Wednesday, January 28, 2015

Top 10 Tricks For Enjoying Your Stay In NYC!

By Keith

10. Bring all of your money. The registers never stop ringing in New Amsterdam.

9.  Practice holding both hands above head for extended periods.

8.  Your immigrant cab driver holds two Ph.D. degrees. Please be respectful.

7.  Use best judgment when peeing in public spaces.

6.  Rats, pigeons, squirrels and racoons may be aggressive. No citations issued for kicking critters off-leash. Relax and enjoy.

5.  When in Manhattan, do not visit the “Holland Bar” located south of Port Authority Bus Terminal without escort.

4.  Only Boston has worse drivers behind the wheel.

3.  New York City is built upon a granite foundation that has higher mass per sq/in than, say, Kansas. Gravity is much more powerful. Bring comfortable footwear.

2.  Ray didn't invent pizza, after all.

1. If you say something, see something.

Tuesday, January 27, 2015

Tricksy Obamases!

You may remember D.W. Wilbur, owner of "Secur-Intel-Solutions" (motto: Find the Missing "E" and Get 10% Off Your Next Mall Cop!"). Wilbur (or Dee-Dubya, as our friend grouchomarxist calls him), apparently thinks Obama is after his Precious, and demands to know what the President has got in its pocketses.
D.W. Wilbur in undated file photo.
'Tricky' Barack 
During his presidency and throughout his political career former President Richard Nixon was derisively tagged by the liberal media as “Tricky Dick” for his supposed record of deceit and dishonesty.
You know, I hate to get nitpicky right out of the gate, but if you can't look at Richard Nixon and spot a crook, I doubt whether your mall cops will be any help at all in stemming the rash of napkin thefts at Sbarro.
 It was a nickname deserved or not that stuck with Nixon after his resignation from the presidency and into his forced retirement.
I suppose if we wanted to determine whether Nixon's infamy was deserved or not, we could review the circumstances that caused him to become the first and only president in American history to resign and enter a "forced retirement," but just as correlation does not imply causation, it would be equally wrong to assume that "cause" implies "effect."
Fast forward to the year 2015 and it would seem that the appellation “Tricky” would more appropriately fit the current resident of the White House, Barack Obama. In fact Obama’s record of deceit and dishonesty both precedes his taking up residence at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, and has continued unabated for six years.
My feeling is, if you're going for a "record of deceit and dishonesty" don't go for a "supposed" one like Nixon did, because that kind of wishy washiness is just going to earn you an asterisk in the record book.
Barack Obama’s entire career appears to have been one of deceit, from his denial of his close association with the anti-American ‘Reverend’ Jeremiah Wright to his friendship with domestic terrorist Bill Ayers. Barack Obama was dishonest about these relationships during his first campaign for the presidency and he has continued his many canards up to the present.
I was a little confused about 'Reverend' being in quotes, since Jeremiah Wright was indeed the Senior Pastor of his church for over thirty years, and holds two master's degrees and a doctorate, but then I realized, with all the deceit and dishonesty going on, it's probably like the Mafia, where everyone has a nickname (Barack "Tricky" Obama, Jeremiah "Reverend" Wright, Antonin "Big Tuna" Scalia).  Anyway, D.W. "Dee-Dubya" Wilbur delves into this tribal custom in greater detail in his forthcoming techno-thriller, A Clear and Present Canard.
During his 2008 campaign Barack Obama worked diligently at passing himself off as a moderate-to-just left of center politician, but certainly not the extreme leftist politician that he revealed himself to be once he took office. 
I'm wondering if Dee-Dub was born left-handed and his parents made him use his right, since I understand that can lead to a lifelong inability to tell one from the other.
During his brief conversation with Joe the Plumber he inadvertently let slip his true intentions to “spread the wealth” if elected. But his campaign along with a pliant news media quickly went to work to downplay this exchange.
Well, since the wealth hasn't spread, but continued its steady upward trajectory, maybe it was a misquote. I'm guessing Obama, learning that Joe was a plumber, advised him to "spread the cheeks" in order to produce a more awe-inspiring plumber's crack.  And while we're on the subject, why isn't it Joe "The Plumber"?  That's literally the most mobbed up sounding sobriquet this side of Tommy "The Butcher" Pitera and the guy can't get a couple of lousy scare quotes? Sic transit gloria mundi.
Once taking office Obama was quick to display his true ideology and agenda.
I remember that day. The leftist agenda lasted almost till lunch.
His continuous attacks on those who are successful remains unrestrained.
I can see why Mr. Wilbur is worried. When we first discovered him back in October, the website for Secur-Intel-Solutions, the counter-terrorism fantasy camp where he teaches future Days Inn security guards the Vulcan Nerve Pinch and the G.I. Joe Kung Fu Grip, had seen only 883 visitors. But now, three months later, it boasts a total of 1261! Admittedly, most of those are probably World O' Crap readers and Mr. Wilbur himself, but still, that kind of success is bound to bring on unrestrained attacks from the president.
 And he has forced a social agenda onto the military allowing openly gay individuals to serve, and to open front line combat units to women.
Which allowed Joni Ernst to campaign for Senate claiming to be a "combat veteran," so the joke's on Obama.  If Iowa is smart, they'll elect an openly gay vet as their next Senator and really stick it to the president.
Rushing to claim ‘symbolic parenthood’ to Trayvon Martin, the president also sent White House representatives to attend the funeral of Michael Brown, an eighteen-year-old thug killed after committing a robbery and then attacking a police officer, and inviting the fraud Al Sharpton to be a trusted White House advisor. Obama’s racial politics are obvious.
Unlike Dee-Dubya's racial politics, which are cloudy with a chance of meatheads.
From free ‘ObamaPhones’ and ‘Cash for Clunkers’, to ‘ObamaCare’ and now ‘Free Community College for everyone’, Barack Obama has engaged in a spending binge on an unparalleled level and has waged an ongoing war against “the rich” at every opportunity.
And yet the deficit continues to shrink!  It must have been to exposed to that same mysterious fog that so tragically altered Grant Williams, and if things go on like this, it will one day find itself trapped in the basement of the Treasury building, battling to the death with a common household spider.
Fig 1: 2015 Federal Deficit, seen at right in burlap tunic. Source: Congressional Budget Office.
While his liberalism was obvious for all to see in 2008, no one could foresee just how extreme his liberalism would become apparent once he took office. This he was determined to conceal from the American people.
And yet they re-elected him, even after he took office and revealed his previously hidden "true ideology and agenda," which I guess means the American people are Communists, morons, or we just really like magic tricks.
Barack Obama has indeed concealed many tricks up his sleeve since taking office, and the next two years promise to be a continuation of the same. Tricky indeed.
There's a slim chance that American democracy can survive twenty-four months of non-stop presidential card tricks, but if Obama ever sees that ad in the back of Mystery in Space comics which promises to unlock the ancient secret of ventriloquism...
We're doomed.

