What's So Funny?

I hate car alarms

For years, there was a particular obnoxious car alarm in the apartment complex next door.  It would go off about every other evening, with a distinctive sequence of bizarre sounds.  After a month or so of this, my daughter and I had involuntarily memorized the sound, and would start humming along whenever it went off:

BRAMP!  BRAMP! BRAMP!
OWWW WHOO!  OWWW WHOO!  OWWW WHOO!
HRANK! HRANK! HRANK!
BEE-OH! BEE-OH! BEE-OH!

And on and on and on and on....

A car alarm marks you as being about as vain and self-possessed as you can get. In place of an actual life, you define yourself by your car, and how pitiful is that?  And you are so terrified that something will happen to it (apparently being unclear on the concept of car insurance) that you place the safety of your car above any consideration of your neighbors' right to peace and quiet. 

And so you enroll me--against my will--in your own personal car-protection posse.  Every time some goddam squirrel brushes up against your beloved machine, the alarm goes off, and I'm supposed to interrupt what I'm doing and investigate, just on the miniscule chance that it's actually a thief.  Of course, you continue doing what you're doing, because you're way too important to keep an eye on your own car.  And why should you?  I'll do it for you, no problem. Can you say "narcissistic?"

Not that I'm bitter. No, the opposite is true. I've embraced the car alarm as an inevitable fact of life in the urban landscape.  And I live for the day when a car alarm actually alerts me to thieves in the process of stealing a car.  I can see it now. A scruffy-looking character in a black knit cap and turtleneck slides one of those metal things down the window while his tattoed accomplice scans the street for cops. Suddenly the car alarm goes off. I look over, assess the situation, then sprint over to them.  There's terror in their eyes as I stop right in front of them and say:

"You gentlemen need a hand with that?"

Why Are Red States Red? (And Other Electoral Conundrums)

I stayed up long after midnight on election day, listening to Dan Rather's awful faux-homespun quips ("Let's hit these biscuits with a touch of gravy", "Nasty enough to choke a buzzard") and watching the progression of states turning red in the nation's midsection.  It looked as though my beloved USA was hemorrhaging badly from some terrible abdominal wound, and I wasn't feeling too good myself. The hardest part to swallow is that this injury is entirely self-afflicted: We the people took dead aim at our destiny with malice aforethought and fired away. But that's life in a democracy, so we just have to get out the Bacitracin and the bandaids and move on.

Now that the smoke has cleared a bit, I thought I'd share some musings about a few conundrums from the election.

IF YA CAN'T WIN IT, SPIN IT...

Okay, fellow liberals, let's have a little huddle here.  We blue-staters are all a little upset, discouraged, maybe a tad irritable (Hillary, will you put that gun down?!?!).  But did we really lose?  Oh, sure, our guy lost the election, Bush got a ton more votes than Kerry, our feelings are bruised because the rest of the country doesn't seem to like us very much, and we have to put up with our red-state relatives smirking and saying "I told you so."  It's annoying, to be sure, and we didn't want it to turn out this way.

But would we Democrats really have been better off with a Kerry presidency?  Think about it.  The Senate and the House are completely, totally, unalterably Republican. Republicans made gains in the statehouses and governorships and that means even more of a tilt as they gerrymander congressional districts into demonic Rorschach patterns guaranteeing even more House seats going to the Republicans. Hell, these days, even Democrats are Republicans. Don't believe me? I give you Zell Miller. 

So what would Kerry have been able to accomplish besides get in a four-year pissing match with the entire Congress and leave everybody exhausted and irritable (like we liberals are now, come to think of it).  No legislation of any consequence would get passed. No respectably liberal Supreme Court justices would be confirmed.  Nothing much good would happen, and then Kerry would get the blame and lose in 2008 and we'd be in even deeper doo-doo, with eight years of some other God-awful Republican.

