidential Primaries and weirdo caucus thingies.
I regularly find myself consulting Schleist's great opus on such "hot" contemporary issues as the so-called War on Tourism, Illegal Fumigation, Guys in the Military, and the ever increasing National Dot, and I am always fascinated to learn that Schleist has written absolutely nothing whatsoever about these burning topics. His profound silence provides a sane counterpoint to the lunatic ravings of senators Backroom O'Bummer and Juan McPain.
Despite its great antiquity, Schleist's weary maxim, "It doesn't matter who you vote for because the Government always gets elected," has never seemed so appropriate.

That PinataBeat Sound

As readers of my music blog will know, I am an integral member of a Spanish language Beatles cover band called The Beatels. There are four of us: Juan, Pedro, Jorge and Gringo. I play the drums.
I say "cover band," but we usually only get about a third of the way through a song before we start firing our pistols wildly in the air and shrieking "arriba, arriba" at anyone within earshot. Then we suddenly get very sad and quiet and shuffle off into the dark while a melancholy bell chimes in the distance. We call this "That Pinatabeat Sound."

A note on the text: Yeah, I know this is a little bit racist and stereotyped and everything, but it was inspired by 'The Magnificent Seven' which is on TV as I type.Great movie, much better than that Japanese thing.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

As every nation builder knows, motives are often misunderstood, and what was meant as kindness is often treated with suspicion. Take, for example, my Cuban-American goldfish Juan. There he was, imprisoned, oppressed and half-starved, swimming disconsolately around the glazed confines of his tiny bowl each day without hope of reprieve. So I decided to build him a beautiful indoor kite from balsa wood and shiny colored paper, and then installed a small oscillating fan to provide enough wafty breeze to keep the kite fluttering high o'er Juan's watery home. That will cheer him up, I thought. Everyone loves flying a kite. But I was wrong. Apparently Juan was convinced that the kite was some sort of dangerous airborne version of a fishing lure and ignored it completely. Stupid, ignorant, bug-eyed fish; that's the last time I spend my entire President's Day holiday making entertainments for him.

How Not To Be Fat

The best way not to be fat is simply not to be American. But this may be harder than you think.
Recent scientific studies have shown that even the very air in America is full of extra calories; fatty pollution caused by the over frying of fossil cheeses in millions of unregulated fast food restaurants.
Another cause of climate obesity is the sugary, sticky clouds formed by the evaporation of super-sized cola drinks and chocolate sick. The result is dangerous sky belching and uncontrollable atmospheric flatulence. What was once the o-zone layer has gained so much weight that it is now the O-zone layer.
There is no longer enough room in the bulging American sky to contain such a vast and frequent caloric intake, and so its ever expanding ass must waddle into the air space of foreign countries and sit on their heads as well.
If you are in Kosovo and you happen to observe a hamburger shaped cloud hovering overhead, please contact the United Nations, and they will direct you to the appropriate authorities.

Dust Thou Art

An accusatory finger of sunlight exposes a dust toupee gathering upon Caesar's ceramic pate, and what passes for a carpet of fallen ash beneath Churchill's glazed cigar. In fact, all my fine furniture and collectible figurines are covered with these great white sheets of dust, as if they were the contents of some country house abandoned until the springtime.
It is unswept flakes of my own dead skin, of course, that form these microbial tarpaulins, and, alas, it is mostly skin from my best and most photogenic side. Indeed, I have started to notice that I am slowly becoming asymmetrical. The flesh on the right side of me is definitely meatier than the thin, dessicated tissue on my left.
Dr Gleedle informs me that this is a romantic wasting disease common to sea-faring folk such as myself, including Palinaurus, Jason and the Argonauts, Ahab, Blind Pew, Captain and Tenille, the Flying Dutchman, Horatio Hornblower, the Owl and the Pussycat, Admiral Nelson, and last but not least, Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Ancient Mariner.
The only remedy, so Dr Gleedle tells me, is to coat the infected regions of my body with giant squid ink extract, and then soak myself in a luxurious briny bath with a holistically-trained and buxom mermaid for five hours.
This is what happens when you live in a state with mandatory healthcare laws.

