Dr. Faustroll Writes the Wrongs

Now that the annual Columbine memorial spring vacation is over, it is time for all good patriots to refocus on SEO techniques that will bring valuable traffic to this site by inflaming insignificant penises and adding names to the cold stone wall that will one day be erected to memorialize the second amendment daily death count that seems to grow more every day.

Today we begin with Lamar Andrience Lindsey who was left dead on Flake Street in Albemarle, N.C. after two people entered a house and announced their intentions to exert their second amendment rights by opening fire.

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It just gets worse and worse, doesn’t it? It’s as if everything the NOMF™ has worked so hard to stand for over the past half century is getting flushed down the liberal lily-livered portapotty of pramatism, realism, and cooperation.

We can’t have that. This country was built on the burned and blasted corpses of our enemies, and I, for one, am thoroughly convinced that at least some of the survivors must be planning sneak attacks for payback.

Anybody remember 9/11? That’s what happens when people you’ve oppressed and tortured and humiliated to make your garage safe for a Hummer realize what they can do with frequent flyer miles and some cheap box cutters.

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Is anybody ever going to forgive William Jefferson “Slick Willie” Clinton for getting jiz stains on the Persian rug in the Oral Office that was a gift from The George Bernard Shah of Iran to Richard “Slippery Dick” Nixon?

Hell, Monica “The Devilish Kneepads” Lewinski had a blue dress that would have fetched enough from The Fantastic Fourtility Clinic to rescue Lehman Brothers if she hadn’t loaned it to Linda “Fat Lips” Tripp, but the liberal media troglodytes are still obsessed with blaming everything that happened during the past eight years on the Clinton and Carter administrations, because the NOMPH™ is nothing if not committed to policies, procedures, and self-destructive dogma best summed up as woodenheadedness.

I first used the lines from Barbara Tuchman’s March of Folly under the dedication to Clint Eastwood in The One Minute President, which I co-wrote with Paul Fericano back when Reagan was the first idiot and the nicest guy you’d ever want to meet, even though he couldn’t recall supplying right wing death squads with illegal weapons so he could funnel money to the Iranians to pay off the bribes his campaign officials made to keep the American hostages under arrest until inauguration day.

Here’s the quote from Babs, in its entirety: Wooden-headedness, the source of self-deception, is a factor that plays a remarkably large role in government. It consists in assessing a situation in terms of preconceived fixed notions while ignoring or rejecting any contrary signs. It is acting according to wish while not allowing oneself to be deflected by the facts. It is epitomized in a historian’s statement about Philip II of Spain, the surpassing woodenhead of all sovereigns: “No experience of the failure of his policy could shake his belief in its essential excellence.”

Anyone surprised that bipartisanship is impossible? The NOMPH is predicated on woodenheadedness. It requires obsequious genuflection to the liberal media, which is, of course, not liberal at all. If I remember correctly, Eric Arthur Blair published 1984 in 1949, but I doubt that there will be any celebrations and commemorations of that book on June 8, which is, after all, the birth date of Frank Lloyd Wright and the expiration date of Alan Turing.

So eight years after Bill Clinton left office and was blamed for removing all the W’s from all the keyboards in the White House, Time Magazine couldn’t help fingering Mr. Bill for an economic collapse clearly caused by the spend and give tax breaks to the rich Republicrats who have controlled the purse strings of the nation for a couple of decades.

As it turns out, Time wants everyone to think that the worldwide economic collapse was caused by two Clinton initiatives which allowed commercial and investment banking to operate by the same rules and signing the Commodity Futures Modernization Act which exempted derivatives from federal regulation. Should I mention that these ideas were championed and pushed to the Fat Idiot’s desk by Republicrats? Of course not. That wouldn’t fair, according to Rush “Hop Head” Limbaugh, Sean “Dick Face” Hannity, and Bill “Babalu” O’Reilly.

So Fat Bill is now on the hook for signing into law the kinds of deregulation he couldn’t afford to risk a veto override on because he had big enough problems in his pants. I understand that many Republicrats were really most upset by the stimulus package Clinton always flaunted during face to face meetings.

