Posts Tagged ‘trump’

From Canada to England

June 5, 2019

Tell my secretary to call Pierre. Tell her that I am going up there. I want to be courtside like Jack Nicholson to watch some hoops and rip the president.

 

“I want to apologize for everything…”

Pierre stopped Barack

as the woman began to sing, Oh Canada for the first time at an NBA final.

“Our people know all the words be it French or English.”

 

Speaking of English- Across the pond, carrying tariffs like a well armed sheriff.

“I like what you’ve done with this place, your majesty… You want to see a real palace? Come visit me… Nah, not that place in DC.”

 

The people on the streets stressed with the thought of Brexit. The British Trump looks poised to fix it. The mayor and various MP’s joined in with protest of the modern anxiety of this right winged Wehrmacht rolling across Europe from over seas.

 

Somewhere today on a beach far way, old men remember a truly hard day. They secured freedom and democracy. Nobody thinks to ask the elderly what they think of where we were and where we are today. And maybe it will always be that way.

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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.

And Donald Trump as Richard Nixon

September 7, 2018
I stand here today, your president of the greatest nation in the world
to speak about this business of impeachment.  As you all well are well
aware, except for the People’s Republic of Massa chutes, I won every
state…  The greatest GOP landslide ever.  I served as your vice
president during the greatest peacetime growth this nation has ever
seen.  After suffering through the Great Depression and two major
wars, this nation was at peace.  When did that peace end?  I’ll go out
on a limb and say when Camelot moved into the White House.  You had
one of the greatest generals in this country’s history planning the
Bay of Pigs invasion.  How was that screwed up?  Cuba?  We could not
overturn that government?  So we looked around and tried to figure out
what weaker country we could invade to save them from themselves and
get people’s minds off of Cuba… Where to go?  Where to Go.  Ah…
Vietnam. Who ever really heard of Vietnam before and if you did, could
you find it on a map.  The great Walter Cronkite looked solemnly into
the camera to report that it is a war we couldn’t win.  I suppose he
knows better than generals.  I supposed if we had conducted a war
correctly, we wouldn’t have had such a long and useless war.  Kennedy
put it on a tee, Johnson hit it into the Gulf of Tonkin and it was my
job to fish it out.  Maybe if I was better looking and hob nobbed with
you all out in Martha’s Vineyard or Hyannis, got drunk and crashed a
car in a pond and walk away with some doll in the backseat…  Maybe if
I had a ménage a trois with Kissinger and Bridget Bardot, you might
all keep it down low, wink, nod and declare that Dick is a man’s man
and for the good of the country, we’ll just let this go.  Maybe I
needed to take charge and remind my men that there was better chance
of meeting Jesus Christ than Mc Govern defeating me and there would be
no reason to snoop on them.  Kennedy and Johnson brought you the war
and I ended it.  Kennedy and Johnson were a hair away from starting a
nuclear war with the USSR over again…  Help me out here… Anyone? Yes,
Cuba once again and I sat down with Brezhnev and worked out a plan to
limit nuclear weapons.  China…  That was I once again.  Trade
relations and a chance to sell a billion Buicks brought to you once
again by Richard Nixon.  The milk toast members of my party are
wringing their hands, worried that if they don’t throw me into the
fire, they might be next at some future date.  I said this to
Kissinger and I will say it all to you- the press is the enemy… The
establishment is the enemy.  Professors…  Communist perpetrators who
indoctrinate your children into believing that you’re the problem…
They are the enemy.  Tattoo it all over your body 100 times…  I go to
the people today and bypass the media.  The people have to know
whether or not their president is a crook.  Well I’m not a crook.  I
earned everything I’ve got.  You think you can get rid of me and
undermine the will of the people and my mandate, I say roll the dice…
Thank you all for listening tonight, god bless you and god bless
America.

