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Month: June 2019

Imagination Is A Talent

A Paean, Tribute, and Panegyric

Had I discovered first, the Bard of Avon, I would have shouted the discovery far and wide. If instead I’d discovered Jonathon Swift, I’d have yelled – not as loudly nor as long, but yell I would. And I’d do as much for the ever-clever Mr. Wilde.

Now this is not to say I’d discovered someone new. Only that I’d noticed what has been little noted but was there all the time. The most brilliantly addled imaginative mind I have ever come across, personally, so to speak. His is either a brain to which half a hemisphere’s nodules and synapses are devoted entirely to imagination… or… he’s been swilling magic mushroom juice of his own making and refuses to put a label on it and market it for the masses.

Look, I’ll not be singing hosannas about anyone’s virtuosity because I just don’t roll that way.
Ask anyone who knows me well and they’ll tell this: the signal feature of my interest in anything… ANYTHING, is to badmouth, excoriate and abrade it. If you must think it than do so – I’m a natural born hater – there, I said it for you. If you can’t say something nasty about some one/thing don’t say anything at all.

Give me some one to beat up or have cider spit in their eye and I’ll beat him and spit cider – with a song in my heart. But ask me to say something praiseworthy about someone and I cringe all over. It’s not that I believe there are no humans worthy of praise – it’s just not in my wheelhouse – missing or damaged DNA perhaps? As that Dirty Harry guy said – “a man’s got to know his limitations”. The dark side of ‘nice’ is mine.

But I can not let it not be noted that I’d come across an imagination so fecund, so pregnant, so juicy/luscious, and, so delectable an eccentricity, or so nutritive a compost heap that is a brain, as the one that has hold of this fellow calls himself Psykosity.

I truly believe if you took the squeezin’s from a cold-pressed Psykosity the resulting decoction could cure the pandemic insanity that is warping the world. Would that not be a scientific breakthrough? Like venom fighting the venomous, warp would re-adjust the twisted.

PS – Psykosity, really, on the QT, between jus’ you ‘n’ me – Magic Mushroom juice… is that it… c’mon… is it? Is it? It is isn’t it? Yes?


“Camping With Dad: Round Two” Part 2

(The story so far: Marge suspects she is pregnant with Kevin’s baby, while Murphy is planning a coup and toppling Herb from his position at Moonbat & Stein. Meanwhile, Angie is in jail for…wait, that’s a different story. THIS story involves my father, after recovering from a heart attack, decides to take my brother and myself on a fishing expedition into the Canadian wilds. This decision, already fraught with problems, starting with having to fly to the middle of nowhere, hundreds of miles from anyone else, in a Buddy Holly Memorial Death-Plane, gets instantly worse when my father forgets to take our food off the airplane. We rejoin the three drunken idiots desperately trying to catch something…ANYTHING…to eat.)

Camping With Dad: Round Two: A Struggle For Survival pt. 2

By day three, the situation had turned grim.

The company that ran the fishing “expeditions” had three canoes for their clients to use. We put the first one into the water and it immediately sank. In the second canoe, some enterprising wasps had built an impressive nest that looked more like some kind of planned community for insects that was so big they had lovely little manicured lawns and tiny garden fountains…

Late in the afternoon of the second day, we managed to find an unopened can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew that had dropped out of the gear of the previous clients. Or, maybe it had slipped out of the pack of a soldier during the Great War. Or, maybe God had dropped it on the day when he invented dirt. In any case, we managed to heat it up on that night’s fire and gobble it down like food was going to be outlawed the next day which, considering the fish weren’t biting at all, was not far from the actual truth.

We bobbed up and down in our shabby but watertight canoe, fairly close to the shore on the huge, miles long lake; sunburnt, drunk, hungry, grubby, and silent. My brother Mike was using my Dad’s brand new, and very expensive, rod and reel. He went to cast and, for some unknown reason, he let go of the rod and the very expensive rod and reel splashed into the lake.

“Mike,” grumbled my Dad, “go in there and get that!”

Mike dutifully went over the side and into the water.

Fully clothed.

Wearing heavy military boots.

