Dear Diary,

I know it’s been a while since my last diary entry. Actually, I haven’t even thought about writing much of anything since the November elections when those rat bastard, Nazi, teabagging rethuglicans somehow managed to hoodwink enough gun-toting, toothless, goober religious fanatics to vote their rude, snotty asses into the majority in MY House of Representatives. Needless to say, I was seriously pissed.

The first big insult came when I had to hand over my gabel to that whiney baby fink John Boehner. That day I had to get some emergency Botox skin invigorating injections just to be able to keep a smile on my face during that gabel-passing ceremony. There I was, beautiful, smartly dressed and sexy as hell handing my gabel to a former bartender from freakin’ Ohio! Ohio, fer Chrissakes! I think they grow pigs, or raise corn in Ohio or some shit. I’m very familiar with Ohio. I’ve been flying over it for years.

Oh, and speaking of flying, after the election, I actually had to take a freakin’ commercial flight. Yeah, I said commercial!! “You know: fly the friendly skies with the Great Unwashed.” It was freakin’ horrible!

I did manage to get an upgrade to First-Class by letting the TSA guy really go to town on my magnificent ass and boobs. But, even sitting in first class amounted to cruel and something-or-other punishment! (I forget the exact wording of the 31st Amendment.) Not a goddamned drop of Cristal on the plane. Korbel? Kor-freakin’-bel?? Are you shitting me? Don’t these assholes know who the hell I am? Korbel, my ass.

Speaking of the Great Unwashed, I had to sit next to some guy who said he owned a big farm in Nebraska. That’s right. I had to sit next to a goddamned farmer! Farmers have no goddamned business sitting in First Class, and sure as shit have no business sitting next to the former (I can bear to even say it) SPEAKER in the House. Goddamned commoners. I hate them.

When I finally arrived at my villa in San Francisco, I seriously needed to calm down. Good thing I had my boy-servant, Lance, get there a day in advance to make sure that the place was fully stocked with Cristal, some kickass weed and a couple ounces of high octane coke.

After I did a few joints and a couple lines, I decided to call Hilly to shoot the shit. I reached her while she was in an outhouse in some Middle-Eastern shithole. I wanted to complain to her about being screwed out of my gabel, but I never got the chance. She didn’t give a damn about my gabel. All she could say was, “Pearl, [she always calls me Pearl] I figure that, over the last month, I have eaten ten pounds of freakin’ hummus and at least three goddamned bushels of goddamned dates! Hummus and dates….hummus and dates….hummus and goddamned dates! That’s all these stone-aged cretins eat. I’ve been shitting every fifteen minutes for a solid week. What the hell was I thinking when I took this horseshit gig? Whoa! Can’t talk. Here comes another blast!”

I guess it’s all about her. Bitch!

I decided that what I needed was a bit of good, clean fun, so I called Lazlo to book him to come to the house and throw cabbages at my bare ass. Lazlo is a specialist. Like I said; good clean fun. Problem was that Lazlo read about the election and he doubled his price to me. Rat bastard! I decided to pay his outrageous prices, because nobody throws cabbages like Lazlo.

I then called Sven, one of my regulars, and told him I wanted him to come over around midnight and to wear the Batman outfit (I’d wear my Catwoman duds). His prices doubled too! Another price gouging capitalist. I’ll pay the son-of-a-bitch, because I always sleep well after having the Caped Crusader use his Bat Pole on my plumbing.

I guess elections do, after all, have consequences.

Vol 1
Vol 2
Vol 3
Vol 4
Vol 5
Vol 6
Vol. 7
Vol. 8
Vol. 9
Vol. 10
Vol. 11
Vol. 12
Vol. 13
Vol. 14

I went out for a groundpound this morning. Although the temperatures were not as frigid as they recently have been during my morning thing, it was overcast and raw out there, and, more importantly, it felt like snow. I know it was unpleasant enough to apparently put my muse to sleep. A couple writing ideas just refused to take shape. Yo, that’s the way it is sometimes.

