The New and Improved Mayor

March 13, 2019

Guido Guiliana was known around his village just west of Chicago as “hizzoner”. Guido had been mayor for over twenty years and for years; he had a lock on things. The village pushed through a video gambling initiative and it just so happened that Guido’s friend Mel or Melsie happened to be a middleman for the leasing and operating of the gambling machines.

Twenty years earlier, the town was very blue collar and sort of old world white. There were union electricians, plumbers, police officers, firemen, builders and so on. Now it was becoming a place that millennials chose to move into to get away from city taxes. The Hispanics and blacks too were creeping in and low and behold, the upstart councilman who questioned the mayor’s collusion and steering on building contracts just happened to be black and an opposition mayoral candidate. This election was no longer a sure thing.

Now Guido was quite worried about losing that side money when a street needed paving or someone needed work done to their house and permits and shoddy work was passed while his shell company made money. The biggest cash cow was the video gambling.

Picture old women with oxygen tanks taking breaks from their addiction to smoke out in front of establishments with neon signs that read “gaming”. Yes, smoking with oxygen being piped into their noses. There were many patrons that fit that profile that were putting money into Guido’s pockets. Guido was making a penny on every dollar that was put into a gambling machine in town. It afforded Guido the money to buy cars and homes he didn’t need and to have side women.

Guido met a beautiful young thing at a nail salon run by a black woman whose clientele was primarily black. The mayor would go in to get his nails polished and glossed. For years, the woman who did his nails was a large and unattractive black woman, who smelled slightly of skunk, had wisps of facial hair and weazed when she exhaled. The new girl was truly smoking hot.

Felicity was young and had a young fit body. She was pretty and laughed at everything the mayor said. Felicity eventually went with Guido to fancy restaurants and clubs where other Italian mayors hung out and drank tropical drinks in a dimly lit lounge that was supposed to be Polynesian but was really Filipino. As time went on, Guido took trips all over the country with Felicity and put her up in an apartment that he could spend the night at periodically. Felicity began too look at the situation and wanted the full benefit of spreading her legs for the mayor. She wanted the house, the cars, the title and so on. What Felicity didn’t know was that the mayor was helped in many ways by his wife’s father who was a mob guy and so he could not dump his wife for a black chick, a young black chick, without drama or death. Felicity allowed herself to get pregnant and have a beautiful baby boy that was sort of a caramel color. Felicity also was smart and thought ahead at all times.

Mrs. Guido Giuliani or Luciana or Lulu as most called her, had a clothes boutique with a café attached that Guido had set up for her so that she would have a little something. She hired a pretty young black woman by the name of Sue. Lulu would come home and talk about Sue and how helpful she was and what a good and tireless worker she had. Guido was not putting two and two together as they say. One day he got the surprise of his life.

“Honey, the girl who works for me is going to stay with us for a little while. She had been living in one of those horrible places you rent by the hour with a small child. I thought we could give her the sub-basement where my mother lived…”

Sue… I mean Felicity walked in the house and extended her hand for the mayor to shake it while holding the toddler in her left arm. The baby pointed at Guido and said “dada”. Guido could feel his heart beat in his eyes and began to sweat. Sue corrected her young son.

“That’s not dada… He looks a little like dada but you know what they say… Y’all look a lot alike.”

The situation was tortuous for Guido. There he was trying to win a close election and keep his companies alive that serviced the village exclusively and now his side bitch had maneuvered her way into the house. There was very little Guido could say or do and Sue was masterful at playing the game. Sunday dinners were special times.

“I’ve always wanted to see the world… You know place like Miami, New Orleans and Hoboken.”

Guido had been at a mayoral convention in Hoboken. Felicity knew this because she was there. It was a game where Guido had to hide Anne Frank but the only problem was that Anne Frank was right out in the open, with a child and another name. Guido upon talking to his drinking buddies and other Italian small village mayors, decided to just roll with it. Frankie, the mayor of one town over, put into terms that made sense to Guido.

“Guido… You fucked up. No other way to put it… Waddya goanna do? Apologize and cry like a little bitch? You wanna stand at a press conference crying, your wife crying, your adult children crying and have the black chick standing with the press holding your baby like it was the fucking Maury Povich Show? Fuck it… She ain’t busted you out yet… Just go wid it. It’s a new era. Anything fucking goes… Just go wid it.”

