My American Selfie

My American Selfie

How has it been forgotten

that it was once written

We the People

not

Fuck those People.

I take another bite of my pastrami sandwich and with a mouth full of deli mustard

out of nowhere, call out Touchdown!

This Sam Adams Octoberfest beer in a tall chilled pint glass

 just ain’t what I remember it to be. 

Right now my thoughts are all clouded memories. 

Right now my thoughts are all clouded memories.

And the bar is full of Americans who have

bitten the bullet

and now chew upon buckshot.

The over educated and morally decrepit

The lazy and enfantile feeling of entitlement

The socially conscious chokehold 

The conservative castration and the covert vulgarity

The politically correct scoliosis of our communal backbones.

The drama upon drama portrayed in HD and half priced

during the Happy Hour, where

extra large everywhere television screams

the nocturnal wet dream

of some scriptwriters demon seed.

And is it any wonder

that Hollywood catches the blame

is it any wonder that

so many people

no longer feel any shame.

As civility kamikazes down

upon the American constitution

and we pray for Congress to committ hari-kari with a Bowie knife.

A Smith and Wesson swan song  

for a Senator with Bud Lite on his breath, as

Lady Liberty blows the nation a soured kiss goodnight.

For love of God and Country

has got common sense

hanging by the neck

from a gold plated crucifix.

In a day and age where the commidification

of our creature comforts has become

the Frankenstein monster

of our modern times.

And we wait with baited oxy breath

for Mr. Negative Cashflow

to finally make

his ultimate overthrow,

as he belittles any and all success

not deemed by his online community

as America at its most absurd best.

And,

opinions like storm clouds

raining down toxic piss

a golden shower

of ego semantics

flooding over rivers engorged

the bloated livers of bipartisan geriatrics.

This P.T. Barnum president

and the American citizenry

still suckered after all these years

by the circus spectacle

and the alluring sounds

of the carnival barker,

barking.

No fortified construction strong enough

No architecturial feat creative enough

No corporation savy enough

to build that bridge

to help heal the divide

across the canyons forged

between the lifes  

of a cross section of a country gone rabid

on national pride.

It is as if America has

finally after all these years

let its schizophrenic sibling

that it has kept locked away, out

and she is now running naked, covered in

her own feces through the food court of

the local mall.

I stop ranting for a moment to catch my breath and

admire the fall leaves changing their color

and a passerbye calls me a snowflake

for watching the skies.

My brain vibrates as I look for escape

and formulate a thought about

the difference between

peace of mind

and giving someone else

a piece of your own

mind.

Now more than ever we must read between the lies

and pay greater attention to

what we are actually doing with our lives

For as we reword words into victimship

and over use termns like nazi and fascist

we fall prey to the cryptic crossword puzzle

of wondering how will we truly ever explain

the impending madness and escalating craze.

We must be wary of time wasted

monologing in close company,

of too much time spent

wording off against

the vaccous vampires that we have allowed

to invade our private moments.

Be wary of wasting time 

unconciously unaware of

the fleeting moments spent

as a family together.

And to my wifes chagrin,

in front of my teenage son

I suck out the last bit of nitrous

from the Reddi Wip can.

For my American Selfie

is screaming

into the camera

at myself

at all of us

for I am tired and turned around

as this nation is bought

and told,

to pander to maniacs,

while I am left to ponder

where it is

that we are

all at.

How many U.S. Senators does it take to sink a nation?

