Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Public Service Announcement

Are you a Tea Partier?

Are you a Libertarian?

Are you a Randite, despite not knowing anything about Ayn Rand's anti-religious, anti-poor, hypocritical philosophy?

Then this message is for YOU!

Saturday, June 25, 2011

A Saturday In Which I Find Myself Rather Pleased

Why is this, you may ask?

Why indeed.

1. The rainy season has cranked up down here in America's Soft Dangling Bits, promising several months of me not having to run up my water bill. But that's not all.

2. In a triumph for human rights and 42 years after the Stonewall Riots, the Empire State of New York legalized same-gender marriage. This acme of common sense is all the more amazing when you realize that the NY Senate has a GOP majority, and four of them jumped the aisle so that people who are in loving, committed relationships can jump the broom legally. Hurrah for New York!

3. Newt Gingrich continues to implode. Hooray!

All in all, a good Saturday so far.


Friday, June 24, 2011

Obligatory Friday Sex Post

Summer time edition!

It's Summer, dear readers - time for fun in the sun, backyard barbecues, swimming, lounging on the beach ...

But, apparently, not the right time for some activities.

A couple were sunning on the beach at Treasure Island, Florida a couple of days ago when the combination of sun, sand and the slow pulse of the waves made them a tad ... shall we say ... frisky?

Unfortunately, they chose to perform certain acts (the article doesn't specify what, but said acts may have included the Horizontal Mambo, the Bolivian Porkpie and maybe even the Albanian Triple Twist) in full view of a popular restaurant that overlooked the beach.

During a meal.

With kids watching.

Obviously, the two lovebirds were arrested, and are now out on bond.

Moral: If the mood strikes, find a private beach or get a room. Just don't do it in public, or you may frighten more than just the horses.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

Dear Mitt Romney,

Fuck you.

Fuck you, fuck your Magic Mormon temple garment, and - never mind. Just fuck you.

You were down in Tampa yesterday, and the ripple you sent through the dark side of the Force kept my teeth aching the entire time you were here. Now you're gone, but like a sour beer fart, your evil essence lingers on.

You took a chair at a coffee shop and had a chat with a group of unemployed people. After listening to their plight and their stories, you decided to stick your oar in, and joked that you were unemployed as well. I'm reasonably certain that the jobless at the table laughed along out of politeness.

I would not have been polite.

Mitt, you made your fortune by doing leveraged buyouts that savaged companies and threw hard-working men and women out of work and onto the very same social safety net you and your fellow beauty pageant contestants are seeking to destroy.

You joked you are unemployed. You're rich, you asshole - you can easily afford to take a few years off and loll about in the sunshine while you think of new ways to divert yourself. How many houses do you have? Is it true you'd sell your wife to a Port Said pimp if it'd net you a profit?

Your father was an evil bastard, Mitt. During the 1969 Inaugural, crowds chanted "Romney eats shit! Romney eats shit!" as his limo rolled past. Nice to see that Evil Bastardy runs in your family - I shudder to think how your sons will eventually turn out.

I wasn't going to vote for you anyway, Mittens, but I hope that the primary process makes you feel some empathy with the dog you had on the roof of your car.

Just my two cents.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

The GOP Beauty Contest Begins!

And, as always, it begins with a standard Question and Answer period. It's always important to note, however, that sometimes the questions and answers are canned, so as not to embarrass the contestants.

First off, we shall set the appropriate tone by playing the Anthem of the Republican Party of the United States:

Since they all look generally the same (even the black man and the white woman) we'll boil the summary down to the topics discussed:

1. Abortion: They're all against it, completely, utterly and perpetually. Nothing is to stand in the way of the fetus' emergence into this breathing world, not even the possible death of its mother. The nitty-gritty of this is that the candidates think women are stupid and can't be trusted to make decisions regarding their reproductive machinery. And yes, I include La Bachmann in that statement.

2. Defense: All for it, although Mad-Eye Michelle's position that we should invade countries that don't bother us and we have to have a clear plan sort of falls flat when you consider Iraq.

