Wednesday, January 10, 2007

What I would like President Bush to say tonight has an interesting post here, an ideal speech from President Bush. Well, here's what Dinosaur Cowboy is hoping for:

Friends, Romans, countrymen. Lend me your ears. We come to bury Saddam, not to praise him. And yet, at this juncture -- my father, George H.W. Bush, avenged and my nation safe from WMDs (pronounced "wumds," starting a new meme) -- I must share my personal sadness. Saddam and I were not simply enemies, members of the same worldwide ruling elite. We shared passions (oil, for one) and beliefs, hobbies (war) and tastes (coke). And we shared something else, something powerful enough to move mountains, yet too personal to be revealed. America, we shared love.

Saddam and I were lovers.

We met in the summer of 1968, a dark time. With the passion of the '60s fading, America was just beginning to taste the hopeful politics of Ronald Reagan on its supple national lips (the California coast). I was a young pilot, cocky and brash, like that Tom Cruise fella in Top Gun. Just like that Tom Cruise fella. Stationed in Texas, I ingested any drug or bodily fluid that would help me forget my dangerous duties in the Air National Guard. Saddam had escaped prison only a year earlier, and had just aided a Baathist coups in Iraq. He needed to blow off some steam.

So he came to Houston. And it was there, in the picnic area behind a McDonald's on the outskirts of the city, that we met. He was clean-shaven then, smooth. I had longer hair, a healthier skin tone. We were young and reckless. It was love at first sight, America. I saw him guzzling Budweiser from a paper bag, chewing on a Big Mac alone. His Iraqi friends had left him high and dry, choosing the BJs of cheap Texan whores over a midnight snack and the company of pals. So I went over to him and placed my big, pilot's palm on his shoulder. We were both electrified, and we copulated behind a dumpster, among discarded Sausage McMuffins.

That week was the longest time we ever spent alone. The sex was miraculous; the kissing better. It meant more, because it was clean, and so was our love. But Saddam yearned for some Kurd-slaughterin', and my National Guard lieutenant had nearly tracked me down. We parted.

Over the years, we corresponded. We followed each other's careers. Sometimes we could spend a night together, if we visited the same city. But as our profiles rose, as he ascended to the Iraqi presidency and I destroyed company after company, security details prevented intimacy. Saddam grew cold, jealous of Laura. When my father became president, Saddam saw his opportunity.

He invaded Kuwait, knowing full well that it would bring war upon his country. He did it out of anger, but it was fueled by his passionate love for me. I will always respect that. He lost, but Daddy was magnanimous. Saddam stayed in power.

Throughout the 90s, he built elaborate love-nests, underground tunnel systems stocked with zoos and parks and teddy bears and really comfy blankets. These were for me. But I was too proud, too cocky, still so brash. And I had a family. So I supported the rumor that they were facilities built to manufacture WMDs (again, "wumds").

Then I became president. Fearful that he might reveal our sordid past, I used the attacks of Sept. 11 as a pretense to eliminate his regime.

In his last days, Saddam grew desperate. He Americanized his style, growing a trendy salt-and-pepper beard that he knew I would like. But I could not be swayed, not with facial hair or money; love-nests or elaborately produced, personalized Iraqi musical pornos.

Now Saddam is dead. And I am alone.

America, I have learned what it means to have love, then lose it. I am in mourning, and I do not believe I can carry on in my capacity as your President. Forgive me.

May God bless us all.


We can wish, right?

Apple iTurd

This new iPhone thing is all the rage. But I don't care. Like, I'm focusing on the iTurd.

It is ironic to me that the very people who criticize Microsoft for holding a monopoly on the market would by a piece of crap from Apple (who makes the hardware AND software for their computers) as long as it carried the ‘i’ in front of the name. Introducing the iTurd. If Steve Jobs himself called and told me he was sending me an iPhone, I would politely decline. Or at least ask him how Woz was and then decline.

Steve Jobs had better learn something, and he'd better learn it fast: I don't want to listen to music while I'm on the phone. That's why I'm on the phone.

To be honest, I don't know much about technology. I'm not even sure what the iPhone is. All I do know in this cold, harsh world is that the word "iTurd" is pretty funny.

Playgrounds and serial killers don't mix.

Park City, Kansas is going to build a playground on the site of Dennis Rader's former home (he lives in jail now because he killed 10 people).

The house will be demolished before spring and turned into an entryway to Jardine Memorial Park, a small park with swings and a basketball court, Stuart said.

Everybody knows you don't build playgrounds on serial killer dirt. That's like building a subdevelopment on an Indian burial ground. But I'm guessing that no kid will visit Bind, Torture, Kill Memorial Park, anyways. First, it's small, apparently, with only swings and a basketball court. Basketball is for losers, and if a park ain't got no tire swing, it ain't no park at all, as James Brown, the late Godfather of Soul, once said. More importantly, kids are spooked by fucking squirrels. At least I was. But only because I thought they were all rabid. No self-respecting kid is going to risk the ghost of BTK for a swingset.

I used to play in a wooden park. It had turrets and tunnels and swinging bridges. A tire swing, too. But the coolest part about this park was a patch of bushes behind it. There were well-worn footpaths through the low bushes, and kids used to play tag and hide-and-seek inside. It was a kiddy-sized forest.

