Saturday, March 31, 2012

My Uncool Car

Not My Uncool Car,
 But An Uncool Reasonable Facsimile Thereof

It was dead and gone all right, My Uncool Car.

Victim of a traffic accident,  it sat there inert, its right front hood and side smashed in as if hit by a giant meteor, its right front headlight so demolished the car looked like it was winking at me.   

Which was somewhat disquieting,  because no one has winked at me in this century.  My hope had been that when I'd finally be winked it, it would be by other than My Uncool Car.

My Uncool Car would never have been considered to be hip even when I bought it, but it at least possessed a well-earned sense of respectability.   Over the ten years or so that we were together, however, it had made the gradual but inevitable descent from credible but boring to the vehicular status of lime-green leisure suit.  

Except, of course, it wasn't lime-green.

You've seen My Uncool Car many times, I'm quite certain.  It  was a 2001 Toyota Camry LE in that pale coffee color that was quite popular back in that day.  Nowadays it is driven mostly by:

1) Eighty-five plus year old men and women, often wearing hats

2) Exasperated women with a car full of small children, all of whom are unruly, and 

3) Me

We drivers of these uncool cars hang on to them because they are reliable and if properly maintained can be driven to neighboring star systems and back.  And we drivers of these uncool cars tend not to fix body damage to them because it seems foolish to spend money on aesthetics for a car most folks view as omnipresent representatives of the precise and insightful dictionary definition of the very word "LAME-O" itself. 

My Uncool Car had all the trappings of its iconic kind.  The exterior was graced with banged and bruised sides and fenders,  scraped hubcaps,  gashed tires,  and  an artless attempt at front fender repair with touch-up paint of garishly wrong hue.   Inside were coffee stains, coke stains, and crumbs of virtually every type of fast food ever enjoyed in America.  

Frankly I never much minded climbing behind the wheel of My Uncool Car, despite the fact that the only stares it ever received were stares of derision.  And indeed sometimes I'd even receive a  thumbs up from a fellow uncool car driver,  most frequently from one who amazed me that he had  sufficient thumb strength to make the gesture at all. 

But all in all I tended to the road,  set my social rank on declasse, and got where I was going.

Except when parking in a lot. There,  in the off-chance that I might be spotted  by someone of attractive feminine gender, I'd search diligently to park next to a car that might somehow comparatively make My Uncool Car actually appear vaguely cool.  As difficult a task as this routinely was,  once I did indeed strike pay dirt, locating a spot between a 1995 chartreuse Dodge Neon with a taped up left rear window and a battered gray Chevy Impala with paint job by Bill Murray's dermatologist. 

Sadly,  when I returned from my errands,  the dynamic had been irreparably altered.  I was now fully ensconced between a late model Lexus LS-460 and a  2012 Mercedes CL Sedan. 

"Look at that old bald loser, Mommy!"  shouted out a small child as I opened the door to My Uncool Car.  As the mom tried desperately to shush him, he went on: "Know how I know he's a loser?  He's driving one of those uncool pale coffee color 2001 Camry LE's!"

"So what?" said the mom.

"It's an onnipresent representative of the precise and insightful dictionary definition of the very word "LAME-O" itself, Mommy!" he added.

A wise child indeed.

Although I can't say I loved driving about in a car that screamed "Interested in meeting somebody new?  Move on!," there was a  certain comfort behind the wheel of My Uncool Car.  We knew each other well.  There were never any surprises. There were no expectations.  

Now My Uncool Car is being hauled away to an unmarked auto yard where its parts will be disassembled and no doubt distributed to a multiplicity of  uncool cars driven by a multiplicity of uncool drivers. 

Good bye, My Uncool Car!   Rest in Peace. 

Now I'll begin looking for another car.   Doubtless it will be newer, cleaner, faster, better smelling,  and fully free of garishly incorrect touch-up paint.  

But with any luck, it will be every bit as uncool.


Sunday, March 25, 2012

The Legend of Radnor, Warrior Lass with Swords

"Radnor, I bid thee," said Zeus as he turned about to face the lean muscular blonde warrior he had summoned urgently to his court, "this is a task only you can handle." 

