Eeewwww! The (Mercifully Short) Short Story

 

Once upon a time… there lived a bad, Bad, BAD Boy, named Oleg.

His claim to fame? Well, if you really must know, he was renown for his YUGE YAP; his incessant, incoherent, inane and insane utterances. He was also instantly recognizable, due to his orange hue and tousled, yellowish, straw-like hair strands. Although he was stunted both intellectually and emotionally, seeing how both puberty and societal expectations of mediocrity oft rule, it was both inevitable and regrettable that he’d grow physically and rise to power.

Oligarch Oleg deemed his mirror, his Window to the World. He loved only himself and was only loved by an ignorant and / or insane cadre of his subjugated sycophants and subjects. So enamored with himself, was he, that he flat-out refused to allow Stephanie, his sexually harassed, enslaved, dressed in tattered rags chambermaid to launder his soiled, odoriferous articles of clothing. Hell, he even bawled like a big baby whenever she’d fling his chamber pot’s contents out the window, which overlooked the backyard.

“What a waste,” he’d lament, while mulling over how “best” to “honor” the growing alarmingly, mountainous dungheap.

“What a waste,” she’d lament while mulling over how Oleg’s Dark Ages, choke-hold on power had caused both her genius level IQ and people smarts to languish; denied her both the wherewithal and opportunity to ever see her dreams come true.  She dared not even turn her back, to roll her eyes in disgust, without inviting his unwelcome, pawing, tiny hands.

So, just how bad was the inevitable, pervasive, decaying fecal stench? Well, even the flies had established a NO FLY ZONE over Oleg’s Palace; an airspace encompassing thousands upon thousands of kilometers.

Well, one dismal, miasmatic morn, this stink took a distinct turn for the worse. Oleg woke up with what he deemed to be a perfect, Perfect PERFECT notion worming its way into his “noodle”. Instantly acting upon this “insight”, he promptly issued his royal decree: The Endangered Feces Act of ’19! In short, this document’s legalese stated that, sans his express consent, no one harboring evil intent, would ever be allowed to touch his precious poop. Normally, that’d seem like a win-win, but…

By the very next day, Oleg launched his new corporation, namely, Kingly Keepsakes. He’d market his brand, spanking new, exclusive, product line to the masses; expect his subjects to piss away their hard earned rubles / kopeks to purchase various sized lumps of their beloved Oligarch’s poop; all encased in crystalline plastic. The available (literally) crappy novelties included key fobs, belt buckles, bellybutton charms, dangly earrings, paperweights, bookends, doorstops… Eeewwww!

The End

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fortune Cookie Blog (Gesundheit!)

 

There once was a party host who invited his guests to try the punch
after they had witnessed him sneeze a dozen times into the punch-
bowl. When they would not fill and raise their glasses to offer their
toast to his good health, he felt inordinately insulted and indignant.
Compared to his influenza, his narcissism was far more debilitating.

 

 

 

 

 

Life Imitates Art? (Vid of the Day)

Lately, I’ve been having this nagging feeling that, unlike the typical cause / effect relationship where art imitates life, the exact opposite has been in play.

As I began free associating words such as “opposite” and “alternate”, that’s when it dawned on me that… not unlike what’s been going down in our troubled Trumpian times… most of us have seen an upheaval of astronomical proportions, before. These scenes span several incarnations of the Star Trek franchise… backdated to the Original Series episode: Mirror Mirror.

This is not to say that Captain Trump and his (non-enterprising) crew have actually been taking their cues from Mirror, Mirror. Of course, seeing how that narcissist always has his eyeballs glued to his TV and mirrors; how he gets off on evil empires, too, maybe I’ve been too hasty in dismissing this?

Anyway, I’m sure I’m not alone in feeling horror re the evil crap that’s been going down since StarDate 0120.17. That is what makes it easy to relate to how Captain Kirk and his away mission team must’ve felt emerging from their transporter beams… setting foot into a malevolent, sadistic, violent alternative society where, things are simultaneously, vaguely familiar and, yet, totally bizarre. Prime example is our above clip where we find the bearded, dagger toting Mr. Spock sadistically, pointlessly, inflicting agonizing pain upon transporter chief Kyle.

Hell, the Fascism channeling, barbaric Trump and his like-minded enablers / supporters could easily align themselves with that Empire. Indeed, white nationalists would have zero tolerance for The United Federation of Planets.

While Kirk, Uhura, Scotty and Bones do eventually make it back home to their kinder gentler dimension, our return to a kinder, gentler American homeland won’t likely be as easy as slipping Mirror, Mirror’s disc into the nearest DVD / Blue-Ray player.

