Archive for the ‘Blogroll’ Category

Interview with a damn-liar

March 18, 2008

Excerpts from my first (Mr. Know-it-all), and probably last, interview.*


I’ll call my interviewer Q… like in the Bond movies but this isn’t same person. And I’ll be playing the part of A. Because I’m considered an… uh. I’ll be A.


Q. Did you write as a child?

A. When I was a child I wrote as a child…

Q. Good line.

A. It’s from a movie, Wings of Desire.

Q. Okay then. What did you do as a child?

A. I stared at the television a lot, even when it wasn’t on. That’s when I saw them… these spectral like… these ghostly images moving across the screen… sometimes peering at me. That’s when I knew there were others in my house… Then I figured out it was my parents, I was just seeing their reflection in the screen. They told me later they were checking to see if I still had a pulse. I don’t remember if I did or not, have… have a pulse, but I’m pretty sure I did.

Q. Um, okay. Were those your first memories?

A. No. My first memories were of the confusion of… birth. It was cold and somebody was slapping me around, first thing, I didn’t even have time to do something wrong, just pow! And I was tryin’ to figure out why I got evicted. I was quiet, non-smoker, no pets or loud parties. And then this guy cuts the cord. ‘Hey pal. Whatcha doin’ that for? Now, I’m stuck here.’

Q. Uh huh. What do you parents think about you now?

A. They don’t. They’re dead, cremated. I didn’t have much money then, so I took care of the arrangements myself. A burn can and a bag of self-starting briquettes… but it was nice. There was music. My neighborhood if there was a burn can and an open flame on the sidewalk a half dozen folks would show up and start singing.

Q. Did you have brothers and sisters?

A. That wasn’t up to me.

Q. No… Did your parents have any other children?

A. I… never… asked. I tried to respect their privacy.

Q. Grandparents?

A. Oh yeah. They were together to the end… she was a stewardess and he was… the Safety Officer… on the Hindenburg.

Q. And great grandparents?

A. Oh, that’s a stretch. They were good, but not everyone would claim they were great.

Q. Okay. Where did you go to school?

A. Um, I went to a school at this rectangular building with a playground and some fields right next to it. It was a couple of block from my house and a bunch of other kids were there too, so it was ideal for uh, school. Ya know.

Q. Tsk, all right. Do you have any photos I can use for this article?

A. I have one photo, but there is some controversy surrounding it.

Q. I’m afraid to ask, but what kind of controversy?

A. Some people have suggested it’s just a Sasquatch in a human suit, but that’s neither been proven nor disproven.

Q. Okay, that’s it.


* This was a project a friend was given for a journalism class: interviewing a difficult subject. I’m keeping these answers for my first ‘real’ interview. Thanks to all, Mr. Know-it-all…


half full or..?

March 14, 2008

For those who cannot decide if the glass is half full or half empty: fill it to the top. Eliminate the controversy…bringing you things Mitch Hedberg might have said.

Hardbroiled Detective…

April 16, 2007

A rap on the glass of my outer office door woke me from a great dream. The Radio City Rockettes had finally answered my letters asking for a date and they had all showed up at once. Imagine my disappointment when our nightcap was disturbed by some clown banging on my door at 10:30 in the morning. 

I rolled off my couch and staggered through the doorway of my private office. I’d been sleeping there recently because my secretary and I had gone a few laps but she quit when I didn’t offer her a shiny rock for her pretty little finger. Lately, she’d been hanging around my apartment building with some gorilla she claimed was her brother.  I don’t know, maybe she said “Oh, brother.”  It didn’t matter, I needed to stay low for a couple of weeks and find another secretary. This time I would hire one who wasn’t so pretty, but could type.  

Most people don’t bother with the formalities of a regular business once they read the sign “Hank Armstrong – Private Detective.” The knock came louder this time and it echoed in my head like a cannon shot down Wall Street. I wasn’t in the mood for entertaining this particular morning. The city’s a noisy place at night and my fourth-floor window barely kept out the rain much less the hustle and bustle of “The City That Never Sleeps,” so to get some shuteye I spent the night with a friend – Jim Beam. 

The knock came again. 

“Alright, keep your short arm in your holster” I shouted.  One look at the glass door told me it was a female outline on the other side. I peeked through the mail slot to make sure it wasn’t my love-struck secretary. The pleated wool skirt on the other side of the door was spendy.  Gals sporting that kind of wardrobe weren’t usually referred to as secretaries: they were called “personal assistants.” 

I tucked in my shirt and ran my hand through my hair. When the door swung open a shapely woman stepped through and looked me right in the eye. 

“Are you Henry Arthur Armstrong?”  When someone calls you by your full name — and it’s not your mother — it’s best to run. Unfortunately, I had no place to go. 

“Sure, serve your subpoena and close the door when you leave,” I murmured before I turned and shuffled back into my private office. 

“I need your assistance, Mister Armstrong.”  