Stephenesque's Brief Lives (number 174)

He was a former champion spoon-bender from Dortmund who claimed he could help women increase the size of their astral breasts. His clients called him Herr Pudding, as in "Herr Pudding says my nipples are two rosy UFOs landing in a lake of alabaster." Of course, alabaster was passe even then, and I think that contributed to his downfall, that and the spangly tank tops he used to wear.
Later he claimed his teeth were haunted by the teeth of Wild Bill Hickok, which is why they were all falling out and so he hired a transcendental dentist to perform a sort of root canal exorcism: "In the name of the Great God Orthodont I command thee to rinse and spit and begone ...etcetera."
Nowadays he goes by the name of Master Muesli, and he sells honey oat chakras on TV.

See also: Nemo

And: Big Norman

For some reason I can't find my biography of Sir Edmund Whyte-Kunckleby Inarage, which is a shame because I liked that one.

Norse Election Edda

Translated from the original runes by Pundit Punditsson

Bold Barack Obama
Black lord of Illinois
Battles Bill's brood mare
In bloody caucus war
Blue state is stained red
Crow feasts well
On the Clinton dead.

Wolf devours slain Huckabee
Sword and axe do good work.
Norns shriek and cackle
As Romney's skull is shattered
Warlike McCain of Arizona
Scourge of conservatives
Is hailed Thane hereafter.

Political Process Pool

In my role as recognized political Tiresias, folk often ask me which noble combatant will emerge victorious in the upcoming Presidential joust between Senator John McPain and Senator Barack O'Bummer.
These two superb candidates, one strong and honorable, the other beautiful and magnificent, offer the American polling booth an embarrassment of electable riches. Both are exalted at the altar of righteousness in the temples of almighty God; both stride forward with empowering purpose in the Greco-Roman sandals of Western civilization; both are draped in the iridescent toga of humility and compassion; and both have sprung forth from the rampant loins of George Washington and honest Abe Lincoln.
With two such wonderful, trustworthy and charming supermen to choose between, surely there can only be one winner in this clash of Presidential titans: the American people.

Weather Or Not

Torrential rain always brings to mind an image of Noah nailing the planks of his Ark together; and I often wonder why God didn't provide him with the technology to build a state-of-the-art submarine instead. After all, surely it would have been much more interesting and educational for Noah and his animals to explore the strange, polychromatic wonders of the ocean floor for forty days and nights, instead of idly cruising around a flooded desert with nothing to look at except cloudy sky and a relentless downpour? Mind you, in a submarine I guess there would have been the ever present danger of being trampled by claustrophobic elephants with a bad case of the bends, so perhaps your average, run-of-the-mill boat was the best idea.

Meet the New Godzilla, Same As the Old Godzilla

Media pundits excavating mud flats along the Potomac river have discovered a fully fossilized McCainosaurus Rex, a hairless dinosaur that thrives during our own late Politicozoic period. Like most Politicozoic dinosaurs, fossilization is the McCainosaurus's  natural condition, since its DNA is comprised entirely of self-replicating ancient stories about its Vietnam war heroism.

The greedily macho McCainosaurus feeds on smaller, less electable Politicozoic dinosaurs, such as the pesky, insectoid Huckabeest; and the Romneydon, a primitive form of shape-shifting lounge lizard. But the most terrifying aspect of the McCainosaurus is undoubtedly its spine-chilling mating call: 'Bomb bomb Iran' nasally sung to the tune of the Beach Boys' hit Barbara Ann. If you hear that deadly refrain, run for your life, because a vicious rogue McCainosaurus Rex will be trampling sane foreign policy underfoot!

Narcissus of the Sands

If you require proof of just how egoistical and arrogant of our society has become, observe how the self-appointed choosers of Desert Island Discs never take Man Friday's musical tastes into account. There he is beneath the drowsy palms, happily whittling away at his bamboo sticks, when all of a sudden the tranquility of his tropical paradise is shattered by some selfish, finger-snapping castaway blasting ten of his favorite rock 'n' roll tracks across the beach and deafening the parrots. Nobody ever thinks to ask poor Man Friday what songs he might like to hear.
Of course, he would undoubtedly pick the Mantovani Orchestra for hours on end, or whatever other mindless, easy-listening dirges he finds washed up on the shore. But that's not really the point.

Sabbath Messy Sabbath.

