Quentin R. Bufogle's Blog, page 15
June 5, 2010
THE ONE ABOUT THE GIRL, THE SAUSAGE & BUKOWSKI
They met each week in the backroom of a dingy writer's bar called "The Blank Page." A ragtag group of aspiring, would-be authors: postal workers, fry cooks, receptionists, insurance salesmen -- all eager for a shot at the literary brass ring. They were supposed to discuss the art of prose -- technique and all that. Tho most nights they just sat around pissing and moaning about how really bad all the stuff on the Times' Best Seller list was -- and how none of them could find an agent. Occasionally someone got up and gave a reading of their work -- but usually it was god awful and no one paid any attention.
The whole scene was pretty depressing, but it gave 'em all a chance to escape the keyboard a couple hours a week. Chavez caught his eye, so he ambled on over and gave him a high-five.
"How they hangin' bro?"
"They're hangin' right where you left 'em."
Chavez gave him a friendly jab in the gut and smiled big -- the neon Corona sign reflecting off his gold tooth. Chavez was one of the few people in the group he could stomach: a pretty good writer who'd completed a collection of short stories, "Mundo Gringo," while serving a bit in prison for carving up some guy with a weed whacker. Another was Brigette La' Marsh: a twenty-two year old poet with curly, strawberry blond hair that spilled down her back like the froth from a ginger ale float -- smoldering green eyes, and a body that Quakers would declare war over.
He ordered up a round and they bullshitted about writing for a while. He'd been working on a gothic-lesbian-vampire novel in the style of Charles Bukowski -- clean; sharp. The kinda prose that went down smooth as a banana daiquiri on a hot, August afternoon. Chavez was giving him an earful about some minimalist, bizarro, techno sci-fi he was reading, when something caught his attention. Over in the corner, Brigette was engrossed in a game of pinball. Sweet Jesus in Heaven! She was wearing a halter top with no bra, and a pair of hip-huggers slung so low, the cleft of her buttocks was visible each time she leaned forward to put some english on the ball. It was enough to give a fossilized caveman wood.
Chavez hooked an arm around his neck, "Look boss, there's somethin' I need to tell you about Brigette . . ."
Chavez hesitated, It wasn't gonna be good.
"I heard that puto Larry talkin' to some a the guys . . ."
"Yeah? . . ."
Chavez took a hit off his beer, "Larry say last week he take Brigette to a poetry reading in Greenwich Village --"
"Who was reading?"
"Ferlinghetti -- I think."
He made a face, "Go on . . ."
"Larry say that later they go back to his place and get drunk -- then he have sex with her."
His stomach suddenly felt as if he'd swallowed a mixture of Draino and antifreeze; then chased it down with some embalming fluid and ground glass.
"I don't believe it . . . NOT Larry!"
Chavez nodded, "I hear him tell Moose how he make her holler all sorta derogatory shit about Hemingway -- how he was a closet queen and had no appreciation for lyricism."
"BASTARD!"
Chavez finished his beer and went back to the bar to order another round. While he waited, Moose stumbled over and tried to bum a cigarette.
"Jesus Christ Moose! How many times do I have to tell ya? I quit smoking six years ago!"
Moose just stood there staring at him. Barely 7 pm and already stewed to the gills. His eyeballs looked like two fried bungholes.
Chavez was back with a pitcher of beer, "Hey Moose. How's your book baby?"
"Almost there cuz . . . Almossst there!"
Eight years ago Moose quit his job at the post office. He moved into his parents' garage and was working on a sci-fi novel in which Mickey Rourke and Ann Coulter were the sole survivors of a nuclear holocaust. He'd written nearly half a million words and still couldn't put an end to it. It was hopeless.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was little Frankie. A couple weeks ago, Moose and Frankie had gotten into a violent argument about the poet Delmore Schwartz. They hadn't spoken since.
"Just wanna let you guys know my wife cooked a big pan of sausage & peppers for the meetin' t'night," Frankie said, squinting up through his bifocals, "I'm askin' everyone ta kick in a buck ta cover the expense."
He and Chavez each antied up a buck. Frankie stashed the bills in his pocket. He stood there staring at Moose.
"Well? . . ."
"Well what?"
"Aren't you gonna chip in for the food?"
"Why should I?"
"'Cause my wife cooked it!"
"I didn't ask 'er to."
Frankie stormed off muttering something underneath his breath.
"I think you hurt his feelings, Moose."
Moose belched loudly and scratched his beer gut. It stuck out of his frayed "Impeach Clinton" T-shirt, and hung over the belt of his khakis like a blob of pizza dough given too much yeast. Moose wore it like a badge of honor. A man hadda suck down some major suds to own a beer gut like that.
Then it was time to start the meeting. Larry, who'd appointed himself moderator, said a few words about the biography of Shecky Green he was working on; then Brigette got up and read one of her poems. Along with being a strict Vegan, Brigette was a staunch supporter of PETA, and the poem was some purple upchuck about murdered baby seals playing with Jesus in Heaven. It was just awful, but her nipples showed through the material of her halter, so no one complained. Brigette finished and everyone applauded. Sylvia Plath she wasn't, but with a rack like that, who cared?
Frankie set up a chafing dish with a sterno for the sausage & peppers so everyone could help themselves -- everyone except Moose, who said he'd rather eat the ass out of a dead bear. Larry, who'd helped himself to a generous portion, noticed him talking with Moose and Chavez.
"Hey Hank! How's that book comin'?" Larry asked, chewing on a mouthful of sausage & peppers.
Larry always referred to him as "Hank" -- it was Bukowski's nickname, and a snipe at his well-known regard for the author.
"Like a porn star on 'X'. How 'bout the Shecky Green book? Moose tells me it's the definitive work on the subject."
Moose and Chavez laughed at a red faced Larry, who seemed slighly agitated by the remark.
"You guys can laugh if you wanna, but Shecky was brilliant -- he used humor as a means of social commentary! Do you know he once put a whooppee cushion on Yasser Arafat's chair at a Weight Watchers meeting?"
"Really?"
Larry was chewing like a pit bull.
"Norman Mailer once called him a genius!"
"Norman Mailer once called his barber a genius."
Moose asked for a cigarette; Chavez gave him a high-five. Larry's face was purple. He'd accidentally swallowed an entire length of sausage and was gasping for air. Served the sonofabitch right.
"He looks pretty bad, Moose. Maybe you should help him out."
Moose got Larry in a bear hug, jammed a balled-up fist into his solar plexus, and applied the Heimlich Maneuver. It took a few attempts, but Larry finally expelled the sausage like a projectile: It landed in a scorpion bowl shared by a gay couple seated across the room.
Moose let go and Larry slumped to the floor; drooling like a cretin.
"Larry, you promised! No more meat! How could you?"
It was Brigette. She loomed over Larry like an enraged lioness. God, she was beautiful when she was pissed!
"But . . . It was only a sausage!" Larry said, pathetically.
Storming over to the bar, Brigette asked the bartender to call a cab.
Chavez nudged him with an elbow, "Go for it boss."
Twelve feet of scuffed, vintage barroom floor seperated them. He would've swam an ocean wrapped in chains if necessary.
"No need for that. I'll be glad to give you a lift, Brige."
She looked at him and smiled, "Really -- you wouldn't mind?"