If you ever go to Chicago and go a few miles west, you’ll find a really racially cool mayor in a village that used to be old school but is becoming cool, hip and cutting edge.   If you see the mayor, say hello. He’s really a good guy and one day, you might need him and he might need you. You never know…

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To Be or Not to Be

January 31, 2019

I’m really worried about baby turtles on the beach

Wringing hands hoping they’ll reach shore… TURN OFF THOSE LIGHTS! and there’s more

I want a salad with no meat, no cheese… Are you aware the animals are raised with disease? in pens… Those poor hens

Spotted owls, alligator boots and those that become fur coats

 

I’ll stand at the gates while some poor soul waits to be executed for what he did on bad days…Anyways murder is wrong and I wrote this song about the travesty of ending a human life.

 

Don’t call it abortion, that’s a contortion of every woman’s right. Speaking of right, we have the right to stop the right to re-write Roe when we lose Ruther Bader. There will once come a day when you have the say to arrest on a birthday to prevent the fat, red headed, special needs or gay.

 

It will be like 23 and me for what’s growing in me so don’t call it infanticide. I thank Albany for thinking of me and standing for all that’s right.

 

Speaking of right we need to fight those evil Nazi misogynists. The racist, Russian loving wall builders who separate immigrants from their children… Yes that’s the key… the children, right?

Comedy Today- A Faux Pas

January 23, 2019

Cynthia told the Oak Park Women’s group that she had a cousin who was very good at stand up comedy and performed a lot in Detroit. The women rented out a restaurant bar along Lake Street in a town that proudly claims Ernest Hemingway and the architect Frank Lloyd Wright. Two famous men who couldn’t wait to leave Oak Park. The women’s group agonized over the fact that comedy today is very touchy. If things are not directed at the president exclusively, they could be taken as racist, homophobic, xenophobic and so on. Those in attendance were mostly women and a few husbands and or girlfriends of women. The first two comedians ripped on the president, his wife, his youngest son, his daughter who became orthodox Jewish, Mike Pence, Make America Great Again, followers of Trump. Wade, the cousin of Cynthia, made quite a splash.

 

Wade came on stage with a joint in his mouth unlit, wearing a “Make Men Violent Again” t-shirt. He glared at the audience with squinty eyes as if he was looking for someone he knew.

“Aleuts? Aleuts? Anyone what we used to call Eskimos here in attendance? Now don’t try to fake me out if you’re from Samoa… You’re a little darker than your cousins who crossed the land bridge 10,000 before the Protestants and Columbus came and renamed you people… No Aleuts? Okay… Then the rest of you are fair game.”

Wade lit the joint, inhaled and expelled it into the face of chubby looking lesbian with a Dutch boy hair cut with a plethora of political buttons on her Army coat. The woman snapped at Wade.

“No smoking? In Detroit we can still get a drink and smoke in casinos…  I don’t see any video gaming her… Well fuck it… By the way… This is medicinal. Me and my kid are both ADD and when I’m not on Ritalin, I smoke a joint to calm my nerves to keep me from getting my shotgun and taking out those that annoy me…”

-Groaning and whispering-

“Hey… I must have total silence. This is not a democracy it is a constitutional republic and until I can rewrite the constitution I must have silence!”

Wade took a sip of his Scotch on the rocks and took a horse crop and slammed in on the chair next to him as he did his best German accent and hid his upper lip.

“Sank-you… What a diverse group we have here tonight…

Girls who are boys who like boys to be girls who do boys like they’re girls who like girls like they’re boys… That song reminds me of Rumsfeld at press conferences. Wouldn’t you like to put him in a room with Trump and hear what’s being said? Maybe get Rod Rosenstein to wear a wire and play that shit in real time on CNN…

 

-Groaning and more murmuring

 

“Okay fine… You like Trump jokes… So Trump goes golfing with Mitt Romney and John Mc Cain but Mc Cain has to hire a midget to swing for him because he has that weird one armed shit like Bob Dole had… Mc Cain wouldn’t let the midget putt but otherwise that little fucker had to carry the clubs like a Sherpa and try to beat Trump for him. Well in the end, guess who won? You got it… Trump. The house always wins. But while they’re walking around losing to Trump, Trump asks them how they could possibly lose to Obama. He then tells them that they’re losers and he will show them how to go out and run for president and win… How did he do that shit? I mean all you fucking people hate him, right? How did he win? Russians? Well now Mitt becomes senator in a Mormon state, smiling and looking as real as Max Headroom meets The Mask. His first order of business is to align himself with the people that defeated him… Now that’s a Republican for you…. How bout a hand for those two dolls that went before me tonight The plump one was hot in a Buddy Hackett sort of way…” Wade pointed to a woman in front of him. “I wouldn’t fuck her with your dick, ma’am…”

 

Women and a few men begin to heckle him. Wade smiles, takes a sip of his drink and holds it up to the crowd.

