Saturday, January 10, 2009
The following is a condensed transcript of Gov. Rod Blagojevich’s comments on Friday, after the Illinois Hizzouse impeached him.
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life. Electric word, life. It means forever, and that's a mighty long time.
In my life, I have provided breast exams to impoverished women in Hyde Park. With my own bare hands! For this, I have been impeached.
I sponsored a program to give our elderly citizens all of the drugs they could possibly hope for. Good drugs, too. Your grandmother was in pain, I pulled some strings. For this, I have been impeached.
There was a young man – 12 or 18 years old, I think (I forget). Whatever, the point is that I, Rod Blagojevich, gave him my own liver. I stitched it into his body, too, and that boy is Michael Phelps. I’m so proud of us both. And yet - for this, I have been impeached.
In closing, I’d like to share a poem I have written.
There once was a man from Nantucket
Who’s dick was so big he could suck it
He said with a grin,
As he bargained in,
“Pay to play me or you can go fuck it.”
The Clash – I Fought The Law
Friday, January 09, 2009
My father won’t die and I mean that in a good way. Long-time smoker, frequent asbestos handler – that’s my Pop. He had to give up smoking years ago when his oxygen wrangler, Bobby, shortened the plastic tubing that lead from Pop’s air tank to the front porch (where hidden cigarettes could be enjoyed). That’s the kind of man Pop is – ever hopeful to rig the system until he is thwarted by common sense. Is your father like that?
Pop is currently enjoying his first Intensive Care visit of the year. We do this every few months. Sometimes he gets pneumonia, or his “sugar” is bothering him (i.e. diabetes). One time he broke a rib going pee. This week my Pop can’t breathe effectively, in that he receives oxygen but not much happens after that. This has happened before. I don’t care what we have read about not being able to breathe and how it might turn out. According to me, some people keeping living. I will invite you, just this once, to compete against my Pop in a “Who Can Hold Their Breath The Longest?” contest. He will beat your ass.
An acquaintance heard that my Pop was sick again, and he said, “Oh no! He’s got to hang in there. Dubya is almost gone!” Yes, that is exactly what a man who is old and can’t breathe is thinking about. “I gotta hang on for Obama’s inauguration!” It is a special wonder that I have not ever been to jail, if only for the things I think about doing to people.
When Pop is laid up, my mother reminds me to count three days before I pack a bag. I call his hospital room instead. Pop can’t really talk, so it’s just me spouting off from the top of my blowhole to pass time. I talk about my day or update him on politics, and then I get an irritating urge to ask him something meaningful. Nope, no, not – zip it! Zip! Shh! Pop cannot manage more than “yes” or “no”, and so meaningful is out – too wordy. I do the conversational math in my head, readjust and talk about the weather. It is a favor I do for us both. "He was very, very happy you called," the nurse said.
I have not flown back home yet. We have noticed that my trips home on the spur of the moment make Pop wonder if he is truly dying. If he doesn't have to believe that he is very sick, Pop checks himself out of the hospital and has a nurse call my brother to come fetch him. My Mom said that Pop is planning to rally on Friday and be home by the weekend. It has happened before, and it could happen again.
The weather in Chicago is 17 degrees with snow on the way. Olcott Beach is expecting snow and the temperature is 27.5. I have a suitcase open only because I am superstitious and I rarely it need it in these situations.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Democrats in Illinois and the US Senate have been transformed into a legion of brain-eating zombies. It happened overnight. The swarming hives of ethics lovers were up in arms about Blago appointing Roland Burris on Monday. By Wednesday the Dems had decided they don’t want to live, if living is without Roland. Wot?
My Democrats love to get in line for things. They fall in for elections, picketing and to collect unemployment checks. Lines, lines, lines. Can’t get enough of them! When the Zombie Cooties broke out, it spread fast among Democrats because we are all waiting in line and huddled together. The change was swift and dramatic.
Jesse White, the IL Secretary of State who initially refused to certify Roland, has changed his damn-fool mind. Sen. Harry Reid became animated long enough to seem disapproving, but he couldn’t stand it. No spine. Even President-elect Obama was all like, “No way!” for five whole seconds. He, too, has backed away. Today, Senate Dems have “I LOVE ROLAND” flags hanging out of their tender behinds. They can’t love Roland enough, is what I am saying. Blago is laughing from his political grave as the reigning Zombie King.
Roland played his race card, the card I had spent months trying to diminish once and for all. And those idiots fell for it. When I got on board the Obama bandwagon I made a point to work against this card because the color of one’s skin should have nothing to do with anything. Silly me and my rainbow-colored crayon box.
