Sunday, November 19, 2006


W dodges the war in Vietnam by hiding out back home, and now he dodges the war back home by hiding out in Vietnam?

I guess the Hanoi Hilton has pretty lousy cable, because besides the usual photo ops with other deciders (evidently sponsored by "LaSenza Girl") America's most famous fortunate son actually attended an unofficial event. He spent fifteen whole minutes at the Joint P.O.W./M.I.A. Accounting Command, which searches for the remains of the 1,800 Americans still listed as missing in the Vietnam War. Er, make that 1,801.

There were few Vietnamese to be found in the kwanza hut, mostly just tables displaying pictures and recovered artifacts recovered by members of the command. He asked one of the recovery workers "where that M*A*S*H show was made" before being whisked away in the motorcade for a dinner engagement.

W and Putin go halvers
on an order of hu mein

W's security flak, Stephen J. Hadley, conceded that the president had not come into direct contact with ordinary Vietnamese, but said that they connected anyway.

“If you’d been part of the president’s motorcade as we’ve shuttled back and forth,” he said, reporters would have seen that “the president has been doing a lot of waving and getting a lot of waving and smiles.” As regal as a queen, I tells ya. As a QUEEN!

He continued: “I think he’s gotten a real sense of the warmth of the Vietnamese people and their willingness to put a very difficult period for both the United States and Vietnam behind them, and looks forward to similar trips to Baghdad in twenty or thirty years."

Sunday, November 12, 2006


Who is W gonna call? Dad.

Funny how Americans voted to remove Republicans last Tuesday, and by the end of the week James Baker is running US foreign policy. What ballot was that on?

Rumsfeld might have fallen on his sword, but he fell on it backwards. Gates, another Bush 1 spook, takes the wheel of the flaming Humvee and will try to remember if you turn into the skid or out of it.

Everybody thought Jeb was next in line, but it looks like George Sr. is getting a second term after all. Well, at least half a term.

What a headline: Wimpy bails out kid born with club head. If W goes down in history for anything, it's "Father of Muslim Enlightenment".

Monday, October 30, 2006

Sunday, October 29, 2006

Friday, October 27, 2006


Overwhelming feedback from my last post regarding the current president's nostalgic pangs for Peanutty Koogle. Sarah at the NuTang Institute, which evidently promotes the resurgence of the Apollo Space Program's stalwart vitamin C delivery system, writes:

Chocolate and peanut in a spread?!
I can see why he likes it!

Oh it was a tasty treat alright. Designed during the glory years of "The Project for a New American Sandwich Spread", or "P-NASS", a corporate think tank weary of a robust, politically aware post-war citizenry ingesting fresh and nutritious foodstuffs. There were many other petroleum byproducts engineered into lovable snack digestible, although only one survives in it's original molecular build.

Cheez Whiz, which should be known more for the alarming namesake medical condition it precipitates rather than it's own consumable property, was a marketing phenomenon. It's murky origins have long been the stuff of dark rumour and stand up comedy, and tales of it's reverse-engineered origins following the Roswell incident are constantly denied by both P-NASS and the FDA.

In his autobiography "It's Soylent Yellow, People" Chick Daney, R&D team leader at the Kraft skunkworks facility at LaBrea, California, described the moment Cheez Whiz was green lit as a viable substitute for nutrition:

"All the suits from The Project for a New American Sandwich Spread were breathing down our necks for a final polymer build that they could take to market. My team was pretty sure we had a winner as a heat shield fastener for the proposed shuttle program, but flavor testing was coming back negative. Running out of time, we went next door to where Marlboro was testing it's latest menthol line and grabbed a sample group. It turned out they had negatively impacted salivary glands as well as concave taste buds, and over half the group committed suicide not long after trials. We passed the Whiz around on wax paper squares. Out of the 75 tested, 94% stated without equivocation that, and this was completely un-coached, the Whiz "tasted like P-NASS". Or at least that's how we wrote it up. The suits from the Project creamed themselves over that one, saw it as a sign from Jesus or something, and ran with it."

Cheez Whiz changed a) the way Americans thought about food, and b) the way other people thought about Americans. Koogle essentially followed the same marketing plan but never came close to dethroning the Whiz. Other challengers included the now infamous "Shitzel", the Marshall Plan-ending West German "SchadenFood" (sold as "Die Jest" outside Europe), and the gastrocidal Hungarian curdfest "Wheya Dareya".