"My liege," said Radnor, "my sword and my honor are at your command.  As long as you don't ask me to do anything until March Madness is over."

Zeus stood to full height.  "I'm sorry, Radnor,  your bracketology will have to wait.  My Empire rests on how well you carry out this mission."

Radnor, Queen of Dogwood, Warrior Lass with Swords, was the mightiest champion the world had ever known.  She had conquered Anatolia once, Arabia twice, and Thrace thrice,  and was able to say that fast three times too.  Her fame had spread throughout half of the known world.  If only somebody could have spread her fame on the other half and folded the known world over neatly unto itself,  he could have had himself a dandy sandwich!

Legend had it that Radnor had once slain 100 men in a single battle.  That these were 100 very surprised men on her own side in that battle in no way diminished the achievement.  Ruthless in war, Radnor was known to be merciless to those she captured. She would place them in a line and arbitrarily cut off limbs, carve an "R" in their foreheads,  or spring a pop quiz covering material they could not possibly have studied.  

Now Radnor stood before the King of the Gods.

She was not intimidated.  She realized that just like all other men,  Zeus put on his toga two legs at a time.   And only she knew that he wore a toupee.

"What is the trouble, my liege?"  she inquired. 

"There is an upstart deity in another sector of the sky," answered Zeus.  "Name of Eloheim,  Yahweh, or sometimes called just plain God.  Ever hear of him?"

"Yes, of course I have,  sire.   I understand he works alone.    No partner,  no staff, no family in the business.  At least not yet."

"But how does he do it, Radnor?!!!  thundered Zeus. "I'm busy as all Hades and I have a sub-god for everything!  In fact,  I'm putting on two more next week --- Simic, the God of Lint and Lamius, the God of Guys Named Larry."

"You've always been a little heavy on bureaucracy, sire"  answered Radnor. "Maybe  you ought to spend more time at your desk and less time on Earth chasing mortal chicks.  You can't keep carrying on as if you were still 427 years old!" 

"But Dick Van Dyke just recently got married again at 84."

"Yes, my liege, but at least he's funny,  and he has Emmys."

"Go, Radnor!  Find and destroy this God! Save my kingdom!" 

"Yes, Mighty Zeus.  I will eliminate Eloheim!"

"Eliminate Eloheim?  LOL, Radnor, that was a good one!"

"That wasn't a joke, my lord.    Like I said, at least Dick Van Dyke is funny." 

Radnor raised her sword in salute of Zeus,  bowed humbly, and departed the Royal Court.  Awaiting her outside the gates was her loyal winged steed, the  legendary white charger Ernest!

"We must away, Ernest!"  said Radnor.   "Away to a new and strange land!  So, if you gotta poop, this be the time." 

Radnor and Ernest set off blazing across the Grecian skies.  Stopping only twice --- once for Radnor to stash Ernest's poop bag into the trash receptacle of some unsuspecting random Cathaginian guy and once more to ask directions --- by dawn  they approached the airspace over the land of Canaan. 

There,  she saw the figure of a large bearded man floating gently above a cloud.

He was not a bad-looking man,  Radnor noted,  and the premature graying of his beard and hair was actually quite becoming.  Had Radnor been in charge of his grooming, however, he would have lost the ill-fitting purple check sports coat and wing tips.

"Holla!" shouted Radnor. " I am Radnor, Queen of Dogwood, Warrior Lass with Swords!  What might you be called?"

"My name is God," said the large fellow. "Got other names, but I'm into minimalism."

Already Radnor had found her prey!  She drew her sword.

"In the name of Almighty Zeus," Radnor cried, "Prepare yourself to meet your maker!"

"Meet my maker?  Who?"

"Oh, yeah,"  said Radnor.  "Poor choice of words.  My bad."

"You want to try again?" said God.

"Yes, thank you.   Okay,  think I've got it ....  God,  say your prayers!"

"Say my prayers?  To whom?"

