The ABCs of the Bush years (updated)

A is for:

Abramoff, autocracy, army, Afghanistan, anger, Abu Grhaib, anti-abortion, Anthrax, Armageddon, armor plate, AWOL

B is for:

Baghdad, Brownie, bombing, Bush, bribery, Berlusconi, bungle, boondoggle, Blair, bait and switch, bring it on, brush, Bhutto, blind ambition, bunker mentality

C is for:

Civil war, conceal, climate, Congress, cheat, cover-up, CIA, controversy, corruption, Cheney, chicken hawks, Craig, chemical weapons, contempt, Coulter, cocaine, China

D is for:

Data mining, death, Dubai, deceit, debt, DeLay, draft evader, dimwit, divisive, distort, Diebold, deny

E is for:

Escalate, evasion, Enron, empire, evil, echo chamber, ethics, evangelicals, embarrassment, eavesdropping, erratic, elections, Edwards, evolution, electronic voting, endless war

F is for:

Fallujah, fear, fanatic, fleece, failure, Falwell, fact-challenged, Frist, fortunes, fascism, flat earth, Florida, Franken

G is for:

Greed, graft, Gingrich, guns, gas-guzzler, gall, GITMO, Gonzales, global warming, gulag, gerrymander, Gore

H is for:

Hate, hubris, Halliburton, hostile, Hillary, hypocrisy, helluvajob, homophobia, hurricane, hick, hunting, Huckabee, Hummer

I is for:

Iraq, inept, imbecilic, illogical, invasion, impeachment, Iran, ignorant, incoherent, Islamo-fascists, Israel, incomprehensible, investigations, illegal aliens

J is for:

Junket, justify, jabberwocky, jeopardize, Jekyll and Hyde, junta, judgmental, Jesus

K is for:

Katrina, K-Street, king, Kuwait, know-nothing, kook, kowtow, Kenny-boy, Kool Aid, Kurds

L is for:

Lie, lazy, Lay, Limbaugh, lame duck, lap dog, leaderless, liability, lip service, loco, lowdown, lunatic fringe, land mine, lobbyist, legacy, Lieberman

M is for:

Manchurian candidate, mislead, mortar attack, misery, malapropism, mass media, McCain, misappropriate, mission accomplished, morass, Middle East, My Pet Goat, Michael Moore

N is for:

Negative, naïve, Nixon, nasty, nitwit, nonsense, nuclear, national debt, non sequitur, North Korea, Novak, neglect, Nero, National Guard, NRA, No Child Left Behind

O is for:

Oblivious, oil, Obama, occupation, obstinate, oppressive, Osama, on message, out of touch, O’Reilly, Ohio, Olbermann

P is for:

Plame, patriarchy, planes, Paraguay, panic, pander, Persian Gulf, ports, Poppy, Powell, preemptive, profiteering, power, polls, Putin, paraplegic, Pakistan

Q is for:

Questionable, quagmire, quandary, Qatar, quicksand, quail

R is for:

Rummy, racism, radical, Rove, reprehensible, right-wing, Robertson, reactionary, Rice, rogues’ gallery, rock bottom, Romney, R.I.P., revenge

S is for:

Soulless, simpleton, signing statements, shock and awe, sin, Senate, shaft, surveillance, stooge, September 11, staged, sneer, Supreme Court, stay-the-course, Saudi Arabia, stolen elections, shambles, Skull and Crossbones, surge, suicide bomber

T is for:

Twin Towers, Tenet, twist, terrorism, tax breaks, the twins, Tehran, time frame, tin ear, torture, tragedy, train wreck, tyrant, tongue-tied, timetable, Texas

U is for:

Unlawful, unfeeling, unwise, unpredictable, utter failure, untouchable, unthinkable, unparalleled, useless, undermine, unitary executive

V is for:

Vacuous, vacation, Vietnam, voters, violence, vapid, veto, veterans, VFW, vengeful, villainous, Vice President, vests

W is for:

War, waste, wounded soldiers, wiretap, Wide stance, wuss, wishful thinking, worthless, worst, wrong, weak, world domination, wreck, WWIII, worrisome, Wolfowitz

X is for:

Xenophobia

Y is for:

Youthful indiscretions, yahoo, y’all, yes men, yellow, yokel, yo yo, yammer, Yemen

Z is for:

Zealot, zero, zilch

“Santa” Cheney says naughty children could be waterboarded

At this year’s holiday party for Vice President Cheney’s staff, the VP himself donned the baggy red and white Santa suit and “Ho, ho, ho’d” his way around the room. After passing out presents to the children, Santa Cheney assembled the little ones and gave them some inspirational advice.

