http://socialitelife.com/photos/30-photos-of-children-terrified-of-santa/santa-kids-12082010-28

Old Saint Carp Is In Da House

Twas the night before Munitions Day
N' all through ma crib
All ma peeps wuz down sleepin'
I was bonin' Adam's rib

Yah, ma peeps wuz down dreamin'
Bout the sh!t they be eatin'
But the Missuz and I wuz
A havin' a board meetin'

When down in da hole
They arose such a noize
I said, "Damn racket packet,
Dat must be ma boyzzzz."

So I pulled up ma trousers
Ta go check on ma homies
N' I cocked up ma uzi
Just in case of the gnomies

When what to my bloodshotted
Eyes should I see
But a big colored fish
N' he was looking at me.

He was giant N' ugly
N' smelled somethin' terrible
N' he laffed when he saw me
N' his breaf was unbearable

Had to choke back da vomit
Creepin' up in ma troat
When he suddenly gave birth
To a large candied goat

The goat was encased
In a gelatin sack
And it squirmed and it jiggled
Like ma neighbor on crack.

Then the fish layed some sacks
Of munitions and bombs,
Gelatiny dynamite
N' bags of napalm.

Well, I'd had me enough
Soon my uzi was purrin'
But da carp, he just laffed
N' pissed gasoline urine.

Then out of the cellar
Like giant earth worms
Came a slimy skateboard
Pulled by mini-pachyderms

The carp he called out
To that elephant show
"Get your assess in gear,
Cuz' dis place gonna blow."

Dem' elephants started burrowin',
he called them by name:
"On Stumpy, On Gimpy,
On Limpy and Lame;

Now Burny and Other Limpy
Now Crippled and Smelly;
On Crawler, On Mauler,
On Napalmy Gelly."

The carp stopped and dropped
One more bomb, and he laffed
Then he flushed his whole team
Down the dark, dirty shaft."

And I heard him exclaim,
As they sloshed down the pit,
"Get the Hell out of here
Before it all blows to sh!t."

In One Ear

Don't you kids make me pull this car over...

Moments before the rubberband snapped!

The World Seems to be Catching On

Look what I found--ON THE INTERNET!!! Seems like someone really likes our music, or religion, or is making a play at a hostile takeover. To Arms, Clowns! To Arms!

Did You Say Hipster Bar or Hamster Bar?

You may recall that, during the build-up to the most recent Rusty Sessions held last summer in Phlipadelphia, my good friend and apostle Coco requested, some would say demanded, that we include in our itinerary a "hipster" bar. At the time, I did not give his suggestion much thought, as is my wont. I didn't know what the term "hipster" meant, but I knew that I'd regret putting in the effort to find out.

It reminds one of reading Shakespeare as a high school student. I remember my AP English teacher flipping out one day when nobody had the slightest fucking idea what a particular passage meant. My normal practice in high school was to read the Cliff's Notes as I drove in to school. This made more interesting both exploring the bard and dodging pedestrians. On this particular morning, my old nemesis the broken fuel gauge had delayed my arrival to school. My friend who rode in to school with me and I had to push the car a few blocks to a gas station and then to wait until we saw someone who would lend us a few bucks. I arrived slightly later and less literate than usual.

There was the teacher yelling at the class for failing to understand some segment of As You Like It. I'm not sure what everyone else's excuse was. Most of them had cars with working fuel gauges, so it is hard to guess why they hadn't read their Cliff's notes. Anyway, while the teacher was berating us, I had time to take out the actual book and read the passage he was screaming about. I still had no clue. (One didn't dare bring out the Cliff's notes in class). Supposedly the best author in the English language and I can't even guess at what he is trying to tell me. Why? Because it was obscure, and I didn't give a shit.

If something is obvious, then one doesn't need to give a shit. Kim Kardashian is a skanky whore. I understand that even though I don't care. If one gives a shit, then obscurity only causes mild delay in understanding. If you are interested in a measure of the global economy, check out the Baltic Dry Index. However, in situations with a high degree of non-shit-givedness, even the slightest amount of obscurity causes a complete failure of understanding. This is known as OneEar's Seventh Law of Shetyerass.

In the case of Coco and his longing for a hipster bar - I'd have to figure out what a hipster bar is, then I'd have to figure out why Coco was interested, then I'd have to predict whether I'd give a shit. Given the twice removed obscurity, I quickly concluded that it would be extremely unlikely that I would give enough of a counterbalancing shit. I think this may mean that I am a hipster.

Four-Legged Fool's Eve's Eve

There are serious concerns that this year's Rusty will be cut short mid-stroke

Leave it to Doomsday to ruin everything. I guess we can have a five-month party afterward, though.

Are YOU ready to Rusty?

Anticipation

Anticipation

Anticipation

By Popular Demand, Happy St. Patrick's Day

As I've been telling you all for years

http://www.theonion.com/articles/anthropologists-trace-human-origins-back-to-one-la,19191/

This Little Piggy

I've been trying to figure out how to capitalize on the fact that our fiscal irresponsibility is driving us directly and inevitably into bankruptcy. There must be a way to cash in on this, but, short of turning Chinese, I can't figure out what it is.

Munitions may be a wise investment. There is a decent chance that we'll need to shoot our way out of this mess.

However, because we have a "democracy," and because our enterprises are publicly owned, those that hold our debt also hold a decent amount of our equity and also own a decent number of our representatives.

So, what is the proper bet?

I've decided to look for the solution in the only logical place: I'm having my toes read.
http://www.letsasklinda.com/Toe-Reading.html

Sleeves Are For Pussies

I decided to break out the Rusty Sleeveless Tee today.

Trust me, nothing garners respect and admiration quite like a Rusty Sessions sleeveless T, (supplies limited). Wear it when the temperature is below 0 degrees, and your nipples will be good and hard, as will the nipples on your goose-bumps.

I strut into Walmart like I just won the scratch off. The ladies eye me like hungry goats eyeing some sort of goat feed container filled with goat food.

"Confident, proud, sleeveless," I imagine the checkout girls saying to each other as I stride into the store.

