I have a request.

I received an e-mail from a reader who fled left New Jersey with his wife and young daughter a couple years ago and relocated to North Carolina. (Given the state of the State, there is a lot of that going around these days.)

Anyway, his wife used to sport a “Mile 0” sticker on her car. It was a depiction of the Mile Marker “0” sign that one sees at the terminus of the Garden State Parkway in Cape May. Turns out her car was totaled, and with it went the sticker. He would very much like to get a replacement for her.

If any of you live down that way, I would appreciate it if you could tell me where one might be able to buy such an item. I called a couple places that I thought might be promising (The Great White Shark, a cool store on the Mall in Cape May, and the Exit Zero* Store located in the Congress Hall Hotel in Cape May) and came up dry.

If you can help me help a Jersey EX-Pat help his spouse, I’d appreciate it.

Thanks.

* There is no “Exit Zero” on the Parkway – just so you know.

For the past week or so I’ve written a fair amount about pigs and assholes. Perhaps I’m caught up in some kind of cognitive loop, or maybe it’s just a coincidence that I feel compelled to note that it is extremely difficult for me to conjure up an image of a more obnoxious, loudmouthed, profoundly stupid person than this perfectly awful waste of oxygen.

Everything … everything … this loathsome moron says contains about as much useful information as does a beer fart. If you have the stomach to watch the clip, pay attention to when, in the course of explaining that the September 11 attacks were an inside job, she says, “It’s the first time in history that fire melted steel!” Actually she says that a couple times. Unbelievable.

I gather that she is pretty well paid for her obnoxious dumbshittery, which suggests that there are numerous people who think she is bright and/or funny. The cheers and applause from her studio audience when she is at her most obnoxious and stupid seem to suggest as much.

And that, dear friends, is a gottdamned shame.

**”Ignoranus” describes a person who is ignorant and and asshole. I didn’t coin the term, but I wish I had.

BEHOLD!

He wants to build a fifty foot robot in his likeness that would walk around the Las Vegas desert shooting laser beams.

I booshit you not.

Dear Republicans in my Congressional District,

I’ve received several letters (actually two) inquiring about our mobilization plan for the congressional elections in 2008.

Seeing as how there are only twenty-five of us in this District and that we are spread across parts of three counties and parts of sixteen municipalities, and seeing as how the chances of each of us getting hit in the head with a piece of space junk far exceed the chances of us ever voting this Waste of Space out of office, I suggest that rather than wasting our time worrying about congressional elections, we get together every third Wednesday to catch a flick and maybe have a couple beers afterwards.

Otherwise, we could continue to hold our regular monthly meetings in my second cousin George’s Buick Roadmaster Station Wagon.

Sincerely,

Jimbo

Recently my friends Christina and Dash threw a big shindig for which Dash roasted a pig and posted pre-and post pig roasting pictures here. I like pork, but I know I would not have been able to eat any of that pig, even though I am certain it would have been delicious. I couldn’t eat it because it still looked like a pig.

About twenty years ago, a friend invited me to a huge annual party at his farm in Pennsylvania. The main attraction was to be the pig roast. He has a large farm, so there was plenty of room in back of the house to build a large fire (I seem to think it was in a bit of a pit) over which he set up a spit large enough to hold a pig that had to weigh anywhere between 150 and 200 pounds. To me, it was a bigass pig.

As I recall, Mr. Pig was skewered and put up on the spit something like 24 hours prior to when it was to be eaten, and it was ceremoniously carried to the fire pit. (Note to the pig roasting cognoscenti: I may have the pig weight and the cooking time wrong. I’m not a pig expert, and I’m doing this from beer-soaked memory, so please cut me some slack.)

The guests were taking turns, throughout the night, keeping the fire hot and turning the spit with a crank equipped with a ratchet-type gizmo that allowed it to be turned a bit, then turned a bit again after a few minutes. The fire keeping and pig turning was obviously an integral part of the festivities, as was beer drinking.

Wanting to fit in with the other guests (lots of farmers) in ways other than beer drinking, I took a late-night turn at putting wood on the fire, and eventually it became my turn to spin Mr. Pig on the spit. Each time I turned the spit, Mr. Pig’s ears would flop around. I pretended that watching the ear flopping and his now-almost blackened skin didn’t bother me. In fact, after a while, I managed to convince myself that it really didn’t bother me.

Later in the day when it came to eat, I was encouraged to get on line to take a slice off Mr. Pig’s ass, before the host would take Mr. Pig off the spit and cut him into more manageable pieces.