 

“You won’t rattle me. I went to the same school as G.G. Allin. Don’t know him? Take a second and Google him. Now then I wrote a poem in honor of this occasion and it goes like this…

 

These are very troubled times

I’ll stir the pot with my rhymes

Build a wall to keep us in

Nobody likes you where you’ve been

The world hates you for being American

The red white and blue is a sin

You need to sit when you piss

In a bathroom for every gender

We’ll suck the testosterone from your balls

Make you wear a dress in the halls

You racist, misogynistic cunt

You probably like it in the rump

I’m losing you all again… Okay…Donald Trump!

 

You’ve been a great audience. God bless you. God bless America and good night.

Absurd

January 17, 2019

Sitting in a fast food palace, wall to wall plastic

Maury giving a bro hug to a man on the tube that is the father of his daughter’s child… Wild? No. In a word-absurd.

 

A man with a blue tooth devise attached to his ear goes table to table selling Krispy Kreme donuts on the side, on the slide, trading a burger for a box of donuts. Nuts? No. In a word-absurd.

 

The people behind the counter move slow… You know the type- Type 2 diabetes, cherub faced sweeties with no neck, nails like claws, sagging draws and lashes long enough to tickle your face. Bad taste? No. In a word- Absurd

 

The heroin addict with the sad look and a sign by the freeway is doing just fine. He pulls out a fat wad of cash, eyes bloodshot from smoking some hash to clear his mind and face the day. A # 2 with a large Coke… Is this all some sort of joke? No. In a word-Absurd.

We Interrupt

January 9, 2019

We interrupt The Bachelor, Dancing with the Stars, The Khardasians and those texting in cars to bring you a message from the president… Not my president, there are no illegal residents, a New York precedent… It’s safe there and free, there’s no fee except to those at the tippy top who are moving their dough to the Caribbean, listing their homes and moving to Monte Carlo.

 

Raise your hands to block the kick, prevent the win to build a wall. We care too much for them all and after all, the future hinges on their vote. Please don’t quote me; it’s off the record, anonymous sources from the swamp. We hate Trump… We love Trump either way it’s a ratings boost for cable news and for whatever side you choose. And if you think you’re winning either way you lose.

We Like Ikes

December 29, 2018

Like the Amish, the Ikes were a mysterious bunch of people that people knew very little about. What they knew about the Ikes is that they wore nothing, watched nothing, and drove nothing, furnished nothing in their homes beyond the year 1960.

A rich man bought up the land on two small islands off the coast Florida on the Gulf of Mexico side and sold parcels to anyone who would submit to living as people did sixty years ago. No cell phones or computers and people drove old cars in pristine condition. The kids if they were part of the greasers, wore slicked back hair and listened to Rockabilly, drove hot rods and motorcycles. They terrorized the sochies or sociables as they were called. It was all pretty quaint. Each island had a high school and people had little shops and supported one another. They watched old movies in the one theater or the drive in theater near the ocean. There were popshops where kids ate burgers and had malts and danced. Life was simple and non chaotic. Like the Amish, at the age of 18, children on the island could go into the world and live for a period of six months and at the end of six months, they could either leave, never to return or they would return, start a family, find a job and live happily ever after.

