Special Report -- Here's why I should start my own bank:
I appear very trustworthy and can project an image of calm reassurance that I combine with the illusion of giving a rat's ass.
You should see me when I'm wearing a suit jacket and without my body jewelry. Seriously, you won't know whether or not I mean what I say! If the bank venture doesn't work out I can apply my faux social skills to the restaurant or hotel industries.
Special Report -- I awake in the 4:00 AM gloom, unable to breathe. A bearded, brown-eyed Cyclops wearing a feathery plumed hat lies on my chest staring at me. My Indiglo watch's pale luminescence reveals the intruder's identity: cat #27 nuzzling my pajama pants drawstring again.
I am by necessity a cat rancher. Felines are useful for their varmint-hunting prowess, pelts, and milk. A dozen or so can keep you warm when no other heat source is available. Milking them is not an enterprise to be underestimated, but I have small hands so no problem there.
I'm enjoying my time above ground. Most of it, anyway. It's hard to sleep at night -- I have trouble resting because every day ends with a sense of unfinished business. I can't relax. And then those effing cats come around again.
Continue reading "The Sucker Punch of a Brighter Tomorrow" »
Special Report -- I like to drive slowly past houses at night and peer inside the windows. Not in a creepy way -- in fact, I don't even want to see people at all if they're in there. They are a distraction and block my view. You don't need to look at someone to see their life.
Being in motion while peeping is very important. It renders the scene in 3D. Incandescent sunset tones complemented by the bluish amalgamated glow of LCD TVs. Really makes the woodwork pop.
Maybe I've spent too much time underground. I like it well enough -- the sense of enclosure and security, the soothing hiss of a dehumidifier, the lack of drafts. What would you pay for complete protection from the threat of pillaging militias or rampaging mutants? Everything you have, when the time comes.
Special Report -- I'm not religious. As far as I'm concerned, everything turns to dust sooner or later. Redemption should be found in one's own natural lifetime. I think.
It's not like I lack a moral center though. I know right from wrong. Life is not about accumulating poker chips of goodwill and waiting to cash them in on Judgment Day. Spend your winnings now, and wisely.
We live in the Pre-Post-Apocalyptic Era. Is the End of Days coming? Is it happening now? Pick a theory and there is probably evidence to support it -- the same clues often validate coincident yet contrary points of view. No shit.
I diligently monitor world events, looking for indicators that fit together into the delicate puzzle that will reveal Armageddon's time, date, and zip code. My research is not a hobby, unless by "hobby" you mean "freakish obsession." If I painted my analyses onto grains of rice -- now that would be a hobby.
Special Report -- I can almost hear your yipping and growling, but deal with this truth: when I'm mostly right, I'm mostly right.
Lay down your ax handles and let me explain.
What this country needs is a new reality. The old reality was working just fine for some of you, but everybody else was getting hosed.
For Americans, there are certain global expectations that must be met. Obligations, if you will. Talk loud, talk fast, spend more, get a good deal, spend even more, promote democracy. Import foreign TV game shows and export franchised fast food.
That precept has worked out pretty well for the first two hundred years or so, but history assigns a sell-by date to every superpower and there are indications the U.S.A. is about to get moved to the clearance aisle. Manager's special for the beacon of hope.
Special Report --
I'm smitten.
I resisted as long as I could, but have now listened to my heart and loins.
Somehow, some way, some day, Sarah Palin will be mine.
Politics are not my passion. They are a necessary evil; like removing mold from tile grout or cleaning a septic tank. Restoration, renewal, reinvigoration. Out with the old poop, make room for the new.
Editor's note: Bob C. is on location in St. Paul, live-blogging the 2008 Republican National Convention. Here is a summary of his reports.
Wednesday, September 3
11:40AM Yes, I got here late. What a night I had. Three women at my hotel asked me if I wanted a massage. I thought they were hookers but it turns out they were delegates from Indiana. One in particular had skills -- and strong hands like a farmer's wife. She told me she attended her first GOP convention in 1972 when Nixon won his second nomination. Unlike that sordid affair, last night had a happy ending.
12:56PM I use the restroom. Four men -- plainclothes security, I assume -- are beating the crap out of a twenty-something guy. I don't know if he is a protester or maybe a delegate who questioned the Party platform.
2.30PM More procedural stuff. Blah, blah, blah. Republicans sure love to read long lists of rules.
5:23PM I use the restroom again. No assaults this time, except on my sense of smell.
Special Report -- I think about food too much. I know I do. I acquired the tendency honestly.
When I was a little critter growing up in the compound, my mother elected herself nutritionist for our entire breakaway republic. There's no telling what Mom would have achieved as Dietician-General if our fifty-two member group had seceded from the United States.
She taught me how to jerk groundhog meat, identify which insects are highest in protein and essential oils, and spot ominously bulged canned goods. The ATF may have stormed our crude fortifications and relocated me and my twenty-seven brothers and sisters, but my passion for the culinary arts had only just begun.
Special Report -- You may not believe it, but I detest being right all the time. The world hasn't ended in a dramatic Hollywood B-movie cataclysm, but the Apocalypse is imminent just the same. I know where to look.
There I was last weekend, trying on my fancy clothes for the upcoming Democratic and Republican National Conventions, when the news crackled in over the shortwave: Russia had invaded Georgia. My first thought was clever bastards; I always thought they would come in through Florida. My second thought was what took them so long?
I suppose the defenders' resistance has been fierce -- everyone in that part of the U.S. is heavily armed -- but those folks are going to need some help. Maybe we should airlift a couple million pounds of ground beef into the combat zone. That will stop those Bolsheviks in their tracks. E. coli O157:H7 or litigation, whatever it takes. There are almost 1.4 million lawyers in metropolitan Atlanta. Bloody stools and compensatory damages.
Special Report -- I look pretty hell-damn good.
Some of my enemies don't believe I have a reflection, but I do have one and it's rather attractive. I'm handsome in a non-traditional, asymmetric, rugged, quirky, funny-looking way.
Genetic attributes have a lot to do with it, of course, but my family's DNA chain has had its fair share of broken or missing links. My father always told me he's not sure about my mother's identity because he was really drunk the night I was conceived.