So there you have it. It’s time to put the last eight years behind us and go after the real villian, the guy responsible for September 11, the guy who never quite understood the savings and loan crisis, the guy who didn’t get Osama bin Laden, the guy who preferred a good blow job to blowing the country off.

Sorry. I just returned from watching The Wrestler and received an e-mail with this link to an open letter by perennial presidential candidate Ralph “Unsafe But Not On Speed” Nader addressed to the world’s most drug-addled voice of American corpulence, the Ayatollah of Soggy Granola, Rush Edsel Limbaugh.

Rush is having a hard time these days accepting that the Magic Negro is now the president of the United States, and that Biraq Hussein Osama could out debate him with 7/8 of his brain tied behind his back. Poor Fatty Carbunkle didn’t get invited to the big party Biraq threw for all the influential American conservatives and his feelings were so hurt he had to tell his brain dead audience that he hopes Osama fails in his efforts to turn this country around.

The reason Fatty wants Biraq to fail is he really thinks the last eight years of lunacy and incompetence is what America longs for in its heart of plaque-encrusted hearts. That hope would be in keeping with the kind of intellectual and emotional IQ Fatty has shown for the past couple of decades.

Nader’s letter makes no mention of Fatty’s ill-wishes toward the new administration. Instead, it points out the obvious: Fatty has become extremely wealthy by sucking on corporate welfare tit while failing to pay rent to the American people who own the airwaves over which he spews his protein-depleted patriotic jizm.

I can’t wait for Fatty to fork over a portion of his hardly earned 38 million dollars a year for serving as the voice of the average hard-working American who may even voted for the Magic Negro. What do you think are the chances of that?

As I have heard over and over during my ludicrous time stuck to the planet because other people own the gravity and I can rarely afford to pay the licensing fees, you can never underestimate the intelligence of the NOMPH™. Granted, when P. T. Barnum originally put that concept into play, he was talking about the American people.

Those were the days!

Back then the American people were merely gullible shills who could be counted on to buy tickets to shows under the big top, which eventually became the big tent of the Republican party typified by the incredibly wide stance of former Idaho Senator Larry “Crazy Hairy Legs” Craig, who still argues that he wouldn’t know what a closeted a gay person looked like if he was looking in the mirror, but things have changed. We now have hope.

Really?

Oh, really?

Well, as Jim Carrey was saying at least a decade ago, “Alrighty then!”

You really need to check out iFart if you want a business model for the future as the NOMPH plods onward toward extinction. You can buy a copy at the Apple Appstore for your iPod Touch or iPhone.

You can also find the iFart promo at YouTube.

You want to solve an intractable problem? Obliterate it. That has been the policy of the United States for more than 200 hundred years. Granted, many white folks and those who side with the white folks, including black white folks, hispanic folks, and the white folks of other ethnic and racial and religious persuasions don’t really believe that what they think and what they vote for is responsible for the collateral extermination of people who shouldn’t really have existed to begin with, but the fact is: there is no solution for any poopadoodle problem on this planet that does not involve weapons of mass distraction or cyanide.

Some of my best friends were jews or reasonable facsimiles thereof. That was back when I had best friends, in the fifties and sixties. And even then I was confused about how a bunch of dickweeds who were convinced that their God trumped all others because he was the oldest, and — it seemed to me even back in the fourth grade — least capable of rational thought or behavior. Their God was a phucking maniac, a slaughtering lunatic, a sociopath, and a serial killer with monumental appetites.

I gave up on jews as offering anything beyond an occasional tasty kosher tidbit before I reached junior high school, although I still had several jewish friends and even roomed with them and joshed with them for another 20 or 30 years, which was about when I gave up on everyone and everything.

None of my jewish friends had ever been to Israel, and many of them had no desire to go there, no intention of emigrating, no connection with the place other than being jewish.

I have no connection with the NOMPH™, although my ancestors on my mother’s side were here before the white men came. The only connection I have with the gene pool on that side of the family are the donations I make to feed the people who lived here and roamed widely before fences were built to protect the imaginary property rights of people who stole the land out from under them.

