Dr. Faustroll Writes the Wrongs

I like to pop off a few hundred rounds whenever I can, but in these desperate economic times I don’t want to seem like a profligate Republicrat or Demoblican in wasting ammo when I could be helping terminate real bad guys outside my gated community. I am not a drive-by shooter by nature. I wasn’t even raised that way. If I was genetically predisposed to be a nigga, I would be a Clarence Thomas kind of nigga, and I’d be on the Supreme Court putting pubes on my Diet Coke cans and asking the interns to pick them off with their teeth.

I understand why lower class emotional and intellectual defective constructs forced to live in terrible conditions by liberals who have always run the country would find my mocking of their use of the second amendment to poke holes in other lower class dipshits as somewhat disingenuous, even if they buttbump Sarah Palin to ask her press corps to find out what disingenuous means, but that’s not the point.

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You know, sometimes people stop drinking the Koolaid before it’s too late, which is why I survived Jonestown after three or four cups. Of course, I thought everyone else was there to party hearty and get down with their bad selves. How was I to know how few people have even heard of Mithridates, my great-grandfather several dozen times removed?

There I was, trying to find someone to get me another cold one and a snack, and all these amateur evanglicals were rolling around as if convulsing is an artform. If there was ever a singular failure of the liberal viewpoint that was it. Everyone should know they could end up unclaimed in a warehouse and made into pet food. That understanding has always kept me on the balls of my feet.

People should be trained from an early age to combat various toxic attacks upon their immune systems, and I’m not just talking alcohol and hallucinogens. What about industrial solvents or accidental injection of stimulants and opiates? What about thought crime?

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Florida has always struck me as the kind of place where the truly ludicrous is bound to surface, and not just because Hemingway used to live there. What about Jimmy Buffet, Jack Kerouac, Roxanne Pulitzer, Ted Bundy, Terri Schiavo? And don’t get me started on all the retired jews from New York move there to whine and act as if living in an actual city was like surviving the Holocaust.

I don’t know why I’ve never liked Florida, and it’s not worth my time thinking about it. It’s just such an unholy sticky place that seems destined to become a stew pot of serial killers, endangered species, failed space exploration programs, and periodic derision by me, Doctor Faustroll, the holy antithesis of Al Franqen, who is scheduled to become the second senator from Minnesota whenever Garrison Keilor leaves the state to mate with Newt Gingrich.

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Leave it to those amazing Limeys to spend thirty thousand bucks for a school of five phony fish that will apparently expand the war against morning toast on the Thames to the oceans and beyond!

These are robot fish, people, designed to detect pollution. I suspect this is because the water they are being put into is too polluted to support real carp. I wonder if I’ll be able to book a trip to the Bay of Biscayne in a couple of years to angle for these things with artificial bait. Will they produce artificial offspring in the wild? Is this the advent of SeaNet? Where is Sarah Connor when you need her? Tonight we’ll dine in Hell on metal!

To be fair, it has been nearly three hundred years since Dryden and Pope waxed poetic about those beautiful fecal floaters in downtown London, but robot fish a six grand a pop? Have these funny sounding people lost their damn minds? Will these things at least smell like fish if you left them out of water for a few days?

Here’s my favorite quote from the story:

“Our hope is that this will prevent potentially hazardous discharges at sea as the leak would undoubtedly get worse over time if not located,” said Professor Huosheng Hu of Essex University, whose team is building the fish.

If successful, they hope the fish could be used around the world to prevent the spread of pollution.

And they would do this how?

And Huosheng Hu? What is he really looking for? Godzirrah?

Being tagged and left on the frontage road to the InterWeb superhighway like a crumpled bag that once housed a happy meal, I began having flashbacks, which is a good thing when you don’t have access to decent drugs in this increasingly sober and deadeningly dull world we call the virtual binary blogosphere.

It is fast approaching the 42nd anniversary of my near death experience in 1967 when I lost control of my still under warranty MG Midget traveling at maximum speed while I was booger mining, driving the index finger on my right hand up my right nostril and lodging it against the back of my skull without doing any damage to my reasoning ability.

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I’ve been tagged, people. That’s right. I’ve been treated like some abandoned building that kids need to dump a bunch of paint on so they can huff the residual gas and develop personalities, and it was a witch that did it, which is going to play hell with my chances of getting an interview with the ghost of Jerry Falwell this weekend. He’s still a little pissed about the story Yossarian Universal News Service did exposing the hot, steamy sex he had with his mother in an outhouse, but that’s another post.

This post is about being called a pussy, tagged because of my insignificant penis, and challenged to a duel by a witch with a strap-on who apparently has no sense of decency in this country that abhors marginally literate old men.