“Hank,” I corrected.  Over my shoulder I waved for her to follow me. 

“I’m in desperate trouble and I don’t have any money right now… but I can get some.” She tossed her hat in the middle of my desk, a sure sign she wouldn’t take no for an answer, unless the question was, “have you had enough?”  

I fell into my chair and leaned back. Just my luck: desperate trouble and no money. Those words followed me like stink follows a hobo.  

I lit a smoke and looked her up and down. Even bundled up against the cold, to say this blond was “a woman” was like saying lightening “struck.”  My shoe black got his brains scrambled by lightening and he described it as something more convincing.  Her oval face had just a hint of makeup.  Any more would have been like putting lipstick on that Statue of Liberty gal. 

“No money, huh?  ‘at’s my life story. So what’ve ya got?”  

She unbuttoned her coat quickly and pawed at the buttons on her silk blouse. At first I thought she had on one of those special bras that “lift and separate,” except this one must’ve been designed to make ‘em stand at attention and salute like the Soviet Premier at the May Day Parade.  She undid the clasp in the front: I’ve always admired technology when it makes life easier.  

When those sisters rolled into view and didn’t drop more than an inch in elevation I let loose with a long low whistle. 

“S’matter? You hailin’ a cab?” she asked with a smirk. 

All those obvious charms and a sense of humor. 

“Nah. I thought maybe you got the wrong office. The type o’ guy a gal like you looks for usually starts on the twenty-fifth floor and works his way up from there.” 

“I know who you are. That’s why I came. Consider this a down payment,” she answered as she stepped out of her skirt and slip. 

“Okay, but you know I get a daily fee, too.”  With the soft rustle of silk hitting the hardwood floor she was new-born naked standing in front of my desk. 

“We can discuss that.” 

She had the long slow curves of the cross-town subway, built for comfort at high speeds. The smooth expanse of her stomach and the lazy lines of her ribcage were stopped dead by her two greatest assets. They stole the show.  Hell, they stole the show and the tent that it came in. This woman was so hot, raindrops would evaporate before they hit her bare skin. 

Directly in the middle of her shapely hips a small patch of light-colored hair showed she was honest about one thing, at least.  I stood up and moved around the desk still drinking in all her charms. 

“Well? What’re you starin’ at?” 

I cocked my head. “It looked like you might be cold.” I stopped directly in front of her. “I thought some o’ me might keep ya warm.” 

She melted into my arms. Her dainty little chin pointed at mine when she asked, “Is it a special occasion?” 


Her hands dropped to the fly of my trousers. “Well, the flag seems to be flyin’ at half mast.” With my zipper open she fished around in my pants like a professional pickpocket until she found what she was searching for. “Oh, my mistake. Everything seems to be in order here.”  

I touched her cheek with the back of my fingers and looked deep into her green eyes. “Maybe you better take a closer look. You got an Inspector’s license?” 

As she sank to her knees she cooed, “Not on me. But I wouldn’t try to fool a professional.” 

I leaned back against the desk. She didn’t need the license, she could’ve issued the damn things. 

As it turned out, her old man owned some big factory in Jersey that made widgets for the war effort.  Seems the old coot was making a fortune until VE Day.  Now the company wasn’t solvent… or something like that.  Whatever she called it, it meant they were broke.  To be honest, she said a few words while I collected my deposit but in between her moans and hissing like a cat in a street fight not much came out that made any sense. 

I lit a couple of smokes and offered one up to this gal who called herself Cynthia: not Cindy, but Cynthia.  She was a class act,  despite her enthusiasm for settling accounts up front. 

“Hank, last year my father married a girl a couple years younger than me and now he’s gone and the company’s going broke.  It’s more than coincidence.”  I nodded in agreement.  It had been my experience that coincidence was a word that meant “we haven’t figured out how they did it.” 

I took the case.  I figured I knew enough about my client that I’d take a chance.  What the hell, I could run up the bill for a while, at least.  We spent the rest of the day working out a payment plan.  Come sunrise the following day I figured I’d either have to solve this case or die of a heart attack, trying. 

We took the streetcar over to Jersey to take a look at the plant that Cynthia’s old man owned.  On the way I wanted to get the facts in a straight line. 

“So what happened to your old man?  You said he died or something?” 

“Damn, these seats are hard,” Cynthia mumbled as she wiggled her cute little bottom.  I tried not to smile.  “No, he isn’t dead, he’s gone.  Went to South America,  He said ‘to tie up some loose ends.’  The minute he left my ‘new mother,’ Trixy, stepped in with some mouthpiece, took over and now the company’s goin’ broke.” 

“What’s your old man got in South America?” 

She made a face and replied, “Nothing, that I know of.”  I stared at Cynthia for moment.  “What?” she quizzed. 

“Nothing.  Just, you look great even when you make that face.”  She slapped at me playfully and squeaked a little as she shifted in the hard wooden seat again.  This time I couldn’t help but grin. 