Then someone told me that crack dealers liked to lurk inside, waiting for children. I never went back. If I thought a ghost was waiting to bind, torture, and kill, I wouldn't go within a mile of the park, nevermind actually enter it.

Tuesday, January 9, 2007

Don't eat acorns.

Yesterday I was flipping through The Pocket Dictionary, edited by W.J. Pelo. My copy was printed in July 1943. It's a mess. The vibrant, red and black cover is wrinkled; tears obscure the 40s-style lettering. But my grandfather gave it to me that way. (That's probably a lie. I don't remember.)

Mr. Pelo's pocket dictionary -- which does not fit in my pocket, if you were considering purchasing a copy -- defines acorn as "the fruit of the oak."

Fruit, huh? Well, Pelo, I used to eat acorns, and let me tell you something: They ain't sweet. Hey, wait, didn't you play soccer, Pelo? What the fuck are you doing writing dictionaries?

I ate acorns because a book told me to. In elementary school, people were always saying, "Don't believe everything you see on TV." So I didn't believe everything I saw on TV. Instead, I believed everything they told me, and I believed books.

The book that got me hooked on acorns was My Side of the Mountain, I think. In it, some city brat flees his crass sailor dad, burns the heart of a tree, and lives in its blackened skeleton. He traps and mutilates small animals. And he makes acorn pancakes.

Now, I like pancakes. I especially like hotcakes from McDonald's, although I don't know what makes them hotcakes and not pancakes, because usually both are served hot. And I assume both are made in a pan, although McDonald's hotcakes might be submerged in those water-filled drawers they broil hamburgers in. I don't wake up early enough to find out.

So, having read that you can make pancakes from acorns, and believing everything I read in books, I strolled into my backyard and collected the noble fruit of the oak. I probably starved a few chipmunks in the process, but that comes with the My Side of the Mountain territory.

I laid one acorn on a rock, then sat down with my legs curled under me, like a girl. I'm willing to bet that my maroon nylon pants swished loudly when I got into that position, and my glasses, with lenses about an inch in diameter, probably slid down the bridge of my nose. As you can probably tell, I was a loser.

I picked up another rock, hoisted it high above my head, and smashed that motherfuckin' fruit real good. What's up now, Pelo? Then I put the acorn's shiny white innards in my mouth and nibbled with my nerdy teeth.

Bitter. Very bitter.

Nunny New Jersey

Yesterday birds fell from the sky in Texas and New York City reeked of gas. New York's problem was explained easily enough, but only after city officials pulled several erroneous excuses out of their asses (employees on the 30th story of a Midtown office building can't smell a Greenwich Village gas leak, guys). New York has a dirty neighbor: New Jersey. Sometimes Jersey gets a little stinky. Stinky enough to stop train service.

This story reminded me of another tale, one that involves my only living relative in N.J.: Aunt Susan (name changed to protect the seat I reserved in Heaven, just in case). Aunt Susan is a nun. As a child, she was so desperate to become a nun that she ran away from home at age 14. Most kids dream of running to the circus. My relative dreamed of running to perpetual boredom and depression. Mature for age 14, don't you think?

Aunt Susan is girthy, with a taste for scotch and a voice like a cat in heat. Her cheeks look like rotting marshmallow and she's never seen without her blue habit, but her strength is something fierce when she wants to smash a wet kiss into the middle of your forehead. Imagine two alcoholic cats, both female and horny, eaten alive by a fat Muslim woman, but undigested. They're always screeching and farting booze-stench into her esophagus. Oh, and she wears a full chador. That's my Aunt Susan, except Catholic instead of Muslim (and possibly some other minor differences).

Aunt Susan was the principal of a Catholic school in New Jersey. This had its perks when I was a kid. Like the three wise men of her hokey mythology, she would visit bearing gifts -- instead of gold, myrrh, and frankencense, she brought number two pencils, Swingline staplers, and math workbooks. A movie once, too, something Christian called McGee & Me that taught me everything I know about lying.

You're probably wondering why New Jersey's smelliness reminded me of Aunt Susan. It goes deeper than her home state. Once, at a crowded family gathering, God forgot about Aunt Susan. The Almighty left her trapped on the toilet. She could not raise her cratered butt cheeks from the smooth white porcelain.

Most old people know enough to yell, "Help! I've fallen and I can't get up!" A C. Everett Koop commercial taught that trick long ago. But Aunt Susan couldn't yell that, because she hadn't fallen -- she was sitting. And Catholics, like their 1st Imam, George Washington, cannot tell lies.

But Aunt Susan, through grunts and groans and hot, moaning cats, made her predicament known to all bystanders. Unfortunately, Nunny McNun had locked the door -- yeah, everyone wants to snag a peek, babe -- and the rescue team's efforts were blocked.

Eventually, my uncle was able to unlock the door using a clothes hanger. He did this on the condition that he wouldn't be asked to perform the extraction himself. He wasn't. A pal who Aunt Susan brought from New Jersey was able to lift her from the throne, and the day was saved.

In my family history, this event was recorded as Nunflush, and has spawned several screen adaptations and fictional sequels.