Senator from the mediocre state of Louisiana John Kennedy, Senator Roger Wicker from the mentaly challenged state of Mississippi, Senator Jim Inhofe from the inferior state of Oklahoma, Senator Tim Scott from the pseudo state of South Carolina and Senator Bob Corker from the intolerate state of Tennessee were all sitting in an inflatible life raft just off the coast of what up until a few hours before had been the east coat of the United States. Each man was attempting to get cell service for their phones but alas, there was no connection to be found. The men looked upon one another with eyes glazed over in shock. One senator passed a box of tic tacs around. Senator Corker used a black comb to fix his hair just in case there might be press whereever there boat landed. Somebody in the boat whispered something about global warming. The rest of the senators ssshhhh’ed him. Jim Inhofe said that the next person to say anything about global warming would be thrown overboard. All eyes fell upon Senator Tim Scott for he is an Afro-American. Senator Wicker thought about asking Senator Scott to sit in the back of the boat. He remembered when that was tolerated in his country. Senator John Kennedy started crying about global warming being a Chinese conspiracy while at the same time he wrapped himself up against the cold in a blanket made in China. They all agreed that the Lesbians and the Democrats were to blame. That Chuck Schumers farts were responsible for the melting of the polar ice caps. That when the life boat sprung a leak in its seams, the unholy name of the Clintons was used in an attempt to clog up the hole. And when a penguin on an ice cube drifted by, giving the senators one and all, the middle finger; well that was when Senator Tim Scott said “fuck that bitch Taylor Swift, too!”

Lindsay Graham and the Girl Scout Cookie scam.

It was one of the funniest  and most heart warming scenes I had ever seen.   A thousand plus Girl Scouts protesting on the steps of the United States Capital in Washington D.C.; in unison yelling for the head of Senator Lindsay Graham; telling him in no shortbread of language, to fuck off.  This was, one of those now, few and far between moments in modern times that made me feel proud to be an American.  I just stood there watching in awe, feeling no need to film what I was seeing.  Baring witness was enough. 

Very quickly I began to wonder what all the fuss was about, so I stepped up to one of the Girl Scouts on the edge of the crowd and tapped her on the shoulder.   The young girl spun around, eyes blazin, her little brown beret flying off her head, “WHAT!”, she screamed.  I stepped back to pick up her beret from the ground, then raised my hands to show that I came in piece and meant no harm.  I slowly handed her back her beret, which she snatched like some ferel animal.  This Girl Scout was pissed off and I felt like another middle aged white guy caught in the headlights of female rage.  Sorry, I said, I didn’t mean to startle you.  I was just wondering what was going on here.  Why are all you Girl Scouts so upset with  Senator Lindsay Graham?  The Girl Scout looked at me, I could see the engines of anger churning behind her eyes.  No I was just about to apologise for bothering her when she blurts out, “You wanna know why we are so pissed off?  You really wanna know why?  Well that Motherfucker Lindsay Graham goes and orders like twenty cases of Thin Mints, half a dozen cases of Samoas, an entire truckload of Savannah Smiles, and another six dozen cases of do-si-dos and we are all thinking, Wow, what a great order and National is telling our troop that we may win the prize for the largest order this year and then you know what this asshole goes and does, he calls National, claiming that just because he is a U.S. Senator and persaonl friend of the President. that he is entitled to some sort of governmental discount.  So then our troop leader, just to be polite goes down to his office to explain in person to him that this discount was not possible.  And you know what that this southern geriatric goat does?” I just stood there nodding my head no; amazed at the colorful language of this modern day Girl Scout.  “Well that wrinkled piece of American ruin, he goes and tries to blackmail our troop leader, saying that if he doesn’t get the full discount, that he will cancel the order.  So our troop leader gets all angry, saying that the order has been placed and can’t be cancelled and she tries to explain once again that there are no discounts to be given and then this guy says, well then fine I am canceling my order and our troop leader says , that he can’t do that and he says well consider it done.  And then to top it all off he has his security throw her out of his office; standing there in his doorway waving at her, saying bye bye with this self satisfied good ol’ southern boy smile on his face.  Now, when we all heard this from our troop leader we immediately thought fuck this guy.  There is no way that this motherfucker can be going around trying to get something for nothing from us Girl Scouts.  So we rallied the troops together and here we are to get our order filled and get paid.  Then we are going to stick those Samoas’ one by one right up his Senatorial ass!”  And with that she turned her attention back to the other thousands of the Girl Scouts, alle yes a blare, fists pumping in the air, chanting together… “1, 2,3,4…Lindsay Grahams a cookie whore! 5, 6, 7, 8 and well past his expiration date!”  I smiled, a true sense of American pride welled in my chest.  I raised my fist in solidarity and then started to look around in the hopes of finding a Girl Scout that I could score a box of Thin Mints off of.

