Create Your Own Dogshit

I shit you not. Click title for link.

19

"I'm a dancer," she said, like a poker player laying a winning ace on the table.

I've heard this line before, and parried it admirably (at least I thought so) but this time it knocked me off balance. I never really recovered for the rest of the day. Still, she didn't seem to mind, and I was intrigued.

We had made eye contact before and when I saw her sitting by herself in the pizzeria I sat down right at her table as if I owned the place. Where I got such balls I have no idea. Ten seconds in and she's already mentioned coke. Am I that fucking bad? I barely even do it anymore. Anyway, it wasn't the time or place for an I've-learned-my-lesson sobriety lecture.

"Wanna smoke a bowl?" she asked on the way out. To tell the truth this was the last thing on the face of the earth I felt like doing. I had an appointment to get to and layers and layers of minutiae to sort through. Not the kind of thing you can do well stoned.

"Uhh... sure."

I felt like I was cutting class in high school.

"How old are you?" she asked as our knees touched.

"Guess," I told her.

She guessed wrong.

"I'm 28."

"Oh, that's a good age," she said with a note of sweetness that I hadn't heard yet.

"How old are you?" I asked with an expression of comical dread.

"19."

This time I took her trump card in stride. It was not to be the last. A few minutes later she would tell me about her three year old son, and I didn't even care. What a beautiful dance this was turning out to be. Me, feeling free from my usual switchblade judgementalness and her, not minding my occasional missteps.

"Can I tell you a secret?" she asked. "Sure," I said, suddenly tense.

"My mom's a lesbian."

"Really..." I rubbed my chin and the moment stretched as I had to concentrate on the road momentarily.

"So how far does the apple fall from the tree?" I asked, slightly afraid that I was about to be disappointed.

"Ha- not that far you know, but I could never replace guys. Girls are fine once in awhile, but I could never lay there and cuddle with another girl."

"So is your mom, uh married?" I asked as we passed through the intersection. She could sense the playful tone in my voice and responded with beaming cuteness.

"She has this woman and they have a forever ring," she told me.

"So she's the butch - the the other woman?" I asked.

"Yeah, kinda, I guess," she chuckled. "She's an electrician-"

"So what does your son call her...? I probed.

"The Mary." she replied.

I looked at her and we both laughed slightly. I guess a lot was understood there though it mattered very little. It was understood that though she was only 19 she had lived a bold, trashy life with a cool, unapologetic attitude and merited the respect an elder (me). It was understood by me that I was in rarified air and that the only way to enjoy it, and keep it going, was to be myself.

What a relief. I've always chased after these pure beauties, trying to capture their natural mystique and use it to fuel my insane visions of artistic rapture and global redemption. Now I realize that what I really need is a whore.

"Open your mouth and give me directions!" she commanded. It sounded so odd at the time coming from her - like a stern dyke. This would later become our second or third inside joke. You know you're on the path to goodness with someone when you start to develop your own repertoire of inside jokes and funny moments. What a pleasure it is to be with someone both familiar and new.

The next day she surprised me. I've spent years with girls I swore I loved who never surprised me once. I've written reams of agonized prose and scores of crazy, tortured letters. I've made dozens of hand wringing confessions, and sworn epic, solemn oaths... and realized later that I never even liked the bitch.

"You're a queer," she taunted as I carried cleaning supplies into the bathroom in order to prepare it for her highness.

I pissed and thought about it.

"Since you called me a queer I'm not gonna clean the fucking bathroom," I told her as I emerged, belt unbuckled and fly unzipped.

I fetched her a Bud Light out of the fridge.

"My brand," she said. "My brand too," I half said/ half thought out loud half smiling. She prattled on for a few minutes about the significance of her tattoos and I dutifully listened, figuring this was the price of admission.

When I told her that I was an unabashed Scorpio and she told me that she was a Saggit- no a Virgo, and that we were, "compatible" (cosmoligically speaking) I felt like a man in full command of a crack battalion of elite troops.

The Traitors.