Israel today decided to interpret comments by Fubar and Condi to indicate that no one would have a problem if that insanely immoral and questionable construct decided to defend itself by killing a couple of hundred middle-eastern non-jews, aka Semites, and I hope all you happy taxpayers will not be surprised when the survivors of those killed in these raids decide to dress up in Easter Bunny outfits and kill you at the local food court during your next expensive religious holiday.

The joys of Christmas just go on and on, don’t they?

The reason this memory even surfaced from my drug-addled Oldheimer’s ravaged brain was the recent TechRepublic 10 Classic Clueless User stories from clueless tech support personnel, who seem to think that their embarrassingly inept technology always has the solution to any problem if ordinary people would just agree to have their problems and expectations radically modified to be satisfied with what is available. That’s one spicy meatball for you.

It’s been so long since this encounter took place that I can no longer recall what programs I was using at the time, but they were all produced by Microsoft, and they were all flakier than and lacking the basic nutrition benefits of a Pillsbury canned buttermilk biscuit.

To summarize what the problem was: I needed to copy something I created in one Microsoft program and insert it into a document created with another Microsoft program. The only problem was that no matter how I attempted to accomplish this simple task, my machine presented me with the blue screen of death (or BSOD, as the Orwellian semiconductor and software idiots came to define it to avoid wasting hours every day expressing exactly what was happening to ordinary customers who had to use these terrible products).

I attempted to reach Tech Support by phone and was directed to a Web site where I had to fill out a cumbersome and annoying form so that someone from Microsoft, at that time stationed somewhere in this hemisphere, would call me with a solution.

The form required that I fully document all the steps necessary to reliably recreate the problem. Of course, I couldn’t do this without writing down the steps on a legal pad and testing that I could repeatedly crash my machine and lose my work. Talk about sado-masochism. That’s technology for you.

Now here’s idiocy for you. It took me nearly four hours to document all the steps to reproduce the problem. I actually wasted four hours of my life to file a defect report for Microsoft. I wasn’t paid for that by Microsoft. My company paid me for it, but that was four hours my company paid me to work for Microsoft.

It took me another 30-40 minutes to complete the Tech Support form and submit it. A tech called back after I had had gone for the day and left a message to call a number in Redmond. He provided a case number that I should use, which I already knew was going to be closed before I got through to anyone.

The next morning I waited until 9 a.m. and called the number and spent 30 minutes on hold before I could even provide the case number, whereupon I was told that my case had been closed, of course, before I was “accidentally” disconnected and had to call back. The second time, I held for 20 minutes and demanded and managed to get a direct number to call in case (when) I was cut off again, which, of course, I was.

On the third call, I finally managed to connect with a technician who actually read my report of the steps to reproduce the BSOD, and he reproduced them while we were talking. “Whoa,” he said, chuckling. “That’s wicked.”

He then asked me to hold, and I held for 15 minutes while he search something that Microsoft calls a knowledge base, which ordinary people understand to mean the employee is taking a coffee or doober break, and when he finally got back on the line, he told me that the problem I reported was “a known issue with a low priority and severity.”

“So how am I supposed to work around this problem?” I asked.

“There is no work around,” he said. “Just don’t do that.”

“But I need to do this,” I said. “That’s why I’m trying to do it. I have something in one of your programs that I need to include in another of your programs.”

“I can’t help you with that,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you with that.”

“What can you help me with?” I asked. “Can you tell of another company that sells products that promise to do what I’m trying to do that actually work?”

“You can buy a Macintosh,” the tech said.

“I already have a Macintosh, and I’d be working on a Macintosh here,” I fumed, “If you scumbuckets hadn’t sold NT to my current employer.”

The Tech then told me there I had no reason to be rude. He had given me the answer to my problem that he found in the knowledge base, which was to stop trying to do what I was trying to do. There was nothing else in the knowledge base pertaining to my problem. He wished me the best of luck and told me to have a nice day.

As if.

“Attention, shoppers!” David Alan Grier will probably say on the next Chocolate News, “Have you lost your damn minds?

