Memoirs from Katrinaville

'Gringo' Lives With Mexicans in the Wild

2007-04-07T19:08:00.000-05:00

(North Las Vegas) - When Manfred Merkwurdigliebe came upon three young Mexican men apparently abandoned by civilization, he decided to help them remain wild Mexican men in a most unconventional way -- by pretending to be a wild Mexican himself. He soon changed his name to Miguel Amorextraño.

"You can't get closer to Mexicans than he has," documentary producer Balli Conilupi said of Mexican researcher Miguel Amorextraño.

Amorextraño has spent his entire life studying the behavior of Mexicans and their interaction with humans. The National Geographic Channel followed Amorextraños' fascinating pursuit, producing a documentary called "A Gringo Among Mexicans" that airs April 16.

First becoming interested in Mexicans as a child, Amorextraño says he decided to live among Mexicans to help bridge the gap between Mexicans and humans. Amorextraño readily admits that many people will find it crazy that he lives and behaves like a Mexican, but he thinks the ultimate benefits of his experiment make his case.

In the documentary, Amorextraño describes how he eats and lives with the Mexicans. His food is placed in a plastic bag inside a pile of garbage that the rest of the Mexicans eat from.

In some ways, Amorextraño almost stopped being human. He talked about letting his emotions run wild while he was with the Mexicans, because they are very emotional much like women and domestic cats. When he leaves them, he finds it difficult to interact with other human beings. He is a "true Gringo Mexican. You can't get closer to Mexicans than he has," the documentary's producer, Balli Conilupi, said of Amorextraño.

Amorextraño warns those watching though that "it's very dangerous for people who haven't been trained, who think that they can just walk into a Barrio and be accepted."

The documentary includes the opinions of experts -- such as Christian Vidascomoperro, a Mexican biologist with the Raincoast Conservation Society's Mexican project and an instructor at the University of Victoria in British Columbia -- who are both intrigued by and skeptical of Amorextraños' unorthodox methods.

"I find it difficult to resolve that as humans we can teach Mexicans something," Vidascomoperro says. "I think the best teachers for Mexicans are their parents and older siblings in their natural social environment."

He concedes, however, that "lots of progress that has been made in science over the last century and more comes from the mavericks, or people that think a little differently."

Biologist Nicholas Mediocridade, leader of Portugal's Selvagem Mexican Project, said, "When you eat and sleep and interact with Mexicans -- that's something we can't replicate here, we won't do, we can't do."

Conilupi described the difficulties in filming, such as the camera crew having to wear gear to protect them from the unsanitary environment in which Mexicans congregate. They used a small camouflage tent to hide the camera. The Mexicans, he says, became jittery around strangers, so Amorextraño was in a unique position of being comfortable with the Mexicans.

According to Conilupi, Amorextraño who has begun collecting unusable automobile parts truly sees "the world through the eyes of a Mexican," offering a point of view that scientists so far have not been able to access.

New Orleans Recovers Around the Clock

2006-09-11T22:37:00.000-05:00

How many flippin' journalism awards are there now? You know all of those awards that the media bestows upon themselves to validate their existence. It just seems that they have invented enough awards so that each and everyone gets one. It's like the Special Olympics. More to the point, the Media issuing Journalism awards is paramount to the Ku Klux Klan giving each of their locals a humanitarian open-mindedness award.

All of the awards recently seem to be going to people and publications for their reporting of the Katrina Clusterfuck. They all got it wrong! Every last one of them and now they are awarding each other to make sure we realize how right they got it.

The African American population of the City of New Orleans was 55%. How did every award winning news organization miss the chance to photograph or interview a single non-black resident of the City. Spike Lee never made a claim of being unbiased before he had to drive to the edge of the earth before finding two girls drunk and trashy enough to play the role of poor white trash in his epic that has been the closest anyone has gotten to responsible journalism since August 29, 2005.

On the anniversary of the storm every local network pre-empted all programming so that they could wallow in a collage of their poorly reported and wholly innaccurate portrayal of the storm as it unfolded. As they did so, I watched on my one channel as every reporter took turns telling stories.