And then there's that little unpleasantness in Iraq.  Did we really want to watch John Kerry deal with that abortion?  Iraq is an unmitigated disaster, getting worse by the day, and despite all the requisite tough talk, I don't think Kerry had the first clue what to do about it.  This situation would clearly seem to fall under the rule of "You break it, you fix it."  And Bush doesn't have a prayer (pardon the expression) of resolving things, so if it's going to go to hell in a hand basket, better on his watch than Kerry's. 

In a way, the Iraq situation reminds me of my college days.  In my fraternity house, the tradition was to throw a humongous all-night party the last night before summer break, stay up till dawn, trash your room completely, and then just pack up and go home for the summer, leaving an ungodly mess for whoever moved in next fall.  Only occasionally the joke would be on you and next fall they'd assign you to the same room. Bummer.  I imagine that's what George Bush is thinking right now.  In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion HE voted for Kerry for precisely that reason, he wasn't looking forward to four more years of Iraq.  Too bad, George.  You won.  Now go clean up Iraq or no dinner for you.  And where's Bin Laden, dude?

WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU "CONCEDE"?

Let me see if I have this straight: The guy (and it's usually a guy) who is ahead in the early returns decides at some point that he's going to win and "claims" victory.  The other guy (Hillary, put the gun down NOW!!) comes out in front of his adoring supporters and bravely vows to fight on. The hours crawl by, various operatives from each side spin the situation this way and that, news anchors wax eloquent, supporters wait with baited breath.  Finally, in the wee hours, the loser reemerges, disheveled, disheartened, and "concedes" the election.

This little dance makes absolutely no sense to me. For starters, what happens if they're wrong? Suppose a flurry of late absentee ballots unexpectedly put the conceder over the top.  Does the claimer get to say, Well, that's too bad, but you conceded, so I'm still the winner, nyah-nyah-nyah?  Then the conceder responds that he had his fingers crossed when he said it and so it doesn't count?  Now what? They settle it with rock-scissors-paper?

Uh, guys, excuse me.  Did it ever occur to either of you that the election is neither yours to claim nor to concede?  WE decide, not you. You don't get to concede, Jack, the one with the most votes wins, period. This isn't some back-alley game of craps where you two macho up on each other and see whose cajones are bigger. It's the vote count, stupid.

How about we do it like this:  We the people vote, our elected officials (remember them?) count the votes and certify the result, and then they announce the winner to all of us at the same time.  Meanwhile, you two hang out in some smoke-filled bar like good little lawyers waiting for a jury verdict and nurse your scotch-and-sodas.  You already know the way to the bar, right? 

And keep it down in there, will you, we're counting over here.

WHY ARE RED STATES RED?

Who decided that Democratic states are blue and Republican states are red?  Such boring, corporate-America colors!  And aren't they reversed?  I think of red as the universal color for liberals, leftists, communists, anarchists, Castro, Che Guevara, Lenin,... you know, the good guys.  On the other hand, blue is definitely a military color, as in battleship blue, gun-barrel blue, navy blue, and thus would seem better suited to the conservative, pro-war, shoot-em-all-and-let-God-sort-em-out wackos currently running the show.   So if we're going to use red and blue, we should at least switch them around.

But we can do a lot better. States won by those buffed gun-toting Republicans would be utterly dashing in an olive drab with camouflage-fatigue patterning.  On the other hand, Democratic states would look fetching in softer hues, maybe a pastel more in tune with their limp-wristed, gay-marriage, best-friends-with-Saddam agenda. A nice chartreuse, perhaps? Mauve? Puce?  Ecru?  So many colors, so few states. 

