Dr. Faustroll Writes the Wrongs

Hours before crossing the border into Canada to join serial kneepad bestower Bill Clinton in the Conversation on Conservation and avoid bounty hunters hired by Hamas, Hezbollah, and The World Court in The Hague, the former First Idiot of the Untied States of the NOMF™ told The Economic Club of Southwestern Michigan at Lake Michigan College that what he misses most about no longer being the Decider in Chief is not being able to meet with the relatives and friends of “them fallen ones who stratified their lives for me and my country. Meetings such as them has in some ways made me hard and in some ways they was verily push up lifting.”

Another of the things Bush misses since leaving the White House is that so-called journalists now occasionally report exactly what he said instead of what they wished or imagined he had said.

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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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I have not been able to post for the past couple of days because I couldn’t properly execute on the concepts in my head, and I haven’t yet gotten the morphine drip correctly calibrated. The transcripts of the Cheney enhanced interrogation sessions were just too easy, and reporting on the Thrilla on the Hilla between Rock Hard Biraq and Insignificant Teensy Dickie seemed potentially too popular for me.

I expect I will eventually perfect those posts and do the right thing in aiding and abetting in the global effort by intelligent people to bring on the bomb, but today I have to post this quick and dirty piece about Depends Secretary Robert Gates calling the ludicrously inept Guantanamo detention adventure a taint upon our honor and image in response to remarks by insignificant Dick yesterday, as he dared his contractor buddies to bring it on and prove that being a moral American as vocalized by Biraq Osama makes us all less safe to shop and appear more gay as we meander through our desolate malls or engage in other typically idiotic activities, such as voting or going to work.

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Pataphysics is the sweet science of terminal imagination. Pataphysicians provide imaginary cures for imaginary ailments — take the swine flu, please! — offer imaginary solutions to imaginary problems — my insignificant penis is equal to yours! — and match imaginary patients to imaginary health care providers, taking imaginary payments from imaginary insurance companies in an imaginary market-driven economy ruled over by the NOMF™.

Back in March, I offered one of my typically Swiftian proposals for making the death penalty a more palatable audience participatory event for everyone involved in the prison industrial complex we affectionately call supply side trickle-downs syndrome.

As Shakespeare never had to ask: How can we get the guilt and shame out of murdering our friends and neighbors in cold blood for violating laws we put in place to let us do the same thing with cold premeditation and the full blessing of people we may have to beat to death with sledgehammers some day in the future? That is one of many questions that may or may not be purely rhetorical in nature.

The response to that posting was particularly satisfying, eliciting absolutely no comments, proving once again in the folksy words of my late old friend Strom Thurmond: “You can lead a horticulture, but you can’t hose off the stink.”

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As I have stated on several occasions, if everyone used his or her right to own and bear arms for the purpose the founding fathers (and their whores) initially intended — to prevent the abuse of police powers by private militias, such as those funded by your tax dollars and various economic stimulus packages — we would all have fewer instances of gun violence because ordinary citizens would not be compelled to simply record instances of police brutality with their camera phones and tie up the court system with doomed attempts to convict cop killers and sadists.

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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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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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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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Poor Droopy Dickie. Even the CIA is unwilling to declassify memos that he claims will categorically prove that our not having tortured anyone in the process of waterboarding them as many as six times a day had saved the lives of countless consumers at the pump and in the checkout lines at supermarkets and in the malls. When do you think our good buddy Rush Hindenberg Limbaugh is going to suggest is it time for the world’s most malignant teabagger to put the second amendment to some constructive use and put an end to his embarrassing existence?

Just wondering.

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