“You must be vigilant, children. Islamo-fascists can be anywhere, so be sure and check under your bed and in your closet before you go to sleep at night. And Santa hopes you will report any suspicious activity you see to Homeland Security, even if it’s Mommy or Daddy. Say your prayers, brush your teeth, and tell your parents that Santa wants them to vote Republican in November. Merry Christmas.”

An attempt was made to have children sit on Santa’s lap for photos, but this event had to be cut short as the panicked screams of the little ones brought Capital Security Guards rushing into the party with weapons drawn.

As he departed, Santa Cheney left the attendees with a final piece of holiday advice. “Be good, boys and girls, because if you’re naughty, Santa might rendition you to Syria for some “aggressive interrogation.” Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas everyone.”

President Bush to be a Space Case in Upcoming Bio

Washington, D.C. - Novelist Michael Crichton has been chosen to write the official biography of George Bush after the president steps down from office in January 2009. The author of the extremely popular Jurassic Park and co-creator of the long-running television show ER, Crichton was asked at the announcement ceremony why Bush chose a fiction writer over a well-known biographer.

“I’ve discussed this with the president, and he would like to take a slightly different approach to his biography. It’s going to be set on a mythical planet in the future.”

A reporter asked how the book could be called a biography if it is set in a fictional time and place.

“The essence of George Bush’s life and presidency will be retained, I assure you. It is simply a creative setting in which the story will unfold.”

“So he’ll be president on another planet?” a reporter asked.

“No. At his request, his title will be Supreme Eternal Overlord, and he will have mystical powers to see into peoples’ minds and never suffer from hangovers.”

Crichton also revealed that First Lady Laura Bush will be portrayed as a voluptuous green mute from the planet Sexomite and Vice President Dick Chaney will be represented as an evil black hole which consumes everything in its path.

“This is the creative challenge of a lifetime,” noted Crichton. “Portraying the president as an intergalactic superhero with god-like powers and still staying true to his life story won’t be a walk in the park, but I’ve had tougher assignments, like trying to disprove global warming.”

What's in a name? Ask Jesus Christ O'Reilly

Conservative talk show host, author, and defender of Christmas Bill O’Reilly announced today that he is legally changing his first name to Jesus Christ.

“I’m just sick and tired of all of the equivocation and trepidation when it comes to saying ‘Jesus’ out loud anywhere but a church. We’re a Christian nation with a Christian heritage and if Jesus came back today, there is no doubt in my mind he would stop in America first. He has an open invitation to be on my show, by the way. So my new moniker will force the weak and the timid to speak the Son of God’s name out loud.”

Christian leaders from around the nation expressed mixed reactions to O’Reilly’s new name. The Reverend Charles Griffin, who leads a congregation of thousands at the Our Savior Baptist Church in Dallas, Texas, expressed the views of many protestant clergy.

“Blasphemy. The man has gone insane. There is only one Jesus Christ, and Bill O’Reilly ain’t him.”

However, televangelist Pat Robertson feels O’Reilly is advancing the cause of Christianity.

“Think how many people will now utter the name Jesus Christ and not be swearing. I would like to see more people change their names to Biblical ones. I’m seriously considering becoming Nebuchadnezzar Robertson.”

The Vatican minced no words in a memo condemning O’Reilly, calling him, “…a dangerous buffoon and a heretic.”

Callers to O’Reilly’s talk show, The O’Reilly Factor, have also been split. Although many callers used long strings of profanity, some, like Mildred from Omaha, applauded the change. “I know Jesus is pleased because we had breakfast together today and he told me how proud he was of Mr. O’Reilly.”

O’Reilly is also working on a new book entitled, “What Would I Do?”