"Oh, damn! That's just as stupid." 

"Well, looks like this is really working out for me."

"God," said Radnor, "I'm going to let you live.  At least until I can come up with a half way decent  cliche to dispatch you with."

"Good deal," said God. "But why does Zeus want to strike me down?  I pose him no threat."

"You don't seek greater power, fame,  conquest?" asked Radnor quizzically, sheathing her sword.  

"Heaven's, no!" laughed God.  "I've got my hands full right here with the Jews!"

"The Jews? Who are the Jews?" asked Radnor.

"They are my Chosen People," answered God.  "Wait til you meet them, they're so funny!"

"I could use a good laugh considering the deities I've been hanging out with," said Radnor. "What are you doing?"

"I'm contemplating my navel.  That is, the latest design for the navels I'm installing on the Jewish people.  Here, wanna see the blueprints?  I hired the firm of  Mishkin,  Blitzstein, and ...."  

"These Jews of yours, God.  Do they ever act up? Worship idols? Kill each other? Eat from the Tree of Knowledge and then have sex with their tongues hanging out?"

"Yeah, that stuff happens all the time.  Want to see some of my case files?"

"What do you do when that happens?  Do you incinerate them,  eviscerate them, flood 'em out for 40 days and 40 nights?"  

"Well, no.  I usually take 'em out for ice cream,  maybe a sundae with hot fudge, and we talk it over.   I'll give a five minute time out here and there.  Once .... think you'll be proud of me  ....  I short-sheeted  Cain's bed!"

"Any of that crap work?" 

"No, they still pretty much do whatever they want.  Especially on Saturday when I'm in the synagogue."

"Look, God, over there!" cried Radnor, pointing towards the earth below. "There's a guy masturbating right out in the open!  What are you going to do about it?"

"Oh, that's just Onan.   He's always .... I mean, who among us hasn't ...." 

"God," said Radnor sternly, "turn that man into a pillar of salt, or butter, or something high in saturated fats.  Now!"


And God did as Radnor spake.

"Now, God, don't you feel better?"

"But I don't think he feels better."

"God, you've got great possibilities," Radnor said, "but you've got to man up!  With my savagery, brutality, and viciousness and your omnipotence, we could kick serious butt."

"Radnor," said God, "I think perhaps you're right." 

"You know, God, this could be the start of a beautiful friendship."

"How do we begin?" saith the Lord.

"We're headed for Greece. We're going to make someone an offer he can't refuse.  Then we're into some major downsizing."

"And what will we do on the way?"

"First, I'm going to teach you all I know about plagues, pestilence, and the occasional pop quiz."

"And then?"

"Then, my dear God,  we work on your clothes."

Radnor* as she appears today

*a/k/a Caroline Gerardo (@cgbarbeau).  Thanks for the inspiration!

Saturday, March 24, 2012

The Caucus for Creative Cowering

One Nation, under Guns .... 

In the wake of the shooting tragedy in Florida, it's been highly encouraging to witness our nation's lawmakers promptly springing into action. 

To a one, they are boldly leaping forward into hiding places under not only desks and chairs but tables and china closets as well!   Republicans and many Democrats are joining hands in the noble effort to squelch even the slightest whisper that maybe we ought to pass a law or two to stop Americans from being systematically gunned down in the streets.

Rarely do our elected officials work together so effectively and bi-partisanly.  How do they manage it, I wondered. It seems the answer lies in the actions of a previously little known coalition referred to as the Congressional Caucus for Creative Cowering

On promise of complete and total anonymity,  Representative Arthur "Doodles" Worthington (R-257 District PA) --- a heavy-set balding 48 year old graduate of Old Diploma Mill University with a taste for cheap brown suits and an office staff almost exclusively made up of women named "Kitten" who has been re-elected eight times --- agreed to speak with me about the functioning of the Caucus.

Rep. Worthington:  Mr. Block, the Caucus for Creative Cowering is dedicated to assuring that each member of the legislative branch of government  successfully fulfills the highest duties of his or her office.