Once we arrived at the loading dock I eyed the dock apes for a minute, snapped down the brim of my fedora and whispered over my shoulder, “Follow my lead.”  She was already gone.  I spun my head towards a chorus of loud whistles from the loading dock and there was Cynthia strutting along with more moving parts than a Swiss watch.  I took in the sights for a minute myself and then put my head back to business.  I got into the upstairs offices easily while that crazy beautiful blond collected catcalls like the Yankees collect home-run hitters. 

Offices on the corner of the building that catch the most sun are usually the best place to start any search and then I looked for the prettiest secretary to determine who was in the know and who was just a bean counter.  I stuffed my hat into my hands and tried to blend in with the skinny geeks who made up the “laugh in the face of death” world of accounting.  Lumbering down the hall near the back entrance I noticed a bruiser bigger than me keeping pace behind an obvious numbers wimp.  I let them pass by.  The pair looked out of place so I tried to fall in step behind them.  Not so close as to attract attention but close enough to keep a tail on them. 

I overheard that a “delivery” was “scheduled.”  Now all I needed was a place and time.  The pair headed to the elevator and I hurried to catch up. 

The gorilla growled, “Dah, wha’ floor?” in a voice tinged with a boxer’s slur. 

“That one,” I pointed towards his feet as the door smoothly clamped shut.  When he looked down I landed a shot right on his chin and the huge man collapsed in a crumpled heap.  The skinny guy looked at me in terror.  Pulling back my coat I let him see my .45 Colt Model 1911, leaned close to him and then I smiled. 

“I just wanna talk.”  The man’s shook like a martini mixer but he was able to nod without falling down or soiling himself.  I pulled the “emergency stop” button and stared directly into the man’s pale eyes. 

“Do you know who I am?” 

The man shook his head. 

“Good.” I glared at the man as I released the “stop” and stabbed the button for the loading dock.  We were on our way.  When the door slid open several roughnecks stood in front of us.  A poke into the guy’s rib with my finger convinced him I would shoot him if he tried anything funny. 

“He’s drunk,” I jabbed my thumb over my shoulder at the goon lying in the corner of the elevator.  “Send him home and dock him a half day’s wages.” 

The skinny guy turned slowly towards me, his eyes wide in amazement.  I nodded at the dock apes and they scrambled towards the elevator to haul out the goon. 

“Make it a full day,” I added as they flowed around us.  We took a couple of more steps and were gone.  Cynthia had a cab waiting around the corner. 

“Got what we came for?” she asked with a smile eying the scrawny man in my grip.  I nodded and the car shot away from curb. 


The skinny accountant was tougher than I expected.  My hand was getting sore from smacking his kisser.  The accountant had nothing important to anchor him to the world except this job so he was reluctant (I learned that word from Cynthia) to tell me why he had fifty thousand dollars in a briefcase and a first class airline ticket to Mexico City for nine PM in his coat. 

After a half hour Cynthia wandered into my private office and sat on my desk, crossing her pretty legs for effect. 

“Is it Ken or Kenneth?”  The accountant didn’t answer.  So far, the only thing I had was his name and I got that from his wallet.  “At’s okay.  I’ll ask your wife at the inquest.”  His eyes widened at that.  “I’ll tell her you never told me about your heart condition.”  She slid off the desk and took several steps closer to the man.  Her finger trailed a line through the dust on the edge of my desk while she put together her next sentence. 

“A working girl needs to know a thing like that.”  Her face was inches from his as she finished.  The accountant was almost panting.  “Hank, I don’t know if he’s telling us everything he knows.”  Her eyes stayed level with his. 

“Dead in the arms of a B-girl would be an ignominious end for an egg-head accountant, hm?”  I swiveled my head towards her slowly.  I’d have to ask her what “ignominious” meant later. 

“I don’t know nothing,” he sobbed.  “I make a delivery and fly back.  That’s it, I swear.” 

Cynthia pushed out her bottom lip to look at the accountant with a pout before she cooed, “Kenny, you disappoint me.”  Her gaze fell to mine. 

I doubled my fist and connected with his jaw, even though my hand hurt already.  I learned everything I knew from the Waffen SS during my brief stay in a German POW camp.  When they no longer had anything to teach me I snapped the necks of two interrogators and went over the fence, without a moment’s remorse. 

“I’m afraid my friend here,” she flipped her head towards me, “is probably getting tired of this.  I know I am.  When that happens, I’m no longer…” she searched for the correct word.  “Um, no longer… amorous.”  I bit my lip to keep from laughing — I knew what that word meant.  “And if that happens…” she dipped her head, “… then my friend, isn’t happy.  She shook her head slightly.  With a sigh she began to pace and continued with her side of the “interrogation.” 