3. Jobs: Deafening silence, apart from ... Lower Taxes! That'll work!

4. Economy: Lower Taxes! Cut Spending! And then it became a race to the bottom, with Pawlenty advocating lowering the top rate for the rich to a stupid-making 9%. Timmy also gets low marks for touting a completely blitheringly idiotic 5% GDP growth rate for ten years - something that has never happened in American history.

5. Health care: Ryancare good! Obamacare bad! And Pawlenty loses points for not confronting Romney on the parallels between the PPACA and the Massachusetts plans.

6. Foreign policy: Umm, no. Unwavering, unreasoning blind support for Israel. Even if they start dressing up in fancy uniforms and imposing apartheid on the Israeli Arabs and the Palestinians. Even if Israel nukes Iran.

So there you have it - the entire (as of two days ago) GOP field, emptied, steamed, whipped into a fondue and lovingly garnished with lark's vomit. Their positions range from mild-eyebrow-raising to completely insane, and not a whole hell of a lot of difference between them.

I'll say one thing, though - I refuse to sit through the bathing suit phase of the competition.

Monday, June 06, 2011

"Dyes and Gulls" - Chapter 1

Dyes and Gulls

© 2011 by Walter D. Reimer


University of Woolloomooloo, Australia

April 1, 1938:


This exclamation was accompanied by the banging of the small house’s screen door as it slammed shut. The sound failed to wake little Robbie, who was lying in his crib not ten feet away.

At nearly two years old, he was used to it by now.

Laura Patagarang, seated beside the crib, looked up from her copy of See! Magazine. She took her attention away from the leading article (‘How I Survive My Marriage’ by ‘L.P.’) with some difficulty before focusing on her husband. “What, George?” the brown-furred kangaroo asked. “Have you been on to the doctor again?”

George Patagarang blinked at her. “What, love?” he asked in a confused tone.

“Well, you said ‘lemuria.’ I hope they can vaccinate you for it. And do stay away from the baby, please. It might be catching.”

Her mate blinked again, then laughed. “No, Laura, you got it all wrong. I was talking about Lemuria, the ancient lost kingdom of lemurs. I have a lead on where to find it.”

“Do you now?” Laura asked, going back to her magazine article.

“Yes, I do,” George said. “And I think we ought to head out to the Pacific immediately.”

One ear twitched and swiveled in his direction. “Pacific?”

“That’s where my lead says it is.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense that a lost kingdom of lemurs would be, say, near Madagascar or somewhere else in Africa?” she asked in a tone of voice that would make most respectable skeptics doubt the existence of Morris chairs. “I mean, lemurs are native to Africa – “

“Ah, but that’s what they’d want you to think,” George interrupted with an airy flip of his paw. “Simple misdirection! Classic!” He waved a sheaf of papers at her. “Crikey, if this ain’t the find of the century, I don’t know what is!”

Laura’s muzzle writhed momentarily as she bit her lower lip to keep from saying the obvious riposte aloud, and held out her paw for the papers. George gave them to her and headed for their bedroom, loudly declaiming about packing their tropical kit. With a sigh, the ‘roo started reading over the papers.

Halfway through the first page Laura put the papers down and rubbed the spot between her ears, momentarily disarranging her shoulder-length headfur. Her head usually started to hurt whenever her explorer husband (a graduate of the University’s Exploration College as well as the Paul Revere Institute for Concatenating Knowledge, where he was a frequent guest lecturer) got an idea in his head. Despite his reputation and the accolades given to him by PRICK, George could be a bit muddled at times.

“Laura love?” George suddenly poked his head into the room.

“Yes, dear?”

“Have you seen my solar topi anywhere? We’re going to need it.”

“I have it there, on the windowsill,” she said.

He bounded over, as kangaroos are sometimes wont to do, and pulled up short. “What’s with all this dirt in it?”

“Well, your mother sent those lovely flowers – it didn’t seem right to let them wither for lack of a flower pot . . .”

“Oh, very funny,” he grumbled at her as he unceremoniously dumped the contents of the pith helmet out of the open window. “Now I’ll have to clean it.”

“Just do it quietly. Robbie’s asleep. Um, George? About this lead you uncovered.”


“Well, love, correct me if I’m wrong but one of these is a magazine article from Astounding Adventures Magazine.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” George said cheerfully. “Perfect cover to reveal a truth by hiding it in a fiction magazine, right?”