"What a great band name," I thought to myself as a long lost smile of satisfaction broke out across my face. She lit up a Marlboro Menthol. It actually smelled good.

One of our last inside jokes was about our fathers. Earlier, we had laughed knowingly as we shared stories of our northern Italian fathers' abject hatred of Sicilians. Neither of us could figure out where this came from. My father, a doctor of the mind, a Harvard grad, a man who could solve the New York Times Magazine crossword puzzle with a flick of the wrist, would suddenly become possessed with indignance and bile if ever confused with one of those "fucking greaseballs." Like we were that different.

Her father, none of those things, would do exactly the same.

"How old are your parents?" she would ask.

I laughed. "How old are your's?"

"My dad's 37," she said.

"Holy shit! My dad's like 66. My dad could be your dad's dad," I blurted out.

"And you could be my dad," came her witty response.

That was it - the moment of our truest connection. The moment we both knew we could both say anything, no matter how sick or perverted, and be rewarded with a kiss. That day a door opened.

6:30 am.

"Someone once wrote, 'Hell is the impossibility of reason'. That's what this place feels like Grandma, hell. "

The alarm goes off. I can hear the chopper blades churning but I'm not yet awake.

Too be continued...

The Loser

In every local bar, in every town, there's that one guy who's always there. Everytime you go there, every two or three weeks, it doesn't matter, there he is, drinking the only thing he ever drinks, sitting there by himself.

He's a non-presence. Kind of like anti-matter. You notice him the same way you notice the house pool cues.

Though sometimes you may feel invisible or unwanted this guy will never relate to you. In fact, you will never have a real conversation with him.

Maybe this only happens in New Jersey. But I doubt it.

I've always wondered, strangely from afar, what animates this guy. Is he obsessive compulsive? Why does he sit there, hour after hour, night after night, not really talking to anyone?

Why doesn't he ever get bored and leave? How does he get there before me and stay past closing every night without getting the natural urge to vary his options? Does anyone know that he does the same thing every night?

In between shots, you check yourself out in the mirror. God! You look like shit. You rub the chalk against the tip of your cue and feel like an alley cat as you cast a sideways glance down the length of the bar. You rub your face and wish you had more adequate scruff. Out of the other corner of your eye you've been monitoring the ass of a girl with an absolutely gourgeous face, but who's 25 pounds overweight. Why is it you keep looking at her ass even though it's her face that's attractive?

"It's not her fault," you think, as you miss an easy shot. "Shit, look at me."

"Fuck! I can't believe I fuckin' missed that!" you protest.

Just then the female bartender swings around to the other side of the bar and lights up a brand of cigarette that's never even occurred to you. It's beneath you. You're a fucking snob. You shouldn't even be here.

She plops down next to the guy who's always there and strikes up some small talk. Just then you see that space between the crack of her ass and whatever top she's wearing and you realize why they hired her.

(too be continued... )

Kakistocracy

kakistocracy

SYLLABICATION: kak·is·toc·ra·cy

PRONUNCIATION: kk-stkr-s, käk-

NOUN: Inflected forms: pl. kak·is·toc·ra·cies

Government by the least qualified or most unprincipled citizens.

ETYMOLOGY: Greek kakistos, worst, superlative of kakos, bad; see caco– + –cracy.

Sportsmanship, Books.

FUCK YEAH!

And Now, Deep Thoughts...

Sometimes, I do things and forget them. Later, when I discover what I've done, it makes me laugh.

Heil To The Chief

All that's missing is the swastikas.

This Is Just Bad

Probably a poor choice of words to describe Tsunami relief.

More Irony From CNN

I honestly don't think they (CNN) realize it.

The Townsquare Test

Listening to Condi "With Sweetness" Rice testify today I was struck yet again by the unintentional irony in the words of one of these fucks. They just can't stop telegraphing their GUILT. This is a paraphrase of her opening statement:

"I think the world ought to employ the Town Square Test. If a person cannot go into the center of their town square and express their views without fear of arrest or persecution than that person is living in a fear society."