Tom and Mary, brother and sister, twins actually, headed out in a 1951 Mercury convertible to Miami. They rented a room on South Beach in an old Art Deco Hotel on Collins. They ate at the Versailles in Little Havana, went and danced to Salsa music at night at Bayside, they took in a Miami Marlins baseball game and at night, found a bar that would let them in to drink even though they were underage. In the bar, women danced on the bar wearing barely nothing and music pulsated and was so loud. Tom kind of liked it and Mary kind of hated it. Mary wore a nice summer dress that went beneath her knee with a matching headband and saddle shoes. Tom wore a summer suit and kept his hair in a flat top. He had white shoes and a straw Fedora hat. Tom and Mary did the same things every day and nights for weeks. One night, a buxom Cuban girl danced with Tom. They sat down and had Mojitos at a table on the sidewalk. The woman had long nails and fake eyelashes. She split her time between talking to Tom and looking at her phone and answering text messages. A group of other young people came up and sat with them at their table. They convinced Tom and Mary to come with them to an all night party where they both drank until they passed out. They woke up with no money on them as the hot sun beat down on them on the front lawn of the Fountain Blue. They thought it was the alcohol but they had actually been slipped a date rape drug or a mickey as it was called on the island. Tom had enough gas to get them home and so they drove the three-hour trip back to the island. Tom and Mary went straight to bed and woke up the next morning to find their mother and father in the kitchen. Dad was reading the island paper and mom was making pancakes. The twins plopped down in the assigned kitchen chairs. Tom was wearing a Florida Marlins t-shirt and his frost tips caused his dad to stare at him with a furrowed brow as he puffed on his pipe.

“Gee Pop… I guess it’s just one of those things you have to see, touch and smell to understand…” said Tom, as he bit into his buttery, syrupy pancakes.

“They are unhappy people,” said Mary.

“Oh is that so, Pumpkin? Tell me why,” said father.

“They’re fat and loud and profane. They’re dumb by choice and lazy. They are glued to devises that they carry in their hands and rarely look at one another. They love to take pictures of themselves and want everyone to think that they’re happy and they’re not,” said Mary.

“Well now you know.” Said mother as she put out scrambled eggs, bacon and toast.

“You know the guy who became president? We never hear much about him here except maybe the good stuff like unemployment and proud to be American and all. If you turn the television on out there, it’s incredible… I followed it on television like a soap opera…”said Tom.

“So what did you hear, sport?”

“It would take hours to really elaborate but it appears as though the president won the election and nobody thought it would happen and so those that didn’t like him, claimed the Russians helped him win and so the attorney general did something called recusing, which means he did nothing and they got the guy under him to assign someone to look into the president and Russian involvement. Two guys went to jail that did not do anything with the Russians but didn’t pay taxes and told some fibs to the FBI… The FBI meanwhile hated the president and the head of the FBI gave documents to a friend so that friend could go to the papers and let everyone know that the president tried to tell the head of the FBI to not go after this general who was on the president’s staff. So one of the FBI investigators was sending messages on one of those gadgets that they all have in their hands at all times, telling his girlfriend who also worked for the FBI, that he would stop the president from being president. Meanwhile, the president who has a really pretty wife, had relations with another pretty woman a long time ago and he gave her money not to talk about it… Well guess what? She talked about it… And now they say he used money to run for president to pay the girlfriend not to talk. Thing is that he has billions of dollars and probably just used lunch money to make her be quiet. Now those that hate the president, want to impeach him and those who love him, don’t care what he does. Everyone is so angry right now out there… It really is crazy,” said Tom.

Nobody said anything for a minute. They all just sort of thought about what Tom just said. Mother poured everyone some orange juice and asked them all a rhetorical question.

“Golly what a mess! Could you imagine any of this happening to Eisenhower?”

The question made them all laugh.

Teachers Have Bad Days Too

December 1, 2018

 

Terry had an absolute miserable day teaching. She was hired to teach guitar and keyboards as an elective to high school children in an impoverished area of the city. The pay was good but it was nothing more than babysitting. Her classes consisted of Hispanic and black gangbangers with neck tattoos, some with ankle bracelets to monitor their every move by the police, some pregnant, most high and all profane.

“Eh eh Ms. Bitchtits… This motherfucker ain’t got all it strings. How my bout to learn this shit when y’all done gave some defective shit. I don’t see Pedro motherfucker over dere wit his leafblower on his motherfucking back missing no strings on his shit… That discrimination, Ms. Bitchtits.”

Pedro took offense to the leaf blower comment as he tried hard to form a G chord without cramping his fingers.

“The only one with bitch tits all up in this bitch is yo fat ass, motherfucking Fat Albert motherfucker. What kind of crazy bitch mom names their kid Sirarthur? Yo momma was cracked out when she gave you that bitch name.”

A fight broke out. Two guitars were casualties. The school security separated them and took them out. A string of other outbursts occurred through out the day. Run of the mill swearing, playing music on their phones, eating in class, sleeping in class and general disrespect for the Terry brought her to tears on the way home.