“We had some carnal calisthenics this morning… and then at lunch.  But he’s the… active type, and if I’m not interested after dinner he might take it out on you.”  Cynthia stepped closer to me and touched my zipper briefly with her index finger. 

“Do you want this man angry with you and sexually frustrated?”  She turned to face the accountant while I continued to glare at him. 

In all my years as a private dick the most difficult thing I ever had to do was try not to laugh while this crazy woman played the “question game” with the accountant.  Cynthia was smarter and better than any woman I had ever met.  Hell, she was smarter and better than most men I knew and every time she proved it I found myself growing more attached to her.  For a man in my business that was trouble.  But I’d been in trouble before. 

Once the accountant started talking we couldn’t shut him up.  The company was dumping fifty big ones every week into a Mexican bank that transferred forty-five to an Argentinean account with the five grand as a transfer fee.  These were not front-office dealings. 

Cynthia convinced the accountant to deliver that week’s deposit and vanish for a week or so.  “Take in the sites of Mexico City,” she advised with a wink.  She had class with a hint of mischief, that’s for sure. 

“Whereever you end up tell ‘em Cynthia, that blond from Manhattan, sent you.” 


After a look at the business license’s downtown I learned that the company Cynthia’s old man owned had a main office closer to Central Park than my “Five Corners” address.  I needed to visit some of the important people without the boss’ daughter on my arm.  Especially a boss’ daughter who attracted attention like a picnic attracts ants.  So I asked Cynthia to find her old man’s bride, while I chatted with the money players, uptown. 

I hung around the building’s parking garage watching a shiny black Lincoln Continental sporting pristine hubcap-to-pavement white walls.  That machine shouted, “pure executive.”  At 6:30 only one car was left: Mister White walls. 

I tipped the elevator operator half a saw-buck and was delivered in front of an office with a view.  The door was unlocked so I wandered in. 

A pinstriped suit was holding up a medium-sized man with a halo of gray hair seated behind a huge desk.  I ran my finger along the edge of the dark wood as I eased into his inner office. 

“Nice.  Mahogany?” 

Glasses that looked liked the bottom ends of two coke bottles pointed, first, at my finger then towards my face.  The man nodded. 

“Yes, it’s Philippine.  Can I help you?”  There was suspicion in his voice. 

“Hank Armstrong, Private Detective.  I represent someone who has an interest in keeping this company solvent.”  I tested out my new vocabulary.  It must have been the right word. 

“All right.  How much do you want?” 

“My client seems to think you’re stealing from her,” I continued. 

Slowly rising the man leaned forward onto his desk.  “The old man’s daughter needs to understand: once the shooting stopped nobody wants war products.”  He paused.  “But moving big money is a business we can all profit from… Mister Armstrong.”  He pulled off his glasses to reveal beady eyes behind that thick glass: dull eyes, too greedy to reflect light.  

“You don’t understand, Armstrong.  This dough is Nazi money.  They took it from the Jews and we’re takin’ it from them.  Nobody can claim this money and there’s enough for you and me and the old man’s daughter.” 

“I get an hourly rate from the old man’s daughter and, frankly, I don’t think you can match it.” 

He narrowed his dark eyes before he slowly let a knowing smile crease his thin lips.  “She is an extraordinary woman isn’t she?”  I noticed his hand drifting towards his top drawer an inch at a time.  Did I want to wait for him to make a move so I could finish this here and now — save the justice department a couple of bucks — or take him down so he could become some convict’s new girlfriend? 

“If you got a piece in that drawer, use it now or keep your hands on that desk top, mister,” I growled reaching to my shoulder holster to flash my .45 caliber assistant.  There was a moment’s hesitation in the man before he yanked the drawer open. 

I bounded over the desk, plowing through paperwork and lamps.  My fist, filled with nickel plated Colt-made steel, connected with his chin sending him sprawling backwards over his chair and into the shutters.  Inside his drawer was a two-shot .32 caliber Derringer. 

By the time I pulled the little piece out and turned to show him how funny that tiny pearl-handled toy looked compared to my piece, he was perched on the ledge of the open window, ready for the “big leap.” 

“Easy, mister.”  I held my hands up, in hopes he might come back inside.  I needed him to tell the cops the details of his operation. 

“I ain’t goin’ back to prison, Armstrong.”  There was a little lean backwards and he was gone.  He fell forty-three floors without a sound.  Several cars slammed on their brakes when he landed partially blocking the slow lane.  One even honked… welcome to Manhattan, Mister White walls. 


An old friend — if I could call any of “New York’s finest” a friend — told me the dead guy in the street was a two-time convict who got to the top office by blackmailing some big shots in the State Department.  Seems the only two people in the entire borough who didn’t know the details of this operation were Cynthia and me. 

“The feds’ll ask you a few questions, Hank.  But I don’t think anybody’s gonna make a fuss about this guy being dead.  They won’t even have an inquest.” 