Let Them Eat Beets

August 17, 2018

Wonder drugs are really wonderful except when those darn side affects take affect. You know- hives, bleeding gums, swollen pancreas and feet, insomnia, sensitivity to light, night sweats, day sweats, heart palpitations, loss of libido, a hard on that never subsides that could service a harem… You get the idea.

 

The Millers were some large white people. The father, wheezed when he breathed. His neck was hidden between a half dozen chins. He would roll into the local 7-11 to buy those nasty tacos and wings under the heat lamp, a bag of chips, a double big gulp and that candy bar. I’m sorry, two candy bars.

“Vun for 69 cents, two for a dollar,” the Indian proprietor who announces as Bill the patriarch would get ready to slip his card into the reader.

The children were the American version of Hansel and Gretel. Middle school age cherubs that wore adult clothing. They sweat in cool weather and their eyes disappeared whenever they smiled. Hamburgers, frozen pizzas and ice creams were their staples. Their parents would cruise the aisles of the local grocery store in motorized scooters while their children waddled behind them begging for extra snacks. Very little fruit, very little vegetables and a plethora of artery clogging garbage to stuff their faces in front of their phones and the television. Bill outweighed his wife by fifty pounds and both of them were over 300lbs. When the four of them would get in the elevator on the way to the doctor’s, they would quietly do the math in their heads. The four of them were dangerously close to the maximum weight allowed by the fire marshall. Bill had a terroristic beard with a man bun that went up into a cute fountain like a center punch in the middle of his head. They would pull up at the local buffet on Mondays and smile at the register girl and Bill would always say, “You’re about to lose on this deal.” You get the idea. They were the archetypical fat Americans. They were sloppy, slovenly, sloths completely content with obesity until Bill happened to be reading about a man who looked like him and lost 250 lbs. He thought that he might just be a handsome devil under all that fat. The thought of working out hours a day and yanking fat and sugar from his diet seemed a life not worth living. Bill needed artificial will power or something to overpower his laziness.

 

Bill knew of a woman at work who lost an amazing amount of weight but appeared to have developed Tourette’s. The woman looked amazing but she had no filter. To prevent herself from saying too much, she would cover her own mouth and mumble through her fingers. Bill approached the woman in the parking lot and offered her a large sum of money if she would hook him up with the non-FDA approved drug from Mexico. The colleague agreed to the deal. At first, Bill felt nothing and after about a week he noticed that things began to change. Bill had a taste for salads with lemon instead of dressing, No burgers or pizza. He wanted to walk and lift weights instead of sit in the lazy boy and read his phone. After a month, Bill was running and doing a stationary bike, rowing machine and elliptical at the gym for hours at a time. No junk food at all and he walked around shaking a plastic container filled with a protein shake. It was an amazing transformation. Before long, Bill’s wife and kids were all taking the same drug. They became fitness machines and testimonies to clean living and exercise. Everything was great, right? Oh, yes… The side affects. The family did not lie down at the end of the night and sleep a solid eight hours. They did not sleep even half of that. They would periodically collapse and take a twenty to thirty minute nap here or there. Some times it would hit them at work like narcolepsy and they would involuntarily fall deeply asleep for fifteen minutes and feel refreshed and ready to take on any task at 110% effort or more. None of them realized that their resting heart rate was over 100 and that they were shortening their lives by racing their hearts at all times. The other side affect was brutal honesty and an inability to lie.