One of the problems with my Devil worship group is that we are all a bit squeamish. We enjoy the nudity and chanting hymns backwards, but we don't much care for cutting the throat of a sacrificial offering. In the past we've tried substituting tomato ketchup for fresh goat's blood at the altar, but unfortunately some of us were a little too eager to employ this convenient alternative.
I shall never forget the unholy sight of a frenzied Esmeralda Zouch pouring great red gobs of the stuff over her enormous, moonlit, quivering breasts during the Dance of Dionysus. I am all in favor of sordid, pagan degradation during invocations, but even I'd have to say that  Esmeralda probably overdid it on that particular occasion; and besides, by the time the ketchup got around to me there wasn't any left, and so I had to bang on the bottom of the bottle to get the last dregs out. There was only just enough left for me to trace a small, ill-proportioned pentagram on my bum before Satan appeared and I was forced to do all the explaining.
Frankly, at this point, I think I'll quit the Devil worship and join a Wiccan coven instead. It's far more rewarding. There's a lot more nudity and all you need to bring along are some herbs, a few candles and a thing of gourmet lettuce.

The World's Most Precarious Jobs

Being the pilot of a Chinese skywriting plane must be mind-bendingly difficult. Imagine trying to loop-the-loop this message across the clouds while trying to keep control of a twin-engine Cessna on a windy day:

Fasten your seat belts, boys, it's going to be a bumpy calligraphy exercise.

Shell Guide To Boring British Countryside

After our brief excursion to Slugford with its famous plate of boiled feet, the road crosses the tinkling River Pyss and meanders westwards towards Weaseldon and St Verukka's Welly. It was here, as John Aubrey remarks, that "Friar Hooligan did most lewdly shew his parts to Mistress Chavve" in the autumn of 1637. The event is commemorated by a pair of threadbare underpants draped over the cistern of the public toilets behind the Posh Spice memorial. A good pub nearby is the Bore's Head, whose sign features an amusing likeness of the Archbishop of Canterbury.

See also: Mysteriously Boring Britain

And also: The East Chilblain Shithouse

The Other Munich

British sports fans are currently lachrymose over the Munich air disaster anniversary. Fifty years ago a plane crashed on take-off at Munich airport, killing several young Manchester United soccer players. And so, draped in their retro team jerseys with black-edged rosettes, mourning fans will observe obligatory one minute silences at stadia across the United Kingdom on Saturday afternoon.
But I suppose we should be grateful for small mercies. After all, had this aeronautical tragedy befallen Liverpool, that most sentimental of cities, rather than Manchester, then we'd all be forced to endure a wretched, compose-by-numbers Paul McCartney Requiem especially composed to mark the event; or Roger McGough reciting mawkish sing-song poetry for hours on end in the middle of some miserable, rain-soaked cobbled street.

Quark, Strangeness and Charm

Last night, while I was channeling the entity known as Vota from the star constellation of Chusedee Maximus, he told me that he had cast his ballot for Obama.
"It wasn't a race thing," the voice of Vota said, "I just like what he has to say about dark matter and black holes."
At this juncture there was a short pause in the interplanetary communication as a lengthy stream of red, white and blue ectoplasm was discharged from my throat.
"I've read Hilary's book," Vota continued, "It Takes An Unidentified Flying Object, and I must say I wasn't impressed with her take on bio-genetic experimentation reform. I mean, what does she plan to do with all the mutants? Stick them in a subterranean penal colony on Floridian Seven or something? But I think either of them has a good chance of destroying the Republican starship fleet in hyper space. Obviously, McCain does look a little like Yoda, but he's no Obi Wan Kenobi."
Unfortunately, the channeling session ended with this fascinating revelation, as I had fallen into a deep coma.

Moody Tuesday

Like most sane and rational people, I have learned from bitter experience to scour the works of Nostradamus for my presidential election predictions, rather than relying on the misinformed, desperate belching of professional political pundits.  For instance, I recently came across these fascinating quatrains amongst the ancient sage's more esoteric writings:

The cuckoldress and the Afrique swain
Lock horns on Tuesday maximus
Thus the democrats are torn in twain
By race and gender animus

McCain's fiery balding pate ascends
Claiming to be brow most conservative
As Romney flip flops over voter trends
Whilst applying his wrinkle preventative

Obviously these prophetic verses are open to varied interpretations, but after careful study and consultation of the National Review and similar arcane texts I suggest the following meaning(s):

If Hilary Clinton is elected absolutely nothing will change at all, but she will appoint more black justices.
If Barack Obama is elected absolutely nothing will change at all, but he will appoint more female justices.
If Mitt Romney is elected absolutely nothing will change at all, and he won't appoint any justices either.
If John McCain is elected absolutely nothing will change at all, except that he will bomb Iran.

Meanwhile, media bores are exulting over the great "diversity" of candidates parading in the Presidential carnival: the first woman president; the first black president; the first Mormon president; the first Iran bombing president? What ever happened to the first good president for heaven's sake? That's what I want to know.