As I approach, they see the portrait of a one-eared sheep on my chest. Obviously a principled man, certainly great, but humble. As I pass, they catch the first glimpse of the rooster on the back. "The Cock."

"Where has he gone?" all of the checkout girls wonder anxiously as I disappear into the labyrinth of clothing aisles.

When I reappear with a pair of sweat pants obtained from the clearance rack, and I approach the checkout area, there is a swoon so distinct as to be audible.

"Did you find everything you need," asks the girl lucky enough to check me out.

"I did now," I say with a wink.

She blushes and shyly places the change into the palm of my hand. I smile and slowly turn. She strikes a coy pose and watches longingly as the Cock gently splits the sliding glass doors and thrusts into the bright afternoon sunlight to disappear.

That is one good fucking shirt.

What Do You Propose?

#1 - Legalize it.
#2 - End the Fed. This cancer has turned malignant.
#3 - Downsize defense. Every foreign crisis which causes US investor loss does not implicate the "common defense."
#3 - Outlaw public unions. They are oxymoronic.
#4 -Flat tax (or possibly Fair tax).
#5 -Make Dept of Ed simply a funding mechanism that enforces simple workable criteria - eg. Year around school, 8 hour school day including rec/sports and extracurriculars, 80% graduation rate = $5k/student.
#6 - Phase out all Ag subsidies. If you want to support corn growers, buy corn.
#7 - Reform Medicare. Vouchers used in conjunction with co-pay can encourage competition and remove central planning and wasteful fraud-ridden bureaucracy. Ditto with Medicaid.
#8 - Permit private gambling enterprises. Why has this revenue been diverted offshores and to tribes?
#9 - Remove federal business subsidies and/or simply abolish the Department of Commerce. This political pork breeds corruption and stymies legitimate business.
#10 - Modify the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. More of each.

Say Again

A question has been posed hypothetically many times to explore compassion, and charitability: "If your Uncle Jack was cleaning the gutters and his ladder fell down leaving him stranded on the roof, would you help your Uncle Jack off?"

In today's "Bible school without all of the mess" lesson, I would like to explore a different topic. We just completed another bout of Christmas where an entire society celebrates, with straight faces, the "virgin birth."

You see this young lass named Mary was pregnant, but she and her main man Joseph were said to be "not fuckingeth." The only logical explanation was that Mary's baby was the son of God. An invisible angel confirmed this.

Yes, history's first recorded "Holy Fuck" would explain the situation. There being no other contenders, we had a winner. But wait. Aren't there other explanations for the unexpected pregnancy of an unwed woman 2000 years ago?

Perhaps she was visited by an alien species using some type of cloaking device. He could have entered her tent while she was sleeping for a little "Uncle Ear's special hug." I'm kidding. Jesus Christ don't get so concerned.

He could have impersonated an angel when she awoke. "If you get pregnant, don't bother trying to find me. Your baby-daddy is an omnipotent, omniscient, but cranky God who created the entire vast universe but needed your uterus for this little project."

Or, maybe Mary was a fully-functional hermaphrodite. The text is conspicuously silent on this subject. I'm sure this relevation would cause concern to those who worship Mother Mary but would likewise turn on its head the import of the phrase, "Go fuck yourself!"

Or, perhaps Mary was actually twins, one of whom engaged in sexual intercourse just like the rest of us mammals. The mammalian Terry might have gotten stuck living the life of Mary when she pretended to be Mary while Mary went to see a concert. Hilarity ensued when Mary, pretending to be Terry, was called up on stage and had to pretend that she was the one who was not a virgin. You know, Madonna.

Good times. So, I hope you've learned something while I've gotten this off of my mind. You know, you really have helped your old Uncle jack off.

Where Is My Calendar?

Like many people, I have gotten older over the past few years. It seems as though my age increases with each passing day.

And with age comes wisdom. And with wisdom comes wisdom teeth. And with teeth come chickens.

Which brings us to the response to a reader inquiry: "Please apply your incompatible wisdom, unparallel knowledge, and unique incisors to elucidate how one might expand the concept of a turducken ." (Or words to that effect).

If I am not mistaken, and how not mistaken could I be, it is now 2011. Yet here we are eating the same old turducken as we were eating 20 years ago. As everyone knows, the turducken is a de-boned chicken stuffed inside of a de-boned duck stuffed inside of a de-boned turkey. We have all considered stuffing that thing inside of a de-boned hog stuffed inside of a de-boned cow. So 20th century.

Let's get postmillenial. Why don't we resurrect some of the larger extinct species to continue this out to a bigger and therefore better conclusion. Recreating a mastodon should be no problem. I seem to recall, although I don't feel like spending 45 seconds on Google to confirm, that a frozen mastodon complete with viable DNA was found in the ice somewhere (probably somewhere cold).

OK, so grow one of those in a buffalo mama or whatever, and we will stuff the beef, pork, turkey, duck chicken thing into a de-boned mastodon. Now let's get creative. If them damn scientists can stop dicking around with chicken's teeth and watching us masturbate long enough to get some work done, they should be able to reverse engineer some other species like the T-Rex and the Apatosauraus.

What I am proposing, my culinary colleagues, is nothing short of the Apatyranomastobeebacoturducken (drizzled with reduction of dodo).

I WIll Take The Drumstick

Dinosaur Rebirth
Can scientists turn a chicken into a dinosaur?

...
In other words, it is as if birds still have the molecular capability to grow teeth, but just aren't doing so anymore. Even though it hadn't been switched on in 150 million years, Chuong wanted to identify and reconnect that molecular pathway in order to re-active teeth-building processes.
By studying the genes, molecules and chemicals responsible for the growth of mouth and teeth structures in other organisms, Chuong was able to stir together a mix of molecules that might trigger the "dormant" circuitry into action. He then placed tiny beads of this concoction in the mouths of the chicken embryos. It worked. Through the microscope, he and his colleagues watched the embryos growing, as if the chickens had, all along, the genetic instructions to grow the beak. They may have had the ancient circuits to do so, but they needed just the right ingredients to be properly switched on.