I stared down at this dead man who profited handsomely from human suffering most people could never even imagine and lit a smoke.  I jerked my head towards the legs that came away from his body at odd angles across the white lines between parking spots. 

“Give him a ticket fer illegal parking,too.” 

The cop shook his head and laughed.  “Go home, Hank.” 


Now I had to find the old man’s wife and Cynthia. 

I walked through the doorway at my building and stopped in front of the elevator.  In the shadows I caught the red glow of a cigarette and I spun towards it quickly ready for a fight.  Cynthia stepped into the light smoothly and dropped her butt onto the marble floor. 

“Hey, Armstrong.  What took you so long?” 

I relaxed when I saw her pretty face.  “An old friend of yours dropped by.” 

Riding in the cab she explained how she tailed her step-mother to her old man’s apartment and I told her about Mister White walls. 

“Nazi dough, huh?  My father must’ve been funneling money to the Fourth Reich in Argentina.”  I nodded.  “I want no part of them, Armstrong.  I just want my father’s company.”   Cynthia was sharp.  Even ex-Nazis play hard ball. 

Her father’s digs were pretty classy.  I was able to walk past the doorman only because I was carrying a classy looking lady on my arm.  The way he looked at me: I’m sure he’d have given me the bum’s rush any other day. 

The hall looked empty as we approached the door of the old man’s apartment and I quietly twisted the knob. 

Then, I saw a blue flash in my eyes and I staggered backwards.  Then my head felt like an elephant had danced on my skull wearing high heels.  Next thing I remember was crawling on my hands and knees.  I could hear Cynthia talking like she was a hundred miles away. 

“Hey, chump.  Wha’d you go an’ do that for?  I just got him trained.  You try’n’ to mess up a whole week’s work?” 

A deep voice tinged with a boxer’s slur boomed out, “Come on, wassa nice dame like you want widda monkey like dis?”  It was the accountant’s overpaid bodyguard. 

Through a haze I could see him walking towards Cynthia holding a ugly looking metal bar in his picnic ham-sized hand.  I fell towards him and kicked at the back of his knee causing him to tumble backwards.  Cynthia stepped forward and swung her dainty little foot right between his legs.  When her foot stopped between the inseams of his trousers, the goon rolled over and groaned loudly.  I snatched the bar from his mitt and thumped him in the head one time just to even the score before I staggered to my feet. 

“Where’d you learn that move?” I managed to ask as I shook the cobwebs from my head. 

Cynthia stood looking down her pretty little nose at the goon’s crumpled body.  “Coney Island… under the boardwalk.” 

This beautiful lady continued to amaze me.  She was one cool drink of water. 

I had a pretty good idea who was on the other side of that door: the old man’s young bedroom garnish and the last member of this conspiracy.  The door was locked but my size-eleven-Florsheim passkey worked on most kinds of locks.  I stepped through a pile of wood splinters to see the member of the gang with the dirtiest job clutching a robe to her naked body. 

“You could’ve knocked.” 

“I wanted to catch the show.”  I could see why the old man fell for this little tart, even though he had enough money to buy the whole bakery.  She was sleek as a sailboat in a bottle.  The robe landed at her feet to reveal her impressive rigging. 

“Is this what you came for?”  There was a smile on her lips that meant only one thing: she was ready to set sail. 

“No thanks, doll.  After you got used to that old geezer goin’ fifteen rounds with me… you’d have me up on charges: aggravated assault.” 

“I’m not afraid of championship caliber,” she cooed 

“Well, you’ll never know, sister.” 

“Hey, I ain’t no nun,” she snapped. 

“At’s good.  ‘cause a habit like yours’d be easy to break.”  I shot back. 

Cynthia stepped through the doorway, where she had been waiting to confront her step-mother. 

“So my old man ain’t enough for ya, huh?  You trying to snag this one, too?” 

“You think I couldn’t,” the younger girl squared a shoulders to Cynthia and dropped her hand to her naked hip.  I could see this was going to get ugly, but part of me wanted to watch these two scrap: the dirty part of me. 

“Relax and I’ll get you to the coppers before breakfast.”  I gathered up the robe from the floor and took Trixy’s elbow in my hand.  “I hear it’s the best meal of the day.”  She didn’t like being pushed, I guess, and she yanked her arm away from my grasp.  Cynthia took two steps forward and smacked her step-mother square on the nose.  Blood began to flow from Trixy’s face like the waterfalls at Niagara. 

“Hey, honey.  The man said ‘relax.’”  With all that I adored about this woman, sometimes she plain scared me.  While Trixy knelt on the floor trying to stop the bleeding from her swelling nose, Cynthia nodded coolly and said, “She won’t give you any more trouble.” 

That crazy beautiful blond didn’t even look at me: she was eying this kid who married her old man for money and “vanished” him.  If she were a man she would’ve been the toughest guy I knew. 


