Dr. Faustroll Writes the Wrongs

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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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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In keeping with the spirit of foul play and pataphysical annoyances, we consciously avoided contacting the royal family for comment on this story, but the royal family is welcome to respond, if we can film the old fuddy duddy with his hand in warm water while sleeping beside his dear mum with a spreading stain on his trousers that we can post to You Tube.

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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.

All eight octuplets were back in police custody this morning after a tense standoff at the Church of the Oven of Peace where members of a previously unknown terrorist group that split with al Franqen earlier this month were holding two nurses aides and a grief counsellor hostage while demanding release of the first-born of the children, Chip, who is nearly 8 minutes older than John-John.

Two days after authorities snatched them from Kaiser Permanente Bellflower Medical Center on suspicion of fetal sexual abuse, three of Octokids born to Dody Decker-Hedron in January allegedly attempted a daring daylight escape by using surgical tubing to slingshot themselves out of their room on the second floor of a secret medical detention center at the Homeland Security compound in nearby Ranch Mirage.

While details remain sketchy, it appears that Malia and Sasha Decker-Hedron conspired with younger brother Jeb to launch themselves though a window and onto a busy thoroughfare hoping to hitchhike to Canada where fetal sexual abuse was decriminalized in 1987.

Sheriff James Dickie isn’t buying that explanation, noting that none of the children has developed the motor skills necessary to roll over in bed, much less organize into a cohesive commando unit capable of carrying out the sophisticated though failed mission. “These younguns,” Dickie said, “is about as coordinated as a bunch of roly-poly beetles on their backs. No way they tried to escape. This was clearly an inside job orchestrated by Homeland Security personnel. What for, I have no idea.”

Federal Circuit Judge Goody Putnam ordered a total news blackout after early reports suggested heavy casualties as SWAT teams stormed several locations to recapture their children who, as it turned out, had never left their make-shift maternity ward, leaving liberal journalist to speculate on the real nature of military activity in the area.

In yet another stunning development in the bizarre tale of the serial mother who gave birth to octuplets last month, Dr. Otto Octavius of the Fantastic Fourtility Clinic in Loma Linda, California was named yesterday in a civil law suit brought by the Marvel Comics group for inappropriate use of company trademarks and copyright infringement stemming from his recent name change.

Dr. Octavius (nee Mengele) has not been seen in recent weeks, leading some to speculate that the former Roy Orbison impersonator has fled the country. Sightings of the eugenicist have been reported in Jamaica, Abu Dhabi, Shanghai, and Djibouti where he owns an embryo farm, a yogurt company, and several nightclubs.

Marvel was not contacted for comment on this imaginary report and could neither confirm nor deny its legendary determination to defend its intellectual property rights against anyone and everyone, including God, whom Stan Lee allegedly considers a lesser superhero in the Marvel cosmos.

Meanwhile, Nadya Guevara has returned to seclusion two days after the Today interview that was used as evidence for seizing her children. Her mother, who spoke on condition of anonymity, says her daughter is heartbroken and shocked over revelations that one or more of her offspring may have had inappropriate sexual contact with siblings during gestation.

“This is really tearing her up inside,” the unidentified grandmother to the octokids said, “which may not be a bad thing, all things considered.”

E-mails to National Public Radio concerning possible trademark issues in the previous paragraph have not yet been sent and probably won’t be except in response to an actual complaint, which is unlikely.

Authorities stormed the Kaiser Permanente Bellflower Medical Center this morning, firing beanbag rounds and rubber bullets as they fought against the hospital staff to execute a Justice Department order to take all eight Californian octuplets into protective custody as part of a federal investigation into allegations of fetal sexual abuse.

The raid came on the heels of an interview their mother gave with NBC’s Today program where she admitted to having only had six embroyos implanted during the fertility procedure that led to her record-tying birthing accomplishment of six boys and two girls, all named after the children of 20th century American presidents.

Within minutes of Octomom’s televised appearance, hundreds and possibly thousands of unemployed legal specialists from Lawyers Without Conscience, Barristers for Bestiality, and Paralegal Primadonnas in Defense of Litigatable Presumed Innocence flooded local and federal law enforcement offices with complaints calling dibs on any future civil settlements.

Citing case law established by former U.S. Attorney Generals John “Pornhole” Ashcroft and Alberto “Greaseball” Gonzalez, a spokesperson for the Department of Homeland Security told reporters at an undisclosed location during the early stages of the operation that “we were compelled by the allegations to detain and interrogate the suspects.”

Casualty reports were not immediately available. The Obama administration could not be reached for comment on this story.

Forensic experts say there is little or no probability that DNA tests will be able to determine which children were conceived in the womb and by whom, “but it is not unprecented,” said one researcher who requested anonymity because she was not authorized to speak on the matter, “for incestual activity to occur when siblings are confined in a crowded space with little privacy for several months, and the womb is extremely crowded, even with one embroyo. Imagine how you would feel in that situation. We should pity them, not persecute them.”

