"Hey, lighten up, OneEar!"

Fear Not, Goat-Petters: There is a Problem with Hell

Goat-petters, you may be persuaded to "die in Hell" because of OneEar's persuasive persuasion, but there are a few things that should be considered. Well, perhaps only one.

Be that as it may, as a frequent recipient of said "petting" by "goat" "petters", I would like to dispel any fears any potential "petters" may have, and I would also stand in the way of any sort of campaign of fear, such as that of OneEar's latest intimating that goat petters may "die in Hell".

You see, even if goat petters wanted to "die in Hell", there is a problem. Evidently, logic is unable to locate Hell. How is one supposed to go there to die, if it can't be found? There are goats that need petting, and this can't likely be accomplished if one were to spend all of his time looking around the stacks of logic and reasoning to no avail.

And this raises a larger issue: If no one can find Hell in the wider arena of sensible thinking, what about religion? You just can't have religion with no Hell. Catholics caught on to that right from the beginning. Why do you think they paid Dante so much for his architectural designs? Religion with no Hell is worse than a chick-flick with no obligatory sex-scene: no one will be able to con their boyfriends/husbands into watching. It's simply a non-option to the intellectually honest.

The implications of this shine an unwanted spotlight on institutions such as our own "ChurcK", and one might think that OneEar may have chosen to think before posting, rather than during.

All of a sudden, there shined a shiny demon... in the middle... of the road.
And he said:

"Play the best song in the world, or I'll eat your soul."

Die In Hell Goat-Petters

I was at a zoo recently with my children, and you would not believe what I saw: people petting goats! Right out in the public! And children were doing it too, right in front of their parents! I couldn't believe my eyes. Multiculturalism is ruining this country.

Non-religion is just as much of a religion as religion. It is simple. If you don't believe in the supernatural, then you have a supernatural belief in the non-supernatural. Either way, you believe in the supernatural.

Let's come at it from another angle. Say you don't believe in angles. Well, then how could there be "another" angle. There has to be an angle in order to be another angle. Likewise, you can't have an evidence-based system unless you believe in the absence of evidence, ie faith.

When you push it far enough, any of the secular humanist "laws" of physics are only established as matters of faith. Gravity, after all, is just a theory. Just because you fell down before, that doesn't mean you will fall the next time you, well, fall. You must admit that it is entirely possible that you will fly off like Superman the next time you stumble. But no, you take it on faith that you will fall, so you put your hands out to protect your face. The same goes for religion.

God has dictated very clearly that goat-petting is wrong. Satan has the hooves of a goat. Goats are used in pagan sacrifices. I could go on and on.

Yet despite the clear and unambiguous word of God, some people cannot resist the temptation to pet goats. I'm not going to sit here and tell you that I've never thought about petting goats myself. But I did not act on those desires because God told me not to and I knew that was the devil creeping into my thoughts to make me do evil.

Idiot Chef: The Days of Peanut Butter Chicken Have Gone

Ingredients:

a. 1 3-pound chicken
b. 1 Surly attitude, matured on the Eastern Shore
c. 1 Jar "Skippy" brand peanut butter, smooth&creamy
d. 1 pack of matches
e. 1 cold winter night
f. 1 fifth of cheap-ass whiskey
g. dime-bag of "oregano"
h. delusions of culinary grandeur
i. City of Williamsburg Fire Department representatives, on the clock
j. two cases of beasty beer

Begin with 'b'. Add 'j' over early part of evening, combined with 'g'. Use this combination to develop fierce case of munchies. Throw rocket-fuel into the mix by complaining about everyone being a bunch of p*ssies because they won't drink 'f' with you. Conduct activities on 'e'. Settle down into a state of marginal motor control in basement apartment with winter coat on. Slur words as you again remind others that they are p*ssies, and that you are hungry. Offer to help others who state that they, too, are close to starving, by returning to 'h'.

Find 'a' in the refrigerator. Have no idea how long it has been there or where the pisser is. Place in frying pan. Cover with 'c', with very little attention to detail. Attempt to heat, to no avail. Become annoyed with slowness of electric heating conduits. Take remaining 3 Oz of 'f', and pour on 'a'. Go through many of the contents of 'd' before sending 4ft flames toward the ceiling. Start some fast-talking, despite loss of refined motor control, when 'i' show up. Assure anyone who will listen that everything is 'ok'.

Old Man often sings of Old Men

Old man lying
by the side of the road
With the lorries rolling by,
Blue moon sinking
from the weight of the load
And the building scrape the sky,
Cold wind ripping
down the allay at dawn
And the morning paper flies,
Dead man lying
by the side of the road
With the daylight in his eyes.

Don't let it bring you down
It's only castles burning,
Find someone who's turning
And you will come around.

Blind man running
through the light
of the night
With an answer in his hand,
Come on down
to the river of sight
And you can really understand,
Red lights flashing
through the window
in the rain,
Can you hear the sirens moan?
White cane lying
in a gutter in the lane,
If you're walking home alone.

Don't let it bring you down
It's only castles burning,
Just find someone who's turning
And you will come around.

Don't let it bring you down
It's only castles burning,
Just find someone who's turning
And you will come around.

Back to the Suture

It has been suggested for The Rusty Sessions 2008 that we should return to our roots. Does anybody know where we left our roots? Coco, you tend to collect that sort of thing. Do you have our roots?

I am working on the set list.
Something
High Heeled Sneakers

Please forward any other requests.

Heather Mills headed for Verona

Recently, OneEar has confessed to never playing any of those songs which Ms. Mills, by all rights, really deserves credit and financial compensation for. (REALLY, Sir Paul, where do you get off? Did you think your wife's only talent was demonstrating her birth canal for money?) At the risk of being out of line, BurgerMeister Meisterburger's regime has officially extended an all-expenses-paid invitation to Ms. Mills for the upcoming Rusty Sessions recording gala/fiasco. "We will finally get someone to play that lesbian piss-boy we have contemplated for years, thanks to Ms. Mills," was the official statement. Let's just hope OneEar doesn't aggravate this charming woman by playing any of her songs.

Moses Dead. Twice as Corny.

Years ago, I remember chatting with Moses before he could afford to purchase brand-name underwear. I tried to do him a favor and use my shaman's Magic Wand to turn his hedgehog-skin shirt into a Faconable french-cuffed pin-striped shirt, but something went wrong with the incantation, as you can see. Or am I smoking a cigarette, held at great distance from my face to avoid the obvious fire hazard? The Jerk-Off (TM) Drive could answer the question, since all of my drinking makes me less reliable as time passes.

Rest In Peace, Captain George Taylor. Say 'hi' to Cornelius.

"You maniacs! You blew it up! Damn you! Damn you all to hell!"

Help Jack Off

Professor Michio Kaku, of City University in New York, has ruled out time travel for at least a few millennia, but believes invisibility cloaks and telepathy could be possible this century.

Well, smarty pants, why can't I invent my Jack-off Drive (TM) now with technology brought to me from the future by a Jack-off Driver (TM)? I will consider Jack-off Driving backwards to move the technology farther into the past of space-time, but I will decline to do so because it would make my Jack-off Drive obsolete and therefore worthless in my present and will not buy me a new boat.