Block:  I see.  Which is, of course, to serve the best interests of the citizens of the United States of America! 

Rep. Worthington:  Not exactly.  Which is to get elected and stay elected!   (You are keeping this anonymous,right?)

Block:  Absolutely!   Well, what exactly does the Caucus do?

Rep. Worthington:  Every now and then one of our members gets a silly little thought in his  head that maybe we ought to think about regulating the use of guns like, say, the way we regulate the use of motor vehicles, something like that. 

Block:  And what happens then? 

Rep. Worthington:  We meet with the member and gently but firmly advise him or her:


That usually handles the matter.

Block:   So do you guys have meetings?

Rep. Worthington:  Yes, sir!  In Washington, we have breakfast meetings with speakers like Deputy Fife from The Andy Griffith Show, Larry of The Three Stooges, and both Shaggy and Scooby from Scooby Do!   We have seminars to teach members how to fall to their knees whenever they see a handgun, even if they haven't been shot.  And we have two big balls!  

Block:  Two big balls?!  It sounds like you don't have any ...

Rep. Worthington:  No, no!  I mean two big formal dances. (This is confidential, right?) 

Block:  One hundred percent.  Does the Caucus have a slogan or motto?

Rep. Worthington:  We have three: "Time Heals All Wounds,"  "Guns Don't Kill, But the NRA Does," and "Ka-boom! Ooops, well, no Biggee."

Block:  I take it you really love guns.

Rep. Worthington:  Me?   OMG, No!  Those things can kill ya!

Block:   Well, I have to say, Congressman Worthington, I've always been pretty much of a wimp myself, but you guys in the Congressional Caucus for Creative Cowering make me feel almost like Batman!

Rep. Worthington: Why, thank you!

Block:  Thank you???   Why would you say that?

Rep. Worthington:  It means we're a hit!   And that, my friend, you can print!


Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Seder With The Stars

You were expecting maybe Joseph Gordon-Levitt?

Ever wonder what a Seder would be like at the home of your favorite celebrity?  That is, assuming your favorite celebrity is Jewish.

Well, wonder no more.  If you’d like to experience Seder with the Stars, we’ve got a taste of it for you right here.  So enjoy, already!

From Comedy Central's World News Headquarters in New York City, this is  The Daily Show, Special Seder Edition with Jon Stewart


Over the last several weeks, a video surfacing on the Internet depicting crimes and atrocities committed against thousands of people by a ruthless leader of an African country has gone viral.

It has garnered millions of hits on You-Tube, become a continuously trending topic on Twitter, and most importantly captured the imagination and indignation of both Justin Bieber and Kim Kardashian.

Who is this African leader and why haven't we heard more about him before?

His name is  Pharoah.

There have been many prior efforts to make people aware of Pharoah's heinous crimes. Every year, short political pamphlets known as Haggadahs recounting his actions are regularly circulated.  A delicious multi-course meal has sometimes been offered to entice people to listen to the brutal facts about this evil despot.

Even wine - as many as four intoxicating cups - has at times been provided!

But nothing has ever gotten the message out about Pharoah like the World Wide Web. Unfortunately, however, it's all too late now.   Pharaoh is already history!

Damn you, Al Gore!  If only you had invented the Internet 4,000 years earlier, we'd never have to change a dish!

Here's your Moment of Zen ......"

Larry David in Curb Your Enthusiasm for Charoses

"Now it's time for the youngest child to ask the Four Questions.  The only thing is:  at 64,  I'm the youngest child here. 

 So, what the hell, here goes!

Why is this night different from all other nights?  Aside from the fact we don't have burnt brisket and Susie Green for dinner every night.    

On all other nights we may eat either leavened or unleavened bread, but on this night we eat only unleavened bread.  C'mon, this is easy now ---  You shouldn't have to take notes on this one! 

On all other nights we may eat all kinds of herbs but on this night we eat only bitter herbs. It's only one night, so get over it! 

On all other nights we do not dip even once, but on this night we dip twice.   Frankly, I dip three or four times!   I'm a dipping guy!   