As such, you’re stuck with me sitting at the keyboard, sipping a Firefly Sweet Tea Vodka (Lemon flavored this time), waiting for the snow and letting the mush in my cruller flow quite unfiltered to my fingers on the keyboard. You won’t hurt my feelings if you bug out at this point, because I make no representations whatsoever that anything from here on will be worth your time.

Admission: I have become a fan of “Pawn Stars.” Don’t ask me to explain myself, because I can’t. It’s sort of like “Antiques Roadshow” with tattoos and a grumpy old guy with lots of hair. In addition, Chumlee cracks me up. Go figure.

Another Admission: I like the woman in the Progressive Insurance Commercials (Stephanie Courtney). Perky (not in a Katie Couric way), pretty and funny. [No real need for a disclaimer, as my car insurance is not with Progressive.]

I have a sense that Facebook is screwing up the Blogosphere. Several excellent bloggers who are excellent writers have abandoned their blogs for one sentence entries on Facebook. Perhaps they have experienced blog burnout, having decided that blogging is too much of an interruption in Life 101. I can relate to that. It is, nonetheless, sad to see so many peeps who are engaging writers bail on the blogosphere. Note: I understand that there are plenty of reasons not to want to be bothered maintaining a blog: e.g. annoying trolls and, frankly, running out of things worth a shit to write about. I worry about the latter point myself.

Is there anything more boring than reading what a blogger has to say about blogging? I don’t think so. You were warned (see above).

Can you for one minute imagine how much money movie theaters make on popcorn sales? I figure a handful of unpopped popcorn (enough to make one of those very pricey buckets or popcorn) costs mere pennies. Hey, I’m a capitalist, and if the traffic will bear the movie theater price for a bucket of popcorn, I’m OK with it. Seems a bit nuts to me, though. [ANOTHER DISCLAIMER: I think the last movie I saw in a movie theater was “Saving Private Ryan,” and I didn’t buy popcorn.]

Here’s how the word “popcorn” appears when your fingers are not on the home keys: [p[vptm. You non-touch type peeps won’t understand.

No snow yet.

The older I get, the more I truly appreciate the talent of Frank Sinatra. If you don’t agree with me now, just wait it out.

I see where famous artists like Picasso have done paintings that a five-year old can do, only to have the paintings sell for millions of dollars. I figure that’s OK, because I’m sure that Picasso could draw an excellent picture of a cow, such that it would look like a cow. But for that, I could be a gazillionaire.

Yet Another Admission: In college, and a for a few years thereafter, I was a roaring, flaming liberal. Then I got a real job.

Do you read Sippican Cottage? You should. It’s good for the cruller and the soul.

I awaken in the middle of the night wondering how Henry Ford and Thomas Edison managed their businesses without consultants and a multi-million dollar Mission Statement. I figure that if everyone in a company does not know the company’s “mission,” a shitload of managers have to be fired. Speaking of “Consultantspeak,” check out this post at the aforementioned Sippican Cottage.

No snow yet. I think I’ll pour another Firefly and leave youse guys to your own devices.

So how’s the retirement thing goin’ so far?

More than a few people have asked me that in recent weeks. I thought I’d give you a peek at my day today.

Had to skip breakfast (bad – I now regularly eat breakfast), because I had an early appointment for a haircut a/k/a my “hair appointment” with my expert hair cutter who thinks I have great farookin’ hair. A hair appointment necessarily trumps breakfast.

After my hair appointment, I swung by the store to pick up my new groundpounding shoes (ASICS), which had to be specially ordered, because of my Donald Duck EEEE feet. Store wasn’t opened yet.

Drove to the nail place for a manicure (Yes Virginia, real men get their nails done), but they weren’t open yet either.