I had not considered creating an invisibility cloak, but, once I've worked out the details of the Jack-off Drive (TM), I will go back and think of that one earlier.

As for telepathy, I can see no practical benefits to that given the widespread availability of CB radios.

You guys all went off to a different blog without telling me, didn't you?

Well. Just admit it. I can be in a blog all by myself. I don't care if no one approved of the deutschmark takeover. I'll just keep reading my own witty and High-sterically annoying entries. So there. I don't even like any of you, anyways. Ha. I had sadly predicted this moment from the start. **sigh**

Churck Flock awaits instructions from new Chancellor while Lawyers sue to halt destruction of Universe

Whilst a committed following of Churck-goers awaits instructions from their new Fearless Leader, a group of crazed Hawai'ins has employed Lawyers to save the universe. I swear I am not making this up. Evidently, two over-baked Hawai'ns have decided that the research being conducted at Fermilab and CERN in France/Switzerland--practically in their backyard--poses an environmental risk in the form of black hole formation and stranglet production ('stranglets' have nothing to do with autoerotic asphyxiation, followers). The Hawai'ins feel that the risk of forming runaway black holes willy-nilly that will engulf the planet and all nearby matter and light is legitimate enough to get lawyers involved and waste bazillions of dollars and tie up the federal court system even further. The lawyers, in their inevitable shrewdness, wisdom and desire for financial gain from even the most mentally disabled members of our society ("it'll be like takin' candy from a baby...just sign here to retain my services, Mr. Cookadoodle Do") have agreed to take the case.

"There's gotta be some way to make money off of this," as ex-Chancellor OneEar LaBona put it, walking down the steps of the Madison, WI courthouse in 12 inches of late March snow. And "Honestly, I can't think of a better or more appropriate use of the Federal Judicial System. It was designed for things like this, you know, things like spending enormous amounts of time and money coming to decisions and passing judgments on foreign entities, like CERN, regarding completely preposterous allegations that will immediately and indefinitely be ignored. Right? Ergo, ice-cream and a nap. It's really simple. I can't understand the controversy. For a short while, I taught a course on this in the local law school, but there was this 'tenure' stuff and restrictions on teaching 'unorthodox methodology' and I really got railroaded out of that one, but, you see what I'm saying, right?"

Ron Paul After All

As it was written, Ron Paul has done it. He has outlasted Adolph Giuliani, Twitt Romney, and the Thompson Twins. He now only needs to surpass Reverend Yuckabee to win the presidential nomination of the Republican Party for 2008 (we assume that McCain will die of old age before November). 

The Dem'cratic race is much more of a toss-off. It has come down to a two dog fight between Billary and Barak. Well nip their tails and pull off their ears, these two are going at it as though the loser had to answer to Mike Vick.

Billary apparently had to lend her campaign $5Million. That is almost $20M in Dubai currency. With Barak getting money at the rate of 3 to 1 over Billary, pundits have punditerized over what Billary could do to raise more funds? After all, most of her donors have given their limit. My suggestion: She could sign a lucrative NBA deal for, say, $140M, a NASCAR deal for, say, $100M, and an engineering deal to construct a time-machine for at least $500M. Some might say, well, she doesn't have the talent to play in the NBA, drive NASCAR, or invent a Jack-Off-Drive (TM)! True, but she had no experience as an elected official but yet was given a term as a United States Senator from a state in which she had never lived.

And what of this product of the whorehouse of Chicago politics, Barak Obama? How can he avoid having the party brokers hand the nomination to the well-lubricated Clinton machine? And when push comes to shove, is he capable of auto-pederasty? Only time will tell (and completion of the Jack-Off-Drive may complicate that old adage).

First They Came

First they came for the blues
and I did not speak out
because I was not blue.
Then they came for the classic rock
and I did not speak out
because I was neither classic nor a rock.
Then they came for the country
and I did not speak out
because I was not a country.
Then they came for the folk,
and I said, "enough with the coming."

Ve haff a Wiener: Area Sheep Hit in Eye with Schnitzel and then Asphyxiated in Big Pot of Sauerkraut to Eliminate Look of Surprise/Shock on Face

Speaking of Lawyers' nuts, Vat do you tink vould be his first order of business as Churck Chancellor? Mandatory male hugging? Daily buttock caressing? We await your instructions, Mein Furry-Guy.

US Supreme Court Rules Nuts Make Great Attorneys

The US Supreme Court heard oral argument today in a case involving the question of whether a defendant who is determined to be sufficiently competent to stand trial must be permitted to represent him/her/transgender's self despite the defendant's mental illness. Court Hears Mentally Ill Defendant Case. If you are sane enough to kill, goes the argument, then you are sane enough to defend yourself in legal proceedings. Justice Anthony Kennedy correctly observed, "There are all kinds of nuts who could get 90% on the bar exam."

But this begs the question. Why shouldn't all of these kinds of nuts be permitted to run the legal system? A little reckless insanity would certainly spice things up, and the outcome of everything would not be so predetermined.

Now, it goes something like this: Arrested, ergo charged, ergo convict him. Sued by the bank, ergo in default, ergo take his money. This is BORING.

How about: Arrested, ergo taken out for ice cream, ergo napping. Sued by the bank, ergo given $14,000, ergo new snowmobile.

Don't you see how just a modicum of insanity would make the system that much more enjoyable for everyone?

Jutht Thuper

It has become clear that it is mathematically impossible for any of the leading candidates for Chancellor of the First Unichurck to win enough delegates to secure the nomination outright. This leaves the fate of the FU in the hands of the Thuper-Delegates.

Thuper-delegates will begin meeting behind closed doors in a smoke-filled room for the next month or so until a nominee emerges in early May. The world will be watching and waiting anxiously for the tell-tale wisp of white smoke which signals the arrival of consensus as to the suckcessor FU leader.

Said one candidate, "That is jutht thuper!"

Happy Vernal Equinox, F.U.ers

Well, I swear last night was almost as long as today, and the moon is just about full. I think I am standing up a little straighter and possibly taller. Every coin I have flipped today to make most of my usual daily life-or-death decisions has managed to land on edge. Weird. Sort of makes you want to get naked, smear blood all over yourself and sacrifice/pork a virgin in a ring full of like-minded and similarly dressed people. Some things about human society just never change, thank goodness!

First Unichurck Accused of Voting Irregularities (and sheep porking)

Following recent scandalous revelations by the First Unichurck (F.U.) regarding semi-consensual adult/sheep relations by its sensory-impaired leadership, another story is breaking regarding Floridian-style voting irregularities. Up until yesterday, Bunderwear Underwear was the foregone conclusion as the next Chancellor of the Churck, In-Absentia, and then--WHAM!!

Mysteriously, now there are only 5 days left (as opposed to the previous four-thousand and five) and all votes, like the odometer on a used car lot, were turned back to zero. FOR SHAME, OneEar!! FOR SHAME!!

How do you respond to these allegations?

Oh, and Florida and Michigan? In the words of Nelson Mundt of the Simpsons, "Hahaa"

RUE Enters Into Subprime Lending

I have another one of my patented "Great Ideas(TM)." RUE will invest heavily in tulip futures. Two irrefutable facts: 1) History repeats itself; and 2) there was a price bubble in tulips in the 1630's.