So, I'm anxious to see what, if anything, transpires in the way of protests at the inauguration tomorrow. Unfortunately, I won't be at this one. I had really been looking forward to another chance at witnessing mayhem, chucking tear gas cannisters back at riot police, and expressing my views in the Town Square. Sadly, I will be attending a mandatory class in real estate appraisal in the conference room of a Radisson in Freehold, NJ all day instead. Not that this won't be exciting in it's own way...

Maybe I'll run into Bruce Springsteen?!

BY THE WAY, is she not the most awful bitch you've ever had to listen to in your life?

No Shit!@#$

Oh, the irony of this headline.

Exhibit A: Listen

Bush Proclaims Jesus Day

Who needs Christmas? (Click Pic to enlarge)

Fake Dicks For Sale

I found this product in some weedhead mag. It's a fake dick you can fill with clean piss and then wear to your drugtest if it is a supervised drug test. Click the title for the link, it's hilarious.

I Could Drink 100 Bud Lights

I hate this system. These intellectual kiosks, (computers) whose currency is exponentially deflating, are poor excuses for sources of information. This is a bit of drivel I wrote tonight whilst pumping my dissedent boner to the heartbreaking reality/lust of Bud Light and Discovery Times.

Revolutionaries die
Their ashes scattered in tiny parks
In bad neighborhoods
Of embargoed countries

Martyr's blood
Splattered on the walls
Of an East Jerusalem bus
The next day another one comes

The rest of the world
Suffers
For our entertainment.

The tragic losses of everyone else
temporarily eclipse the emptiness
of our own comfortable existence

In that way their deaths
Help us transcend the misery of our lives

The wages of the fourth world
pay for our indulgences

Our heroes are destined
for bombardment
by pigeonshit.

(I know what you're thinking... "I thought Susan Sontag just died?!@#$". But what can I say... why not us? Why not engage in intellectual hyperbole?)

Kenny Loggins Deported

In yet another exclusive, The Breakfast has learned that the U.S. State Department has quietly undertaken deportation proceedings against 70's and 80's crooner Kenny Loggins.

Officials say they cannot officially comment on the situation because of the Bush Administration's policy of not commenting on ongoing investigations. Privately however, they say Loggins is being held in a secure undisclosed location where he is being questioned over possible terrorist connections.

Airport security was ramped up last month after Cat Stevens was nearly able to enter the country. After a random search of intra-agency databases churned out the name "Kenny Loggins al-Tikriti", authorities moved swiftly to detain the troubled troubadour.

Once described as "the working man's Richard Marx" these latest events mark a stunning fall from grace for the singer. Loggins had recently hit a career high note with his "Kenny Loggins On Ice" special which aired last Sunday on NBC.

Asked if any "unorthodox" interrogation techniques were being used to extract intelligence from Loggins, officials were privately candid.

"Who the fuck cares if he's being tortured, he tortured us for years with his shitty music." Another official expressed exasperation at the pace of interrogations. "Usually when we catch one of these guys we lock'em in a room and play 'Footloose' over and over again until they cough it up. Obviously that wasn't gonna work in this situation."

SecDef Filowitz is busy fact checking the history of the Astrodome and congratulating himself on getting mentioned in some fifth rate online sports column and could not be reached for a comment.

Fly The Friendly Skies

Check out the website where I got this picture.

The CIA or "The Company" as it's employees refer to it is up to it's old tricks again. They've been caught running a secret airline to transport "persons of interest" to sunny destinations like Guantamo Bay, Diego Garcia (where we have a secret military base), Egypt, and Jordan. As part of their total package all customers recieve 10 free torture sessions and will never be seen again. Click here for the real story. (Thanks to Don Goyo for the scoop).

Of course, "The Company" is merely reviving old tactics. Back in Vietnam the CIA ran a much larger operation called, "Air America" out of Laos which helped distribute opium and heroin in a misguided "relief" effort. (sarcasm inferred)

You might recognize the moniker, "Air America" which was appropriated by the eponymously* titled radio network. "The liberal luftwaffe of the loony left" one might imagine Sean Hannity bloviating.