With the company sold, Cynthia took her share of the company — a share that could provide her with a “5th Avenue” address for the rest of her life — and turned over the money headed for Argentina to some farm in Israel.  I told her she was crazy but she insisted she didn’t want blood money on her hands.  Then she tugged at my shirt and asked me if that’s what I fought for in Europe.  I told her I was fighting because somebody was trying to kill me.  That was reason enough.  She sent the money anyway. 

Then it came time for Cynthia and me to settle our final accounts.  I wasn’t necessarily looking forward to parting company but the job was over.  She stood in front of my desk, dressed to kill, just staring at me for a minute.  Finally, she pointed her pretty little chin at me and smiled slowly. 

“Armstrong, I gotta business proposition for ya.”  I loved it when she talked dirty. 


Cynthia pulled me into the office by my tie. I was trying to get used to the hundred-dollar “monkey suit” I was wearing.  This one suit cost more than my wardrobe. 

“Quit squirmin’.” 

I shrugged off her order. 

“Hey, what’s the door gonna have on it, now?”  I eyed an old man painting on the glass with a brush as she led me through the door. 

“I thought ‘C & H Armstrong’ had a nice sound.”  She stopped, turned and let a smile spread across her pretty face with that. 

I cocked my head.  “Why do you get top billing?” 

Cynthia’s hand dropped to my zipper and she did that “special thing” she does. 

“You gotta question, you take it up with management, Mister Armstrong.” 

I sighed in resignation and shook my head. 

“Nah.  ‘C and H’ sounds good, Missus Armstrong.” 

“I’m glad you approve.” With one hand on my zipper and the other still using my tie as a leash she pulled my face close to hers, “… ‘cause it’s you an’ me from now on, partner.” 

I could think of worse things. 

God, guns and George

February 14, 2007

Today my mind became clear as an azure sky and I realized I had been “wrong thinking” for, oh so, many years. George W. Bush is the touted savior of the free world and an emphatic genius on a par with Wiley E. Coyote. The AM radio pundits knew all along that the man who sat quietly in the Oval Office fingering a “Souvenir of the White House” ash tray was not an over-indulgent, mentally retarded, hypocritical, atheistic-turned-born-again-for-the-votes-christian, frat boy… but instead was acting a role in order to lull the world powers into a false sense of cognitive superiority. It all makes perfect sense to me now, and with two years left in office I think he’s ready to pounce on our enemies: starting with the people who make “Tiger Tails” and those “Sno-Ball” cupcake things. Their rein of behind-the-scenes-terror-and-manipulation is coming to an end: a bloody, horrible, shrieking end at the hands of George “the W stand for Wreally-wrathful” Bush. This man is unlike GHW Bush who had a commitment to warfare somewhat akin to the Reagan administrations’ commitment to homeless veterans. Ronald Wilson Reagan knew what it was like to suffer… though not as much as the soldiers who had to endure acting on a par with the Muppets’ revue of “Glengarry Glen Ross” in those training films the Gipper selflessly volunteered to “star” in. The heroic “Dutch” had to drive himself 45 minutes from hisMalibu ranch five mornings a week while his fellow training-film crew members were allowed to languish under the armed and watchful eye of military police protection within their taxpayer provided military style deluxe accommodations while they engaged in foolish indulgent exercises of military bravado. Then he drove himself back to his ranch! All this while GHW Bush was dumping expensive taxpayer funded aircraft somewhere in thePacific Ocean (as far as I know he never did pay the Navy back for losing that airplane). No, this man, George W. Bush, is of much sterner metal than his predecessors (actually there was one inconsequential “pretender to the throne” who defeated H. Ross Perot in a highly contested election fraught with voting irregularities and illegal activities—for that tragic chapter in history See Mr. Hillary Rodham). Now, those uninformed opponents to this great man who might maliciously label his constituents the devoted-conservative-republican-I-voted-GOP-because-I-knew-it-was-only-a-matter-of-time-before-the-tax-and-spend-Democrats-took-all-the-good-spending-on-high-tech-weapons-and-the-pull-the-poor-uneducated-white-rural-population-up-to-an-income-level-slightly-below-poverty-but-allow-them-to-have-numerous-christian-babies-at-the-low-low-cost-of-the-military-hospital-simple-medical-deductable-before-they-started-to-whine-and-weep-and-camp-out-in-front-of-a-great-man’s-expensive-Texas-ranch-because-their-husbands-and-children-got-blown-to-bits-in-a-war-started-because-someone-8000-miles-away-was-disrespectful-the-president’s-rich-though-politically-unsuccessful-daddy-and-to-slip-a-few-bucks-into-the-pockets-of-a-guy-who-wants-everybody-else-to-have-a-textbook-defintion-christian-family-though-his-makes-the-Borgias-look-like-the-Brady-Bunch-while-giving-big-oil-companies-additional-leverage-against-the-gas-sucking-over-indulgent-try-not-to-spend-more-money-on-gas-than-you-inherit-from-your-thieving-Nazi-loving-Upper-Silisia-Polish-Jew-killing-politically-corrupt-grandfather-who-helped-create-the-CIA-so-his-inept-son-could-have-a-paying-gig-and-live-out-the-good-life-on-Jupiter-Island-Florida-while-pretending-he-knew-nothing-about-an-illegal-political-scandal-bigger-than-Watergate-that-collapsed-around-his-head-and-shoulders might disagree, claiming “we’re still not sure about this Bush,” those of us “in on it” are checking off the days on our calendar until “we” can rise again. What prompted this amazing turn around in my thought process? While riding my bicycle (made by oppressed Japanese workers in a plant that poured tons of contaminants into the skies: a veritable alphabet soup of poisonous airborne chemicals and I think the metals in my bike still leak some hazardous waste when I ride it) I fell and slammed my cranium into the innocent and unsuspecting pavement (you won’t fall and hit your head when you’re driving a Hummer or a Monster Truck). When the blackness lifted behind my eyes I saw what had been previously hidden (something maybe only a strict regimen of 30 Oxycontin a day can provide, like that stuff in the book “A Separate Reality”). So remember: God, guns and George put this country where it is today! 