There was no way I could cut a slice off Mr. Pig’s ass and eat it, nor was there any way I could eat any of the meat even after it had been sliced and put on a platter. All I could think of was Mr. Pig’s ears flopping as I turned the spit.

I know you’re thinking ”Yo, Jimbo. That is really crazy. Where the hell do you think pork comes from? Sheesh!”

I know it’s not a rational position, but it’s just that not having grown up on a farm, I am accustomed to seeing “pork” (not “pig meat”) on a Styrofoam tray wrapped in clear plastic and bearing a supermarket price tag. I don’t much like to think about the pig it came from. The same is true for beef and chicken as well. I like it sliced and wrapped in plastic.

I think if I couldn’t get those things in plastic, I could (and likely would) become a vegetarian.

Oh, and don’t even get me stared about seafood.

On Sunday, I finally decided that I would resume walking in the morning, given that the most nasty of the cold symptoms has finally gone away. My ears are still plugged up by some sort of head glop (and it is driving me more than a little bit nuts), but I figure that if I waited for that to clear up, my legs might atrophy.

So, with that, I headed out the door, eager to greet the morning, but particularly mindful of my diminished hearing. While walking, I wasn’t thinking of blogging or anything in particular for that matter, but then I came upon a local bus stop and saw THIS DISGUSTING SIGHT.

What made it even more gross was that THIS was a mere ten paces from the filth.

My grandmother (rightly or wrongly) used to housebreak dogs by rubbing their noses in their shit. Maybe that’s what ought to be done to the pigs who made this mess.

Farookin’ swine.

Dear Diary,

OMFG! What a totally awesome week, but I sure broke my award-winning SPEAKER ass getting important things done! I’m glad I found some time, a bottle of Cristal and a bit of decent herb so I can unwind and commit this important stuff to paper for future historians.

Being really smart and the SPEAKER in the House, I know that something has to be done about Mr. Stooooooopid’s war. He obviously has no idea what he is doing, and neither does that General Petrooney (or whatever his name is). “Surge?” Sounds to me like the shit Rosa uses to wash my underwear.

Anyway, everybody knows that President McHitlerburtonchimpymissionaccomplishedrunkcollegefratboydrugaddledmoron is a fascist dooofus and that General Petrooney (or whatever his name is) is just another one of those awful military “yessir” stooges who dresses himself up like a goddamned Christmas tree. (OMG, is this some great weed, or what?) Anyway, I figure that it’s time I put an end to this war. It need’s a brilliant woman’s touch.

So, a couple of us got together and drafted this totally awesome funding bill. (Memo to self: That guy Obey is a friggin’ weirdo. During our meetings, he never once looked at my ass. He’ll pay for that.) Anyhooooo, we put together this totally awesome bill that contains (what the hell did the lawyers call them?) — benchmarks! Yeah, that’s it – benchmarks. If the Iraqis don’t meet the benchmarks, WHAMMO, no more money! War over! Snap City!

I wanted to make one of the benchmarks that everyone in the Iraqi Army had to be able to recite all the lyrics to all Joan Baez’s songs in three months, but Jack Murtha said that the American people would realize what we were up to and, besides, he prefers Pete Seeger. He said I shouldn’t worry about the benchmarks though, because the Iraqis will never meet them, because they are fundamentally expendable douchebags. Jack really knows about this stuff.

Sooooo, I bring this totally awesome bill to the Democratic Caucus, and I find out that some of members don’t want to sign it!! WTF??? Several of them said shit like, “I don’t give a shit about the war (but I support the troops), but what’s in this bill for me?”

I decided that I’d have to wait to deal with these disloyal pricks in the future, because I had some history to make here.

Good goddamned thing I’m the SPEAKER in the House and that I have a fantastic ass, because I was able to persuade just about all of them to sign on.

The easy part was the money. I just told our guys to pony up a shitload of money for stuff like spinach, peanuts, oysters and Christ knows what else. Nooooo problem. It’s just money.

But, there were still some holdouts who claimed that they don’t “do” spinach, peanuts, or oysters. Here’s what I had to promise these sons-a-bitches.

Do you believe it, Dear Diary? Jack Murtha gave me a hard time in the end. I guess he knew I really needed his support, the brilliant guy that he is. I had to promise him that he could actually touch my cootchie! (Excuse me, but eeeewwwww). After all, we’re talking about the Pelosi Cootchie here, an Historic Coochie, goddammit! But, I said OK, because the good news is that by next week Murtha will have forgotten everything.