I would agree that the US Senate is far too pale to accurately represent America, but Roland’s instant hot chocolate is hardly the elixir we need. If Roland had been up for a special election I would have been happy to hear him out. There was a door of opportunity and then Roland painted it black. He agreed to be appointed to office by Blago – a man who put a dollar value on his integrity, who is facing federal corruption charges – and for what? It is disgusting, but no one in charge calls it disgusting because they have their mouths full of brains.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
I thought I read the number wrong, so I blinked and rubbed my eyes. When I refocused on the unemployment rate, it never gave an inch. More than 8.7 million people in the US are unemployed. The way I see it, we’ve got to fix this hot mess in real time, fast. But how?
First, we are going to get happy. That one is a major hurdle, but I think we can work it out. Second, I will commit to posting job listings once a week from assorted cities and Third, we are going to get through this.
If you are an unhappy and unemployed person, you run the risk of jumping in front of a speeding dump truck or committing a robbery. Look at me – right in the eyes. DO NOT! You are too pretty for a closed casket and you are not cut out for jail. Yes – of course money would make you happy. In lieu of cash, I’m going to ask you to think of something that makes you happy. Me? I visit the local animal shelter and take puppies for walks. Oh yeah – I said it! I am so unashamed. But you are different. You require effort and creativity. Do you know what makes you happy? Tell me. You and I will try and put more of that into your day. It makes me happy to help you. Thanks for that chance.JOB LISTINGS
FloridaGET THROUGH THIS
Orkin Pest Control - Lawn Care Supervisor
Have you ever watered a lawn, or directed other people on the finer points of lawn watering and pest control? Here’s your big break.
Ochsner Health System - Receptionist
Are you able to use a phone? Do you know what a computer is? Are you able to be nice to people? If your answer is yes and you have a high school diploma, get a J-O-B with a health care provider and receive awesome benefits. Act now!
DFS Hawaii – Sales Support
People with a strong back and good math skills are encouraged to apply. If you have ever seen a warehouse, you could probably do this job. Work in paradise and stimulate the economy! What are you waiting for?
In a former life I was a Human Resources person. What this means is that I am able to separate the wheat from the chaff when it comes to resumes. I can smell a shine-job from about a hundred bazillion miles away – as far as Saturn, at least. I was the person who interviewed you and I am scary good at it. If you need a hand with your resume and cover letter, or pointers on interviews, perhaps I can help. Let me know! I’m serious!Further, I think you look wonderful today. Let’s dance.
The Beatles – I Want To Hold Your Hand
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
No, you have NOT heard this one before. I'm so sure! This is the one about exacting revenge on telemarketers. Which is, by far, one of my favorite genres. More from me later today, and until then – enjoy!
Monday, January 05, 2009
I've been told that I have a lot of energy. The secret is that I use renewable resources. Some days I'm solar powered. Some days I'm wind powered. And some people in this room might think I'm hybrid gas-powered. You'll just have to guess which it is today.
-- Governor Bill Richardson
TO: Señor Bill Richardson
FROM: Big Rod Blago
DATE: January 4, 2009
SUBJECT: My New Club
Hi, Bill – how’s it hanging, you big fat [bleep]hole? Pretty low, huh? Ha ha ha. I didn’t do anything wrong, either! HAA HAA HAAAH!
Wanna hang out? Let’s start a band. I’ll be the white guy and you can be the Mexican, but we still need a queer and at least one black person.
Porko – let’s face it – you are as [bleeped] as I am. The court of public opinion has turned their back on me, and so what? You can’t let this [bleep] get you down or it will make you nuts. Sometimes I just want to say [bleep] it, but I figured that I might as well have some fun. It is so liberating, Porko. Highly recommended.
Let’s roll in my Cadillac SUV, do shots of sizzurup and you can carry a knife (for show). I know how much your people like their knives. We could [bleep] some things up, hardcore. Unless you want to act like a little bitch?
Get Your Party On,
Sunday, January 04, 2009
According to last week’s poll, 83% of you think MySpace is SO ghetto. Every pimped-out page should come with a crash helmet and puke bags. According to Mojopollsters, the residents of MySpace look like Polish whores and pedos. Ok, maybe not all of them. Only the pages most of us have seen.
This news article, about a three-legged dog and the dead baby it dug up, has inspired our latest poll. Oh, now – come on. Hear me out before you throw your arms up in the air and make me feel bad. Yes, of course the baby part is God-awful – from start to finish this story is an X-Files episode that never was (and I also want to know how a three-legged dog learned how to dig). Anyhow, the point is that this morbid tale set off my Tangential Bobsled and I went to think. “How do you get the smell of dead baby out a dog’s mouth?” Yes, it crossed my mind.
Then BINGO. Here’s the poll:
When you die, what should I do with the body?
Click the poll, let me know. If you have a grander scheme that rivals the selections offered please list them in the comment section, below.