"Not at all. Matter of fact, we can stop at The Krazy Karrot for a veggie burger if you'd like . . . I'd love to discuss that poem you read tonight."
Outside a big, yellow moon lit the sky above the elevated train tracks. The sound of two alley cats screwing behind a garbage pail out back of the bar could be heard. As they headed for his car, Brigette took hold of his arm. Hell. Sometimes you just got lucky.Horse LatitudesHorse Latitudes
The whole scene was pretty depressing, but it gave 'em all a chance to escape the keyboard a couple hours a week. Chavez caught his eye, so he ambled on over and gave him a high-five.
"How they hangin' bro?"
"They're hangin' right where you left 'em."
Chavez gave him a friendly jab in the gut and smiled big -- the neon Corona sign reflecting off his gold tooth. Chavez was one of the few people in the group he could stomach: a pretty good writer who'd completed a collection of short stories, "Mundo Gringo," while serving a bit in prison for carving up some guy with a weed whacker. Another was Brigette La' Marsh: a twenty-two year old poet with curly, strawberry blond hair that spilled down her back like the froth from a ginger ale float -- smoldering green eyes, and a body that Quakers would declare war over.
He ordered up a round and they bullshitted about writing for a while. He'd been working on a gothic-lesbian-vampire novel in the style of Charles Bukowski -- clean; sharp. The kinda prose that went down smooth as a banana daiquiri on a hot, August afternoon. Chavez was giving him an earful about some minimalist, bizarro, techno sci-fi he was reading, when something caught his attention. Over in the corner, Brigette was engrossed in a game of pinball. Sweet Jesus in Heaven! She was wearing a halter top with no bra, and a pair of hip-huggers slung so low, the cleft of her buttocks was visible each time she leaned forward to put some english on the ball. It was enough to give a fossilized caveman wood.
Chavez hooked an arm around his neck, "Look boss, there's somethin' I need to tell you about Brigette . . ."
Chavez hesitated, It wasn't gonna be good.
"I heard that puto Larry talkin' to some a the guys . . ."
"Yeah? . . ."
Chavez took a hit off his beer, "Larry say last week he take Brigette to a poetry reading in Greenwich Village --"
"Who was reading?"
"Ferlinghetti -- I think."
He made a face, "Go on . . ."
"Larry say that later they go back to his place and get drunk -- then he have sex with her."
His stomach suddenly felt as if he'd swallowed a mixture of Draino and antifreeze; then chased it down with some embalming fluid and ground glass.
"I don't believe it . . . NOT Larry!"
Chavez nodded, "I hear him tell Moose how he make her holler all sorta derogatory shit about Hemingway -- how he was a closet queen and had no appreciation for lyricism."
"BASTARD!"
Chavez finished his beer and went back to the bar to order another round. While he waited, Moose stumbled over and tried to bum a cigarette.
"Jesus Christ Moose! How many times do I have to tell ya? I quit smoking six years ago!"
Moose just stood there staring at him. Barely 7 pm and already stewed to the gills. His eyeballs looked like two fried bungholes.
Chavez was back with a pitcher of beer, "Hey Moose. How's your book baby?"
"Almost there cuz . . . Almossst there!"
Eight years ago Moose quit his job at the post office. He moved into his parents' garage and was working on a sci-fi novel in which Mickey Rourke and Ann Coulter were the sole survivors of a nuclear holocaust. He'd written nearly half a million words and still couldn't put an end to it. It was hopeless.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was little Frankie. A couple weeks ago, Moose and Frankie had gotten into a violent argument about the poet Delmore Schwartz. They hadn't spoken since.
"Just wanna let you guys know my wife cooked a big pan of sausage & peppers for the meetin' t'night," Frankie said, squinting up through his bifocals, "I'm askin' everyone ta kick in a buck ta cover the expense."
He and Chavez each antied up a buck. Frankie stashed the bills in his pocket. He stood there staring at Moose.
"Well? . . ."
"Well what?"
"Aren't you gonna chip in for the food?"
"Why should I?"
"'Cause my wife cooked it!"
"I didn't ask 'er to."
Frankie stormed off muttering something underneath his breath.
"I think you hurt his feelings, Moose."
Moose belched loudly and scratched his beer gut. It stuck out of his frayed "Impeach Clinton" T-shirt, and hung over the belt of his khakis like a blob of pizza dough given too much yeast. Moose wore it like a badge of honor. A man hadda suck down some major suds to own a beer gut like that.
Then it was time to start the meeting. Larry, who'd appointed himself moderator, said a few words about the biography of Shecky Green he was working on; then Brigette got up and read one of her poems. Along with being a strict Vegan, Brigette was a staunch supporter of PETA, and the poem was some purple upchuck about murdered baby seals playing with Jesus in Heaven. It was just awful, but her nipples showed through the material of her halter, so no one complained. Brigette finished and everyone applauded. Sylvia Plath she wasn't, but with a rack like that, who cared?
Frankie set up a chafing dish with a sterno for the sausage & peppers so everyone could help themselves -- everyone except Moose, who said he'd rather eat the ass out of a dead bear. Larry, who'd helped himself to a generous portion, noticed him talking with Moose and Chavez.
"Hey Hank! How's that book comin'?" Larry asked, chewing on a mouthful of sausage & peppers.
Larry always referred to him as "Hank" -- it was Bukowski's nickname, and a snipe at his well-known regard for the author.
"Like a porn star on 'X'. How 'bout the Shecky Green book? Moose tells me it's the definitive work on the subject."
Moose and Chavez laughed at a red faced Larry, who seemed slighly agitated by the remark.
"You guys can laugh if you wanna, but Shecky was brilliant -- he used humor as a means of social commentary! Do you know he once put a whooppee cushion on Yasser Arafat's chair at a Weight Watchers meeting?"
"Really?"
Larry was chewing like a pit bull.
"Norman Mailer once called him a genius!"
"Norman Mailer once called his barber a genius."
Moose asked for a cigarette; Chavez gave him a high-five. Larry's face was purple. He'd accidentally swallowed an entire length of sausage and was gasping for air. Served the sonofabitch right.
"He looks pretty bad, Moose. Maybe you should help him out."
Moose got Larry in a bear hug, jammed a balled-up fist into his solar plexus, and applied the Heimlich Maneuver. It took a few attempts, but Larry finally expelled the sausage like a projectile: It landed in a scorpion bowl shared by a gay couple seated across the room.
Moose let go and Larry slumped to the floor; drooling like a cretin.
"Larry, you promised! No more meat! How could you?"
It was Brigette. She loomed over Larry like an enraged lioness. God, she was beautiful when she was pissed!
"But . . . It was only a sausage!" Larry said, pathetically.
Storming over to the bar, Brigette asked the bartender to call a cab.
Chavez nudged him with an elbow, "Go for it boss."
Twelve feet of scuffed, vintage barroom floor seperated them. He would've swam an ocean wrapped in chains if necessary.
"No need for that. I'll be glad to give you a lift, Brige."
She looked at him and smiled, "Really -- you wouldn't mind?"
"Not at all. Matter of fact, we can stop at The Krazy Karrot for a veggie burger if you'd like . . . I'd love to discuss that poem you read tonight."
Outside a big, yellow moon lit the sky above the elevated train tracks. The sound of two alley cats screwing behind a garbage pail out back of the bar could be heard. As they headed for his car, Brigette took hold of his arm. Hell. Sometimes you just got lucky.Horse LatitudesHorse Latitudes
May 28, 2010
TERROR FROM ACROSS THE POND: LET'S DECLARE WAR ON BP!