And for dear Ralph Nader:  I'm thinking basic black, a dark, funereal, undertaker black.  You're done for, Ralphie baby, and good riddance. Do you understand me? Catch my drift? Or am I being obtuse? (all-time great line from Shawshank Redemption)

ELECTRONIC VOTING:  AND YOU THOUGHT YOUR PC WAS BUGGY

I can hardly bear to read these Internet stories claiming huge irregularities in the electronic voting, it literally makes my head hurt.  For one thing, I despise conspiracy theories, primarily on the grounds that I've never seen any three people keep anything secret for longer than it takes for one of them to dial their best friend's phone number.  Also, it's impossible to judge sources these days, when so much "information" is flying around on the Internet with no or phony attributions.   

And then the thought of dragging the election out for days, weeks, or months is appalling. I came close to flinging myself off the Golden Gate Bridge in 2000 because of that incessant drivel about hanging chads and such.  Look, people, Bush won.  I don't like it either, but let's get on with our lives. All this whining isn't going to change it.  Even our stalwart bastion of truth, NPR's "All Things Considered," has taken a fairly close look at assertions of improprieties and basically says there's nothing there. So please, please, please, those of you who are keeping this issue alive, just get over yourselves, okay?

All that said, there is clearly something terribly, terribly wrong with electronic voting as it is now conceived. We just can't have a system where you cast your vote electronically on a touchscreen and it whistles off into the silicon bowels of some microchip, never to be seen again.  Consider that county in North Carolina where a voting machine lost 4,530 votes because it ran out of memory.  Where did those votes go?  Are they wandering aimlessly in the halls of the local courthouse, dejectedly looking for someone to free them, haunting city council meetings like Hamlet's ghost?  Or maybe they've been spirited away to that hangar in Roswell where the government keeps the alien cadavers (I know about them because my best friend works there and he called me his first day on the job, right after they told him everything and swore him to secrecy.  He says you can't imagine the stink from a 50-year-old alien cadaver...) 

Then again, can I have a show of hands of those who CARE that votes got lost in North Carolina?  Hmmm, just as I suspected.  Never mind.

CLUELESS IN BLOGLAND
November 13, 2004

That Insecure Guy Over At Homeland Security

Poor Tom Ridge. He just can't catch a break. The man is doing the absolute best that he can to keep us safe from Al Qaeda, not to mention Fred Qaeda, Ralph Qaeda, Guido Qaeda, Jose Qaeda, and all those other bad-ass Qaeda boys lurking behind every dumpster on Wall Street, just waiting for their chance to destroy the American financial system by overpricing Google's IPO... no, actually, they're planning another humongous terrorism attack, very, very soon, EVEN AS WE SPEAK, Secretary Ridge is absolutely sure, 100% certain, well, pretty darned suspicious, anyway. So he goes to a great deal of trouble to raise the Homeland Security Advisory Level (ten bucks says you don't know the current level right now, coincidentally also my blood pressure every time this nonsense gets spun up again) and everybody gives poor old Tom a ration of you-know-what because -- talk about being PICKY -- his intelligence is two, three, maybe four years old. What's the big deal? I suppose YOU'VE never misplaced a important piece of paper on YOUR desk. And it's not a good idea to rush this kind of thing. Intelligence is like fine wine, it needs to age until it's seasoned, ready. "We will act on no intelligence before its time," that's Tom's motto.

I have to admit that I haven't been a big fan of this whole scene from the gitgo. It's that bizarre name. As I am something of a history buff, the Department of Homeland Security reminds me of nothing so much as the Committee of Public Safety or, in its native language, Comité de Salut Public. Ring any bells? Does the name Robespierre mean anything to you? Yes, it's that zany bunch of Frenchmen who had the whole country in stitches during the French Revolution and in the process lopped off a whole mess of heads. Now some of them probably deserved it (take Marie Antoinette, for that moronic "Let 'em eat cake" remark) while many of them certainly did not (among them famous chemist Antoine Lavoisier, executed for adulterating tobacco, whatever that means). But no matter how you look at it, randomly separating citizens from their domes doesn't exactly make a stellar contribution to public safety, unless you subscribe to the theory that fewer people makes the world a better place just on general principles. And you can make a case for that. Who among us, standing in a long line at the bank or supermarket checkout, has not secretly fantasized about summary executions, starting with that little old lady fishing the pennies one by one out of the bottom of her purse? And that guy in the flame-painted low rider with the teeny chrome wheels and the chain-link steering wheel, blaring rap music at the stop light at, oh, about a million decibels? A little house call by Dr. Guillotine would clear his problem right up.