Thursday, January 22, 2015

Guest Post: The Unexpected Bass Meets The Cat with No Name

By Hank Parmer
[Cover graphic by KWillow]

First, you must understand that I knew cats could swim.

When I was a young boy, on several occasions we took our cat with us when my family stayed the weekend with my grandmother at her house on the lake. Charley was a tawny-orange, tabby-striped tomcat, neutered, although that didn't seem to have toned down his pugnacity by the slightest degree. He was a raffish beast with notched ears, a crooked jaw and a missing lower canine. So whenever he purred, he'd drool, giving him an often fatally deceptive appearance of total idiocy.

I suspect the lake was Charley's idea of a little slice of Paradise, complete with all the delicious, crunchy fish heads he could eat. One day, after watching us intently for a while as we cavorted in the lake, he decided he'd give it a try, too. He waded out into the water, hesitantly, until he was about chest-high, then a small wave lifted him up and he began to swim. He dog-paddled in circles for a bit, until I think it came to him what an un-feline thing he was doing, and he returned to shore.

But the secret was out. And as I recall, he did this several more times on succeeding visits.

In those summers before home air conditioners were widely available (or at least, within our price range) my family often spent weekends out at the lake house with my maternal grandmother, Greyson, and her second husband. One of the best things about this old farmhouse she owned -- which sat close by the lake, having missed by about five feet of elevation being inundated when that section of the Cumberland River was dammed -- was the beach.

