Dear Republicans in my Congressional District,

I’ve received several letters (actually two) inquiring about our mobilization plan for the congressional elections in 2008.

Seeing as how there are only twenty-five of us in this District and that we are spread across parts of three counties and parts of sixteen municipalities, and seeing as how the chances of each of us getting hit in the head with a piece of space junk far exceed the chances of us ever voting this Waste of Space out of office, I suggest that rather than wasting our time worrying about congressional elections, we get together every third Wednesday to catch a flick and maybe have a couple beers afterwards.

Otherwise, we could continue to hold our regular monthly meetings in my second cousin George’s Buick Roadmaster Station Wagon.

Sincerely,

Jimbo

Recently my friends Christina and Dash threw a big shindig for which Dash roasted a pig and posted pre-and post pig roasting pictures here. I like pork, but I know I would not have been able to eat any of that pig, even though I am certain it would have been delicious. I couldn’t eat it because it still looked like a pig.

About twenty years ago, a friend invited me to a huge annual party at his farm in Pennsylvania. The main attraction was to be the pig roast. He has a large farm, so there was plenty of room in back of the house to build a large fire (I seem to think it was in a bit of a pit) over which he set up a spit large enough to hold a pig that had to weigh anywhere between 150 and 200 pounds. To me, it was a bigass pig.

As I recall, Mr. Pig was skewered and put up on the spit something like 24 hours prior to when it was to be eaten, and it was ceremoniously carried to the fire pit. (Note to the pig roasting cognoscenti: I may have the pig weight and the cooking time wrong. I’m not a pig expert, and I’m doing this from beer-soaked memory, so please cut me some slack.)

The guests were taking turns, throughout the night, keeping the fire hot and turning the spit with a crank equipped with a ratchet-type gizmo that allowed it to be turned a bit, then turned a bit again after a few minutes. The fire keeping and pig turning was obviously an integral part of the festivities, as was beer drinking.

Wanting to fit in with the other guests (lots of farmers) in ways other than beer drinking, I took a late-night turn at putting wood on the fire, and eventually it became my turn to spin Mr. Pig on the spit. Each time I turned the spit, Mr. Pig’s ears would flop around. I pretended that watching the ear flopping and his now-almost blackened skin didn’t bother me. In fact, after a while, I managed to convince myself that it really didn’t bother me.

Later in the day when it came to eat, I was encouraged to get on line to take a slice off Mr. Pig’s ass, before the host would take Mr. Pig off the spit and cut him into more manageable pieces.

There was no way I could cut a slice off Mr. Pig’s ass and eat it, nor was there any way I could eat any of the meat even after it had been sliced and put on a platter. All I could think of was Mr. Pig’s ears flopping as I turned the spit.

I know you’re thinking ”Yo, Jimbo. That is really crazy. Where the hell do you think pork comes from? Sheesh!”

I know it’s not a rational position, but it’s just that not having grown up on a farm, I am accustomed to seeing “pork” (not “pig meat”) on a Styrofoam tray wrapped in clear plastic and bearing a supermarket price tag. I don’t much like to think about the pig it came from. The same is true for beef and chicken as well. I like it sliced and wrapped in plastic.

I think if I couldn’t get those things in plastic, I could (and likely would) become a vegetarian.

Oh, and don’t even get me stared about seafood.

On Sunday, I finally decided that I would resume walking in the morning, given that the most nasty of the cold symptoms has finally gone away. My ears are still plugged up by some sort of head glop (and it is driving me more than a little bit nuts), but I figure that if I waited for that to clear up, my legs might atrophy.

So, with that, I headed out the door, eager to greet the morning, but particularly mindful of my diminished hearing. While walking, I wasn’t thinking of blogging or anything in particular for that matter, but then I came upon a local bus stop and saw THIS DISGUSTING SIGHT.

What made it even more gross was that THIS was a mere ten paces from the filth.

My grandmother (rightly or wrongly) used to housebreak dogs by rubbing their noses in their shit. Maybe that’s what ought to be done to the pigs who made this mess.

Farookin’ swine.

Dear Diary,

OMFG! What a totally awesome week, but I sure broke my award-winning SPEAKER ass getting important things done! I’m glad I found some time, a bottle of Cristal and a bit of decent herb so I can unwind and commit this important stuff to paper for future historians.

Being really smart and the SPEAKER in the House, I know that something has to be done about Mr. Stooooooopid’s war. He obviously has no idea what he is doing, and neither does that General Petrooney (or whatever his name is). “Surge?” Sounds to me like the shit Rosa uses to wash my underwear.

Anyway, everybody knows that President McHitlerburtonchimpymissionaccomplishedrunkcollegefratboydrugaddledmoron is a fascist dooofus and that General Petrooney (or whatever his name is) is just another one of those awful military “yessir” stooges who dresses himself up like a goddamned Christmas tree. (OMG, is this some great weed, or what?) Anyway, I figure that it’s time I put an end to this war. It need’s a brilliant woman’s touch.