This Year's Model

Last week the filter on my year-old vacuum cleaner malfunctioned, and so I returned to the store to replace this small and rather puny component. The dour man behind the counter, his clothes crackling with static electricity, seemed confused.
"Haven't seen one of these before," he said with a low whistle. You would have thought I had presented him with some ancient Mayan artifact, recently unearthed from the ruins of long lost temple, rather than a vacuum cleaner I had purchased from his shop twelve months ago.
"It's going to be a special order," he continued. "They discontinued these a while back. Take about six to eight weeks. And that's if they've still got any in stock."
Vacuum cleaners must be among the most abused victims of industrial design's relentless tinkering. This much persecuted domestic appliance is the plastic guinea pig of product development labs the world over. My current model looks like an alien blasting laser cannon from the movie Starship Troopers. Before that I owned this yank-a-long canister type thing with yards of ungainly tubing and various nozzle attachments apparently inspired by the hair-cut of the lead singer of Flock of Seagulls. Fortunately they lasted longer than his credibility.
In the seventies, my mother, I recall, was possessed of an upright horror with an enormous bag that looked like a pair of flared trousers. Then, of course, we can go all the way back to the optimistic, nineteen-fifties and the gleaming "House Wife of the Future" spherical model that looked like a Russian space satellite, which, I’m sure, was far more reliable than my broken contemporary version.
Oh well, at least it's a perfect excuse not to do any housework for the next six to eight weeks.

How To Rule An African Country

1. Hold an Idi Amin look-a-like contest.
2. Stage military coup and install winner of Idi Amin look-a-like contest as President.
3. Change name of country to something that sounds like an Eastern European consonant.
4. Distribute machetes.
5. Wear sunglasses and safari unifrom with enormous epaulets while shouting a lot during UN council meetings.
6. Discuss situation with Bono.

God knows but the poor Africans deserve better than this. Where are Osei Tutu, Shaka Zulu and Queen Nzinga when you need them?

Meanwhile, our increasingly desperate Presidential candidates are spending millions and millions on campaign advertising. In the last week alone Obama spent four million dollars and Clinton an uncool three and half million. McCain blew through two million dollars just in Florida, and having already wasted thirty-five million dollars, Mitt Romney is supposedly limiting himself to a mere two million this week. So much money washing down the media drain. McCain's new ad is laughably entitled "True Conservative." He is obviously not a fiscal one, however.
And so, alas, in its own venal and dollar driven way, our "democratic" system of government is equally as ridiculous as the African model.
That common ancestor we share must have been a right gullible stooge.

Unsteady Eddy

There is a large Christian Science Disneyland Castle in the middle of Boston. Apparently this Romanesque hodgepodge is Christian Science's "Mother Church," the First church of Christ Scientist, but it looks more like the facade of a Ripley's Believe It Or Not Museum. And quite frankly, I don't believe a word of it.
Without doubt, the Pray 'n' Hope approach to terminal illness is most foolish aspect of Christian Science dogma:
"Don't take any medicine. God will provide." Yes he will, and he will mostly provide death.
"Jesus has called him to a better place." Well, quite frankly, hospital would have been a better place, but they will stick to their weird little credo.
I'm sure a devoted Christian Scientist would claim that I know absolutely nothing about Christian Science at all, and have just completely misrepresented its teachings. To which I would respond: "Bugger off, Christian Scientist."
Mind you, Christian Science is not that much worse than relying on HMO Blue Healthcare when all is said and done. Personally, I drink a pint vial of hemlock mixed with hellebore for all my ailments, as prescribed by the excellent Dr Jekyll.

Exodus AM

And so it came to pass that the brazen commuters descended into the subterranean vaults, and great was the multitude thereof that didst clamber into the electric iron horse. And there was much wailing and pinching of faces and frowning of brows, for the Great Beast whose number is digitally encoded upon his Monthly Pass had broken wind within those narrow confines. Verily had he traded coins with the unclean bakers of Egg MacMuffins with extra cheese, and thrice refilled the blackest of large coffees at the Temple of Starbucks. Thus did the Great Beast's flatulent buttocks blast forth his gaseous clouds of foul smelling plague unto the Sons of Adam as they traveled into the offices of Pharaoh.
"Oh Lord why hath thou forsaken us!" crieth they.

See also: Truth Disrobed By Time (Again)
And: Pickman's Model