Cheney Receives Heart Transplant From Short Round

Cheney Receives Heart Transplant

3/24/2012

At 71 years of age, former Vice President Dick Cheney received a full organ heart transplant from his unwilling eleven-year old Chinese Sherpa Short Round, at the Experimental Hospital of Dark Side Medicine. Head Cardiac Surgeon and High Priest Mola Ram says the American dignitary and dedicated supplicant to the War Goddess Kali is in good spirits and relatively good health. Brief services for Short Round were held at a hidden location under the Temple of Doom. Officials at the International Criminal Court were overjoyed to hear that now they had a possible ten more years to bring War Crime charges against Cheney.

In related news, former President Jimmy Carter is asking The Wizard for a transplant of courage, and former President George W. Bush is requesting a brain. Emerald City Officials would not comment on their relative positions on the Organ Donor Lists, but indicated that Carter’s transplant would certainly be easier, as his soul is so much wider than Bush’s skull. 

Supreme Court Rules Democratic Representational Government Unconstitutional

Supreme Court Rules Democratic Representational Government Unconstitutional

6/8/2012

In a stunning move by the Supreme Court today, the nation's highest judicial body ruled that democratically elected representational government was unconstitutional. The 5 to 4 vote Majority vote sited strict originalist interpretation to the founding father's document, to rule that all forms of representational government practiced in the last 200 years in the United States were "At odds with the original intent of the Constitution".

In their ruling of "Rich Greedy Bastards Vs. The Population of the United States", the Supreme Court threw out a long history of civil liberty advancements for all peoples of non-Caucasian descent and for all women. Instead, the court ruled, government can only represent white men with land holdings.

The GOP declared the victory one of "substantial moral authority," and declared that the Republican Party would be 'purged' of all non-white, non-male members. In addition, the GOP declared they would also remove non-Christian members from their political party, 'for good measure.'

While elected officials throughout the majority of Southern and Mid-Western States seemed overjoyed at the ruling, formerly serving U.S. officials on both the East and West Coast, as well as previously elected officials in most major cities, were stunned and outraged by their immediate disenfranchisement and loss of jobs.

"They just don't get it," formerly democratically elected President Barack Obama said, in a clipped interview before he was bodily escorted out of the White House. "Most of these people in the GOP don't have any land either!"

Political Analysts believe that the Supreme Court decision was influenced in large part by The Greedy Quadrillionaire Super-Pac For American Prosperity And White Hegemony who spent over Eight-Hundred-Billion dollars in their media blitz campaign.

In related news, former Supreme Court Judge Clarence Thomas finally broke his six-year silence on the bench, when the enormity of what he had voted for finally became clear, and he said, "Oh Shit."

From - A Vile Old Queen’s Guide To Etiquette And Proper Living

The National Big Murder Show

This Week In Review:

Psycho-Con and The National Big Murder Show

Champions of the recent national rise in hatred toward our government inevitably support their convictions with examples of the corruption at every level of leadership; local, regional, and national. To suspect less of government might be naive. One must recall that in every level of government there exists not only demagogues and greedy liars, but personal heroics, selfless acts, and diligence for the greater good. Thankfully, those countless quiet stories of justice and fortitude are, much to our mutual pleasure, never told. 

Instead we have The Golden Book of One Hundred Serial Killers, for ages 8+., complete with accompanying sticker sets of victims. For the younger audience, My Favorite Psychos Coloring Book, allows even the most spatially challenged toddler’s hands to produce works leaden with content. While the segue from political hardball to mass murder has historically been a short walk, one can not escape the recent ruling in favor of Jack and Jill and The Bucket of Blood as a primary cause for collective anxieties now so feverishly embraced by the nation.

At Psycho-Con, and it’s demographic rival, The National Big Murder Show, political mass murder is the new crowd favorite. Lines at the new Stalin stimulation games were long, and by necessity, tortuous. The Ghengis Kahn licensed school supplies were top movers, and even the perennially successful Charles Manson figurines were overshadowed by the upstart fever over the newly released Covert Black Ops Trading Cards, and remotely controlled Predator Drone Action Toys.

Manny Tuckhaven, a seasoned mass murderer collector (M&M in the trade), believes the new resurgence in political mass murder is a welcome break from the more traditional obsessions with low-volume insane criminals, or LVIC. "The LVICs will always be a part of the American Dream, but the new kids are bringing all those classics out of retirement, like Goebbels and Napolean and Panama. With support like this, I’m sure we'll see some fresh blood in the arena in no time.”