Laura sighed. When George got an idea in his head there wasn’t enough gelignite in the world to shift it. “Skippy,” she said patiently, using his nickname, “do you think it’s really wise to go pranging about the Pacific looking for a mythical kingdom that by all rights should be in Africa? Where is this ‘lead’ supposed to be, anyway?”

“Place called Gull Island,” he called out from the bedroom. There was a sound of suitcases being stuffed. “Again, a classic piece of deception.”

“Is it?”

“Sure, love! Any fool can see it – you run the words together and it becomes ‘GullAYEland,’” he said, stressing the second syllable. “And as everyone knows, an aye-aye is a type of lemur.”

Laura decided to let his implied assertion that she was a fool pass. She’d get back at him later for it, before letting him go to sleep.

She held a degree in Business and was in charge of the family’s money, after all. Under her watchful eye they didn’t have to worry about being thrown into the street. Little Robbie’s future education was being secured despite his father’s occasional manic dashes to other countries.

Being thrown out of the University faculty for willfully allowing her husband to be an idiot was another matter. Losing tenure was something she didn’t want to have happen.

With a sigh, Laura put aside the sheaf of papers and got up to help George pack.


The University’s College of Exploration was a small but prestigious part of the school. Applicants from several parts of the British Empire and the rest of the world vied for the few open student positions.

George’s classes were usually accounted an easy grade, as the kangaroo was easily distracted – although oddly enough, he was never distracted by a young femme’s charms, no matter how much or how blatantly she displayed them.

Laura approached the head of the college the next morning, and explained George’s plan.

Dr. John Eidelberger sighed when she finished. “You mean to tell me,” the ratel said wearily as he tossed his eyeglasses onto the desk, “that George wants to go leaping off when he’s already scheduled for classes this term? Yakimoto!” he shouted, and his Akita assistant looked around the half-open door. “How many classes is George Patagarang scheduled for?”

“Hee, Yakimoto t’ink George havee thlee crasses, Doctah Eiderbelgah,” the canine replied, squinting through his glasses.

“Dammit, Yakimoto! Will you stop talking pidgin?” Eidelberger snapped. “You and I both went to Oxford.”

“Sorry, mate,” the Akita said cheerfully. “We have a bunch of Americans coming through next week, so I decided to practice.”

“Practice somewhere else then,” the badger said grumpily. “Look, Laura, George’s got thlee – er, three classes – and we don’t have time to find a substitute before the end of term.”

“John, you know when he gets these ideas he just aches to go and look,” Laura said patiently. “What about Grayson? These classes are usually right up his street – like George, his specialty is finding lost civilizations.”

“True, but Grayson’s in New Guinea.”

“What’s he doing there?”

“Probably no good,” the ratel said. “He’s trying to make contact with the Ayon tribesmen and record their myths.”

“The Ayon?” Her brows knitted in thought and she abruptly raised her ears in shock. “Those are cannibals!”

“Too right. I only hope he’s not one for the pot by now.” Eidelberger glanced at a term paper on his desk. “Hmm. An Examination of Traditional Theories of the Atlantis Myth.” He scrawled ‘What a load of rubbish’ across the title page and dumped it into his OUT box. “Insolent puppy, that Farmer – hasn’t kept up on the literature. We found Atlantis two years ago.”

Laura nodded. “Whoever would have thought it’d be in England all this time.”

“East Finchley will never be the same,” Eidelberger agreed. The two paused to reflect on the adventure that had sent half of the college’s faculty to the mother country that chill winter.

“The problem is that George’s got three more classes – tell you what,” Laura said as she snapped her fingers. “We’ll do the classes all at once.”

The ratel blinked up at her. “What? Combine the three classes into one?” He thought it over and tapped his claws on the desk. “Might take some doing, but it’s possible. Think George will go along with it?”

“Never doubt the persuasive powers of a doe,” Laura replied with a cryptic smile.


“What the hell do you mean, ‘No?’” Laura demanded that evening after she got home. “Skippy!”