I'm an angry man. I go to bed angry and wake up angry. I'm angry when things go my way; angrier still when they don't. But nothing has ever set my blood to boilin' like watching former oil exec John Hofmeister spew his own brand of high-grade corporate BS on Larry King's show earlier this week. Mr. Hofmeister, a former president of Shell Oil, and author of "Why We Hate the Oil Companies" -- (LOL!) had the unmitigated gall to tell Larry (and an absolutely apoplectic James Carville) that we shouldn't be focusing on one li'l ol' well that leaked; (even if it turned the entire Gulf into toxic soup) but rather on the 35,000 that didn't!
Now, I've heard of having brass cojones, but Mr. Hofmeister must be able to play "When the Saints Go Marching in" with his set. I'd like to echo Mr. Carville's response: "Did I hear you right???" Well Mr. Hofmeister, you do have a point. One ecological cataclysm in 35,000 starts certainly ain't a bad record. Not if you're playing the percentages. (Along with human life, the local economy, and an entire ecosystem.) Hey, it's a perfectly legitimate point: Provided of course you're a greedy, souless, mealymouthed corporate bloodsucker who talks out of his sphincter. Ok Mr. Hofmeister, lemme see if I get your logic: Let's say I commit a murder. I could go before the court and make the case that while there are some seven billion people on the planet, I only took the life of one! One out of seven billion!!! Pretty good record -- wouldn't ya say?? Hell, maybe I could even argue that rather than locking me away for life, the court should actually present me with a plaque for being such a conscientious citizen! Don't you agree Mr. Hofmeister? Course you might feel differently if that one person murdered happened to be your wife, or child, or best friend. Then you might see things in a different light -- might see the actual human tragedy, rather than percentages. But hey! Why split hairs?
You're a filthy pig Hofmeister. You and all your big oil corporate cronies: Your corrupt, tea-drinking counterparts at BP, and the scumbags at the MMS who accepted their "gifts" to look the other way when safety measures that would've prevented the current disaster weren't implemented. 9/11 pales in comparison to the damage you and your ilk have inflicted upon the American people. You are the real terrorists. It's not Radical Islam or creeping socialism we truly need to fear: It's big corporations that are destroying this country; polluting the planet, poisoning our children, and decimating the working class. Bernie Madoff got 150 years for his crimes. You and your cronies should be locked away until your corpses turn to dust -- given prison sentences so long your disgraced great grandchildren will have to finish serving them out.
Ask not why we hate the oil companies Mr. Hofmeister. We hate 'em because of assholes like you!
Now, I've heard of having brass cojones, but Mr. Hofmeister must be able to play "When the Saints Go Marching in" with his set. I'd like to echo Mr. Carville's response: "Did I hear you right???" Well Mr. Hofmeister, you do have a point. One ecological cataclysm in 35,000 starts certainly ain't a bad record. Not if you're playing the percentages. (Along with human life, the local economy, and an entire ecosystem.) Hey, it's a perfectly legitimate point: Provided of course you're a greedy, souless, mealymouthed corporate bloodsucker who talks out of his sphincter. Ok Mr. Hofmeister, lemme see if I get your logic: Let's say I commit a murder. I could go before the court and make the case that while there are some seven billion people on the planet, I only took the life of one! One out of seven billion!!! Pretty good record -- wouldn't ya say?? Hell, maybe I could even argue that rather than locking me away for life, the court should actually present me with a plaque for being such a conscientious citizen! Don't you agree Mr. Hofmeister? Course you might feel differently if that one person murdered happened to be your wife, or child, or best friend. Then you might see things in a different light -- might see the actual human tragedy, rather than percentages. But hey! Why split hairs?
You're a filthy pig Hofmeister. You and all your big oil corporate cronies: Your corrupt, tea-drinking counterparts at BP, and the scumbags at the MMS who accepted their "gifts" to look the other way when safety measures that would've prevented the current disaster weren't implemented. 9/11 pales in comparison to the damage you and your ilk have inflicted upon the American people. You are the real terrorists. It's not Radical Islam or creeping socialism we truly need to fear: It's big corporations that are destroying this country; polluting the planet, poisoning our children, and decimating the working class. Bernie Madoff got 150 years for his crimes. You and your cronies should be locked away until your corpses turn to dust -- given prison sentences so long your disgraced great grandchildren will have to finish serving them out.
Ask not why we hate the oil companies Mr. Hofmeister. We hate 'em because of assholes like you!
May 7, 2010
LOVE & SQUALOR (A Belated R.I.P. for J.D. Salinger)
Well, Jerome. It's been months since your passing. Why this sudden twinge of grief? Truthfully, didn't think much of it at the time. If I felt your loss at all it was only in an oblique way: that with your passing (along with Mailer and Updike) a chapter in American literature had truly come to a close (forgive the trite expression). Quite a chapter it was! That whole post-war crew. You were by no means my favorite of the bunch: Irwin Shaw was a better storyteller; Updike more poetic; Mailer the heir to the throne of Hemingway; Kerouac a groundbreaking stylist -- and Cheever, that purveyor of Waspish, New England angst, the best pure writer of the lot.
No, Jerome. You were not the best in breed. Not in my opinion. I even lampooned you in my novel, "Horse Latitudes": you were 'Saul David Kaddish' -- the literary superstar who writes a blockbuster novel; then retires to a bomb shelter (note the metaphor) in Vermont, to spend his remaining years retyping recipes from a German cookbook. And that brings us to the crux of the matter: THAT book. That godamn book! You know the one I'm talking about. I'm not gonna mention it by name. The one that drove you into seclusion (and the royalties from which, allowed you to remain there). The one that's regrettably become a handbook for alienated misanthropes of every stripe. The one that's cast a spell upon virtually every aspiring writer at some point or another (Me too; I admit it!) -- in much the same way Wolfe's, "Look Homeward Angel," did for your generation. And, in much the same way too, so many of us seemed to outgrow.
So what is it then? Why these sudden pangs of remorse? Well, I'll tell ya: it was your magnificent indifference to it all! They laid the crown at your feet. All of 'em . . . the publishers; the critics; even that elitist tribe at 'The New Yorker' -- and you . . . YOU would have none of it! In a gesture as emblematic as Van Gogh cropping his ear; or Rimbaud renouncing poetry to run guns in Africa, you turned your back on all the "Phonies" -- went off to the wilds of New Hampshire to write words for your eyes alone; reminded us all that being a writer means more than simply being an "author." (Even a best-selling author!) There will never be another like you. And it is for this reason, Jerome, that you will always occupy a place in this writer's heart.
No, Jerome. You were not the best in breed. Not in my opinion. I even lampooned you in my novel, "Horse Latitudes": you were 'Saul David Kaddish' -- the literary superstar who writes a blockbuster novel; then retires to a bomb shelter (note the metaphor) in Vermont, to spend his remaining years retyping recipes from a German cookbook. And that brings us to the crux of the matter: THAT book. That godamn book! You know the one I'm talking about. I'm not gonna mention it by name. The one that drove you into seclusion (and the royalties from which, allowed you to remain there). The one that's regrettably become a handbook for alienated misanthropes of every stripe. The one that's cast a spell upon virtually every aspiring writer at some point or another (Me too; I admit it!) -- in much the same way Wolfe's, "Look Homeward Angel," did for your generation. And, in much the same way too, so many of us seemed to outgrow.