The National Big Murder Show is at the Convention Center now through the end of the Month. Free admission for documented victims of collateral damage.

On Speaking French

On Speaking French

An American in France, and especially Paris, is advised to make an effort to speak the language, lest one find themselves under the harsh glare of the French citizen, hardened against understanding your simple pleas for a meal that isn't tripe. An earnest smile can not bridge this divide, as the French regard a smile as suspect of lunacy or idiocy, both of which - in the French mind - the American is prone.

But most cannot master those tortured vowels with an American jaw. Even worse, those who have suffered long years listening to recordings of the squealing voice of the female French speaker and the Barry White tones of the male, have become somewhat pickled into the false sense that all French woman's registers are of angelic sopranos, and all French men speak the deepest base. This is not the case, even in Paris; the most beautiful city in the world that never, ever changes, despite the best efforts of the Pompidou. 

I wish to share a special skill I have developed to solve this conundrum. First, one must master the smallest bit of French comprehension in hearing, for no other reason that to avoid being run down by their curiously quiet trains and ambulances. The next is to learn to read the simplest menu French, as one must by all means, however adventurous one is at home, avoid ordering the tripe. I once made the mistake of asking an indulgent waiter what the Tripe a L'Andulisian was like, and was told, in the cold formality of all French waiters, that "The French love it." I misunderstood the emphasis, thinking he meant, "The French love it," and thus you will too, when in fact he meant "The French love it," but you will throw-up. 

Master these two small skills, but restrain oneself from speaking the tongue, which is a foolhardy endeavor prone to failure, even for the Canadians of Quebec. Instead, substitute a special pidgin of sincere effort and utter defeat. For example, say, "Je parle français très mal à la tête” in exaggerated and self-deprecating tones, to indicate that "I speak French very badly," by saying "I speak French with a very bad headache.” The Parisian will answer in flawless English, and thus signify to you both their perfect mastery of all things and your utter failure, and thus leaves them disdainfully self-satisfied, the most natural state for a Parisian. 

Employing this strategy makes the French coyly pliant to your need to find a bathroom that won't fold itself up to clean itself while you are still inside, or to a locate Metro stop where one doesn't have to walk up thirty-five floors of the most picturesque tiled spiral staircase you have ever cursed at in the ripest Anglo Saxonism one can muster.

From - A Vile Old Queen’s Guide To Etiquette And Proper Living 

Purchase on AMAZON

Seven in One Blow

Seven in One Blow

Jack picks up a John
his beanstalk proud
and hung.
"Let's play giant killer"
he laughs
and watches as the fat prole
slides down his pole.
Nimble and quick
his candlestick.

Jack eats magic beans
which give him stamina
for the long haul,

for the golden goose that lays
his golden eggs,
for the fairy that sings
his supper;

an operetta, a libretto,
a fellatio.

Jack has his head in the clouds,
a hero of no small talent,
stronger than ten men
in the beauty contest.
Precious as a pea,

humble as the blood
of an Englishman.
The fat of the land
a mosaic at his feet,
beneath a carpet of clouds.

Who climbs down with Jack
to goose-down pillows
and golden sheets?
What ungainly ogre
will eat him up?
His flesh so sweet,
a succulent morsel
sucked dry as rusk.

Here lies Jack,
all hollow eyed,
sweet puss in boots.
His life a rootless
climbing vine.
Thick stemmed, broad leaved,
fakir's rope
to nowhere.

The Mark

A few choice words about discovering bird guano on your shirt while standing in front of the ‘Sale!’ shoes that drew you into that damn shop in the first place, being the only thing there that might fit from among the feverish men’s merchandise stretched taut over mannequin bellies and bulges. Discovering it there on your shirt, sudden and close, below your right cheek, close to your neck, in a blind spot. There! Guano, brown and chunky. Then imagining for a moment it was the shopkeeper’s spittle, left when he noted your failed sneakers, fingers reaching to check your backpack.  “Nothing here for you!” his face read - in style or in size, but perhaps he was just stunned by the bird crap, seemingly dropped only seconds ago. Or maybe it was, more horribly, the jettisoned last squirt of lunch’s tamale. Lingering there for hours, during that long crowded bus ride, vivid against the white shirt. And there, upon discovery, the mess wiped from hand to jeans to eye again, in sudden shame and revulsion. The stain left behind even more loathsome. A warning. A curse. Bad luck. Bad manners. The second bus trip spent wondering which.  

Here’s the advice. Use a spot remover. Wash cold. If it doesn’t come out, you know.            