 

 

 

 

 

On the Sunday Supper Menu: Food For Thought

SUBTITLE: Play the Trump the Trump Toady Game!

This past Sunday evening, just as I was about to sit down at the dinner table, the phone rang.

The caller had actually asked if he could talk to me… by name… even pronouncing my surname correctly! Of course… seeing how a slew of opportunistic, parasitic, scheming and scamming predators have been hijacking my landline for nigh on a decade, I have learned to be evasive / non-committal. Ergo, in my conspicuously wary tone of voice, I answered his question with the question, “Who wants to know?” He then revealed his affiliation with the Michigan branch of the Republican Party.

Yep, just as I had suspected… an opportunistic, parasitic, scheming and scamming predator!

He next disclosed that this call was being monitored / recorded… his menacing tone of voice implying that… if I knew what’s good for me, I had better [1] show him respect (which Trumpians don’t really deserve), [2] genuflect in the presence of His Eminence… or worse yet… [3] cower in front of a card carrying member of the Trumpian Master Race.

He then asked…

Do you think President Trump is doing a great job?

That a pollster would have the audacity to ask such an absurd question… the mere thought that some of those being polled would even answer, “yes”… all royally rankled me. How could anyone be so nose-blind to the Trumpian stench?

I was tempted… oh soooo tempted… to give him an angry earful… to call out his boy Donny as the Nazi / Klansman / Putin suck-up… devoid of ethics, greed driven grifter… poster boy for the NRA and immigrant child abuser that he is… AND the misogynistic / sex offender that he so proudly professed to be / portrayed himself as (corroborated by that now infamous NSFW Access Hollywood video clip).

However… seeing how my dinner was rapidly cooling off… I cooled off, too… and simply hung up on him.

I sure hope that Trumpster pollster interpreted that click in his ear to be my resounding “NO!” But, seeing how such subversives are oft subservient and ignorant, he probably, summarily dismissed it as a “bad connection”.

Well, upon sitting down / chowing down on my victuals… I realized food for thought was on the menu, too.

I could envision a veritable nationwide army of Trump Toadies promptly editing out all nay-sayer respondents while salivating over / savoring upon all of the saved testimonials provided by the glowing, gushing idolaters. I even considered the possibility that the preserved recordings could eventually get played back within earshot of the praise junkie, fake prez… for the express purpose of ceaselessly, repetitiously enrapturing and gratifying him… feeding his massive ego. Giving free rein to my imagination, I even visualized his noggin’s grotesquely, gargantuan tumescence actually taking on a physical manifestation and… depending on the egomaniac’s location… denying him ingress or egress to his white hued digs… resulting in the army corps of engineers’ need to widen all of that edifice’s portals.

After my dessert course, while clearing the dining room table, I further considered the ersatz prez’s desperate, pathetic need to always be the center of attention… how he likely even revels in his negative press. I next mulled over what would happen if… all the sudden… the media were to cease all reportage of all things Trumpian. Little doubt Donny would be devastated.

The mere thought that ignoring that ignoramus could actually be the best way to defeat him started gaining traction… to the point that… by the time I had washed, rinsed, dried and stowed all the dinnertime dishes, silverware, pots and pans… I had come up with my new game plan. During the entire run-up to the 2020 elections I’ll be playing mind games with each and every annoying Trumpster pollster.

Not too far off in the future… here’s how I’ll be playing my new Trump the Trump Toady Game! Check out a sample of the telephone give and take, play by play action…

Bbbrrrring Bbbrrrring… Bbbrrrring Bbbrrrring… Bbbrrrring Bbbrrrring…

“Hello”
“I’m conducting a brief survey on behalf of the Republican Party. Do you think President Trump is doing a great job?”
“Trump you say? President? President of what?”
“Of America.”
“Never heard of him.”
[horrified gasps and sobbing background noises]
[CLICK]

 

 

 

 

 

Pees [sic] Porridge Hot [uh… really sick]

SUBTITLE: Sonny Sows His Wild Oats

Once upon a time… not too far from the hubbub of The Big Apple… there lived a sophomoric, imbecilic, narcissistic 7-year-old bully named Sonny. One mid-morning he ordered his chauffeur to lead-foot it back to the family estate where… upon entering their zillion dollar, palatial mansion… he immediately began snorting, sniveling and whining…

“Mumsy, why don’t everybody in da hood love me?”

It being a school day, Mumsy just knew her little wittle son was playing hooky. But since his gruff Dadsy typically growled ungrammatically, “Sonny, youse knows more than all dem dummy teachers”, she didn’t DARE even breathe one word re her boy’s habitual truancy. Knowing, too, that she had to take enough time to guard her words, YET, rapidly concoct some sort of a plausible sounding cock and bull story… all the sudden… the figurative light bulb lit up over her noggin. Trying her best not to sound patronizing, said she…

“Sonny, we both know that To Know You is To Love You. So, it only makes sense that to get everyone to love you, all you need do is make sure everyone knows you.”