Two names. One party.

The Democrats in congress are pitiful. All signs indicate that they are going to help pass Bush’s version of the FISA bill that will give telecommunications companies amnesty for past wrong doing, and Harry Reid is leading the way.

The cowardice and capitulation of the Dems in congress is well documented. Americans are told that they live under a two-party political system, but that is simply one more Washington-chopped-down-the-cherry-tree myth in a long line of American myths. Our country is governed by a single political party shackled to the money and influence of major corporations. The one-percenters who run corporate America decide which candidates get huge donations and which do not based on a rather simple formula: How compliant will the candidate be to the industries’ wishes (Clinton, very. Kucinich, not so much).

I think this could explain the FISA vote. Congressional leaders have decided that the 2008 election is the most important priority on the planet, and everything they do is weighed and balanced against this singular event. Obviously, holding the Telecomm giants responsible for their evil deeds would make them very unhappy, and much less likely to pull out the checkbook when a Democrat comes knocking.

George Bush is a dangerous idiot who has brought this country closer to implosion than any other president in our history, but he is also a beneficiary of the same corrupt system that lands Democrats in the White House from time to time. Sure, I’ll vote for a Democrat next November, but I view it as a choice not between competing ideologies, but between the flu and the Black Plague.

Talking Jesus Action Figure

The Talking Jesus Action Figure has sold out at Wal Mart. You still might be able to find a talking Mary or Moses. They’re poseable. Each action figure comes with Velcro so you can attach it to the dashboard of your car or tractor and commune with the holy ones while you drive.

The Jesus action figure comes with a long list of instructions about appropriate behavior with the doll. After all, it’s the Son of God. Here is a sample.

Never look under Jesus’ robe

Jesus does not need a bath

Do not dress Jesus in G.I. Joe or Barbie clothes

You must never decorate Jesus’ robe with Magic Markers or crayons

Jesus never wears make-up

Jesus walks where ever he goes. He does not ride a motorcycle or a skateboard or the family cat.

Do not involve Jesus in battles with other action figures. However, if you remember this rule too late and Jesus is locked in combat with Spiderman or the Hulk, the Son of God must always win.

Never allow your teenage brothers or sisters to play with Jesus. Or your parents, for that matter.

Do not put Jesus in the Gerbil cage.

Things I wish I could be thankful for this Thanksgiving

The impeachment and imprisonment of George Bush and Dick Cheney

The beginning of the withdrawal of all U.S. troops from Iraq

Progressives in control of Congress

A national initiative to fund the transition to clean, renewable energy

True campaign reform

Regulations that would break up the media ownership monopoly

Positive national goals (i.e., manned exploration of mars, reducing poverty and malnutrition, creating a service alternative to the military)

Universal healthcare

A new found respect in this country for intellectual accomplishments and learning in general

Big cuts in defense spending

Tax laws based on fairness

Gun control policies

An honest and reasoned approach to drug laws

The end of FOX News due to a lack of interest

Peace

Answers.com Creative Writing Competition

For whatever reason (kidney stones, laziness, Law & Order...) I've waited until now to post this. I won first place in the Answer.com Creative Writing contest. You can find out more about the contest itself at, of course, answers.com, or at larsonidealog.com, but the gist of it is that you have to use words from a list they provide in your story, and use them correctly. So, below is my entry.


The Shrieking of the Monkeys

Savannah. August. A midsummer fug envelops the usual early afternoon crowd of reprobates taking up space in the Shark Tooth Bar. The air is stale, unhealthy. I’m here recovering from a two-day salted nut roll binge, the sugar still coursing through my veins, sitting alone at my usual table. Actually, this is my office. My name is Brock Holberman, private investigator.

A beautiful but nervous doll nearby keeps glancing my way. She has trouble written all over her, and a number of other odd tattoos, but I ignore her, stirring my gazpacho.

Then the raven-haired tomato sashays over to my table likes she’s walking down a fashion show runway.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you like gazpacho?” she asks.

“I’m waiting for it to cool.”

She leans down. I smell lavender and tuna salad. “It’s supposed to be cold,” she whispers.

“Do we know each other?”