Wednesday, October 25, 2006


I have got to get the latch fixed on my sensory deprivation tank. Three weeks on an unsteady diet of peyote and salt water gives you far too clear a mind for this crazy world. Hai Yoo, my hearing -challenged Korean ESL student, finally opened the hatch only because he thought the spin cycle was done on the whites. He wasn't far wrong. The upside is I lost 25 pounds and learned Mandarin, which will be the only language spoken in 2070. Trust me, the sunsets then are something else.

Speaking of altered states, less than two weeks until the midterm elections and Bush is talking about how he likes "the google" on "the internets". He's watching over you, America. Sitting upstairs above eleventy billion dollars in real-time infra-red fart-catching satellite-snoop technology, the most powerful man in the world is watching you on a 300 dollar Dell using public beta software.

Fact is W doesn't like the basement and only runs down & back quickly when he wants a popsicle from the freezer next to Cheney's collection of shrunken heads. Ashcroft used to kill the lights when W hit the bottom step going down. High-larious.

He only discovered Google because it reminded him of "Koogle", as in "Peanutty Koogle with the Koo Koo Koogly Eyes", his favourite Kraft processed peanut & chocolate spread during the years avoiding duty in the Guard. Reef up a jay and knock back a jar. There's worse ways to spend a war.

Bush switched from real peanuts to processed after surviving too many near death choking incidents. Lack of oxygen to the brain during these episodes is the main culprit behind most of the nation's current woes, so you can quit blaming Karl Rove. Most Republicans have trouble with the lowly peanut, and now you know why Carter beat Ford in '76.

Here's another little known: W fills his pants at the sight of the Planters mascot, that smiley franken-legume with the top hat and monocle. Years back when W was at Yale, Saddam Hussein showed up at a Skull & Bones Halloween bash dressed as "Mr. Peanut". Apparently revenge is a dish best served at the cost of $9 Billion per month.

Found a peanut, found a peanut,
Found a peanut just now,
Just now I found a peanut,
Found a peanut just now.

Cracked it open, cracked it open,
Cracked it open just now,
Just now I cracked it open,
Cracked it open just now.

It was rotten, it was rotten,
It was rotten just now,
Just now it was rotten,
It was rotten just now.

Saturday, October 07, 2006


Raul Castro had some sad news for his Brother Fidel

Raul: Fidel, I have some bad news and some really bad news.

Fidel: Give me the worst.

Raul: You have terminal cancer. You have only three months to live.

Fidel: Give me the other bad news.

Raul: You also have Alzheimer's.

Fidel: Good, at least it's not cancer!

Laugh comrades, laugh!!!

Monday, October 02, 2006

Friday, September 29, 2006


When Soldiers Go to War, Flat Daddies Hold Their Place at Home

Humanity: "Check please".

Monday, September 25, 2006


I apologize up front for the lack of dispatch. I've been sick with this back to school bug. Hai Yoo, my Korean ESL student, brought home yet another mutated and aggressive virus after visiting his 14th aunt back in one of the Koreas. How many more undiscovered relations can that citizenship-challenged Asian boast?

I was laid up in the yet-to-be-refueled Reclinerator, feeling sorry for myself, practicing my adhoc cover manifesto of self-flagellation and daytime television. You know, taking in hi-def bovine byproduct on the flatulent screen.

Between kleenex runs, runs for kleenex and getting the runs from kleenex, I may have missed something. Like the meat puppets of MSFOXNN letting Joseph and his Amazing Technicolor Sixpack in on congressional hearings regarding supposed military action in Iraq. Perhaps, whilst engaging my steady diet of phlegm and expired suppressants in the steam closet, I missed reports of my old trench mate Major General John Batiste offering up his nuts for the blessed constitution. 110% American salt.

Apparently professional military leadership (army brass) have been forced (taken it upon themselves) to command oversight responsibilities upon (blind tackle) that crazy fucker (Don Rumsfeld) Don Rumsfeld.

The Days of Our Oprah crowd missed the Major General instructing Rummy in the art of multiple combinations to the jocklehangers. If the old bastard suffered from stones he'll no doubt be expelling a waterfall next visit to the head, colour uncertain.

"Donald Rumsfeld is not a competent wartime leader."

"...dismal strategic decisions resulted in the unnecessary deaths of American servicemen and women, our allies, and the good people of Iraq."

Hats on! In my day your chopper would just crash in the Balkans or you'd be eaten alive by freakish republican golum. Rummy must be perceived as weak and coup-de-gras friendly. Batiste is one brave sonofabitch, but not stupidly so.

