fromanyalley

This is a day of bizarre crimes and money crises and tragedies. Due to the fact that I am working in a restricted space, I’ll talk only about those bizarre crimes and crises and tragedies which affect me. Sit back, take a deep breath. I checked my bank-account.
In financial terms, for those of you who sit with expensive trousers puddlled around your silk-socked ankles waiting for Kudlow and Co. to really cut loose, the report said,” No cheap rotgut wine and $.99 cigar for you, Mr. non-capitalist- lay-a-bed.” Not exactly crushing news for those of us living in this open toilet of the last bloody days of the most immoral, illegal, fascist, Ann Coltergeist-wet-dream presidency in the history of this nation, or any nation with some slob who is called Mr. President, and that includes a lot of world-class perverts, criminals, and unabashed, demented motherfucking fanatics. (A jaunty tip of the yarmulke to Mr. Ahmadinejad of Iran who is propped up by the Alliance of Builders of Islamic Iran. That sounds like some underground arm of the Chamber of Commerce.)
After receiving the dismal economic alert from my bank, (more about that shortly), I decided to check in with the nice people at today.com. And I still do believe real people are there, at today.com, if only to act as fronts for the Cylons who operate the place. I, as fully expected, did not talk to a real person. I saw a chart. On the chart was the notification that I am worth, get this, $0.01 to that company. Two things occurred to me. This, in and of itself, was remarkable. Usually nothing occurs to me. The first thing that occurred to me was the amount of money recorded in the chart. Please think about that, if you would. I would have to write and submit ninety-nine, plus tax, so, let’s say, 106 of these things to be able to buy one very bad cigar made of nettles and weeds and dried fecal matter.
The second thing, and yes, this deserves its own paragraph so put the red-pens down, slowly, and back away, the second thing was that I could not find the cents sign on my keyboard. For someone who has dealt with incredibly tiny sums of money all of his life, that caused a frantic search to be conducted. I took my glasses off, put them on, checked the keyboard, and…..nothing. I did that repeatedly. I needed the cents sign. I was going to fire off a blistering complaint to my new found friends and comrades in capitalism at today.com. Apparently they are of the Bush wing of capitalism: deny everything and demand proof, and when concrete proof is produced, hide behind the skirts of a bought and paid for justice system. (A jaunty flap of the robes to you Mr. Scalia. By the by, how does your son like his job? The one Mr. Bush gave him right after the 2000 rape of the nation? Just asking. Put the gavel down and back away slowly. You should know you have no constitutional rights. According to you the constitution guarantees that.) I gave up, on the cents sign and the justice system, and fired off the question anyway. It was longer than expected and ended on the sour note of an unintentional fart. I do apologize for that. Please don’t hate me. Just cough up the $2.99 and the cents sign.
If you did not boost the cents sign, who did? Why didn’t you take the ^sign, which means, uh, there is a roof in this sentence. I never use the roof ^ sign. Who would? Tell you what. Take the roof sign, give me back my cents sign, plus the $2.99, and everything will be acey-deucy.
(Do you hear crickets?)
The cents sign caper logically brings me to Queenie. My lack of money brings about two tragedies: 1.) I do not get to walk down to Kenny’s Liquor, which is in a metal shed on state highway 37 and sells, along with booze and bad cigars, a thing called broasted chicken. Queenie, who is my cat, does not like the walk, but goes along anyway, knowing I will buy that gourmet delight called broasted chicken. Cirrhosis of the liver and lip cancer for me, broasted chicken for cat, money for Kenny in his metal shed, and the blue sky up above. So, no money in bank, or coming from today.com via Western Union, brings about: 2.) Queenie does not get to watch me tear the shit-brown disgusting crunchy stuff off the purported chicken breast and feed it to her in tiny little fragment. She only has three fangs. The other disappeared. That’s a different story. But explains why I have to tear up the purported chicken meat into small fragments.
There is a law, one of the Natural Laws, and this law clearly states for all who have eyes to see, and read, “Do Not Disturb the CAT.” The CAT has been disturbed, and ergo, your honor, the natural rhythm and balance of this day have been irrevocably damaged. As concrete proof I offer Karl Rove as an opportunistic, lying, gutless, double-chinned Nazi. No….wait…That all might be true, but…..Ah! Got my notes mixed up. Here we go: As concrete proof I offer my cat, Queenie, who refuses to come out from underneath the bed. She is clearly disturbed. My cat is a genius and on the Great Wheel of Being this is her last Throw-Her-Paws-in-the-Air-and-Scream ride before she gets to sit with the other mahatmas and groovey types for all eternity, which does not exist, eternity I mean, but is merely a mental contortion forced upon us by western mountebanks, such as Karl Rove, Minister of Evil and Standartenfuhrer of the Alliance of Builders of Islamic Iran. Rush down soon, there will be a one-day only sale on all weapons of mass destruction. Balloons for the kiddies. Success Apparel Burkhas for the little lady. Guess what radioactive isotope is in the glowing box and win $10.00, but no cents. Cents is missing. Karl Rove has it and won’t give it back, the selfish bitch.
Under the bed. Queenie, genius cat, has been disturbed and will not come out from underneath the bed. I don’t want her there. Things are growing and mutating beyond Darwin’s wildest imaginings under there. I could wind up as a “Person of Interest”. That means every fat-assed bureaucrat from the Ministry of Homeland Security down to the Games, Fish and Parks can legally turn my life into a miserable timeless hell in which I will live in squalor without one thin dime because Karl has stolen my cents sign, and my cat will be trapped under the bed by something that used to be a sweat-sock(from Satan-Mart, on sale), but now has fangs, (one of them belonging to Queenie, it stole it from her) and EYES and whispers, “John McCain is NOT Dubya’s warmongering, coprophilic, way over-age catamite” all night long .
In the best interest, then, of the balance of nature and the world as we have grown to know it, I need money. Not for myself. For you. Because, gosh, it has always been about you. A tiny little amount of moolah will set the world’s discomfiture aright in a trice. My cat, Queenie, will come out from under the bed. This will cause my asthma attack to stop instantly. The things under the bed will be left to do whatever it is things under the bed do. Kenny will make a profit, (ah, see? All American here), and I will get piss-down-my-leg-and-yours-drunk while wobbling around with a lighted $0.99 cigar clamped between my teeth. This will give the local VFD and two-man PD something to do. I, one little citizen, will not only add to our economic rebirth (as congenitally reatarded as it is) but I will also afford my fellow Americans the opportunity to contribute to their county, their state, and their nation. Queenie will also be highly amused and spend the rest of the night in a tree communing with Hunter S. and all the other swingin’ hipsters who managed to escape from this gargantuan, soul-eating, cosmic cluster-fuck we (still!) smugly call life in the Greatest Nation Of ALL Time.
Call for Ms. Reifenstahl from Mr. Rove on line one. Pick up please.

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