As to point #1, I'm not sure what evidence there is that history repeats itself, but everyone says it so it must be true. As to point #2, we all recall living through the tulip bubble of the 1630s. There were times when a particular bulb or seed or whatever they grow from would increase in value 600% in a given day. Now, I'm no horticationist, but I do know simple math. If something increases in value 600% per day, pretty soon it will buy me a new boat.

I watch enough late night television to know two things: 1) there is no way to lose money investing in real estate and 2) girls love to show their boobs. So, I am encouraging the RUE board of directors to invest heavily in the boob market. Crap, I think I lost my train of thought when I started thinking about boobs.

UPDATE: RUE's wholly owned subsidiary ROODY'S gives tulips a AAA+++ rating!

Farther Up Date: Shares of Bear Stearns (BSC: 4.06, -25.94, -86.46%) plummeted on Monday after news broke that JPMorgan Chase (JPM: 40.53, +3.99, +10.91%) has agreed to purchase the beleaguered Wall Street icon for $236 million. That price values Bear’s shares at $2.
That is a massive discount to Bear’s closing price of $30 a share Friday, and brings a quick and painful end to the 85-year-old Wall Street investment bank.

Colyp School of Financial Money

Colyp's re-emergence from the ethersphere caused me to reflect upon his contributions to the fields of economics and money-stuff.

As you all know, Colyp is famous for his intricate system of credit card cash advances whereby a person takes a cash advance from one credit company in order to make his monthly payment to another. I believe he may have won a Noble Prize for his ground-breaking work in this respect.

Initially discounted as foolhardy, the Colyp school of financial money has now earned general acceptance as the proper way to finance a society.

News reports often lament that the US credit card debt is approx. $1T ($1x10(12th)). With 2.7 x 10(8th) people, this only amounts to less than $4k per person. By contrast, the current national debt is $9.3T and is almost $60T if one includes unfunded Medicaid and Social Security obligations. This would seem unmanageable unless one were to buy into the Colyp school of financial money. Then, it all makes sense.

Remainder of Nation Considers Returning Florida to Spain along with Angry, Unappreciative Note

As the State of Florida once again demonstrates its inability to participate in a competent fashion with United States elections, many have called for the State to be returned to its first European keepers, the Nation of Spain. An included nasty explanatory note has been recommended to be pinned to Florida's shirt. Barring this possibility, the descendants of Juan Ponce de Leon should be charged with responsibility of the blue-haired playground, according to proponents of what is being called the "Florida is Clearly Too Stupid to be Part of the United States--and That's Saying A Lot" movement.

Reasons put forth by supporters include:
1. Number of annual executions taking place in Florida exceeding annual birthrate, so it's going to be a wash soon anyhow
2. Number of "Chads" Hung in last election confused by residents with number 1, above
3. Whole stepford-wives creepiness of Disney/Orlando/Epcot phenomenon (have you ever visited the city for a meeting? Whoa.)
4. The abundance of iguanas, parrots and gators in neighborhoods refuse to work as household appliances like those seen on the Flintstone's.
5. "God's Waiting Room" now experiencing excessive wait times for celestial discharge due to ever-increasing advances in modern medicine, which in turn increases membership in AARP, forcing the rest of us to deal with Medicare and all of its problems.
6. Until recently, was Nation's number one source for malaria and cholera, which only served to strengthen the reputation of fruity states such as California that proudly boasted of "No Malaria Vacations"
7. Has some paranormal, voodoo-magnet for Haitians (some refer to this as "rule of law" or "stable economy where my whole family won't be killed on Tuesdays for no apparent reason")
8. Full of left-over, persnickety, fault-finding, finicky, fussy Cubans who have the gall to be upset that all of their worldly possessions were snatched away from them in a wink of an eye, and not one penny went toward the personal hygiene of the new dictator (That guy has worn the same freakin' outfit every day and hasn't shaved in like 50 years. Vomit. Eat THAT, Bill Clinton and your $200 Airforce 1 Haircut!), who then, randomly, turns around and gives the whole goddamned country to his brother Earl.
9. And the most compelling reason is the evident contagiousness of Florida's bumbling retardation as demonstrated by the State of Michigan's recent donning of a similar-colored Floridian dunce-cap.

Proponents plead to act fast before another state drops and we end up with a country that "looks like a jigsaw puzzle with a couple of pieces gone". So much for Manifest Destiny. Thanks a lot, you Michigan/Florida dopes.

Vote For Wunder-Wiener and Lick Naked Women for Free while they bring you complimentary BEER and SCOTCH!!!

VOTE for Change!!

Government FatCats!!!

Rich keep getting richer and poor keep getting poorererer!!

(Despite pesky ongoing investment by rich people in their own education and future and poor peoples'...well...lack of investment in anything aside from the LOTTO!! Whoohoo!)

NO NEW TAXES!! READ and FONDLE my lips!!

TIPPECANOE AND TYLER, TOO!!!

ONEEAR DID SOMETHING BAD ONCE!! SLING SOME MUD!!!

KEEP COOL WITH COOLIDGE!

BUILDING A BRIDGE TO THE 21ST BAR ON THIS BLOCK!!!

OneEar, let's face it: despite your excessive cerebral electrical and clavier activity and complete choke-hold on the genre of stream of consciousness, you could use some lessons on campaign slogans. "Shame on You"? "flourishing rhetoric"? "massive rallies"? "popular support"?

The more I push Beer and Wieners, the more the malleable masses vote for me. The more I insist that I am not even running, the more the votes stack up. The poetic irony is that I actually don't want anything to do with any of this, and you were the one who put me on the ballot. So, logically, the best man for the job is the one man who wants this even less than me--Beery Wiener. If he even read this, he might suspend his apathy just long enough to protest. But that's truly a long-shot. Are you out there, Beery Wiener? You will be receiving your summons soon....

Learn from this, my seasoned veteran. Take a few minutes and give Karl Rove a call. Let him know what's been going on.

The Election May Come Down to this

See what I mean?

I don't know which of these is eerier.

Who will rise against this momentum?

Doc Bok said...
What about beer and weiners? He's no Ron Paul. That's it; he's no Ron Paul.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
OneEar said...
Bundeskraut has no experience. Vote for change!

litzi said...
Hi Doc Bok,

I thought Cocoa-No-GoGo was designated to fill OneEar’s shoes when he steps down from his porcelain throne. There are others that WANT the position? Are you a contender?
Friday, February 22, 2008

Doc Bok said...
The preliminary tallies are not hopeful for me, Litzi, nor do I really feel able to take that un-coveted position within the Churck. I can't really drink at work, so I probably don't qualify. I am also discouraged from treating part-time employees as only semi-human. The poor outlook for me as a viable contender has only been reinforced by my own vote for someone else.

As far as Cocoa is concerned, I think his campaign has really been marred by a lot of hype, so were he to take over, the expectations for his performance would be excessive--even by his definitions. He would be highly likely to let us all down.

Again.