Can your damn science do something worthwhile or not?
I don't want chickens with teeth, I want broiled T-Rex drizzled with reduction of Dodo. Or maybe extend the turducken concept out a few levels. Remember the big rack of ribs foretold by the Flintstones. You know, something useful.

If I didn't want to eat previously extinct animals, then I would have lived in the not-too-distant past.

Wiser Than Randall G. Leighton

I received an email with the following quotation at the end:

Work like you don't need the money, love like you've never been hurt, dance like no one is watching, sing like no one is listening, and live like it's heaven on Earth.

It was attributed to "anon." A quick search reveals that this quote has been attributed to Randall G. Leighton, Mark Twain and Satchel Paige (three of America's greatest Presidents).

Regardless of the identity of the wisdomer who imparted this wisdom, there are a few obvious omissions:

Dress like you don't have a mirror
Watch like the TV is interesting
Write like anyone gives a shit
Drive like you won't see tomorrow
Stalk like the restraining order has been lifted
Screw like your friends are all watching
Speak like no one understands you, and
Spend like no one is hungry

Another Year, Another Dollah

Here are my year end thoughts, in heretical order:

1) Why are there no simquaolas? Nobody has the initiative to invent them?
2) Have you ever noticed how perfectly the Christmas carol can be performed:
Fu uh uh uh uh
Uh Uh Uh
Kit.
3) Have you ever noticed that the guy who prefaces his question with "have you ever noticed that" doesn't really and truthfully want your answer?
4) Have you ever noticed that this is turning into a Seinfeld rant? Not that I'm in needed of gassing.
5) Have you ever noticed that we can never really escape the sins of our forefathers?
6) I suggest that we smelt the clouds (in order to extract and condense their silver).
7) My nieces are visiting, and I have now listened to the Justin Beaver album 4,648 times. Here is how his song(s) goes:
"Girl
I'm gonna tell ya one timeI'm gonna tell ya one timeI'm gonna tell ya one timeI'm gonna tell ya one timeI'm gonna tell ya one timeI'm gonna tell ya one timeI'm gonna tell ya one timeI'm gonna tell ya one timeI'm gonna tell ya one timeI'm gonna tell ya one timeI'm gonna tell ya one timeI'm gonna tell ya one timeI'm gonna tell ya one time
(Parenthetically, I think we should expend more resources on teaching mathematics including basic counting).
I'm gonna tell ya one time, You're the only one (although my counting skills are suspect) and I only want to be with the one ("one" in the scientific notation sense meaning that you are one of 10 or fewer, or lets just round to the nearest one hundred), and I say this to you baby, one more time, I'm gonna tell ya one time..."

Rupture Alert!!!

Heed this counsel. Prepare thineselves; for the brambles and the thickets are brambly and thickety. Doest whatsoever thou wouldst to doest whatsoever it is that thou doest, but doest it in a big hurry.

These signs thrice witnessed shall announce his coming:

First, the chosen One shall announce his coming.
Check. (See above).

Second, the internal combustion engine shall be further improved, from an air quality perspective anyway, by the addition of a catalytic converter mechanism in the exhaust system.
Check. (See 1974 or thereabouts).

Third, a commercially lucrative rock opera shall announce the final triumph of money over art. (See Rusty Sessions information below. Call now for tickets).

Hey, How Is It Going, California?

The State of California is bankrupt (and muddy) as is the State of Illinois.

Why do I get the sneaking suspicion that the solution to this problem will be to extract the money to pay for fiscal recklessness from the citizens of the more responsible States? (Granted, there are very few States that are truly fiscally sound). Sort of like taking money from responsible citizens to cover the downside risk of "too big to fail" financial firms.

I have been warning you for some time that we should expect my son's generation to proclaim a hearty "Fuck you" when asked to pay for the money we've borrowed. I'm considering delivering the same message myself. Is California too big to fail? How about this time we find out.

Quantitative Happy Ending

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Scientists and Possibly Aliens Are Watching You

A cloak of invisibility is now a technical possibility. See http://iopscience.iop.org/2040-8986/13/2/024003 in which them damn scientists "introduce a new type of electromagnetic cloak, the spacetime cloak (STC), which conceals events rather than objects."

There are two obvious and important ramifications of this technological development. First, those scientists now can sneak up on you to watch you masturbate. You're at a computer - let's say you're sitting in your office when you decide to "get to work." Or, you're at the coffee shop and you decide to "froth your grande latte with cream."Or, you're at the public library and you want to "Dewey your decimal." Or you are at school and want to "tutor the pupil," or at church to "club the bishop." You get the idea.

Anyway, you look around, and it appears that the coast is clear. You are free to "choke the chicken," or so you think. With this invisibility cloak, those scientists could be standing right behind you watching you "burp the worm."

Second, and even worse, extraterrestrial aliens hidden by invisibility cloaks might also be watching you "topping the banana with yogurt." It is bad enough to have some egg-head watching you "liberate the tadpoles," but now you have some green species watching you "jerkin the gherkin." It is just plain embarrassing.

Why can't they figure out a way to use these devices for good and just leave us alone?

Coco's Camera Not Found

http://www.physorg.com/news/2010-11-laser-based-camera-corners.html

Those nerds at MIT have finally discovered a way for my camera to shoot decent pictures around my finger.

He Is Re-Re-Arisen

Regarding your insistence that I comment on the TSA's full body screening controversy, I acquiesce. My comments are these:


I truly and wholeheartedly believe that citizens periodically should be subjected to a full-body pat down. Cavity searches would be even better. And, if the citizen wants a so-called "Happy Ending," that should not cost extra. I wouldn't even mind showing up an hour before my flight if that service were included.


But, let's be civilized about this. The passenger should get to choose his feeler-upper from a line-up of employees just like at any decent whore-house.

Some airports have a Hooters in them. Couldn't these functions be combined?


Also, I think passengers telephone numbers should be included in the image. I realize that the images are supposed to be destroyed immediately, but, in the event that they do make it onto the internet, why shouldn't we be able to call the person?

one note has his solo

Alceste?

