<$BlogRSDUrl$>

Friday, November 07, 2003



Horrible-Goblin-thing demonstrates in favor of Palestinian statehood.

Photo courtesy of Ms. W. Tod. Go say hi.


The Chicago International Animation Film Festival, through Sunday. Guaranteed to be brilliant.


Grotesque facial injuries rendered in loving detail with watercolors.

Thursday, November 06, 2003



This goes in the "You wish" category.
And, while we're on the topic of people acting stereotypically, a French judge was caught masturbating in court.
And you still can't get them to use soap.
Lunatic Christians storm Fortune Teller's business.
"On Saturday, October 25, 2003, OSA-Dallas stormed the gates of the local witch in town. We went to the psychic with the Good News that Jesus Christ is Lord and that, yes even a witch can be set free from the bondage of sin and death!"

I'd suggest that they go smoke weed and fuck, but there's always the chance that some of them might get pregnant.
Pissed off monkeys overrun New Delhi. Says Ghandi: "Not one monkey has been relocated to my constituency."
Beautiful.

Tuesday, November 04, 2003

Today's word of the day: Invaginated.

Discuss.
Nazakh Pahlavi— niece of the Shah of Iran, nude model. I hereby present you with the first picture of a naked Iranian woman EVER.
The conviction that the king must not be allowed to become ill or senile, lest with his diminishing vigour the cattle should sicken and fail to bear their increase, the crops would rot in the fields, and man, stricken with disease, should die in ever increasing numbers … it is said that the chiefs of the people announce their fate to the king, and that afterwards he is strangled in a hut which has been specially built for the occasion.”
—Sir James Frazer, The Golden Bough



I was leaning out the ledge on the sixteenth floor of my apartment last night, trying to decide what was the heaviest object I could hurl out of the window at the mongoloids down the street who insisted on shrieking Justin Timberlake anthems at the top of their overused lungs and setting off every car alarm within a half block radius, when my phone stared bawling and nearly knocked me to my death.
There was an indignant squall from the east coast immediately upon picking up the receiver.
“Why haven’t you called me?”
I ignored her question.
“Ashtray or beer bottle?” I asked.
“What?”
“Ashtray or beer bottle. Beer bottles get better distance, but ashtrays flatten people’s hair better. You don’t get as much distance with them, though. Have to adjust for excess weight and wind currents.”
She laughed. “You haven’t changed at all.”
I grunted. “Why are you calling me at this hour?”
She hesitated before starting in, then everything bubbling out at once.
“Jason just got arrested at a protest down by Washington Square Park. Cops pulled him down to the street, knocked him around a few times. I think he’s missing a tooth.”
I sighed and flicked the cherry off my cigarette, cursed under my breath at the mongo’s down the street that were launching into a rendition of “American Pie” that sounded like a scullery maid being gangbanged by rottweilers.
“What do you want, bail? I’ve no money. Besides, you’re in New York. What do you want me to do about it? And why was your bloody boyfriend at a protest in the first place? I thought you quit banging hippies.”
“He’s not a hippie!” she screamed. “Besides, this is important. Bush is meeting with that goddamn criminal from China. It was for Tibet.”
I rolled my eyes.
“And I don’t need money, so stop making fun of me. You know about politics, you should understand.”
I laughed, couldn’t help myself. “What, are you one of those people who want to go to war with the Sino Empire? You want to challenge the red might of the Han? What do you expect hanging out with those baby Bolsheviks…”
She lost it.
“Damnit Adam, the Secret Service is detaining him! He has previous records for arrests at protests, and they said they could charge him with sedition.” She started sobbing. “Can they do that?”
I flicked my butt out and distended a plume of smoke in the mongos’ direction before responding.
“I don’t know. Used to be even if you had a protest record all they could do was detain and release. But the Bush administration has changed things. They’re utilizing loopholes from both World Wars, amending laws and pushing the Patriot Act to include domestic acts. If they want it to stick badly enough, then it probably will.”
She started to cry again.
“Bastards. It didn’t used to be like this.”
I emptied my drink, cleared my throat.
“You’re right, it didn’t.”

* * *

I can remember my first run in with the Secret Service, back during the 2000 primaries. I was waiting to interview former Senator Bill Bradley, jowly court jockey and Rhodes scholar, while the Secret Service ran their ungainly meat hooks over my person in an awkward and undignified manner, in what I dreadfully believe was a substitute for their less than enthralling romantic encounters at home. All the while, Bradley’s press secretary Jim Ferrall huddled in the corner under his immense fur coat inhaling unfiltered lucky’s while giggling like an errant child who had just discovered the joys of self-abuse.
“They ain’t gentle, I’ll tell you that,” he tittered, opening his mouth just enough as he spit a fleck of tobacco so that I could see the shape of his vaguely British teeth and what manner of color they were (coffee-stained plaster).
“You think that’s uncomfortable, you should try pissing them off,” he hissed in some terrible southern drawl as I grimaced at the hands going below the Mason-Dixon line.
“I’ve seen them take apart protestors like a carburetor, those long-haired dope kids.” He looked at my hair before spitting another fleck of Virginia flake on the floor, clumsily mimicking a roundhouse punch that nearly toppled him.
“They chased one line of kids half a mile out in Portland, caught ‘em and dragged ‘em all the way back to the pens.” He gave a horrible, wheezing laugh, slapping lank grey trouser legs with ragged, dirty nails. “You think they needed a bath before, you should’ve seen ‘em afterwards!”
I momentarily ignored the heavy fingers creeping up my inner thigh and turned my head towards the gasping, rocking figure in the corner.
“Should you even be telling me this? I’d imagine that abuse as well as unwarranted pursuit of “suspects” would raise the ire of the ACLU at the very least. At best, doesn’t sending Agents away from their area just chase a couple of hippies compromise the safety of the target?”
The Agent with his hand on my ass sniggered.
Ferrall drew himself up to his full Napoleonic stature, glaring at us all before skulking out of the room, shaking like a junk-sick Chihuahua under his vast forest of dead varmints.

* * *

I cracked my window; let a fang a chilly air in as I lit another smoke and opened another beer.
“So what’s going to happen to him?” she sniffed.
I took a deep breath, watched as the thin trail of smoke seethed its way out of the window.
“I don’t know. He probably won’t be held for to long. If I had to bet, I’d say they’re just trying to scare him, put the fear of the President’s God into him. As long as he doesn’t have any dope on him, he should be fine.”
There was a momentary silence on the other end.
I rolled my eyes, took a swig.
“Dammit, he did, didn’t he? How stupid do you have to be to go to a protest with weed on you?”
She murmured something incomprehensible.
I sighed.
“Look, I know this seems bad, but it really isn’t your problem. You aren’t in a holding cell right now, and if I know you, you would’ve dumped him in a month anyway.”
She remitted a small noise of recognition, followed by a muted thanks. I looked at the clock, fingering my ashtray and peered out of the sliver at the bottom of my windowpane.
“S’allright,” I said, “But I must be going. I have business to attend to. What have we learned from all this?”
She paused before answering.
“Be careful around Secret Service, and don’t carry weed to protests.”
I nodded. “What else?”
She gave the slightest giggle.
“Don’t bang hippies.”




Back, with much tumultuous applause. This hereby resumes our regular blogging duties.

Go.

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?