My heart’s the bitter buffalo

Music – Pink Floyd – Fearless

A dangerous week lies before us.  The GOP has their back up against a wall, and a fetid stink of desperation is in the air.  Every hour finds the bastards more frenzied than the last, clawing at their hair and eyes on cable news.  McCain’s scorched-earth campaign tactics have seemingly backfired, with Palin already talking about her bid in 2012 and with Obama openly mocking the once-powerful sycophants at Fox News.

But we are not out of the woods yet.

Backed into a corner as they are, the jackal-fucking psycho-Christian establishment assholes become all the more dangerous.  Expect them to ramp up the usual regimen of voter fraud, intimidation, disenfranchisement and ballot-rigging to reach new levels.  Expect plotting and conspiracy and villainy that would make Stalin blush.

In this day and age, it is not unreasonable to worry about losing this election at gunpoint.

And if we do win, if the combined force of a disgusted populace and a terribly executed campaign actually results in our nation making the right choice for once in its fucking existence, do not expect jubilation and dancing in the streets.

These evil shits will not give up the throne quietly.  Prepare for a decade of bitter and destructive divisiveness, of polarization, of renewed fanaticism and zealotry.  If we win on the fourth, the Republican war of attrition starts on the fifth.

How Obama will weather the storm remains to be seen.  Hopefully he hasn’t underestimated the size and potency of the big bag of shit Bush & Co have left sitting on the floor of the Oval Office.

Five more days.


While we’re on the topic of politics, fuck local elections.  Every supervisor in my district has called me thirty fucking times in the last ten days, and left five thousand fliers in my mailbox, and rung my doorbell way too early.

And I still have no clue who to vote for; they’re all so vile and pathetic and greedy it makes my stomach turn.  San Francisco’s twisted, weird-ass form of semi-democratic feudalism attracts the lowest rank of political shitbird.  It’s grueling to try and pick the lesser of such bottom-rung evils, to try and figure out which petty tyrant I want to rule the little Nob Hill barony I call home.  Fuck’em all.

Also, I’m gonna say it since nobody else will:  Picking between Cindy Sheehan and Nancy Pelosi is like picking between pancreatic cancer and death by firing squad.  I’m gonna write-in a vote for Abraham Lincoln’s disinterred corpse and be done with it.


A couple of days ago I had a party at my house.  It was a “Ted Stevens Found Guilty” party, and nobody showed up but me and a leftover bottle of E&J brandy, but we made the best of it and had a good time anyway.

It was bitter-sweet in a way, watching Ted “A Series of Tubes” Stevens fall from grace.  He was such a freakish little troll of a man, a man so hopelessly disconnected from reality and the modern world that he seemed almost mythical, almost illusory.  They don’t make’em like you any more, Stevens.   You are one unique fucking snowflake and thank god you’ve been deposed.

I won’t say I’ll miss you, but I will look back on your reign of whacky-ass crotchety terror fondly every time I hear some clueless idiot try to explain the internet to some other clueless idiot.

So long, nubcake.


So Brian is getting married shortly, and had his bachelor party.

I was not invited, as I am persona-non-grata in the Brian household.  A couple years ago at Chris’s wedding, half-drunk and asphyxiating in my cheap suit, I convinced Brian’s girlfriend (now fiancee) that the plural of “fish” is “foshe”.  As in “I caught one fish.  I caught many foshe.”  She subsequently called her father, the underpaid civil servant up in Redding who works sixty hours a week to pay for his daughter’s college education, and asked him to verify that this was true.

He told her that it was not, and no doubt put his head in his hands and sighed in disgust.


Regardless, I understandably didn’t make the wedding list.

However, I did get a completely incomprehensible series of messages and voicemails from the folks that did attend, all eager to tell me the story of Paul and the Lactating Stripper.

Those of you who don’t know Paul, a guy almost obscenely good-natured and awkward, can’t full understand the hilarity of this quasi-story.

Paul freezes up like a deer in the headlights within thirty yards of an attractive woman, and a strip club renders him practically catatonic.  He has to get suicidally drunk just to make it in the door.

I can just imagine him stumbling in, drunk as a bastard, hands shaking like Michael J. Fox in an snowstorm.

Peter, the sick fucker, shoves him bodily into the crowd near the stage.  Good friend that he is, he immediately makes Paul a hundred times more uncomfortable by buying him a lapdance from the hottest woman in the place.

Taking Paul to a stripclub is already on par with taking a penniless Haitian refugee to Safeway, in terms of cruelty, and buying him a lapdance crosses the line between Mean and Diabolical.

What are friends for, though, if not finding your weaknesses and tearing you limb from limb with them?

The girl, when she finishes entertaining a frigid, terrified, white-knuckled Paul, leans over and whispers something in Brian’s ear.  He slips her a fifty and she leads wild-eyed, clench-jawed Paul back in to some secret room behind velvet curtains.

This is where things get confusing, where stories diverge.

Paul, whose brittle psyche was shattered irreparably by whatever it was he witnessed in those dark corridors, can recall nothing.  He remembers entering the club, and waking up two days later on his mom’s couch wrapped in a child’s blanket and crying, hysterical.  Nothing in between.

What unholy deeds was poor Paul forced to witness?

I will not relate here the theories and half-memories the others have put forth.  Common decency and several federal statutes prevent me from recounting the scenario I’ve figured out by combining eye-witness testimony, text messages, and credit card bills.

I will say that there was breast milk involved.  And lighter fluid.

And a caged animal.

And probably a torque wrench.

The truth of it may never be fully known, short of deep hypnosis and years of therapy on Paul’s part.

But not knowing allows us to make stuff up, and to swear to its veracity publicly, which is even more fun.

Some things can’t be unseen, Paul.

Good luck in therapy.


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