On all other nights, we eat sitting or reclining but on this night we sit reclining, but I can't eat reclining because it gives me heartburn.   Frankly I'm not much of a reclining guy.  I'm more of a dipping guy.

So how about I dip and you recline?" 

Woody Allen Directs Midnight in Miami Beach

The Haggadah speaks of "four sons" --- the Wise Son, the Wicked Son, the Simple Son, and the Son Who Does Not Know Enough to Inquire.

Now how would I cast these parts for my next movie, Annie Leibovitz? 

I would have to play the Wise Son because I am always asking weighty questions like 'What is the meaning of the Universe?' and 'What is the Ultimate Good?' and  'Can I get into Sarah Lawrence if I ask questions like these in the essay on the application?'

Or should I play the Wicked Son?   After all, I've always wanted to drink from Elijah's cup while his back was turned.  If only he weren't invisible, so I could tell when that was.

No, I think I should be the Simple Son.  After all, I did flunk out of Hebrew School over a test on the Ten Plagues.  I knew I shouldn't have counted Adam Sandler movies as six of them.

But the Son who doesn't know a damn thing?  That's easy.  I could cast half of Washington in that role.

Or all of Hollywood." 

Not a Member of the Tribe?

Elijah the Prophet --- Biblical Figure said to attend every Seder everywhere. We leave a glass of wine out for him when he makes his gala but invisible entrance.  And somehow it always seems to get drained!

Four Questions --- youngest child asks these questions at the Seder.  Adults who haven't been to synagogue in over 35 years  fumble for the answers. 

Four Sons ---  If you answered Tim Considine, Don Grady, Barry Livingstone, and Stanley Livingston (or Mike, Robby, Chip, and Ernie), you are clearly a Boomer and just as clearly not Jewish. 

Four Glasses of Wine --- Why did you think this holiday was popular anyway? 

Sunday, March 18, 2012


Welcome to our world, Perry! 

Not so long ago, the local Super Fresh Market began providing discounts on Tuesdays to a particular class of shoppers.  You know who.

It is that class of shoppers commonly referred to by a particular word that I virulently despise and in fact eschew. But considering the discount, if the eschew fits, I decided to wear it.  So I screwed up my courage, swallowed my pride,  decided not to come up with a third sexually based metaphor, and went food shopping.

That is, food shopping on Tuesday at Super Fresh, to avail myself of The Discount-That-Must-Not-Be-Named.

When I arrived, Super Fresh was already awash in polyester, plaid, and a profusion of  gray and blue hair such as if a massive ballpoint pen had exploded in the skies over London.   Everywhere I looked were members of the Greatest and slightly post Greatest Generation.

So naturally I began humming Sugar Magnolia by the Grateful Dead.  You see, there’s nothing like humming 40 year old rock music to prove conclusively to one and all in a Super Fresh that:


I steered my carriage carefully through the Super Fresh aisles, checking prices,  picking out the products I needed, and gradually shifting over into the Rolling Stones.  In Aisle 8, I paused to ask a youngish store employee some directions.

“Gherkins?  That’s Aisle 14, sir,” he said.

“Thank you very much,” I replied.

“And they’re on sale too," he added.  "That plus the Extra Discount for being a Sen…

“For being a what?!!!”  I wheeled about, cutting him off.  

“Sorry, sir,  what I meant was …”

I didn't stay to listen.  I hustled myself and rickety cart out of range fast as I could. Did he not hear what I was humming?  Maybe I needed not to hum, but to actually sing the lyrics? 

“… but if you try some time, you just might find, you just might find ….”

Well, what I just might find was myself next in Aisle 14, looking for the gherkins.  But up ahead coming down the aisle in the opposite direction was a leathery looking gent whose posture was such it practically bade you stick a saddle on him and ride him to the nearest glue factory.

I looked away.  I sang louder.   It didn’t matter.

“Hello, friend, ” he greeted me  cheerily.  “Didja know you get an extra 5% off here at Super Fresh?"

Oh no!  Did he view me as a new recruit?  Did he mean to be taking me under his wing? 

