What's Wrong With This Picture?

That's right, Virginia. They're all men. White men. Richass white men. And no, they aren't undertakers. What did you say? No, that's not a blackjack the guy in front is carrying. It's a memo from God sent by way of a bush the guy found burning in his front yard a few days ago.

Oh, and one more thing: notice the funny way they walk? That's due to the parking meters stuck up their asses.

But there's hope, Virginia. I think I finally figured out what's wrong with these meter readers: Nature Deficit Disorder. I kid you not! Nothing a couple of months in the wilderness couldn't cure.

I mean, take away the mirrors, the cellphones, the TV cameras, the Crest Whitestrips...these Jeremiah Johnsons will be free to wrestle their demons to the ground to their little hearts' desire and then have their way with them, with no one the wiser.

Which sounds like a good description of the rest of us poor sad assholes.



Picture this: we arrange for a couple of Blackhawks to unload these boy scouts somewhere up in the Quetico, with a boatload of Lipton tea and just enough DEET to cover their assets until payday.

First, though, we'll need to figure out a way to coax them out from behind that circle of wagons. What's that, Virginia? Sorry, but the Sarah-and-Michelle-Red-White-and-Blue-Lap-Dance-Revue, however tempting an idea, is not a plausible option.

Which sounds like a good description of our current state. Make that Ship of State.

Hey, wait a minute, I've got it! How about a couple of years on a ship anchored in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle for these mermen? You know, Ship of Fools and all that. That is, if the Border Patrol nixes the Quetico thing.

Or what about convincing NASA to make room for these space cadets on the one-way trip to Mars, or the Juno probe to Jupiter? That's right, Virginia, the Juno launches in August. At least something will launch in August.

Meanwhile, can we switch to another channel? I kid you not, a person can only take so much "American Idle" before wanting to XXX it all and throw the television out the window. I wonder, is that the same as throwing the baby out with the bathwater? Just ask the rent-a-cops in the photo, they oughta know.

No, No, No

Amy Winehouse / 1983 - 2011

(*Been trying for a week to embed a video of "Back to Black," but Blogger is having issues...)

Alien Abduction

Midnight Friday we experienced electrical arcing up at the cabin involving a power line that runs past the outhouse. It occurred in the midst of one of those big ass thunderstorms and provided some big ass fireworks in celebration of the fourthajuly weekend.

At first I thought it might be the mothership of some aliens who'd come to abduct us, but seeing as how the event occurred over the outhouse, I decided the aliens were probably on the hunt for one of the Republicans who'd managed to shut down our state government earlier that day. I mean, what better way to camouflage a Tea Partier than to hide her in a room full of shit.

We have been abducted by aliens, Dear Reader, and I only wish it were those big ass bald dudes from some galaxy far far away, but noooooooo. We've been taken hostage by a walking embarrassment who call themselves "Real Americans" and who remain pathologically unswerving in their evangelical determination to take their balls and go home, like a gaggle of emotionally-challenged adolescents.

I've always been ambivalent about being American, but this has pushed me into another dimension. This country, not to mention this state (of mind), has officially left the land of "It Takes All Kinds" and entered the realm of the surreal. Move over, Rod Serling. What must the rest of the civilized world think? "Civilized" being the operative word. If we continue in this direction, junior, we're going to have to turn in our library cards and join our comrades in the third world.

Speaking of third worlds, a skunk recently moved in next door. Following the advice of the local witch doctor (but you can call me Tabitha), the homeowner played oldies rock at top volume for 67 hours in an effort to coax Pepe le Pew to vacate the premises, which he eventually did, along with a couple of the other neighbors. If only Michelle Bachmann were that easy to get rid of. During the siege, and recognizing a golden opportunity when she saw one, the witch doctor held a big ass dance party and invited a sizeable contingent of local miscreants, who spent the duration reliving their miscreantic youths while Golden Earring, ZZ Top and Billy Idol provided the soundtrack.

JFR, if anyone listening is looking for a way to get Yours Truly to leave the building, anything leaning in the direction of the Country Music end of the spectrum will do the trick in a nanosecond, no need to prolong the agony.

Meanwhile, back at the outhouse (where things were piling up), the mothership, having presumably failed to unearth any wayward Republicans in that neck of the woods, left with a bang, ignoring the whimpering pleas of the cabinowner to,

"Take me! Take me please!"

Having driven uptheshore twelve hours earlier past the phalanx of blaze orange "CLOSED!! THAT MEANS YOU ASSHOLE!!" warning signs barricading the entrances to no less than nine State Park areas (remember, Dear Reader, this was the fourthajuly weekend), I figured we were already on the morph toward Planet X, let's just get it the fuck over with and take the nonstop flight.

FYI, some of those alien flight attendants are real hotties, if you're into that type. Or so I've heard.