Tragedy strikes small towns everyday. Bodies dredged up from the river. Someone’s mother having had one too many wild nights. Children needing a transplant and the only comparable donor is an Uncle who does not believe parts r just parts. Yet, there is a humourous light on the horizon. Everyone shout, ‘back in the U.S.S.R…..you don’t know how lucky you are!’ Today in, Anywho, Wherethefuckarewe, God Bless this Mess, America, I am allowed to hold hands with my spouse of many years in public and only received a handful of scuffs and glares. Today, I suppose the gay community should deem itself lucky.
Yo, Mother Russia what have you got to say for yourself:
…law passed with near unanimous support by Russian lawmakers and signed by President Vladimir Putin in June. It bans the “propaganda of nontraditional sexual relations” and imposes fines for providing information about the gay community to minors.
Guess Mother hasn’t had her morning cup of octane grade Vodka yet! Let’s have a check in with our correspondent down south of the Mississippi line:
‘Anita? Anita? Anita Bryant are you there? Come in!’ Yes, well it seems Anita has found another Russian defector seemingly going unnoticed as, Phil Robertson from the financially prudent and trailer park ladden series, DUCK DYNASTY!
“…a man’s ass can’t compare to a woman’s vagina!…”
Thank you Phil for setting us straight on what is deemed ‘beautiful and loving’ in a redneck’s eyes.
Phil did receive a huge like from a huge fan: Sarah Palin
“I can see Russia from my kitchen window and I know they hate those ‘Gays'”
In the midst of these domino effects readying the world for more humanly decay, is a lone bright star.
Billie Jean King! As a child of the eighties, Billie had been the era’s Ellen. Fortunately, Billie has not sold out and devoted her life to giving prizes to a public that not too long ago would have strung her up by her tennis shoe laces.
Don’t Boycott the 2014 Olympics set to take place in Sochi! Send every light in the loafers, rainbow studded, rugged and fleet of foot gay and lesbian you can find.
Who’s leading this pack of gender benders? Ms. Billie, of course. This woman scared the shit out of many snot faced kids. Not by her simple ‘I am who I am’ attitude but by her prowlness on the court.
She still looks like she could kick some ass. Simply put Russia you have been checkmated with a big old lesbian…there should be an Olympic medal for that.
Though we are proud of Ms. King’s representation of the LBGT community. It is important to note that many Russians when drinking Vodka and eating Potato Stew and thinking about those ‘gays’…can become violent with and ugly. God only knows they are ugly enough without bouts of misdirected anger.
Therefore, we should send Billie off with an oldie but American goodie:
Billie, don’t be a hero, don’t be a fool with your life
Billie, don’t be a hero, come back and make me your wife
And as Billie started to go she said keep your pretty head low
Billie, don’t be a hero, come back to me
Local researchers have unmasked the horrible ,horrible and completely horrible truth to C.O.P.D! It is not caused by years of smoking due to an anxiety disorder produced by living with someone who is in dire need of psychotropic medications and with whom you find the need to sing ‘King of Anything.’
No, the Chronic Obstruction of Pacifier Disorder is directly caused by post nasal drip!
My father! The man who has perfect pitch when it comes to being right and the person directly linked to persons wanting to drink and/or smoke in his presence…due to his need to allow you to share in his opinion.
“What are the symptoms?”
*At first you will smoke like there is no tomorrow during a debate with persons who believe the are always right. Possibly a discussion on black athletes and their pay scale. Then slowly you will feel the need to stuff you emotions. Shoving them so deep into the crevices of everything that feels right. Eventually, this baggage will have no where to go but out. Typically the only way out is through…the nasal cavity. Similar to a leaky faucet that can never be fixed.
3.This years strain of New Hampshire Bronchitis has been located in the small town of Canterbury! An elderly man there…one which will not be named due to his direct threat of tossing catholic guilt around, has announced to his family that his bronchial tubes are swollen. The swelling has been caused by Christmas decorations! Basically, he is allergic to Christmas!
This senior to a wealth of useless knowledge will go down in the annals of regurgitated history for the following discovery:
To remain completely anti-social in regards to physical and mental health one most watch the Weather Channel continuously while basking in the vacant taste of black tea. Sipping slowly thru a facial mask.