"You see," he went on, "you take this coupon they put in the newspaper ..."

What was he planning to do next --- baptize me into the ways of the Nouveau Old, Formerly Cute?

" ... and you hand it in when you check out your groceries.  See, it says right here 'Discount for Seni ...."

I did me some wheelies and ran to the checkout counter fast as my wobbly cart would take me!  Now I sang the lyrics almost as if I were in concert.

"Drivin' that train, high on cocaine, Casey Jones…"

The checkout guy, about 25,  eyed me suspiciously as he began to total up my items. 

"That's $87. 58, sir," he said.

“Did you already give me The … umm …  Discount-That-Must-Not-Be-Named?”

“The what?   Oh, sure, don’t worry, sir.  I put the Senior Citizen Discount right in.”

He said it.  He had  said it.   It hurt bad.

“Don’t you want to ask me something?" I said to him.  "Verify something?  Assure yourself of something?”

"No, you’re good, sir." 

“But shouldn't you card me?  Make sure I’m the right age to get The- Discount-That-Must- Not-Be-Named?"

"That's hardly necessary, sir."

"Card me, you fool!!   Please card me!!!”

Now I was no longer singing Casey Jones.  Nor was I singing You Can't Always Get What You Want, Sugar Magnolia,  or anything by the Grateful Dead, Rolling Stones, or any other rock group at all. 

 I was singing:

“Strangers in the night, exchanging glances, wondering in the night …"

The Discount-That-Must-Not-Be-Named had won. 


Saturday, March 17, 2012

A Leprechaun Leap Year

  Unsure and Begorrah! 

May I have ye're attention please? 

(Members of me staff, kindly complete your last jig and take ye're seats ...) 

Top of the Mornin' to Ye!   My name is Mulford O'MunchkinPresident and Chief Executive Officer of Imps, Scamps, and Leprechauns International Inc.  We are the spritely folk who visit human beings 'round the world each and every St. Patrick's Day, bringing  mirth, merriment, and just the right dash of silly. 

Tee, hee, hee, hee, hee!

But not this year.

It is me sad duty to inform the people of the USA that we will make no personal appearances in ye're country in 2012,  not even on behalf of Lucky Charms.  And they pay us a damn good buck to hawk that sugary crap that makes ye're kids obese and gives ye diabetes! 

You see, we make our living making silly.  We throw books about when no one's around, to the delight of children.  We pull the cat's tail, to the delight of the dog.   And we yank chairs out from under people's big fat arses, to the delight of the person they're married to!

La, la, la, tee, hee, hee!

But this year, you Americans have outdone us in silly!   

*leaps in the air and clicks heels*

Ye have devised a political process for electing presidents that is so silly it makes tossing books about look like a graduate level course in William Butler Yeats
It is so silly it makes pulling chairs out from under people's big fat arses seem like bein' so smart ye can actually locate and understand the dirty parts in James Joyce's "Ulysses!"

What if we came to ye're country and one of ye managed to catch one of us,  and we had to grant ye a wish?  What are ye gonna wish for?  

Dumber candidates?  

Ye've already got a guy running who doesn't believe in Evolution. What would ye like next, some idiot who believes in leprechauns? Then you've got a guy whom nobody likes or trusts, puts his foot in his mouth every time he opens it, and changes his positions faster than I can yank a chair out from under Melissa McCarthy's big fat arse ....  and he's the front-runner! 

That goes beyond silly, me friends!   That's friggin' nuts,  pardon me Gaelic!   

So you see, ye Americans simply wouldn't find our brand of silly all that silly anymore 

*dances a little jig!* 

Oh, one more thing:  Ye're silly process is a  dire threat to the security of the entire planet.  Should ye fail to thoroughly fix its big fat arse by St. Paddy's Day next, ye'll leave us no choice but to ...

Obliterate every man, woman, and child in ye're country and reduce the United States of America to a smoking burnt-out ruin!!! 

Gort Barada Nikto.  Sure and Begorrah! 
Tee, hee, hee, hee! 