And what's this "homeland" business? Why not "national" or "domestic" or "U.S." or "The George W. Bush Reelection Fund?" Doesn't "homeland" sound a lot like "fatherland," as in this quote from a history text:

In 1914, World War 1 broke out and Hitler saw this as a great opportunity to show his loyalty to the "fatherland" by volunteering for the Imperial army.

Anyway, the whole thing creeps me out, so I do my best to stay out of Ridge's crosshairs, mostly by checking out library books under an assumed name and limiting my contact with terrorists, in other words, anyone with an Arabic-sounding name. Especially that Barack Obama guy. How in God's name did that man slip through security at the Democratic Convention, even allowing for the fact that the entire Democratic party is a bunch of pinko-commie, gun-hating, gay-marriage-loving, tax-and-spend faggots? The name tag alone should have given him away:

HELLO, I'M OBAMA, BARACK

HELLO, I'M OSAMA BIN LADEN

HELLO! Most of the letters are the same and a fair number are even in the same places. If that doesn't buy Obama bin Barack an orange jumpsuit and a one-way ticket to Gitmo, I don't know what does. Chances are the only thing that saved him from immediate arrest was the fear that those whining sissies over at the ACLU would stir up a fuss and affect the president's reelection chances. But no, I'm wrong about that. Politics doesn't have the slightest impact on Tom Ridge's decision-making process:

"We don't do politics in the Department of Homeland Security."

QwertN^$%#&GFGDG.... Sorry, I lost it there for a second, I was laughing so hard the snot was running down my face and onto the keyboard. Tom Ridge doesn't do politics? That's like saying Little Bo Peep doesn't do sheep! He's the quintessential political animal -- governor, congressman, lawyer -- hell, the man hasn't done a lick of honest work in a long, long time. It's true he did win a medal in Vietnam, although those present at the time, including Ridge himself, aren't sure that he should have received it. And does he feel like a fish out of water in the Bush White House or what, being practically the only one in the building with actual military experience. My guess is that Tom mostly hangs around the water cooler swapping war stories with Colin. A good thing, too, since no one else in the White House will talk to our much-maligned Secretary of State. But I digress.

Ever wonder how they make decisions like this one? Let's peek into the innermost sanctum at the DHS where Ridge and his brain trust are considering whether to raise the alert level:

Flunky: Secretary Ridge, I hate to bother you with this, but every time I walk into my office I trip over this big stack of reconnaissance data intercepted from Al Qaeda. My Arabic isn't too good, but it looks like they've been showing an unusual amount of interest in Wall Street, although it could be Fleet Street, Bourbon Street, Easy Street, Baker Street, 10 Downing Street, "Nightmare on Elm Street," or "A Streetcar Named Desire." Anyway, it's recent intelligence.

Ridge: How recent is it, Johnny?

Flunky: Very recent. Very, very recent. Boy, is it recent! Some of it even happened AFTER September 11, 2001!

Ridge: That IS recent! We should do something irrational and impulsive based on this recent intelligence. What do you suggest?

Flunky: Well, sir, we COULD investigate further and make sure our information is accurate before we take any action that might influence the outcome of the upcoming election.

(Silence, followed by hysterical laughter).

Ridge: Good one! You really had me there for a second.

Flunky: Or we can raise the terrorism alert level and scare the crap out of people, especially in toss-up states like Iowa and New Mexico.

Ridge: That's more like it. When do we move?