 

Chris was a private school teacher in a really rich suburb where there were eight students in the class. The kids spent most of the day on social media or skyping friends in other schools. Kids ignored most of what Chris was trying to teach the children. Chris had a student named Floyd who dressed in black with died black hair and a safety pin through his bottom lip. He wore shirts of death metal bands you never heard of and hated everything. His parents were divorced and the dad had an older Costa Rican woman taking care of him while travelling the world on business. Floyd was in prep school but got thrown out of so many that they brought him home. His stepmother detests him and the dad just gives his kid more money to placate him. The assignment was to read allowed what the perfect day would be. Floyd read his in front of the class.

“My perfect day would be to tie up my parents in their fucking sauna and turn the temperature up to about 150 and leave them in there for a good while to ensure their reproductive organs were officially shot. I would then come to school with a dozen large sows and let tear gas off in the school. I would sit out front with a six-pack and a lawn chair on the school’s front lawn while the pigs and girls squealed like pigs and then I would probably take target practice on the knees of those running from the mayhem. No murder, just a little maiming. Of course this is just a fantasy, you see… For I have no sows at home.”

Chris dialed the police and the police showed up before Floyd could finish his essay. The police hauled Floyd in. His father was in New Zealand and the stepmother was fucking an Internet buddy in San Diego and so the Costa Rican au pair had to sort it all out. The father, who donated thousands, maybe tens of thousands to the school on top of tuition each year, pledge to see that Chris would be fired when he returned. Chris drove home crying.

Chris met Terry through a friend of a friend. At the time, they were both dating men but went on to become partners. They were once really romantic but Chris began to gain weight and Terry had become a health nut. It was just a few days ago that Terry had to break the news to Chris that the funky smell in her vagina was due to all the shit food she was eating and a little bit of poor hygiene. Love had been on the rocks and now they both had a really bad day. They walked in to find that their cats were fighting and had broken porcelain figurines that had belonged to Chris’ grandmother. The gloves came off the moment they both got home.

“I hate these cats… I hate them, I hate them… We couldn’t get fucking dogs because we live in a building that won’t allow them. So these destructive little fucks have ruined something of mine once again that can’t be replaced. I have had a day from hell and I don’t have room in my life right now to be dealing with destructive fucking cats,” shouted Chris.

“Fuck you… You teach at a country club. Try one day in my goddamn shoes and you need more therapy than you’re getting now,” said Terry.

“How dare you use that against me… You are a hateful bitch… When your parents get here, I will be staying at a hotel. I am not putting up with your criticism and theirs together. You are all unhappy people and then you shit on me. Your parents raised you to be a mean combative bitch. You’re just like them. I’m outta here.,” said Chris.

“Yeah… Will you be sending the what are you doing tonight text to your old boyfriend?” Asked Terry.

“What are you talking about? We’re just friends. I don’t hate Paul. It just didn’t work out.”

“I get all the neurotic bullshit and he gets to buy you a few drinks, slip you the genuine article and you both go on with life. I’m not blind,” said Terry.

“I’m not having this tonight. I had that weirdo kid talk about tear gas, wild pigs and shooting people in the legs today and now his rich dad wants my head for calling the cops…” said Chris.

“Welcome to modern teaching, sister. Yo this Motherfucking, bitch, niggah, bitch, niggah, motherfucking bitch ass mothefucking motherfucker… Now that’s commonly used just for description… Every minute of everyday. So you got a rich Goth psycho. You must be stressed.”

“Fuck you, you fucking bitch!”

In the lobby of condominium were the parents of Terry who had difficulty coming to grips with their daughter’s change of life but were ready to shrug it off and wish them all the happiness in the world. The button to the intercom had stuck. Chris had pressed the button with maple syrup on her index finger earlier that morning when the Amazon man arrived with a package and that darn button never released. For a great while Terry’s parents just quietly stood in the foyer and listened to domestic car crash taking place. The parents quietly agreed to each other that they were really no different than any other couples. And that’s just how it goes on really bad days.

Third Period-Running Time

November 30, 2018

Joe told the parents back when they were little mites, about five to six years old- give it time, they will learn and they will be good. Joe went through years of tying skates, checking on players who collided with opposing players and lay there like they were shot, only to spring up and skate back to the bench on their own. It took time to learn the offside rule, to cover the points in their own zone, to pass when they should and so on. As squirts they got a little better. Two years later as pee wees, they became quite formidable and two years beyond that as bantams, they were a machine. The passing was fast, shots precise, hard fore-checking, hard hitting and their defense made it such that they hardly allowed a shot on goal. The forwards back checked well and the defense was smothering. The goalie mostly watched the game from the far end, occasionally piling up snow in the corners. The ice in their zone would be clear after the first period and the other side looked like it needed the Zamboni. As pee wees, they came close to winning it all but as bantams, they were ready. The team was like a family and the family was a machine. Joe stood on the bench with his arms folded the way Rommel or Patton did on top of tanks after conquering new lands during World War II. They were great.

