Dear Internet:

For lack of anything verbal or written to contribute immediately to public eDiscourse due to gross information burnout, I submit, instead:

Scrawlings!

(Click to enlarge)

Song of the Soused, 12 Jan 2010 Full story »

Imagine you’re cancelled puppet-driven Fox comedy series “Greg the Bunny.” You’re unemployed, naturally, and rather depressed. You show up at a bar and chat up “Sesame Street.”

The two of you get nice and sauced, stagger towards the subway and eventually make it back to Sesame’s $4.5 million penthouse, where you proceed to wildly bump unprotected uglies and find out the other’s dirty secret: That you both cry during sex.

Warning for those with heart conditions, delicate eardrums towards 2:00. Full story »

Mr. President, Mr. Vice President, Speaker Pelosi, Majority Leader Reid, Senator Bennet, Senator Udall, Representative DeGette:

As we all know, the nation has been alive with discourse of all flavors over the current state of the health care system and the insurance industry. Recently, Senator Baucus has brought forth his proposal, dubbed by some critics (rightly so, in my opinion) the “Insurance Industry Profit Protection and Enhancement Act.”

Please listen: The very reason we need the government to intervene is because millions of us have a Sword of Damocles hanging over our heads. Private industry has already proven that it cannot be trusted to look out for its bottom line and simultaneously safeguard and maintain the health of the American people, even if some of us are misguidedly rallying in the streets against our interests at the urgings of their preferred Chicken Littles of media and industry.

It is my belief that what needs to be accomplished is the affirmation of every American citizen’s right to a basic level of health, security and well-being above a private company’s right to make a profit, which it currently does in part by conveniently discounting and disregarding its customers’ human rights at its whims. Private insurers need to know, as my mother would say, that “your rights stop where another one’s starts.” Full story »

“A TOP TEN LIST? Really? Are you fucking kidding me, Cargo? You do not appear to have the qualifications to make such a list, what with your lack of tooth gaps and, well, jeez. I mean, you? A Top Ten list? Gawd. You must be out of mate–OW!”

No.

As the American Dream™ continues to gnaw on every last bit of exposed flesh it can pick from our flailing limbs, it will no doubt, for many of us, also eat those debt-strangled, rapidly depreciating havens of dirty secrets, personal failure and indoor allergens known as parcels of real estate.

It will eventually, after a judicial process, a waiting period and probably more judicial processes, send a henchman or three to, at long last, relieve you of the burdens of homeownership and shelter.

But, come on. People in any line of work are nonetheless good, hard-working people too! They know just as well as anybody that remembers what it’s like to be employed in recent memory that work sucks and is hard, and comic relief can get us through even the toughest of times.

Accordingly, when the Evicto Man comes to summon you to your shiny new life as a spent munition in America’s War on Prosperity, here are the:

TOP TEN ADVISORIES FOR YOUR FRIENDLY FORECLOSURE EVICTION REPRESENTATIVE!

Full story »

Gerg wasn’t a monster, they insisted.

He was big. He was temperamental. He was covered in green fur and didn’t wear pants. He was ever demanding. His face changed color, shape and expression depending on who was looking at him. Everybody loved Gerg, and Gerg loved everybody, but not in that genuine, heartfelt way — more like a golddigger cherishes her trophy husband, or a cheerleader loves the ugly friend she keeps around to look better in front of guys. But the support was strong, the words as heartfelt as they could sound, and the dubious sincerity of it all was easily drowned out with more wide smiles and more pairs of outstretched arms.

Gerg was, indeed, the town’s beloved mascot. On top of it all, he was always hungry. Full story »

You’ve likely, at some point in your life, been in the company of someone who says something akin to, “I don’t give money to panhandlers. They’re just going to spend it on drugs and/or booze.” “They do this for a living. That man probably just bungs it in a savings account at the end of the day.” “They’re bums. They failed at life. They don’t deserve my hard-earned money.”

Or, maybe, this person is you.

I grew up listening to countless versions of the ideology of “Son, we don’t reward failure.”

You have to hold your own. You have to work hard and carry your weight. You have to straighten up and fly right. You have to contribute something to get something back.

You don’t want to live in some welfare state where people get rewarded for being bums.

Well, guess what: We’ve got it.
Full story »

After a short walk from the light rail I was greeted by an empty P.O. box. A couple blocks north, I was greeted by a copy of the Post/News Duopoly’s jobs page, dated October 2008. “‘The fuck is this?!” I asked myself audibly as I flung the page onto the ground and kept on. At the 7-11 on 3rd/Broadway I bought a Lotto quick pick and a Powerball reject that was laying on the machine. After an uneventful lunch a couple blocks from there, I made the decision to cross the following intersection, one of the most dangerous I’ve encountered in Denver:

Full story »

It’s about 22:00. The parking garage at DIA is cold and dark. I stand against a concrete pillar wearing a sensible cap and a beige trenchcoat. My beard is dyed orange to help with my disguise. I could just as easily have taken the Bermuda shorts off and worn slacks and a polo shirt instead, perhaps even donned a pair of Aviators to mask a good deal of my face; but why sacrifice one’s allegiance to floral print and turn down the opportunity to dye something, if even just for the sake of a meeting with some anonymous, jittery stranger?

Speaking of some anonymous, jittery stranger, my subject approaches in the shadows and leans against the other side of the pillar. We exchange the secret word, “sopaipilla,” and I take a seat next to him, cross-legged, on the hood of a Ford F-150 with a Wyoming plate. (Entirely inconsequential, but if you’re the owner of a pickup from county #2 with a large, ass-shaped indentation on the front end… consider the mystery solved.)

His handshake is firm and sincere, but reserved. The voice of this gentleman is a hint chesty and ever so slightly slurred, like a triple-lunged Gerald Ford, but nervous and high strung just the same, giving hints of Don Knotts as Mr. Furley in Three’s Company. It’s like the two of them grew a heavily caffeinated hybrid in a test tube from Heaven and sent it to defend anonymous suck-offs in the airport bog. Full story »