Speaking of bloviating some have called this business of the Bush Admin. illegally paying Armstrong Williams to shill for NCLB, "propaganda" worthy of a third rate dictatorship. (Actually these are tactics worthy of a first rate dictatorship. See below for third rate dictatorship tactics)

Meanwhile The Pentagon is planning on reviving the use of death squads first made popular in Central America in the Reagan 80's. During that period John Negroponte was the ambassador to Honduras. Basically, he was running the whole show. Now that he is the ambassador to Iraq I can't imagine where this idea of death squads came from.

Just like The Pentagon sent Gen. Zell- I mean GeoffreyMiller from Cuba to Iraq to "Gitmoize" the situation there (Abu Ghraib), Negroponte's role is to do to the entire Middle East region what we did to Latin America in the Reagan 80's.

Also, John Negroponte has yet to explain why he hasn't changed his offensive sounding last name. Such an important man should know better.


*I might not be using this word exactly right but it's pretty close.

The Salvador Option

IRAQ The Salvador Option

To deal with the skyrocketing insurgency, the Pentagon is considering creating secret death squads in Iraq. Now, the Pentagon's brave new solution for democracy in the Middle East is to revisit the reprehensible "Salvador Option," the clandestine operation implemented by the Reagan White House in the 1980s in El Salvador. Back then, faced with losing a war against the Salvadoran rebels, the United States government funded "nationalist" forces "that allegedly included so-called death squads" which killed scores of innocent civilians. Today, according to an explosive new article in Newsweek, the Pentagon dusted off that model and has a proposal on the table to "advise, support and possibly train" secret Iraqi squads, "most likely hand-picked Kurdish Peshmerga fighters and Shiite militiamen, to target Sunni insurgents and their sympathizers, even across the border into Syria."


WHAT THE SQUADS WOULD DO: It's unclear whether the current proposed policy would direct the Iraqi squads to assassinate their targets or "snatch" them and send them to secret facilities for interrogation. In plain language: the squads would be either hit men or kidnapper/torturers. The United States has recently come under serious criticism for whisking suspects to countries with questionable interrogation techniques. Recently, for example, a German national was allegedly kidnapped by Macedonian authorities, turned over to the United States and flown to a prison in Afghanistan where he claims to have been repeatedly beaten, all because he shared a name similar to one of the 9/11 suspects. Other reports show the CIA has employed a secret private jet to ferry terror suspects to places with terrible human rights records, such as Egypt, Jordan, Afghanistan and Libya.

EL SALVADOR AS A TEMPLATE: Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld has held El Salvador up as a model for Iraq. And during the recent Vice Presidential debates, Vice President Dick Cheney stated, "Twenty years ago we had a similar situation in El Salvador. We had a guerilla insurgency that controlled roughly a third of the country, 75,000 people dead. And we held free elections…And today El Salvador is a whale of a lot better because we held free elections." According to a 1993 U.N.-sponsored truth commission, however, up to "90 percent of the atrocities in the conflict" were committed by the U.S.-sponsored army and its surrogates, "with the rebels responsible for 5 percent and the remaining 5 percent undetermined." These death squads "abducted members of the civilian population and of rebel groups. They tortured their hostages, were responsible for their disappearance and usually executed them."

NEGROPONTE'S NEFARIOUS NEGLIGENCE: John Negroponte, the current U.S. Ambassador in Baghdad, is no stranger to death squads. In the 1980s, Negroponte served as the U.S. Ambassador to Honduras. At the time, he was "cozy" with the chief of the Honduran national police force, Gen. Gustavo Alvarez Martinez, who also ran the infamous Battalion 316 death squad. Battalion 316 "kidnapped, tortured and murdered more than 100 people between 1981 and 1984." According to Kenneth Roth, the executive director of Human Rights Watch, "Negroponte publicly adopted a see-no-evil attitude to this army death squad."