Drove to the car wash to have my car washed (the full treatment, even including the shiny stuff on the tires). BTW, I no longer drive the Big Fat Black Capitalist Car. I now drive a sleek black Acura TL with all the doo-dads (“Blackura”), which is like driving a fighter plane. I love it.

Back to the nail place for the manicure. I listened to the Korean manicurists talk among themselves in Korean. I’m certain they were talking about my great farookin’ hair.

Left the nail place and went to the store to pick up the new groundpounding shoes. They fit nicely. Quack quack

Home to meet Mrs. Parkway for a trip to the Supermarket. Shopping during the week is just one of great things about being retired, because the store isn’t crowded. I figure I’m doing a good deed by shopping during the week, thereby making more room on the weekends for people who have to shop on Saturday or Sunday. Thank me.

Home: Lunch (Buffalo chicken tenders, cole slaw, Coke Zero)

Put away the boxes of Keurig K-Cups that were delivered today. BTW, the Keurig coffee maker may well be the most important appliance in the house, with possible exception of the dishwasher.

Did a couple loads of laundry. I am, as you know, a Laundry Guy.

Read some blogs.

Had to get on the phone with Comcast, because one of the televisions that has been cursed with the digital converter thing was not working properly. Of course, after ten minutes of back and forth trying to solve things over the phone, we will end up with a technician visit. Swell. (I had to talk to the Comcast person. Apparently there is a rule somewhere that women cannot speak with the Comcast person).

Things I definitely still will do today:

Eat dinner
More laundry

Things I might still do today:

Read more blogs
Finish the book I’ve been reading

A thing I intended to do today, but will likely put off until tomorrow (I blame my rough schedule and the Comcast problem): Re-string one of the guitars.

So, there you have it. As you can see, this retirement stuff isn’t as easy as you might think.

DOGGY THOUGHTS FROM BO, THE PRESIDENTIAL POOCH.

Wow, it’s been quite a while since I made my first entry into my diary. Himself is out of the house at the moment, Bigfoot is taking a nap (I can hear her snoring – Yikes!) and the kids are playing video games, so here goes.

Quite a bit has changed around here since my last entry. Back then, Himself and Bigfoot were all cheery and shit all the time. Now, not so much. I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but Himself is always blabbing about healthcare. Hell, one night I thought he was going to completely lose it. He went on, non-stop, for at least two hours talking with no one else in the room but me about all the “ignorant assholes, rednecks, terrorists and capitalist pigs who just don’t get it” and how he was going to “fix their asses.” I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head.

Finally, Bigfoot stomped (and I mean it was some serious Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum stomping) out of the bedroom and screamed, “Hey chump! Can’t you see we’re trying to sleep here? Give it a f**king rest!” Well, then the shit really hit the fan. There was lots of screaming and once they starting throwing things around, I hid behind the couch, but I could see shoes and other stuff bouncing off the walls. After much screaming, Himself gave her the stink eye and said, cold as ice, “Shut your f**king mouth bitch, or I’ll slap the shit out of you!”

Bigfoot responded, “Oh, really? Howzabout I hang my size 12 in your café au lait-colored ass?”

Fortunately, at that moment Chris Matthews came on the television, which immediately calmed Himself down. He loves to watch Chris Matthews, he does.

Speaking of television, who is “Glenn Beck?” All I know is one day Himself wandered down to the kitchen for some arugula and pine nuts (I followed, hoping for a biscuit or something) and one of the cooks had this guy Glenn Beck on the television. Himself went totally batshit crazy. “What’s that mother**ker doing on this television? I ought to shove this arugula up your ass!” He smashed the TV with a frying pan and stomped (lots of stomping around here) out of the kitchen without his arugula, and I didn’t get a biscuit either. I guess there’s something about that Beck guy Himself really doesn’t like. Oh, I heard someone say that the cook now works at a nearby McDonalds.