Bunch a Mexicans

IT'S RUSTY-EVE!! YEEE-HAW!!

Like the hymn of Paul Revere, all Clowns will gather in Boston. Rusty!

well?

can you spot your hero and mine?

rusty, rusty

four-legged fool

you bathe yourself

in a pool-full

of drool

rusty, rusty

he's our man

if he can't do it

nobody can

Kenny Bloom

with his head in the womb

he beats it with a broom

as he's dancing on his tomb for

RUSTY

RUSTY

Sydney, Sydney

where are you?

We got somethin'

we'd like you to do for

RUSTY

RUSTY

Bean-pole Mike,

well, he's no dike

he knows how to play

what we like for

RUSTY

RUSTY

Jim Graham

with a sandwich

made of Spam

He knows just how to lay

that jam for

RUSTY

RUSTY

Colin Clark

He taught Mark to park

But he doesn't light a Spark

when he's smokin' in the dark

with

RUSTY

RUSTY

Less Interesting than Smut'n'Eggs

No matter what you think about healthcare, this is disturbing.

Remember This Place

Bennett's Smut and Eggs

Plan Rojo

So, the Canadians want to play rough. Well, if you're going to run with the big dogs, they may sniff your ass. The US has a plan for the invasion of Canada dating back to the 1930's. America’s Secret Plan to Invade Canada
The plan "includes special notice ... about the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and how they were not a force to be taken lightly in a military action."



Pardon my arrogance, but I think the US military can handle a few guys on horses. Dragoons were formidable in, say, the eighteenth century. But since the advent of what are called in military parlance "big guns," soldiers are much less afraid of dandies prancing around on horses.

That is not to say that the Canadians do not pose a threat. They too have a plan.

"The department in Canada responsible for war planning had an annual budget of just $1,200. During the clandestine information-gathering for Defense Scheme Number One, staff members of the department actually entered the United States to take photographs and to procure free maps at gas stations."

Oh - my - God! They've been procuring our free maps! Will they stop at nothing?

That's Not Fair

Speaking of pregnant ladies, look how the Canadians are cheating this time:





One of their curlers is actually two of their curlers.

This is just the latest in Canada's $8-million Own the Podium project which was "hush-hush" until a month ago.


Apparently, those wily Canadians have been using laser guidance, an extra-special composite material, and other space age technologies in their effort to capture medals at the Olympics. Now, they're even using procreation.

"A speed skating sling-shot, curling sweeping technology, and a para-alpine sit-ski with extra stability are among the other developments that emerged from the Top Secret plan."




This doesn't sound very Canadian to me. This is the kind of cheating one might expect from the Al-Qaida olympic team, but I never thought we'd have to worry about this from the hosers.

Color Me Mysterious

So I’ve never quite understood this custom of buying drinks for women in bars. I mean where is the challenge in that? Plus it seems to add additional pressure to a situation that is already charged with too much pressure to begin with. Buy your own drink, Sugar; all I have to offer is interesting conversation – and lots of it.

But anyway, the other night I found myself alone seated at the bar of a fairly nice restaurant in the heart of suburbia ordering a plate of fish to act as a late dinner top-off to an afternoon of drinking with friends. I like this alone time. I bring the newspaper. I do the crossword. If the bartender happens to be a bartendress all the much better. On this particular evening, the bartendress (let’s call her Mindy mostly because I haven’t a clue what her real name is) and I were getting along quite well (and by quite well I mean Mindy talked to me about things other than the menu, she called me sweetheart, and while she was serving me my basket of bread, she brushed up against me lightly); the camaraderie between Mindy and me was fueled by the fact that Mindy was pregnant -- but only slightly pregnant. This immediately took the pressure off, and I felt like I could ask her anything. I discussed with her an article in the food section of the newspaper that claimed that in times of stress people turned to cheese for comfort. Mindy disagreed and said chocolate was her choice. Mindy and I laughed at this.

But Mindy and I were not alone. Seated five empty barstools down from me were two attractive cougars (let’s call them Laura and Meg) enjoying a glass of wine and chatting amicably between themselves – as is the custom with attractive cougars. “Oh, what to do?” I thought. I had finished my fish, I had drunk my last martini, I had solved the remaining clues of the crossword puzzle. “Mindy,” I said, “I need to go, but I want to buy those two ladies at the end of the bar a drink, and then I am going to get up and leave. Do you think that would be ‘dorky’ or ‘mysterious’?” Mindy replied with a tone that made me think she wasn’t being truthful. “Mysterious,” she said. Naturally I agreed, and so as Mindy refilled the wine glasses of Laura and Meg, I retreated into the dark night, a genuine man of mystery muttering to my myself, “Phew, I escaped from there just in time. Imagine the pressure.”

Welcum to FU

Now that they've counselled the gay right out of Ted Haggard, perhaps we should invite him to the First Unichurck.

Which Clown does this remind you of?

Close One

This was published December, 2008. Whew.

Benefits of Red Wine

Not only is red wine "heart healthy" but I have discovered that if you have a glass (extra large) right before bed, good things happen to you while you sleep. Last night, sometime between 2 a.m. and 3 a.m., I was appointed as the new United States Secretary of the Treasury. This morning I am a little nervous about my senate confirmation, but I am sure everything will work out. Expect big changes soon.

Other than that, plenty is happening with me. Expect future posts soon.

I have been meditating on the following Einstein quote for the last several months. Shall you meditate with me?

For the most part we humans live with the false impression of security and a feeling of being at home in a seemingly trustworthy physical and human environment. But when the expected course of everyday life is interrupted, we are like shipwrecked people on a miserable plank in the open sea, having forgotten where they came from and not knowing whither they are drifting. But once we fully accept this, life becomes easier and there is no longer any disappointment.

Right back atcha...

don't like government bailouts? How about healthcare? How'd you like that bumbling idiot lady and the dumber lady giving her whispered advice that she did not appear to be taking to be making all of your personal life or death decisions? I think that lady does an excellent job illustrating the efficiency and efficacy we can expect from our federal government when it comes to managing our citizens' healthcare. Thanks God for Harry Reid.