“I know you by reputation, Mr. Holberman. The Opus murders?”

“I got lucky. The tenor sang.”

“But you were the star of the show.” She sits sans invitation. “Claire Robin. I have a case, if you have the time.”

I knock my cup of coffee into my lap and stifle a scream. “A…case. I’m listening.”

“My late husband William Robin was the Duke of Hemmels-on-Taddemshire. We were living in Britain two years ago when he was brutally murdered at Kew Gardens by a man known only as The Simian.”

The Simian. “I helped put that big ape in the Big House.

“He’s out and he’s here in Savannah. I need you to get the goods on him.” She scribbles on a piece of paper. “He’s living in a trailer down by the river. Here’s the address.”

I suddenly have a bad case of horripilation. Was I being set up?

“Is this on the level?” I ask.

“What do you think?”

“I think recycling is a good idea.”

She slips me an envelope and stands. “Your retainer. Finish your gazpacho before it gets warm.”

I thumb through the contents of the envelope: five hundred bucks and two tickets to Sesame Street on Ice. Not bad.

I find The Simian’s trailer and it reminds me of my own salad days living out of an Airstream making money hand over fist as a freelance sheepherder.

It doesn’t take long for The Simian to make an appearance. He slips out of his trailer at 10:05 a.m. wearing a banana suit. Strange, I think. Why 10:05? I follow my bright yellow suspect to the city zoo where he spends the next hour taunting the spider monkeys. That pervert’s going down, I promise myself.

I head back to his trailer for a little snoop work. The place is a mess and smells of wet fur. Books are strewn about. One catches my eye. The Fifth Column: And Four Stories of the Spanish Civil War by Ernest Hemmingway. Funny. “Hemmingway” doesn’t sound like a Spanish name.

Then I hit pay dirt. In an envelope taped under a table, I found photos of The Simian, dressed in his banana suit, holding hands with Lady Robin, who’s wearing a Mr. Peanut costume. Then it all falls into place.

I abscond with the photos and head back to the Shark Tooth. Fortunately, Claire is there enjoying a glass of Ovaltine at the bar. After ordering my regular, I pounce.

“Mrs. Robin. Or should I say, Mrs. Peanut?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I slam the photos down on the bar. “That’s what I’m talking about.” The bartender is agog at the images, but I quickly get rid of him with an order for Yak milk. “You didn’t think I’d find out about your…appetites.”

Claire is squirming. “So I like to dress up like a peanut. That doesn’t prove anything.”

I hold up a piece of paper. “Ah, but this does. It’s a letter written and mailed by your husband only hours before his death. It names names”

Several of Savannah’s finest enter and join us at the bar. The ice woman finally cracks.

“That lousy…. He was going to expose us. Humiliate us in front of the entire world. All I wanted to do was hear the monkeys shriek.”

“And once banana boy was out of the picture, keep all the inheritance for yourself.” The cops cuff her. “Now you’re going to find out what it’s like on the other side of the bars, Peanut Butter. Take her away. My gazpacho’s getting cold.”

Done pissing in the wind

I have no more capacity for outrage.

Bush could soak a kitten in kerosene and set it ablaze in the Rose Garden and I’m not sure I could manage much more than a sigh. The Democrats would feign shock then vote to support the president’s bill weakening laws against animal cruelty. The press would unquestioningly accept the White House assertion that the kitty was in league with terrorists. The American people would be apoplectic for a day and then go back to sleep.

We handed over the reigns of power to a lunatic and his enablers with predictable results—America is in shambles. But with a year to go before Bush leaves office, things could get worse. Much worse. Pakistan is on the verge of exploding. Limp-dick Cheney wants yet again an opportunity to prove his manhood by blowing Iran off the map. Bush continues nominating imbeciles to the nation’s highest positions. Yet this past Sunday I gave the opinion page of my paper the same breezy fly-through that I usually reserve for the classifieds.

I just don’t care that much anymore. The president will continue to do as he pleases and congress will not stop him. The voices for justice are simply too weak to be heard. The Democratic candidate for president a year from now will most likely be Hillary Clinton, who, like her husband, knows how to speak “liberal” during campaigns, but votes conservative when the lever is actually pulled.