"Rumsfeld and the administration are fighting a war in secret that threatens our democratic values. This needs to stop right now, today."

Back in the day we never grew Batiste Backboners because frankly the money was too good. When it came to budget funding we took it black, like Katrina.

"I hung up my uniform because I came to the gut-wrenching realization that I could do more good for my soldiers and their families out of uniform."

There it is. Nothing stirs America's fragile, MSG-riddled heart like aged, naked dogface. Try not to let the eyes wander south. You may recoil violently and enviously from a sight more impressive than the current administration's ambiguous genitalia.

Hooah. Hack. Spew.

transcript and video

Tuesday, September 19, 2006


In celebration of International Talk Like A Pirate Day, here's a couple of favorite jokes for the freebooter...

A pirate walks into the bar with a ships wheel attached to the front o' his trousers. The bartender asks, "What the hell is that ships wheel for?" The pirate says, "I don't know, but it's drivin' me nuts!"

A little boy is trick or treatin' on Halloween by himself. He is dressed as a pirate. At one house, a friendly man asks him, "Where are your buccaneers?" The little boy responds, "On either side o' me 'buccan' head!"

Some favorite Pirate Pickup Lines...

I'd love to drop anchor in your lagoon.
Pardon me, but would ya mind if I fired me cannon through your porthole?
How'd you like to scrape the barnacles off of me rudder?
Well blow me down?
Prepare to be boarded!

Written using the Ergonomic Keyboard for Pirates...

Sunday, September 17, 2006


*bush08 has joined
Why do you kick me? Answer!

We didn't kick you, you had a ping timeout.

What ping man? The timing of my PC is right! I even have DST! You banned me. Admit it, you son of a bitch.

(LOL) Shit you're stupid. DST...

Shut your mouth, we have DST! For two weeks already. When you start your PC there's a message from Windows that DST is applied.

You're a real computer expert.

Shut up or I hack you.

Ok, I'm quiet. Hope you don't show me how good a hacker you are.

Tell me your network number man, then you're dead. and I'm waiting for your great attack.

In five minutes your hard drive is deleted.

Now I'm frightened.

Shut up. You'll be gone. I have a program where I enter your IP and you are dead. Say goodbye.

To whom?

To you man. Goodbye.
* bush08 quit (ping timeout)

Evidently he enters his own IP address in his mighty hack tool and crashes his own PC. But a good hacker never calls it a day, and two minutes later he returns.

* bush08 has joined
Dude, be happy my PC crashed. Otherwise you'd be gone.

Then try hacking me again... I still have the same IP:

You're so stupid man. Say goodbye.
* bush08 quit (ping timeout)

Would he manage, after two failures, to crash my PC? I waited 10 minutes until the next “attack”. Being a hacker who cracks whole data centers, he knows what the problem is.

* bush08 has joined
You son of a bitch. You have a firewall.

No shit.

Your firewall directed my turn off signal back to me.

My firewall sent your turn off hack back at your own firewall?? Damn, my firewall really kicks ass!

Be a man, turn that shit off.

If you're a hacker you have to get around a firewall. Even I can do that.

Oh, I'll hack you, but you're hiding behind a firewall like a girl. Turn the firewall off. Then I send you a virus.

Why should I turn it off? You turn it off.

I don't want to hack like this if you're going to hide like a girl behind a firewall.

Do you know the definition of hacking? If I turn off my firewall, that basically invites you in doesn't it? I wouldn't exactly call that "hacking", sparky.

Turn off your shit wall! Then my virus destroys your PC man. My grandmother surfs with a firewall.

I'm still waiting for your attack, sonny.

Ha ha you idiot, I've got it. Your G drive is deleted and there's nothing you can do.

Yes, there's nothing I can do.

And in twenty seconds your F drive is gone.

Holy crap, my G and F drives are gone! Or is it that I didn't have G and F drives to begin with?

Man you are so stupid. Never give your IP on the internet. 70% left on your F drive.

Should I tell him he's not attacking MY computer?

Ha ha loser! 20% remaining of your F drive!. Loser! Ha ha ha!
* bush08 quit (ping timeout)

Good night Gracey. He times out for good after wiping his own hard drives. Or did my firewall do it?

(link removed since original posting)
Edited for brevity, rewritten for clarity, and names changed to enhance the likely.

Thursday, September 14, 2006


"Ooh kids, wasn't that a scary... mini-series?? No commercials! How scary is that? No time for a pee break... whooOOOooo.... my haunted bladder... whooOOOooo... okay I got nothing."