When I was a kid, Black Friday was a character in Daniel Dafoe’s Robinson Crusoe and a movie starring Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi, the Brad Pitt and Robert Downey, Jr., or Vince Vaughn and Jon Favreau of their day. There was none of the horse exhaust about the day after Thanksgiving being the first day that most businesses broke even or anything like tax freedom day. The day after Thanksgiving was the day we all used our Christmas Club money at the five and dime and John’s Bargain stores to buy the tacky gifts we could afford for the family.

Black Monday on the other hand was the day in October where the stock market crashed and people jumped out of windows in Manhattan as if demons were flying planes at them, which is probably where al Qaeda got the idea for 9/11, along with remembering how the CIA helped Salvador Allende commit suicide by self-inflicted airstrikes in 1973.

I can’t remember when Black Friday trumped Black Monday in the minds of the NOMPH, but I’m sure it is offensive to African Americans, no matter how positively the accountants and communications officials attempt to spin it.

Let’s be serious for a moment as we pause and wipe our bums after a bout of Hershey squirts induced by too much rich food and drink and admit that Black Friday has come to mean those days when people in the NOMPH™ do really stupid things, and although many African Americans often do stupid things, there aren’t as many of them as there are white folks, so it only makes sense, going forward, that the day after Thanksgiving be called White Friday or Kermit the Frog Friday or Sarah Palin Friday or anything more in keeping with the true spirit and execution of the day.

Today, for instance, shoppers at a Walmart in Nassau, NY, on Long Island, an area not particularly well-known for being overrun by stupid black people, trampled a store employee to death and injured several others who attempted to come to his aid. When police and store managers asked shoppers to leave so they could tend to the injured and dying in the carnage, shoppers refused, citing their inalienable right to the pursuit of happiness, noting that they had been waiting in line for days for an opportunity to purchase Samsung TVs and camcorders, collectible plastic action figures, upright vacuums with HEPA filtration, digitally autographed posters of the Jonas Brothers, and DVDs of the Incredible Hulk.

These are the kinds of people that make the nation of miserable phucks such a tempting target for actual humans who are just damned tired of being trampled by obese idiots stampeding to be the first in line to add to their credit card debt by buying geegaws and doodads with the life expectancy of the common housefly.

The news accounts I’ve read indicate that the name of the 34-year-old store employee who died because he couldn’t get out of the way of the mindless avarice and gluttony of white holiday celebrants in Nassau was Jdimytai Damour, who lived in Queens, a borough of New York, where I grew up. The guys I grew up with had names like Jimmy, Johnny, Billy, Eddie, Mickey, and Bobby the Plumber. The girl names were Nancy, Joan, Linda, Ruthie, Lorraine, Jeanette, Bernadette, and Phyllis the Hummer. If I had known a Jdimytai, I think I would have remembered. I think he would have gone to Boy’s High or Brooklyn Automotive, and me and my friends would have fought him and his in the lot outside after the game was over.

I don’t want to imply that the rampaging white herd of bargain hunters trampled Jdimytai because they couldn’t pronounce his name and were tired of having to feel inadequate about their language deficiencies. And I have no reason to believe that Jdimytai was not as white as the shoppers crushed him beneath their Nikes and Doc Martens and Adidas and Tom McCanns to get the best early deals of this dismal holiday season, but I kind of doubt it.

Not even a Walmart manager deserves to die while opening the doors to let the rats come pouring through, as Bukowski used to write, which is why I have still not abandoned my keyboard and why I type every day, whether you need it or not.

And don’t forget, you fervent patriots of the NOMPH, there’s only 26 more shopping days until Baby Jesus opens His presents. How about some bloody scraps of Jdimytai’s uniform? I’m sure someone has them for sale. Check eBay or craigslist, where you don’t have to worry about your wonderful neighbors crushing you into the pavement to save a couple a bucks.

Did this fupduck administration just convince you that tossing another $800 billion into the golden parachute pool for Bush and his buddies is going to make things better for you and your family? Does anyone understand what the combined bailout figures thus far tossed off by this crew of morons and immoral Christian nihilists amounts to?

