Dr. Faustroll Writes the Wrongs

A couple of days ago, I decided to let my genetic predisposition to emulate Bobby McFerrin shine through and celebrate the possibility that my insignificant penis may never become the premier destination for Googlers and Yahoos looking for a little — and I mean insignificantly little from the bottom of my shallow heart — piece of the local InterWebinational hot action, but I ended up doing some smack and washing down two four ways hit of windowpane with a fifth of grain, so that vibe was totally lost, but hell, I still don’t regret a thing.

Tomorrow I will probably lobby for an estate tax on wealthy assholes who undoubtably pass on their despicable and totally undeserved feeling of happiness to their offspring without paying their fare share to the cosmic utensil, but for today, I have nothing to say about whitey except walk right in, sit right down, and whitey let your ass hang out. You know what I like most about white people, niggers, spics, douchebags, and voters? If so, e-mail me or comment on this blog, so I can mock you.

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Crime scene investigators from Las Vegas, New York, and Miami converged on Canberra, Australia, today to join the search for fugitive financier and serial developer Michraal Cephallic, aka Little Zippy Pego, who is wanted by U.S. authorities in all 50 states and several occupied principalities for murder, mayhem, assorted love crimes, and parole violations that forbid him from possessing second amendment weapons of mass construction.

Cephallic is suspected in a string of more than 100 murders involving rental tools from Home Depot — most often high powered-nail guns — that he uses to impale his illegal immigrant victims to substandard framing in subdivisions built almost entirely with sub-prime mortgage financing over the past two years. Then the flood of victims suddenly stopped following reports that Cephalic had been run over by a truck during a botched kidnapping attempt at a California rest stop.

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We arrived in Oregon in 1981 during the last time the trickle down economy circled the toilet, and the first job I managed to get here was working for both The Oregonian and its hind-tit litter runt The Oregon Journal. I was still writing poetry then, and Mrs. Faustroll was attending the College of Specific Northwest Art.

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I was thinking of calling Pee Wee Herman after reading about merengue superstar Elvis the Pelvis Crespos being investigated for making sweet music with his skin flute on a flight from Houston to Miami. Pee Wee, after all, was nailed for choking his miniature Kojak while watching Nurse Nancy in a darkened theater with sticky floors frequented by cops and undercover drug enforcement agents and Bush family members, no pun intended.

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Give them slightly spiffied up janitor gear and put them to work clearing space debris that is threatening the international space station and Internet relay satellites that would put literary terrorists like me in jeopardy of losing touch with the slightly less insane population of the NOMPH™ whose very existence keeps us purchasing colostomy pouches on their own dime.

Bonuses? These assholes are getting bonuses? I’ll give them a bonus right up the wazoo and stream it to You Tube on my dime as well.

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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 had no idea that it was legal in China to tap captive bears for their bile much as Vermonters in the NOMPH™ can tap maple trees for their sweet innocent goodness. But after reading four stories on the handful of slant-eyed abusive bear bile farmers who made the entire industry look bad by using the bears in Web porn and click-thru ad campaigns, I suspect it’s time to head to Vermont to see what those tree-tappers have been up to. Greed is greed, and pain is pain. No living entity should be forced to endure the shame and degradation of having their bodily fluids drained into buckets to satisfy questionable cultural hungers. What do you think?

Meanwhile, the rabid hunchmen of the previous NOMPH administration have been on the attack against hope and change for the past several days, attempting to stave off inevitable apprehension, detainment, and trial for crimes against humanity committed while they were slumming in the White House and its outbuildings.

I particularly enjoy Andrew Card’s angry denunciation of Obama’s casual appearance in the Oval Office as showing disrespect to the dress code that former First Idiot George W. Bush put in place during his magnificent reign as the world’s most powerful developmentally disabled leader. A dress code is going to fix all the ills this administration inherited from the last group of scumbags to rule the land? I don’t think so. Homey don’t play that.

Pretty soon I expect these same sorry Klingons around Uranus will be arguing that whatever failures occurred during their previous administration was as much the fault of Obama and his supporters, which never gave the neocondi rice and beaner policies an opportunity to mature, as it was the result of the mess it inherited from the Clinton administration, which was directly responsible for September 11, 2001.

So when can we hope to try and imprison all these moral defectives? When can we see their stupid heads on pikes along the interstate system? What is the long range forecast for truth and reconciliation?

The most hopeful news I’ve seen about NOMPH politics in the past week involved boy scouts who are attempting to earn their Civics merit badges by sneaking up behind former Vice President in Hiding Lon “Groundhog” Cheney and jamming his pacemaker. I’d contribute to that. Wouldn’t you?

I can’t remember exactly when I noticed that math wasn’t important, but I think it was during the Reagan administration when Paul Fericano and I collaborated to produce The One Minute President. In that book, we took on the One Minute franchise by relating the adventures of an inquisitive young man on his journey to discover the secret to becoming an effective president by emulating the forgetful behavior of the nicest guy you’d ever want to meet.

The One Minute President became the favorite book of a wastrel named George W. Bush. He apparently didn’t understand it was a satire. This means, of course, that I am partially responsible for the previous eight years of slapstick foreign and domestic policy. Mea culpa. Is my face red!

But not all the terrible things that have happened in the economy are strictly my fault. The entire premise of the books by Ken Blanchard and Spencer Johnson was that management required little effort and no attention to detail beyond wishing, bribing, and retaliating. You can see where that got us.

To get back on topic as our binary culture demands, I have no idea how many people are unemployed as a result of the slow-moving train wreck caled market-driven imperialism, and I’m pretty sure you don’t either, even if you are among them. Six hundred thousand? Ten million? Fifty million? I don’t think anyone knows enough to settle on any figure, plus or minus several million.

This suspicion does not engender in me a sense of confidence in public or private leadership, and while I have always viewed the rule of law and the domain of journalists as somewhere beneath my contempt, the current inability of anyone with legitimate press credentials to determine how many unemployed people are required to set a new record for a really Great Depression just makes me want to urinate on anyone named Pulitzer, Liebling, Gannet, Hearst, or Murdoch.

Last week, more than 625,000 Americans lost their jobs. The same stories that reported this figure said total unemployment was anywhere from 4.8 and 6.9 million, not counting those on extended benefits or those who are no longer considered unemployed because they are so discouraged they are no longer looking for work. Apparently, these people simply cease to exist when there benefits run out, because I can find no corresponding increase in the number of homeless and displaced Americans during the same period, which has been stable for much of the Bush administration at somewhere between 750,000 and one million, mostly families with children. Thank God those kids weren’t left behind when their parents got evicted.

And then today I’m listening to an NPR story about migrant job losses in China that now exceed 20 million workers or, as the news reader put, “slightly less than double the number of jobless in the United States.”

Now I don’t want to be picky, but slightly less than double 20 million works out to more than 10 million which is slightly more than double the official 4.8 million that the liberal media keeps putting out week after week after week, as if to hold the line against some imaginary rugby team hellbent on taking the rest of our jobs. Has the entire nation lost its ability to add and subtract?

No wonder people throw shoes at the idiots who talk to us. Even first graders have a better grasp of reality than the professionally incompetent boobs. Couldn’t somebody maybe put up a scorecard behind these talking heads instead of their PowerPoint platitudes?

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.