I know this is Wrong. But I...can't..stop...looking...

I recently returned from the Johnson Space Center in Houston, Texas, where I did some work with NASA. The picture is my view from the pilot's seat in the Space Shuttle. Those are my feet, though I am wearing shoes and pants different from what the astronauts typically wear on missions. It was a very cool experience.

While looking on the Internet, I came across this, and though I pick up on a lot of irrational negativity, I was actually able to get to the end of the article, I have to admit. I would use the train-wreck analogy to explain my inability to look away, but I'm not sure it's totally apt. I giggled guiltily once or twice, covering my mouth.

Am I the only one worried about this?

Another BIG SUCCESS for BIG GOVERNMENT!!

We definitely need to expand government in this country. For our own good, and the good of our kids. Don't worry; Uncle Sammy Stalin will take care of you. If you're good, he'll take care of your health care needs just as well.

What do I think about Healthcare, you mightn't ask?

OPINION
SEPTEMBER 3, 2009, 10:55 P.M. ET

A Doctor's Plan for Legal Industry Reform
My modest proposal to rearrange how lawyers do business.

By RICHARD B. RAFAL
Since we are moving toward socialism with ObamaCare, the time has come to do the same with other professions—especially lawyers. Physician committees can decide whether lawyers are necessary in any given situation.

At a town-hall meeting in Portsmouth, N.H., last month, our uninformed lawyer in chief suggested that we physicians would rather chop off a foot than manage diabetes since we would make more money doing surgery. Then President Obama compounded his attack by claiming a doctor's reimbursement is between "$30,000" and "$50,000" for such amputations! (Actually, such surgery costs only about $1,500.)

Physicians have never been so insulted. Because of these affronts, I will gladly volunteer for the important duty of controlling and regulating lawyers. Since most of what lawyers do is repetitive boilerplate or pushing paper, physicians would have no problem dictating what is appropriate for attorneys. We physicians know much more about legal practice than lawyers do about medicine.

Following are highlights of a proposed bill authorizing the dismantling of the current framework of law practice and instituting socialized legal care:

• Contingency fees will be discouraged, and eventually outlawed, over a five-year period. This will put legal rewards back into the pockets of the deserving—the public and the aggrieved parties. Slick lawyers taking their "cut" smacks of a bookie operation. Attorneys will be permitted to keep up to 3% in contingency cases, the remainder going into a pool for poor people.

• Legal "DRGs." Each potential legal situation will be assigned a relative value, and charges limited to this amount. Program participation and acceptance of this amount is mandatory, regardless of the number of hours spent on the matter. Government schedules of flat fees for each service, analogous to medicine's Diagnosis Related Groups (DRGs), will be issued. For example, any divorce will have a set fee of, say, $1,000, regardless of its simplicity or complexity. This will eliminate shady hourly billing. Niggling fees such as $2 per page photocopied or faxed would disappear. Who else nickels-and-dimes you while at the same time charging hundreds of dollars per hour? I'm surprised lawyers don't tack shipping and handling onto their bills.

• Legal "death panels." Over 75? You will not be entitled to legal care for any matter. Why waste money on those who are only going to die soon? We can decrease utilization, save money and unclog the courts simultaneously. Grandma, you're on your own.

• Ration legal care. One may need to wait months to consult an attorney. Despite a perceived legal need, physician review panels or government bureaucrats may deem advice unnecessary. Possibly one may not get representation before court dates or deadlines. But that' s tough: What do you want for "free"?

• Physician controlled legal review. This is potentially the most exciting reform, with doctors leading committees for determining the necessity of all legal procedures and the fairness of attorney fees. What a wonderful way for doctors to get even with the sharks attempting to eviscerate the practice of medicine.

• Discourage/eliminate specialization. Legal specialists with extra training and experience charge more money, contributing to increased costs of legal care, making it unaffordable for many. This reform will guarantee a selection of mediocre, unmotivated attorneys but should help slow rising legal costs. Big shot under indictment? Classified National Archives documents down your pants? Sitting president defending against impeachment? Have FBI agents found $90,000 in your freezer? Too bad. Under reform you too may have to go to the government legal shop for advice.

• Electronic legal records. We should enter the digital age and computerize and centralize legal records nationwide. All files must be in a standard, preferably inconvenient, format and must be available to government agencies. A single database of judgments, court records, client files, etc. will decrease legal expenses. Anyone with Internet access will be able to search the database, eliminating unjustifiable fees charged by law firms for supposedly proprietary information, while fostering transparency. It will enable consumers to dump their clunker attorneys and transfer records easily.

• Ban legal advertisements. Catchy phone numbers such as 1-800-LAWYERS would be seized by the government and repurposed for reporting unscrupulous attorneys.

• New government oversight. Government overhead to manage the legal system will include a cabinet secretary, commissioners, ombudsmen, auditors, assistants, czars and departments.

• Collect data about the supply of and demand for attorneys.Create a commission to study the diversity and geographic distribution of attorneys, with power to stipulate and enforce corrective actions to right imbalances. The more bureaucracy the better. One can never have too many eyes watching these sleazy sneaks.

• Lawyer Reduction Act (H.R. -3200). A self-explanatory bill that not only decreases the number of law students, but also arbitrarily removes 3,200 attorneys from practice each year. Textbook addition by subtraction.

Enthusiastically embracing the above legal changes can serve as a "teachable moment" and will go a long way toward giving the lawyers who run Congress a taste of their own medicine.
Dr. Rafal is a radiologist in New York City.

One Note Solo Babysits

Goat-man Goes to the Game. In a Red Hat.

Cocoa Missing? No. He has been found. And his Binders.

Financial Bailout? well, at least we did "something".