Flunky: Here's a calendar, Mister Secretary. We are right here (points to August). You can ignore that circled date way over here (points to the first week in November), that's Election Day which of course has absolutely no bearing on your decision to raise the terrorism alert level (wink, wink).

Ridge: Yes. Of course. The fact that President Bush losing the election would result in every person in this room getting unceremoniously booted out of our cushy, six-figure jobs can't play the slightest role in my decision (wink, wink). By the way, what IS the current level?

Flunky (confused look): Uh, I don't know, sir.

Flunky #2 (equally confused look): No clue, sir.

Flunky #3 (even more confused look): Beats my pair of jacks, sir.

Ridge: Okay, never mind. Whatever it is, raise it. And while we're at it, can we have get some new colors for alert levels, maybe mauve, chartreuse, something like that? I'm sick of this yellow-orange-green thing. Boorrring!!!

All things considered, you have to admit, Tom Ridge is a decent guy. He's even got an airport named for him, can you top that? And just look at him. He's one happy-go-lucky guy. What's not to like? He's hit the big time, strolling the corridors of power, hobnobbing with the big boys, making serious bucks, having sex with all the female interns ... no, wait, that was Clinton. Tom Ridge does NOT have sex with interns.

Certainly not with the terrorism alert level at, er, what is it again?

CLUELESS IN BLOGLAND
August 4, 2004

Girly-Men and Dumb Jocks

Oh boy oh boy oh boy, they're at it again in Sacramento. Arnold calls the Democrats "girly-men" and the people's work grinds to a halt. (As sound bites go, you gotta admit "girly-men" is not a bad one, even if the sentiment is distasteful). California Democrats, never the most level-headed bunch in the world, careen off into outer space in paroxysms of righteous outrage. Well, at least we can count on President Pro Tem John Burton, the venerable sage of the California Senate, to keep his cool, right? Go Johnnie go:

"You can't go kick somebody in the groin and then say, you know, 'Let us reason together. Come, let us join hands and sing Kum Ba Yah.' "

Darn. No joined hands in the Capitol rotunda, no Kum Ba Yah ringing out under the dome. Now what? How ya gonna get back at him, big John? What sinister underworld plot are you going to hatch to really, really show him that you're not soft, that you can stand up to old Governor Muscle-Head himself, that you're NOT a, well, you know? Oh no. Not that. Not the dreaded cappuccino-and-strudel boycott! Say it ain't so, John. But it IS so, says right here in the San Jose Mercury News:

"Burton and the governor have established a close personal relationship over coffee and strudel. On Monday, as a sign of his frustration, Burton taped a sign to his cappuccino-maker: "Closed until further notice.' ''

Attaboy, John, let him have it, right in his ugly mug. Coffee mug, that is. That should put to bed (pardon the expression) this girly-men talk once and for all.

It's all very puzzling, this spectacle of two allegedly grown men acting like, like, oh I don't know, a girly-man and a dumb jock. And what IS a girly-man anyway? Gay activists and feminists are quick to seize on it as a derogatory slur against them, but is it? I don't recall ever hearing the term, but that's probably because I don't hang around Gold's Gym with the muscle-shirt-and-anabolic-steroid crowd. For all I know, that's what they call ME when I walk by on my way to the Dairy Queen, who knows? Doesn't spill a lot of beer around my house if they do, but different strokes for different folks. And doesn't long-term steroid use (which of course Arnold never indulged in during his weight training days) make you impotent and grow breasts? Wouldn't that be a reasonable definition of a girly-man right there? To say nothing of Arnold's own propensities for high-heeled shoes, pancake make-up, defoliations, and manicures. Hey, no problem, Gov, explore your metrosexual side, works for me. But watch out for the glass-house-throwing-stones thing, if you get my drift.