Bill weighed in at 185 lbs. at about six feet in height and about 6% body fat. He walked around wide-eyed with tense jaws and said the wildest things out loud. At home, it was astounding the things the family would say to each other. It didn’t matter much until they got together for dinner with their good friends, The Quentin’s. The Quentin’s were nice people. All of them had red hair to the point of orange. The kids had whitest of white skin and freckles on top of freckles. The Quentin’s had a rainbow flag in front of the house with a lawn sign that said, “Black Lives Matter” and “Hate has No Home Here” and “No Human is Illegal”. The Millers kept quiet that they voted for Trump and liked Trump and were really happy about their tax cut, their improving 401K and that Bill’s company kicked back $1,000.00 to him recently. They knew the Quentin’s were really liberal and were frantic about the changes that they could not control. They would always make off the cuff comments about Trump and Trump lovers such as ignorant, backward, fascist, Nazi, xenophobic, homophobic and so on. The Miller’s would politely listen and then try to change the subject to vacations or sports the kids were playing. The Quentin’s made ribs with a bean dip and potato chips, coleslaw and then cookies and chocolate cake. Bill and Tammy showed up with a beet salad and some sort of bland tofu. The Millers ate it like it was the greatest thing and the Quentin’s sort of snarled at it. Julie Quentin jokingly made a comment, which opened the door to brutal honesty.

“That looks like punishment, not a meal.”

Bill wiped beet juice from his chin, smiled and spoke first.

“You’re gonna eat all the calories you need for a week in one sitting? Your temple is a bank and I can tell you that you are putting way too much in the bank if you know what I mean. You have to be fatter than the last time we got together. If you’re not fatter, you certainly look fatter”

“What the hell, Bill!”

“I mean that all that shit you’re eating makes you feel like shit inside and then you think shitty things about the government and the whole world and then you go back and have a piece of cake and think, gee… I wanna kill the president…”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Bill?”

Tammy jumped in to continue where Bill started.

“Julie, Julie… Listen… You’re unhappy because you’re fat and fat because you’re unhappy. It stems from your inability to accept reality. Your resist sticker on the back of your car tells it all. You are resisting reality; you’re resisting happiness and a better life. You think getting a “No Hate” tattoo in Arabic makes you not hate? No, you hate great and I know you hate hearing the truth. We sit here and listen to you both go on and on about everything you hate and you assume we are with you and we’re not.”

Julie stood up and placed her palms on the table and began to yell in the face of her good friend Tammy or former good friend.

“What kind of mind controlling Nazi shit has happened to you? You lose the equivalent of a whole human being and now you get preachy with us? How dare you!”

Julie’s husband took a drink of his beer and said nothing. Bill winked at him and took a sip of his lemon water. The women went back and forth, yelling and pointing until the Miller boy looked up from his phone where he was watching a steroidal man discussing how to make muscle fast. The lean 13-year-old boy, made a statement.

“Adults are always talking about hoping and praying for things… You know what I hope for? Aliens… Not the illegal ones…   I pray they come down and put you all in zoos. Aliens can watch you do all the crazy, sick shit you do sexually on the Internet and maybe they’ll throw a steak in your cage… If not a steak, maybe a beet salad.”

The fighting ended really quickly after that.

Mommy and Daddy Voted For Trump- A Kid Book

June 23, 2018

Children I know you heard that once upon a time that momma and daddy voted for Obama back in 2008. Things then were not so great. Back when you were just a tadpole in dad’s bag and we were trying to secure Baghdad. Eight years of hope. Eight more? Nope.
Along came a man with a strange tan down an escalator. He told your parents that life could be better. Against all odds, against all predictions at 10pm eastern came the revelation. The American Brexit was born.
Now Aunt Tilly, the one married to Milly, both believe in freedom of speech and democracy as long as they agree. They told your parents that they were stupid and silly and yelled, “you are dumb… Racist, sexist and straight up deplorable.” For your parents the thought was unbearable the idea of Hillary as president. No borders and permanent illegal immigrants. Free college and a government job for all and no need for borders, passports, fences or walls. North Korean bombs headed for Guam, Syria feeling little like Vietnam with no hope or plan for ISIS or the return of the Tailban.
They probably would never admit this out loud but they are proud that as a boy, you wear blue and like firetrucks and they quietly believe it sucks that their values are the enemy of Hollywood, the press and talk show TV.
Russian collusion, Mueller commission fishing for obstruction and mom and dad are just so glad about the economy and their 401K and the prospect that Korean missles might go away. What do they do? What do they say? Nothing out of fear of being yelled at, belittled, attacked and driven away. Oh and by the way… You better hide this book today. Aunt Tilly is on her way. I shudder to think what she’ll think or what she’ll say and that’s just how it is everyday.

