Thursday, September 21, 2017

"Nothing to Say About Nothing to Say (A Slight Slap At Mobocratic Snobbery)."

Or, "Cockney Ding Dong Don with the Former Clapper."

Don Lemon had Former Director Clapper on last night.
Clapper looks about how I feel.
Don goes, "Director Sir, whatcha got adzackly."
"Nothing," says Clapper. "I got nothing Don. I've officially run out of things to say about Trump."

Meanwhile there was a little sidebar box with a radar shot of the latest Hurricane ("Maria"). I thought it said "Hurricane Mania." It'd be an apt phrase –– everyone's gone hurricane mad!

Too much Hurricane Mania, certainly.
"Too botheration" as Doc Alimantado used to say.

Later on, I was upstairs, and heard the CNN man refer to Hurricane Irma.
I heard it as "Hurricane Enema".

I wish these hurricanes would stop. For the good of the people, of course, but also: What with all these hullaballoos the would-be Prez seems to have got scot-free out of "shtook" again, all on the back of this Hurricane Mania.

The fat shining bright orange nothingburger has sallied out astride the gusts,  like Aeolus, the god of winds, or Storm of the X-Men, that wind–rider, all the way to freedom and redemption. I know he's a black-belt master of expelling hot fetid air, it's been documented extensively –– wonder if the whole "Hurricane Mania" is another Trump 4-D chessmaster conspiracy!

Maybe he's got Russian planes seeding the clouds and nobody knows.


Friday, August 4, 2017

"Punisher T-Shirt at Trump Rally." Or, "Sympathy For the Punisher."

Did you see the rogue's gallery of hicks and KKK rejects at the rally? The Legion of Substitute Villains?, behind Trump at his rabble-rousing last night in West Viriginny? Did you see the late Kim Fowley in there –– his celebrated corpse –– or was it Yellowman in a curly black wig.

I saw a guy in a Punisher t-shirt there too, cheering for them to bring back the hangman the gas chamber and the ducking stool, and for that hangman to be named Robert E. Lee, for he rideth on a pale horse with a scimitar between his teeth. Chuck Dixon, was that yeou?

It's a shame about Chuck Dixon, because I like a few (I originally wrote "a lot" but went back flushed with the spirit of accuracy and changed it) of his comics and I actually agree with him to an extent about the late instinctive reimagining of every superhero as a so-called "minority". Not because I'm a virulent racist, sexist, homophobe &c. but because they do it so poorly and blunder so badly. Most of those reboots suck.  

And I thought, "Poor Punisher."

And I thought, "Poor Frank Castle.  Guy's misunderstood.  He's not a Trump Republican.  He is a mass-murderer, he is a serial killer, but he is not a Trump Republican."

Thursday, August 3, 2017

"Tautologies for Kentucky."


When Trump breaks off mid-sentence in a speech to say "a lot of people don't know that," what he means is "I didn't know that."

Another thing he says, written as a formula:

"X, and it certainly is X."

95% of what Trump says is variously empty flummery, bland fudge and vacuous flannel. 

Last year's funnel cake.

Flannel cake. Have you ever had flannel cake? At Musso and Frank on Hollywood Boulevard?

His hair is like what he says –– a lot of  hot flatus with very little integrity or solidity.

A grotesque oddity. A quiddity.

A spider's cobweb with nothing in it ––

      Lucy Locket lost her pocket,
      Kitty Fisher found it.
      Nothing in it, nothing in it
      But the binding round it.

      Donald Trump lost his periwig
      Steve Bannon found it
      Nothing in it, nothing in it
      Nothing whatsoever in it. 

Even when he is talking about North Korea Overcomber says something like, "We shall see what we shall see and then we shall do what we shall do." Always deferring saying anything. Tautologies for the Kentucky shitkickers.  Thank goodness for his acid-trip fuck-head tweets –– that's the only time he says anything, even if it is strictly the cream from the nutfarm. 

That guy's hair is like a wedding cake from the eighteen seventies lovingly preserved in formaldehyde. It tastes awful. Also––


Saturday, July 8, 2017

"Trump, The Greenpoint Years."