So, a couple of us got together and drafted this totally awesome funding bill. (Memo to self: That guy Obey is a friggin’ weirdo. During our meetings, he never once looked at my ass. He’ll pay for that.) Anyhooooo, we put together this totally awesome bill that contains (what the hell did the lawyers call them?) — benchmarks! Yeah, that’s it – benchmarks. If the Iraqis don’t meet the benchmarks, WHAMMO, no more money! War over! Snap City!

I wanted to make one of the benchmarks that everyone in the Iraqi Army had to be able to recite all the lyrics to all Joan Baez’s songs in three months, but Jack Murtha said that the American people would realize what we were up to and, besides, he prefers Pete Seeger. He said I shouldn’t worry about the benchmarks though, because the Iraqis will never meet them, because they are fundamentally expendable douchebags. Jack really knows about this stuff.

Sooooo, I bring this totally awesome bill to the Democratic Caucus, and I find out that some of members don’t want to sign it!! WTF??? Several of them said shit like, “I don’t give a shit about the war (but I support the troops), but what’s in this bill for me?”

I decided that I’d have to wait to deal with these disloyal pricks in the future, because I had some history to make here.

Good goddamned thing I’m the SPEAKER in the House and that I have a fantastic ass, because I was able to persuade just about all of them to sign on.

The easy part was the money. I just told our guys to pony up a shitload of money for stuff like spinach, peanuts, oysters and Christ knows what else. Nooooo problem. It’s just money.

But, there were still some holdouts who claimed that they don’t “do” spinach, peanuts, or oysters. Here’s what I had to promise these sons-a-bitches.

Do you believe it, Dear Diary? Jack Murtha gave me a hard time in the end. I guess he knew I really needed his support, the brilliant guy that he is. I had to promise him that he could actually touch my cootchie! (Excuse me, but eeeewwwww). After all, we’re talking about the Pelosi Cootchie here, an Historic Coochie, goddammit! But, I said OK, because the good news is that by next week Murtha will have forgotten everything.

The Jersey Delegation was a royal pain in the ass too. One of them said, “Yo! Friggin’ peanuts? Are you friggin’ kiddin’ me? Do I look like Jimmy Carter here?”) The negotiations were rough. First, they wanted me to “dress” up like one of the Bada Bing! Dancers and do a pole dance for the next meeting of the Jersey Caucus. I agreed with that, because I do have a show-stopping ass and great tits, but was that enough? Nooooooo!! They also wanted me to service them like the Bada Bing! Girls service Tony and crew. I declined, but if I thought the bill was absolutely veto proof, I would have agreed.

We finally agreed that I would dress up like Carmela Soprano (I think I’d be an ass-kicking blonde), and at the next Caucus they could all wear ginny tees and say shit like, “Yo, Carm! Da friggin’ pasta’s cold!”) Those Jersey guys are a hoot! LOL.

The New York Delegation was easier. All I had to do to get their votes was to promise to dress up like a schoolgirl – you know, pigtails, white blouse, short plaid skirt, anklets and patent leather shoes? No problemo. I’ve already got a few of those outfits (Ted Kennedy likes them). Of course, they insisted that I don’t wear any panties. I’m OK with that, because of my fantastic ass and all.

OMG, being the SPEAKER in the House is totally awesome. I get to make goddamned history, and it’s totally goddamned awesome.

Vol 1
Vol 2
Vol 3
Vol 4
Vol 5
Vol 6
Vol. 7

The more things change …….,

The more they remain the same.

Following the White House’s announcement of the firing, Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid stated, “This is just another outrageous example of Bush’s Imperial Presidency. We intend to exercise our oversight function, and I am calling for immediate hearings to get to the bottom of this. I want the President and Rove under oath.”

Developing.

PRS Operatives have again managed to obtain the contents of a telephone answering machine – this time it’s the answering machine of former Senator, Almost President and Global Warming Huckster Al Gore.

Let’s press the “Play Messages” button shall we?

BEEEEEP
Hello Mr. Gore. This is Vito the tailor speaking. I’m sorry, but I just could not let your suits out any more. This is the third time, and there is no material left to work with. I think it’s time that you consider buying yourself some new ones. Please stop by the store any time to pick up your old suits.
click

BEEEEEP
Hello. This is O.J. Do you know where I can buy murder offsets? You can reach me at the Sunset Valley Country Club.
click

BEEEEEP
Mr. Gore, this is John Tate from the Tennessee Electric and Gas Company. I’m calling about your last three gas and electric bills, which remain unpaid. The total on the three bills is $165,867.43. We noticed that you have been spending quite a bit of money on carbon offsets. Do you think you could spend some money on a gas and electric bill offset? If we don’t received payment in full in ten days, we will be forced to shut off your gas and electric service. Have a nice day.
click