With Sonny suddenly growing livid… his face flushed into a bright orange hue, he bellowed…

“So you ARE saying that everybody don’t love me!”

“Sonny, we both know that you’re a stable genius who’s never, ever wrong… so… how could I not agree with you?”

“But Mumsy, dem kids should be coming to me. Me going to dem would be too damned much hard work. I know… why doncha call up all their folks and order dem to order all their kids love me?”

Somehow Mumsy fought off the urge to roll her eyes. Once again, thinking on her feet, got her off the hook. The trick, here, was to really “sell” her schmooze the classmates scam to her ne’er-do-well boy. Indeed, to sound even remotely sincere, she’d need to lie through her teeth. And lie she did…

“Sonny, I’ve got a tremendous idea! Why doncha invite all your classmates over for a backyard, Sunday oatmeal brunch? You could even show off your cooking skills… I mean… we both know how you get a kick out of dumping the dry rolled oats into the boiling water.”

“Oh, do I ever! I always pretend each oat is someone I hate. But Mumsy… you got to be kiddin’! Cook for dem commoners? NO WAY! They not worthy of such a feast. Besides, it’d all be too much work. Why doncha order our cook to do it for me?”

“Sonny, you’re too smart not to know that you can’t WOW them unless you’re the Chef who’s cooking up the porridge! I give you my word… they’ll be so impressed by your magnificence that you’ll have them eating out of your hand. They’ll remember you for the rest of their lives. Hell, were you to ever run for President, you could always count on their votes.”

Reluctantly, Sonny agreed… on one condition… that Mumsy had to be the one to send out all the invitations on his behalf. Of course she’d never fess up that she had actually tasked that out to her social secretary. It didn’t take too long for the dozens of RSVP’s to began flooding in.

By the time Sunday finally rolled around… as his guests arrived, Sonny felt elated by the massive turnout. Hell, he estimated crowd attendance to be at least 3 MILLION… possibly up to 30 MILLION! He even caught himself musing…

“Hmm, maybe Mumsy had been right, after all?”

Sonny being the ringleader of his nasty gang, naturally, he did gravitate more to his homies. Of course, it was inevitable that there’d be a couple of scuffles between them and the non gang members… BUT… things began to cool down when the cauldron grew hot… when the boiling, bubbling water told Sonny it was time to dump in the oats!

With nearly the entire student body cheering / chanting rhythmically in time with each stirring, swirling motion of his YUGE spoon, he felt giddy from the outpouring of adulation… even though, in actuality, it was their love of oatmeal… not for Sonny that so inspired them. Anyway, all seemed to be going well.

HOWEVER… towards the end of the five minute cooking time… something just didn’t seem quite right. The porridge was way too thick… way too dry. Dumbfounded Sonny didn’t quite know what to do next. With this being a day off for their entire grounds-keeping crew, there’d be nobody to boss around… nobody to snap to attention and exclaim “Yes Sir!” to his barked out command…

“Uncoil that damned hose and add more water!!!”

Just as Sonny was about to panic, he experienced his own light bulb over the noggin moment… came up with what he deemed to be an ingenious idea! He unzipped his fly and… well… let’s just say he cooked up a Pees Porridge… one that never, ever must be confused with the totally different recipe known as Pease Porridge. Surprisingly, even above the loud piddling noises, audible were the multiple horrified gasps accompanied by the veritable chorus of EEEWWWS!!!

By the time Sonny had zipped up and looked back up, the crowd of kiddies had thinned dramatically… so much so that all who were left were members of his ugly gang.

Naturally, with Sonny being a germ-o-phobe, he absolutely had zero intentions of ever consuming this porridge. However… as for his sycophantic gang? Well, since they knew how easy it would be to PISS OFF Sonny they didn’t DARE turn up their noses. More importantly… they all knew the highest form of praise would be to pretend that nothing was wrong… i.e., that the “alternate facts” told them that Sonny’s unhealthy oatmeal was actually healthy to chow down… no questions asked! And chow down they did!

Well… it is now… some six decades later and we find sicko Sonny and his entire gang of sicko sycophants satisfied by their trade-off of NYC for DC turf! Since these rowdy underlings having, long ago, proven their undying loyalty to their sophomoric, imbecilic, narcissistic boss, he has vowed to never, ever again cook Pees Porridge. After all, for him, it’d be too damned much work! Even so, all of his toadies are still ready, willing and able to take whatever (hopefully figurative) shit he chooses to cook and serve up.