And I’m getting sick of writing letters to my representatives. It really is an exercise in futility. My Democratic senator seems to have no qualms about voting with Republicans on key issues, and my stream of embittered e-mails certainly hasn’t resulted in any epiphany on her part.

Resistance (even the quiet kind) requires energy and my batteries have been drained over the last seven years. I’m tired of pissing in the wind.

Dems Fold on FISA

The Democrats in congress continue to emulate the Keystone Cops as they fall all over themselves while the Republican juggernaut plows through the Constitution once again.

Apparently, after reading some classified documents, Democrats concluded the telecommunications behemoths were just being played for suckers by that wascally wabbit George Bush, and they deserve immunity from prosecution. That just happens to be what the Shrub wants, too. Funny how that works.

It seems that anytime Bush mispronounces the word “terrorism,” moderate congressional Democrats (and what the hell does that mean anymore? Why don’t they just drop the illusion and drag their knuckles on over to the dark side?) urinate all over themselves at the idea of being seen as soft on the flesh eating, baby-killing fanatical Islamists.

Pelosi and Reid are impotent. Reid had the temerity recently to respond to a question about impeaching the president by asking, “What impeachable offenses has he committed?” The Democratic leadership simply doesn’t have what it takes to circle the wagons and protect the Constitution. They’re full of tough talk, but when legislation is on the line they fold like cheap lawn chairs.

Bush and Cheney should be behind bars by now. Instead they’re still calling the shots, pushing around the Democrats and stealing their lunch money. The hope we felt after last November’s election has been replaced by cynicism and anger, and a palpable fear that America is falling into a black hole from which it will never escape.

Goring Gore

Here’s what prominent conservatives are saying today about Nobel Prize winner Al Gore.

“Look, here’s the guy who lost to Bush in 2000 and has some kind of liberal religious conversion, and then goes tooling around the country spouting pseudoscience about the environment. He’s a sore loser and this is his way of getting back at Bush. It’s pathetic and just shows what a bitter, mean-spirited whack-job Al Gore is.”

Rush Limbaugh

“Who’s on the selection committee? That’s what I want to know. Who’s getting a little something under the table? No one in their right mind would give Al Gore the time of day let alone a Nobel Prize if there wasn’t money or favors changing hands. I’m calling for an investigation of this travesty here and now. Let’s get INTERPOL on this, folks.”

Bill O’Reilly

“This means nothing. The Nobel Prize has no meaning to anyone anymore. They gave it to Jimmy Carter for crying out loud, the wimpiest, weakest president in U.S. history. It’s a joke. Who’s going to win next year? Mahmoud Ahmadinejad? Osama bin Laden? Hillary Clinton?”

Michelle Malkin

“You know, if Gore really believed in saving the environment, he’d stop eating so much and shed about a hundred pounds. He looks like the Pillsbury Dough Boy in an expensive suit, except when you poke Gore in the stomach, instead of laughing he gives a lecture on the melting ice cap. Come to think of it, baking up a batch of Gore cookies (without nuts, wink, wink) doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

Ann Coulter

Another successful frame-up by the Rethugs

How can people as inherently stupid as conservatives be so successful at framing issues? They’re doing it again with the military.

Although we don’t see ourselves in this way, America is a militaristic society. We love our weapons, violent games, and we tend to place men and women in uniform on a very high pedestal. I think part of the psychology around this is the guilt we feel when we (our government) send young Americans off to die in foreign lands and the rest of us go on comfortably with our lives. In other words, there is no equivalent sacrifice at home (not since World War II, anyway).

So we shield our military from criticism in the protective bubble of hyper patriotism. The irony, of course, is that those who never set foot on a battlefield (Bush, Limbaugh, O’Reilly, Cheney, et. al.) pound their war drums the loudest (uniform envy?).

The latest MoveOn.org/Limbaugh brouhaha allows the framers of the anti-Constitution the opportunity to cower the Dems with their overblown, hyperbolic indignation at anyone who would dare criticize a soldier. The frame? Critics of the military are unpatriotic and anti-American. For Limbaugh and others, this even extends to military personnel who don’t stand on the right side of the issue.