So what is it then? Why these sudden pangs of remorse? Well, I'll tell ya: it was your magnificent indifference to it all! They laid the crown at your feet. All of 'em . . . the publishers; the critics; even that elitist tribe at 'The New Yorker' -- and you . . . YOU would have none of it! In a gesture as emblematic as Van Gogh cropping his ear; or Rimbaud renouncing poetry to run guns in Africa, you turned your back on all the "Phonies" -- went off to the wilds of New Hampshire to write words for your eyes alone; reminded us all that being a writer means more than simply being an "author." (Even a best-selling author!) There will never be another like you. And it is for this reason, Jerome, that you will always occupy a place in this writer's heart.
April 23, 2010
TEA OR SYMPATHY?
Let me make one thing perfectly clear (to borrow a phrase from Dick Nixon) -- I have nothing against the Tea Party. Heck, if a buncha old coots wanna get together on a Saturday afternoon: take back their country; rant against big government and socialism; maybe burn a black man in effigy -- so be it. Afterall, they're old and it's good for 'em to get out of the house. But let's not be hypocritical here folks . . .
Don't like big government Grandpa?? Hey, tear up that Social Security check! (You'd think the word "social" would be reason enough?)
Not a socialist Granny?? Say thanks but no thanks Medicare -- I'll pay for my own medz and doctor visits!
Really guys, I know you're bored, and thanks to those frequent trips to the clinic on the government's dime, have plenty of time to look forward to -- but what's wrong with a friendly game of shuffleboard? Or knitting a sweater for the grandkid? Or how about building a gun rack for all those automatic weapons you bought on Ted Nugent's website? Why not leave overthrowing the government to big corporations who do it with bribes rather than bullets? Why not leave it to the professionals? It's much neater that way and no one gets hurt -- unless of course you happen to work for one of those big corporations . . . but don't even get me started . . .
Don't like big government Grandpa?? Hey, tear up that Social Security check! (You'd think the word "social" would be reason enough?)
Not a socialist Granny?? Say thanks but no thanks Medicare -- I'll pay for my own medz and doctor visits!
Really guys, I know you're bored, and thanks to those frequent trips to the clinic on the government's dime, have plenty of time to look forward to -- but what's wrong with a friendly game of shuffleboard? Or knitting a sweater for the grandkid? Or how about building a gun rack for all those automatic weapons you bought on Ted Nugent's website? Why not leave overthrowing the government to big corporations who do it with bribes rather than bullets? Why not leave it to the professionals? It's much neater that way and no one gets hurt -- unless of course you happen to work for one of those big corporations . . . but don't even get me started . . .
March 31, 2010
VEGAS REALITY SHOWS I'D LIKE TO SEE
ROMAN POLANSKI'S HOT TUB PARTY . . . The title says it all! Direct from the Palms hotel & casino, Polanski critiques some of Hollywood's most celebrated films, while sodomizing a drugged and unwilling underage girl. Get ready for some hot tag team action, when Polanski is joined by celebrity pals Jack Nicholson and Woody Allen -- and special "guest fluffer" Debra Winger. Hey, just keep telling yourself it's not "rape," rape. (Right Whoopi?)
LEAVE IT TO QADDAFI . . . What happens when a Middle East tyrant and religous fanatic decides to chuck it all and open a tattoo parlor in Sin City?? Hijinx ensue when Moammar "Daffy" Qaddafi hits the Las Vegas Strip like a suitcase nuke! Watch as he talks Lindsay Lohan into getting a "Death to the Infidels" tramp stamp; rides his camel through the Starbucks drive-up; and threatens to behead an insolent buffet server . . . and just wait til you meet those wacky newlywed neighbors! (Joy Behar and Kim Jong-il.)
PARANOID CONSPIRACY THEORIES WITH CHARLIE SHEEN . . . Each week a drug-addled Charlie Sheen gives a sixty minute rant about a nonexistent conspiracy while snorting cocaine off a stripper's ass. Forget about who really knocked down the Twin Towers Charlie. We'd like to know why you still have a frigging career?
MY AMIGO GEORGE! . . . "Muchas Gracias!" Is what you'll say, when President George Bush gives some lucky, undocumented worker the day off and performs his job duties. In the pilot episode, Dubya hands out fliers for an escort service on the Strip, washes dishes at a trendy, non-union Vegas eatery, and builds a deck on Dick Cheney's Lake Mead summer retreat.
VINCE NEIL'S LOOZA-PALOOZA . . . Who'd a thought a bloated, middle-aged ex-rock star could still look so good in eyeliner and Spandex?? Vince teams up with fellow has-beens like David Lee Roth and the drummer from the Dave Clark Five (Tommy in rehab) and rocks frat parties and boat shows all over Vegas. Let's face it Vince, you're six months away from opening a "theme" restaurant and a stint on Celebrity Rehab.
MISTY CROSLIN: SIN CITY AU PAIR . . . She'll chain-smoke her way into your heart!! Each week Misty babysits the rugrats of Las Vegas, while modeling the latest in lingerie from Victoria's Secret. The tykes really get an education as Misty shows 'em just where the horse bit her -- and talk about an interesting tatoo: issat really the guy from ZZ Top's beard?? Hey kids! Ready for some arts & crafts? Watch as Misty teaches the tots how to roll a blunt -- and shows 'em the correct form when doing a keg stand. After a long day, the kids get to flake out on an air mattress, while Misty reads them a bedtime story from her favorite book: "Deliverance." The fun really starts when the tykes turn up missing. I don't care what they say Misty. You can move into my trailer anytime!
TOP MEN'S ROOM ATTENDANT . . . Forget those self-absorbed, meglomaniacal celebrity chefs! It's time we paid homage to the true unsung heroes of Las Vegas -- the men's room attendants. Contestants are judged on a broad spectrum of skills, ranging from speed-loading a multiple-roll toilet paper dispensor; to performing jumping jacks in a bio-hazard suit. Celebrity judges include members of the U.S. Senate, and that idiot from Wham.
LEAVE IT TO QADDAFI . . . What happens when a Middle East tyrant and religous fanatic decides to chuck it all and open a tattoo parlor in Sin City?? Hijinx ensue when Moammar "Daffy" Qaddafi hits the Las Vegas Strip like a suitcase nuke! Watch as he talks Lindsay Lohan into getting a "Death to the Infidels" tramp stamp; rides his camel through the Starbucks drive-up; and threatens to behead an insolent buffet server . . . and just wait til you meet those wacky newlywed neighbors! (Joy Behar and Kim Jong-il.)
PARANOID CONSPIRACY THEORIES WITH CHARLIE SHEEN . . . Each week a drug-addled Charlie Sheen gives a sixty minute rant about a nonexistent conspiracy while snorting cocaine off a stripper's ass. Forget about who really knocked down the Twin Towers Charlie. We'd like to know why you still have a frigging career?
MY AMIGO GEORGE! . . . "Muchas Gracias!" Is what you'll say, when President George Bush gives some lucky, undocumented worker the day off and performs his job duties. In the pilot episode, Dubya hands out fliers for an escort service on the Strip, washes dishes at a trendy, non-union Vegas eatery, and builds a deck on Dick Cheney's Lake Mead summer retreat.