Telling stories should not and cannot be confused with reporting. Particularly since each of them just reported something that they heard one of their colleagues say. Most notable is "the official line" from the Army Corps of Engineers and the White House, "work continues around the clock on the Canals breached by Katrina."

Every so called reporter, the local reporters all repeated the line over and over and over. I've heard rumors from people in St Bernard that have said that they think that work goes on at night along the Mississippi River Gulf Outlet because there are bright lights in the marsh that can be seen from the Green Monster. But I can attest that the "around the clock" work on the 17th Street Canal ends at dusk, Monday through Friday. No work at night, no work on the weekends and no work when it rains(everyday at about 3pm). It has been this way since before the Corps first bullshit deadline of June 15th.

WWL-TV has a webcam at the construction site called Eye on Floodgates. It must be the catchy name that wins those awards since not a single one of their so-called reporters have ever looked at the camera at night. Perhaps all of those crack investigative journalists work floodgate construction hours of 9-5 M-F weather permitting.

The Crazy Ivan

2006-09-09T00:48:00.000-05:00

For the ladies, I'll splain the reference from the greatest movie of all time. Yeah, I know! Leaving the gun and taking the Cannoli is important but with special effects and Sean Connery, The Hunt for Red October is the greatest movie of all time. Oh stop, you bunch of whining art-fags, Citizen Kane doesn't even rate. What? Rosebud wasn't a sled? I guess I'll be watching that one again, I must've missed something.

LOVE STORY? Get the fuck outta here. Girls, a flick that not only kills the only remotely redeeming character but does so with cancer can never, ever, be considered a good movie. Yep, that's right! Never saw Memoirs of a Motherfucking Geisha and don't plan to either.

So, Alec Baldwin is a CIA Agent pretending to be a Naval Officer. That part just kills me now, Clancy would have never sold the script had he known Hollywood was going to hire a communist card carrying member of the Democratic Party to play the likes of Jack Ryan. It kills me, not only does the biggest Marxist in California(that's a lot of Marxists) get to play Jack Ryan and Jimmy Doolittle but he eventually does a fine job portraying the most war-mongering Democrat of all time, Bob McNamara. Okay, honorable mention to both presidential Roosevelts.

In the movie, the Roosky Sub or as only Sean can say in his best Russian brogue, the Ballistic Missile Boat, Red October, turns suddenly every half hour to see if anything is behind them. The maneuver is called, "The Crazy Ivan."

The Crazy Ivan

I'm schlepping a few days ago over at the Home Depot. In a less than scientific survey, I have found that about once per month, I will get some asshole who apparently receives no pampering in their life and makes up for it by demanding the sum of all of life's missed pampering from some asshole in an orange apron. And my handy slide rule says once per month the statistical balance of the universe requires the apron wearing asshole to be Moi.

Keen powers of observation allowed me to notice that I had hit the jackpot with these two guys in about 10 seconds. So, what the hell, I wasn't busy and if they really needed to believe that they were in the Gucci on Rodeo Drive and not the HD on Veterans Boulevard, I was up for a little role play. All the while, deep in the recesses of my mind I slowly stoked the coals in their own personal furnace.

I sucked up every bit as much as a 6'6" 250 pounder can when faced with a guy in shower flops in the middle of a home improvement warehouse. But, then the mouthpiece of the two wanted to barter also. As Yota would say, "trying the patience of the apron wearing asshole, they were!"

I offered a 10% discount off of the cheapest item on the floor and they demanded 40% and insisted I take the offer to management and I needed to make sure the Manager understood that they were paying "Cash." I had lost the intrigue for the role play and scurried away to find a Manager that was willing to tell this guy to go fuck himself.

When I said, "Oh yeah, he is paying CASH," the Manager squinted and said, "what does that have to do with anything?" I had a good giggle and explained that paying cash is apparently substantial on a Tiajuana used car lot. I suggested that perhaps he was evacuated south of the border because I suspect his flip flop wearing ass had never left Gentilly before the Coast Guard snatched him off of his roof last year. I begged the Manager to come back with me and apologize for my mistake but we could only offer some stupid amount like 7.25% but he wasn't game. He did tell me though that I could offer an additional 10% if he opened a HD charge account. With that comedy, I was empowered to role play on and counter his cash offer with charge it!