Despite the sheer entertainment value of it all, there's something more serious going on here. Because of this tempest in a teapot, the budget negotiations are going to be stalled until mid to late AUGUST. That's right, a full month. Of course, it's just the budget, just how they spend our F----ING TAX MONEY, not like it's something I care about. Let's hear from Senator Burton one more time on the prospect of sitting down to negotiate with the governor apres le deluge:

"It doesn't work that way in life. It doesn't work that way in politics. And it doesn't really work that way in the Capitol.''

Since you brought up the subject, John, old pal, let's talk about work. Now I'm no political scientist, but don't we send you and yours to Sacramento for the express purpose of passing a budget? If I'm not mistaken, that's the only statutory obligation the legislature has, to pass a budget every year by June 15th. Oh sure, you do other things -- raise taxes, give self-serving speeches to an empty chamber, pass resolutions honoring some rich contributor's dead cat -- but that stuff is all optional. Your one essential task, the one and only entry under "Required" in your job description, the only piece of real WORK (there's that word again) that you have to do to justify your pay (and we do pay you, John) is to pass a budget every year.

So as Dr. Phil would say, "How's that working out for you?" Well, thanks for asking, but not worth a tinker's dam. Our stalwart lawmakers who can always find time for all manner of horsing around on our nickel, our dedicated politicians who work their fingers to the bone at the State Capitol, our paragons of virtue on both sides of the aisle --- these esteemed gentlemen (and they are mostly men, duh) never, never, NEVER seem to get around to passing a budget by June 15th.

And no wonder. Arnold called them girly-men and now they can't work. Too upset. Too traumatized. Give me a break! "I can't clean my room 'cause Sissy hit me!," it's about on that level. Note that he insulted them in mid-July. HELLO! The budget deadline was already a month past. Was it some kind of retroactive slip, an anticipatory thing? They didn't pass the budget on time because they were sure, absolutely sure, that Arnold was going to say something nasty about them a month later? While we're at it, shall we blame Mr. Schwarzenegger for all the missed budget deadlines in the last 20 years? (That would be almost as silly as blaming it on Reagan...)

I think not. In my humble opinion, you all need to roll up you cappuccino-and-strudel-stained sleeves, and (forgive the expression, Senator Burton) GET BACK TO WORK!!! How dare you delay negotiations on the California state budget, our budget, MY BUDGET, because someone hurt your delicate feelings? (And by the way, I would pay big money to hear what you and the other Democrats say about Arnold behind his back. Not that he doesn't deserve it, mind you.) It's a surprise to you that this muscle-bound empty-headed jock called you a name? The only thing surprising here is that you and your buddies seem to think that justifies you not doing your jobs! So the governor is a foul-mouthed moron. So what? GET BACK TO WORK!!!! You may not believe this, but out here in the real world, we can't just fold up our tents and go home when our feelings get hurt. We still have to do our jobs. Why should it be any different for you and yours? Buck up, shut up, grow up, show up, and pass the damned budget.

Why? Because it's your job, John. Simple as that.

Now pass the strudel, girly-man.

CLUELESS IN BLOGLAND
July 21, 2004

Irritable Bowels (And Other Pissed-off Body Parts)

FELLOW CITIZENS OF THE REPUBLIC:

If you don't get the San Jose Mercury News, you missed another great moment in advertising this morning. On the next-to-last page of the sports section was the following full-page ad for Ultra-Clenz (and as Arnold the Gov is my witness, I'm not making up a word of this ad):

CONSTIPATED? BLOATED? IRRITABLE BOWELS?
(Well, who isn't?)

ULTRA-CLENZ: AMAZING NEW HERBAL CLEANSING FORMULA FLUSHES OUT THE HARMFUL, ENERGY-DRAINING FECAL MATTER DECAYING INSIDE YOUR BODY.
(No time to order the product, I'll just have to perform emergency open-bowel surgery with my butter knife. It's either that or walk around all day with "harmful, energy-draining fe...", well, you get the point)

TESTIMONIALS:
"I'M FINALLY REGULAR AGAIN, EVERY SINGLE DAY!"
(Who says nothing ever happens in my life?)