Before the lake was created, a wide two-lane driveway ran from the main highway between stone walls, across a creek, past the farmhouse to the antebellum mansion which was set back in the woods about a quarter-mile away. That now-submerged avenue was probably the best swimming area on that entire lake. Instead of the usual mud, rocks, roots, beer bottles and cans of your typical TVA lake bottom, we had a gently inclined pea-gravel surface on which you could walk a considerable distance out into the water before it was over your head. And it was exclusively ours, since except for a clear section by the lake the rest of that roadway was by then choked with privet hedge and honeysuckle. My Grandma knew how to pick 'em.

The farmhouse itself was nothing fancy, just three main rooms: a living room/kitchen, two bedrooms, and a minuscule bathroom with an antique cast-iron tub. It had a big screened-in side porch overlooking the lake, including a small breakfast nook. And a stone fireplace in the living room which always smoked at first, no matter how wide you opened the damper, until the fire was hot enough to generate a proper updraft. (As we later discovered when we needed to replace some siding, the house had accreted around the original log "purchase cabin", which probably dated back to the early 1800s.)

One summer, when I was 12, I spent a couple of weeks there, just me with my grandmother and her second husband and their elderly dog, Frisky. And a white cat which had lately decided to start hanging around the place, why, I have no idea, since as far as I know, neither of my grandparents had ever been cat people, and I'm fairly certain they didn't feed him. I think (hope) he came from a nearby farm. But for whatever reason, he attached himself to me, and would follow me around all day.

In the morning, while I waited -- oh, an eon or two -- for the adults to get up and have their coffee, rather than watching the Farm Report on the only TV channel available in what was then the rural hinterlands, I'd paddle around in an aluminum jon boat, keeping close to the shore, in shallow water. (Not that I was afraid of the water, or couldn't swim: far from it. I just didn't want to chance missing out on breakfast!) I can't remember whether I was the one who coaxed the cat onto the boat, or if he just invited himself. Regardless, every morning he'd hop into the boat and go for a ride with me, sitting in the bow, looking every bit as dignified as Washington crossing the Delaware, while I meandered around in the shallows.

Despite the vaguely Tom Sawyer-ish sound of all this, after the initial fascination that most young children have with the sport, fishing bored the hell the hell out of me. So I never took a rod, much less a stringer, with me on these excursions.

On this particular morning in mid-July, the day was still and already turning hot. As I paddled slowly past an old tree stump jutting up from the lake about twenty feet or so offshore, without the slightest warning, the water suddenly erupted beside me -- and a huge bass plopped into the boat, right at my feet!

I nearly jumped out the other side of the boat. This was of course so completely unexpected a development that at first I was too stunned to do anything other than reflexively lift my feet (I was in shorts and my footgear consisted of nothing but a pair of cheap flip-flops) to try to keep from being painfully finned by this very large, wildly thrashing and flopping fish.

The cat, however, instantly grasped the essentials of the situation: he latched onto that fish with teeth and all four paws'-worth of claws. So now I had to deal with about ten pounds of tough, wiry cat -- grimly determined to retain at all costs this bounty from the Cat Gods -- attached to five pounds of energetically uncooperative bass. This is the point at which, if this had been a Warner Bros. Cartoon, the two would have merged into a yowling, flopping whirlwind of scales, claws, fins and white fur.

I somehow managed to separate them -- acquiring only superficial wounds in the process -- while frantically yelling for my grandmother to throw me a stringer. But now I was confronted with the triple dilemma of how to simultaneously keep the two critters separate, prevent the fish from flipping back into the water, and steer the boat to shore.

Something had to go. This is why I wanted it understood that I knew cats could swim, when I tell you I tossed this one into the lake. I'd never have done it, otherwise. We were close to shore, in water only a little over a foot deep, so I figured he was in no danger.

But I'd made a mistake: At this point the boat had turned roughly parallel to the bank, and I had pitched him out the side opposite the shore. So the boat was between him and dry land. He simply swam right back, scrambled over the gunwale and immediately launched himself at the bass again. After I once more pried them apart, this time I had smarts enough to heave the cat out the other side, toward the bank. He landed about five feet from shore. As I expected, he didn't try to swim out to the boat. He stalked ashore, shook himself, and began to pace along the top of the low bank. While giving me the kitty stink-eye.