Got Bin Laden?

February 2, 2007

The state department today announced its newest program in the hunt for fugitive terrorist, Osama Bin Laden.

President George W. Bush stated at a press conference earlier today a project he has personally overseen from its inception, the “Got Bin Laden?” project.

Said the President: “This whole thing started because the CIA gave us bad intel, ya see? So now we’re gonna put out good intel, heh heh. We are… um… gonna put Bin Laden’s face on tee shirts… and… uh… handbills and milk cartons and… uh, bumper stickers. It worked for that guy on television… with his kid. So I think with a uh… by putting up these handbills all over the Afghan-Pakastani border and the bumper stickers on military vehicles and the milk carton thing… we’ll have Bin Laden… soon. Thank you.”


This comes on the heels of the State Department’s wildly successful “Got Saddam?” campaign which resulted in the capture of the former dictator. Representitives of the State Department handed press kits containing the items mentioned by the President.

Porn by the pound

January 13, 2007

I simply love the internet. It is a surreal vignette of the western world. And the ubiquitous, yet arcane nature of sex, couples (pardon the pun) with the private nature of the internet to create a playground for the empirically unattractive folks to vicariously experience the attentions of silicon sweeties in 21-inch-plasma screen two-dimensional pseudo reality. Yum-yum! But even that is so twisted sometimes it transends irony. For example: Everything is categorized. I wanted to test that. I put in—plus size, puerto rican, she male, urinating in public… the prompt came back: do you want pix or video? Hm… Then I found a stie where I could pick nudes from a particular school. I guess I’m okay with any school, except maybe Jesuit Seminary… I found a category called fisting. This is an interesting concept. A guy puts his hand in a woman’s vagina halfway up to his elbow… but he has to make a fist, I guess, for it to really be “fisting”…  but how can WE be sure? Maybe they should have to wear 24 ounce boxing gloves. Truth in advertising. Then there is “amateurs,” (as opposed to “professional”). This is a category born of digital cameras and Blue Label Schmirnov vodka. And then you find a category called “Bizarre” keeping in mind some of these people are professionals – professionals… she’s got her dress up over her head and she’s doing the splits over a coke bottle, but it’s done in a professional manner. Shoot, I wouldn’t even call it porn. Hey, she’s a professional.What is she? Bonded?  Then I found “amateur fisting”… but a guy with 24 ounce boxing gloves on and his hand up a woman’s vagina halfway to his elbow is hard to believe fits into ANY “amateur” category – color me jaded… then to make it interesting he shoves an axe handle up the woman’s ass… and he starts spitting fire wood… can you pick just ONE point along this erotic  journey where you began to doubt the veracity of the ‘amateur’ label? Me neither, until I looked at the “professionals”… a guy with 24 ounce boxing gloves on and his hand up a woman’s vagina halfway to his elbow…an axe handle up the woman’s rectum…he’s chopping firewood… and the woman is looking at the camera and smiling! “I hope you have as much fun masturbating to these photos as I did making them…” She doesn’t look like she’s have sex, she looks like she having her driver’s license photo redone. And tattoos galore. I can remember when the only tattooed female flesh I saw was in National Geographic – now women have “Open other end” in block letters tattooed on their their ass. “Demur Teen” You know somewhere after your second birthday it’s tough to look demur with ankles behind your head. Russian Porn: it would seem pornography is Russia’s leading export after air-borne beta-particle radiation. How about, Petite Pussy… If there IS another kind I’d really rather not know about it. Fat Girls: Hey, if I wanted to see a “fat girl” I’d go sit in the bathroom when I heard the shower kick on, okay? That’s why I’m cruising the internet. Lots of videos out there… the most wasted credit in porn: written by. Are they afraid they’re going to hire a method actor. “What’s my motivation?”“You’ve got an erection, she’s got a vagina… and action.”Based on true story. I saw some beautiful girl in an ad – “Gain 3 inches on your penis, no pills just a simple exercise.” That was a waste of 20 bucks… I’ve been doing these exercises for years.  HEY, get a smaller vagina…YOU do those excerises…“And no surgery“Hey, bet on that, girly. You come at my dick with anything sharper than your front teeth and you’ve got a fight on your hands… I’ll make Hanibal Lechter look like a WalMart Greeter. But this was the strangest of all. “The Fleshlight”“The Fleshlight is a special toy made for guys. Most toys you find out there, you stick your dick in and it feels like you’re fucking a plastic soda bottle. The Fleshlight is made of a soft material that you can warm up by soaking in hot water. Add some lube, stick your dick inside and feel the Fleshlight surround you. It’s so much different than jacking off.”Really? HOW? You’re alone and having sex…“The jelly material will get you off in about a minute.”How do they know? Is there some Underwriters’ Laboratory test for this? A bunch of guys… some lady with clipboard and a stop watch… ‘And go.’If so, I’ve got a good answer the next time somebody asks me where I see myself in 5 years.“Another nice thing about this great toy is that it comes in a plastic container that looks a bit like a flashlight, so if anyone ever finds it they’ll probably think it’s a flashlight. Pretty nifty.”A BIT like a flashlight… so chances are if anyone finds it… they WON’T stick their dick in it— Damn it! Another flashlight!If that’s a problem around your house maybe it’s time for some new friends.Then it says, I’m not making this up…“How To Use The Fleshlight”

