Dr. Faustroll Writes the Wrongs

Despite my best efforts to educate the NOMF™ in the kinds of things they would have learned in school if anyone was paying attention and we had an educational system where students got some real rewards for their efforts — such as being able to bust a cap in some stupid English teacher’s petulant buttocks every now and then — some people just won’t get with the program.

Take the case of Andrew Mizsak, a man of undetermined seniority according to my sources in the liberal media, who called 911 in Bedford, Ohio, over the weekend after his 28-year-old son threw a plate of food and shook his fist at him. I have no idea what Andrew Junior had on his plate at the time, but at least one of my imaginary sources claim the attack was backed by the FSM, a known pataphysical terrorist organization committed to the end of irrational thought.

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A spokeslawyer for Dr. Otto Octavius of the Fantastic Fourtility Clinic in Lomo Linda, California, could not be reached for comment today on a Yossarian Universal News Service report claiming he had enlisted serial mother Dody Decker-Hedron to run a state-of-the-art bile farm to export goods to the Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM) market.

An unnamed person familiar with news reports surrounding the January octuplet birthing event would neither confirm nor deny reports that Ms. Decker-Hedron had originally suggested the idea to Dr. Octavius after reading reports on illegal bear bile harvesting in China that often leaves its victims unable to speak or do simple math problems without human intervention.

“I’d go with Republicans, you ask me,” said a high-ranking conspiracy theorist who refused to speak on camera, when prodded to comment on whether he thought Americans would be comfortable supporting bile harvesting within the territorial United States. “They are easily some of the bilest people on the planet, and I bet you can get as much foul liquid from one aggravated Republican as you can from torturing a half a dozen bears.”

A nearby homeless panhandler agreed. “You ever been to NewsMax.com? You could tap that place for virtual bile to sell to the virtual TCM. You can buy Sarah Palin calendars there where she is fully clothed and carrying a shotgun. Think about it. Does it make you want to give me some spare change?”

Meanwhile, alleged visitors to the Bloviator Bile Farm pilot project found conditions to be abhorrent, noting that porkulus Republicans were kept in cages where bile was extracted from their gallbladders twice a day through surgically implanted tubes manufactured in Mexico.

This milking process produces 20–60 ml. of foul-smelling bile at a time. Milking is clearly painful to the Republicans, who often gnaw on their own knuckles during the process, although their bitching and moaning remains consistent with their normal day to day political discourse.

Officials in the Obama administration declined to comment on this story, choosing instead to clean up the stuff that blew out of their noses while listening to our questions, off the record, of course.

It seems like only a year or so ago that the First Idiot was telling the NOMPH™ rubes he wasn’t concerned about his legacy, which, at the time, was already an unsightly skidmark on the tidy whities of Western Civilization.

Now that his neocondi rice and beaner vision of the rapture has been replaced by an alleged Muslim and high yellow reformer from Chicago with the middle name of Hussein, Bush is spending all his time trying to convince the same rubes, who seem to love him less and less every day and in every way, that he was obviously the best president the United States ever had between the Y2K false alarm and the global wreckage that remains of the country as we exit 2008.

I know it is hard to argue with Bush’s logic in a country where the liberal media thinks that submitting to random drug testing and the occasional cosmetic lobotomy is what separates the fourth estate from the other three, but if I really wanted to spend my life as a fecal detritus eradicator, I would have petitioned God or the country which trusts in Him according to its currency to become a dog long ago.

What is so sad about all this, of course, is that no one seems willing to hold this inflamed bumbling talking bunghole accountable for his failures and their consequences. Ordinary people who screw up by running a yellow light would suffer far greater penalties than this dickweed or any of his relatives, friends, and their handlers ever will. You realize, of course, that many of the people associated with this scumbag will eventually find high-paying positions of power to phuck you again. And again. Welcome to the real world, Neo.

Today, Goober treated the NOMPH to a spirited demonstration of mass debation by arguing that because the nation has not had another group of terrorists fly jetliners into the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and a suspected medical marijuana grow operation in Pennsylvania (which many people consider to be the prototype for Hell), that no one can doubt that he has protected the nation from the axis of evil because everyone expected that the terrorists were going to hit us on a daily basis in our malls and drive-through dry cleaners and mass transit funeral homes, “and that didn’t happen because of the decidings I made and what I done to protect us,” Bush grinned, cluelessly.

“It’s not a matter of luck that only people over there since September 11 have been slaughtered by terrorists,” Bush said, without the slightest sense of irony. I suggest we put this statement on his tombstone, assuming that anyone wants to spring for a memorial for this worthless sack of shit.

Have you miserable phucks lost your damn minds? This man’s legacy is at best a Corvair, or maybe a Pinto, because only a nation determined to adopt bean-sized brains as the preferred standard for excellence would even allow this phuckwad to leave house arrest for a photo opportunity.