I finally managed to subdue the bass after whacking it with the paddle a few times, then holding it down carefully but firmly with my feet while I brought the jon boat to shore.

On reflection, the smarter move would probably have been to wait until we landed, and then remove the cat from the fish. I can only figure it was some deeply-ingrained reflex hanging around from the days of Oog the Australopithecus which made me immediately dispute possession of that bass. This overly-ambitious feline was bound to be disappointed, though, so perhaps it was better that I made my point sooner, rather than later.

Though I took up angling again when I was in my 20s, this remains the largest bass I've ever caught -- and I wasn't even fishing at the time! But for years I lacked any photographic proof, at least of the cat-riding-in-the-boat part of this story. Then I recently came across this picture in an old photo album which belonged to my grandmother.

The geeky-looking kid is me, the almost invisible black dog with the gray muzzle standing by my feet is Frisky, and the white cat looking down into the water is of course the nameless cat.

I don't know whether the picture was taken before or after the bass incident. I'm inclined to think it was before. After so many years, I'm not certain, but I seem to recall that this feline/human friendship may have cooled a bit after that.

I never saw him again, after those two weeks.

Wednesday, January 21, 2015

An Open Letter To Jon Stewart

Not from me. I don't write open letters because I figure if the NSA wants to snoop on your correspondence so bad they should have to put the kettle on and laboriously steam open the envelopes the way the FBI did to MLK. Hell, I don't even open letters, because they're usually from bill collectors anyway.  No, this one is from our friend, and Internet Legend Anntichrist S. Coulter.

Note: I haven't eliminated the body of the letter, I've just placed it below the fold because it contains swears (no more so than The Daily Show itself actually, but I don't have that bleeping thing they use), and fonts of oscillating size and color, and I didn't want to take the risk of inducing epileptic seizures in Japanese school children. So read on...if you dare.


Monday, January 19, 2015

A Movie That Boldly Says, "Flux You!"


Aeon Flux (2005)
Directed by Karyn Kusama
Written by Phil Hay & Matt Manfredi, Peter Chung (Characters)

Science fiction films about dystopian futures are legally required to open in one of two ways: either a narrator tediously explains how the world ended, or – as in this case – the movie just texts you the back story.

“2011: A virus kills 99% of the world’s population.”  But since we’re still alive, we must be part of the 1%, so excuse me while I go build an elevator for my cars and off-shore some manufacturing jobs.

“A scientist, Trevor Goodchild, develops a cure.” But then he quits virology when he gets a better offer to appear as a Bond Girl.

“The five million survivors live in Bregna, the last city on earth.” As civic mottos go, “The Last City on Earth” is no “Gateway to the Salton Sea” or “Home of America’s First Wave Pool,” but it has its advantages. For instance, your baseball team is guaranteed to win every game against their traditional rivals, the Second to Last City on Earth, albeit by forfeit. Anyway, the Bregna Rotary Club meets Wednesdays at noon, Jaycees and Oddfellows on Fridays.

“The Goodchild dynasty rules for 400 years.”  So if you develop a drug that everybody desperately needs, you get to become Pharaoh, which explains the millennia-long struggle between the ancient Viagra and Rogaine dynasties.

“Rebels emerge to challenge the Goodchild regime.”  They would have liked to have fought back four hundred years ago, but they had to wait for the emperor’s drug to go generic.

Cut to 2415. Aeon Flux (Charlize Theron) plucks a bluebottle fly out of her false eyelashes and breaks into voice over: “Some call Bregna the perfect society. Some call it the height of human civilization…”

Hey, no fair! We did the reading! Why do we have to sit through a lecture too? Do we have a substitute today?