Friday, September 08, 2006


Not even a pledge drive? Besides PBS, who would spend $40 mil on a TV show with no commercials? How about the Magic Kingdom, currently spreading Tinkerbell's legs for neocon influence.

As you've all mourned, Walt's old firm made a movie blaming 9/11 on the former preznit. ABC (the 'Diz) airs it two months before midterms, coordinating with W's speech the same night.

Hi ho, quid pro quo. The 'Diz gets consideration for copyright extension and maybe a say in the recomplexification of TiVo. Son of Flubber! It's a small, tribal, contemptible world after all. At least W enjoys the ears with medicated pride. Take him home, Jesus!

Yes, two fantasy brands wed and we all live crappier ever after. Or maybe it's more "Pirates of the Potomac". Goofy! Follow the money, or you walk the plank.

Thursday, September 07, 2006



Whoa, that water shrivels the ol' clackers! Almost took the thumb off right there. Cold, like a first wife's lesbian girlfriend. Pondering shrinkticular testage further, I wondered what's one shrivelling appendage to another? What... if...?

A few minutes later I'm staring at my welded digit through a muddy haze. It doesn't seem to be getting any smaller. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

I pop my head above the narrowing surface and take in what could be my last breath as a five fingered discounter. Time to cut bait.

"Freeze!" I turn, my eyes just above the surface. "Mister Freeze!" A shape, half in the swim, hangs off the ladder just below the ceiling.

Hai Yoo? It's my loyal Korean ESL student. I can barely get the words out. "Hai! Yoo! Quit yelling so loud! It's a trap! Hintercloos! My thumb's stuck in this wall!"

"Mister Freeze, use this!" he cries, and skips a white tube over to me. I can just reach it. The water's at my chin. I pull the tube close. It's a travel sized container of KY Warming Ultra Gel. A personal lubricant, smooth, non-messy, creates a gentle warming sensation on contact and helps increase intimacy. "I didn't get you anything!"

"Use on thumb, Mister Freeze!" Above my head a light bulb clicks, then sputters, from condensation. I plunge under the surface, uncap the container and jam the tube where wall meets thumb. Squeeze, Freeze, squeeze. Indeed a pleasant warming sensation. I crunch the tube empty and start twisting my wrist...

I break the surface. "Mister Freeze, are you a light?" I hold up my bloody right mitt. "Damn straight I'm a light! Good job! Thumb is pretty messed up though."

"Mister Freeze, use this!" he cries again, skipping another package at me. A Trojan Magnum Spermicidal Lubed Condom. Now I'm starting to get creeped out. "Use on thumb, Mister Freeze!" Right, a field dressing. I'll wonder privately about the Korean's kommando kit later.

Back at the compound Yoo filled me in. Hintercloos and some dutch uncles stopped by for a break and shake. Now it's no secret that Bolivians shriek like man-monkeys when tripped upon. As such, my patented BTinfiniti "Bolivians-Tied-2-A-Pole" perimeter alarm allowed Yoo ample time to eject using the LazyBoy Jet Hover Reclinerator.

The lowlanders still managed to tear the place up. Lack of respect for other people's property is nothing new for the Dutch. Yoo hovertailed the clog squad back to the Hintercloos complex, witnessed my capture, then waited for the goons to leave before busting in and saving my ass. As reward, I've shaved a few bucks off his rent and adopted a "Don't Ask Don't Tell" policy regarding his "kommando kit".

Of course, he's responsible for re-fueling the Reclinerator. At today's prices? He could have used the solar sectional or the electric ottoman. I'll eat the cost of replenishing the Bolivians.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006


Ranger? My dog from when I was nine? Here boy! What's that? The world is screwed? What? Evil plans? Who's got evil plans, boy? Who? Holland? Damn, I thought it was Dutchland. What's that boy? Netherlands? Holland and the Netherlands? But not Dutchland. What's that? Exist? Right to exist? Wait a minute here. Listen boy, it's not our job to question the Dutchlandian's right to exist. That's for the people on TV to figure out. What's that? Ranger! Stop peeing on my legs!

I come to with the familiar sensation of fluid filling my pants. Cold, dirty water below the belt buckle. I'm sitting in it, upright, leaning back against a wall. Brick wall. Four brick walls. No door. Cozy.

I'm not waking up from the American nightmare. Not yet. Only thing up there is a single bare bulb in the ceiling, crusted with bugs. A wall mount ladder too far across the room. Up the only way out? Can't see a hatch. Right shoulder aching, the arm raised. Hand numb, pinned somehow to the wall.