Everything around you that has gone wrong recently is your phault if you ever supported the Bush DNA pool, including George Herbert Hoover Bush. I realize that it is not necessarily your phault that you were born a complete idiot and educated to remain that way so as not to be left behind by the other idiots you bonded with, but if you still hold to your mass debation hopes that arguing for Bush league lunacy is going to make the world better, I have a shower for you. Granted, this is a bring your own soap opportunity, but it has proved effective over and over again in similar NOMPH situations.

“While there’s room for an honest and healthy debate about the decisions I made as the commander in chief of deciding — and there’s mass debate out there — there can be no debate about my results in keeping America safe from unnatural disasters,” Bush said, apparently hoping to deflect attention from failures of his administration in dealing with perfectly ordinary disasters, such as hurricanes and monumental thefts of citizen assets by his close personal friends.

“We’ll never know how many lives have been saved,” Bush said, failing to mention that we probably have a pretty good idea of how many lives have been lost because of his monumental incompetence.

It was coming up on Thanksgiving, thirty years ago, when the news broke that Jim Jones, a charismatic government operative I invented for a novel called Marvin and the River Pirates in the mid-sixties, had forced a bunch of men, women, and children to off themselves with a popular thirst quencher because he was evil and insane. “How could this be?” I wondered. “How could a delightful fictional character based on the purest ideals this great country of ours has to offer turn out to be such a scumbag? And am I liable for what he has done?”

As you might guess, the entire Guyana thing really freaked me out because Jim Jones was one of my favorite creations, after Sally Struthers, and if he was evil and insane, that seemed to imply that I, as his reluctant creator, might also be evil and insane, although, at the time, implied and expressed warranty arguments did not have as much case history behind them as they amassed since the little old lady in the polyester got her legs burned by MacDonald’s coffee that would have passed the temperature test for a Joseph Mengele experiment to determine when old flesh could be considered dead flesh. At the time, I was nearly humbled and deterred by the potential liability of daring to dream of hope and change.

I realize now, of course, that the creator can never be evil and insane. It’s the devil who is responsible for the details, but back then I was young and naive and idealistic, like a typical voter. Today, I understand how wrong I was back then. After all, if I was wrong to create, then God was wrong because God created me in God’s image. And who among us today wants to say God is wrong?

Hell, no one has even been willing to suggest that the malignant president of the United States during the past eight years has ever done anything wrong, although there is no evidence of a single rational or successful action taken by that less than divine idiot during his entire tenure. But that’s another post for another dollar a day.

If God was wrong back when the party at Jonestown took place, chances are He is wrong right now. That’s the nature of God. He’s infallible and eternal and a consistent fuddy-duddy. Granted, He might be a She or perhaps a Transgender Poofter, but that shouldn’t negate the fundamental concept we should be concerned with, which is, of course, that if you get fooled once in Tennessee, does it make any difference in Kentucky or West Virginia?

This does not suggest that all the people in those states are complete idiots, despite all evidence to the contrary. It’s too bad you can’t take some states and all their inhabitants and turn them into an inland sea.

Wait a second. I think that’s happened in the past. Unfortunately, there is no evidence that wishing or hoping or praying will hasten the obliteration of ignorant assholes in the U.S.

I assume that nature, like God, is completely arbitrary. David Hume was correct in positing that there is no cause and effect. That’s all wishful thinking, like religion, sex, and politics. Only death is an attainable goal with measurable substance, while most of the inevitably dead are opposed to that reality.

Back in the day when the Jonestown celebrants had not yet been recovered from the People’s Temple mosh pit, I immediately apologized to the families of the victims and promised not to let the bodies of their loved ones be housed in a refrigerated warehouse outside Washington, D.C., to lay unclaimed until sold to foreign firms for use in the production of pet food.

Yeah, yeah. I know I failed there too. But I swear I never bought a single bag or can of pet food made from the unclaimed bodies. At least not with my knowledge. I always read the ingredients lists. And this was before melamine was something to worry about.

Although I was never charged with a crime in connection with the People’s Temple party, my attempts to atone for the imaginary crimes I had committed were called crass and insensitive by the mainstream media and even the literary community, which, at the time, still had no idea what it meant to be white about things without a hint of irony.

My account of the party at Jonestown published in Popular Suicide Quarterly infuriated many who didn’t appreciate the fact that I partied hearty at a soiree dedicated to rocking ’til you drop and was still asking for more Koolaid when most of the truly committed revelers had already passed out and joined that big post-celebration meeting with the Spirit in the Sky.

In the following years, I called myself the Tylenol Kid after noting how the first Tylenol suicide was perfected by a teenager in Lake Oswego, Oregon, who accidentally discovered that an overdose of Tylenol produced irreversible and fatal organ failure while explaining the possible motivation for whoever tampered with the product in Chicago in 1982.