Then there is the guy they call “Rahm.” I believe he scares the shit out of everyone, including Bigfoot and Himself. Nobody hollers at Rahm, but Rahm seems to be hollering at somebody all the time. You know how they say that dogs can sense when someone is a bad guy? Well, I’m here to tell you it’s true, and I’m also here to tell you that this guy Rahm is one really bad apple – a real shithook. I can’t stand his sorry ass.

In fact, the first time I saw him, I did everything I could to take an industrial-size piece out of his leg. I admit it; I did my best growling, barking and lunging for the sonofabitch but the Secret Service guy holding the leash pulled me away. Rahm, the pussy, whined, “Get that motherf**king dog away from me, or I’ll have the motherf**ker killed!” Bitch.

Anyway, after Rahm left and I was alone with the Secret Service guys, they all laughed, patted me on the head and gave me a shitload of bacon. Cool guys, those Secret Service Guys. I think they have even a tougher gig than I do.

Well, that’s about all for now. I’m off to take a nap while it’s still quiet around this nuthouse.

PRS Operatives have again employed their proprietary technical skills to obtain access to Van Jones’s answering machine. Here is a sample of what they heard:

BEEEEEEP

Van, Vladimir Putin here. Tough break, Komrade, but glad to hear that you’re still on our team. One of my people will be contacting you. Be on the lookout. Our man will say, “Hello, my black soul brother. Are you with the Mets down?” You will respond, “Right on, my groovy homey.” Take the envelope and follow the instructions.
click

BEEEEEEP

Hi Van. Nancy Pelosi here. I was up late Saturday night doing tequila body shots and primo weed with Hilly and a well-built Scandinavian man when we heard the news. Sucks, what those wingnut bastards did to you, lying about you and all that. Hey, now that you’ll have some free time, what say you come over some night and partaaaay (wink, wink) with Hilly and me? Herbs, powders and patchouli oil will be in abundance. While we partaaaay (wink, wink), we can groove to some Joan Baez or, if you prefer, Miriam Makeba. Call me. I’m worth it.
click

BEEEEEEP

Hugo Chavez here. Hey, Amigo, just wanted to let you know that you have an open invitation to come down to my country. We need smart guys like you. Screw that Beck guy. I’ll make sure you have your very own radio and television shows, and you won’t have to worry about any competition from capitalist pig broadcast companies.
click

BEEEEEEP

Hey Van, Rahm here. Listen to me, asshole. I’ll speak real slowly. After you left fifteen f**king messages on my home phone, twenty f**king messages on my office phone and a dozen more on my f**king cell phone and you didn’t get a return call, didn’t it occur to you that I had nothing to f**king say to you. Oh, and stop with the f**king messages on the Boss’s phone too. Don’t make me unleash the IRS on your ass.
click

BEEEEEEP

Hi Van, Michael Moore calling. I just finished a new movie called, “Capitalism: a Love Story,” and I’d sure like to film you for an intro piece. You’d be f**king perfect. Call me. We’ll do donuts.
click

BEEEEEEP

Hello, Van. Keith Olbermann here. I’m planning on doing one of my awesome special commentaries about the stupid poopy heads that hounded you out of office. I think they are soooooo totally stupid, and I think you’re soooooooo freaking cool. Can we get together for a couple Brandy Alexanders and talk about it? Call me, please.
click

Within the last week or so, I bought a new car. Yes, the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car is now history. More on the new wheels later, as this is a post about tax. It is, after all, April 15th.

OK so, you buy a new car in New Jersey. Not exactly pocket change, that. The car comes with four real tires and one of those bullshit donuts as a spare. Those five tires are clearly part of the new car. Agreed? Of course. The dealer adds up the total price of the car (including the five tires) and collects, for the state, seven percent of that number as sales tax. Seven percent is a pretty big hit, for sure. Do the math in your cruller.