"NO MORE IRRITABLE BOWELS!"
(Now all I have to worry about are Social Security tanking and my kid wrecking the car.)

So it got me to thinking that maybe this medical condition is to blame for the malaise in our country today. (You don't know about the malaise? Didn't you get the memo?) It's like the movies when the aliens invade and they look like us. Once you've seen one, then you begin to see them everywhere. Could we be a nation in the throes of Bowel-Related Distress (BRD)? I decided to find out.

So I immediately turned on Fox (aka American Pravda) and, boy, there are some people in high places with, if not irritable bowels, at least extremely agitated ones. Take Dick Cheney (please). Bowels, hell, the man looks as though his entire repertoire of internal organs, kidneys, liver, heart, lungs, adrenal glands (whatever they are), maybe even a fair amount of connective tissue, are at war with each other. "Irritable" doesn't begin to tell the tale. Seriously, can you imagine this man tucking you in bed at night? Or pushing a three-year-old in a playground swing? (Can you say "liftoff"?) What does he do for fun, bite the heads off live chickens? What you CAN imagine him doing is dipping into the till for himself and his Halliburton friends. Ka-ching, ka-ching. Sounds like a classic case of BRD to me. As a public service to the republic, a risk-free trial of Ultra-Clenz is now on its way to the Veep.

That felt good. That felt GREAT!!! A little giddy with all this new-found power! I CAN CHANGE THE WORLD!!! Who's next? Rumsfeld! Of course. What a stand-up comedian this guy is! Did you see "Fahrenheit 9/11?" The guy had me in stitches, going on and on about our precision, laser-guided, high-tech, can't-miss weapons, comparing them to surgical tools, scalpels. They were howling down at the Veteran's Hall, let me tell you. Scalpels, all right, they were wielding them in Baghdad to whack off all manner of now-unusable body parts of injured civilians, er, I mean, terrorist women and children. (And while we're on the subject, what's with that H in Baghdad? It's BAG-DAD, not BAG-HUH-DAD. Do we really have time for unpronounced letters, what with Bin Laden running around loose, BRD, and everything else that's going on now? Let's invoke the Patriot Act and get rid of that ridiculous H! It's gotta be in there somewhere, I think Michael Moore read that part from the ice cream truck.) I doubt that Iraq will be much of a market for Ultra-Clenz any time soon, all the bombing and shooting loosens up the old bowels just fine. And some of them don't even have bowels anymore to get irritable. But back to Rumsfeld. A little Ultra-Clenz would put a smile back on his face like that fecal-matter grin he had when the war in Iraq was finally declared "over." ( If you're keeping score at home, we won. According to my notes, the war ended over a year ago. Must be comforting to the families of the soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen who are still dying in Iraq.) Call the 800 number, bam! Rumsfeld's been Ultra-Clenzed.

The whole day was like that, watching the news, picking up the phone, cleaning out the, uh, you know, everywhere I could find it. I could go on, but you get the drift. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. I've decided to chuck my job, sell my house, and set off to change the world, one asshole at a time. You'll soon see me coming down your street in my little olive-drab converted ice cream truck, the loudspeaker playing farting sounds, stopping at every street corner to sell Ultra-Clenz to the unpooped masses. Don't thank me, ma'am, just doing my part to make the world safe for number two.

And who knows? If this thing works out, they may laud me for generations to come, build monuments to me, celebrate my exploits with heroic poetry, a latter-day Paul Revere rescuing the nation once again from tyranny:

Listen my children and you shall hear,

How one man saved the American rear.

From 9/11 the nation he did rouse

To confront their collective irritable bowels

And away from Bush the country to steer.

(Apologies to Longfellow, who probably had his share of BRD.)

CLUELESS IN BLOGLAND, aka THE ULTRA-CLENZ KID
July 19, 2004

(click below for tee-shirt design)