VINCE NEIL'S LOOZA-PALOOZA . . . Who'd a thought a bloated, middle-aged ex-rock star could still look so good in eyeliner and Spandex?? Vince teams up with fellow has-beens like David Lee Roth and the drummer from the Dave Clark Five (Tommy in rehab) and rocks frat parties and boat shows all over Vegas. Let's face it Vince, you're six months away from opening a "theme" restaurant and a stint on Celebrity Rehab.
MISTY CROSLIN: SIN CITY AU PAIR . . . She'll chain-smoke her way into your heart!! Each week Misty babysits the rugrats of Las Vegas, while modeling the latest in lingerie from Victoria's Secret. The tykes really get an education as Misty shows 'em just where the horse bit her -- and talk about an interesting tatoo: issat really the guy from ZZ Top's beard?? Hey kids! Ready for some arts & crafts? Watch as Misty teaches the tots how to roll a blunt -- and shows 'em the correct form when doing a keg stand. After a long day, the kids get to flake out on an air mattress, while Misty reads them a bedtime story from her favorite book: "Deliverance." The fun really starts when the tykes turn up missing. I don't care what they say Misty. You can move into my trailer anytime!
TOP MEN'S ROOM ATTENDANT . . . Forget those self-absorbed, meglomaniacal celebrity chefs! It's time we paid homage to the true unsung heroes of Las Vegas -- the men's room attendants. Contestants are judged on a broad spectrum of skills, ranging from speed-loading a multiple-roll toilet paper dispensor; to performing jumping jacks in a bio-hazard suit. Celebrity judges include members of the U.S. Senate, and that idiot from Wham.
March 12, 2010
"TWITTER" HIGHLIGHTS
Finally took the plunge and went on Twitter. After several weeks of "tweeting" have a grand total of 14 followers, (lost 2) was "blocked" by a literary agent whom I insulted, (no need to thank me) and have a whole new appreciation for Facebook.
For those of you too smart to waste time with Diablo Cody tweeting about her chihuahua, or are simply not interested in an adult film star getting her butthole bleached, here are some highlights:
-- Louis Farrakhan taken aboard UFO. Can see future: Obama 1 term prez; USA destroyed by fire & brimstone; Jheri Curl popular again.
-- Govt survey spent 219k to find out if college girl more likely to have sex after drinking. Could've just slipped her a roofie.
-- New episode of Jersey Shore: Gang discovers fire & learns 2 use blunt instruments. Snookie attends T party; uses Glenn Beck's testicles as tanning goggles.
-- Watching movie. Steven Seagal so fat he's wearing Buddha around neck. Not medallion. Actual philosopher.
-- Pope thumbs down on condom use. Can't get an altar boy pregnant.
-- Joke: Whattaya call a bus load of YA novelists going off a cliff? A: A good start.
-- Did I Say "Elevator music for a narcoleptic" ??? Got title for next short story collection.
-- How 'bout Palin/Joe the Plumber in 2012? I'll swim to China with a liberal Democrat under each arm.
-- Joe the Plumber all for "conservatism" -- but can't pronounce it.
-- Sarah Palin: "Writing on hand poor man's teleprompter." Nah-uh Sarah. Just dumb white girl's.
-- New slogan: Toyota -- Ain't NO stoppin' us now!!!
-- That's no girl! That's me!! (Waving.)
-- Academy Awards: Was that Steve Martin or Mr. Magoo?
-- Sean Hannity sponsored by "Preparation H" -- can't make this stuff up.
-- Cameron loses best director; picture. Looking forward to next film project working with sock puppets.
-- Has Tom Hanks been smokin' Woody Harrelson's tux??
-- LI, NY woman pays 20k to have hubby rubbed-out. Gives hitman $500 deposit but insists on receipt for tax purposes.
-- "Horse Latitudes" outa stock blues continue. Amazon sez publisher to blame. Publisher sez Amazon. Right nut, left nut, dick in the middle (me).
Have a great weekend -- Quinn
www.twitter.com/@QuentinRBufogle
For those of you too smart to waste time with Diablo Cody tweeting about her chihuahua, or are simply not interested in an adult film star getting her butthole bleached, here are some highlights:
-- Louis Farrakhan taken aboard UFO. Can see future: Obama 1 term prez; USA destroyed by fire & brimstone; Jheri Curl popular again.
-- Govt survey spent 219k to find out if college girl more likely to have sex after drinking. Could've just slipped her a roofie.
-- New episode of Jersey Shore: Gang discovers fire & learns 2 use blunt instruments. Snookie attends T party; uses Glenn Beck's testicles as tanning goggles.
-- Watching movie. Steven Seagal so fat he's wearing Buddha around neck. Not medallion. Actual philosopher.
-- Pope thumbs down on condom use. Can't get an altar boy pregnant.
-- Joke: Whattaya call a bus load of YA novelists going off a cliff? A: A good start.
-- Did I Say "Elevator music for a narcoleptic" ??? Got title for next short story collection.
-- How 'bout Palin/Joe the Plumber in 2012? I'll swim to China with a liberal Democrat under each arm.
-- Joe the Plumber all for "conservatism" -- but can't pronounce it.
-- Sarah Palin: "Writing on hand poor man's teleprompter." Nah-uh Sarah. Just dumb white girl's.
-- New slogan: Toyota -- Ain't NO stoppin' us now!!!
-- That's no girl! That's me!! (Waving.)
-- Academy Awards: Was that Steve Martin or Mr. Magoo?
-- Sean Hannity sponsored by "Preparation H" -- can't make this stuff up.
-- Cameron loses best director; picture. Looking forward to next film project working with sock puppets.
-- Has Tom Hanks been smokin' Woody Harrelson's tux??
-- LI, NY woman pays 20k to have hubby rubbed-out. Gives hitman $500 deposit but insists on receipt for tax purposes.
-- "Horse Latitudes" outa stock blues continue. Amazon sez publisher to blame. Publisher sez Amazon. Right nut, left nut, dick in the middle (me).
Have a great weekend -- Quinn
www.twitter.com/@QuentinRBufogle
February 19, 2010
AN OPEN LETTER TO HOWARD STERN
Dear Howard:
Just a couple quick things. First, tell The Missing Link (Gary Dell 'Abate) not to book Jackie Martling on the show again. Jackie is a washed-up, has-been. His act is so old the jokes were written by Druids -- so old, a transcript was found with The Dead Sea Scrolls. Jackie recently booked a gig at a Jenny Craig seminar, and nearly suffocated when Kirstie Alley threw her panties on stage. Entertaining plus-size women and devotees of tractor shows is all he has to look forward to. Funny how contrite he's become now that he can't buy a box of turds (not even the sampler). Seeing Jackie back on your show kissing ass and sucking up almost triggered my gag reflex. A comatose Artie Lange is more entertaining than this bore. I'd rather watch Richard use Sal's penis for a kazoo. Please kick "The Joke Man" to the curb once and for all.