The Truth…

April 5, 2018

Reading all the news that’s fit to print like Pravda- It’s true, I believe distortion, verbal contortions and I resist reality. Where I live I pay the taxes and raise my fist against the axis of President Aprentice and the GOP because you all have a right to live with me- give me the bill- It’s your right! That’s what I get for being white…
I’m thinking of moving to soviet California and hold a sign at the lower border. “Welcome… sorry for the English… I never learned another language.”
The weather today… stormy with a chance of Daniels. A sexual collusion and the conclusion by Anderson Cooper? Consentual with no protection- Maybe we need another special prosecutor… I recuse myself myself from the fluff.
Oh you’re worried about a nuclear war? That is what the generals are for… A Marshall Plan for Little Kim… The president and Dennis Rodman are going to meet him. Picture Bjork singing with a lot of delay, blue jeans and Bourbon and cigarettes on a sunny day. Chinese winning a nobel prize. America strong! And Chinese wise! TMZ at the DMZ- sound bite news for the ADHD… Fuck it… Put on the Khardasians.
Angst a blue and red state of mind. All we want is the truth… Like a weird German once quoted- “Convictions are more dangerous enemies of truth than lies.”

The 2nd Opinion

January 17, 2018

The press and a large part of the electorate was quite skeptical of
the results of a physical and mental exams performed by Dr. Ronny
Jackson so another physical was performed by a group of Doctors
ordered by the Democratic Party.  Think of Robert Mueller and his team
as physicians.  What they found was not unlike what Dr. Ronny Jackson
found.  All the clinical data came up very similar.  The press
conference following the second opinion became more frantic.  Dr. Hans
Gruber fielded questions.  What they did not know was that Dr. Hans
was an atheist, nihilist and an anarchist in his earlier days.  Dr.
Gruber was neither Democrat nor Republican.  He believed in nothing.

“Dr. Gruber…  Would you say that the president is on par with Putin
regarding his health?”

Dr. Gruber- I would say he is more on par with Rasputin.  To prevent
the possibility of being poisoned by anyone, he does not have his
kitchen staff prepare food for him.  He like most Americans pulls up
to a drive through and orders a number one.  Sometimes a number 7 with
a diet Coke.

“Dr. Gruber…  Do you believe the president is actually obese and in
danger of a heart attack or stroke given that he sleeps very little,
does not exercise except for golf and eats poorly?”

DR.  Gruber- There is what I’ve discovered based on tests and what I
believe.  Since you specifically asked what I believe, I will tell you
what I believe…  Genetically some people can eat …  pardon the word
but it has been quite popular lately… shit food and it has no affect
on them.  They can endure high stress with very little sleep and they
are no worse for the wear.

“Dr. Gruber…  Are you alluding to some sort of genetic master race,
Caucasians are superior sort of conclusion?”

Dr. Gruber- Ummm no.  Hitler was not looking for orange haired,
oranged-faced people to build his Reich.  It’s more like the luck of
the draw.  You sometimes bring to homely people together and create a
beauty.  Two right-handers give birth to a lefty.  Two brown haired
brown-eyed people create a blond with blue eyes…  These things
happened.

“Dr. Gruber…  There are a large number of psychiatrists who believe
that the president is no mentally fit.  How can we be sure that the
tests given are truly accurate at detecting the president’s mental
fitness.”?

Dr. Gruber- I don’t think I could accurately determine if someone is
mentally fit without putting that person, personally through an exam.
Has anyone found out the political leanings of these psychiatrists who
have never examined the president?  Am I allowed to ask questions
here?  No?  Okay…  Maybe a rhetorical question.”