if you need instructions I think I know why you are spending so many nights alone…

Wah… my pussy’s ugly

December 13, 2006

On TV last night I just saw the newest rage in plastic surgery: labiaplasty. Yes, it’s just what you think it is. My pussy’s ugly… So? Turn out the lights.

At best, it’s not the most attractive portion of the female anatomy, but guys rarely complain… and who’s this for, really? Do women inBeverly Hills stand around at parties and compare?

I read the testimonials. One said “I look so much better down there…” What is she a contortionist?

“I have renewed self-confidence in public…” where do you live?Who’s gonna notice this? “Hi grandpa, I just had elective surgery. Wanna see?”Are women gonna scurry down to Kinkos, drop their drawers and hop up on the copier so they can have a picture for their Christmas cards? Doubtful.

A woman can also get a new hymen… ladies, I’ll let you in on a little secret: guys aren’t that interested in the hymen, they prefer the packaging.

The prices range from 3500 dollars to 12,500 dollars. Okay, if you can get 12,500 dollars worth of this surgery, maybe there’s a problem.

But I only saw labia reduction… I’m waiting for labia enhancement then I’ll send the wife in for a consultation.

Hyman tattoo

December 2, 2006

When exactly did that one dwarf start calling himself Doc?  Was it before or after Snow White showed up? “Now just relax, Ms. White… Med school? Of course, the Gynologica Polytechnico de Tijuana.” Chapter one — Her breasts were enormous and each seemed to point in different directions… they were like the gangs in West Side Story: you couldn’t get them together without a fight.  Ask me about John Holmes Facial Cream .Sexy? You shave yours first… 

A tattoo on a Mormon girl’s hyman: Exciting to handle when your hands roam, but if you break it you take it home.

Crackling Wire Estates Mobile Home Park

December 2, 2006

Visit Crackling Wire Estates Mobile Home Park a subsidiary of Rio Los Banos Country Club featuring our 3 championship golf courses: Gater’s Lair, Copperhead Marsh and Stinking Dunes. And for the minature golfer try Mosquito Bend. Not a duffer? You can go horse back riding at the Thrush Hook Riding Academy, have a day of crappie fishing on Sulfer Springs Lake or explore the geologic wonder of Los Banos Tar Pits. Hungry, try our world class cuisine at the Brass Spitoon or for the casual and family dining stop in the Slaughterhouse and be sure to sample our world’s famous Pig Sty Pie. Adults can enjoy a cocktail at the Black Eye Lounge. Crackling Wire Estates is conveniently located a mere seven miles from the Shifting Sands Power Plant; providing residents with clean, safe, dependable nuclear power, and it’s a short drive to Stunted Pines Naval Gunnery Range.We’re easy to find. Exit the highway after you pass the high voltage towers, take a left on Strom Thurman Boulevard and go right on Cleft Palate Road. Make a reservation for a free guided tour within the next 24 days and you’ll receive five free tickets to Branson, Missouri’s newest celebrity-themed fun park, Frawley-wood. That’s right Frawley-wood. The world’s first tribute theme park to William Frawley that lovable Fred Mertz of I love Lucy and that lovable Uncle Charlie from My Three Sons. Crackling Wires Estates Mobile Home Park; we’re the direction the deep south is headed.