So, as usual, the cowardly Dems succumb to the bluster and condemn anyone who says bad things about our military leaders. Never mind if what they say is accurate or not.

I was in the Army for three years. Believe me, people in uniform can make mistakes. And they can also be disingenuous, hypocritical, deceptive, and conniving, just like the rest of us. Why should they be held above criticism? Westmorland and others lied to us about the situation in Vietnam. Patraeus and others have lied to us about the situation in Iraq. They should be held accountable.

There’s nothing wrong with having a healthy respect for Americans who are willing to put their lives on the line for their country. However, a uniform does not automatically transform a human being into a deity.

It seems that for Republicans and too many Democrats, it’s not okay to criticize a soldier, but it is okay to use that soldier as a pawn to obtain political advantage.

What's the matter with Amy?

Once again, a vote by my senator Amy Klobuchar leaves me scratching my head in disbelief. She was one of a handful of Democrats to vote in favor of condemning MoveOn.org for its Petraeus ad in the New York Times. What could her rationales be?

a) I never, ever, ever, ever, ever want anyone to accuse me of not supporting our troops.

b) I believed the hyperventilating Republicans that the ad was a vicious attack on the general and the troops.

c) I had a killer hangover.

Amy has raised the hackles of many Minnesotans in the blogoshpere and for good reason. Her vote is now part of a Norm Coleman ad bashing Al Franken for supporting MoveOn.org. The ad, of course, uses Amy’s vote as evidence that all right-thinking Minnesotan’s support the hysterical Republican blather about that anti-American group of lefties.

So what is Amy Klobuchar? An unwitting tool of conservatives? A Republican in Democrat’s clothing? A soulless, calculating political machine? A not very smart person? Nothing good on this list from which to choose. One thing we do know is that she’s turning out to be a Democrat in name only.

“Please, Mr. President. Not in public.”

Minnesota’s lovably loony congressperson Michele Bachmann is at it again. This time she claims that President Bush tried a little grope-a-dope at the site of the 35W bridge collapse in Minneapolis, and she rejected his gesture. According to the site Think Progress, Bachmann made these remarks during a local radio show:

The President and I enjoy a great relationship. When he and I were back visiting the collapsed bridge, he reached over because he wanted to give me a kiss when we were down at the site, and I had pulled back and he said, “What? You don’t want to embrace?” And I said, “The people of Minnesota love you Mr. President, but I think one kiss was enough.”

Where, oh where, to begin. First off, Michele’s assertion that Minnesotans love George Bush is itself a delusion. She might love the Shrub, but poll after poll tells us that the majority of Minnesotans (a group of which I am a member) detest George and his policies.

Then there’s the kiss thing. Her use of the word “kiss” is interesting. How exactly did she know he wanted to kiss her and wasn’t simply offering her a comforting hug? Was his tongue hanging out? His reaction, according to Bachmann, “What? You don’t want to embrace?” simply doesn’t sound like anything Bush would actually say. He might mutter, “Huh?” or “What’s wrong?” but “You don’t want to embrace?” rings false.

Michele has a unique world-view that begs you to question virtually anything she says, and she seems to have a difficult time distinguishing between what’s appropriate what’s not. Hiding behind bushes to watch people: Not appropriate. Grabbing and holding on to the President of the United States at his State of the Union Address: Not appropriate. Accepting a comforting embrace from the president at the site of a terrible disaster: Probably appropriate.

A few 9/11-anniversary questions

Why do a number of prominent progressives, some of whom have made careers out of questioning the U.S. government’s motives and methods, continue to vigorously defend the government’s findings around the events of 9/11?

World Trade Center building 7 was not hit by an airplane, yet it collapsed into it’s own footprint. I’ve read various attempts to explain this, but none of them make sense, not because they are too technical, but because they simply defy logic.

I’m certainly not an engineer, but I can understand the concept of the heat from the plane’s burning fuel weakening the metal supports in the Towers enough to cause a collapse. What I don’t understand is how hot liquid pouring through a building would weaken the metal beams at the same points around the circumference of the building in order to cause the buildings to fall straight down. Logic tells me that the intensity of the heat from the fuel would affect the metal beams at different areas up and down the building, which would cause the upper section of a tower to fall to one side or another, not straight down.

