The Daily Fix

…Happy September 11th! Have fun voting for McCain, asshole!

I guess it’s normal when they just dry up. I mean, they kinda get desiccated after a while, right? You take the thing apart, like pull it out of its little shell, and then you hit it with the tiny hammer. That’s not making music! It’s a difficult process, I guess. Put it to bed.

Where was I? Sambuca? No, that was a while ago, and anyhow it was only a thimbleful. Mind you, I’m nearly a foot tall now, so that doesn’t go nearly as far as it used to. No sir. Don’t say such awful things. It won’t do, especially not when there’s such a crowd gathered here.

Falafel. Falaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaafel.
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hhattackedhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhbyhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhthehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhorcahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhIhhhhhhhhhhhthinkhhhhhhhhheh
hhhescapedhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhfromhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
hhhhhhthehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhpenhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhcallhhhhhhhhhhhhhthehhhhh
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…it’s too bad you thought there might be a conclusion to that. You know what? There would have been. There really would have. But instead, I’m going to regale you with a little tale. The first is a sample of a poem about Christmas:

“Good evening,” spewed forth the most corpulent pastor
Prepared with a bib for a dining disaster
He spoke to the kids upon which he’d fixated
Who, with some duct tape he’d affixed, quite elated
To a lonely and homely forlorn Christmas tree
For you see at this time of year ‘twas Christmas eve.

 The pastor was readied with fine brandies and wines
Drunkenly unable to maintain a straight line,
He tottered towards the stockings inside which were kept
A soldering iron and pliers, and leaped
Upon the poor children, who to him were just prey
Father Michael’s Christmas began merry and gay.

 But right at that instant, came a dreadful knocking
And down from the chimney fell a silver stocking
Inside which was a weapon; an explosive bomb
Which rang Pastor Franz’s eardrums like two gongs
Signaling that this Christmas things were to differ
As down from the chimney came a talking heifer.

“Cursed bovine, what for dost thou vexate me so?”
Cried the pastor who wept as his drywall leaked snow
The cow, in a homburg, spoke only the truth:
“Return these poor chilluns to George Herman Ruth!”
“He is dead,” said the Pastor, who knew all too well
The man known as Babe Ruth had no progeny dwell
In his home, and besides, it was two thousand eight
And these kids had not come from the ex-Yankee great.

 “Damn beast!” spat the pastor, to whom brandy supplied
A sense of profundity, bravery and pride
The cow looked quite shocked, this was a situation
In which it had flew across expansive nations
In order to confront the pastor so wicked
It seemed that the pastor had done gone and tricked it.

 The cow, knowing full well a drastic solution
Sat itself down upon the sofa’s best cushion
And said to the pastor, “Now, listen with fitness
And well you shall learn the true meaning of Christmas.”
The children all clamored, for they knew what was coming
Of Jesus, and mangers, and little boys drumming
The pastor’s red cheeks, with the brandy did quite glow
and ‘twas warm in the cottage despite all the snow.

 The cow told of wise men who came to the virgin
Of the wonderful Christ-child’s humble origin
The shepherds who sat in the fields ‘til first light
The angels on high who had caroled all night
The cow told a tale of unparalleled beauty
Of morals, and kindness, and strong sense of duty
The ending, properly, was Christ’s untimely death
Upon which the pastor drew a long shaky breath.

 The cow, simply said, “See ye why babes need to grow,
And why it is that now you must let these ones go.”
The pastor, for a moment quite unabated
The consequences of this action were weighted
And then from his wall he removed a large rifle
He shot the cow dead, and then ate without trifle.

You may recall the Pastor from a previous work, as well. I cannot recall whether or not it was posted upon the internets. The following is what that goddamned liberal media who hates poor John Mccain and his lovely mannequin (er, “wife”) Sarah Palin (er, “not wife, who is going on record as something that went on the record”) would write, if they weren’t all busy hating America for its constant and repeated abuses against the sanctity of human life. Oh, wait, Arabs aren’t humans, so it’s okay. Never mind, never mind. Anyway, the piece:

Once upon a time, there was a wicked, horrible, twisted, nasty, drooling, icky man named Dick Cheney. He did not like happy people. Seeing the spirit of Christmas at work made him angry. He did not like good Christian sentiment. In fact, Dick Cheney was actually a nasty old Jew, who was still bitter about the whole “holocaust” thing. He did not like Santa. He did not like Jesus. He was a very naughty, wicked old man. On Christmas day, however, he saw his loyal dog, George, and he had a plan. “George, m’boy, I’m’ a git y’alls e-lected!” George liked the idea, just like he liked the warm, happy feelings he got when he had just peed in someones shoes. George was promptly put in charge of pulling Dick’s sleigh across the sky, in a top-secret mission to “incapacitate” Santa. George liked to pull sleighs, and with his shiny red nose, he would make a perfect headlight as well. Dick brought his special friend, Tom Delay along.