Don't recall a fair fight. I stagger to my knees and wince. Rub the painful welt behind my left ear. Caked with blood, baking sugar. Doubly sweet, hit from behind. I turn awkward, stand up, expecting to see my wrist shackled. Nothing so medieval. Don't get it. Right thumb, comically jammed in a tiny hole in the wall. I'm the little dutch boy on the wrong side of the dyke.

Nothing makes sense. I was stealing something from a roll top desk. My foot slips as metal scrapes under the rising water. Rising? It's up to my knees! I reach down, blindly feeling around. Sharp! I grasp gingerly, pulling it up. Glistening under stark light, dripping. Focus. A stainless steel baker's knife. Thermohauser, twenty inches. Serrated with a blunt tip. Not for stabbing. For cutting. I hold the blade in my free left hand and look down at my stuck thumb. Now I get it. Advantage Hintercloos.

Revenge is served colder than the stale, lapping muck. Drown like a republican or join the raving mad dutchman's thumbless jamboree. Clog steppin' spook watches some shitty movies.

I line up the blade. This'll hurt. Christ, am I too old to learn to shoot left and be good?

Sunday, September 03, 2006


"It spoils people's clothes
to squeeze under a gate;
the proper way to get in,

is to climb down a pear tree."

The Tale of Benjamin Bunny

Hintercloos is a man afraid of his possessions. He no doubt fired the cleaning lady during the Carter administration. After clearing the booby-trapped double dutch chocolate doors, I made my way slowly into the thumbless one's cluttered yet sugary lair. Was it the essence of nutmeg or cinnamon? All those years working the perfume counter at the Moscow GUM has beaten to hell my olfactory nerve.

My digitally-challenged foe must have left in a hurry as I hit paydirt without swinging a pick. There on the rolltop desk, practically giftwrapped under a light dusting of baking sugar, a neat stack of documents marked "Dutch Ministry of Intrigue".

I chuckled my way through the decoy plans, obviously planted, such as "GMOs: Genetically Modified Seeds - The Power To Control The Food Seed Of Entire Nations & Regions". Oh really. Next was "Tobacco Profits Secured: Industry Raises Nicotine Levels 10-20% Since 1998". Do go on. I almost gave up after perusing "Ehhhxellent: Coming US Housing Crash Will Outscale DotCom Collapse". I mean come on.

Then the money. It's always the last document in a high pile. Stamped with the official seal of the Netherlands' Royal House of Orange, "Queen Beatrix Determined To Hasten Global Warming: Rising Waters To Place Entire Planet At Mercy Of Superior Dutch Dyke Technology". Aye carumba chihuahua santa maria. The mother of all loads.

My mind began to race. Holland? The Netherlands? Dutchland? What's the connection? Queen Beatrix? How could the author and illustrator of a beloved set of children's books rise to power and hatch such an evil scheme? The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin grows darker by the day.

Then the stars came out to play. Caught a whiff of gingerbread, then an exploding pain behind the ears. I hit the maple scented floorboards, my last thought Hintercloos, Flopsy, Mopsy... I think I caught a glimpse of Aunt Sally in garters and black lace holding a cherry pie, but god I hope not.

Thursday, August 31, 2006


The higher a monkey climbs, the more you see his ass.

Last night the rapture raptors at ABC - the Armageddon Broadcasting Company - nearly pulled it off. In league with the nefarious Van derKnockers agenda to instill global panic by liquidating all hope, they aired "Last Days on Earth", a brine swill concoction of black hole suckage, supervolcanic cookage and asteroidial suffering.

This morning Earth was still intact and the only thing fractured was the viewing audience. Thank god for today's disinterested youth. derKnockers neglected to factor in what the good people at Nielson have known for years: only feeble and homeridden seniors watch 20/20.

Too overweight, unhealthy and frightened to go out, the frail demographic sat clucking their tongues and pining for Hugh Downs. Nowhere near the riotous fervor envisioned by derKnockers and his media-illiterate cronies. The window smashers were too busy raving up the last days of summer and shoplifting school supplies at Target to kick off societal meltdown.

So aside from a few AARP members stroking out while trying to open stuck windows to yell "I'm as mad as hell, etc.", life's rich pageant marches on.

I can't say for certain that is the case for Hai Yoo, my trusted Korean ESL student. He is nowhere to be found and the compound looks to have been tossed by a pro. All fingers point to Hintercloos, the thumbless Dutchman. Time to cowboy up and John Wayne it over to the gripless one's lair. Speed is the key, and cunning. Perhaps an artful diversion involving pannekoek, a Dutch maiden's costume and an anvil?