Lanny Lancaster was born a loser.

Lanny Lancaster was born a loser.  With a large head and two lazy eyes, he was also mistakenly diagnosed with lupus.  The doctors had told Mr. & Mrs. Lancaster that their child was then and would forever be a lost cause.  Yet even though young Lanny had been branded a human leech from a young age, his parents still loved him enough not to purposely leave him on the footsteps of the local parish.  As Lanny grew, the town folk themselves had learned to disguise their laughing at Lanny, as laughing with Lanny.  Labelled by his nursery school teachers a moron, some mistook his liberal ways with toilet paper for just being lazy.  In Elementary school Lanny developed a lisp that left Lanny held back from graduating from 2nd to 3rd grade.  Lanny’s limited brain capacity also left him often as the last child chosen for either side during a kickball game.  But Lanny would just laugh it all off.  Lanny never felt lonely nor did he think of himself as a loser.  Actually Lanny lacked the ability to show any self reflection.  As a less than stable individual Lanny was often left alone but then again loved by many.  For who doesn’t have a soft spot in their heart for a boy named Lanny.  The calling to become a lawyer had lead Lanny to see the light.  To become a leader in the GOP would give him the power to enforce layoffs at the local labratory where a number of those townfolks who had laughed at Lanny now worked. 

              Lanny loved to use his leverage with the GOP to level the playing field with all of those who had called him a loser.  Yet even once he was elected as the Cabarrus County GOP chairman, Republicans in power still regarded Lanny as a born loser.  But, if this born loser could help lift the weight of the white mans burden above the heads of the liberal elite, well then the GOP would love themselves a large headed loser named Lanny with two lazy eyes and a slight lisp that made every word that came out of his mouth sound like a lie.

When Addison Mitchell McConnell the senior Republican Senator from the state of Kentucky awoke on Thanksgiving morning he immediately knew that something was amiss.