 

CHAPTER 2: THEY BEAT THE HELL OUT OF SANTY CLAUS

 

Now Tom Delay had a whip, and he beat the hell out of Santy Claus with it. The end. Don’t vote republican, or PEOPLE WILL DIE.

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the end. don’t ever come trick-or-treating here again, or I’ll string you up by your gen’tals.

I think that this is America…

No, wait, I was wrong. Turn around. No, just turn left at the exit-

No, the other exit. No, one-seventy-five. Forget it, we’ll just take the next one.

What do you mean, it’s not for another twenty miles? We have a full tank of gas, don’t we? Okay, so we don’t have a full tank of gas; the worst that can happen is we get stranded on the- OH MY GOD, it’s a gang of drug-crazed Democrats! Gun it! Oh no, we’re out of gas! I definitely didn’t see this coming! What do you mean, cliched? Shut up about literary conventions, just get the Browning .45 from the glove! SHOOOOOT! SHOOOOT THOSE CANDY-ASS LIBERALS! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA IT’S SLASHDOT WE SHOULD HAVE TURNED LEFT OH PORNOGRAPHY NEVER MIND

-and thus it goes on the “information superhighway.” Why, that reminds me! I have a series of somewhat-correlated words to spew at you! Don’t go away! Seriously! Don’t click that little right there! just don’t do it! It’ll kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiill you!

good, you stayed. fuckin’ idiot.

anyhow, on with the verbal golden shower (“black & white shower” didn’t sound as good). I was watching television the other day, when saw an image. Normally, this would not faze as experienced a consumer as I. After all, I know that it’s okay, and even though there are trillions of little men hiding in the picture-box, they can’t come out and hurt me, even when I’m sleeping (because I sleep with a loaded gun. In my skirt!). So, anyhow, I saw an image. Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “that’s crazy-talk! how could you see an image when you’re looking at one ‘them teevees?” Well, you’re going to have to believe me, because I did. This image was of little religious significance, but nonetheless I saw it, with my own two eyes. So I was looking at it, and the imagae, although technically upside-down in my eye-lens thingies, was being changed by my braiiiiiiiin into a normal image for real people who aren’t retards like Koko the Talking Gorilla, who is a gorilla. I know, I know; big shock for everyone involved, but it turns out it’s not just a retarded man in a monkey suit who knows sign language, it’s a fucking monkey. Wait, scratch that. It’s two fucking monkeys! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Some people won’t be laughing. This is because they cannot count, and thus do not get humourous monkey coitus references. Like that one. Okay, fine, it’s a beautiful thing, full of love, for the preservation of the Baboon Race, yada yada yada, but when you get down to it, it’s just a couple of monkeys involving eachother in the ol’ low-down-and-dirty act of balling, sexing eachother up, playing hide-the-banana, swapping tartar sauce, bumping uglies, or otherwise fucking eachother’s little primate brains out. Big fucking deal, right? That’s not funny! No, I’ll tell you what’s funny. This is funny. That last one? IT ISN’T MONKEYS HAVING SEX. I SWEAR. CLICK IT.

…back? So anyhow, now you understand how I might have experienced seeing an image on a screen. That was the purpose of the exercise. I saw a picture, of John Mccain, big puffy cheeks and all. You know why his cheeks are puffy? Because they’re full of lies. Whoops, flies. I meant flies. He eats them, like a frog. If he eats a bee, he throws up his stomach! Like this! Anyhow, John Mccain’s indiscretions aside (I hear he’s a hoot at the annual White House Press Correspondents’ dinner), he was on the tv. And I thought to myself, “you know what? This would be a great way to end this horrific run-on blog post in a quotation while not actually resolving anything that was typed above!” And I was right.