 

Joe remembered back to a tournament when the boys were 9 and 10 year old squirts and how they got absolutely rocked by a team from across town. That team had garment bags for their jerseys with their names on it and monogramed bags with their names on it, as well as stick bags and warm up suits. They were good for their ages and under their coach’s direction, ran up the score against Joe four years earlier, 22-0. Not only did they lose by that score but they kept the score up on the board. He had crying kids who wanted to quit after that game. Joe had to beg his goalie to stay with it. Parents questioned everything Joe did and told them that things were not going well. Joe talked them into staying with things and it paid off. Joe saw the opposing coach with his slicked back black hair, chewing his gum in a circular motion. After the warm up, Joe asked the players if they remembered the team, the coach and score. They did.

“I want you to keep in mind what that motherfucker did to us and so here’s what I want from you…”

Joe pulled the goalie after the drop of the puck and put out a sixth skater. Joe’s team cycled in their own end, the neutral zone and the other team’s zone. They held the puck for two periods without the other team so much as touching the puck but Joe’s team refused to shoot. After the second period, the slick coach stood on the bench and yelled over at Joe.

“This is horse shit what you’re doing. Play the game!”

“Oh, we’re about to open this bitch wide open now. We just were getting warmed up for two periods.”

Joe ran up the score to exactly 22 goals in a period and then went back to cycling in their own end until time ran out. When it came time for the handshake, the slick coach with a tightened jaw gripped Joe’s hand and told him that he was a dick and that it was horrible and that there was no reason to do what he did. Joe refreshed his memory.

“You beat us by this same score four years ago… Remember me now? That game was an inspiration to us all… I had to deal with crying little kids that day. They got better, didn’t they? Thanks for finishing the game…As they said in Goodfellas and you look like someone from that movie- now go home and get your fucking shine box.”

First Liners and Speaking Portuguese

November 18, 2018

Pam was anti everything as a young woman. She didn’t like religion or government or patriotism or marriage and for sure not sports. She was a dowdy young thing that didn’t care to tweeze her eyebrows and only showered sparingly. She went to college to play tuba in the college marching band.

It was in her mid twenties that she met an older man at a bar. He befriended her by commenting on how good the USC marching band sounded at halftime while eating really salty peanuts at a lounge inside a hotel. Pam commented on USC and other schools with really good marching bands. The conversation moved to what she did and what he did and three drinks later, Pam had gone upstairs with the middle-aged businessman. It went from simple making out to fifty shades of gray around the temples in no time. A bottle of Viagra and Champagne, a few rounds of what felt like love to Pam and as they say in French-voila.

Twelve years later, Pam was the mother of a boy who looked a lot like what Pam remembered of the man she slept with one night only that sired her offspring. Larry was a different sort of lad and had a hard time keeping friends and an even harder time staying focused on things that did not interest him. Larry was put on Ritalin and went to special classes and then moved entirely to a Montessori school to hide his ADD. At the Montessori school, if Larry wanted to read about snakes or walk around the room making dinosaur sounds with his shirt pulled over his head, he could do that and a nice, young underpaid teacher, would tell him how well he did at imitating a dinosaur. Even at the unique school, Larry was having a hard time finding friends and fitting in. The young social worker that Larry would see weekly, suggested Larry take up ice hockey. Now Pam detested sports but thought the idea had merit and went to the local park district and put him in learn to skate classes and within a short period of time, Larry was put on a peewee team before he was ready. Hockey is like a language. If you cannot skate, you cannot play or even fake it. If you do not know a foreign language, you cannot converse in that language.

Picture a child taking Portuguese once a week for a month and then being plopped in a room of people speaking Portuguese… Bem Obrigado… And very little beyond that. Larry struggled to skate forward without leaning on the stick. Skating backwards was a butt-twisting waddle with no lateral movement. Receiving passes was as difficult as trying to shoot the puck without missing.