To Whom it May Concern:

Earlier this evening, I canceled my credit card account with Chase secondary to outrageous disregard for customer satisfaction. When I contacted your customer service department, both the representative I spoke with, Richard Blazer, and his manager, paid no attention at all to my concerns of basic unprovoked abuse on the part of Chase (no wonder our country is in such miserable shape when the entire banking industry, with Chase out in front, is a conglomeration of professional thieves and liars who suck the life-blood out of the very hands that feed them--customers). Each of them was happy to cancel an account that I have had for years, though initially through Washington Mutual, rather than answer why my credit line was arbitrarily reduced--which hurts my overall credit score--despite the fact that I have never missed a payment or paid late, AND I actually have a credit balance of $464 THAT CHASE OWES ME. This sort of conduct will soon be illegal, as you know, because it is outrageously unethical. I guess you have so much of my fucking tax-dollar bailout money that you don't need my business anymore.

You disgust me. I have written to my Congressman about this incident, and I have reported Chase to the Better Business Bureau. You probably don't care, again, because you have so much of my tax money that you probably couldn't care less about your customers. I thought financial times were tight--but I guess not for Chase; you have money to burn. Thanks to people like me. You are welcome.

I am really not sure how the people working at your company are able to sleep at night, knowing what the company policies are. Just think: On your deathbed, after a career at a company like Chase, what will you have left behind? Teachers, doctors, judges change other lives for the better--whereas you will have nothing to show for your life's work but an accumulated bunch of fellow human beings who are absolutely irate and disgusted by you and your company.

Bravo. Way to steal, and get away with it legally. You must all be so proud of your work. I'm sure your parents are proud of you, and all the good you have brought in to the world, too.

Sincerely,

Half Goat-man, Half PMSing Little Bitch, Half Jack-ass, Half big, fat, time-waster. Half total dumb-ass for thinking anyone actually cares.

Raaaaar

Bunderwear Discovered in Underwear

Finally, The Sessions 2009: The Chosen One in Sin City

L.A. Hates Bryans Adam

2009 City of Angels: Round 2

Rusty Sessions 2009: The City of Angels, Let the Games Begin

Forgot One...

Bar Up Above Update

We obtained our alcohol licenses last night, so the bar is a go. The bar Up Above will open for business in the very near future - probably this afternoon. We must open a few times before the end of June in order to preserve the legal nonconforming status of the building and the business.

The building is located entirely within the highway setback, it is zoned wrong for a bar, it is falling down, and it is a dump. I call this the "quadruple negative." As everyone knows, a double negative is a positive, so I figure that a quadruple negative cannot fail.

However, to be safe, I'm going into business with a 23 year old kid who has no business experience. I figure he hasn't been corrupted by corporate culture. Plus, he is a giant.

Coco, can you develop a logo for us?

Yes, Happy Mother's Day

Alceste, I hope you are enjoying this lovely holiday as much as I am, and do, every year. I have a full-blown double-whammy to celebrate. Hallmark, words cannot adequately express my gratitude. Don't you have some sort of greeting card to help me express my feelings?

Wait a minute, if you please

Stop posting that I ruin bars. The record will show, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it is, in fact, BARS that ruin ME.

The Bar That DBok Ruined - Update

As I mentioned, I am in the process of buying the Yellow House bar (the one that DokBok smart-assed right out of business). We will decide whether to pull the trigger in the next few days. Jack the Giant will run the place and I will supervise.

So, I've been checking out Craigslist for some of the items we would need including:

Bar Stool Go Cart, Honda Power, Very Fast - $1100

How many times have you said to yourself, "I wish this bar stool would do 90 mph."

Me too.

Alternatively, we could try this:

It's only a two and a half hour van ride south...


Reservoir Dogs, anyone?

Here's what we're doing for the next Rusty...

Bring your bathing suits, BB guns and bad attitudes, boys. Loud, awful music won't hurt, either.

This should keep us all busy.

I dreamed a dream of Rusty

All the major players were there. Except Litzi, since my dream-generator has only written files on her. OneEar was intoxicated and physically mischievous to the other patrons of the large, fancy hotel/spa/convention center where I was doing something work-related and the clowns had showed up for a simultaneous Session. Alceste had somehow managed to become covered in mud, and was grouchily looking for a quiet back room in which to sleep. He shoved some fax machines and desktop computers aside and settled in like a grizzly in his cave preparing to sleep through the winter, getting mud everywhere on the nice furniture. He laughed a little, grunted something foul, and shut his eyes behind his unremoved glasses.

OnO was talking with the hotel manager, trying to avoid some sort of punishment, or at least inquiring as to what sort of punishment could be expected if there were, say, a bunch of clowns running around drunk, having permanently stained the spa and its towel-clad patrons. He was also putting himself in the position to question the amount of the bill, with no intention to actually barter, only to agree completely with whatever the manager said.

Cocoa was ridiculing us, unimpressed with anything. He evidently did not approve of the circumstance and was letting all of us, and hords of otherwise innocent bystanders (no one is really innocent, he thinks, but that is another point altogether) know. He was sober and seemed sulky. More so than usual.

Then, the dream came to conclusion with me encountering my high-school girlfriend at the hospital-business part of the convention. She was working for industry, and like the majority of the convention paid participants, was wearing maroon hospital scrubs. As the convention was coming to an end and people (not the clowns, of course) were disbanding and checking out of the hotel (it was a very big hotel, and nice, and the clowns weren't going anywhere until forced), I accompanied her down some big, marble stairs that led down to the parking lot outside in the snowbanks. She was chatting with some passing colleagues as we descended; right before we started down the stairs, at the top where there was a nice overlook to the snow-covered scenery around us, I encountered an old teammate from my wrestling team in college. He seemed successful with nice clothes and a fancy haircut, being a bit stand-offish to people trying to catch up with him and engage him in small-talk. We saw each other and gave an uncomfortable man-hug--you know, more than a handshake because much time had passed since we had seen each other, and we were comrades once. Back to the near-bottom of the staircase: suddenly, my former girlfriend clacked her teeth together as she was laughing with her colleague, and her front teeth broke in half in the middle. As her broken tooth shards fell from her mouth, I instinctively tried to follow the broken chicklet onto its resting place on the stairs, as I felt a repair would then be possible.