I was recently watching the famous (but not famous enough apparently) "Small Loan of a Million Dollars" interview clip with OVERCOMBER DUMB. Aside from the obvious scene of chronic "tone deafness" that apparently didn't dissuade those dirt-poor bucktooths from Kaintuck back in Octember, there was another detail of particular interest to me.

In his oral testimony of his hard knock life, his sad plaint, Trump doesn't seem sure if he's from Brooklyn or Queens. Maybe, methought, he's from Greenpoint, that strange "liminal threshold" at the North-Western corner of Booklyn [sic] & just shy of the South-Western corner of Queens. I lived there for a hundred years one decade recently.

Still that said I am sure I never saw OVERCOMBER DUMB on the nightly trek back from the 7 at Vernon Boulevard–Jackson Avenue to Greenpoint & the McGuinness Boulevard over the Pulaski Bridge c. 2010–2014.

It was maybe 2010 I started to take that route out of sheer disgust at the other option: the L to the 62.

Forget Bedford man. Bedford's almost as bad as Trump.

I had started walking from the Bedford subway, via backroads, because I was sick of waiting for the 62 with the condo hipster rabble, people younger and richer than me, but then they built pretentious boutique bespoke hotels even in the backstreets, and I couldn't avoid oblivious uncool Manhattanites and bumbling Eurotrash and hipsters out with their parents and grandparents taking up the whole sidewalk rather than walking in a line.

Now I preferred to take the Pulaski Bridge with its working stiff demographic and that funny little man who flouted the rules by riding with great and inapt seriousness on a miniature motorcycle dressed as a cross between a traffic cop and Lee Perry.

I never saw the president there, and I think I'd have noticed if I had because in those years I used to semi-avidly watch The Celebrity Apprentice.

Who'd have guessed––

Guy's a fucking liar.
Guy's got a diamond-shaped mouth and a triangle in the centre of his face clustered around a smushed  patent fat kid nose.

* * * * * * * * * *

I laugh aloud with horrible tears in my eyes whenever Trump takes up the cause of "civilization" with himself quite absurdly as its prime defender. O for a Mencken today! Now he speaks loftily about "Western Civilization" –– like Allan Bloom –– and how it must be upheld at any cost. What civilization does he mean, I wonder, mock–innocently. The wrestling? Reality teevee? Billy Bush and Howard Stern? Sheesh.

Guy's a fucking postmodernist.

Tuesday, July 4, 2017

"He's Got Donald Trump Eyes." / "Rheumy." / Trump Is a Whiphid."

Trump's eyes. The area directly under them. The part that is accentuated because it is white. He puts the goggles over them on the sunbed so they stand out against the bad rotten orangeness of the rest. So they are bright white and they are in addition puffed up to the point of squeezing his eyeballs inward, all the way inside his eye sockets, if we can speak of Donald Trump having eye sockets per se with any degree of confidence. They are inflated with stagnant water. They're waterlogged.

"Trump's rheumy eyes."

I typed it into the search engine. I thought, "Have the prognosticators and wits and satirists and the commentators on Capitol Hill commented on Trump's eyes and specifically their rheuminess? Has Jim Acosta shrieked about it across the room for the audio track? 'TRUMP'S GOT RHEUMY EYES, SEAN!' No, they haven't. I ought to copyright it."

Incidentally I ought to have copyrighted the "Comey is My Homey," t-shirt, which I thought of [said with an admixture of incredible naivety and remarkable vanity] before anyone else. Way back in Los Feliz. I thought, "I had this thought and it'll go viral it'll make millions if handled deftly but fuggit I haven't the time or inclination to act today." Now all I have is the copyright on the "Trump Has Rheumy Eyes" meme. It isn't going to get me out of the ghetto I'm in.

Trump with his rheumy eyes, to get back to my subject, looks like J'Quille from Jabba's Palace in Return of the Jedi. You know the guy:

He's a member of the "Whiphid" alien race, according to the Wookiepedia. "Race" or "species"? Is it a "phylum" or a "kingdom". Fuggit who cares. Now we have a word for what Trump is.

I used to say Trump was a Skrull

Now I know better. Wrong universe. Guy's a Whiphid.

Suddenly discovering in the eyes of the very maniacal
                             American president
The eyes of the Whiphid spy / assassin.

"The Trump White House."

Friday, June 30, 2017

"How Quickly They Forgot –– Old What's His Name."