It was the boots that gave my brother his biggest problem. Mike was my little brother, but he had grown to be one inch taller than me at 6’3” and a half and out weighed me by about 50 pounds of solid muscle. He and I were both excellent swimmers, but the heavy boots kept pulling him down in the water which was only a few inches deeper than Mike was tall.

“Dad!” he yelled, splashing around frantically, “Hand me an oar!”

My Father grabbed one of the oars and swung it over the side of the canoe.


The blade end of the oar hit Mike on the side of the head so hard the sound of it echoed off the wall of trees on the other side of the lake. Dad and I were frozen in shock watching my brother’s arms frantically flail, trying to get his head above the surface and, when he did, he was spitting water, coughing…and laughing.

Suddenly, the weight of the entire nightmare of a trip hit me, and I started laughing, which got my Father laughing. Still, my brother was drowning, so Dad lifted the heavy oar back out of the water and swiveled it over to my brother.


Dad hit my brother on the head with the oar again. This left Dad and I in hysterics, and Mike was now in deep trouble. I wanted to jump up and leap into the water to save him, but I was drunk and laughing so hard, I FELL into the water.

Now, there were TWO potential drowning victims, dead from drowning, extreme hilarity, and bad weirdness.

The lake was cold, and even under the surface I was laughing and beginning to choke on the intake of water. I reached over and grabbed my brother and could tell as I wrapped my arms around him to get his head above the surface that he was still laughing uncontrollably while simultaneously taking water deeper into his lungs.

I managed to get behind him, get my arm around his chest, and haul him up to the surface, and, as I swam a few strokes to get back to the canoe, Mike and I were coughing up water, taking deep breaths of life sustaining air, and still laughing.

Later in the day, Dad caught a bass big enough for us to gut and fry up that night. It would be the last meal we would have in that God forsaken place.

On the fifth day, when the Death Plane deposited us back at the airport in what passed for civilization, we immediately went into the bar, ordered up a bunch of beer and some burgers and fries. The food was cooked by a tough looking woman; a woman who seemed to have seen a lot of life in her life: maybe she rode with a motorcycle gang in her youth. Maybe she had even helped stitch up wounds suffered during a gang rumble. She looked like she probably had a fantastic figure back in her day, but now her life was making the greasiest, most gut busting hamburgers for starving survivors of the fishing “expeditions” while selling bait to smarter guys who just fished local lakes and rivers.

Without washing her hands.

The fries were droopy. The burgers were gross.

To us though, it was Nectar Of The Gods.


Word And Concept For The Day

Neologism: autosatiriasis

Autosatiriasis noun

1. a condition of having consciously orchestrated a persona ridiculously at odds with the concoctions, inventions, delusions, that compose it.

2. a condition of actively, persistently, obliviously, subjecting oneself to humiliations generated by one’s own predilections, conceits, lifestyle.

(Anyone indulging in either practice is – ipso facto – an ‘autosatirist’)

Of the first definition, think… ‘the id offs the ego and superego and, finally unrepressed, dedicates itself to masturbatory Zen’.

Of the second, think… public exhibitions of onanism.

Everybody’s Doing It

Malcolm Muggeridge observed, while editor of Punch Magazine, some 60 years ago, that modern life’s absurdities had made the satirist’s role redundant. Oh Malcolm, you sharp sharpshooter.. but if you could but see us now!

Here, a prime example of an absurdity being presented as ‘insight’, a decade ago. In a Sunday NY Times column, resident monger of trite insight, David Brooks, extolled a crisp crease of a pant leg as all the curriculum vitae necessary for the office of President of the United States. The clubhead had time, plenty, to dwell on it and conclude, as any normal person would, that the line was vaudevillian comedic shtick, and had no place in declarative reasoning. But the oblivious knucklehead opted to lampoon himself –hence – ipso facto – autosatirist.

The advent of President Husseiny brought out self-inflicted buffoonery by the barge load. Chris Matthews had a publicly televised orgasm on CNN, reveling in the tingle up/down(?) his leg, which was reverie, which was fantasy, which was Husseiny. Any normal man would have quit his job and lost himself in Malaysia rather than live a public life with that humiliation as his signature moment on air – but not the autosatirist.

Barry, Barry, Bo Barry, Banana-nana, Low Faerie… Barry!