Monday, August 28, 2006



"In a contest between a black hole and the Earth, Earth would lose. It's that simple." I've heard that line before, many times. Back in the day my roomy Van derKnockers would utter that phrase, usually slumped in a corner and high on shag carpeting fibers.

derKnockers whined constantly during our "school days" that his ingenious scheme for conquering the globe by universally liquidating all hope was not being taken seriously by the senior levels of "the college". He never got laid.

Alarmed by derKnockers' complicated blueprint for anarchy involving brainless mainstream media, rogue black hole theory and the nation's growing appetite for armageddon, the "faculty" attempted to "revoke his alumni status".

To no avail. Tipped by a snivelling underling, my old "college chum" turned potential liquidator of all hope escaped through an "unlocked alleyway". But who tipped the tipper? The sniveller was later found headless under a windmill in the outskirts of Assen, Holland.

Many presidential administrations later, it all begins to make sense.

While practicing my adhoc cover manifesto of self-flagellation and daytime television, I watched in horror as ABC news (using as much of the alphabet as they can) promoted phase one of derKnocker's nefarious plan.

Reporting that a legion of rogue black holes are lurking near the home planet, ready to suck us all in to a vortex of darkened cosmic doom, is potentially the greatest worldwide destabilizer since Y2K. It trumps everything, even the Paris Hilton CD.

The nation has little to defend itself with against this assault on the collective psyche, save for intelligence, skepticism and reason. Not nearly enough. There is little doubt that I must capture and interrogate the Dutchman Hintercloos, for certainly his eight grubby prints are all over this.

The brainwash airs this week. If I can't stop it I can at least fortify the compound and wait out the coming riots. In the smoldering aftermath I'll draw up plans to block the next stage of derKnockers' scheme, likely a planted expose on the rise of subterranean mole people. There has to be more than one network in derKnockers' pocket. Cursed ABC news. This never would have happened under Jennings' watch.

The Dutchman, Van derKnockers, Holland... there must be a connection. I'll assign Hai Yoo, my obedient Korean ESL student, to research recent pacts between Dutchland and Holland.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006



In my veiled travels as a raving, rootless godbabbler, the last thing I thought I'd encounter was a flying bottle of trucker piss to the face. It's one thing to negotiate the turnpikes soaked in your own urine, but somebody elses? My mistake for straying too close to the nation's crumbling highway system.

At first I thought Hintercloos, the thumbless Dutchman, had finally found me. But no, it takes more than eight fingers to downshift an 18-wheeler while filling, priming and dispatching with precision a 3/4 bottle of manpee.

This was no critic of my adhoc cover manifesto of self-flagellation and daytime television, although the bastard could have tightened the cap pre-jettison (and eased up on the asparagus some).

This was something more sinister, a little known but growing threat along the peaceful, condom-strewn sides of the country's endless grey ribbon. Even clad in my urine-soaked monk apparel, of which the rental deposit is now history, my investigative instincts were without fail. No surprises in this new low in the war on fluids. As usual, the root cause of this noxious roadside residue can be laid at the rubberized steps of big box retail.

The demand for WalMartian resupply is so severe that truckers hauling flats of pressboard shelving and tubesock party packs don't see the profit in rest stops. Better to drain the pickle in transit using whatever receptical at hand. Apparently sports drink containers have that "magnum sized" opening favoured by the nation's chubwormed independent op's. Any CW McCall fan caught loading up with regular sized springwater before the long haul risks the handle "peewee".

Once relieved, an offering to the gods of the soft shoulder is in order. This is best done over long straightaways, at maximum velocity, preferably with hapless thumbers or hoofers by the wayside. As usual, bonus points for nailing cyclists.

Like the big cats of the Serengeti Plain, territory is marked and how. Pretenders to the throne challenge with a scattering of 12 to 16 ouncers, whereas the true alpha-jimmy will impress with a gallon jug or more of methanphetamine-tainted bladder amber. An accompanying odor of old leather saddle announces with authority.

So enjoy your back to school bargains, soccer mom. Next time you grab for that last Crayola knockoff on the shelf, you might want to think about the pee price paid for restocking. As for me, it's time to head home and prepare for the final showdown with the thumbless Dutchman. But first I'll qualify for airbrakes and load up on Ocean Spray. America, urine for it.