Why did Bush sit on his ass in a Florida classroom for seven minutes after being informed that America was under attack?

Bat Boy Retires to Florida

The print version of the Weekly World News has been abducted by aliens and will no longer be found in the checkout lane of your favorite grocery store. In reality, the sensationalist tabloid succumbed to overwhelming financial problems, but who cares about reality? Certainly not the writers and editors of WWN, who entertained millions of bored shoppers in check-out lines with stories of secret meetings between presidents and aliens, Elvis sightings, and, of course, the most widely recognized icon of trash tabloid news, Bat Boy, a pre-Photoshop masterpiece of image manipulation.

What can we learn (or unlearn) from the demise of WWN, which dubbed itself, “The World’s Only Reliable Newspaper”? Of course, like others, I’ve always wondered how many readers of WWN took it seriously. Nothing in its placement in the tabloid rack next to the National Enquirer, Cosmopolitan, and Better Homes and Gardens gave perusers a clue to the rags subversive nature. Sure, the headlines and photos were always over the top, but, like a Venus Fly Trap in a garden, it blended in with its environment extremely well.

You never saw MAD magazine or National Lampoon in the impulse aisle, but the tacky, design-challenged WWN was our checkout buddy for nearly thirty years, screaming apocalyptic warnings in the midst of Hollywood break ups and home improvement tips.

Is there a segment of the population out there who believes a 500-foot tall Jesus visited the U.N.? I wish it weren’t so (especially with an election year approaching), but the irony is, with more channels of communications and information than ever before in history, the lines between fact, fiction, news and opinion have been growing less and less distinguishable. Perhaps it’s not ironic but inevitable that we cling to an uncomplicated reality (or non-reality) in a sea of conflicting messages.

Don’t get me wrong. I love (and also write) satire and I think we need more publications like WWN, not fewer. I’m sorry to see the world’s only reliable newspaper fold. The one thing I wonder about is whether we were laughing at it or it was laughing at us. I’m sure it was probably a little of both.

The Zombie Fisherman

Welcome to the inaugural column of The Zombie Fisherman, a weekly reflection on the elegant sport of fishing. Why a fishing column for zombies? Let’s start by being honest. Feeding on human flesh—every zombie’s meal of choice—often has unpleasant repercussions. The enraged living routinely attack us, hack us up, set us on fire, and shoot at us. Who hasn’t lost a limb from a close-range shotgun blast?

So if not human flesh, whither comest our sustenance? Being the slow, plodding creatures we are, catching animals such as deer or rabbits is virtually impossible. Farm animals are an occasional treat, but are too often enclosed in pens or by fences, which, alas, we cannot climb. There is an alternative, however: The multitude of water creatures in the world’s lakes, rivers and oceans.

Fishing is an ideal activity for zombies. The pace is glacial; it is an activity that does not require a partner (let’s face it, we are not team players); it is not necessary to be around the living; and, if the fishing isn’t good, you can eat the bait.

Tip #1: If you run out of bait on a good day, a small bit of your rotting flesh is an excellent substitute.

So in future columns of Zombie Fisherman we will discuss all things fishing related: Lures, bait, tackle, local hot spots, and for the truly motivated, fly fishing techniques.

Sure, you’re dead, but you still need to feed. A raw carp may not be as tasty as a fat woman, but it’s a whole lot easier, and safer, to catch. Remember, when the fish are biting, so are you. See you next week.

The Zombie Fisherman.

An open letter to all Democratic senators and representatives

We asked you for results. We get words in return.

We asked you for courage. We get timidity.

We asked you for leadership. We get capitulation.

We asked you to fight for us. We get cowards who hide behind procedure and protocol.

We asked you to save the Constitution. We get a President who continues to savage it.

We asked you to do the bidding of the majority of Americans. We get excuses.

We asked you to represent us. We get nothing.

Who are these people?

We exist on the same planet, but we live in different worlds. Even though Bush, Cheney, Rove, et. al, grew up in the same country as I did, watched the same TV shows, learned basically the same things in school, our world views turned out to be as different as night and day. How did that happen?