The nonpareil autosatirist in all human history, to the best of my historical knowledge is Barry Husseiny Obama. You doubt it? Perhaps this will convince you. Before proceeding, let me acknowledge that others had played a role in the making of Husseiny, but Husseiny took to it all like a loon to water.

Imagine twenty years ago a satirist, of some repute, say… Chris Buckley, were to write a satirical novel in which the following sad sack of ever replicating cells was the “protagonist”:

Barry Barack Hussein Soetoro Obama is a Kenyan. He is born to a peripatetic White woman and indeterminate Black ‘y’ chromosome donor. The mysterious and fay Husseiny takes up the ‘down low’ life in Chicago. He is baptized Christian in Rev Wright’s Church Of Latter Day Hates. He ‘marries’ a ‘beard’ with not only twice his Y-chromosomes, but also doubly hunky. Of the odd couple, the Black hulk, “he-she-it’, the wifey, the better half, was, also, the bigger man.

As a Harvard matriculate, Husseiny is presented with a JD magna cum laude and becomes besotted with himself. Neither the JD nor the self-infatuation is merited. Neither is Husseiny’s Nobel Peace Prize, announced October 9, (2009). The date is unofficially recognized as the day satire died.

Though Constitutionally ineligible, Husseiny beguiles the uppity class with Marxist bromides in millenarian tones, and… they buy it! So enamored was the MSM with Husseiny, they would squirt their drawers without having to drop trou. Husseiny is elected (POTUS), along with his teleprompter (TOTUS), as the first affirmatively-actioned black/mulatto, fuzzy-muzzie-crypto-pseudo-neo Christian president. And… …the crowd roared… and celebrated among Greek Dorian styrofoam columns. Husseiny turns the presidency into his own personal sinecure; rules like a potentate; vacations like a Saudi playboy prince; plays more golf than Tiger Woods; and plays host to Hollywoodie queer as camp, skank Uranians, cruising the White House for some “guy on guy” action. ‘Hail To The Chief’ got a new meaning.

I mean… WTF?! …Really! WTF?!… HTF?! is that not satire, epic satire – Grand Opéra Bouffe satire? And it’s not a novel, it’s – none of it – fiction!

The Golden Age

The autosatirists will be the totems for our time, for we now embark on the Golden Age Of our collective national humiliation.

Here’s another spud that, though not in Husseiny’s rarified air, deserves a blue ribbon in this category… the otherwise, and by any standard measure, unremarkable Anthony Weiner. It’s news to the youngsters, a recap for the oldsters:

Anthony Weiner, a New York Jew, marries a BrotherHood Muslima – Huma Abbedin. Mrs. Huma Weiner, not unexpectedly, prefers to go by her maiden name.

Anthony, being both a metro and a cosmo sexual, Tweets his tackle all over the worldwide net, angling for sweet young things, in the mistaken belief his junk is to young ladies as chum is to game fish. Found out, he resigns his office under duress but without humiliation. Putatively rehabbed, loyal trophy wife in tow, new trophy digs for show – $3.3 million Manhattan digs (owned by a wealthy Democratic donor) – Anthony announces a run for mayor of New York. In tracking polls, he leads all candidates until it becomes evident… again… Tony still has two heads and only… no brains. To date, his only accomplishment is to have been twice an inspiration: once for aspiring autosatirists, another for the phrase ‘one prick tony’ – possibly a dyslexic malfunction – more likely a meticulous assessment.

I mean… WTF?! …Really! WTF?!… HTF?! is that not satire, epic satire – Grand Opéra Bouffe satire? And it’s – none of it – fiction!

The Golden Age of autosatirists includes Alexandria Octavio-Cortez, Hill & Bill Clinton, Joe Biden, Maxine ‘The Mouth’ Waters, Beto O’Rourke, Abilio James Acosta, ‎Louis Farrakhan… They are becoming legion.

The autosatirist is most often found on the political Left*, though political emanations from anywhere in the middle also contribute. Autosatirists are not to be taken for fools. Fools are easily and universally recognized as such. Autosatirists are taken seriously by a generous portion of ‘we the people’ who vote.

Welcome to the Zeitgeist.