Friday, August 04, 2006


I've got to skip the compound for a month, sort of a holiday slash run from the law thing. I may have one-upped my Dutchman neighbour Hintercloos a might severely, but he'll no doubt be taking his opposable thumbs for granted again soon enough. Damned action news and their team coverage! Go chase the next fad diet, you spray-tanned hyenas.

My laptop is in the evidence lockup at Interpol, so I won't be able to update the blog while I'm kerouacking the lesser climbs of the hemisphere. Curse you Kraslov, you may trade your Stasi allegiances for that of the EU, but it'll take more than a trumped up wiretap charge to get me talking about the Bolivian. There's nothing on that hardrive but rondelet verse and Railroad Tycoon 3.

I'd take the homing pigeons, but I can't involve Hai Yoo (my Korean ESL student) as he is on thin ice with immigration. North, South... he's Korean! The lad pays rent on time and in cash. Besides, Hai has a weakness for raw squab, which is both impressive and nauseating.

So I'll be incommunicado, incognito and incoherent as I travel light as a crazed homeless godbabbler. If, walking alone, perhaps to your darkened car lot or through a backalley shortcut, an unkept maddish monk jumps out and threatens you with a biblical stoning or a holy smite, call the police. I would. Just don't take his thumbs. It's not worth it.

Thursday, August 03, 2006



First Russel Crowe with the phone thing, then Mel with the racist thing, now Croc Dundee goes on a flaming feline rampage! Hey Mick, couldn't find a bucket o' wallabees?

Crikey, what's next from Down Underworld? Don't turn your back on Rolf Harris you silly bugga! He'll tie your kangaroo down, mate. Then he'll rip off it's bloody tail and beat you to death with it. Struth!

Wednesday, August 02, 2006


It has come to my attention, through my Korean ESL student, that the cover of my potential book is arousing arousal within both the gay, and surprisingly, straight Korean crowd.

Or so says the retarded scrawl tied to a wooden clog and thrown into Mrs. Fleece's entryway. At first glance an island, in an ocean of winking diamonds known as the Bay of Window Pane. The Korean enjoys nautical themes.

Advantage Hintercloos, my challenging Dutch neighbour, whose social pulses produce threatening notes on the backs of his own cable bill statements. Delivery noted as urgent. Sir, you watch far too much hardcore pornography.

If the Scandahoovian's claim has legs, then to those of you strangely attracted to my potential book's cover: Jesus Harvey Christ! It's the gun, you brazilian-porn-surfing guttermops! Hard and oiled. The GUN. Failure to regularly clean and OIL your sidearm can result in misfire and off target placement. Misfire is worse, but off target placement usually ends with somebody changing their underwear.

And HARD. Harder than your busted bones after you fall on it. I once cracked two ribs landing on a holstered Glock 17, although it had the full silencer barrel extension attached, which is awkward. Fidel was lucky that day.


China looking to expand their military presence into outer space? Yawn.

China rattles swords at Taiwan? Snore.

China official vows to unionize WalMart?

"Our goal is to spread trade unions to each and every Wal-Mart outlet."
Guo Wencai
Director of China's state-run All-China Federation of Trade Unions (ACFTU)

Saturday, July 29, 2006


My imaginary publisher has given the green light to what could possibly be a book. I don't want to give anything away, including the title. Please ignore the accompanying cover proof so as not to spoil what will no doubt will be a book.

Alright, a few nuggets. Let's just say it will be in fact a book, possibly written by someone purporting to be me. Beyond that I have no idea. Seriously. In fact, if anyone has any good ideas I'd love to hear them. I'm desperate to hear them. Ever since my muse, Bambi, was repossessed by the bastards at I haven't been able to write a shopping list. I can't sign my damned name. I'd write an X, but I can hardly remember how that works.

If it wasn't for my Korean ESL student Hai Yoo and his exemplary dictation skills, I doubt this post, nay the entire blog, would be possible. God bless the quiet Asian students of this world. Study all the damned day, hardly eat a thing. Helps with the rent as well, and that's a good thing what with Mrs. Fleece leaving me high and dry all on account of those rat bastards at realdoll dot com.

When a business tells you "we ship anonymously", get it in writing. I can't emphasize that enough. And here's another tip. A seven foot tall, two hundred pound wooden crate containing a lifesize, lifelike sex doll is way too big to be delivered to a post office box at Kinko's. Because what happens is the moron clerk at Kinko's calls the a-hole at the post office who then calls the craphound at realdoll dot effing com who decides to call your wife and ask her where she wants the sex doll delivered. She never understood my muse Bambi. Never.