“Dr. Gruber…  The country is perplexed by this second examination.
What would you suggest next?

Dr. Gruber- If collusion, obstruction of justice, mental and physical
fitness cannot unseat this president, you have two choices- acceptance
of reality or hope for a Democrat house in 2018 and a successful
election to trigger an impeachment Keep in mind there are large
questions right now in the minds of many Americans about the mental
fitness of the American press…  You asked me… I’m just telling you.

The Stay Home Dad’s Poetry Meet-Up

October 7, 2017
Jack met Martin before they finally

Jack met Martin before they finally said a few words to Buck.  All
three of them had small children that they would take to the park at
about the same time.  There were Spanish and Polish speaking au pairs
and a few young moms but the three men found one another and became
friends.
Jack, a stand-up bass player in Jazz bands at night, watched his two
boys during the day.  His wife is an attorney and she essentially pays
for everything.  Jack needs to pay his car insurance and for his own
food when he eats out.  Jack lives in a big house and loves watching
documentaries on Netflix.  He’s a good dad but has trouble being
patient with his son, Jack Jr. who has ADD.
Martin writes short stories and poetry and makes almost no money
except that he takes care of pre-school age children on Mondays from
9-3.  His daughter gets to be part of the school for free and they
give Martin $200.00 a day for his work.  That money needs to stretch
all week.  His wife is a schoolteacher truly believes her husband will
get one of his manuscripts published one day.  She asks Martin to see
the queries he sends out daily to ensure that he is not playing video
games all day while their toddler twins play close by.
Buck is a high school hockey coach by night and a stay at home dad by
day.  Buck also plays hockey and is a referee to earn a few extra
dollars.  Buck makes $10,000.00 between September and March and then
he gets a few hundred for running clinics and camps in the summer
months.
When times were tough at home for the boys and their spouses, the
fact that their wives were carrying them more or less, did not go
without mention.  Martin’s wife was probably the harshest with him in
that he would go long periods of time without writing anything.  His
response would be that when there is acrimony between them, he
couldn’t get in the mindset to write anything.  Her response would be,
“Then go get a fucking job like every other man on the planet and quit
fucking moping…”
Jack’s wife hated Jazz but was turned on by him playing the stand-up
bass.  She wanted her husband to give music lessons on the side to
children to help make more money but he said that he really hated
children other than his own.  Truth be told, Jack wasn’t entirely sure
that he liked his boys all that much.  They were loud and messy and
truly whining little bitches in his opinion.  He felt that their mom
coddled them way too much.
Buck’s wife liked that her husband was rough and straightforward.  If
you were ugly, Buck might tell you so.  He was hard on his hockey
players and trained them to be as rough as possible.  Buck often wore
a shirt that he had made up himself that read, “MAKE HOCKEY VIOLENT
AGAIN”.  Buck still played ice hockey and still fought as a man in his
later forties.  His large dick could get hard on command and for that
reason, his wife found redeeming value in her caveman.
Martin spoke to an owner of a small restaurant about having a poetry
reading night once a week on a Tuesday night.  Most of the poetry
sucked but the authors believed it to be good.  Some would read short
stories or essays but most were poems.  Martin began a Meet-Up poetry
night at the same small club where Jack played Jazz at a drop-in Jazz
night on Wednesdays.  The owner, desperate for extra business, allowed
the bad poetry night and circle jerking Jazz musicians to play the
same tired old shit like hymns at a protestant church.  Jack played
the bass softly while people read.  There was a local finalist who
read his award-winning poem first.  His poem earned him a place in an