We've seen this over and over again in the last couple of decades when he has been in charge of various Rusty's. They have been some of the worst ever.

He also appears to be neck-in-neck at the moment with Bunderkraut. What can we say about Bunderkraut as a potential Churck Chancellor? Not much. Under "apathy" in the dictionary, you might see a picture of Bunderkraut, if only he cared enough to show up to the photo shoot. He does not.

I think the strategists would agree that one of the biggest problems with a potential Bunderkrautian Churck would be his complete failure to even read this Blog. Communication is key to any job, but old Bunder thinks if you just ignore that itchy crotch rash, it will eventually go away and not get on your Blackberry. Do we want someone with an itchy crotch ignoring our absolutely fabulous witticisms? Think about it.
Friday, February 22, 2008

litzi said...
Hi Doc Bok,

Cocoa impresses me as being rather shy and reclusive. This could be his blog persona (what little I’ve seen of it), when in reality he’s a painted-faced, pterydactyl-squawking Clown. The Churck needs a dynamic, “in your face” dictator/Chancellor, like OneEar has proven to be over the years. Would Cocoa be capable of riding herd on his minions with an iron fist and constantly reminding them of their lowly status?

If Bunderkraut takes over with a military coup, I hope he considers shortening his name. Does Bunderkraut have cooties as well? Perhaps you better reconsider running for Chancellor; at least the Churck will be will be free from sepsis, putrefaction and decay. You could run on the Antiseptic Platform. Cleanliness is next to Rustyness.
Friday, February 22, 2008

Dok Bok:

Litzi, as far as Cocoa's persona v. blog persona, I can tell you that he is from the same state as Senator Obama, who also seems a freightrain of unstoppable hype. He looks very similar to the included picture of Senator Obama when exiting the waters of Lake Michigan as tiny lollipop grasping Asian teen girls look on in disbelief. Though, in fairness, that picture also does a decent job representing OneEar in his standard loping gait when no water is present. I can also tell you that he (Cocoa) has attacked me physically more than once. There was ice, painful ice, blood and snow involved on at least one occasion. I can also assure you that he is prone to crankiness on occassion which results in surly remarks and behaviour at times. I think he can reign in his minions, but Beer and Wieners may just steal the day. The uncertainty is absolutely titillating. Really.

Concession Stand

The First Unichurck now faces unparalleled challenges and unparalleled parallels. During this difficult time occasioned by the current no-confidence vote, leaders must be leaders and followers must be followers. It is a syllogism. Look it up.

And so, in order to further the best interests of this institution, this country, this world, this solar system, and our pin-prick piece of this universe, I must humby step aside and allow the p^ssy of this wholly Churck to be f^cked by another leader.

I hereby wholeheartedly endorse cocoa_no_gogo as the next Chancellor of the First Unichurk, and I encourage all of my followers (Litzi) to support his campaign. "The souse shall rise again!"

Digital Blow-back?

So, OneEar, not to deviate from your food train of thought, but what do you and Bunderkraut think of this?

Revealing source code is sort of anti-capitalistic, don't you think? Suddenly, anyone can copy your product, if you happen to make this sort of a product. Yet, if O.J. can be found innocent because of a chain-of-custody argument, I suppose no rock must be left unturned.

Traveling At the Speed of Smell

Skunk - you reek
Skunk - you reek
Skunk - you reek
Skunk

Puke - you reek
Puke - you reek
Puke - you reek
Puke

But sometimes, stinky things smell good.
A passing whiff, pull away,
A creeping desire, now irresistable,
Smell it again. Ah!
Sometimes, stinky things smell good.

Cheese - you're cheesy

Fish - you're fishy

Fart - you're gassy

Where was I?

Stinky finger under a band-aid

Arm-pit stain in an old wool suit.

Rotten wood from a mossy stump,

A wet dog in the summertime,

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Hipocritic Oaf

Dear Dok Bok;

I have two "medical" problems which I would like for you to address.

1) After a typical night of drinking, I awake with a typical hang-over of the typical type than can be treated with typical aspirin and typical water. However, about 12 hours later, I begin to suffer from a fluttering, pounding heartbeat which lasts for 24-48 hours and of the type which is sufficiently unnerving to cause one to awake from one's sleep and to thereafter check that one's life insurance premiums are paid up. This does not seem right. Is there anything I can do during the first 12 hours to avoid the next 24-48?

2) I have encountered people who can burp on purpose. Can this be accomplished with farting?

Societe Rustiale

I have another one of my patented "Great Ideas (TM)." We will found a bank, or have Napoleon Bonaparte decree that it be founded, and raise $53B in capital. Then, we will set up systems of oversight which will permit a "rogue trader" employee to somehow blow $7,140,000,000 (13.5% of our funds). Then, the US Fed will print more money by lowering interest rates. Then, I can refinance my mortgage and probably save $50 per month on my payments. I will use my savings to buy an extra case of beer per week which will help to take the edge off.

Dr. Bok reporting from Sunny London

Whoever said that the weather in England is grim was perhaps...exactly correct. But not everyone is foolish enough to be coaxed into coming for the highlights of English winter in January. I am, for the record. While walking through the woods on Sunday, preparing for an upcoming talk on Tuesday (that's today, my time), I stumbled upon this thousand-year-old Norman church, which the locals treat with relative indifference. 'oh yeah, that church's all old and a bit broken down'. A bit broken down? As the smarmy would say in L.A., 'duh'.

The last thing I stumbled across in the woods that was almost a thousand years old was the lint in OneEar's belly-button. I did not take a picture, so be thankful. I think that the grey sky, grey church, grey stone wall and crosses dotting the horizon on the hill speak volumes about this cheery society as a whole.

Looking at all of these time-worn surroundings allows the imagination run wild, since such ancient reflections of humanity from millenia past are not really to be found in the good ole US of America. For example, it is not at all difficult to imagine one of our forefathers, two-hundred and fifty years ago plodding along a grey grassy knoll such as the one above, and having a conversation such as, "By God's Great Hand! This is the most depressing fucking place anyone in their right mind could imagine. God, why hast Thou forsaken me and all my countrymen? Must we go forth, and create a New Country, one that contains many a splenderous city such as Orlando? Lest we blow our fucking brains out all over this new Norman church here with our muskets?!?"

I love daydreaming about the tortured minds of people from the past. And this trip has really allowed me to indulge myself so far. So, until the next update, Cheerio! (they're just trying to over-compensate with silly expressions like that, by the btw)

Mystery Solved

FU loyalists may recall an incident from August of 2006 when Alceste visited me in Madison, Wisconsin, and we ended up in the middle of a mystery. We spent the afternoon and night bar-hopping and then stayed at a hotel overnight. When we awoke in the morning, the hotel room had received an extreme make-over including relocation of the furniture, removal of the door mirror, and updating of the carpeting with a colorful pattern of diarrhea. The towels had all been removed, and both Alceste's and my feet had been slathered with feces. For details, please reference SOS a Mystery. Of course, this incident and a possibly related roadside incident involving Alceste later became the basis for the world renowned Funky Monkey Crap Rap.