While I still hope to see Artie back on the show, please don't even think about hiring Jackie as head writer; likewise Benjy (nice kid, but looks like a cretin with overactive sweat glands). If you need someone to fill the gig, I'm available. Just give my agent Vinny a holler. (I'll forward contact info.) Oh, one more thing . . . don't know if it's the green drinks or those coffee enemas, but Robin Quivers is lookin' hotter than a Scores girl on a tin roof in July. Much love Robin, much love -- Quinn
Just a couple quick things. First, tell The Missing Link (Gary Dell 'Abate) not to book Jackie Martling on the show again. Jackie is a washed-up, has-been. His act is so old the jokes were written by Druids -- so old, a transcript was found with The Dead Sea Scrolls. Jackie recently booked a gig at a Jenny Craig seminar, and nearly suffocated when Kirstie Alley threw her panties on stage. Entertaining plus-size women and devotees of tractor shows is all he has to look forward to. Funny how contrite he's become now that he can't buy a box of turds (not even the sampler). Seeing Jackie back on your show kissing ass and sucking up almost triggered my gag reflex. A comatose Artie Lange is more entertaining than this bore. I'd rather watch Richard use Sal's penis for a kazoo. Please kick "The Joke Man" to the curb once and for all.
While I still hope to see Artie back on the show, please don't even think about hiring Jackie as head writer; likewise Benjy (nice kid, but looks like a cretin with overactive sweat glands). If you need someone to fill the gig, I'm available. Just give my agent Vinny a holler. (I'll forward contact info.) Oh, one more thing . . . don't know if it's the green drinks or those coffee enemas, but Robin Quivers is lookin' hotter than a Scores girl on a tin roof in July. Much love Robin, much love -- Quinn
February 14, 2010
A VALENTINE FOR MR. OBAMA
So Barack, it's that time of year again. May I call you Barack? . . . Uh-huh. Thought so. Excuse me, but I'm a little flustered. Never done anything like this before. Oh, I once sent Sarah Palin a nude photo of myself wearing a leather mask, but that was in a completely different context.
I want you to know I've given quite a bit of thought as to how I might go about this. Thought about inviting you over to my place for some pasta. Maybe open a bottle of wine; slip some Marvin Gaye into the CD player. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a gay man, (not that there's anything wrong with it) it's just that you're so, well . . . "charismatic" -- but you know that. Don't you?
Okay, now that we've broken the ice, let's get down to brass tacks. What's all this Vegas-bashing bullshit about??? Tellin' folks not to go to Vegas and gamble away junior's college tuition? Ironic, since you seem to be a guy who likes to do a bit of gambling yourself -- with our jobs; our future. Gambling with an out of control federal deficit; our health care system. Gambling that nut in Iran won't develop a nuke and use it to blow up Israel -- or give it to some terrorist who'll attempt to smuggle it aboard a plane in his underwear. Yeah, seems you really like to roll the dice.
Here's a thought: Next time you visit Sin City, why not roll some dice for real? I mean it. Why not take some of that stimulus dough you haven't used to bailout the banks and insurance companies and toss it on the crap table? Shoot the wad (figuratively speaking). Think about it. If you win, you just might be able to buy back one of our testicles from the Chinese (we'll leave it to you to decide which one). If you lose, well . . . the money will end up right back in your pocket anyway. How so, you ask? Allow me to extrapolate . . .
If you lose, the money will be scooped up by the greedy corporate fat cats who own the casinos. They'll use it in turn to pay off the big union fat cats so they can continue to exploit the hardest working and most undervalued members of the Las Vegas workforce (fry cooks, house keepers, dishwashers, etc.). The big union fat cats will then use it to buy the favors of strippers, high-priced escorts and prostitutes; who'll then use it to pay for boob jobs, liposuction and collagen injections. (With me so far?) Once in the hands of plastic surgeons, the money will then be paid to insurance companies to cover the M.D.'s astronomical malpractice premiums. The insurance companies will then give it to lobbyists who'll use it to bribe you politicians in Washington. See? The dough winds up right back in your coffers where it started. (Well, it actually started off as our tax dollars, but why split hairs?) So there you have it Mr. President. C'mon. Why not take a chance? Happy Valentine's Day -- Quinn xoxo
I want you to know I've given quite a bit of thought as to how I might go about this. Thought about inviting you over to my place for some pasta. Maybe open a bottle of wine; slip some Marvin Gaye into the CD player. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a gay man, (not that there's anything wrong with it) it's just that you're so, well . . . "charismatic" -- but you know that. Don't you?
Okay, now that we've broken the ice, let's get down to brass tacks. What's all this Vegas-bashing bullshit about??? Tellin' folks not to go to Vegas and gamble away junior's college tuition? Ironic, since you seem to be a guy who likes to do a bit of gambling yourself -- with our jobs; our future. Gambling with an out of control federal deficit; our health care system. Gambling that nut in Iran won't develop a nuke and use it to blow up Israel -- or give it to some terrorist who'll attempt to smuggle it aboard a plane in his underwear. Yeah, seems you really like to roll the dice.
Here's a thought: Next time you visit Sin City, why not roll some dice for real? I mean it. Why not take some of that stimulus dough you haven't used to bailout the banks and insurance companies and toss it on the crap table? Shoot the wad (figuratively speaking). Think about it. If you win, you just might be able to buy back one of our testicles from the Chinese (we'll leave it to you to decide which one). If you lose, well . . . the money will end up right back in your pocket anyway. How so, you ask? Allow me to extrapolate . . .
If you lose, the money will be scooped up by the greedy corporate fat cats who own the casinos. They'll use it in turn to pay off the big union fat cats so they can continue to exploit the hardest working and most undervalued members of the Las Vegas workforce (fry cooks, house keepers, dishwashers, etc.). The big union fat cats will then use it to buy the favors of strippers, high-priced escorts and prostitutes; who'll then use it to pay for boob jobs, liposuction and collagen injections. (With me so far?) Once in the hands of plastic surgeons, the money will then be paid to insurance companies to cover the M.D.'s astronomical malpractice premiums. The insurance companies will then give it to lobbyists who'll use it to bribe you politicians in Washington. See? The dough winds up right back in your coffers where it started. (Well, it actually started off as our tax dollars, but why split hairs?) So there you have it Mr. President. C'mon. Why not take a chance? Happy Valentine's Day -- Quinn xoxo
January 25, 2010
KITCHEN CABINET CONFIDENTIAL: IF FOOD COULD TALK, WHAT WOULD IT SAY?
It was late and he'd finally gone to bed. Now it was their turn to play.
"I think he just turned out da light." Said the Chef Boyardee Ravioli.
"'Bout time," Said the Aunt Jamima Pancake Syrup, "Thought that boy was never gonna go t'sleep."
"Yeah, maybe he wuz watchin' that 'Rocky' movie again," Said the Spaghetti & Meatballs in-a-can, "All five of 'em."
"Honey chile, like I tol' ya, that boy don't always be watchin' 'Rocky.' That ain't the only movie they shows on cable television."
"Yeah, but it's got like Sly Stallone innit and it's really gud."
"By the way, there's six Rocky movies, stunad." Said the Ravioli.
"Oh. Den I musta missed one." Said the Spaghetti & Meatballs.
"Y'know, you're really startin' ta bug me with all dis Rocky business. Let's talk about somethin' else."
"Okay. Whattya think about Obama's plan for health care reform?"
"Forget that," Said the Ravioli, "Lookit the Deviled Ham sittin' all alone in the corner like a mook. Let's razz 'im."
"Pardon honorable sir," Said the Ramen Noodles, "But as Confucius say, 'He who mock his fellow man, mock himself.'"