The Ugly Duckling

-->

The Ugly Duckling

Pity the ogre

with his foul breath,

his loathsome face.

Spinning in shame and ridicule,

turning pride into hate.

He hears the laughter

in the playground.

He hears the taunting

in the gym.

Pity the hag

with the crooked nose

and the warty chin.

Never getting a date for the prom,

shutting her quiet dreams in.

She hears the whispers

behind the hands,

the snickers beneath

the breath.

Pity the ugly

but not too hard -

we all will walk that path in time.

If while brat, adult,

or toothless crone,

we’ll all lose beauty

and stand alone.

Relish the circles

that let you in.

The group that mirrors

your own shortcomings.

There you’ll shine

like matching plates.

The stacking fit

of like with like.

For in the end

we’ll lie down to

an open gash

of wormy earth.

Our face dissolved,

all equalized

to common bones

and common dust.

A water fowl chick alone

was adopted by a mother duck,

who overlooked his funny shape

and gave him sanctuary.

He was taunted by

the other ducklings

as only siblings can

to the outsider,

the new kid,

the odd one out.

They called him ugly big head,

flat foot, turd face, snot beak.

And so a monster

looked back at him

when he peered into

the waters deep.

He cried and cawed

and begged and bargained

and struggled to fit in.

But nastier the others grew

to the new ugly duckling.

A year passed by in aching pain.

A childhood gone,

like countless others before and since.
Wishing he had never left the egg.

Envying his brother’s molts.

And then one day

a child called “Look!”

“Look at the beautiful swan!”

And the bird looked down

to an odd reflection

of what couldn’t be himself!

No big-headed duck,

no mis-colored misfit,

no fat waterfowl,

but an elegant swan,

all curving neck and wings,

sublime.

With the haughty trumpet

of those who know, at last,

their own sweet vindication,

he left the pond for good.

Never looking back

to the ducklings’ cruelty,

to the spite and misery,

to the mother duck’s

lukewarm embrace.

His background now embarrassing,

only his beauty would count.

He joined the bird world royalty.

Swimming in country club lagoons.

Bathing behind a mask of pride,

so terrified someone would find

the ugly duckling deep inside.

So he preened his white feathers

possessively,

and worried about

the thickness of his down.

He stretched his slender neck

religiously

thinking it was never

quite long enough.

And he entertained the other swans

with tales of his modest childhood

and all his self-wrought woe.

They laughed politely

at his charming farce

and that silly, awful

quack

he’d let slip

now and again.

And in the fall he was selected

as the most beautiful specimen

at a rich man’s estate.

So subsequently changed

once more,

into a paté

sublime.

- From Eating the Child Within by Jason Messinger
Eating The Child Within for KINDLE  
Eating The Child Within - PRINT Edition

Ghosts

Ghosts 

Ghosts are detected only

by the misdirection

of their deeds;

the vase falling

in an empty room,

the creak in the attic floor,

the silence where speech

used to be.

There is a ghost that lives

on the tip of my tongue,

drawing words from my throat

like a fisherman.

Some explode, too delicate

for the change in pressure.

Others get crushed

into dust and deceit.

Who decided loneliness

is such a coveted point of view?

How can I say I’m sorry

when you can’t even see

that I’m gone?

from "Storytelling" by Jason Messinger

Storytelling in PRINT 

Storytelling as PDF File Download 

Storytelling on KINDLE

Near The Big Chakra

Near The Big Chakra

How about
only those
with a uterus
get to decide
what happens
inside it?

Seasons Greetings

Seasons Greetings and a Happy New Year

to all of you

The Elaborate Chest

A small team of investigators was sent to discover the truth of a man who made miracles. When they got to the home of the man, they found instead an elaborate chest, which took up much of the house. The chest had many strange drawers and curious sliding doors. There were heavy handles and delicate latches. There were swinging compartments and folding mirrors and nesting chambers. Inside the chest the investigators found many curious things. They found clothes of an odd cut, with small stories embroidered on their pockets. They found beautiful boxes filled with dried dead things. They found shoes that were missing vital parts, and hats with too many additions. They found a cat with six kittens, and ten paper dolls, and a dozen old keys, and a lonely glove. They found small bundles tied up with bright sashes, and empty tins with labels long worn thin. They found milk teeth and seashells and smooth river stones. They found instruments they could not figure out, and tools they could not fix. The investigators spent a long time looking through the elaborate chest. At last the people who paid the investigators demanded to hear. Has the man made miracles? 

Come, said the investigators, come see the elaborate chest.