Not counting the supplemental budgets for Bush’s war to avenge the failures of his father’s stupidity, in the last month and a half, we’ve been Bernanked and Appaulsoned with another $1.5 trillion dollars of taxpayer money that is going to pay for absolutely nothing.

I have yet to hear anything from these people that explains how buying expired lottery tickets is going to make winners of us all in some drawing that is never going to happen because no one actually has any money to pay the prize. Is anybody paying attention? Does anyone have any grasp of proportion anymore? Doesn’t anyone at least know how to use a calculator or a spread sheet?

Let me simplify the concepts in terms that even those among you who prefer to be left behind and are proud of it and vote to prove how proud you are can understand. I admit that the idea of dealing even in hundreds of thousands of dollars is beyond the comprehension of most Americans, unless you are Joe the Plumber, who obviously doesn’t have a clue.

Let’s think about numbers in terms of time, which most of us also don’t have a lot of. Let’s say you owe 100,000 hours and that you can pay back those hours one at a time without interest going forward, it would take approximately 11 years to repay that debt if you worked 24 hours a day every day until the balance reached zero.

Let me reinforce the idea that we are talking repayment hour per hour with no interest calculated on a never-ending work schedule. As long as you remain alive, you are working off your debt.

Let’s increase your debt to 1 million hours. To bring the balance to zero, you better lose some weight and start a good exercise program because it is going to take you 114 years to break even. For breeders, this is not good news because the debt is already screwing with the great grandkids, assuming they haven’t been killed during a terrorist attack on an Orange Julius stand while doing their patriotic duty of shopping and pharting to spread freedom and democracy.

How about a billion hour debt? Well, you know, that works out to about 114,469 years to break even. If you look back over the great history of this nation as we get ready to celebrate Thanksgiving by eating more than a family of ten in Zimbabwe for a month, I suspect that many of the native peoples hadn’t arrived here 114,469 years ago. Hell, if you really based your sense of reality on the Bible, like the First Idiot allegedly does, that’s more than 90 thousand years earlier than the Great Cosmic Poobah flipped the switch and said that light was a good thing and the darkness laughed at Him for it. I’m still laughing. How about you?

But why stop at a billion when the liberal media is unwilling to question 700 and then another 800 of those billions? What’s a trillion hours work out to? What is it going to take to work off a trillion hours or, even more to the point, considering today’s latest Punch and Judy press conference, 1.5 trillion hours?

Whew. Thank God.

I was starting to get nervous there for a second, but the good news is that it will only take about 171,703,297 years to pay off an accumulated debt of 1.5 trillion hours. This planet is generally believed by people who are not blind believers in nonsense to have existed for approximately 4.5 billion years, and those among us, who are not caught up in philosophical discussions involving the fullness of glasses we are not drinking from, will accept the possibility that the planet may very well continue to exist for another 171,701,297 years.

I confess that I have slightly overstated the problem by putting the responsibility for paying off the hourly debt on the shoulders of one American, but do you really think the government is not going to get whatever it can from you and your gene pool when the other low lifes who never pull their weight renege on their debts and stiff you for it?

I’m not going to get into a deep dive involving how many years the planet will continue to be hospitable enough for your offspring and their offspring to continue working at meaningless low-wage jobs to pay off the debt you just blithely allowed the most corrupt administration in the history of mankind to demand that you thank it for.

Give yourselves all a great big hug for the holidays. And write when you find work.

You know, there is nothing quite as invigorating as listening to the First Idiot justify something vice president in hiding Lon Cheney obviously ordered him to say. It’s not that Goober isn’t believable as an incompetent rube who represents exactly the kind of leadership the NOMPH™ deserves. In truth, the citizenry of the NOMPH has yet to fully enjoy the spoils of eight years of victory on the sea of joy and rapture!

Bush took time out this morning from his busy vacation schedule — after pardoning several violators of environmental and wildlife regulations, tax evaders, embezzlers, bank defrauders, and shooters of bald eagles — to tell the three or four dozen Americans (primarily members of the liberal media and al Franqen sympathizers) who even bother to pretend he should not be standing trial for crimes against humanity in The Hague that he wasn’t using taxpayer dollars to cover bad bets made by deregulated financial institutions formerly influenced by his brother Neil during his failed administration.

