Peevish Pastiche

I've had enough long-winded belly-ache about politics and all the crap served up hot on a paper plate by the media. They don't even spice it up anymore. Now the crap is sugar-free. Now it's bland and bereft of all zing and zeal. Sure, it's the same crap – but now they don't even attempt to make it look or taste like something else. Cynical turds.

Piss on our heads and shout that it's Free Lemonade Day.

How can I impress you with my rapier wit and wordplay wizardry when they bombard us with so much CRAP demanding comment!! Shitmeisters!!

Have you seen Madonna's latest concert snaps featuring those tendony forearms and sinewy inner thighs? That's what retirement home nurses see every day at sponge bath time. I'm turned on. Seriously. When you get to be my age, things that were repellant in my twenties suddenly totally DO IT for me.

I say, as long as you can hold that Schick steady enough for even crotch-frame symmetry, flaunt it, Madge! Play the Strat more often too!

I'm glad that one of my personal heroes, Jerry Lewis, doesn't look like an oompa-loompavitch anymore. He may be 82 now, but he looks like "Jerry" again, and that brings on a feeling of peace. That some things really are eternally correct. See "The Bellboy." That movie explains everything. When you walk through a storm...

Another Jerry – Reed – died. The slickest cracker in the box. A better guitargod, and a better actor, than a lot of folks gave credit for. And we're now "In a world" without Don LaFontaine. Sucks.

See this shit? There's TWO MORE 20th century icons that future dumbed-down generations of entertainment addicts will, ironically, not have frickin' clue one about. And when some old fart – like yours truly – attempts to explain to them what they missed simply by being born too damn late, they won't spend two seconds listening. They'll turn up the volume on their iUnipodphoneberry and lurch away. Fawk.

I see Karl Rove is back in the country, and still being given national airtime to spew his corrosive demon bile. Isn't he a fugitive? Shouldn't someone have met him at the border with handcuffs?? Wow, here's a guy doing Osama bin Laden one better – living right out in the open and still not being hauled in.

The Hadron Super Collider is due to be switched on in a week. There are some scientific types being spun into the wacko column, who think it worth talking about, that this huge "unknown" might shove us into a dangerous new territory that there will be no backing away from.

The most extreme nightmare scenario: it conjures up a mini black hole – on earth – that does exactly what the big black holes in space do, that is, devour light and matter. That would pretty much be the bad hair day from hay-ell, bee-otch. Incredible to watch. Impossible to run from.

Suggestion: Give Rove an up-close-n-personal tour of the contraption, timed just as the toggle is flipped.

The most far-out & groovy possibility: it creates a method of time-travel. Sign me up. I'll even join a gym and start eating right to qualify!

When the atom bomb was first invented, there were well-educated folks who predicted it would trigger some kind of doomsday chain-reaction into motion. Hasn't it?

Who knew I'd give myself a shit-fit being more green. I put all my empty bottles in a plastic garbage bag in the kitchen – once a week I can make a single trip to the recycling area with my big bag-o'-bottles. One problem: the bag eventually gets too big, and I get too lazy to haul it downstairs. Those bottles aren't exactly designed to stack well. And they make the darnedest whack-a-pow on a formica floor. You know what the favorite time is for a pile of plastic bottles to shift and tumble? Strange question, sure – but with a definite answer.

Two-fricking-fifteen in the a.m. Twocka-bucka-kapow-poppa-bang-doo-dup-dup. I'm in bed, tryin' to get my nightly 'old guy with work in the morning' snooze, and suddenly I'm jolted awake by what sounds like a midget wearing clogs who's decided to jump out of hiding and trash the kitchen.

I was cleaning my fridge one night (gawd I'm glad those 3-month old apples were in a tied baggie) and there was something big and black, squashed, stuck to the back wall. I jumped. Ow my head. What the shit is THAT!

Whatever it was, it had died horribly. And had been preserved by the cold. Some mysterious dark brown roadkill, had met the Reaper while foraging in the frozen white alternate universe that is the fridge, and was defiantly still holding ground in grim repose.

I wadded up a mighty ball of paper towels, to grab the creature without its icky inner ooze grabbing me back. I reached forth. Crackle. Crunch.

A frozen round of brown wax paper – that had once held a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup.

I rose, looked at myself in the reflection of the microwave oven window. Slack-jawed, worthless, pouty-lipped, girly-man.

Now I'm listening to a radio ad for one of those psychic hotline scams. "The tarot tells me that this man you've been dating can be stubborn and hard to deal with?" Yes, the woman caller giggles. She asks how the online psychic could tell that? Well, I think, possibly it's because everything he does for you is judged against the advice of some astrological shit-heel with pat answers for every conceivable bird-brain scenario you insist on letting her be a third-party to?

What they see in that crystal ball is your Visa card, putz.

Just letting the thoughts blow through my head like old pillowcases through a dry cleaners. Leaves through an alley. Bologna through a puppy's tummy.

One political note: as I write this, the Republican Convention is in full swing. It's performance art, you know. All these people really care about is hanging onto their earmarks, their perks, their private jets and reserved parking. Cuff links aren't free.

It's bedtime. That means that another workday is about 12 hours away. I wonder what I'll dream about tonight? I hope it's the Swedish women weightlifters team again.