About a decade later, I took credit for the downing of KAL 007 when the Soviets mistook a South Korean domestic flight for a spy relay during a top secret Space Shuttle mission with a military payload. It as obvious nobody else was going to step up and fess up, and my taxes paid for the mission and the cover-up, so what the hell?

Neither the Tylenol or KAL 007 incidents have ever been satisfactorily explained, because the mainstream media has the attention span roughly equivalent to a lingerie ad campaign buried in Section B of Tuesday or Wednesday street edition, and the liberal media supports the mainstream media, while the alternative media is flogging the dummy in its fleece lounge underwear.

I remember comparing the party at Jonestown to other mass suicides I had read about and wondering why such fervent displays of total commitment and cooperation had even earned any mention in popular or academic history, which, after all, is a tale told by the people who walk the wiener dogs.

I assumed back then that the reason such tales as the Spartan 300 and the Masada holdouts were carried down through the ages was not to extoll the heroism of the valiant few who would not, or could not, compromise with the brutal demands a deadline driven overwhelming force.

No. These tales were admonitions to instruct the staid, plaid supporters of the current regime — political, religious, social — to prevent their friends, neighbors, and family members from falling under the spell of melifluous or malpropos megalomaniacs. And to encourage the dull and dumb to rat on the imaginative, even if it meant resorting to American sign language.

I also remember predicting that people would continue to kill themselves, sometimes in large numbers, as they realized that they had nothing to live for in a world ruled by the nation of miserable phucks (NOMPH) that was damn proud of its ignorance and brutality. And sure enough, Palestinians and other terrorists social and athletic clubs eventually understood that they had nothing to lose by driving trucks bombs and car bombs and even jetliner bombs into the hearts and minds of the lunatic Western civilization that I like to call home.

I just listened to Bill Ayers talk with Terry Gross on Fresh Air, and it’s obvious to me that it will take several hundred thousand additional suicidal actions before we can finally turn the lights out and let the planet move on with its unfinished bidness. I’m glad Bill Ayers did not apologize for what he did and what he thinks. Have you heard George Bush apologize for his barbarism and stupidity? I didn’t think so.

I have nothing to apologize for living in the NOMPH and opposing all it embraces. I didn’t choose to be born here, although my ancestors lived here before I became aware enough to understand what it means when somebody says: “That’s white of you.”

It means nothing. Really. Words mean nothing at all.

And actions? Read Newton. Eat an apple. Fart.

To begin with, I was surprised to see the liberal media so anxious to report on farts when it remains unable to report on impeachable offenses by the current administration or its argument that all war crimes are still on the table. Is it true that George W. Bush will continue in office for another couple of months gutting the EPA, labor relations, several international treaties, and other arrangements while the First Idiot’s handlers work to find a South or Central American country that will grant him immunity for prosecution for war crimes? Will he get to live in a villa once owned by an American supported Nazi who sold ideas to U.S. pharmaceutical companies and their liberal supporters?

I suspect that the key question believers ask themselves when choosing to believe in a deity is whether this worthless malignant asshole should be hung his heels and burned until his protestations are no longer heard or whether we need to wait until mid-term elections.

You got a bunch of virgins? If you fart in their faces, they’re not going to stick around for long. Granted, most Christians, even evangelical Protestants, long ago realized that if they wanted some hot action that did not involve stakes and bonfires, they needed to indulge their fantasies with local nubiles, male or female, who went down for tips and indulgences at fast food joints.

It turns out that the stinkiest farts are the best you can hope for, as we in the NOMF™ plod onward toward Fubar’s Supreme Rupture. The worse your farts smell, the better the chance you will outlive the pierced text-messaging morons around you on the bus or light-rail. These people have committed themselves to odorless farts. In many cases, they have signed pre-pre-nuptial agreements with arbiters of good taste waiting in line to determine what level of bowel emission is too stanking foul to allow this relationship to go forward.

I recently farted during a routine traffic stop and found myself detained as a suspected terrorist. Granted, I was only inconvenienced by the retards in charge for a mere 64 hours, but it made me question how many Gitmo prisoners are being held simply because their farts help regulate blood pressure spikes among those who don’t have prescription drug benefits.

I suspect that if God exists, which I doubt (and you should too assuming you are not one of Sarah Palin’s or Nancy Pelosi’s relatives), He prefers a bold, piquant flatuent freep to the average sorry ass Wendy’s inspired emission. And Cindy McCain would probably much prefer that odor to the terminal flatuence her hubby has been offering during the current campaign.

BTW, if you vote in this election, intelligent people may soon be hunting you down and rounding you up and shipping you to Texas to await charges by the World Court for crimes against humanity or humility, neither of which means much these days.