There was a great hubbub on the airwaves last night, and we at Vomitola feel it is only fitting to comment on the news of the day.
However, Lambchop is still relaxing in 1982, and I am rather agitated because my cleaning ladies are late. So, momentito (I am practicing my Spanish to better yell at them), we have tapped two of our staff writers for astute commentary.
Be sure to scroll down for Thelma Haney, an undecided voter from Epsom, Indiana. Below Thelma’s take, we turn it over to Melvin, a callous beagle, for counterpoint.
by Melvin, a beagle
The toiling masses with their burdens and effluvia need not decide my personal liberties.
Making mistakes and learning from one’s decisions is only natural for humanity, but the sad fact is that we are beleagured by sub-humans. Their hollow cries for vengeance jar my ear, just as a wine that has soured rapes the palate. Ignore their talk, straight from Bedlam.
Licketysplit is out valiantly supporting kerry in the wake of the havoc caused by Democracy in this quarter. You should see her out there in the 90 degree heat in her chainmail and armor, brandishing sword and shield, and passing out flyers. It seems that Mr. Bush wants to appoint a fellow to the FDA’s council on women’s health who opposes contraception, and favors prayer as a PMS remedy. Lord have mercy on anyone in our vicinity should that become a practice!
These are trying times. So I did what any respectable leader would do and I went on vacation. In Provincetown, the lavendar capital of Massachusetts, I climbed out on the breakers in platforms, ate lots of CLAM, and got my picture taken with Kandi Kane, who said I was a caution. Then I ended up in the tattoo parlor chair, at long last to get a sailor tattoo with a lambchop motif, but they threw me out. Apparently it is against policy to ink anyone who is stinking drunk and puking on the tiles. Well, i will be back! After all, one of my oldest college friends (looks like Bernadette Peters!) summers there with her swell mate. And it was beautiful and there are many more places I wish to be thrown out of.
To sum up, to Licketsplit’s message of “don’t vote for that shithead”, I would like to add “don’t vote for that shithead”. Or you will find me from here on out on the cape, sailing up and down Commercial Street on an electric scooter with a 7 foot tall Cher-a-like.
As most of you know, who aren’t toothless imbeciles still glorying in the day when Grandaddy Bush sent you three hundred bucks, Boston has been host to the Democratic National Convention this week. And aside from Clinton’s dazzling speech “TCB, Takin’ care of business, baby” and an amazing speech by tv’s Brak, it was surprisingly uneventful until today. You could tell people were getting anxious with all the strip searches and bag checking and helicopters flying overhead. Then the Ohio delegates tried to purchase some soft pretzels from a cart and they were SOLD OUT! A briefcase dropped to the ground and fell open like the shot heard round the world, and all hell broke loose. Ties were thrown to the wind, hats flew in the air. It was only a matter of time before the actual looting began. So if you planned to come to Beantown this weekend, don’t. Stay safely at home and sing God Bless America. I am off to Provincetown to enjoy a lavendar weekend on a beach, dancing with crossdressers.
I was right outside the Fleet Center when this kerfuffle errupted. There was trampling and screaming and amateur fires being set. When the dust finally settled, the crowd gasped to see John Edwards and Mayor Menino sinking their teeth into the ropey neck of a hippy! John Edwards’ wife was so shocked that she went into labor on the spot, delivering their eleventh child with the aid of the Sausage Guy. Edwards immediately sued the Sausage Guy.
The nominees escaped to their waiting tour bus via a hijacked 7 News Copter. The remaining scene was grim, ladies and gentlemen. Last I saw, people were just whaling on each other with the uprooted Make Way for Ducklings statues.
BUT I’M STILL VOTING DEMMYCRAT.
Well, at least according to the New York Times. For some reason, my Sunday paper does not arrive on Sundays. Instead it arrives on Monday, and then another copy will show on Tuesday. I have called several times, and the helpful customer service representative said “I will put a note on your account that it is important that you receive the Sunday paper on Sunday.” At this rate, I will be able to wallpaper the rumpus room with newspaper that I still haven’t had time to read. As a child I was fascinated with the olde tyme newspaper printed on the tables at Wendy’s, so I imagine this would hold similar appeal.
Now we have a glut: entirely too many anecdotes and not enough time to natter about everything. There’s the hair raising tale of our weekend in Maine, Mr. H’s trip to “Bangladore,” getting Hepatitis A, that fucking chipmunk who keeps eating my plants, including the cilantro that totally did it with the dill (Dilettantro), and minor league baseball from last week. Did you know the mascot for the Lowell Spinners is the Canaligator? Even Kitty Winn has a backlog, and these problems are real humdingers. I just can’t focus. I’m going a million miles a second here.
Also, why not contribute to John Kerry today? Midnight tonight is the deadline for the last FEC filing before the convention. I shoveled some more into the pile, but I confess I used my credit card because we are still poor. And that reminds me of another story about what happens to poor chicks, but Mr. H made me promise that he could guest blog that one. Soon, pretties.
You know we got nuffin when we post pictures of dogs all week. Could it be that Lambchop and I are both happy for once? I feel like I am doing a gentle backstroke in Prozac-infused molasses, and I’m not even *taking* any drugs. When we go out, we spend our time doubled over with laughter, not shaking fists and gnashing teeth. It reminds me of how we used to ooze around Boston in an addled fog lo these many years ago. What’s next, staring for hours at the Amtrak ticketing kiosk in South Station because the music sounds like Peter Murphy? Yes, that exactly! Please join us.
The only thing’s that really bother me these day’s are poor punctuation and the state of the US government. No biggie! I got a call from the Kerry campaign looking for volunteers, so I think I’ll traipse in and shuffle paper at HQ a few days a week. Maybe I can finally master mail merge, for G– and country. I am not sure I am up for door-to-door in New Hampshire, as everyone in that state is issued a gun. This could be just the push I need to finally learn target shooting. There is a range right down the street; I could run over while the laundry is in the dryer.
I love you, man!
Say “I love you” often
You know, I had originally written something about Pizza Night and how totally great it is, but upon subtle reflection, Pizza Night is no People Being Beheaded on TV. When Rednecks Explode on FOX is close.
I am making my contribution to John Kerry’s campaign right now. It’s only fitting I kick an entire unemployment check his way.
Mr. H has a Dennis Kucinich AIM icon, and so do I. So every conversation must begin:
Hello Dennis Kucinich, I’m Dennis Kucinich. Say that enough times and it loses all meaning.
Go Kucinich, Go.
I wish there were a Dennis Kucinich AIM bot to talk to. I guess I could pretend RecipeBuddie is Dennis Kucinich.
That’s not an endorsement, he’s a bit tetched. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like him. And I like YOU too. There, aren’t we off to a good start? It’s snowing upwards outside my window. There is always an updraft in that alley.