BEEEEEP
Hi, this is Jack Gilbert over at Nashville Cadillac. I swear we’ve tried just about everything, but we cannot make your Cadillac Escalade look like a Prius. You can stop by and pick up your vehicle any time between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m.
click

BEEEEEP
Hey shithead, this is Vito the tailor again. I just checked my answering machine and received your message. No, I was not calling you a “fat bastard”. I simply told the truth, which is that I could not let your suits out any further. Oh, and I don’t much appreciate being called a “dago prick”. Don’t bother coming by the store, because I’m burning your friggin’ tent-sized suits. Oh, and one more thing — My cousin Carmine might be stopping by to pay you visit, asshole.
click

BEEEEEP
Dude, Alec Baldwin here. Great seeing you at Spielberg’s party. Hey listen: If anyone is thinking about making a movie of your life story, I think I’m a natural for the part of playing you. I’m sorta fat, I’m kinda stupid, and I can crinch up my face just like you do when you really get crazy during a speech. Hey! Listen to this – really. “HE PLAAAAYYYYED ON OUR FEARS!!!” Do I have that shit down, or what. Call me, babe; we’ll do lunch.
click

BEEEEEP
Hey Dickhead. Hillary here. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m running for President. Testifying before the House and Senate on Global Warming? You? Are you shitting me? Let me tell you something, Al. You keep up this headline-grabbing bullshit, and I’ll release the picture of you playing stinky finger with that Dancer named Ralph. Oh yeah, Al. I’ve got the pictures. Don’t screw around with me, asshole.
click

Pathetic.

Via SondraK

Update: Rodger has the video.

On March 16th, I posted “The Translator,” which was a video clip of a comedian pretending to speak several languages other than English. For comedic effect, she zeroed in on the phonemes that English speakers often associate with certain foreign languages. It was a riot.

I have often wondered which phonemes non-English speakers associate with English. I had this discussion years ago (albeit in halting German) when I asked my beer-drinking buddy how English “sounded” to him. Unlike the comedian in the “Translator” post, he was unable to reproduce the signature sounds of English, but he described English as sounding “Hard, much like the noises made by a cat.” I found that observation to be fascinating.

If there are any non-native English speaking readers out there (and I know of a handful), I ask you, “How does spoken English sound to you?”

Better yet, can anyone direct me to a site where someone with the skill of the comedian in “The Translator” where I can hear “Fake-English” (i.e. English as it sounds to a non-English speaker?)

Thank you and Gute Nacht.

Update: Originally in this post I had made several references to the “Woids” post, when I really meant the post entitled “The Translator”. Thanks to Erica for pointing out my dumbshittery.

Another Update: Do not miss the comments to this post. They are terrific, and many contain entertaining and informative links. No kidding.

It’s Sunday morning, and I’m sitting here with a cuppa thinking about what to write. I’m frankly too lazy to write about the federal investigation into yet another croooked Jersey politician and the state legislature’s smarmy and secretive practice of tossing taxpayer money to favored legislative districts at budget time (quaintly referred to as “Christmas Tree Grants”).

So, I thought I would just share a couple thoughts that have passed through my cruller on this Sunday morning:

Kumquats/Cumquats: Who eats them? I never have. When I think of them, I think of the W.C. Fields movie, “It’s a Gift”, where a guy insists on buying Kumquats/Cumquats from Fields’ character, Harold Bisonette (“That’s ‘Bee-soh-nay'”). Finally, the word(s) “Kumquat/Cumquat” sound dirty to me.

Hip Hop: It rhymes with “Shit Plop”. That has been banging around in my head for days. Damned if I know why.

Fig Newtons: I hate them – strangely shaped soft, tasteless “cookie” wrapped around stuff that looks like crap and has the mouth feel of sandy glop. I can only imagine how gross it looks to see these things expelled from a giant extruding machine prior to being sliced into eating size – a turd wrapped in dough. Blecch.

“Access Hollywood” and similar crap: If you’ve wondered whether we are doomed, sit through a half hour of that shit to remove any doubt. Sad.

Cable TV: When we got cable TV in the mid-seventies, it cost approximately $14.00 per month. The guy said, “This price will never go up. If anything, it will come down.” I laughed in his face then, and I laugh (sort of) now each time I open the cable bill and it tickles $100.00, not counting the $40.00 per month for cable internet service. The hell of it is, I think the guy actually believed what he was saying back then. I figure he must have fallen off a telephone pole.

Penn & Teller: I think that Penn should lose the ratty looking ponytail, don’t you?

Well, that’s about it. Later I’ll be heading to Da Post to join the Usual Suspects for The Original Bill’s wonderfully prepared annual corned beef and cabbage dinner, complete with Irish soda bread and maybe a beer or two.

Play nice.