Once upon a time there was a man so hideous in visage that he made Nancy Pelosi look like a normal guy.
So, this ugly man walks into the bar with a big grin on his face and orders a draft beer.
"What are you so happy about?" asks the barman.
"Well, I'll tell you," replies the ugly man. "You know, I live by the railroad tracks? Well, on my way home last night, I noticed a young woman tied to the tracks--just like in the movies. Naturally, I went right over there and cut her free. Then I took her back to my place."
"Anyway," he concluded, "to make a long story short, I scored big time! We made love all night, all over the house. We did everything, in every position known to man!"
"Fantastic!" exclaimed the barman. "You lucky sonofabitch! Was she pretty?"
"Dunno.... Never found the head!"
Love At Last
Sperm Management (NASDAQ: SPRT)
The Journal's Far East Bureau Chief, David Marvin Mailer, now reports on the events leading up to the unprecedented $74.2 million bonus awarded by SPRT management to Frank Polisczeschwski, Executive VP for Sperm/Lubricant Coordination in connection with his negotiation of the six-month, fast-track, cost-plus-whatever contract for SPRT's recycling project pursuant to the following incident in New York City:
They came in their tens of thousands.
Chairman Rush was the sole attraction at the new, improved, history-free Yankee Stadium in The Bronx.
Given the tax-holiday incentivized size of the new stadium, Rush easily shattered the now-pathetic seeming attendance records set by Billy Graham during his “Jesus Knows When To Short” sermons of the early Eighties.
Haggard, recession-wracked ex-consumers gathered from all 50 states to see the famed hypnotist/pundit work his magic, ushering in a new era of unlimited credit, direct ATM-linked mortgages, Congressional tax fraud, Oval Office fellatio and early onset thanatosis.
As Limbaugh took to the stage, he held up his arms until the standing ovation had spent itself, meanwhile giving that dose of Oxycontin a chance to kick in.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, I don't have to tell you that these are unusual times through which we are living. No, I don't have to tell you. And I don't have to tell you who the fucking liberals are who got us where we are today over the past eight years. I can see by your faces: you already know. So I am not going to insult your intelligence,” —and here he hesitated while stifling a particularly moist fart--“I am not going to insult your intelligence by inviting twenty or thirty of you good people up here onto this stage to be put into some trance. I already do that on the radio daily to millions. But not now. No, these are exceptional times requiring exceptional remedies. And that is precisely what I will give you tonight, ladies and gentlemen.”
“I am going to hypnotize each and every member of this audience."
The throng gasped as if a single orgasm. Excitement flowed through the vast stadium like shit through a Christmas goose. Rush would make it right...Rush was their man and he would make it all go away. Now it would be alright again, like it was before Saioclism....
Limbaugh stood solitary on the simple, flood-lit stage over second base.
Then, with no introduction, he withdrew a beautiful antique pocket watch from his vest pocket and held it up high, nearly as high as he was, turning to every corner of the stadium for all to see.
"I want each and every one of you to keep your eyes on this antique watch. This, Ladies and Gentlemen, is a very special watch indeed. It's been in my family for six generations. As you will soon see, it is quite extraordinary."
The audience fell into a profound silence, recalling the evocative qualifier that self-summarizes the prevailing culture itself: "Awesome."
Chairman Rush began to swing the watch gently back and forth.
Then he commenced quietly chanting: ”...watch the watch, watch the watch, watch the watch...."
The crowd waxed evermore mesmerized as the watch swayed back and forth, klieg lights dancing off its polished antique surface.
Thousands upon thousands of pairs of eyes followed the swaying watch, in total thrall to the swinging timepiece and its near-godlike manipulator.
Until suddenly it slipped from the Chairman's fingers.
The talisman fell to the floor of the stage and broke into uncountable, irreparable pieces. The Chairman looked down at the wreckage in sheer disbelief
"Ohhhhhhhh FUCK!" cried Limbaugh.
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If (Manchurian Electorate Remix)
Mike Rashoff reports from the nation's capitol on the FDA's approval of Fukitol, followed by an immediate retroactive upgrade by Moody's and S&P of its manufacturer, Fuck You PLC, eleven years after its introduction.
Fuck You have since noted that the ad campaign will be amended to delete the reference to "Job Suck?".
Meanwhile, the National Arts Council has updated Rudyard Kipling's classically obsolete Victorian exhortation, "If," as follows:
If you can start the day without caffeine,
If you can get going without pep pills,
If you can always be cheerful, ignoring aches and pains,
If you can resist complaining and boring people with your troubles,
If you can eat the same food everyday and be grateful for it,
If you can understand when your loved ones are too busy to give you any time,
If you can take criticism and blame without resentment,
If you can conquer tension without medical help,
If you can relax without liquor,
If you can sleep without the aid of drugs,
Then you, my son, are the family dog.