However, until now, exactly what happened in the hotel room on that mysterious night has remained, well, a mystery. Who would break into a hotel room, trash the place, steal all of the towels, and then defecate on the floor and on the feet of the two guests? Mystery solved: Defecation Man arrested.

The Sick Scents

THE SICK SCENTS
written by the Monkey Platoon


INTERIOR MUSIC ROOM – POORLY LIT AND MESSY - ELVIS TAPESTRY HANGS ON WALL.

A NAKED LIGHTBULB SPARKS TO LIFE. It dangles from the ceiling of in a tangle of wires which includes two microphones, each wrapped in duct tape, and a duck, wrapped in electrical tape.

LOUD, STAGGERING FOOTSTEPS AS LBOK clods down the stairs.

LBok is the rare combination of goat and man. More man-goat than goat-man, he exudes a proud self-confidence warranted less by his talents than by his inebriation. He stands briefly at the bottom of the stairwell, his nipples hardened by the chill of the basement air.

His eyes come to rest on a guitar lying face down and slightly inverted as though kicked over. We see a smile begin to develop on LBok’s little face. He begins to laugh maniacally and prances over to pick up the guitar. After fiddling briefly with some of the dozens of nobs on various amplifiers, humidifiers, and dehumidifiers, he begins playing the intro to the Rusty Song.
THE RUSTY SONG
- - - - - - - -- with audio continuing (adding entire band sound) cut to wooded woods
Sergeant Moonkey and his Tribe of males appear from behind a hill and walk down the path through the tangled ravine. Silouetted against the dawn sky, the Tribe is viewed from below at a distance, from the perspective of the Others. Sergeant Moonkey stops, turns abruptly, sniffs the air and looks down intently toward the Others. The Tribe slowly resumes its normal chatter.

OneEar and the Others begin moving up the ravine through the woods off of the path and toward the Tribe. Led by One-ear, the Others half-heartly begin an out-of-tune battle-chant. But they are suddenly confronted with a vision that stops them abruptly and strikes terror into them.

Sergeant Moonkey, who had been partly concealed by two males who walked before him, thrusts his arm high into the air and steps forward between them. In his hand he holds a stout tree branch. Mounted atop the branch is a duck-taped jar of shark’s teeth and the two of clubs.

OneEar and the Others gape in fearful disbelief at this display of power. Sergeant Moonkey stands motionless, thrusting the club high. Then with majestic deliberation, still carrying his club high above his head, he begins to walk quickly and deliberately toward the Others. One of the Others steps forward to challenge Sergeant Moonkey, but he is clubbed with the club bearing the two of clubs. The Others fade back, seeming to lack even the ability to run away. Sergeant Moonkey stands triumphantly over his defeated foe and faces One-Ear who stands watching. Though he is a veteran of numerous combats, One-Ear has never before seen the use of club with shark's teeth duck taped to it. One-Ear looks up curiously at the raised club until the heavy stick crashes down upon his head. "Ouch," he says, and then darkness follows.
UFO's and Camel Toes
- - - - - - - - - -
Fade to a playground. Bundeskraut, an overly polite young man of strict upbringing with a bad habit of leaving fun events early and nervously cupping his balls though his pantspockets is standing near a playground, balls in one hand, blackberry in the other, viewing the screen with obvious concern.

Voice-over:
Code Rojo. One of the Clowns is insane. Report immediately for duty. Project Salmon Boy is a go. Do not, I repeat not, shower. Place pantyhose over head.


- - - - - - - -- CUT to sledding hill

Gang sledding down hill; merriment and then various character development.

Alceste’s sledding run carries him deep into the woods where he shouts for the others to join him. He has made a discovery. There lying in the snow either asleep or passed out is OneEar.

Bundeskraut and Coco come running playfully, wrassling like bear cubs to where Alceste is standing over OneEar.

OneEar: Oh, hi guys.

Alceste: OneEar, get up.

OneEar: Guys, I’ve been visited in a vision by a one eared, slightly incompetent sheep character invented by Coco called Rusty. Rusty is, you know, God.

Alceste: I see.

OneEar: Anyhoo, according to Rusty, and I personally think we should just take this on faith, we must mold ourselves into a successful singing group in order to showcase our devotion to his wonderfulness. Rusty wants you to do whatever I say.
Bundeskraut: Makes sense to me.

Coco: I invented Rusty but now he speaks through OneEar? I’m not sure I like where this is going.

OneEar: Well quit bitching and write something better.

Alceste: This is all just words.

LIFE IS LIKE A SAUSAGE
- - - - - - - - -

Cut back to music room some time later.

Clown squad is assembled, apparently drunk, and attempting to perform. But something just isn't right.

Alceste: You sterking gamp.

LBok: I sure am.

Alceste: You froaching harfer-sterker, they want to kill you now. They want you to die, boaxx.

Bundeskraut: Alceste.

LBok: What I should or should not say and think, help me.

Bundeskraut: Wow, froach his dog.

OneEar: Who.

Alceste: Squatchface LBok.

Bundeskraut: I do.

Alceste: LBok, I come.

Bundeskraut: You know fun.

LBok: I must mubil.

Alceste: I like squatch.

Bundeskraut: Once again al.

Alceste: Am I making squatch?

Bundeskraut: No.

LBok: Cankles?

Bundeskraut: No, no hankles

LBok: Do you?

Bundeskraut: You know it.

Alceste: suck suck suck. The teet is big and round, suck.

SEX FREE SEX
------
Cut to Coco, alone in a small room, typing intently on a laptop. As we approach and look over his shoulder, we see that he is typing this movie script. He is at this point in the script typing these very words. Then he looks up, horrified, and then darkness.

WHISKY INFUSED TRAIN WRECK
------------------

Cut to LBok dressed as a pedophilic outlaw roller-derby player wearing a feather boa and licorice bikini. He is speaking a murmuring language language to some unseen little people. He appears to be describing some type of rat that he discovered at a deli counter.

Alceste bursts into the room followed by Coco whose head is bandaged. LBok signals the little people to hide. A confrontation ensues but we can't quite make out the nature of the dispute. We pull back and fall out the window to the ground below. OneEar happens to be lying there.

ONEEAR: Child I fell.

The child stares down at OneEar.

CHILD: I know, I saw.

ONEEAR: I may be hemorrhaging internally.

CHILD: Builds character.

ONEEAR: Excuse me?

CHILD: Hemorrhaging internally builds character.

ONEEAR: Says who?!!!

CHILD: Daddy.

ONEEAR: Oh, right.

CHILD (whispering): I hear loud people.

POETRY DELETED
- - - - - -
Cut back to music room which now reveals, in addition to hundreds of assorted wires, computer equipment, video equipment, amplifiers and musical instruments, an additional mess: dozens of 4/5 empty beer and alcohol bottles, food wrappers, pizza boxes, bags of chips, overturned ashtrays, half-smoked cigars and cigarettes, backyard gaming equipment, fans, clothing, playing cards, children’s board games, blankets, and shoes emitting the unmistakable signs of smashed dog feces. The mess is forming something of a den or a nest.

From the wall clock, it is clear that either 14 minutes have elapsed since our last visit to the basement, or else the clock has been unplugged in favor of an overturned blender.