ABRAMS, THE ATROCITY APOLOGIST: President Bush also appointed neocon Elliot Abrams to be his senior adviser on the Middle East. Abrams was also a staunch supporter of the Salvador Option in the 1980s: when newspapers "reported that a U.S.-trained military unit had massacred hundreds of villagers in the tiny Salvadoran hamlet of El Mozote, Abrams told Congress the story was nothing but communist propaganda." When confronted with the United Nations report that the vast majority of "atrocities in El Salvador's civil war were committed by Reagan-assisted death squads," Abrams's response: "The administration's record on El Salvador is one of fabulous achievements." Abrams was convicted of lying to Congress about Iran-Contra in 1987 – he was pardoned by George H.W. Bush in 1992.

(I got this article from the Center For American Progress. I didn't write it, but I will post some comments and observations about it later.)

On The Mets

The Mets signed Carlos Beltran. Hooray. Yes, he is a great player. Unfortunately, we know what happens to great players when they come to Shea... they suck! It's one thing to play centerfield inside the windless Astrodome, quite another to chase down fly balls in Shea's notoriously treacherous jet-washed swirling crosswinds.

Furthermore, the only way the Mets have ever won is with pitching. Shea is a pitcher's park.

Major league hitters will figure out a way to score and win if they know they have a great pitching staff holding it down. I'd rather have an ace than a slugger, and Pedro Martinez is no ace. Now that he has his ring, his money, and has signed his last contract what the hell does he care? Can't you just see him standing in the locker room after a loss with his gheri curls undermining Willie Randolph and being an all around destructive presence?

Just because all these guys speak spanish doesn't mean they're going to gel as a team. There is a "feel good" element to this team and its precedent setting "minorities" that really makes me wary. The "feel good" story of the spring could easily turn into the "feel bad" story of the summer.

With all the money and hoopla surrounding these high-profile signings Mets fans and the WFAN guys are going to be ready to go into firing squad mode if things start to go sour in July or August, and Omar Minaya will be first in the line of fire.

I personally will be taking on the nom de guerre "Abu Bonilla" of the militant KazmirBrigades, a group linked to two of the dumbest front office moves in history. (Bobby Bonilla and Scott Kazmir).

Possible Band Names

1. THE CLAYMORES - (as in "blow the fucking claymores#$*!")

2. McCARTNEY'S A FAG (as in listen to Beatles Anthology, John seems like a combination of Jesus and Kurt Cobain while Paul seems like... well... -a fag. At least compared to John.

Loggins On Ice

Brian Boitano

I missed the playoffs. I just had to watch "Kenny Loggins On Ice" on NBC. Described as, "The Footloose crooner serves up the tunes for an exhibition featuring Brian Boitano". The only thing I can't figure out is why they didn't save it for sweeps week.

Photo-Recon: Brooklyn

I found this old guy sitting in this car in Brooklyn with all these weird statues on top of the car. We made eye contact and I happened to have my camera in my lap (as I often do for work purposes -I'm a peeping tom). I chuckled when I noticed that he was sitting in this ridiculous looking car. I gestured to him with my camera in a way that let him know that I was asking if I could take his picture. He graciously accepted. Unfortunately, I had only a split second to take the picture before somebody would honk at me so I didn't have time to switch to hi-resolution or compose the shot (not that I know how to do that anyway). Anyway it was a nice moment in an otherwise awful (typical) day.

Earlier in the day I had gotten into a stare-down with some other guy as I was crossing the street. He didn't even take his foot off the gas to let me get out of the way and he was headed straight at me, so instead of hustling out of there I just kept going at the same pace but fixed him with an icy glare (which believe it or not I'm capable of doing). This guy knew there was absolutely NO WAY I was going to budge even an inch. He slowed down as he passed me and cursed me out with his windows up while he gave me some good old, wild Italian arm gestures which basically translate as "What-the-fucka-yoo-dooin-yoo-fuckin-aysshole?!

I gave it right back to him and I knew I had won. I finished my perambulation across the causeway with my nose in the air. Fuck that fuckin guy! Yeah.

"I'm Rick James Bitch!"

Any questions?

Blogging? That's so 2004.

I mean like, really.