Anyways, I'm waiting on those story ideas, people. Let's show all the Kinko asshats and post office dweebs and realdoll dot effing com lowlifes what true talent is all about. And lay off the emails, you hungry hollywood weasels, you bottom feeding stinkbugs... it ain't even written yet.

(Warren T. Fleece)


Wednesday, July 26, 2006

Monday, July 24, 2006


One errant shell could cut Time Warner's payroll in half.

FOX, meanwhile,
not to be outdone...

Possibly the last reference to science ever witnessed on FOX news.

Saturday, July 22, 2006



Resist enjoying a beverage while watching, unless your monitor needs a good spray clean...


Friday, July 21, 2006


"Nobody move or the moron gits it!"

"I consider it a tragedy that the party of Abraham Lincoln let go of its historical ties with the African-American community," Bush said. "For too long, my party wrote off the African-American vote, and many African-Americans wrote off the Republican Party."

"There was an amazing gap between the aspirations of his speech and the policy behind it. It was so vague."

"Bush talked about his No Child Left Behind education program, but did not mention that it has been underfunded. He raised many issues, but didn't offer solutions."

"Stop being a Stepin Fetchit for Dick Cheney!"

(link to article expired since original post)

Thursday, July 20, 2006


Hope in America is restored as Adorable Toddler flips Bush the bird during his stem cell veto speech. The Republican strategy of appealing to the pre-school vote seems to be faltering of late as polling numbers show.


Ages 3-5 "Booger Fart"
Ages 2-3 "Poopy"
Ages 1-2 "Doodoo"
Ages 0-1 "Undecided"
Embryo - 0 "The deficit is what? I'm SCREWED!"

Bush fails to demonstrate that you can
"squeeze stem cells from a young'n"

Wednesday, July 19, 2006


Jabby ex-red border boxer Vlad "2Boots" Putin ain't fillin' the galushki hole with seconds. It's a political chin shot - two in fact - with the BB Boys ouchin' and yelpin' and duckin' for cover - too late.

Vlad suckered Tony B with an uppercut concerning the combustible "cash for peerages" scandal that has engulfed the blighty's ruling Labour Party. While Blair counted the stars, the steely Putin served Dubya a right hook that the two Karls - Rove and Marx - would be proud of. Democracy? “We certainly would not want to have same kind of democracy as they have in Iraq, quite honestly.” Here's your ass back, fratboy. Bus stop is down the street. Fear my KGB skillz.

The G8 Merkleoglers were lucky only the chins got skinned. Putin, known as "2Boots", has the ability to literally kick both your nuts out, two shots, one nut at a time. Ask Yeltsin.

It can be done. It's all about will, instinct and precision. Advantage Vlad - in the cagematch for Supreme Earth Overlord. 'Cause you gotta have the right kind of crazy, baby.


The US Dept. of Defense has deployed 5,000 blue-vested WalMart greeters to combat illegal immigration into the United States from Mexico.

"After running out of regular army and guard units, we were at a loss... make that a stop loss" chuckled DoD spokesman H.R. Puffenstuv. "It was either them or the boy scouts, and we need the scouts for Venezuela. You didn't hear me say that. Besides old people love the dry heat. They head south anyway. It's win win, a no brainer."

Tuesday, July 18, 2006


Canada's chillingly bush PM Harper ("area god shill takes country") is in the media mutt-slam for backing up Israel with the "measured response" talking point as Yarmulka missiles kerplutz Canadians in Lebanon.

To prevent further bad press, endangered Canuckistanis will be plucked from peril by Pierre Burton's gallant lads & lesbians at sea. HMS Stretchypants steams for the holy fester after a crane pulls her from the adventure pond at West Edmonton Mall.

Monday, July 17, 2006


A guide to proper behavior guidelines for the work environment
Suave Herzog.............PREZNIT GEORGE W BUSH


The issue of sexual harrassment
in the workplace is complicated... the fact that men and women view
the issue of what constitutes sexual harrassment...


Put simply, some behaviours that men considered
"harmless social interaction"...

...women considered "harrassing".

Clearly there is a role for education in the workplace...

Clearly sneaks up from behind, grabs her, exits
back, and to the left...
back, and to the left...
back, and to the left...


"If you owe $100,000 that's your problem.
If you owe $100,000,000 that's the bank's problem."

QUESTION: So whose problem is it
when a country owes $66 TRILLION??


Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis Review

Sunday, July 16, 2006