Dr. Faustroll Writes the Wrongs

Citing eight years of Republicrat economic efforts that increased populations of those living below the poverty level, as well as encouraging migration of the downwardly mobile, fiercely vocal opponents of the fairness doctrine responded to President Obama’s initial budget proposal by calling it “a blueprint for economic disaster that will harm the environment by encouraging over-harvesting of America’s most important resource beginning in 2011.”

Senator Orrin Hatch (R-Jewtah) has reportedly pegged Obama’s plan “dead on arrival,” slamming the proposal by the first non-white president of NOMPH™ to increase the tax burden on less than two tenths of a percent of America’s undeniably deserving leisure class “draconian,” likening it “to an open season on the very people who have earned the right to own this ground we walk upon by providing hard labor opportunities for all the Joe the Plumbers and Sarah Palins of this great country — who are the real heros, by the way — without requiring them to serve any time in prison where they would not have the opportunity to earn minimum wage.”

We did not attempt to reach Hatch for comment on what appeared to be his distortion of the purposes of the Nazi hunting season that opens this weekend in Paraguay.

Although among the richest people on the planet, Nazis are hunted chiefly for their scrotal sacks, sometimes called gunnies, as part of a culture of sanctimonious revenge that grew up following the alleged slaughter of several million Jews, gays, gypsies, liberals, Bolsheviks, and other fun-loving humans for two decades following the Great Depression.

Following World War II, fugitive Nazis who could not be sentenced to work on America’s space program or develop weapons of mass distraction for the undisputed champions of the world, free and otherwise, were often re-located to South America by the OSS (now commonly known as the CIA, or Corporate Intelligence Agency) where they were instrumental in transforming many of the desperately poor countries in the region south of America’s border into thriving cartels that produce cheap and effective pain killers and mercenary death squads.

Unfortunately, in recent years, several former U.S. allies in South and Central America have been infiltrated by liberal lawmakers and human rights agitators who have pushed for controlled Nazi hunts in Bolivia, Paraguay, Guatemala, Colombia, and Ecuador, some of which have so depleted free-range Nazi herds that some units are now in danger of extinction.

Hardest hit was Venezuela, which some conservative enrivornmental economists argue now has only two breeding pairs of Nazis in a country run by megalomaniacal universal welfare advocate Hugo Chavez. Attempts to obtain access to Octomoms willing to help reestablish self-sustaining Nazi communities have proven problematic.

People within the Obama administration pooh-pooh sugestions that “taxing these arrogant greedheads is the same as poisoning the world.” They suggest that there is no downside to looking for lost change in the sofas of those who often have more homes that Senator John McCain. None of them see shaking down the wealthy as having a negative impact upon the nation’s staggering economy, and many challenge the notion that the country’s obesely and obscenely rich are deserving of endangered species protections.

“You know yawl? I’m flat tired of these whining motherphuckers. Any ofay hemorrhoid jockey gots plenty of time to pack up and find somewhere else to show off their bling and hire them some willing niggers elsewhere if they don’t want to pay their fare share of the cost of protecting their honkey asses here at home,” said a high-ranking White House source who preferred to remain anonymous.

“The idea that these ignant motherphuckers be trying to convince American brothers and sisters, many of which has lost everything ceptin their goddamn minds because of the actions of these sorry ass scumbags — them saying they ain’t to blame? Wuddent their fault?” the source continued, “Damn liberals and welfare cheats done it? And then come back to claim they is a vanishing breed more valuable to this nation than the Pacific Northwest brown forest slug? Now that is terminal dumb ass, you ax me, and the height of white-folk delusions.”

Anonymous officials inside Obama’s inner circle also note that Obama’s plan only calls for taxing the rich, not hunting them down, “although it wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

NOMPH™ ill-will ambassador offers post-term necronomic stimulus plan

No one said that transitioning from decider to derelevant was going to be easy, and my usually unreliable sources tell me that former First Idiot George W. Bush is more than a little miffed that no one in the Obama administration has asked him for any advice on foreign or domestic affairs.

“He’s getting tired of waiting for the phone to ring,” said former Secretary of Misstatement Condoleeza Rice, a rumored confidante who requested anonymity before not speaking with us, “and when the damn thing does ring, it ends up being George Soros, Move On, Huffington Post, or Keith Olberman.”

When I suggested she teach her former squeeze to take advantage of the no-call lists he opposed during his time of mission accomplishing and getting Iraqis to proudly dip their fingers in purple ink, my imaginary connection was suddenly dropped, like another shoe we all suspected was coming.