It was all pure instinct; I've had no formal training in dental triage or disaster management. Just sort of a 'oop--there it goes, oh and it's tumbling, bouncing over that way and under the edge of the carpet' that goes through the mind of a housecat as it watches a red dot from a laser pointer wiggle over the floor, confusing the mental apparatus that had evolved over millions of years to successfully inhale its prey.

My more recent girlfriend had figured prominently earlier in the dream, as I was trying as hard as possible to protect her from the wiley and predictable ways of the monkey platoon. When Alceste began forming his muddy nest, she was delighted that there seemed to be permission to act as a homeless person, and she, too, found a spot on the floor to bed down, fully clothed with a backpack.

Getting back to the tumbling tooth, as I watched it in motion, trying to make a mental note of its final resting place, I was watching the face and form of my former companion--her face turned white, and then blue as her knees buckled and she fainted, falling flat on her back on the stairs, presumedly from the pain of a fractured tooth and the psychological distress of a front tooth wrecking her appearance. It's cute when you're six, but even hockey players can't fashionably support a toothless grin.

As you can imagine, my attention was split between the final locus of the tooth, and the dropping body in front of me. Years of formal medical training finally allowed my squirrel-in-the-street-with-an-oncoming-car brain to look after the patient and place the patient's wild tooth on a lower level of priority. I propped her knees up, and the color began to return to her face, and some people came to either help or accuse me of some form of wrong-doing. They asked me what to do, but then I returned instantly back to the search for the tooth in the immediate area, lest it sprout legs and run away, never to be seeen again. I muttered something like, 'call an ambulance; I think she's ok' or something to that effect, and then found, to my surprise, the remnants of several of her teeth lying on the dirty stairwell. I collected them all, looked back to ensure she continued to live, and got out my cellphone to do what the others had not.

And I awoke.

What does this tell us about the whereabouts of the next recording session?

Nacho Toof

On a walk back in the park, my son discovered the jawbone from a deer. The rest of the skeleton was (thankfully) not around, so I assume that a coyote had carried the jaw to its resting place, but who knows? OneJr picked up the jawbone and carried it around for the remainder of the day.

Yesterday, he asked me for the pliers. "Why do you need pliers?" I inquired, having forgotten about the deer jaw.

"I just need them," he replied. We eyed each other, and he realized that I was not going to give him pliers without having the opportunity to supervise his activity.

"I need them to pull a tooth," he finally revealed. That doesn't sound good, I thought. Where is his sister? Then, I remembered the deer jaw.

"Do you mean a deer tooth?" I asked. He nodded. I gave him the pliers.

Each night, when Mrs.Ear goes to kiss him goodnight, OneJr. asks her to lie down with him for a few minutes. Not last night. "Not tonight Mom," he said.

She came into our bedroom and described what had occurred. Piecing together the puzzle, we both realized the scheme. It was the tooth.

Sure enough, after he was sleeping, we checked and discovered the deer tooth under his pillow. He was trying to defraud the tooth fairy.

The tooth fairy left him a note but no cash. Nice try son.

"Life is a state of mind"

Do you remember the classic existential movie Being There? Peter Sellers plays a simpleton named Chauncy Gardner who fails to recognize any difference between television broadcasts and reality. Recall his dispute with the muggers who mistake him for a mob kingpin due to his lack of fear. Chauncy patiently tries to use his television remote in order to make the robbers go away as though they were just a bad TV show. Recall also the "I like to watch" episode.

Eventually, Chauncy becomes a powerful and famous political and economic advisor with his comments about gardening work. His gardening advice is taken as metaphoric genius about the state of the economy.

Yesterday, I was reading plans to pile more horseshit onto our national situation, and I thought of old Chauncy. Sure, fertilizer is necessary. A little added fertilizer may be fine at times. However, when the problem is too much fertilizer, you don't pile more horseshit on top of the horseshit you just finished dumping. All that will grow is fungus and flies.

I'm sure this garden will recover eventually, but why not clean it up now and start over. It would be better and healthier sooner. Why are we trying to resuscitate plants which have rotten roots and dead flowers? How long could it possibly take the Wall Street geniuses to create a new banking system if the existing banks were liquidated?

Chauncy was dumb, but he was honest and frank, and he could tend a garden.

Snuff Stress

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Rusta-netics is a division of Rusty Enterprises Ltd Co Inc LLC. All rights are reversed.

Introducing

US Gubmint Espending

Homeless Leprechauns

Yesterday, my family and I went for a hike back in the park near our house. Part of the walk involved climbing up a rock outcropping. Many of you will remember it as the place where I threw up at the last Rusty. It is also where Bunderwear lost his sunglasses 10 years ago. Anyway, it is a fairly steep climb up about 200 feet of elevation. To my 5 year old daughter and 7 year old son, it seemed so remote that at first they suspected that few other people had been up there.

However, on the hike up, they noticed signs of life - odd pieces of trash mainly. "Maybe somebody lives up here," hypothesized EarJr.

My son was the first one to reach the top of the rock, and while we were still climbing up, he peered over the edge and shouted to my daughter excitedly, "Someone does live up here! Come look!" We scrambled up and sure enough, under a rock shelf there was some newspaper and signs of a fire.

My daughter carefully surveyed the clues and then pronounced, "Well, it is either leprechauns or homeless people."

"How can you tell," I wondered aloud.

"Homeless people don't have a home, and leprechauns always create mischief," she explained.

Hard to argue with that logic.

We the People, in order to form a more perfect Nation..

The idea of any of this really makes me feel lazy. Is that what he's talking about? I guess I need to buy a gun? Will someone please explain this to me?

Moraler Dilemma; formerly, TRI-lemma

As some of you may be aware, I have recently changed my abode from the slave quarters beneath the coliseum (behind the lion/tiger litter box, and under the elephant piss-pad--leakage was a constant issue), to a more respectable location. Unfortunately, the neighbor across the alley (a young, attractive--though totally insane--fitness buff) never closes the blinds on her cathedral windows, and never wears a stitch of clothing when she's home. Left, and right, bare boobs, baby chute in graphic view, everything. She stands in the window. On the other side of my place, is a young couple who also have no blinds and have sex regularly on their window sill. And she is stacked--no silicon, which is weird here. Behind me, my neighbor bangs his girlfriend (whom I have met several times) all day long--but, thankfully, she just moved to Atlanta. Sounds like paradise for a Quagmirian pervert such as myself? One might think so, but I haven't left my place for days, and work is starting to call me over and over again to wonder where I am. What do you think I should tell them?