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Snorkeling in Canada
Mostly Big Dave, reporting from upper Manitoba, opines that demon rum may have been involved.
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Spotting Nancy
The Editorial Waterboard is pleased to advise, in a unanimous vote, that Mike Rashoff, formerly The Journal's West Coast Parking Technology Bureau Chief, has now been appointed Senior Washington Nocturnal Incontinence Correspondent, in direct competition with the pathetic assholes at CNN, WaPo, NYT, Hot Rod, Cancer Magazine™ and "Corriere della Serra." Which in a spirit of hail-fellow-well-met lazy fairy Free Enterprise egalitarian narcolepsy, starts with this report in which his GOP contacts have understandably elected to forego a modicum of punctuation:
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Ole Olsen Rides Again
Ole Olsen is walking home from the meat packers late at night through the park when he sees a woman in the shadows.
"Twenty dollars..." she whispers.
Now Ole, he'd never been with a hooker before, but decides, vatt de helvete, it's only twenty bucks.
So they enter the bushes, throwing off their clothing in semi-frenzied Malmo modality.
They're busily engaged in the Southwestern Swedish Pork Grinder when, seemingly out of nowhere, a blinding light floods the couple in all its prurient ardor.
It's an officer of the law.
"Well well well. And what would be going on here then, people?" inquires the officer.
"I'm making luff to my vife!" Ole answers indignantly.
"Ah!" says the cop, "I'm so sorry, I had no way of knowing."
"Vell," says Ole, "I din't neider, 'til you shine that damm light in her face--"
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We Reserve The Right To Serve Refuse to Anyone
Black dude walks into a bar with a chimpanzee and addresses the proprietor: "I'd like a Remy and 7 for myself, and the same for my feminine acquaintance here."
"Sir," replies the barkeep, "I regret to advise that although we cheerfully subscribe to each and every requirement of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and all amendments to and/or variations on same, counsel has determined that these guidelines apply exclusively to members of our own magnificent and financially well-informed species at the top of the food chain by our own self-proclamation, Homo Sapiens."
"I therefore regret to advise," concludes the barkeep, "that we will be unable to serve your guest, including any heirs or successors thereto. I'd be more than happy to serve you, though. That was a Remy and 7, right?"
"Never mind," replies the Homo Sapiens. "I couldn't do it to her, me drinking and her just sitting there watching with those big eyes."
With that, the Homo Sapiens and chimpanzee exit the bar and return to the hotel.
There, exercising all the inventive and adaptational techniques available to man, the black guy sets to work on his chimpanzee in a fury of determination to see her done right by.
He shaves her face, extends her hairline, applies a 2" thick layer of rouge to her face, paints her lips with a massive application of Crimson Reverie by Max Factor, fixes a sultry yet inchoate neo-bouffant platinum wig to her skull and finally drops a $2000 Oleg Cassini original over her head, allowing the magnificent gown to fall gracefully to the floor, suggesting in the most subtle of ways, the promise of her near-nuclear sexuality.
They return to the bar.
"Barkeep, we'd like two Remy and 7's, if you please."
"Certainly, Sir, coming right up." The bartender pours the drinks then sets them before the couple with a restrained flourish.
Then he walks down to the end of the bar where an alcohol-wracked shadow of an ex-cube farmer is drinking desperately and, coaxing a tumbler to a perfect sheen with a bar towel, says to the drunk: "I don't know what it is these days...but it seems like every time one of these Italian girls comes in, she's always with a black dude."
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Working Class Warfare
A strapping young construction supervisor with (a) an uncle on the board of the Union with a pension plan administered by Lehman Brothers and (b) a brilliant future ahead of him, courtesy of his wife's new lawyer "acquaintance," was pontificating at the construction site that he could out-perform anyone on-site in any given feat of physical prowess.
He made a special case of casting vitality-related aspersions at one of the workmen of the mature, near-retirement persuasion.
After several minutes of the usual articulate and grammatically incisive abuse, the older worker'd had enough, just as he had with the wonderful Union that had ceded control of the industry to coked up polymaths with MBA's dedicated to the betterment of our working men and women across this wonderful country of ours.
"Why don't you put your money where your mouth is--Scumbag," the elderly worker inquired.
The youthful supervisor giggled three times in a row.
The old man continued: "Tell you what, asshole. I'll bet a year's salary--gross--that I can haul something in this wheelbarrow here over to that portable shithouse over there that you won't be able to wheel back--ever. Not in a day, not in a week, not until this useless project is completed, sits for a year and a half, is decommissioned and finally razed to the ground. Which means never--this is a zombie project if I ever saw one."