Bush is reportedly “extremely proud of his misunderestimated accomplishments in not having all kinds of affairs,” according to someone else uncomfortably close to the truth who would speak only while wearing a cloaking device, “unlike Bill Clinton, who never met an affair he didn’t like both in and out of office. Our former great leader would undoubtedly advise Biraq to avoid even the appearance of entertaining the thought of an affair, no matter how attractive it may seem to score some cheap political points.”

One day after flubbing an interview for a job as a greeter at Master Bait and Tackle in Dallas and giving an impromptu lecture on deciderizing to a political science class at SMU, Bush invaded Jack Ruby High School this morning to exhort young Texans around the globe to learn the importance of “sticking to your guns and keeping on doing whatever you are doing, which is what the old rummy taught me all them years ago, because when you finally become a war president and have to keep decidering on important questionings for witching there be no fast food answers to keep America safe from another 9/11, see, you’ll remember where you wanted to be when you wasn’t, so you have to keep your pants up and principles no matter what the consequences are for those who don’t see the big picture anyway, because that’s what the voters give you a mandrake to do. That’s the only poll that counts, see, is what you feel in your gut,” Bush told his admiring audience of uneducable mentally retarded Texans, pointing at his own buttocks.

Bush is reportedly getting in shape for an upcoming tour of Europe and Middle Earth where he has vowed not to be apprehended by the World Court to stand trial for crimes against humanity, a charge the former president vehemently disputes by arguing that terrorists are not human, and the only people killed during his administration were either terrorists or being used as human shields by the terrorists. “From the earliest days of my decidering, I told the whole world that you is either for us or a legitimate target, see,” the president recently told a drooling liberal media celebrity, “and a target is something you aim at, and I always hit what I aim at. So what’s the problem?”

I recently placed bets to win that former First Idiot, George W. Bush, will finally be captured and taken to The Hague before Memorial Day. The Decidedly Imperfect Decider has apparently signed up to give a series of lectures in countries that have international arrest warrants out for his sorry Gumpian buttocks.

The man recently showed up to buy some duct tape and bomb making materials at a Dallas hardware store where no one recognized him, despite his Players jacket having the presidential seal and his name prominently displayed, and despite the fact that this very store had offered him a job as an official greeter for nearly the minimum wage just a few days earlier.

“Up here in Texas,” said current greeter Henry Lee Youngman, “we is used to dealing with fallen debris, such as when the space shuttle come down all abouts and the collectors swup in and got all the good pieces to sell on eBay, and Dubya, he’s not the president these days. Hell, he’s just another born again asshole thinks he’s too good to get drunk down at Thelma’s. Loney [Ruby County Sheriff Looney] should prolly arrested his dumb ass for impressionating a president, which we all know is a nigra, although it pains me to say it.”

After being asked by Becky Sue and Harmony Discord who were selling Girl Scout cookies out front if he knew how to get in touch with their hero Cindy Sheehan, Bush hocked up a loogie of freedom and was airlifted by Bushleague One to Southern Methodist University where he barged into a political science class and began lecturing to generally disinterested students as Curtis Bryant Mayfield, the regular instructor, was subdued with a taser, bound with cable ties, had his head covered with a burlap sack, and was dragged from the auditorium by his genitals.

“Damned but if this won’t the best example of how our country has been made much less safer by the election of that damn liberal nigra,” said a drunken C student (who insisted on anonymity because he hopes to run for president himself one day) when describing Bush’s brief comments on deciderfication, responsibiliting, and accomplishments involving missions to protect shoppers throughout the country since 9/11.

“Now I know that some that think think that thinking is the only way to think thinking through and derive at a new occlusion,” Bush allegedly told his captive audience, “but I wasn’t elected the first time, and then I wasn’t elected again to listen to people who don’t agree with me. Right after 9/11, I told the American people who had bestowed upon me my mandrake that it was time to shut up and fight and put up and put out. That you was either for us or enemy combatants, and until I left office — triumervately I might add if I understood that correctly,” he grinned, smacking the earbud where he still listens to motivational podcasts from former vice president in hiding Lon Cheney.

Bush pulled a pistol from his jacket pocket when asked by an obvious liberal agitator if he cared to discuss the economic stimulus package pushed through Congress by the tax and spend liberals and their elitely literate leader Biraq Hussein Obama, aiming it at the questioner’s crotch before breaking into his trademark smirk, assuming a wide stance that would have been envied by potato-headed former Republicrat congressman from his own privates and Idaho Larry Craig, grabbing the codpiece he has worn every day since declaring the war in Iraq a mission accomplished on the deck of the U.S. Benjamin Braddock, and shouted: “One word! Plastics! I got your economic stimulus package right here!”