Larry drew a grizzled veteran who after coaching for many years, found himself coaching house league pee wees. Otto thought the kids were nice and attentive but he often grew impatient with their lack of ability. In practices and games Otto would often speak openly and plainly to the young boys.

“I know you all swear… I know you’re all looking at graphic porn on those phones when mum is not around. I’m not the police and neither are any of you. What I say stays in this locker room and does not go home to mum… Agreed?”

The boys nodded a yes and wondered where the coach was going with things as he paced back and forth in the locker room.

“People will tell you that winning isn’t important… Those people are lying to you. Do you think Ovechkin would have skated around the rink jumping up and down if he lost? Do you think Hillary Clinton threw a party for coming close and losing? Fuck no. I say fuck for emphasis, boys. Fucking comes later in life but we use the word now for emphasis… There is no and fuck no. I don’t ever want to fucking lose. I hate to lose but I can live with a loss if everyone moves their ass and does everything they can on every shift. If you are standing around like a right fielder in a little league game, I will let you know strongly. Play every shift like it’s your last and you will always try hard. Pretend that your goalie is not in front of that net and you will play good defense. Pass when you should instead of when you absolutely have to and think before you get the puck and you will be a smarter player… Let’s get out there and do what we practice and win this bitch.”

Otto’s goalie was a scarecrow in the net and let nearly every shot in. One line played well and the other was behind the action. Larry stood around watching everyone race around after face offs. As a right wing, he never covered the points and stood only feet away from the defense as they struggled to clear the zone. The concept of going the opposite direction in the second period perplexed Larry. The idea of not going into the other team’s zone before the puck, made no sense to Larry. Tagging up too was a difficult concept. Larry had killed momentum five times by going offside in just one period alone. Otto called a time out and got in face of Larry before a face off in the other team’s zone in a tied game with twenty two seconds to go in the game. Otto thought about passing up Larry and a few other of his lesser players on the team but he already had to discuss with the hockey director, an attractive young woman who figure skated as a girl that did not play ice hockey, that occasionally in order to win, you have to put out a power line, you have to have the right center and so on. Otto had to listen to a lecture about balanced ice time among all players. In a snarky reply, Otto told the director that Larry’s balance on the ice is reliant on leaning on his stick. Otto looked at Larry during the time out and gave him a pep talk.

“Our center is going to tie up their center and not play the puck. The defense is going to come in and get the puck and fire it at the net. I need you to get your ass to the net with your stick on the ice. Don’t fuck this up. Puck drops get to the net… Am I clear?”

It all worked like planned. The center tied up the opposing center and pushed him back just far enough to not get an interference call. The defenseman came in got the puck and fired it on net. Larry panicked thinking that the shot would hit him. As he raised his stick and twisted his body to avoid being hit, the puck bounced off of his stick and found the back of the net. Larry was tackled by the players on the ice and got the game puck. As Otto was sneaking out the side door to get to his car, there waiting for him was Larry’s mother Pam. She had on a knit hat with pussycat ears and a puffy jacket with political buttons up and down both sides. Otto was ready to hear something whacked out as he approached his car. Pam asked Otto a question that he was not ready for.

“Would you like to go out for a drink some time?”

I can’t tell you if they talked about marching bands or ate salty peanuts in a lounge. I can’t tell you if there was champagne or Viagra involved or if they worked on making a sibling for young Larry. People want happy endings. Things were weird between Pam and Otto before their date and they got even weirder after. Larry never made the power play or learned to speak Portuguese very well. Otto often ignored Pam’s text messages and calls. And that’s just how things go.

M.C. Trump

November 3, 2018

In a quest to create and be successful at a new reality television show, an obscure cable channel came up with celebrity political roasts. The platform was three Democrat politicians and three Republican politicians who would take turns roasting a prominent political figure who agreed to go on the show to be poked, prodded and straight up skewered. The final roaster or master of ceremonies was always the president of the United States, Donald Trump. MC Trump. From his desk at the White House, the president would unleash zingers.  Some of them light hearted ribbing and others a deep stab wound. Love him or hate him, people could not refrain from hearing what he would say next. The man, our president, has to be exhausted keeping us free and safe and employed while battling the press and Democrats and those high brow Republicans who refuse to acknowledge his merits even though he has done everything they dreamed of but could never find a way to do. Any and all money he would make from being on the show went into a fund to help build a wall on the Mexican border. The show went so well that they made a collector’s addition CD that could be purchased for $19.95. The title- Trump’s Greatest Hits. It went a little bit like this:

 

Don Lemon CNN- Don… Sweet Don… I like to call him Sweet Don. We have a lot in common. We share a first name and we’re both men. I happen to be a white man and maybe that’s part of the problem. Whose problem? I dunno…. His problem, my problem, your problem. I know the white man he keeps at home is not the problem. He’s probably admitted white privilege and purged himself for the sins of his relatives from hundreds of years ago. Whenever I feel good about the economy, the record low unemployment for African-Americans, protecting our southern border, reining China in with sanctions and turning Little Rocket Man into my personal golf caddy, I turn on Sweet Don. If I’m feeling good about myself, Sweet Don brings me down to earth. Me, a white man, responsible for terrorism in this country. A Nazi who holds his grandchildren on his knee during Yom Kippur and teaches the kinder all the words to Deutschland Uber Alles in German and let’s them know that granddaddy’s Reich will last for 8 years.  A man in bed with Vladi Putin… Picture that! Me, a white nationalist, xenophobic, misogynistic boob who just happened to get enough yahoos to come out from the set of the movie Deliverance to give me the electoral vote. I think it was Sweet Don who said that I didn’t deserve to win because I didn’t win the popular vote. Sweet Don who would probably try to catch a football and fail at it because being sweet and all, he doesn’t understand that in elections just like football, you don’t win on yardage, you win on points… Just like the Electoral College. Speaking of college… Sweet Don would have made one hell of a cheerleader for the losing team and then spin it to make it appear to the low information crowd that if hadn’t been for that Russian exchange student, his school would have won… Keep it up Sweet Don… Your show is now below the Hallmark Channel and the Cartoon Network. Somewhere there is an army of women at home with two cats and no man who still hasn’t gotten out of bed yet since November of 2016. All three of them are watching you nightly. You’re that safe black man that they yearn to be alone with in an elevator.

 

Bill Clinton- I like to call him Wild Bill… I don’t need to say the things that have already been said a million times. I happened to be in Italy with the President Berlusconi. Silvio and I were playing golf and through his interpreter he asked what the problem was. I had to explain that the problem was that he didn’t call Julia Roberts. Instead Wild Bill corrals a chubby Jewish chick… Oh here we go with the groans… Donald Trump hates fat chicks and Jews again… I love them. They voted for me. I just don’t love them the way Wild Bill does. You could have sent the evidence flying anywhere but it landed on a blue dress… Remember if it doesn’t fit you must acquit? If you wore the dress, you must confess. I’ll confess this… In order for me to nut with that chick, I might have had to have your wife Hillary in the room watching.  You’re all thinking… Mr. President! That is disgusting! You never know what turns a man on but the thought of that is truly dirty and we all know how dealing with Hillary can be truly dirty. Now then…Wild Bill… There are the things we know we know, the things we think we know and then the things we don’t know shit about. This will all come out one day on a coffee table book right along side the Kama sutra in that room in the white house where you took furniture and sold it… Christ, could you imagine if Obama had done that? Everyone would have said that’s his father’s side coming out in him. I might not make to see that book come out, Wild Bill but I have been to the mountain and I’m not afraid… Wrong night… Wrong speech.

 

Jeff Sessions- Jefferson Beauregard Sessions Benedict Arnold III… I walked ahead of good ole Jefferson and wondered what the sharp pain was in my back. I turned to see good ole Jefferson just smiling as big as he could. I tried to take my suit coat off and found that I couldn’t do it because I had a knife stuck in my back… Picture him in that folksy voice telling me that he had a vision and that Jesus Christ himself appeared to him and told him to take the job of attorney general but do nothing further until he returns… Jefferson is waiting of the return of Christ and has recused himself of his job in the interim. Speaking of interim… I have to pat his understudy down every time I see him for fear he’s wearing a wire and everything we discuss is being broadcast in real time on CNN… Look at Sweet Don smiling over there. He thinks that would be a good idea. Meanwhile back at the ranch there are dozens of the best lawyers the Democrats could buy, working on finding something, anything between the Russians and me. Look at Wild Bill over there… He made a half million on one speech in Moscow… Wow! What a country! I want to thank you all for letting me spin you over the spit. I go through it daily with our less than objective talking heads in the fake news. Like someone once said, all the bad press makes me stronger like Godzilla… So I thank you for coming… God bless you all and god bless America…