He took the original 10% and in typical fashion demanded that I go and get him a cart for his freezer because it "is my job!" I just couldn't give him the standard operational procedure line about him being in the "warehouse store" and everything being, "self service." I did briefly consider asking him for a reach around but decided to let that go. I did laugh to myself though knowing that their was a guy working 10 feet from me that tells old ladies to go get their own carts and will say that it is against insurance regulations for him to go to the parking lot. He loves Home Depot and has achieved his highest goal by landing this gig. He smokes a lot of pot.

Did you forget your cart

Who are all of you fuckers who stroll HD without a cart? Have you not been to the place a thousand times? Do you ever remember leaving empty handed? Is it not true that you will impulse buy a pail of fresh, stinky, warm and drizzly cat shit if we put a "reduced" tag on it? Grab a basket on your way in. You can lean on it while waiting in line to check out.

If you pull in to HD with your kid in a carseat, what possesses you to think that the kid is then safe pretending to surf on your lumber cart as you push it down the aisle? Do you really think that the stoner on the lift truck who has already reached the pinnacle of his life's ambition is going to think twice about clipping the cart as he passes you?

If you are too fat to carry your own weight, what makes you think that a do-it-yourself project is in order? Hire a contractor, Dumbo! Yeah we got motorized baskets. They have batteries just strong enough to get you and your cankles into the store but not out. The motorized basket was an ingenius idea by some corporate dickhead trying to justify his salary and look good to the ADA nazis. The seating section comfortably fits no person larger than the basket collector kid in the parking lot who after pushing baskets all day deserves a little r and r on a 1 mile per hour go cart provided some asshole the size of the thin little wafer guy in that Monty Python movie hasn't run the battery dead inside the store.

Shower flops? You people!

I strolled on out to the farthest reaches of the parking lot to get a cart and slowly made my way back. Along the way, I came abreast of two other guys making their way to the store. About thirty feet off of my bow just port of dead ahead was a perfect ass in one of the many ways that I adore. No underwear and shorts slightly too small causing a ride up her cheeks that was accentuated with each step. It was beautiful!

Perhaps she forgot her wallet or her measurements but whatever the reason she suddenly did an about face on her heal. In our heads, I am certain the guys on either side heard Jonesy's scream just as I did. CRAZY IVAN!

The guy to my port stared out on the horizon as if he was Magellan. I opted for a crash penny search as I stared at my toes. On my starboard was a guy about 75 years old and he reacted by looking straight up into the sky. No sunglasses and a typical New Orleans September day, bright, very bright.

As we neared the front of the lot and the nymph was well out of our wake, Magellan exclaimed, "we were so busted!" The old man replied, "oh yeah!" I just laughed. I love this job. I wish I smoked pot.

Original Sin

2006-06-09T22:07:00.000-05:00

I found myself this evening crossing Katrinavilla in a most wonderful state of mind. Physically I was headed from Beachcorner, the cultural center of Lakeview for the safety and confines of River Ridge. Upon this moment, I had achieved a crackrock of the instance, pure unadulterated satisfaction. Okay, maybe a bit adulterated. Upon writing this, I realize it was completely adulterated but core pure just the same.

At the moment of my drive, Over The Hills And Far Away was playing on the radio and for that moment it was the greatest song ever written. Now that I have eaten dinner and sat down to tell this tale, I have now listened to a version of the song repeatedly about four times before realizing that I could take it no longer and turned on Minor Threat. I have also sobered and this combined with Minor Threat could possibly alter the original intent of this tale and that is an attempt to secure for posterity a momentary instance of pure satisfaction.

I will be forced upon this consideration to open another beer, the fifth of the day that is four more than my self-imposed limit. I will enjoy this beer as if it were the first breath of opium or the first taste of a woman but that has nothing to do with the story but then again perhaps it has everything to do with this tale as the title may suggest this is a story of original sin, the one driving force that has kept me going on these years.