This weekend the former president departs for England where he hopes to take possession of brain tissue that is more than 2,000 years old and which Bush believes should sit in his fraternity house next to the skull of Geronimo, which was liberated from a shrine maintained by native terrorists by his grandfather.

Some suggest that Bush’s real interest in the brain is that it may hold the secret to having the defective one in his own skull reprogrammed so that he can once again eat pretzels and drink PBR without fear of choking and passing on to the big ranch in the sky before he gets to place his copy of My Pet Goat in his $2.3 trillion library at SMU..

To strains of I am Wombman, hear me roar, serial mother Dody Decker-Hedron left the Portland Pataphysical Outpatient Clinic, Lounge, and Laundromat this morning, telling her supporter that she planned to double the size of her brood before Christmas.

Decker-Hedron (no relation to former Oregasm Olympic complainer Mary Contrary Decker-Salami) recently sued the liberal media for libel for reporting on her recent spawning of several children who are currently in custody for suspicion of illegal fetal sexual contact, after it was reported that she only had 6 embroyos donated by former Republican vice presidential candidate and Alaskan governor Sarah Sirhan Palin which were allegedly fertilized by former Illinois governor Rod Arrrrr Blagojevich.

Waving from a horse-drawn pumpkin, the single mother of fourteen, all of whom are named after the children of American presidents born after 1956, laughed heartily while announcing the recent implantation of an additional 23 embroyos donated by the Church of Appliantology.

In related news, Decker-Hedron has agreed to be the voice behind a series of radio commercials for Beatific Bile Farm and Boutique.

Reality check: The world is not your apple. Knowledge is not wisdom. Wisdom precludes a quest for power. Power is not justified. Respect must be earned, no matter what Arthur Miller believed, assuming that dumb phuck actually believed a phart’s portion of what he wrote, because he was human, after all, and humans must be forgiven for occasionally believing in things, although everything they experience indicates that belief is folly, counter-productive, and usually leads to evil excesses, such as, oh, I don’t know — how about incidental genocide or targeted collateral damage?

So what kind of day are you having? I suspect it is not nearly so stressful as the one Biraq Hussein Obama is having and has been having for several idiotic days because the NOMPH so thoroughly needs several little nuclear bombs launched against known right-wingnut terrorists who have been operating within the terroritorial boundaries of the United States for at least two decades.

Last night I watched Snakes on a Plane, and I suspect Biraq has also watched that movie or he wouldn’t have run against Hillary Clinton. If he hasn’t, he should. Everything he is facing was outlined perfectly in that movie from the initial baseball beating execution of some chump prosecutor who was set up by the prison-industrial complex through to the perfectly logical decision on the part of the Samuel L. Jackson character to open a couple of windows and let some air in to the cramped compartment we have come to know and love as the nation of miserable phucks (NOMPH™).

You listening, Biraq? I am witchu, dude. Let’s bring this bird down to earth and put all them illegal reptile smugglers behind bars with the entire previous administration and all of the straggler Republicrats who were too blind to see that the tsunami in Afghanistan is not going to be half as thorough as tracking down and capturing and trying all those Karl Marx-Rovian neocondi rice and beaner scumbuckets included on the short term list of atrocities the NOMPH must atone for.

What? What? Oh, you’re right. My apologies. It won’t happen again until next time.

This post was supposed to be about the e-mails we’ve been getting at the Portland Pataphysical Outpatient Clinic, Lounge, and Laundromat since agreeing to some terms of serivce at Today.com. Sometimes it is hard to stay focused.

Just ask Biraq, going into week five of the death spiral. It’s so sad to see an administration that began with such promise devolve into name calling by fecalpates and phuckwads who should be disciplined with extreme prejudice until their gene pool is no longer a pestilence.

Oh shit. How do I edit that after it’s already been published? Help me Jesus. Help me Garp.

Coming soon: The NOMPH gets stupider and uglier and takes your friends on vacation, but that’s OK because you’re doing all right and getting good grades.

I grew up in New York City, and I fished in the winter for cod, pollock, mackerel, and shark out of small boats, mainly, on Long Island Sound. I camped in pup tents and lean-to’s in the snow, and I almost died delivering the Long Island Star when I hit a pocket in a snow dune on 21st Avenue that happened to be an abandoned car. Fortunately, someone in the Iverson house saw me disppear into the drift and dug me out. I still have a certificate honoring me as a Blizzard Buster for that silly escapade.