The latest polls seem to indicate that Bush’s popularity has fallen to a level unseen since the Pleistocene era, with numbers that imply he enjoys only lukewarm support from his political appointees, their lawyers, and immediate family and friends.

So Bush once again inserted the earbud connected to the medulla-interfaced iPod Touch surgically implanted in the space previously occupied by his alleged soul and relayed the party line to eager reporters, who were hoping to make it big and one day become the next Robert Novak, perennial winner of The Daily Show Douchebag of Liberty award (2005-2007) for journalistic integrity and costive excellence.

Not content to merely smirk and scratch his crotch, the demented lameduck Decider appeared determined to confirm his rumored upcoming Paraguayan exile by placing the blame for the current economic crisis squarely — don’t ask, don’t tell — at the deformed diabetic feet of the Clinton administration, when Bubba presided.

“This is a tough situation for America,” Bush recited, trying to keep from busting a gut, “But we will recover from the excesses of the previous administration that stole the Ws off the keyboards on all our computers and stained the rug in the Oval Orifice, using our proven 12-step program. The first step is to secure our financial system by admitting our addiction to foreign oil and environmental extremism, and that our economic lives have become unmanageable. Amen.”

“And I’m standing here as a born again Texan to tell you that if need be,” Bush shouted, thrusting his pelvis toward the podium for emphasis, “We’re going to keep making these kinds of decisions again and again based on the notion that a power greater than ourselves can help restore sanity to safeguard our financial system in the future against the liberal terrorists and Democrats. I assure you that all options remain on the table.”

Bush’s latest effort to appear relevant in a world that passed him by a couple of years ago involves guaranteeing more than $300 billion in losses at Citigroup that many argue constitute the worst collection of bad bets ever made during the history of human civilization. The dinosaurs also made several monumentally bad bets on the future, but they were not a representative democracy in the strictest sense of the word. And they all died of AIDS, which is apparently not going to happen with most investment bankers.

In addition, average formerly working and now unemployed Americans who have already been swindled out of their retirements, health care benefits, and real estate value during eight years of irrational Bush meat exuberance will give Citigroup another $20 billion in unmarked bills of small denominations in addition to the $25 billion delivered to the bank by armored convoy a few weeks ago as part of the $700 billion bailout passed by Congress in October.

The president defended the plan by noting that he did not “cave in to a Citicorp demand” that the government issue debit and gift cards to the bank for its exclusive use in salvaging its pride to provide as gifts for lobbyists. No one bothered to correct the president for his misuse of the corporate name for the institution he had just committed the young of his country to pay tribute to for the next few centuries. The toxic entity Bush sacrificed the first and subsequent born of the next several generations of Americans changed its name to Citigroup to make it more user friendly to ordinary investors, which it commonly refers to as suckers.

“We decided that a toxic equity line of discredit was the way to go,” the president said, seriously, staring into the camera as if a proctologist was giving him bad news by whispering up the stainless steel scope. “No need to throw the good money out with the bath water. I know there’s some in this country that’s still not for me, which is the same as being against me, which is not a good thing when there’s a war going on that you should keep on shopping to fight, but I’m not set in my ways. I know that I been fooled before, like most of us was when the stock market went tits up because of the election results involving the Internet.”

“No one should misunderestimate my dissolve to lead this country through the dismal swamp to the future of astroturf and energy independence with offshore drilling,” Bush proclaimed. “There’s an old saying in Genesee, which is knowed for its cream ale production — I know it’s not taxes, which you can read from my daddy’s lips and probably in Genesee — that says, fool me once, shame on, well — what the hell, you can’t help it. I know I can’t. But then again. You know. Who knows how many times you get fooled when you think you haven’t been fooled. You think the Democrats have all the answers? Well, fine. Bring it on. Once, twice, three times, a lady can fool you, but you think Nancy Pelosi is a lady? No way. And that’s why I think my plan is best, because of my mandrake. And God bless America.”