The Definitive History of The Rusty Sessions

OK, help me fill in the blanks:

2008 - Mount Vernon, Wisconsin. OneEar turns 40, DocBok closes the Yellow Bar forever. Amps don't work, fire won't light, Bundespanties leaves early.
2007- Baton Rouge/New Orleans
2006 - Lake Zurich, IL - Dogtrack Rusty
2005- Baton Rouge/New Orleans
2004 - Cape Cod
2003 - Baton Rouge/New Orleans
Boston
Nags Head, North Carolina
Williamsburg VA
Different Cabin in Ohio
Cabin in Ohio
Mount Vernon, Wisconsin
....
Washington DC
1992- Chicago, Illinois. The First Rusty Session.
1991 - Chicago, Illinois. The Pre-Rusty Rusty.

Bunder-clarification Wear, or, 'the effects of alcohol on cerebral function over time'

From the commentary:
"He" responds to nothing. I've never seen "his" genitals, and I'm sticking to that story.


Yeah, just like you don't know how the bear poop and torn fur got in that hotel room, either. Sure.

I think I am forced to aid your historians' addled memory, since that seems to be what you are relying upon. You seem to be mixing your metaphors between the First Rusty, and the Second Rusty. It’s called confabulation, and your kind are known for it. The virgin voyage of the Rusty sessions did not contain Alceste, nor any readily identifiable females of the species. Alceste and Colyp still lived in Spain. Cocoa NoGogo was a pining wad of Irish rejection. When you say "late fall" of 1992, it is somewhat an understatement--it was so "late" in fall, that it was actually the beginning of winter, 1991. I was in my first year of medical school, you were in your first year of law school, and Bundy was trying desperately to be like you. And you were trying desperately to be like me, because I had already finished my first set of exams for the semester and had about 2 weeks to kill over the winter break. You, however, had yet to take your exams, and kept winging about wanting to "do well" on them. Bundy had driven down for the weekend to see me in the world's largest natural seaport, since he needed a break from the law school application process, continued defeat with such, and his grueling life as the page/piss boy at Crowlen, Heffeweisen, Mooring, and Rubenstein (“Wait!” he says. “No RUBENSTEIN”, he says. “Not in THAT firm!”). Don’t you recall the famous call he made—the first and last, as you pointed out—on Monday, saying he was sick and wouldn’t be in? He was completely distraught at having pulled a fast one, and we cheered him on, ignoring his career concerns. It was early a.m. due to the one-hour time difference, and I believe we started drinking sangria as soon as he hung up the phone. He moped for hours and through the entire 15-hour drive back home, and has never completed a Rusty session in satisfactory fashion since.

It was a cheery, yet dark time. We were all a bit disenfranchised with little self-esteem due to our ages and positions in life. The winter solstice was upon us, and I cannot remember seeing the sun at any point after departing. I recall no evidence of daylight during any part of the trip, except as we departed sunny Norfolk, VA. It was about 70 degrees without a cloud in the sky there. Bundy and I had been out drinking the night before with some of my school-mates, and were faced the next morning with no plans for activity and a three-day weekend in front of us. We sat staring at each other in my apartment there, and I said, “Let’s go and see Cocoa. Why don’t we just jump in the car and drive to Chicago? I’ll drive my car.” He laughed and said yeah, right, and we were the right age and percent bored, with no plan, to jump in my starship and head for the sky. Did I mention that the environmental controls on the starship Enterprise were faulty? We had no heat driving to one of the coldest place on Earth, the windy city of Chicago. We had on hats and gloves, and our breath was forming an ice sheet on the inside of the windshield as we journeyed ever farther into the cold, dark night toward Chicago. Jeers from the toll-booth operators bounced off our frozen hides, and we responded deceitfully “nope” when they would ask our blue little faces if our heater was broken. “Nope. Why?”
“Because you can’t open your hand to release the quarter.”
“nope.”
We skirted the bottom of the glacial remains we call the Great (or at least Pretty Good) Lakes, too cold to become drowsy, and anticipating arrival at our friend Cocoa’s house. There weren’t really any cell phones or GPS devices then. Though we were flying in a very sophisticated space vehicle, I have no idea how we found his house. I think I used a map, and I think Bundy lost his navigation privileges after sending us in the wrong direction several times. We arrived about midnight or 1 am, to discover YOU had been contacted and were on your way. The sun did not rise in the morning, as far as I can remember, but I do remember the session as totally acoustic, consisting of two acoustic guitars, a harmonica, and the infamous shark’s teeth. A box of wine was our beverage of choice, in honor of Spain, though as is typical of America, this box was many times bigger than the Spanish boxes, and contained wine many times worse than its foreign counterpart. We were in the front room of the NoGogo palace. There was darkness all around us as we played, broken only by street lights shining through the NoGogo residence windows, and speckled red Xmas lights within the residence. We recorded on cassettes with a fourth-grade cassette deck, with our new-found one-eared recording producer/sheep perched on top, and we were very, very raw. Much like U2 before they became fat, rich, and lazy.

That, my senile old friend, was the First Rusty. We were fantastic, and those interesting young men with enthusiasm and spirit have long since died. Just look at Bundy and his yearly Rusty faux pas, if you don’t believe me.

The year that you described, with Sitnay and the minivan and Dina and the brand new NoGogo apartment with the “landlord” and the sisters arriving for the party (reception of some sort?) and BoBonna and the horse hormones and her ‘rag’-inspired headache and the snow and the rented cabin and YOU as a human sled with your spiffy big army jacket on the winterized golf course, that, my senile older-than-Brett-Favre friend, that was the Second Rusty. For the record.