               When Addison Mitchell McConnell the senior Republican Senator from the state of Kentucky awoke on Thanksgiving morning he immediately knew that something was amiss.  The Senate Majority Leader had trouble rolling over in bed and when he finally was able to noticed that his wife Elaine was already up.  This seemed strange to Mitch, as he was usually the first to rise in the morning.  He believed firmly in the statement and every Republican victory would be due to his get up and go’ness.  But this morning Mitch was having trouble getting up and going.  Attempting to get out of bed lead to the Senator falling to the floor.  When he was able to set himself upright he did his best to walk to the bathroom down the hall.  A walk that usually took less then 10 seconds now seemed to take him 10 minutes. Bumping into the walls and tripping over the carpeting, Mitch felt drunk, unable to find his own footing.  Once in the bathroom Mitch then realized that he was staring up at the sink which was strange for a man who stood 5 feet 7 inches.  Mitch looked around for the bariatric shower stool that he used but found that he was unable to use his arms to reach out and move it.  Somehow or another in the next moment Mitch found himself standing upon the countertop of the bathroom sink.  There in the reflection of the mirror he no longer saw the handsome reflection of the Republican Senate Majority Leader, but that of what appeared to be himself, transformed overnight into a wild turkey.  Mitch screamed but all he heard was “gooble gooble, gooble gooble.”  He screamed again and again but still all that he heard come out of his own beak was “gooble gooble.”  Mitch began to frantically flutter his wings, causing him to fly into the bathroom mirror, cracking it then landing bewildered and scared on the bathroom floor.  Getting back on his turkey toes Mitch began running as fast as he could upon his new turkey legs back down the hall.  At the top of the stairs Mitch stumbled, throwing himself down the stairs and landed in the foyer before the kitchen with a thud.  He heard his wife Elaine call out to him, “Mitchell, dear are you ok?  Brett is here to help us slaughter the Thanksgiving turkey.”  Mitch waddled his turkey walk into the kitchen, his snood becoming a bright red, his turkey neck flapping side to side.  “Gooble Gooble Gooble,” said Mitch.  There in the kitchen Mitch found his wife Elaine accompained by the newly ratified Supreme Court Judge Brett “the can crusher” Kavanaugahyde.  “Oh my,” said Elaine, “it looks like our Thanksgiving turkey has gotten out of its cage.  Where is Mitchell now anyway?”  Elaine looked over at Brett who was busy sharpening his cutting knives.  “Well Brett I hate to hold you up and I do so appreciate you helping out with the decapitation of our holiday bird.  Why don’t you just go ahead with what you have to do.”  Brett smiled, his eyes glassed over from having just a few too many brews the night before.  “No problem Elaine, you just tell Mitch that I was by.”  And with that Kavanaugahyde sprung like a young lacrosse player across the kitchen counter, snatching the bewildered Senate Majority turkey up under his arm.  With his free hand he held the Republican turkey down upon the kitchen counter, then climbed on top of it, using his knees to pin down its wings.  Mitch squawked and squawked, attempting to flutter out from up the weight of the Judge.  Brett used one hand to cover the turkey’s mouth and with the other he raised up the sharpened kitchen knife.  With one quick swoop, Brett sliced the head of the Senate Majority Leader clear off.  As the blood from the decapitated head oozed into the kitchen sink and the body of the headless turkey squawked and flapped around the kitchen spraying Republican turkey blood everywhere, Elaine wondered out loud, “where the hell has that man gone off too? ”  Brett leaned back upon the kitchen counter, wiping the blood from his knife upon a kitchen towel engraved with the emblem of the skull and bones and asked Elaine, “so do you put beer in your stuffing?  I love stuffing.  You got any beer?”  The wife of the Senate Majority Leader opened the fridge and pulled out a Corona.  “Brett would you like a lime with it?”

Why Dallas Woodhouse believes he is the incarnation of Matt Dillon's character Dally Winston from The Outsiders

When Dallas Woodhouse the Executive Director of the North Carolina Republican Party since October 2015 was a young teenager he went to see the film version of the book, The Outsiders written by S.E. Hinton. Now, Dallas had never read the book, felt that reading was for pussies and well just a waste of time.  There was a whole world of squirrels and pigeons out there to shoot with his bb gun, so why waste time on fiction.

It was on a Friday afternoon in the end of March that Dallas’ friend Robert James, BJ for short, called him up and asked what he was doing that evening.  Dallas had no plans, so he said that he had no plans and asked if BJ had any plans.  BJ said that there was a new film out that he wanted to see and if was opening that night in the Old Majestic theater in downtown Raleigh.  Dallas said that if BJ bought the popcorn he would join him.  BJ said that Dallas was an asshole but that he would still by the popcorn.  Dallas knew that BJ would just be stealing the money from his own mothers purse anyway.  So what did it matter.  Young Dallas had a crush on BJ’s mother.  He thought she was a hotty.

That evening the two boys took the number 15 bus into downtown Raleigh.  Being out alone with no parents around was always a hoot for the two friends.  Mischief, petty shoplifting, and a whole lot of sugar would fuel their evenings together.  At the Old Majestic, the boys waited in line to buy tickets.  “What is the name of the film again?” asked Dallas.  “The Outsiders.” said BJ.

After a long wait, the boys got their tickets and their popcorn, their soda pop and malted chocolate balls.  They found seats up close to the screen as the theater was already almost completely full.  The boys giggled amongst one another, throwing popcorn into the hair of the girls sitting a few rows in front of them.