In 1964, I left New York and moved to Clemson, South Carolina, for undergraduate school. I didn’t stay long, a couple of years, before I dropped out and moved back to New York, where I bought an MG Midget, brand new, 1967, with money I earned driving a cab for a local company connected with a social athletic club whose clients were good tippers. I paid cash for my first car, and I didn’t have to kill anyone to get the cash, although some of my tippers probably did rough some people up for their cash.

I lost that car in the snow in the 1968. I was working as a logistic technician for a company that performed bureaucratic magic. One of the jobs I was on involved correcting log files so that a destroyer that had inadvertently been reported missing because of a faulty transfer transaction could again be found without involving any embarrassing admission that the inventory control system for major naval weapons systems was horribly inefficient. I was still a teenager and thought the whole thing was a hoot. Looking back on it, I still think it was a hoot.

I actually lost that car in the snow three times, but that’s beyond the scope of this imaginary post.

I was dating a girl whose mother was named Alice Cooper. No shit. I can’t remember the daughter’s name. I bought her a diamond ring with tips I got driving the cab and we got engaged, but I can’t remember her name.

I had driven Sarge and Alice Cooper’s daughter and me to Binghampton in the MG, which had a faulty thermostat, so the heater didn’t work, and because it was 5-10 degrees outside, I had to pull over every 60 miles or so and let the car idle so we could avoid frostbite.

Up in Binghampton, I found a replacement thermostat so the girlfriend whose name I can’t remember and I didn’t have to engage in constant coitus to survive the ride way back. Sarge was staying over in Binghampton, and on the second or third day (this was supposed to be a weeklong vacation), a major storm began moving down from Canada, and the temperature was hovering just below zero, and the wind was blowing, and more snow was coming, so I decided to make a run back to NYC before getting caught in Binghampton, which is just not my kind of town.

The Midget was 39 inches tall at the top of the windshield. It was the most impractical vehicle I ever owned, but it was fast and nimble. The speedometer only went to 105 mph and I often kept it at that point. It had a removable hardtop, a soft top, and a toneau cover. On the trip to Binghampton and back, I had the removable hardtop.

When I left Binghampton, it was 6° below zero with winds of 10-15 mph from the west-northwest, and there was some powder in the wind. I headed south toward NYC on the highway at got it up to 90 or so, and it started snowing.

The wipers on the Midget had two speeds: worthless and unacceptable, but at 90-100 mph, the snow wasn’t going to stick anyway, and there was little traffic and for the first 100 miles or snow the road was in pretty good shape and I had no trouble keeping up speed and listening to the approach of the storm on the shitty radio.

Nearing Monticello, I noticed a car in the rear view mirror was closing on me.

Where will it end? Officer John Friendly holds us without charges in Monticello until the storm arrives.

Last week while trying to become more popular, I built an appartus at my home office work station that, when activated by the proper key combination as I typed, would drive a pair of Pentel Rolling Writers through my ears and penetrate the brain in a pataphysical perietal lobotomy that would make me into a modern day Randall Patrick McMurphy, but without a Chief Broom to save him.

I was about to test this contraption this morning on a stray golden lab who started hanging around a couple of weeks ago, when I checked my VIP stats, and it was as if Pennsylvania had suddenly ceased to be a state where idiots gladly stand on their heads in pools of feces for an occasional Superbowl victory. Yes, it was a sign from Gus. I had arrived.

It has been brought to my attention by several readers that I have not offered much help to fledgling pataphysique admirers who want to remain svelte and healthy as they pursue alternative realities on the planet of miserable phucks. So let me blog briefly about a meat sometimes referred to as pollo del arbol or chicken of the trees.

I love eating as much as the average NOMPH™ glutton, although I much prefer drinking. God, after all, will one day arrive on Earth to separate the good from the evil and the only measure She will rely upon in determining who will be saved and who will remain behind with the Bush family is having gone to war with water and achieved maximum blood alcohol content.

If you allow any water to enter your body that is not ingested incidentally to the consumption of meat, vegetables, fruits, and alcoholic beverages, you will be forsaken when the pataphysical rapture comes, and She who must by obeyed will render your nads into a savory paste.

I love seafood, and while I prefer to catch my own, sometimes it is difficult to negotiate the coast range in the snow and ice, so I was pleasantly surprised when a specialty shop opened a few miles from my workplace where I could buy live Alaskan crab and New England lobster, monk fish, rock bass, salmon, king crab, several varieties of shrimp and scallops, and various kinds of shellfish: oysters, clams, mussels, abalone.

The place is run by questionably legal immigrants from Guatamala, Honduras, Belize, and Cuba, and they always offer excellent suggestions for preparing the fresh or frozen products they offer. A couple of days ago, I purchased four Peruvian frog leg sections and a live Dungeness crab.