anthology of poems and a $500.00 award.  His name was Bruce and he
smelled of onions and had greasy wispy hair.  His collared shirt was
stained around the armpits and his ass crack hung out of the back of
his pants when he sat down.  He looked nearly homeless but was
actually a rich trust funder who never had to work a day in his life.
Nobody understood his poem but they all agreed it was good.  A young
black man came up and read his next.  He dug the bass behind him.  He
had a large Afro and was slightly angry just because it was en vogue.
He came from adopted white lesbians in a well to do area of town.  The
young, thin man grabbed the microphone and paced back and forth like a
distressed lion in a cage.
“What you need to know is a knee makes me free.  A knee tells the
world about my plight and all the things in society that just ain’t
right.  What you need to know is that my life matters and as a matter
of fact, you can’t know what it’s like to be in my skin or understand
where I’ve been.  A knee makes it right and I have the right to right
a wrong…  Play that bass, motha fuckah!”
A man named Jose came up and asked Jack to play the bass line for the
girl from Ipanema while he strummed a guitar and sang in Portuguese.
Nobody knew what he was saying but it really sounded nice.  The
English translation was not as nice.
“I loved to love you and loved you with all my muscle.  When you
fucked me in the ass, I  fucked you in the ass for real.  How dare you
take my shit and give me diseases.  Even though you did many wrong
things, I would take you back but lock my things up.  I love you…  I
love you…”
Next was the sushi woman.  The sushi woman catered parties dressed
like Betty Page from the 1950’s with no shirt on and a multitude of
tattoos.  Guys hired her for bachelor parties and football games.  Her
name is Gretchen; she’s 27, teaches Pilates and has a side gig as a
topless sushi maker.  Her poetic rant against Trump was with her shirt
off.  Over her nipples were two X’s of black tape.  She wore tight
black exercise pants and high heels her hair was poofed up high and
her black lipstick was thick.  Thick enough to need a scrubber to get
the paraffin off of her wine glass at the end of the night.  The men
didn’t give a damn about the message.  They marveled at her tight body
and round breasts.  People off the street stopped as they walked by to
look at the young woman on a stage, under lights.
“You’re not my president.  I’m no longer a resident of this country…
You shattered my hopes; you’ve shattered my dreams.  You taken the
best part of me and pulled it from my breast…” Gretchen cupped her
left breast from underneath.  Her natural breasts were round and firm.
Everyone clapped for her as if it was the best thing they ever heard.
She then passed out cards for her sushi catering with a picture of
herself without a shirt on, arms crossed, holding two knives.
Last to come up was Buck.  He had never done something like writing
poetry and reciting it.  He was strong looking and stood with his left
hand in his pocket.  He wore a CCM hat and an Expos T shirt.  Buck
looked out of his element.
“I was a lad near Montreal.  J’ai parle Francais chez moi…  My dad
listened to Hockey Night in Canada sur la radio…  Patriotic?  you
better believe, I wear it on my sleeve.  Red, White and Blue, les
trois colouer of the Canadiens of Montreal.  I might buy you a beer
and talk about the power play, I might beat your ass on the ice the
following day.  Don’t take offense, its just hockey.  Hockey might be
better than sex.  The sound of the crowd and the puck inside the net.
The wind blowing around my ears and the snot flying around your helmet
and the tears as I cartwheel your ass with a solid hip check.  A slap
shot, wrist shot, a child in the stands cheering a lot.  Wearing the
sweater to your favorite team, playing outside on a winter day, sweat
steaming from under your hat.  This is life; this is where it’s at.  I
hope to play this game til I die.  Don’t understand?…  Enough of this
bullshit and listen to the man play the bass.  Coffee tomorrow at the
park, boys?  Solid Jackson play it out…  In case you didn’t know,
Kerouac was Quebecois too… I rest my case.”