Okay, fine. She goes on for awhile, so let me just sum up: Bregna is a Rose Bowl-shaped city in the middle of a jungle, and populated by white people in lounging pajamas.  We know it’s a totalitarian dictatorship, because anyone caught wearing a Doctor Who scarf is arrested on sight, but a group of rebels (called “The Monicas” after their favorite character from Friends) strike back by wearing vaguely fetishy black vinyl raincoats. When Aeon isn’t tweezing insects from her eyelids, she is one such rebel, and fights the power by strutting around town in thigh highs and a hoodie made out of a screen door.  She meets another Goth pedestrian and instantly they lock lips; we zoom inside their mouths like it’s a toothpaste commercial and watch as the male’s tongue pushes a ball bearing down her throat, which I imagine in the future is an activity recommended by four out of five dentists. As Aeon’s stomach acid begins to dissolve the ball bearing, we see that it contains a tiny Frances McDormand, who orders her to go break into the Goodchild NSA.

Aeon has a boring conversation with her sister, then puts on her whitest suit for the burglary, does a compulsory gymnastics routine, and lowers herself into the nerve center of the Goodchild surveillance state, which turns out to be a gigantic talking toilet. She discovers that the snooping potty recorded the conversation with her sister, despite how boring it was, but manages to scrub the data using a high tech Clorox Toilet Wand. Then she flushes twice, because it’s gonna be a long movie.

Aeon heads off to dinner with her sister, who is in the midst of slicing up some extremely art directed fruit when she’s suddenly interrupted by two bullets in her face. Unlike the bluebottle fly, these prove more difficult to remove, so all Aeon can do is another voice over. “I had a family once. Now all I have is a mission.”  And an intestinal blockage in the shape of Francis McDormand.

As it happens, the talking polyp from Fargo has another assignment for Aeon: break into the Citadel and assassinate Chairman Goodchild (who appears to be the same guy who invented the virus cure four centuries ago, so apparently he’s immortal). At least, I think she’s supposed to kill him; the briefing is kind of vague, as it consists of McDormand regurgitating a flower, then blowing pollen into Aeon’s eyes. Which proves just what a bad-ass our heroine is: because not only can she do cartwheels and operate indoor plumbing, she also has a high threshold for seasonal allergens.

Francis warns Aeon that the “underground interior has been built to be confusing,” just like the plot, but gives her a schematic of the Citadel, and when I say “schematic” I mean “a rash on her forearm that looks like the New York City Subway map,” so just as long as Aeon doesn’t take Benadryl during the break-in, she should be fine.

Francis concludes by promising, “Do this, and you’ll have your revenge. And we’ll all have our victory.” The war will be over, and you’ll be able to poop me out like a tapeworm.

Aeon teams up with Sithandra, an exotic-looking black woman with hands for feet (but not feet for hands), and they run through a garden of brass ballcocks that shoot darts, but not very well, because they all miss. It’s not really the ballcocks’ fault, though, because the two women are doing backflips, and as any action film fan knows, this makes you impossible to hit with a projectile, even if you’re backflipping directly into the line of fire, as Aeon does.

Aeon slips into the “underground interior” and immediately starts getting turn-by-turn instructions from her ulna.  She wanders for awhile, scattering ball bearings around like some kind of confused Johnny Appleseed, before finally tracking Goodchild to the stage of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion where he’s practicing a speech in his pajamas.  Aeon walks up and points a gun in his face, giving Goodchild just enough time to decide he’ll ingratiate himself to St. Peter by opening with a joke (“This morning I was shot by a girl in my pajamas. How she got in my pajamas I’ll never know.”)  Then he calls her “Catherine,” which makes Aeon look frozen and panicky, as though she’s forgotten her line, and while she’s standing there waiting for the script girl to prompt her, one of the other characters gets bored and hits her in the head.

In a big twist nobody cares about it, we learn that Aeon and the rebels are being manipulated, and the person who actually arranged for the assassination of Goodchild was his own brother, Spoiledchild.

Aeon and Goodchild meet in secret so she can give him lip about having her sister murdered, and then they can have PG-13 quality sex.  The next morning she wakes up with a startled gasp, puts her knee on Goodchild’s throat and slowly chokes him to death while having psychotic flashbacks (this is why I don’t miss the dating scene).

