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.