As my regular readers are quite aware, I’m the anthithesis of sobriety, honesty, truth, justice, the American Way, fair play, and several hundred million ordinary and lovably huggable concepts you might care to imagine. In the binary world I find myself still accidentally living in, I have chosen to illustrate the phallacy of thinking in terms of right and wrong, off and on, up and down. In short, most virtual people are forced to choose between hating me or being hated themselves.

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The great thing about the Ted Stevens Bridge to Nowhere on the Sarah Sirhan Palin InterWeb of tomorrow in Alaska Today is that even the semeny underbelly of the NOMPH™ can be transformed into cool clean cash in your PayPal account by remembering that any click through traffic to your site is good traffic. Any day you can get up, piss in the morning, post a blog entry, and get dressed is the kind of day many great opinion leaders of the ancient pre-Twitter cell phone era would probably envy if they weren’t already dead.

In the early days of search engine optimization during the Russian occupation of Afghanistan, me and Osama and couple of our close personal friends used to forge cave paintings that we sold to French galleries by using primitive keywords that looked to many casual observers to be crude drawings of penises, vaginas, spears, dead animals, and celery.

This is how we funded the resistance and were able to amass the frequent flyer miles required to carry out our greatest performance piece on September 11, 2001, commemmorating the 28th anniversary of the imperialistic assassination of Savaldor “Hello Dolly” Allende and his wife Kitty by Kukla, Fran, and Oliver North.

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I just won the lottery again. This happens several times a year. I’ve never won a jackpot, but 20 grand here, 50 grand there, and it’s not like I’ve done anything to earn this luck. I’m a horrible person. I think only the worst about everyone. But the meaner and uglier and nastier I get, the more the lottery gods smile at me.

I used to worry about being a prick and getting rewarded for it, but now I figure it is just pay back for all those little kids who die of cancer for no reason who don’t even get chosen by Make A Wish or Dornbecker’s or Ronald McDonland’s House. Life is all about balance, and for every bad thing that happens to some poor schmuck or innocent little angel, there’s an asshole like me who is just sopping it up and enjoying the best of everything simply for being an antitheist asshole.

Really. It’s not like I ever had to work at anything. I was born an asshole into a family of assholes who lived in a nation of miserable phucks. You think it would be hard to work your way down to real depravity starting from imaginary Catholicism, but everything has always just fallen into place for me. Never had to work for anything. Even with the latest crash in the market, I lucked out by drunkenly shifting from domestic mid-caps to foreign industrials one night while I thought I was exploring my wild side, and it’s like this so-called recession was a golden patachute.

I’d be lying if I said it bothers me that the misfortune of others turns to unbelievable opportunity in my undeserving hands. My first big lottery win was from a ticket that stuck to my shoe after I stepped in some mongrel shit at a Walmart parking lot at the factory stores in McMinnville. It was worth 100 grand. Lottery didn’t care about the shit. Neither did I.

I was planning a new al Franqen attack when someone e-mailed me a Square Root Barfday card. Do you realize that I am approaching nine Square Root Celebration days during my ludicrous lifetime? Granted, I will have to stay stoned for another seven years to achieve that pedophiliac Miley Cyrus stone, but I’ve done pretty well so far. I have outlived dozens of my sober acqaintances, several of whom are hating me in their chemo treatment hazes even as I type this, but not for long.

I remember a song by one of those albino Winter kids that went like this:

Still alive and well
Still alive and well
Every now and then
It gets a little hard to tell
But I’m still alive and well

And then I crank up the volume and listen to Frankenstein followed by Argent and maybe some Hocus Pocus from Focus, and I snort some home-cooked meth and shoot some smack and drink some grain, and every day is square root day to me. All puns intended. No apologies, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. We are regally contagious. Here we are now. Kurt Cobain us.

I just realized that you might have surmised that I am an al Franqen operative who was distracted from a mission on an Old Navy store at your local mall when nothing could be further from the truth, if you don’t consider my existence. My existence is proof that truth does not exist in this plane, which is the plane most of us have been blessed with living in.

You know, the plane where idiots who have no purpose spend an inordinate amount of so-called renewable energy trying to figure out things that don’t particularly care whether anyone or anything on this terminal planet lives or dies? Wait a second. I need some more ice with that mixed metaphor and a plane that is fully loaded with jet fuel to point out how nothing has changed since the dinosaurs started rotting to make that fuel. As if you could change nothing if you tried.

Halle Berry or Lula! It’s hard to tell them apart.

Square root day, people. Think about it. My root is aching.

Halle Lula! Cum on. Get happy. Gonna pack all your cares away.

Halle Lula! Cum on. Get happy. It’s another one of them square root days.

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.