Aeon finds a staircase and descends into the dark basement, because every time she chokes out a one night stand she likes to treat herself to a watermelon rind pickle.  Goodchild’s female bodyguard attacks Aeon with a machinegun, but she fights back with a bendable, posable crab spider that allows her teleport out of the basement into some other basement. As catfights go this one is short, weird, and inconclusive, but we do discover that Goodchild was only choked half to death. Meanwhile, Spoiledchild has taken over Rose Bowl City and ordered that Goodchild be arrested and executed for the crime of Mom liking him better.

Sithandra catches up to Aeon, bitches her out for choking her victim just enough to prolong his orgasm but not enough to actually kill him, and then they have a catfight which is also short and dull, despite the fact that Sithandra has four hands, which should make her a formidable hand-to-hand combatant, but in reality just seems to make her better than average at dangling from a trellis.

Later, Aeon climbs up a giant beanstalk and jumps onto a huge jellyfish that floats over the city like the Goodyear blimp.  Inside, she finds Pete Postlethwaite dressed like a Sand Worm from Dune. (He quickly disappears, so I’m not sure if this is part of the movie, or if he just accidentally walked in front of the camera on his way to a Comic-Con event.)  On the bright side, the Jellyfish tells Aeon that her sister isn’t dead, she’s just been turned into a baby.  (Personally, if someone offered me a choice between death, or experiencing diaper rash and strained apricots again, I’d be Jetskiing across the River Styx so damn fast…)

Aeon finds Goodchild, who explains that he cured the virus but accidentally made humanity sterile, so he’s been secretly cloning everybody for the last four hundred years while he tries to cure that.  The filmmakers, sensing we don’t really care, throw in lots of running and shooting and screaming and glass breaking and a nice ride on the people mover. Then Aeon and the wounded Goodchild take a refuge in a sewer of the future, and he says, “We need to get the bullets out” so she reaches into his chest hole and plucks them with her fingertips as though she were an arcade claw machine and he was riddled with kewpie dolls.

Pretending we still care about the plot, Goodchild reveals that he’s finally cured the sterility and Aeon’s sister was pregnant before she got recycled. Oh, and prior to cloning, Aeon was his wife Catherine, which is why she’s spent the film alternately banging and half-murdering him, because she has a genetic memory of marriage.

Spoiledchild orders his minions to mow down Aeon and Goodchild,  but suddenly the Monicas arrive. Aeon takes advantage of this momentary diversion by springing into action and getting every single one of her friends killed. But she makes up for it by crashing the Jellyfish into the Rose Bow and killing Pete Postlethwaite, which is very sad, not because he was a good character or had more than three lines of dialogue in the whole movie, but because when the costume designer showed him the Sand Worm suit, I bet he said, “I wouldn’t be caught dead in that!”


The end.

Sunday, January 18, 2015

Random Scenes of Hollywood: The Ramonuments Men

A couple of days after Riley died I had to go to the Hollywood Forever Cemetery to do some research (because insofar as I can be said to have a job, that's the kind of a job I have). Mary went along to keep me company, but mostly in the hope of seeing a ghost.

There were a multitude of familiar names from the Golden Age of Hollywood, several of whose remains sported exactly the sort of whited sepulchers you'd expect...

...and a few giants of the Silent Era whose monuments had acquired that decayed, Sunset Boulevard feel...
Douglas Fairbanks' reflecting pool suffers from the heartbreak of pond scum.

But I was a bit puzzled by the Ramones.  They're buried on opposite ends of the lake, with Johnny's body topped by a life-size statue on a marble plinth...
..while Dee Dee is tucked away under a pine tree, his grave marked with a comparatively modest, Boogie Board-sized slab...
But while Johnny's Ozymandius-grade monument boasts but a few faded lip prints, Dee's tombstone looks like it's been freshly French-kissed by half of France.  Curious.  Anyway, he's got a cool epitaph.

Generally, it was a bright, breezy, unspooky day, although I did learn one gruesome fact:
That back when I was living in Hollywood but teaching Karate in Ventura, I drove over Toto's corpse about six times a week.

Sunday Sermonette: Pulling Rank With Pastor Swank!*

*Title courtesy of ifthethunderdontgetya™³²®©


Pastor Swank Burns for Quenching!