Happy St. Patrick's Day, Everybody!

Now I wanna tickle each and every one of ye!  

*tickles each and every one of us*


Thursday, March 15, 2012

The New Dick Van Dyke Show

[News Item: Famed Actor Dick Van Dyke Weds Woman 46 Years His Junior


Dick Van Dyke

Rose Marie II

Morey Amsterdam Jr.

Jacob Ezekial Matthews


Arlene "Tyler" Silver

As the show begins and the opening credits roll, Dick Van Dyke as Rob Petrie opens the door to his comfortable suburban home in New Rochelle, New York.   He goes to kiss his wife and greet his son, then sees that he has company --- Buddy Purel and Sally Dodgers, his two co-writers on The Alan Brady's Intestate Heir's Show.

"Buddy!  Sally!  How'd you get here before me?   I left the office way before you did."

"We drive more than 12 miles per hour, Rob."

"Right, Sal! And we don't stop to feed birds along the way either."

"Well, great to see ya!  I'm coming right over to say hello."

"Be careful, Rob!  Honey, be careful!  Please be ... no, no, no, watch out for the ...!!!" 

"Ottoman.  Right, Sal?"

"Right, Buddy."

"OWWWW!!!  OHHHHH!  MY ANKLE!!!  I think I broke it!" 

"Good thing I have the Emergency Room on speed dial."

"This happen a lot, Arlene?"

"Every single night, Buddy.  Last week he had to have an emergency hip replacement. Tuesday, both kneecaps. "

"Well, think I'll try to scare up a date with Herman Glimscher's nephew.  See ya,  guys."

"Wait up, Sal.  I think I hear my wife Pickles III callin' me!"

"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry!  I was hoping we'd actually make it through an entire night so we could ...."

"That's okay, Rob.  I'm young.  I can wait."


And congratulations to you, Dick Van Dyke!

You make us geezers proud.

Monday, March 12, 2012

The New Negative

George Pristine wants your vote for State Senator from the 11th District of our state. 

But what has George Pristine done to earn your vote?

Documented Fact:  Eight years ago, when George Pristine ran for County Commissioner, he called his opponent, Bill Flipper, a fine man and effective County Treasurer.  George Pristine said the County would be well served if they chose to elect either Flipper or himself as Commissioner.

Documented Fact:  Four years ago, when George Pristine ran for state legislature, he called his opponent, Haley Bailey, a hard-working and principled member of state government and said the only difference between Bailey and himself was their views on certain technical issues of state governance.  

The verdict is in --- George Pristine refuses to engage in below the belt, mud-slinging, negative advertising!  

The kind of advertising you want.

The kind of advertising you deserve!

Now George Pristine even refuses to attack Frank Sleazy, his opponent for State Senator in the 11th District.

And Frank Sleazy is a convicted embezzler, tax cheat, and alcoholic whose only desire in being elected is to use the trappings of office to nail as many babes as possible and to park his state-funded vehicle wherever in the hell he damn well pleases!

But what does George Pristine have to say about Frank Sleazy? 

In the March 4 issue of the Daily Blister,  George Pristine called Mr. Sleazy an informed and articulate  spokesperson for the opposing party whom he looked forward to meeting in a free, fair, and open debate on the issues.   

Informed and articulate? About the only thing Mr. Sleazy is informed and articulate about is where to score  the cheapest price on Jack Daniels!   C'mon, Mr. Pristine, pick up a mudpie and throw it, willya? 

George Pristine --- he won't play the game!

Frank Sleazy  --- he'll lie, distort, cheat, mislead, and slander. 

And you love it!

Vote  Frank  Sleazy for State Senator!

"I'm Frank Sleazy and I approve this message. 

I also approve any other message which explains that my opponent George Pristine is a womanizing, drug-dealing, Communist scumbag who will come in the night for your wives, daughters, husbands, sons, and pets! 

Oh yeah, he's also a Muslim like his personal hero and fellow traveler Barack Hussein Obama-Rama! 

Say, wanna have a  drink?"