If the subject at hand feels the need to have intercourse metaphysically with the outside world…gently crack open the shut in windows to the house of righteousness. Extend the left hand…fold down all but one finger and with the middle digit raised high…test the winds of change…sleep soundly in the knowledge that only the good die young.
Uptown got it’s hustlers. The Bowery got it’s bums. 1600nd Pennsylvania avenue got big Uncle Sam the Pimp. He’s a smooth taklin’ son of a gun. Yup, he big and mean as a man can come. But he stronger than the man who got put on the cross. And, when the bad politicians gather at night…you know they all call Uncle Sam ‘Boss’.
Mr. Keepin Up Jones:
Why is that?
And they say:
You don’t tug on Superman’s cape
You don’t spit into the wind
You don’t pull the mask off that old Lone Ranger
And you don’t mess around with Uncle Sam the Pimp
Mr. Keepin Up Jones:
You don’t say? What’s the story behind that?
Mrs. Uninsured America:
Well outta south swamps come a country boy. He say I’m lookin’ for a man named Sam the Pimp. I am a pool-shootin’ boy by name ‘a Willie McCracker. But down home they call me Dim. Yeah I’m lookin’ for the king of 1600 Street. He drivin’ a drop top Cadillac! Last week he took all my money and it may sound funny but I come to get my money back!
And everybody say Jack don’t you know…’bout theU.S. government?
Mr. Keepin Up Jones:
Yo’ the Big Brother…hear tell homies stay away from him!
Mrs. Uninsured America:
Well, Dim, come boppin’ in off the street! And when the cuttin’ was done the only part that wasn’t bloody was the soles of the big man’s feet!
And you better believe there come another kind of story when big Dim hit the floor! Now they say, you don’t shit where you eat even with diamonds on the soul’s of your feet.
Yeah, all the big Dim’s in this world…they got their big brimmed hats but no telling who’s got their back. Seems it’s not hustling people that’s strange to me or you. It’s the two piece baby kissing political tailor-made drone that looks like Uncle Sam in a fool’s suit.
We are pleased to let you know that the Affordable Care Act/Healthcare.gov./Obamacare is designed to help those directly inflicted by the poverty level. For the most part, persons just like you.
Hard worker, middle class, middle-aged and middle American who can’t get a break. Though it has taken many two full weeks to apply for this new way of putting an old spin on screwing the country…we regret to inform you that you are exempt.
Understand that exempt does not mean you cannot partake in emergency room health care! Care that is put off until the bitter end because you cannot pay the mortgage and a hundred and fifty dollar bill from a doctor’s visit. Be assured that if you break a leg, lose a limb and/or find yourself knocking on death’s door you cannot be denied treatment.
Later on, however, when the ER bills become too much somebody make come and take your home.
We would like to suggest you apply for state assistance when looking for healthcare but alas, New Hampshire does not partake in that kind of kindness.
Thank You for paying the IRS on time and building a better America for someone else.
Please refer to our frequently asked questions….
If it is up and running!
Mr. and Mrs. Obamacare America!
While we have your attention please do not forget the following:
Ruth — This is the final notification of your member status before tonight’s FEC fundraising deadline.
There had been a small town in Northern New England. So tiny it seemed…that when one shut a door another one opened!
Butta, a very unsatisfied Diva ’bout ten years old, had been as plain as the donuts that filled her soul. She was naughty, not nice. And, for the most part, if the ship of fools needed a captain, even her parents would recommend her for the role. It could also be said that Butta lived a life almost beyond her parent’s means. Her parents had become so accustomed to make Butta’s obscure wishes true that they feared to refuse her a thing.
Many times, Butta insisted on traveling. For that is what little Princess’s without a kingdom do. They travel. However, Butta would reprimand her father anytime they visited the same old drabby part of the countryside. She wished to see things new and fresh. To make matters worse, Butta’s father began purchasing high-end toys. Toys only found on the Isle of Make Believe. Mr. Butta had been fortunate have made a fake fortune selling used cars. Had he been any other meek and blue collared soul Butta’s unending appetite would have surely put him in the land of poverty-stricken but happy fools.