Those who follow landmark legal cases say that it may prove difficult to try any of the Octopremies (as they are affectionately called by local media and police) for alleged crimes that took place before they were born, although anti-abortion rulings during the Bush administration laid the groundwork for the state to argue that the rights of the unborn in some cases supercede the rights of those who can spit up and wail and soil their diapers.

In any event, because of the extreme youth of the victims and their alleged perpetrators, it is unlikely that any of the Octos will spend time in prison for pre-birth hanky-panky. “The worst any of these children will face is placement in the juvenile system until they are old enough to enlist in the armed services,” according to an Army recruiter who requested anonymity because he couldn’t remember his name.

This can, of course, prove lethal to you, because I am immune to my farts, while others have suggested they be considered weapons of gas mask destruction. I have made the cat cry. I have watched the sensitive mimosa curl up and wither under the assault of chili with beans and Pabst Blue Ribbon engendered hot foul blasts reminiscent of low-tide on a full moon in Secaucus, New Jersey.

I recall one night at the Study Hall in Clemson, South Carolina, circa 1968 when, after having consumed several pitchers of Old Milwaukee to wash down a few black beauties (it was finals week), eaten a dozen pickled eggs, some boiled peanuts, two or three Penrose sausages, and several Slim Jims, I stumbled out of the john where I had apparently rendered two other patrons unconscious.

Back at the bar Bill DesChamps was talking with Wanda Japan, Wayne “Bo” Trout, Neal Downer, and Johnny Shields, a defensive back (perhaps a safety) for the Clemson Tigers, and as I struggled back up on my stool, I let rip with the most god awful triple floodablast ever to echo through that drinking establishment, shredding my corduroy bell-bottoms and leaving my stupid asshole fully exposed to the suitably inebriated clientele of that most hallowed of Clemson landmarks.

Wanda asked politely why I hadn’t bothered to shit while I was in the crapper to which I responded with a blank stare as if I had no idea what she was talking about, as the bar suddenly emptied as if the fire marshall had ordered everyone to evacuate, which, of course, it smelled like I just did.

Since then I have learned how to control my emissions more effectively and professionally, knowing exactly how long, for instance, I have to exit an elevator before the doors close and leave the victims of what has most recently failed to kill me to frown and glare at one another until the doors open again upon a breath of fresh air, even if it is just corporate America.

In yet another example of the liberal media playing gotcha journalism with beleaguered politicians, former Illinois Governor Rod “Arrrrr” Blagojovich was asked by e-mail today why he had yet to comment on his involvement in the case of serial mother Nadya Milosevic, after a neighbor allegedly commented that the only male she had seen entering the Milosevic household during the past year “looked like that crook with the big hair from Chicago.”

Other neighbors who apparently agreed to speak off camera offered their own impressions of reality, suggesting that the guy who looked like Blagosevich was often accompanied by “that gun-crazy lady from Alaska who dresses like Tina Fey and can’t act worth a damn.”

Ivan R. Wallace, a spokeseggman for the fertility clinic where Milosevic worked and used an employee discount to fund her addiction to motherhood, would have refused to comment for this story if asked, citing both “patient confidentiality and employee privacy rights. We would never knowingly impregnate a young woman with embryos from corrupt politicians without getting a kick-back, and our records show no indication of illegal payments from either Blagojovich or Palin during 2008.”

When Wallace was asked if it was true that Milosevic was being treated for pregnancy disease, which is usually found in sheep carrying triplets who are suffering from carbohydrate deficiency in the last month of pregnancy, he refused to comment, except to note that Milosevic was “most assuredly not a sheep and she was not carrying triplets. To suggest that we would implant eight embroyos in a women to prevent twin lamb disease is outrageous!”

While the international debate rages over the ethics involved in enabling a adrenocorticotropic addict to give birth to the equivalent of a basketball team over the period of eight years, liberal Demomoblicans are crying foul over the prospect of eight genetically identical Republicrats running for national office in 2042. “It’s just not fair,” said a member of al Franqen who spoke only on condition of anonymity. “You don’t see liberals trying to clone themselves by renting the uterus of some single mom with a screw loose.”

Citing deteriorating economic conditions and negative approval ratings, a unnamed spokes-midwife for Dody Decker-Hedron, the serial mother who recently gave birth to six boys and two girls on January 27, says the 33-year-old unmarried virgin is considering induction into the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (FLDS) who have offered her the support of five husbands in exchange for the use of her womb as a polygamist shrine.

Decker-Hedron has come under increasing derision since it was revealed that she is unmarried, lives with her mother, and has six previous children, including twins, all allegedly the products of extraterrestrial artificial insemination. The girls, aged two to seven, are of undetermined racial origin and named after children of 20th century U.S. presidents: Barbara, Jenna, Chelsea, Caroline, Patti, and Amy.

According to unconfirmed reports from disinformants on the Internet, Ms. Decker-Hedron intends to also name her new children, all of whom have a single donor from a nearby star cluster, after presidential offspring: John-John, Neil, Jeff, Jeb, Chip, Michael, Malia, and Sasha.

Malia and Sasha are currently the most popular names on the planet with nearly 2 in 3 newly born children (as well as many recently discovered subatomic particles) being named after the first black children to live in the White House since Sally Hemmings.