She said it her mate’s receding back again. George had apparently skipped out of doing his afternoon seminar (‘Contemporary Jungle Survival Techniques’) and had packed their tropical kit, up to and including the still and movie cameras. It made a surprisingly large pile in the middle of the living room floor.

Her heart sank. Lugging all that gear was a chore, even though it made for great muscle definition and could give her an edge in a fight. The University’s School of Business was renowned for bare-knuckle capitalist theories.

Papers on the dining room table indicated that the power was being cut off, along with the water and mail service. A stack of sealed envelopes sat near the papers, addressed to various friends, relatives, scientific organizations and magazines.

Laura estimated that George had spent nearly two pounds on stamps alone.

A small ledger in the back of her head scrawled a figure in red ink.

“I said No, Laura,” George said from the bathroom.

“You can’t back out, you slacktailed boomer. John’s told me that if you bow out now, you can forget any funding and you can definitely forget coming back this time.”

He frowned at her. “John would never do that!”

“Care to bet on that? Besides, he’s got the trustees on his side, along with Barry.”

George blinked. “Barry?”

“Yes. The head of PRICK himself. The Institute’s backing the College on this one, George – either you do this seminar or you get no funding.” She tapped a foot. “Ever again.” She started going through the outgoing mail and looked up at him when she finished examining the pile. “Oh, and another thing.”

“What?” he asked in a surly tone.

“I don’t see anything here about a babysitter for Robbie.”

“Robbie? I thought we could take him with us. Get started on a family tradition, you know – “

“He’s not even two yet!”

“Nothing like starting a joey out early,” he said, huffing a snort through his nostrils. “My old Dad used to take me camping up in the Blue Mountains when I was still a babe in pouch.”

“I know. Your Dad was a philosopher.”

“So? He knew the outdoors too.”

Laura suppressed the idea of asking him how many bushfires got started as a result of his family camping trips, and asked instead, “Who do you think we should have look after Robbie?”

Her quiet tone of voice brought her mate up short and he thought it over. “My Mum?”

“Your Mum spends all her time at the bingo.”

“Your folks, then.”

“You know Father’s been in hospital. Mum’s taking care of him.” She looked at him, eyes narrowed. “We could talk to my sister.”

Now it was George’s turn to frown. “Doris? Never.”

“Why the hell not? She’s got two kids of her own, near Robbie’s age – “

“She doesn’t like me.”

Laura let this pass. “Look, you do this my way, George. You have a seminar to give, and I’ll talk to Doris. After the end of term, we go.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then I go home to Mother, with Robbie, and you can lug all that stuff on your own.” She left the implicit threat hanging, forcing him to think it over.

Finally his tail hit the floor and he threw up his paws. “Fine!” He stomped out of the room, and Laura smiled.

Never underestimate the persuasive power of a doe.

Some Cuteness for Lunch

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The Sound of Heads Exploding is Sweet Music to My Ears

I tell you the story of Adam Pearlman.

He was born in the Jewish faith, to parents who converted to evangelical Christianity (and changed the family name to Gadahn). Well, young Adam went in another direction.

He converted to Islam, joined al Qaeda, and is now the group's internet maven.

Adam has sent out a video recently, exhorting American Muslims and prospective jihadis to not wait for any organized terrorist group to point the way. Oh no. Adam is telling people to seek a Second Amendment alternative.

And now we come to the reason behind the title.

The National Rifle Association, one of the most powerful terrorist organizations in the United States, regularly browbeats and bullies our elected representatives into allowing the fullest availability of guns to everyone - lunatics, racists, militias, "sovereign citizens," Mexican drug cartels, etc. And how have they done this?

Gun shows, where you don't need no stinking background check to spoil your fun. Heck, in some places you don't even need two forms of identification - that would be a violation of your rights, you know.

The exploding heads are those of the NRA, who are seeing their adamant refusal to allow anything but the most superficial fig leaves for gun control turn into carte blanche for Mexican druggies, Muslim jihadis and just plain screwballs to get all the guns they want so they can drop by the mall and shoot the place up.

It's a forlorn hope that this video didn't reach any susceptible minds, but it's just like the venomous bilge spewed by the likes of Glenn Beck. The susceptible minds are out there, just waiting for the Propaganda of the Word to trigger them into the Deed.