The Jersey Delegation was a royal pain in the ass too. One of them said, “Yo! Friggin’ peanuts? Are you friggin’ kiddin’ me? Do I look like Jimmy Carter here?”) The negotiations were rough. First, they wanted me to “dress” up like one of the Bada Bing! Dancers and do a pole dance for the next meeting of the Jersey Caucus. I agreed with that, because I do have a show-stopping ass and great tits, but was that enough? Nooooooo!! They also wanted me to service them like the Bada Bing! Girls service Tony and crew. I declined, but if I thought the bill was absolutely veto proof, I would have agreed.

We finally agreed that I would dress up like Carmela Soprano (I think I’d be an ass-kicking blonde), and at the next Caucus they could all wear ginny tees and say shit like, “Yo, Carm! Da friggin’ pasta’s cold!”) Those Jersey guys are a hoot! LOL.

The New York Delegation was easier. All I had to do to get their votes was to promise to dress up like a schoolgirl – you know, pigtails, white blouse, short plaid skirt, anklets and patent leather shoes? No problemo. I’ve already got a few of those outfits (Ted Kennedy likes them). Of course, they insisted that I don’t wear any panties. I’m OK with that, because of my fantastic ass and all.

OMG, being the SPEAKER in the House is totally awesome. I get to make goddamned history, and it’s totally goddamned awesome.

Vol 1
Vol 2
Vol 3
Vol 4
Vol 5
Vol 6
Vol. 7

The more things change …….,

The more they remain the same.

Following the White House’s announcement of the firing, Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid stated, “This is just another outrageous example of Bush’s Imperial Presidency. We intend to exercise our oversight function, and I am calling for immediate hearings to get to the bottom of this. I want the President and Rove under oath.”

Developing.

PRS Operatives have again managed to obtain the contents of a telephone answering machine – this time it’s the answering machine of former Senator, Almost President and Global Warming Huckster Al Gore.

Let’s press the “Play Messages” button shall we?

BEEEEEP
Hello Mr. Gore. This is Vito the tailor speaking. I’m sorry, but I just could not let your suits out any more. This is the third time, and there is no material left to work with. I think it’s time that you consider buying yourself some new ones. Please stop by the store any time to pick up your old suits.
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BEEEEEP
Hello. This is O.J. Do you know where I can buy murder offsets? You can reach me at the Sunset Valley Country Club.
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BEEEEEP
Mr. Gore, this is John Tate from the Tennessee Electric and Gas Company. I’m calling about your last three gas and electric bills, which remain unpaid. The total on the three bills is $165,867.43. We noticed that you have been spending quite a bit of money on carbon offsets. Do you think you could spend some money on a gas and electric bill offset? If we don’t received payment in full in ten days, we will be forced to shut off your gas and electric service. Have a nice day.
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BEEEEEP
Hi, this is Jack Gilbert over at Nashville Cadillac. I swear we’ve tried just about everything, but we cannot make your Cadillac Escalade look like a Prius. You can stop by and pick up your vehicle any time between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m.
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BEEEEEP
Hey shithead, this is Vito the tailor again. I just checked my answering machine and received your message. No, I was not calling you a “fat bastard”. I simply told the truth, which is that I could not let your suits out any further. Oh, and I don’t much appreciate being called a “dago prick”. Don’t bother coming by the store, because I’m burning your friggin’ tent-sized suits. Oh, and one more thing — My cousin Carmine might be stopping by to pay you visit, asshole.
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BEEEEEP
Dude, Alec Baldwin here. Great seeing you at Spielberg’s party. Hey listen: If anyone is thinking about making a movie of your life story, I think I’m a natural for the part of playing you. I’m sorta fat, I’m kinda stupid, and I can crinch up my face just like you do when you really get crazy during a speech. Hey! Listen to this – really. “HE PLAAAAYYYYED ON OUR FEARS!!!” Do I have that shit down, or what. Call me, babe; we’ll do lunch.
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BEEEEEP
Hey Dickhead. Hillary here. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m running for President. Testifying before the House and Senate on Global Warming? You? Are you shitting me? Let me tell you something, Al. You keep up this headline-grabbing bullshit, and I’ll release the picture of you playing stinky finger with that Dancer named Ralph. Oh yeah, Al. I’ve got the pictures. Don’t screw around with me, asshole.
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