"You're on, old man," the youthful future SUV salesman ejaculated knowingly, following several nanoseconds of in-depth analysis and due diligence.
"Bring it on, you worthless old sonofabitch!"
The old man reached out and grabbed the wheelbarrow by the handles.
Then he nodded to the young man with the brilliant future.
"All right, my young friend. Get in."
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Frank Feldman
A newly unemployed ex-cube farm veteran exits the hopelessly packed Manhattan Job Fair--complete waste of time--walks out onto the curb outside Madison Square Garden and hails a cab.
He gets into the taxi, gives the address of a discrete public house in the lower 60's and the Cabbie says, "Perfect timing. You're just like Frank."
Passenger: "Frank? Frank Who?"
Cabbie: "Frank Feldman. He's the guy who did everything right. Always. Like my coming along when you needed a cab. Things like that happened to Frank Feldman every single time."
Passenger: "Hunh. Interesting. Then again, of course, into each life some rain must fall...."
Cabbie: "Not Frank Feldman. For example, he was a terrific athlete. He could easily have won the tennis Grand-Slam. He could golf with the pros. He also sang like an opera baritone, danced like Fred Astaire and you should have heard him play the piano. He made Liberace sound heterosexual."
Passenger: "Hunh. He must have been something really special, then. A guy who would've avoided The Big Downturn, for example. And would never have invested with Bernie Madoff--"
Cabbie: "Are you shittin' me? He would've gone short at 14,000. He had a memory like a goddam computer. He remembered everybody's birthday. He knew all about wine, which foods to order and which fork to eat them with. He could fix anything in a flash--not like me. I change a fuse, the whole street blacks out. But Frank Feldman--he could do everything right."
Passenger: "Hunh. Well, I guess he really was special."
Cabbie: "Are you kidding? Frank always knew the short cuts and totally avoided traffic jams. Not like me, I gravitate to gridlock like flies on shit. But Frank, he never made a mistake, nosirree Bob! And he really knew how to treat a woman and make her feel right, know what I mean? He'd never answer her back, even if she was in the wrong, as usual. And his clothes were always immaculate, shoes strictly spit and polish, you could look down and see if you had a piece of corned beef stuck between your teeth. Yeah...Frank was really something. He was the perfect man! He never made a mistake. There'll never be another one like Frank Feldman!"
Passenger: "Jesus Christ, I was having a really shitty day. But your story about Frank Feldman has really bucked me up. Hell, I may even pass up that perfunctory yet nominal 10AM pick-me-up I was giving very serious thought to.... But tell me something, you didn't mention it: How did you meet this guy, Frank Feldman?"
Cabbie: "Oh. I never actually met Frank. He died. I married his fucking widow."
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My Count, Try! 'Tis of Thee!
Michael Edward Rashoff is still at work on a think piece exploring the curiously unremarked caesura after the second syllable of Aretha Franklin's performance of "My Country 'Tis of Thee" at the Inauguration.
During this period of intense introspection commencing with the traditional tying of his ass to a tree and walking forty miles into the parking lot at Costco, his wife has submitted the following:
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Satyam Vada Dharmam Chara
With both the Dow and S&P500 plumbing new depths, thus violating the inviolable "November Lows" market bottom of CNBC pundit fame and ushering in the third leg [Ah! My favorite leg!--Ed.] of the bear's remorseless onslaught on our sacred Lazy Fairy Free Enterprise System, a concerned and thoroughly marinated Editorial Waterboard immediately contacted its Senior Ayurvedic Full Lotus Ommmmm Bureau Chief, WisdomoftheEast, via Western Union for spiritual guidance during this time of profound Collateralized Debt Obligation.
From his retreat at Navin's Bar and Chicken Tikka Masala in Big Sur where he is currently Resident Lecturer for Financially Ruined Forfeiters of Self-Realization Fees, WisdomoftheEast sent in the uncharacteristically upbeat report, as follows:
Our communication - Wireless
Our dress - Topless
Our telephone - Cordless
Our cooking - Fireless
Our youth - Jobless
Our food - Fatless
Our labour - Effortless
Our conduct - Worthless
Our relation - Loveless
Our attitude - Careless
Our feelings - Heartless
Our politics - Shameless
Our education - Valueless
Our follies - Countless
Our arguments - Baseless
Our jobs - Thankless
Our futures - Hopeless
Our neighbours - Ruthless
Our grievances - Heedless
Our Sathyam - Truthless
Our emails - Useless
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