Ah, but you’re not done paying tax on the car. In New Jersey, after you pay seven percent of the retail value of the car (including the five tires that come with it), you get to pay an additional “Tire Tax” (pdf) of $1.50 per tire, including the spare. Sure, you’ve just spent thousands on a car, including a couple thousand in sales tax, so what’s another $7.50? The rat bastards in Trenton are counting on you thinking like that.

But wait! You’re not done paying tax yet on those tires.

Suppose one of the tires is punctured and you have it fixed. Fixing a tire is a “service,” and you pay seven percent tax on the cost of fixing the tire. Suppose the gas station guy tries to fix the tire, but decides that he can’t fix it and sells you a new tire. You get to pay seven percent tax on the cost of the repair attempt, plus seven percent sales tax on the cost of a new tire, PLUS the tire tax.

Further suppose that, after a year or so, you decide to sell the car (including the four tires and the spare) to Joe Blow. Joe Blow will have to pay seven percent sales tax on the price of your car (including the five tires) AND the tire tax as well, which means that New Jersey has now taxed the same five tires at least FOUR TIMES.

And yet, the sheeple keep paying the taxes and voting the same cruds into office.

Douchebags.

PRS operatives, always on the case, have managed to get a copy of one of The One’s partially completed “To Do” Lists.

1. Pick out gift for Queen Whatshername. Maybe something musical, but No CDs!

2. Fire that capitalist pig who runs GM.

3. Tell Rahm to get moving on a new GM Board of Directors.

4. Return Bill Ayers’ call re: speaking gigs.

5. Thank Nancy Pelosi for the weed.

6. Call Soros: ACORN loved the rifles, but they want bayonets. Important for door-to-door canvassing. See if Soros will help.

7. Figure out someplace to send Biden where no one will see or hear the dopey bastard.

8. Learn about military stuff, like guns and missiles.

9. Ask Holder what’s keeping him from getting that capitalist pig Limbaugh off the air.

10. Ask Holder to have one of his guys draft an Executive Order – I will no longer be addressed as “Mr. President,” but rather as “My Leader.”

The weather folks were quite certain that snow was coming our way. I knew they were right, because, with many years of snow experience, one can actually smell impending snow (no kidding), and it smelled like snow.

In anticipation of the promised snow, I picked up a new gas can and some bottles of gookum that has to be mixed with the gas (2-cycle engine oil for you wrench peeps), then filled up the gas can, mixed in the gookum and filled up the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car while I was at it. Of course, I never touched the gas pump, for in New Jersey we don’t pump our own gas (Yes!!).

Upon arriving back to the House by the Parkway, I made sure that I filled the calcium chloride ice-melting-stuff bottle/sprinklers, and got two snow shovels out of the garage and positioned one in the front of the house for shoveling the front steps and the other in the back, poised to shovel off the deck.

Damn, I felt very responsible.

About an hour or so into the snowfall, it was clear that these were not snow flurries, but the real deal. I went outside to drag the snowblower from the shed (dragging it across the yard in deep snow is a bummer) to position it in the garage for later use.

Then, I acted like someone who just moved here from Florida.

I thought, “Yo, even though it is snowing like a bastard, I’ll fire up the snowblower and get a jump on the cleanup.” About thirty minutes of snow blowing later, I looked a bit like the abominable snowdoosh, and the driveway and sidewalk looked as if they had never been cleaned. I know that my friend Richmond has to snowblow while the snow is still falling in order to keep from being totally buried, but, hey, that’s Wis-farookin’-consin. I shoulda known better.

So, the then-current game plan was to wait until the snow stops before I head outside to snowblow. Problem is that the heavy snow has now turned into icy rain and freakin’ sleet, which, of course turns everything to slop that is as heavy as concrete. Worse yet, the forecast says that it will turn back into snow later tonight. My game plan is in the dumper.

I hate this shit.

I do, however, have plenty of vodka on hand.

This morning I proceeded to the Dealer’s Service Department in order to obtain regular preventative maintenance on the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car. I’m no stranger to the place, having previously written about my visits here, here and here.