One day while traveling to partake in the Festival of Spoiled Children somewhere north of the northern most county line: Butta had spotted an elderly woman, ’bout forty, wearing a new pair of Ugs. Screaming, crying and out an out pitching a tizzy, Butta would no longer stand for the restraints her father put her in and ran down the cobblestone street only to tackle the older woman. Mr. Butta stood in awe as Butta and the Elder rolled about on the dusty sidewalk. The two had somehow become one. And, within an instant, Butta emerged from the mud fest clutching the coveted Ugs.
In shame and disbelief that to reprimand a tot with a quick spank is now consider child abuse, Mr. Butta had no choice but to buy the woman and her prized boots off.
As the snow turned to muck and muck to flower, Mr.and Mrs. Butta found themselves with a house full of guests. Family and friends had come from all around to join in the local Mud wrestling show the town put on every April 1st.
One distant cousin in particular had arrived, the forever smiling Towanda. She had been Butta’s age and the folks had hoped some mindless play on the internet unsupervised would do their daughter some good. In truth everyone had high hopes that this new kinship would put an end to Butta’s life of misfit desires and moments of 10 going on 30.
As the adults were preparing for the festival’s cow tipping and mud pie contests, a shriek could be heard from far and wide. Running into the den it has been said, that Towanda had almost lost her face to Butta’s misguided ideals.
“It is much nicer than mine! I want it,” bellowed Butta. With much struggle for all the adults had had their wet suits on already; Towanda’s face was pried from Butta’s grasp.
Later that night when the town had put itself to bed. Butta awoke to an elderly man looming above her tussled head.
“Are you that girl who bitches about her face?” demanded the wrinkled human prune.
“Yes, I don’t like it. It’s ugly!,” cried Butta.
“Well, quit your belly aching if you don’t like it get rid of it, Change it!”
“I can’t I was born with it!” stammered Butta.
The old man spoke with rusty nails in his voice, “Course you can fix it. I’ll show you how!”
Within the time it takes to forget you are wrong: The old man had smacked Butta in the head. So hard was the hit that the room began to seem very large. Indeed it did for both the old man and Butta were shrinking. Shriveling up until they both were the size of dust bunnies.
And as they say, the rest is her story!
Butta and the old man had managed to find their way into Towanda’s borrowed bedroom. Clutching onto an afghan made by Butta’s Aunt Rhoda the two managed to find their way to Towanda’s right ear.
“Come inside, I’ll show you the rooms!” announced the old man.
Shitty, shitty, bang, bang was all that Butta heard. Noises from a broken down factory or something similar to a meltdown had been all she could surmise.
The first door, however, seemed like a pottery palace. Quiet and smoothly run. It smelled of candy and gum. On the front of the door had been a sign:
The next door down had seemed even more delightful; birds were chirping, waterfalls were gushing and laughter seemed to be the product it produced. On the front of that door there had been a sign, as well:
“Wait, I see something and I smell an odd aroma!” quivered Butta.
Sure enough several footsteps down the hall there had been doors with caution tape and hazards signs posted on them. The smell was rancid yet there had been no noise. Not a sound coming from within the barren doorways.
‘Could this factory be shut down’ Butta thought to herself.
The old man had reached out to turn the knob on the first unforgiving door. A door with a sign that said:
With a single motion the door had willed itself open. Cobwebs, dead spiders and dust had covered what once was a room. The other doors in this hallway seemed all the same: dark, dusky and ugly!
“How different from the rooms in your factory, Butta. All the rooms filled with good thoughts were vacant and covered with slime. The rooms of bad thoughts were running with impeccable order!” asserted the old man.
“No wonder I’m such an ass,” proclaimed Butta. “I had been manufacturing such bad thoughts!”
It is told by the townsfolk that Butta fell back into a deep sleep that night. She somehow arose back in her bed with her parent’s concerned faces peering down.
“Where is the old man,” cried Butta.
Calming her with loving words her parents told her she must have had a nightmare for there was no old man.
Later that year, Butta and Towanda had started their own factory. A makeshift treehouse made of well wishes and dreams. They encouraged all who wandered to not be lost. They produced joy by giving back what they so freely had been given: laughter