The house lights dimmed and the film began.  At first impression Dallas found the characters of the “Greasers” to be pathetic ugly losers and the “Socs” to be the kinda guy that he wanted to be.  Clean cut and good looking, nice cars and a pretty girl on their arm.  When the one Socs got stabbed by the Greaser played by Ralph Macchio, Dallas felt himself get angry.  It was not until the following scene where the characters of Ponyboy and Johnny go to find their friend Dallas Winston for help that Dallas flet his opinion start to change .

Dallas thought that this character was the coolest character he had ever seen in a film before.  A true American rebel with guts and good looks.  Just like he himself believed to have.  Every time the character of Dally came on the big screen, Dallas the young boy from North Carolina became transfixed.  In that infamous scene where Dallas Winston rolls over in the hospital bed, butterfly knife in hand, saying “let’s do it for Johnny man, do it for Johnny!” Dalls felt a chill go down his spine.  Later in the film, just before the rumble between the Greasers and Socs starts and Dally comes running through the rain shouting “don’t you know a rumble ain’t a rumble without me,” young Dallas clutch his fists together in anticipation and punched his friend BJ in the arm.  BJ just looked over at his friend leaning forward in his chair with his mouth wide open, popcorn falling out and nodded his head.  At the dramatic climax of the film where Dally meets his end, shot dead by the cops, Dallas felt an anguish of pain flow over him like he had never before.  The film had rocked his young world.        

            For days and weeks after the boys had seen The Outsiders, Dallas would slick back his hair and ask his friends to call him Dally.  He insisted to his mother that he had a distinct resemblance to the actor Matt Dillon who portrayed Dallas Winston in the film.  His mother just smiled at him and told Dallas to scoot on down to the market for some milk. His friend BJ just laughed and reminded Dallas that he had done the same thing after seeing Star Wars. How he had made everyone call him Han Solo and how he had claimed to look just like Harrison Ford.  Dallas told BJ to fuck off and just call him Dally.  And everytime anyone had asked him to do anything at all, Dallas always answered them by saying “let’s do it for Johnny man, do it for Johnny!”  For a long time people just stopped asking Dallas to do anything at all.  His own mother had grown so tired of this that she just went to the market for the milk herself. BJ grew bored with his friends behavior and started hanging out with a guy named Terrence who was new in town and owned an Atari 2600.

            Later in life, even as an adult, Dallas still asked all of his friends and girlfriends to call him Dally.  Till this day he had felt an affinity with the character of Dallas Winston.  A true rebel who would stand by his friends, through thick or thin, even when that could lead to death.  Now as the Executive Director of the North Carolina Republican Party, Dallas applied this same passion to his persuance of Republican values.  The liberals and the Democrats he saw as Socs, representing the spolied weak side of Americas golden dream.  The Greasers represented to him the true hard working blue collar Americans that made America great.  Dallas would do what ever it would take to win every rumble between the Republicans and the lying dirty cheaters of Democratic party.   And before every speech he gave or gathering of Republicans that he would hold in North Carolina, he would shout out, “let’s do it for Donnie, man! Do it for Donnie!”

           

Steve "The Mooch" Mnuchin and his little fat fists full of Hershey Kisses for Goyish Princesses

When Steve Mnuchin the 77th Secretary of the Treasury of the United States of America was a young boy he had spent his summers at Camp Chickawah located on Island Pond In Harrison, Maine.  Mnuchin grew up well to do and Jewish in New York City in the 1960’s.  It was during these long hot summers that Mnuchin’s parents Robert and Elaine would do what all well off Jewish parents did and ship their children off to a sleep away summer camp, somewhere far away.  These sleep away camps, (not to be confused by our gentile readers with concentration camps) were by Jewish law located at least a minimal 4 to 15 hours away from the home address of the parents.  This was to insure the most anxiety as possible for the children and quiet for the parents.   For those less fortunate Jews (there always are just a few), there were day camps located in a closer proximity to their homes.  Studies from that time showed that Jewish parents who sent their children to day camps rather than sleep away camps (which lasted a life affirming 8 weeks) were infinitely less happy with their own lives.  Robert Mnuchin was a wealthy business man, so he was more than happy to send young Steven and his older brother Alan to Camp Chickawah for those 8 weeks of summer bliss.   Robert and Elaine would have the “hired help” pack the boys things into large trunks and then have the trunks and the boys shipped north to Maine. 