At the counter, one of the fishmongers asked me if I intended to cook the frog legs and crabs together, and I must have looked somewhat surprised at his question, because he said back in Belize, he and his family often ate stew made from frog legs and iguana in a special sauce that is not only delicious but will also cure your hemorrhoids by cauterizing your anus from the inside out.

Curious, I was anxious to try his recipe and asked if they also carried iguana.

“No,” he said sadly, “but they have nice ones at Petco. Just don’t say I send you. They think the things are to sleep with.”

Our premise: Pataphysics, the science of imaginary solutions, was invented by Alfred Molina Jarry in the late 1800s to explain why the world was increasingly populated by miserable phucks and how to avoid phalling under their dreadphull inphluence. Jarry believed that water was a toxic substance that should be used only to wash clothes, torture terrorists, and flush one’s feces to the nearby school cafeteria.

Typical NOMPH patient: “I’m so glad you listen to Rush Limbaugh too.”

I often wonder what a sequitor is like. I really want to see one and experience the supreme joy of the logic such a object would bring to me. I assume from my studies that there must be such a thing. Some people are traught. Some people are born with silver toothpicks in their mouths. Some are born to Grapenuts. Others have Grapenuts thrust upon them.

And so it is that today we must call a spade a spade and take alms against a semeny trouble and thus opposable thumbs must mend them, to paraphrase something I was thinking about earlier this evening before suffering an Oldheimer’s moment while increasing the opium drip.

In a time long, long ago, in a NOMPH far, far away, you could actually buy collections of what is today considered to be politically incorrect humor. The underlying assumption that some humor can be deemed politically incorrect presupposes that political correctness is not oxymoronic. The only way that politically correct humor could be considered other than oxymoronic is if the oxen objected, and as Thomas Hardy so aptly pointed out in his paeon to stupid, blind, believing oxen and their groupies, that’s not likely to happen.

So what is this post about? you might ask, as if I was paying attention, and I might respond by pharting, which often evokes in my readers such sweet sorrow, but the truth is obvious: the jig is up in the White House and he is not going to leave until you learn how to hope you can live on spare change, honkies.

Coming soon: How many times daily does Obama masturbate in the Oval Office while watching Monica Gets Her Presidential Kneepads on his Blackberry?

Part three in a never-ending series: As the Obama administration struggles for relevance in a world he never made, two things have become clear. Obama just isn’t black enough to wrest the NOMPH™ from the evil monkeys who have run it since colonial times. He’s also not white enough to win over the disloyal opposition of do-nothing Republicrat honkies who draw strength from idiocy and misplaced pride.

Instead of simply rolling back the horrendous policies and procedures put in place during the Bush years, Biraq needs to embrace a new, improved arrogance and disregard for opposing viewpoints if he hopes to establish a truly New World Order which is not simply a return to a slightly more efficient Third Reich.

The first salvo in the battle against Biraq was fired by everyone’s favorite fat frat boy, Rush Limbaugh, who suggested that like Donovan McNabb and Michael Vick before him, Biraq’s qualifications to quarterback the country through these troubling times might be hamstrung by his inability to grasp what it means when a mega-rich talk show host responds to faint praise by saying: “Well, that’s really white of you.”

This immediately put the Obama camp in damage control mode, which was in turn interpreted as demonstrative of a underlying reactionary gene that guides all of Obama’s actions. This is an accusation that the new president has not been able to shake each time he rescinds an illegal and mind-boggling executive order signed by his gleefully illiterate predecessor, giving the neocondi rice and beaners an opening to flood the airwaves with clichés such as: “We sure hope he is not going to try to reinvent the wheel when it comes to foreign policy,” or “He appears to be willing to throw the octuplets out with the fertility clinic,” or “He would be better served if his staff told him to let the dust settle and take some time to consider why George W. Bush often seemed to be sitting in a lifeboat with both oars in the water waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Take the rumor that Michelle Obama accepted some oxycontin from a clerk at The Gap when she complained of a headache while shopping for clothes for Malia and Sasha, the first picanninies ever to live at the White House who weren’t slaves.

It turns out that the clerk hosts a Web site for fans of Joe the Plumber and Harry the Hairdresser, two of Obama’s harshest critics. Instead of responding to this obvious smear attempt by attacking the right wingnut scumbuckets who have flourished without restraint for nearly two decades, the savior-elect remained silent, saying he chose not to dignify innuendo with a comment and he was preparing to “hit the ground running on January 20th to return hope and change to the American people.”

In the bullpen: Is Obama destined to be remembered as brown Clinton?