aid a few words to Buck.  All
three of them had small children that they would take to the park at
about the same time.  There were Spanish and Polish speaking au pairs
and a few young moms but the three men found one another and became
friends.
Jack, a stand-up bass player in Jazz bands at night, watched his two
boys during the day.  His wife is an attorney and she essentially pays
for everything.  Jack needs to pay his car insurance and for his own
food when he eats out.  Jack lives in a big house and loves watching
documentaries on Netflix.  He’s a good dad but has trouble being
patient with his son, Jack Jr. who has ADD.
Martin writes short stories and poetry and makes almost no money
except that he takes care of pre-school age children on Mondays from
9-3.  His daughter gets to be part of the school for free and they
give Martin $200.00 a day for his work.  That money needs to stretch
all week.  His wife is a schoolteacher truly believes her husband will
get one of his manuscripts published one day.  She asks Martin to see
the queries he sends out daily to ensure that he is not playing video
games all day while their toddler twins play close by.
Buck is a high school hockey coach by night and a stay at home dad by
day.  Buck also plays hockey and is a referee to earn a few extra
dollars.  Buck makes $10,000.00 between September and March and then
he gets a few hundred for running clinics and camps in the summer
months.
When times were tough at home for the boys and their spouses, the
fact that their wives were carrying them more or less, did not go
without mention.  Martin’s wife was probably the harshest with him in
that he would go long periods of time without writing anything.  His
response would be that when there is acrimony between them, he
couldn’t get in the mindset to write anything.  Her response would be,
“Then go get a fucking job like every other man on the planet and quit
fucking moping…”
Jack’s wife hated Jazz but was turned on by him playing the stand-up
bass.  She wanted her husband to give music lessons on the side to
children to help make more money but he said that he really hated
children other than his own.  Truth be told, Jack wasn’t entirely sure
that he liked his boys all that much.  They were loud and messy and
truly whining little bitches in his opinion.  He felt that their mom
coddled them way too much.
Buck’s wife liked that her husband was rough and straightforward.  If
you were ugly, Buck might tell you so.  He was hard on his hockey
players and trained them to be as rough as possible.  Buck often wore
a shirt that he had made up himself that read, “MAKE HOCKEY VIOLENT
AGAIN”.  Buck still played ice hockey and still fought as a man in his
later forties.  His large dick could get hard on command and for that
reason, his wife found redeeming value in her caveman.
Martin spoke to an owner of a small restaurant about having a poetry
reading night once a week on a Tuesday night.  Most of the poetry
sucked but the authors believed it to be good.  Some would read short
stories or essays but most were poems.  Martin began a Meet-Up poetry
night at the same small club where Jack played Jazz at a drop-in Jazz
night on Wednesdays.  The owner, desperate for extra business, allowed
the bad poetry night and circle jerking Jazz musicians to play the
same tired old shit like hymns at a protestant church.  Jack played
the bass softly while people read.  There was a local finalist who
read his award-winning poem first.  His poem earned him a place in an
anthology of poems and a $500.00 award.  His name was Bruce and he
smelled of onions and had greasy wispy hair.  His collared shirt was
stained around the armpits and his ass crack hung out of the back of
his pants when he sat down.  He looked nearly homeless but was
actually a rich trust funder who never had to work a day in his life.
Nobody understood his poem but they all agreed it was good.  A young
black man came up and read his next.  He dug the bass behind him.  He
had a large Afro and was slightly angry just because it was en vogue.
He came from adopted white lesbians in a well to do area of town.  The
young, thin man grabbed the microphone and paced back and forth like a
distressed lion in a cage.
“What you need to know is a knee makes me free.  A knee tells the
world about my plight and all the things in society that just ain’t
right.  What you need to know is that my life matters and as a matter
of fact, you can’t know what it’s like to be in my skin or understand
where I’ve been.  A knee makes it right and I have the right to right
a wrong…  Play that bass, motha fuckah!”
A man named Jose came up and asked Jack to play the bass line for the
girl from Ipanema while he strummed a guitar and sang in Portuguese.
Nobody knew what he was saying but it really sounded nice.  The
English translation was not as nice.
“I loved to love you and loved you with all my muscle.  When you
fucked me in the ass, I  fucked you in the ass for real.  How dare you
take my shit and give me diseases.  Even though you did many wrong
things, I would take you back but lock my things up.  I love you…  I
love you…”
Next was the sushi woman.  The sushi woman catered parties dressed
like Betty Page from the 1950’s with no shirt on and a multitude of
tattoos.  Guys hired her for bachelor parties and football games.  Her
name is Gretchen; she’s 27, teaches Pilates and has a side gig as a
topless sushi maker.  Her poetic rant against Trump was with her shirt
off.  Over her nipples were two X’s of black tape.  She wore tight
black exercise pants and high heels her hair was poofed up high and
her black lipstick was thick.  Thick enough to need a scrubber to get
the paraffin off of her wine glass at the end of the night.  The men
didn’t give a damn about the message.  They marveled at her tight body
and round breasts.  People off the street stopped as they walked by to
look at the young woman on a stage, under lights.
“You’re not my president.  I’m no longer a resident of this country…
You shattered my hopes; you’ve shattered my dreams.  You taken the
best part of me and pulled it from my breast…” Gretchen cupped her
left breast from underneath.  Her natural breasts were round and firm.
Everyone clapped for her as if it was the best thing they ever heard.
She then passed out cards for her sushi catering with a picture of
herself without a shirt on, arms crossed, holding two knives.
Last to come up was Buck.  He had never done something like writing
poetry and reciting it.  He was strong looking and stood with his left
hand in his pocket.  He wore a CCM hat and an Expos T shirt.  Buck
looked out of his element.
“I was a lad near Montreal.  J’ai parle Francais chez moi…  My dad
listened to Hockey Night in Canada sur la radio…  Patriotic?  you
better believe, I wear it on my sleeve.  Red, White and Blue, les
trois colouer of the Canadiens of Montreal.  I might buy you a beer
and talk about the power play, I might beat your ass on the ice the
following day.  Don’t take offense, its just hockey.  Hockey might be
better than sex.  The sound of the crowd and the puck inside the net.
The wind blowing around my ears and the snot flying around your helmet
and the tears as I cartwheel your ass with a solid hip check.  A slap
shot, wrist shot, a child in the stands cheering a lot.  Wearing the
sweater to your favorite team, playing outside on a winter day, sweat
steaming from under your hat.  This is life; this is where it’s at.  I
hope to play this game til I die.  Don’t understand?…  Enough of this
bullshit and listen to the man play the bass.  Coffee tomorrow at the
park, boys?  Solid Jackson play it out…  In case you didn’t know,
Kerouac was Quebecois too… I rest my case.”