In my last blog, in my "comprehensive" list of CNN celebrities and White House hacks that none of my English auditors had ever heard of, even I forgot to mention that lost (or perhaps hiding) man, Reince "Prince Penis" Priebus.

How could I have forgotten such a colorful character who is never far from the eye of the hurricane, the centre of the action? 

Reince Priebus's own wife don't quite know who he is. He comes home and lets himself in the house, walks over to the dining room where they're already eating.  He says, "What, you couldn't wait for me?"
His whole family turns to him and says, "Who are you?"

He ain't Bannon.
He ain't Kushner.
He ain't Flynn.
He ain't Spicer.
He ain't Kellyanne.
He ain't even Jeffrey Lord.

... Who is he again...

There's an article in Vanity Fair calling Rex Tillerson the "Forgotten Man" but that's only because what's–his–name –– Reince –– is so forgettable and ineffectual that the author on the piece about Rex Tillerson being the Forgotten man has actually forgotten about the very existence of –– uh –– Priebus

Thursday, June 29, 2017

"Horrible Hybrid Creature of Myth and, Uh, Legend."

"I am here." –– Artemus Ward.

I am now in England. Wife and I left LA, we moved back, and we don't have CNN, in fact we don't have a TV and we don't have the Internet and we don't have a landline and we don't have a sofa and we don't even have a bed, we're sleeping on a mattress on the floor inside the empty bedframe and by the way we don't have a kitchen table.

What we have is a cottage crammed full of boxes of books.

I have become so frazzled that I have started referring to books as "boxes" and vice-versa. As if they're the same. I've even dreamt about packing and unpacking boxes.

Last night I dreamt my wife got caught shoplifting from Old Navy.

In those last days in LA, while the Mexican movers were emptying our apartment, we had the TV tuned to CNN all the time, now half-watching, now rapt, now not,  and"Big Jim" Comey was then the hot topic. (Who is there now for me to share a joke with?)  In those days with the movers agreeing with us that this man Trump was peeling off badly awry and the world was gone cockeyed.

When we got to England I was garbling to everybody with great feeling through babbling lips about "Big Jim," "Bob" Meuller, that damn Bannon, Jeffrey Toobin, bad godawful Jeffrey Lord, excellent Don Lemon, Kushner that chinless fortunate son, shining Buddha mind Jim Ocasta and the beautiful quite exquisite Michelle Kosinski. Nobody in England knew what in durnation I was talking about exactly and conversely I didn't know who Theresa May and Jeremy Corbyn were. I'm still not quite sure.

Absent CNN I am not up-to-date on the daily hourly vital battle against OVERCOMBER DON  –– I am also in the dark about the Real Housewives of New York –– and all I get is occasional updates garbled from my wife' –– who can trust that lousy shoplifter –– or from visits to the hotel bar down the street to use their wi-fi. I buy a two pound cup of tea for the privilege, but when I've drunk one cup I go up and quite brazenly ask for another cup of hot water and wring more tea out of the same exhausted teabag.

Like Joe Gould, who wrought tomato soup from ketchup sachets in Greenwich Village.

Today our genial waiter-cum-bartender asked me, "Had a relaxing day so far?"
I hemmed and hawed, considered returning the smalltalk, but preferred to consider the question literally. I remarked, "I don't think I've had a relaxing day in my life."

Then I sat down and watched the Amoeba website with great avidity. It was the Melvins discussing "What's In My Bag".

Who says I have lost my edge.
Who says I have lost my way.

All this is prologue to the following incisive political commentary:

Pathetically scouring the "statistics" page of Blogger I reread one of my old titles from this site, apparently my most popular article, yet nevertheless I misread it. I thought that "Bannon" said "Barron." That "gave me pause".


Gruesome mirror image.
Sinister doubling motif.
Imagine for a moment if one day Barron Trump married Steve Bannon. He'd become Barron Bannon.

Barron Bannon!

What more creepy hybrid hippogriff, the warped brainchild of Scylla and Charybdis both!,  from the thwarted blasted destroyed diseased mind of a bona fide madman, can be imagined?

Barron Bannon!

("Bruce Banner".)

("Bruce Banner is the Hulk. Barron Bannon is something quite else.")

[Another question: is this what passes for political satire in this neck of the woods?]