         By their third year at Camp Chickawah both boys had become accustomed to the in’s and out’s of summer camp.  While Allan was good at sports, young Steven showed an aptitude for the arts and crafts.  The other boys found young Steven a bit on the girly side for wanting to spend his days doing pottery rather than playing baseball.  Steven would just shrug his shoulders and go off to make another ashtray.  When the other boys would pick on Steven for “throwing like a girl”, Allan would always step up for his brother saying “one day my brother will be able to buy and sell all of you putz’s like gefilte fish.”  The time that his bunk mates had given Steven a “flying wedgie” by hanging him on a nail by his underwear, suspending him over the ground till his underwear tore, was the only time though that younf Steven every let his bunkmates see him cry.  It’s just that the tearing of the underwear had burned the underside of his scrotum quite bad.  Luckily the Russian Jewish nurse in the infirmary was more then gentle while applying the vaseline salve to his young balls. 

         But what young Steven was most “famous” for at Camp Chickawah was for his way of borrowing something from a bunkmate or a friend and never returning it.  For this was young Steven dubbed the nickname Steven “The Mooch” Mnuchin.  Whenever another child received a care package from their parents or grandparents, The Mooch was the first one to be their bunk side as the child opened the package.  The Mooch would lean in over the box, eyeing everything inside.  “Oh, you don’t want that,” he would say. “You definetely don’t like that,” he would insist.  Just to get rid of him, his bunkmates would through some candy across the bunk for him to run after.  And that he did, scrambling across the floor for a few jelly beans, calling out, “that’s mine, mine all mine.”  During mealtimes The Mooch would make sure that the biggest portions were served to him by his counselors by saying “you know who my father is.”  The other kids would just role their eyes, for all their fathers were well known by everyone who was anyone at the camp.

And when that moment came when a care package would arrive for him and Allen, well one can imagine what happened.  The Mooch would pay off the biggest campers in the camp to guard his stash.  Offering them one all day gobstopper each and a peak at the nudie photos his father would sneak in the box for him and his brother, The Mooch had his security force well in hand.  But usually most of the other kids wanted nothing to do with The Mooch, especially when he received a package.  They would just leave him alone to horde his Tootsie Rolls and Hershey Kisses for himself.

         Yet the only persons The Mooch was known to share his hordes with were the young women who worked in the laundry house.  These were local girls from the area.  None were Jewish of course and all had flowing flaxen aryan hair, goyishe princesses.  From an early age Mnuchin always had a hard-on for the non-jewish women he encountered.  Only here at summer camp was he ever able to get up relatively close to one.  In the middle of the night he would sneak down to the laundry house, jimmy open the door with the swiss army knife that his Uncle Bernard had given his for his Bar Mitzvah and leave little chocolate suprises for the blonde laundry girls.  Too shy to ever talk to them, The Mooch prayed often on Saturdays that one day God would deliver him one for his own.  Years latte rafter becoming a powerful hedge fund manipulator and producer of some of Hollywoods shiitiest films he was able to buy two.  After his first divorce, The Mooch decided that he would take another, trade in a Heather for a Louise, for The Mooch there was little difference. One was just a little less worn around the edges.  For The Mooch loved the freshness of the forbidden fruit more than wrinkled up kosher dates.  And a blonde goyish trophy wife, is something every Jewish boy has dreamed of since after the end of WWII.