We see the Clown Squad assembled, even more inebriated, and watching video footage of themselves. The video is narrated by the voice of Rusty who is commending them on their progress in becoming a successful rock band.

Rusty: I am very proud of you boys. Very proud of your progress in becoming a successful rock band.

Coco: Where are the cigarettes?

OneEar: I think we used them all in that nicorita experiment. There is still some of that left.

Al: Hey Coco, when you’re at the store getting cigarettes, why don’t you pick up some fresh shrimp. Oh, you don’t get fresh shrimp here? Sorry.

Rusty: Gentlemen. Please, back to the task at hand. Now who has the goal sheet.

Bundeskraut: Coco, will you get some more of that smoked salmon?

Rusty: Gentlemen! Now is not the time for salmon! I have a very important announcement to announce.

Silence as the Clown Squad turns in unison toward the screen.

Rusty: I am coming! (audible gasp from the Clown Squad) And I needs your help!

- - - - - -

Cut to Sergeant Moonkey running through the woods holding his stick and chasing an unseen OneEar. Child Holding sheep is watching, puzzled.

- - - - - - -
Cut to LBok and OneEar sitting outside where OneEar apparently has fallen again:

OneEar: Well, we finally get to meet Rusty. What do you suppose he wants of us?

LBok: 68% of the time, when a previously unseen leader is announced, the purpose for his arrival is the assembly of a crack commando team.

OneEar: My gut is killing me.

LBok: I strongly suspect that you have sprained your hair. Can you stand?

OneEar: Yeah, I just need to vomit first.

LBok: Yes, sprained hairs. You see, each hair shaft is supported by a follicle which houses a tiny muscle. Its function is to contract and thereby squeeze a sebaceous gland near the follicle which emits an oily secretion into the skin. This oily secretion is called sebum, and it helps to keep the skin pliable and to shed water. Sometimes when you fall, the levering action of the hair on the gland is extreme and you end up with sprained hairs making your fur, er hair overly oily. Do you understand? All you need is a shot of gin, ok Wookie?

OneEar: Yeah, just give me a second to vomit.

LBok: That’s right, get all of that evil out of your system and then we’ll go get you some gin.

OneEar and LBok walk toward basement stairs, OneEar stops to vomit again, looks up questioningly at LBok who nods knowingly and gestures toward the top of his head.


- - - - - - -
Coco is back at his laptop. Computer voiceover reading anonymous email:

Coco, you do not know me, but you will know me soon enough, although you will wish it were sooner. The reasons will become clear later but, for now, let’s just leave things vague and impending. You will be asked to create a rock opera called Salmon Boy. This is not merely a rock opera. Through this project, you will explore the struggle between chaotic human expressive experience on the one ear and commercially manufactured drivel on the other.

This is a very old battle with stakes much higher than you could possibly appreciate. It is not a battle between individuals, but it will be fought by individuals. In that respect, I guess it is a battle between individuals. Anyway, you may not want to choose sides, but not by choosing, you will have made your choice. My only advice to you is this: Do not trust false prophets, and beware of the two of clubs.

Now go, exercise extreme caution, and could you also pick up some olives when you are at the store?

During the voiceover, Coco looks out the window to see the Clown Squad playing some sort of outdoor game, although neither the object nor the teams are apparent.
------------------------------------------------------
Cut to woods:

Little boy looking under a log in the woods finds a small plastic sheep, picks it up and cleans it off and then puts it into his pocket.
----------------------------------------
Cut back to the basement nest which now includes various animals and is beginning to resemble a very messy and deranged nativity scene. Bundeskraut, Alceste, and LBok are present playing some sort of board game. Coco enters carrying grocery bags.

Alceste: I think Coco is trying to kill us all. Oh, hi Coco.

LBok: Hey Coco, remember that time we interviewed for a job in Spain and when you went to shake hands, all of the crumbled airplane crackers from your pocket flew all over the room and Elvira said, “Just go. I’ll clean it up. Just get out.”

Bundeskraut: That story is so funny.

Coco: Where’s the Wookie?

Bundeskraut: He fell outside again. I’ll go get him.

- - --
Bundeskraut walks out and sits down next to OneEar, outside.

BUNDESKRAUT: OneEar, I don’t understand how you keep falling up here out of the basement.

ONEEAR: I don’t understand it either.

BUNDESKRAUT: Why don’t you just obey the law of gravity?

ONEEAR: Gravity just keeps you down.

BUNDESKRAUT: OneEar, you're scaring me.

ONEEAR: They scare me too sometimes.

BUNDESKRAUT: They?

ONEEAR: The short people.

BUNDESKRAUT: Short people?

ONEEAR: The Abu Gogo.

BUNDESKRAUT: You see little people, OneEar?

ONEEAR: They want me to do things for them.

BUNDESKRAUT: They talk to you?

OneEar nods, "Yes."

BUNDESKRAUT: They tell you to do things?

OneEar nods "Yes" again. Bundeskraut becomes upset. He nods with grave understanding. OneEar watches him.

ONEEAR: You think I'm a freak?

Bundeskraut’s eyes move to OneEar.

BUNDESKRAUT: Look at my face.

OneEar gazes at his intense expression.

BUNDESKRAUT: I would never think that about you ... ever... Got it?

ONEEAR: Got it.

OneEar smiles. Bundeskraut glances down.

BUNDESKRAUT: You are……. special.

ONEEAR: That’s what the little people say too.

Bundeskraut pauses, then helps OneEar up.

ONEEAR: Have they contacted you? …… About the Salmon Boy?

Bundeskraut doesn’t answer while studying OneEar’s face. Then he brushes grass out of OneEar’s hair.

BUNDESKRAUT: Let’s go inside and get some nourishment.
- - - - - - -

Inside, Coco is serving some sort of Polish pasta. His head is once again bandaged, and he is wearing only one shoe.

Coco: Remember in College when I used to get mad and drink alot. I used to think that we just needed an idea like the Ninja Turtles that we could turn into some sort of lucrative business.

From the video screen, on which Clown Squad footage is still playing, Rusty’s voice comes on.

RUSTY: Coco, you are correct. That is what you need, what we all need. You must create a commercially accessible rock opera that extols the virtue of money. So, listen closely and do exactly as I say. Now, first, …

Coco: Coco turns off the television. I am thinking we should call the project “Salmon Boy.” Who's with me?

OneEar’s head jerks up and he looks at Bundeskraut whose eyes shift nervously.

OneEar: Why salmon boy?

Coco: My brother bought a giant salmon boy yard sculpture and had it shipped back from Ireland. I also would like to include a giant feared but respected hairy creature called “Mookie” who is a leaker, if we can get around to it. We could also incorporate the Monkey Platoon.

Alceste’s head jerks up. He cautiously eats another Polish pasta while eyeing Coco with suspicion.

LBok: I have to go to the bathroom.

LBok leaves the room, but nobody seems to care. The remaining Clowns begin clearing a table to play spades.

Coco: If we time this right, we should also incorporate the intelligent design/evolution debate that is playing out in the Kansas science curriculum. OneEar, weren’t you born in Kansas.

OneEar: I was designed in Kansas.

Coco: Of course. We will need a theme song.