"Stay outa this Bruce Lee." Said the Ravioli.
"Dat guy don't make no cents." Said the Spaghetti & Meatballs, "I wish he'd loin ta speak proper Inglish."
"I dunno why you two boys always gotta be pickin' on the Deviled Ham," Said the Aunt Jamima Syrup, "Ain't his fault nobody wanna eat him."
"Hey! . . . Hey Deviled Ham! How's it goin' pal?"
Deviled Ham didn't answer. He hoped if he just sat there quietly, the Ravioli would pick on someone else -- like that cornpone Pork & Beans.
"Hey Deviled Ham! I'm talkin' to ya! Wuzamatter, you don't like me? Huh? Maybe you don't like my friend, Spaghetti & Meatballs, either? Maybe ya just don't like Italian food -- period?"
"Look guys, I'm just minding my own business here," Said the Deviled Ham, "I don't want any trouble."
"Oh yeah? Well what if trouble wants you?" Said the Ravioli.
"Yeah. What if . . .Y'know . . .What he said." Said the Spaghetti & Meatballs.
"C'mon guys . . ."
"Whatta they make Deviled Ham outa anyways?" said the Spaghetti & Meatballs.
"Lips and assholes." Said the Ravioli.
The Ravioli and Spaghetti & Meatballs had a good laugh over that one.
"No wonder no one wants to eat ya!" said the Ravioli.
"Yeah! You're a reel loozer!" Said the Spaghetti & Meatballs.
"Hey amigo, why don't you leave the Deviled Ham alone?"
"Oh, it's you, Refried Beans," Said the Ravioli, "You wanna get in this too?"
"Si. It is no fair, two against one, cabron!"
"What's a 'cabron'?" Said the Spaghetti & Meatballs.
"I think it's onea them big hats they take naps under." Said the Ravioli.
"Now you boys, that's enough!" Said the Aunt Jamima Syrup, "I ain't gonna have no hatin' goin on here!"
"Hey, que paso mamacita? I no see you for long time. I miss you mucho!" Said the Refried Beans.
"You juss talkin' nonsense." Said the Syrup, "We been in this cabinet together six months now. We sees each other all the time."
"Si! But not as a man and woman should! I have spoke to you many times of my love!"
"Honey Chile, I done tol' you that I is already spoke for. Me an' Uncle Ben's Converted Rice got a thing goin' on, an' I don't need you messin' it up. Uncle Ben finds out what you been up to, he gonna pistol whip your little refried ass."
"Si . . . (SNIFF!) . . . My heart, she is broke!"
Just then there was the sound of footsteps.
"Hey, cheese it guys," Said the Ravioi, "I think I hear him comin'!"
The cabinet door opened, and a new food item was placed inside. The door closed again.
"He wasn't asleep. He just went to the market. Hey, there's someone else inside here with us -- who is it?"
"I dunno. It's too dark. I can't see."
"Hey, you inna corner, next to the Deviled Ham . . . Who are you?"
"Howdy Pilgrim."
"Oh no! It's HIM!"
"Not . . . HIM?"
"That's right pardner. It's me. The big guy. Kraft Macaroni & Cheese."
"The deluxe 'Family Size' . . .?"
"Yep."
"With Velveeta . . .?"
"Y'betcha meatballs. There's a new sheriff in town, an' you boys are all gonna behave yourself. No more squablin' like pigs at a trough -- lest ya want a showdown."
"'Scuse me seniore, but by any chance, do you have a seesta?"
"Forget it Pancho. Find yerself a nice can a Tamales."
"Mmmmmh, Mmmmmh! . . . Honey, now that's what I calls a man!" Said the Aunt Jamima Syrup, "Uncle Ben, you is history!"
"You got that right darlin'. I'm the new rooster in this here barnyard. Any a you honchos gotta problem with that?"
No one did. Certainly not the Aunt Jamima Syrup.
And so once again peace reigned in his kitchen cabinet. The voices he'd been hearing as he lay in bed stopped. His doctor took him off the Lithium. Tho every now and again, he'd hear what seemed to be the sounds of love making emanating from the kitchen . . . and the muffled sobs of a can of refried beans. Probably just the Mexican couple in the apartment upstairs.
"I think he just turned out da light." Said the Chef Boyardee Ravioli.
"'Bout time," Said the Aunt Jamima Pancake Syrup, "Thought that boy was never gonna go t'sleep."
"Yeah, maybe he wuz watchin' that 'Rocky' movie again," Said the Spaghetti & Meatballs in-a-can, "All five of 'em."
"Honey chile, like I tol' ya, that boy don't always be watchin' 'Rocky.' That ain't the only movie they shows on cable television."
"Yeah, but it's got like Sly Stallone innit and it's really gud."
"By the way, there's six Rocky movies, stunad." Said the Ravioli.
"Oh. Den I musta missed one." Said the Spaghetti & Meatballs.
"Y'know, you're really startin' ta bug me with all dis Rocky business. Let's talk about somethin' else."
"Okay. Whattya think about Obama's plan for health care reform?"
"Forget that," Said the Ravioli, "Lookit the Deviled Ham sittin' all alone in the corner like a mook. Let's razz 'im."
"Pardon honorable sir," Said the Ramen Noodles, "But as Confucius say, 'He who mock his fellow man, mock himself.'"
"Stay outa this Bruce Lee." Said the Ravioli.
"Dat guy don't make no cents." Said the Spaghetti & Meatballs, "I wish he'd loin ta speak proper Inglish."
"I dunno why you two boys always gotta be pickin' on the Deviled Ham," Said the Aunt Jamima Syrup, "Ain't his fault nobody wanna eat him."
"Hey! . . . Hey Deviled Ham! How's it goin' pal?"
Deviled Ham didn't answer. He hoped if he just sat there quietly, the Ravioli would pick on someone else -- like that cornpone Pork & Beans.
"Hey Deviled Ham! I'm talkin' to ya! Wuzamatter, you don't like me? Huh? Maybe you don't like my friend, Spaghetti & Meatballs, either? Maybe ya just don't like Italian food -- period?"
"Look guys, I'm just minding my own business here," Said the Deviled Ham, "I don't want any trouble."
"Oh yeah? Well what if trouble wants you?" Said the Ravioli.
"Yeah. What if . . .Y'know . . .What he said." Said the Spaghetti & Meatballs.
"C'mon guys . . ."
"Whatta they make Deviled Ham outa anyways?" said the Spaghetti & Meatballs.
"Lips and assholes." Said the Ravioli.
The Ravioli and Spaghetti & Meatballs had a good laugh over that one.
"No wonder no one wants to eat ya!" said the Ravioli.
"Yeah! You're a reel loozer!" Said the Spaghetti & Meatballs.
"Hey amigo, why don't you leave the Deviled Ham alone?"
"Oh, it's you, Refried Beans," Said the Ravioli, "You wanna get in this too?"
"Si. It is no fair, two against one, cabron!"
"What's a 'cabron'?" Said the Spaghetti & Meatballs.
"I think it's onea them big hats they take naps under." Said the Ravioli.
"Now you boys, that's enough!" Said the Aunt Jamima Syrup, "I ain't gonna have no hatin' goin on here!"
"Hey, que paso mamacita? I no see you for long time. I miss you mucho!" Said the Refried Beans.
"You juss talkin' nonsense." Said the Syrup, "We been in this cabinet together six months now. We sees each other all the time."