Posted by scott on August 26th, 2010

Iranian thug President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad said: “The bottom line is we do not need a bomb. The time for nuclear bombs has ended,” per AP.
Then is he going to wipe out Israel with a teaspoon?
The jawbone of an ass would be more traditional, although it’s not as handy if you suddenly need to eat soup.
Is he going to welcome back his adored Islamic messiah with fireflies?
I don’t know, but I have to wonder: how much do you really adore your Islamic messiah if you plan to greet him with nuclear weapons?  Have you thought about baking him a cake, or getting him a gift certificate to Chili’s?
Ahmadinejad is the typical Muslim zealot: liar, liar and more liar.
In Dante’s Inferno, “Alchemists, Counterfeiters and Falsifiers of Words” are condemned to the Eighth Circle of Hell, where they are forced to wear the Persian President’s Flaming Pants, which perpetually burns their flesh away, and are uncomfortably snug in the crotch.
He champions peaceful uses of his nuclear plants while daily stapling his own citizens to misery and hopelessness.
 Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad in undated file photo.
Why are there Iranians in exile who constantly warn the free world of Ahmadinejad’s madness? They do so for they have suffered first-hand from his clones and himself.
 Members of the Iranian Parliment Subcommittee on Pensions and Tax Policy.
Ahmadinejad is surrounded in his executive suites by his satanic cronies.  They are murderers, rapists and stealers, like unto their fiendish prophet Mohammed.
Talk about union featherbedding!  Why, back during the Bush Administration, we had one guy to handle all three of those jobs!  (In the interests of full disclosure we should point out that Dick Cheney seems to have outsourced the rape to private contractors, but we should also note that his cybernetic life support implants aren’t nearly as fancy or efficient as Darth Vader’s — so he can’t be hands-on about everything.  Still, his pulseless, electrically-driven, frequently reanimated body is pretty versatile; for instance, after John Kerry conceded the Presidential election in 2004, Cheney celebrated by drinking three Amstel Lights and farting the Imperial March.)
Therefore, when Ahmadinejad courts the UN audience with promises of laying down his bombs for picking up peace doves, he lies superbly.
I am, as you know, a huge fan of the pastor’s work, but the line “laying down his bombs for picking up peace doves” strikes me as particularly poetic, like a Pete Seegar song written by Latka Gravas.
Yet Ahmadinejad and his clique are far more frightening. They lie in order to gain time to construct the final bomb. They smile while delivering hope-filled speeches about peace, all the while craftily scheming the planet’s last hour.

I’m also a bit worried for him.  The pastor’s not a young man anymore, and he really needs to stop watching James Franciscus films and eating Mexican food just before bed.  Or at least limit himself to The Valley of Gwangi and just one Fresco Bean Supreme.
Ahmadinejad is so married to his messiah’s return that he has spent millions in erecting edifices in the messiah’s honor.
While Pastor Swank’s congregation, the New Hope Church of Wyndham, Maine, meets on a couch (although it can get a little crowded during Easter services, and sometimes the choir has to sit on the ottoman).
Muslims believe in the second coming. They hold to that tenet with all their longings. They say that the messiah left the planet at age 5, only someday to come back when the globe’s surface is on fire.
With the Islamic messiah’s return, Islam World Rule will be secured.
So they’re going to pick up the planet cheap at a fire sale.  Smart.
In contrast, this is the biblical Christians’ hope:  Jesus followers hold to a second coming of Christ.
The Bible states that Christ Himself forecast His own return to His property, planet Earth.
Unfortunately, much like William Rehnquist’s two homes, there’s a covenant in Earth’s deed prohibiting the sale or transfer to “‘members of the Hebrew race.”  Sorry, Jesus.  Should’a read the fine print.
Christ stated that He would return when the world was caught up in wars and rumors of wars, famines, the increase of sin,family members increasingly taunting one another, persecution of Christians, pestilence, earthquakes, and the gospel preached globally.
If my little sister’s brattiness wasn’t enough to bring on the Apocalypse, I’m beginning to think the Book of Revelations may not be 100% accurate.
Christ stated in Matthew 24:29-31 that His rapturing (“gathering together unto Him”) of the believers from the four corners of the planet would coincide with His open appearance in the atmostphere above the planet.
“Messiah One, this is Houston Capcom…You are cleared for re-entry.”