OneEar: How about the AbuGogo Blues?

Bundeskraut’s head jerks up.

Al: Who has the two of Clubs?

Cocos head jerks up with a shocked look on his face.
----------

CUT TO A CAVE
4 Abu Gogo have assembled around a Jugs magazine. They are mumbling and eating. LBok emerges out of the shadows, takes a quick look at the Jugs magazine, and then motions for the AbuGogo to gather around.

LBok: I will speak in English now, because native AbuGogoan is not an efficient language. You really should adopt an alphabet with more than 13 letters if you want my opinion. But, I digress. What was I saying, gago nuba gagogaga gagonuba gagagago, oh yes, the rock opera.

They are calling this commercially lucrative rock opera “Salmon Boy.” And I would like to enlist your help to sink this fish.

LBok laughs diabolically.

LBok: Yes, a hoard of unseen little hobbit people is just what I need to foil this little project.
---------------

OneEar is lying outside, Coco is sitting next to him.

OneEar: I read all about it. These little people were 3 feet tall.

Coco (sarcastically): Interesting, OneEar.

OneEar (as if in a trance): Little humanoids with bow legs, flat feet, nice teeth, and little tiny brains. The women had long breasts that they would flop over their shoulders. They used stone tools, fire and cooperative hunting techniques. It has been inferred that the little people used a rudimentary form of language.

Coco (sarcastically): Interesting, OneEar.

OneEar: Don’t you get it, they are still around!

Coco: What do you mean “still around?”

OneEar: They come and talk to me.

Coco: W..What do they say?

OneEar: gaga booboo or something like that.

Coco: What does it mean?

OneEar: I don’t think it means anything. That’s the whole point.

Coco: I see.

OneEar: I think LBok knows them. I found this in his duffel bag.

OneEar holds up the two of clubs.

--------------

Alceste is in bathroom viewing himself in the mirror putting on war paint to convert himself into Sergeant Moonkey.

Alceste/Sergeant Moonkey: The time has come.

Alceste drops his pants, takes a seat on the toilet and picks up a Jugs magazine.

Little boy carrying sheep walks by and looks in on Alceste.

Alceste: Occupado!

----------
Cut to Basement nativity nest.

OneEar, Bundeskraut and Coco are eating and drinking. All are visibly drunk and difficult to understand. They appear to be murmuring to one another.


Alceste/SM enters carrying his stick.
LBok enters opposite and grabs a drum and drumstick.

They begin to fight rhythmically. The other clowns grab instruments and join in the musical battle.

In a very short while, they are exhausted, and they all sit back down. Bundeskraut has packed up his guitar and is on his way out.

Bundeskraut: I’ll see you guys later, I have to catch a taxi to the bus station for a bus to the airport unless someone wants to drive me.

Alceste/SM: You don’t get it. We must destroy this commercially lucrative rock opera. We cannot follow the way of the Other.

Bundeskraut leaves.

LBok: Wait a minute: I was trying to destroy the music too.

Alceste/SM: You mean..

Alceste/SM and LBok (together but off-key): We were working in harmony. Then who are we fighting against?

Rusty’s voice is heard from the TV: You have failed. You have failed yourselves, and you have failed Rusty. You have failed all that is organized and commercially lucrative.

The Clown Squad (minus Bundeskraut) grab their instruments and unleash a barrage of music that destroys the TV. They are visibly proud of themselves and continue playing vigorously.

Little boy holding lamb enters:

Little boy: Do you guys know any ………. songs?

CLOSEUP OF LAMB, SMILING


THE END

Broke Down Doctor

DBok's reminiscences about Rusty Sessions of yore caused me to recall the time when the sessions were last held at my house. It was the winter, probably about 10 years ago, and I had recently moved into a 100 year old house in a small village in Wisconsin. Friday involved heavy drinking and frequent trips to/from the airport to pick up the Clowns as they arrived. “Music” probably was played as well.

Saturday consisted of more drinking, more “music,” and frequent trips between the two bars located in this particular village. On Saturday night, we were at the yellow-house bar and were engaged in some dialogue with the local clientele. DBok was impressing nobody in particular with his unique grasp of arcane, trivial factoids, and, as usual, he was utilizing his most know-it-all-ish tone and demeanor. Eg. “I live in Norfolk, Virginia, the world’s largest natural seaport!” or some such nonsense.

Just about this time, one of the patrons, apparently tired of DBok’s relentless condescension, addressed another fellow very loudly across the bar. “Hey, Randy, this guy (DBok) wants to suck your dick!” “Did you hear me Randy, this guy here really wants to suck your dick!” “This guy, right here, (again pointing to DBok), wants to suck your dick!” This went on for several minutes with the reiterated inference being created that DBok wanted to suck Randy’s dick.

DBok first tried to reassure Randy that he did not, in fact, want to suck Randy’s dick. However, the other patron was unconvinced. “Randy, I’m telling you this guy wants to suck your dick!” Soon DBok and the man who was convinced that DBok wanted to suck Randy’s dick were entangled in a robust embrace, and it became clear that a Clown retreat was necessary.

The Squad extricated ourselves from the establishment and escorted DBok back toward my house. DBok insisted on standing in the street yelling taunts at his newly-made friend, but after numerous tries, we eventually shepherded him back to my house. We reconvened in my living room, but, when we took a roll-call, DBok was absent. He had snuck out the back door and was headed back to the bar to further debate with the other gentlemen his desire to suck Randy’s dick, or lack thereof.

It became clear to the rest of us that DBok was intent upon having his ass kicked that particular evening. So, on motion made and duly seconded, and with a quorum being present, we resolved to go kick his ass ourselves. Our thinking was that, since he had just become a surgeon, his hands needed protection from the damage which might occur during a fist-fight. We figured it unlikely that his new acquaintance would extend the same courtesy. Further, we saw no reason why a surgeon needs his face, neck, ribs, back or legs to be uninjured. So, we caught him out in the street, dragged him back to a snowbank, and dog-piled him. Coco was particularly zealous in this effort to protect DBok, and, while the rest of us were pummeling him, Coco shoved some ice shards up DBok’s nose. This, while probably unnecessary, was very funny.
Eventually, we had literally beaten some sense into DBok, and we went back home to resume the normal Rusty Session activities.

The following morning, I had to lend DBok a walking cane to limp his way through airport security toward home. Something about a broken something. But his hands were fine.

You know, come to think of it, I don’t think I ever heard him say “Thank you.”

All Hail Cheese!

That Dok Bok talk bout a sledding trip
When Clown’s slid down on ma slippery slip
Clowns on ma legs
Most broke ma knees
Said “Get up bitches
and All Hail Cheese!”

“All Hail”
“All Hail Cheese”
“All Hail”
“All Hail Cheese”
Skip skat scoff
Now cough and sneeze
I turn my head
Say “All Hail Cheese!”

Flippin and rippin through ma CD stack
Got the RIA all over ma back
Whipped white wop
Say whigger please
I show my brief
Says “All Hail Cheese!”

“All Hail”
“All Hail Cheese”
“All Hail”
“All Hail Cheese”
Copyright wrong
Song parodies
Its one beat off
Say “All Hail Cheese!”