"Si! But not as a man and woman should! I have spoke to you many times of my love!"
"Honey Chile, I done tol' you that I is already spoke for. Me an' Uncle Ben's Converted Rice got a thing goin' on, an' I don't need you messin' it up. Uncle Ben finds out what you been up to, he gonna pistol whip your little refried ass."
"Si . . . (SNIFF!) . . . My heart, she is broke!"
Just then there was the sound of footsteps.
"Hey, cheese it guys," Said the Ravioi, "I think I hear him comin'!"
The cabinet door opened, and a new food item was placed inside. The door closed again.
"He wasn't asleep. He just went to the market. Hey, there's someone else inside here with us -- who is it?"
"I dunno. It's too dark. I can't see."
"Hey, you inna corner, next to the Deviled Ham . . . Who are you?"
"Howdy Pilgrim."
"Oh no! It's HIM!"
"Not . . . HIM?"
"That's right pardner. It's me. The big guy. Kraft Macaroni & Cheese."
"The deluxe 'Family Size' . . .?"
"Yep."
"With Velveeta . . .?"
"Y'betcha meatballs. There's a new sheriff in town, an' you boys are all gonna behave yourself. No more squablin' like pigs at a trough -- lest ya want a showdown."
"'Scuse me seniore, but by any chance, do you have a seesta?"
"Forget it Pancho. Find yerself a nice can a Tamales."
"Mmmmmh, Mmmmmh! . . . Honey, now that's what I calls a man!" Said the Aunt Jamima Syrup, "Uncle Ben, you is history!"
"You got that right darlin'. I'm the new rooster in this here barnyard. Any a you honchos gotta problem with that?"
No one did. Certainly not the Aunt Jamima Syrup.
And so once again peace reigned in his kitchen cabinet. The voices he'd been hearing as he lay in bed stopped. His doctor took him off the Lithium. Tho every now and again, he'd hear what seemed to be the sounds of love making emanating from the kitchen . . . and the muffled sobs of a can of refried beans. Probably just the Mexican couple in the apartment upstairs.
January 19, 2010
SNAKES IN DA HOUSE!
I wake at the same time each day, even without the alarm. Rub my hand over my eyes. Take a deep breath. Takes a minute or two before I'm fully awake. Another 30 seconds or so before the pain kicks in. First in my feet; soon as they hit the carpet. Followed by knees, lower back, neck. The pain is a reminder of the abuse -- all the years spent abusing my body. All the time spent in various gyms; all the hours spent pounding the heavy bag; the tons of weight benched, squatted, curled; the thousands upon thousands of push-ups, sit-ups and pull-ups . . . and the running . . . oh, the running! In the freezing cold, NYC mornings; bundled in long underwear, sweats . . . and combat boots! (Good for the leg muscles, according to Tommy Gallagher, my trainer -- bad for the feet.) That road in Queens, by Victory Field, cutting through Forest Park, winding like a snake. Then it hits me. Snakes. Last night. Some guy in a glass cage; sleeping with snakes.
I throw on my robe. Stumble over to the window. It's a ritual of mine. Each morning, before starting my day, I look out on the clear, blue desert sky. Something uplifing, reassuring about it. Today the sky is neither clear nor blue, but gray and overcast. Rain is in the forecast for the entire week. Unusual for Vegas. I stumble out to the kitchen. There's some coffee in the pot. Left over from the night before. That's reassuring. I warm a cup in the microwave, take a seat on the sofa, and click on the plasma. I settle on an old Elvis flick on one of the movie channels. I love Elvis. The King is cutting it up with Shelley Fabares. They're doing a dance called "The Clam." Elvis is singing -- naturally. Lord, that boy hadda set a pipes. The movie is set in Florida, and Elvis is a treasure hunter, or frogman, or water skiing instructor, or some such nonsense. He and Shelley are dancing by a pool -- naturally, and the weather is beautiful; there's vibrant colors and bright white smiles. It's all very idyllic. I think of the gloom outside my window. And the snakes.
Last night on The Strip, I saw something curious. A large group of people were huddled around a free-standing glass enclosure, watching a man who'd been sealed inside with dozens of venomous snakes. It was late and the man was sound asleep; curled up on a cot, while little more than a foot below, dozens of rattlesnakes slithered and hissed around him. It was a publicity stunt, staged by one of the casinos, in the hope of attracting business. And an oddly ironic metaphor. I realized that I had much in common with the "Snakeman." I too was living with snakes: Eating, sleeping, going about my dailly routine, while they slithered around me. All manner of vipers: Big, corporate snakes, who lay off workers to pad the bottom line and justify their own exorbitant salaries, perks and expense accounts; bank and credit snakes, who take people's houses after conning them into variable rate mortgages they couldn't afford in the first place -- and jack up credit card rates on those already hopelessly in debt; insurance snakes, who after years of collecting premiums, cancel someone's coverage the minute they get sick; pharmaceutical snakes, who charge hundreds of dollars for prescription medications often produced for pennies. And let's not forget the politicians, hedge fund managers, lobbyists, and high-ranking union hot-shots who profit from it all: the "snake charmers." So be careful. Wear your high top boots and step lightly. We're all living with snakes.
I throw on my robe. Stumble over to the window. It's a ritual of mine. Each morning, before starting my day, I look out on the clear, blue desert sky. Something uplifing, reassuring about it. Today the sky is neither clear nor blue, but gray and overcast. Rain is in the forecast for the entire week. Unusual for Vegas. I stumble out to the kitchen. There's some coffee in the pot. Left over from the night before. That's reassuring. I warm a cup in the microwave, take a seat on the sofa, and click on the plasma. I settle on an old Elvis flick on one of the movie channels. I love Elvis. The King is cutting it up with Shelley Fabares. They're doing a dance called "The Clam." Elvis is singing -- naturally. Lord, that boy hadda set a pipes. The movie is set in Florida, and Elvis is a treasure hunter, or frogman, or water skiing instructor, or some such nonsense. He and Shelley are dancing by a pool -- naturally, and the weather is beautiful; there's vibrant colors and bright white smiles. It's all very idyllic. I think of the gloom outside my window. And the snakes.
Last night on The Strip, I saw something curious. A large group of people were huddled around a free-standing glass enclosure, watching a man who'd been sealed inside with dozens of venomous snakes. It was late and the man was sound asleep; curled up on a cot, while little more than a foot below, dozens of rattlesnakes slithered and hissed around him. It was a publicity stunt, staged by one of the casinos, in the hope of attracting business. And an oddly ironic metaphor. I realized that I had much in common with the "Snakeman." I too was living with snakes: Eating, sleeping, going about my dailly routine, while they slithered around me. All manner of vipers: Big, corporate snakes, who lay off workers to pad the bottom line and justify their own exorbitant salaries, perks and expense accounts; bank and credit snakes, who take people's houses after conning them into variable rate mortgages they couldn't afford in the first place -- and jack up credit card rates on those already hopelessly in debt; insurance snakes, who after years of collecting premiums, cancel someone's coverage the minute they get sick; pharmaceutical snakes, who charge hundreds of dollars for prescription medications often produced for pennies. And let's not forget the politicians, hedge fund managers, lobbyists, and high-ranking union hot-shots who profit from it all: the "snake charmers." So be careful. Wear your high top boots and step lightly. We're all living with snakes.