What I will share with you are literally scratchpad notes I made while sitting in the waiting room. The thoughts may be disjointed, but that’s just way it is.

Dammit! The television is on. I brought a book, and there are magazines on a coffee table, but nobody reads. Everyone sits and stares at the goddamned television. Is it possible for people to survive thirty minutes in a chair without staring into a goddamned television set? Too loud and too distracting to read. I took Mrs. Parkway’s car for service, and that dealer offers a “Quiet Room.” The availability of a “Quiet Room” may well be dispositive with respect to my next choice in vehicles.

Ack! MSNBC is on. Is this more or less annoying than, say, Regis or Judge Somethingorother? Tough call. They’re all right up there with a root canal.

Big, big, big MSNBC story: Former McCain staffers dish dirt on Sarah Palin! Perfect story for MSNBC. They get to continue to shit on Sarah Palin, but lay the blame on McCain people. BONUS! They get to say what shits the McCain people are. Damned near spit out my complimentary lousy coffee.

Ah, the subject now is Mr. Obama’s pick of Rahm Emmanuel, a former Clintonista and a known super-partisan hit man as Whitehouse Chief of Staff (Reach across the aisle, my arse). The host wonders aloud (strictly for rhetorical effect), “Critics are asking whether this is consistent with President-Elect Obama’s promise of a different kind of administration, a more inclusive administration [blah blah]?”

The question is answered by a parade of peeps, all justifying why Rahm Emmanuel is a solid choice. The Grand Marshall of the Parade was Hillary Clinton, who gushed about what a fine fellow Rahm Emmanuel is. I wonder if, by saying that, she is doing a favor for Obama or her old pal Rahm. As my Constitutional Law professor used to say, “To ahsk the question is to ahnswer it.”

The host (damned if I know who he is) announces that Barack Obama will give his first press conference later today. He continues, “MSNBC’s Chris Matthews will bring it to you.” Chris Matthews ought to be required to wear a slobber cup on his face when he talks about Obama. He’s beyond disgusting.

Notable Commercial Break: I don’t know whether you get to see the New York Times ads for the “Weekender” edition of the paper. Apparently, you can subscribe to the paper and only receive it on the weekends. I wouldn’t know, because I would sooner light money on fire than pay to read the New York Times. Anyway, the twenty-something, snot-nosey elitist pukey, yuppie woman smiles and says, “There’s the week, the weekend and then there’s The Weekender.” This is followed by a series or Upper West Side twenty-something racially diverse turds talking about how swell it is to get “THE PAPER” on the weekends, the subliminal message being that if you don’t read the New York Times, you must be some kind of mental defective. Every time I see it, I have a hard time not throwing something at the TV. (I guess you had to be there.)

Holy shit! Breaking news! Beyoncé will attend the inauguration! I had awakened Tuesday night worrying about whether Beyoncé would be on the case for the inauguration.

“Sir your car is ready.”

Free at last.

Permit me a bit of introspection.

I try to be mindful of the Law of Occum’s Razor when I do the introspective thing, and Occum’s Razor would lead to the following conclusions:

1. My cruller is fogged by some sort of a micro organism that has rendered me a stumbling, unable-to-concentrate snot factory.

2. Whatever energy I may have had at the beginning of the day is now completely sapped, as evidenced by my seemingly Bataan Death March-like stumble between my office and the Big, Fat, Black Capitalistic Car at the end of the work day.

3. The Booger Fairies that have rendered me a pathetic snot-filled dewemplin have prevented me from having any ground pound time, which is the time when I have almost always formulated readworthy posts.

Then again (and much more ominous) is the possibility that I have completely and forever lost whatever I once had resembling a fastball. All I know is that, at the moment, blogging just doesn’t seem like much fun.

All is not lost, for I am healthy enough to recognize that Harry Reid is a contemptible swine (I always knew that), but I have recently been reminded that he is also as dumb as a bag of potting soil.