TRIPLE DECKER!

The triple-decker is a feat oft described, but rarely executed. It truly harkens back to an early Rusty session, "the Ohio tapes", which included the famous instigator, Sit-nay. OneEar (and his jacket) was instantly transformed into a human (sheep) sled.

Life List

The FU is encouraging all parishioners to complete a "Life List" before the next service. Here is mine so far:

1) Complete Life List
2)

Happy Holidays - A Retrospective

LBok's threat to re-post his careful comparison of The Grinch to The Hulk (Note: They share the first name "The") got me to thinking. The holidays are indeed a time to reflect upon bygone days. Contrary to popular opinion, one should not "let bygones be bygones." Rather, embrace bygones. "Let bygones be buypresents." And so we recall some of the warm memories of past FU postings which provided warm buying opportunities.
y
We all fondly remember Coco's famous post heralding the return of Christmas which spawned the concept of the Munitions Day Carp. The Carp, of course, was later memorialized in the famous poem/song Old Saint Carp is In Da House. The Rupture Carp is now virtually synonymous with Munitions Day in the public mind's eye.

The previous year, the FU celebrated the holidays by, well, I guess we didn't celebrate, really, because we were in the midst of the end of the universe. Those were scary times, but I am glad that we were there for you. And before that, we had the entirety of nothingness.

It certainly is a rich historical tapestry when viewed from today's perspective. One never could have imagined just how much the First Unichurck would grow from those humble beginnings. And the universe is still here, so that is probably for the better. Just to be safe, remember to buy.

Lets Put Out

It appears that another Rusty Session meeting of the infamous band, "The Clown Squad" is in the works, so I'm working on some new material. With the surprising popularity of the First Unichurck, perhaps we should have a religious theme. Coco, let me know if you have any suggested modifications before I work out the chord digression for this one.

Let's Put Out

Let's put the fun back in funeral
And the sun back in Sunday
And the God back in "God-dammit
Show some mother-fucking respect!"

Let's put the X back in X-mas
And the "gee" back in Jesus
And the God back in "God-dammit
Show some mother-fucking respect!"

I may be weird, but
I will not be fed an aphrodisiac
I will not to bed an insomniac
I will not be wed to a hypochondriac
And I won't be caught dead with a necrophiliac.

Let's put the duel back in dualism
And the money back in monism
And the God back in "God-dammit
Show some mother-fucking respect!"

Let's put the nice back in Nicene
And the EQ back in ecumenical
And the God back in "God-dammit
Show some mother-fucking respect!"

Brett Favre Is a Big Baby

Can you believe this guy? Brett Favre is such a hypochondriac. Those of you who watched the hated Dallas Cowpokes defeat the noble Green Bay Packers last night watched the all-too-familiar sight of Brett Favre leaving the game because of a boo-boo. It seems like every 5 or 10 years, this guy has some excuse or another to ride the pines. What a cry-baby.


Also, the officials from that game are now going to hell, and the Bears still suck. Other than that how did you enjoy the play, Mrs. Lincoln?


Incidentally, I watched the first half of the game in a bar at a location where I was nominally attending a meeting. A woman there told me, despite the fact that I hadn't asked and didn't really care, that she had recently had a nose-job. Of course, I'm able to relate because I've had hand-jobs and blow-jobs, and I found them enjoyable. I don't think I would like a nose-job, but, then again, I'm not a woman. I don't like shopping either, but, if your thing is buying stuff or having a nose in your stuff, good for you. Apparently, this kind of discussion is inappropriate for a meeting.

How to Build a Time Machine

I have been working on a new invention. It is called a "time machine." No, it is not a machine that tells you the time. That device is called a "clock."

Rather, my machine allows the user to think as though he/she/transgender exists at different coordinates in time. Perhaps it should more accurately be called a "time-transfer machine."

Please don't get hung up on the name. We can call it a "jack-off drive" for all I care about the name. Actually, a "jack-off drive" would be fairly easy to market.

So, as I was saying, my new "jack-off drive" is revolutionary, and everybody needs one. I can't go into the engineering details of the "jack-off drive" (TM), but, let's just say that it makes an otherwise lengthy commute into a beautiful, cataclysmic, ecstatic umph.

Well, now I've lost interest in whatever I was doing.

Thanks

Well, happy thanksgiving all.

My family has this "tradition" of reminiscing during family get-togethers. I suspect that this is a common affliction. For some reason, my nieces and my children delight in hearing stories about the rare times when I was naughty as a child. Both of my sisters chime in with their favorite tales about when I threw them down the staircase or convinced them that the walls in my room were filled with candy.

I just take the punishment and chalk it up to Karma.

Here's hoping that you are able to ridicule your loved ones this holiday. Give thanks to those that keep us humble.

2008 Voters Guide

With the 2008 Presidential election really heating up, we've been asked to create a more sophisticated analysis about who should receive the coveted FU endorsement:
If you are able to follow this flowchart from beginning to end, then you will note that there is a high likelihood that the Republican Party nominee will get the FU nod and wink. If the internets are any reflection of reality, this should mean Ron Paul will win the FU vote. As it was written.

UPDATE: Consider that Hillary as president would reflect 28 consecutive years with either a Bush or a Clinton in the White House. We can only hope that Jeb or Neil gets his shit together in time to carry the lineage to Roger or Chelsea.

Forewarning

When I'm a geezer, I shall wear red wool socks,
And sleeveless dirty t-shirts
And a fashionable Rustywhear apron
If I happen to be burning some meat.
I will drink whisky, and brandy old-fashioneds
And tequila, but probably not gin,
And the occasional 116 oz table-tapper
To make up for the sobriety of my sleep.
I will vomit every third day of drinking
For no good reason but alcohol poisoning
And something about pancreatitis
And the poor condition of my liver.
I shall sleep in the flowers of other people’s gardens
Until they poke me with a stick or other sharp object
And ask me to leave promptly and peaceably
The authorities already on their way.
I will search out free tacos and other happy hours
And sing show tunes on the airplane
And play my guitar in public places
Despite the public’s strong preference that I not.
But for now I must wear a nice jacket,
And a relatively clean shirt, and pants,
And set a good example for the children
About how to keep from falling down.
But then again, after they’re sleeping,
Or when I get away for a Rusty,
Shall I not sample the appetizer
Of my geezer days to come.

Ron Paul Support Increasing Among Sexually Normal

If only there was a way to make an otherwise insignificant boob into an instantly recognizeable celebrity about whom the public can't inquire enough. I've got it. Ron Paul should make a steamy "home-made" sex tape, leak it out, and then try to stop everybody from watching it.

This tried and true technique worked for no less celebrities than Pamela Anderson, Paris Hilton, Kim Kardashian, and Screech.

I'm not sure whether any previous Presidential candidates have done this, though I believe that Millard Fillmore once infamously sent a rather ribald telegraph transmission to the "wrong" operator. You could get away with that sort of thing if you belonged to the "Know-Nothing Party."

Anyway, back to Ron Paul's enormous support, why not wield it to his advantage? After all, if the public can't determine whom it should adore based upon pornographic home-made videos, then this just isn't the America that I've grown to love.