Like an anthropologist struggling to fathom the culture of a “lost tribe,” my mind is continuously trying to find points of connection between the world I know and the behavior of those individuals who make up the Bush administration.

What is it like to live in a culture where lying to yourself and others is as normal as breathing? How does one’s head not explode when facts constantly refute your belief system? How much willpower must it take to deny the reality that stands directly in front of you?

Like a tribe cut off from the rest of society for centuries, Bushites missed some evolutionary steps along the path to humanness. They definitely played hooky the day empathy was discussed. Governor Bush mocked a woman soon to be executed. Rove surrogates attacked a paraplegic war veteran during an election. The whole gang supports economic policies that reward the wealthy at the expense of the poor.

And Bush and his boys must have been lurking in some alley pulling the wings off of flies or mugging kids for lunch money during the lessons of the Enlightenment, the New Deal, the Civil Rights movement, the 1960’s, and every other progressive event in modern history, because they missed them all. The “good old days” for these guys is the Inquisition.

Their God is punitive and angry, their rules are for everyone except themselves, and their convictions are for sale to the highest bidder. Some will say they represent the values of the wealthy elite, which is true to an extent, but there are too many rabid believers who came from humble backgrounds to blame it all on the caste system.

All I can say is that I feel like this country has been taken over by ugly, inbred distant relatives who come for a visit, trash your house, and complain about what a lousy host you are.

A day at the water park

I took my eleven year-old son and a friend of his to an indoor water park this past weekend. The outside temperature was in the mid-nineties and I was initially enthusiastic about lying in a tube and meandering around the lazy river. That lasted about ten minutes.

After securing a second mortgage on my condo, we had the financial resources to enter the men’s changing room where we nudged and jostled our way to one of two available lockers. The boys were in no mood for orderly processes so we jammed our shoes and clothes into the mailbox-sized hole and sloshed out into the slimy, tattooed, chlorine-soaked nightmare of the indoor water park.

It is a cavernous enclosed facility where the humidity is at a constant 150 percent and nothing ever dries. Ever. The warm puddle of water you’re standing in as you search in vain for your children has been there a growing bacterium since 1998 when the building first opened its doors. The screams of hundreds of children and over-stimulated teen-age girls are amplified ten-fold in the mostly metal structure, and I felt like I had tiny policemen in my auditory canals unmercifully tasering my eardrums.

We find a plastic chair and table that aren’t draped with layers of wet towels and set down our own towels, which seem to absorb moisture from the air and instantly become wet. Before I can utter a single warning or plea, the boys disappear into the madness. With a shrug, I make sure the locker key is securely fastened to my suit and move out.

You don’t rent tubes at this particular water park, I quickly learned. Instead you prowl around the kiddie pool or the lazy river for abandoned tubes that you then quickly snap up like the first crow to discover a juicy road kill. Tube hunting is a free-for-all. Parents mill around the departure point of the lazy river carefully reading body language and scanning eye motion in their efforts to be the first to spot a tuber who might be ready to give up the prize.

I eventually get a tube without making a child cry and head off down the lazy river. It’s only then that I realize the place is packed. My tube is bumped and spun in collisions with kids wanting to pass or older people in front of me whose tubes have stalled. Instead of the relaxing ride I had hoped for, I feel more like I’m commuting to work, except my tube doesn’t have a horn.

Amid the screams and splashing, I have a second realization. The place is teaming with monstrous, obese humans. They are everywhere. Men with guts that hang like garbage sacks filled with Jell-O. Women with roll upon roll of cellulite escaping out of every crack in their suits (and where do they get suits that big?). Hippo families lumber in herds from one attraction to the next. There are white hippos covered in blue varicose veins and hairy hippos who need their backs shaved and baby hippos who look like they are wearing kid-sized blubber suits.

I started making certain connections in my head that took me to a bad place. I knew that I would never want to take a bath with any of these people, even in a really, really big bathtub. Even though I had no idea where the boys were, I made tracks for the locker room. I desperately wanted a shower and dry clothes.

My son and his friend had a great time, of course. And that’s what’s important. Right?

But I’m still having nightmares.