1-20-2017

January 18, 2017

Pendulum, conundrum, electorate- ho- hum, persuaded and dumb.  Where
did this come from?
Crazy, frightening yet strong.   Simply put simplistic and genius with
a finger on the pulse tapping in to that, which is wrong with us. A
clown to some and they laughed but it was never meant to be funny.
Money, wealthy, ballsy billionaire.  People of color scared of the
unpredictable. Patriotic, simplistic people waving a flag awaiting the
arrival of the despot, in the best spot, at the best time- finally as
ludicrous as revolutionary, scary, obnoxiously brilliant- Americans
are many things but are they resilient?

The modern Prometheus?  What is this success?  Fascist? Genius?
Childish and clueless? Powerful and forceful, bold and amazing the
nasty hero of silent plurality in manicured, sanitized for your
protection suburban subdivisions in search of change of something
outspoken and blunt, unqualified, unbelievable, unstable,
unpresidential somewhere beyond the strip malls.  A clever, vulgar,
realist, opportunistic bombast of a new class- brash and crass.  The
ugly American uber alles.  Better to be feared than loved by the
progressives, the new recessives clinging to the coasts focused on
talking headed arrogance on news television.  A new shrewd, yet lewd,
entertaining aggressive who saved the republic- ans from going the way
of the dinosaurs.  Like Brexit, will he fix it as part of a horribly
refreshing nightmare of less kind and less gentler future?  “Sorry,
this is complicated business…”