As I left work today at the More Stuff Than You Could Ever Possibly Need Depot after a full day of selling convenience and style to the insured masses, I picked up a phone message from a former bro in garbage who like myself was eliminated by the evil It Corporation following Katrina but not before he was given the opportunity to save his own job for a few weeks by baring false testimony against Me. He was drunk and clearly by both his message and the sounds of the background noise in the process of doing the one thing that separates us from the rest of the entire fucking world, he and the characters around him were carrying on!

I, in my new found pathetic existence actually considered whether to grace the folks with my presence. I considered not gracing them with my being as I was too mature and adult and serious and bored, boring and in the process of infecting my boredom on all of those around me. I would go and have just enough drinks to tell my old bro to go fuck himself. I would go home feeling good and vindictive and afterall I was bored.

One of the characters who I suspected to be present for this gathering and probably the instigator of said gathering had just been awarded possibly the most controversial contract in the 288 year history of New Orleans and that is a lot of controversy. I use the term gathering deliberately since the handful of guys I suspected would be present are to New Orleans carrying on, myself included, as Conan McCloud and his buddies are to mayhem. We were for a few years the Highlanders of carrying on and as I was soon to find out the Quickening had arrived.

The controversial contract was for collection and storage of derelict automobiles and boats left from Katrina’s carnage. The City has awarded this contract two other times to three bidders but this guy’s firm has now been awarded it by the State. Really, if you do not know what drives the elected, allow me to inform you that it has little to do with pleasing the electorate and has everything to do with shaking down as many contractors as possible. If you can keep awarding the same contract over and over, all the better for having someone buy you lunch or dig your swimming pool or give you $100,000 in cash wrapped in Popsicle boxes for easy storage. Now, of course, the last 10 months have proven to anyone watching that while New Orleans and Louisiana have deserved reputations for corruption, they are no match for the greed and corruption rampant in the U.S. federal government. But, while FEMA is paying the bill, the most clear reason that this contract has needed to be repeatedly awarded is that the newly re-elected Mayor of the City of New Orleans, C. Ray Fudcicle is a complete and total fucking idiot! He is a born again racist also but that has little effect in this matter. The original version of the contract was for inventory, collection and disposal of the vehicles but in the shitstorm of controversy due mainly to the City not considering recycling options, our illustrious leaders at every level have figured out that by breaking up the elements of the contract they can continue awarding the contract indefinitely. At present they have awarded collection and storage to my friend. They have mandated the State Police to handle the inventory at no direct reimbursement and yet intend to still bid out secondary storage and disposal/recycling. It really makes perfect sense to double your transportation costs and create intermediate storage requirements. Perfect sense if you are a complete and total fucking imbecile or corrupt to the point of being evil.

As I pulled up to Beachcorner, I parked across the street from one of the derelict cars. It was a Jaguar with two flats and couple of broken windows and had clearly been fully submerged 10 months ago. I got to believe that this car has salvage value, I asked him to deliver it to my apartment but he immediately shut me down by explaining that he was contractually obligated to store the car at the State’s expense indefinitely. Mrs “all I can do is cry on national television” Governor of Louisiana, should be crying now but what does she care, she got a teacher pay raise approved, a campaign promise, never mind that 10,000 teachers lost their jobs and that every school in three Parishes were destroyed. She doesn’t need to cry anymore because she secured a raise that the remaining teachers will never be able to spot in a grocery basket. We just would’ve been a little better off had we voted for the Indian instead of the Woman.

I arrived inside to find all of the pre-Katrina barmaids along with a new one that was about 6’1” in a pair of daisy dukes. I intend to have a fantasy about that tall cool drink of water in the very near future. Included in this line up was a girl that has been serving me drinks for so long that I almost remembered her name. She without question has the most toned legs in Orleans Parish. Many an evening has been spent watching her shoot pool in twisted anticipation of her needing to lean across the table to make a shot. She had on long pants but it was okay since their were the lingerie girls whoring their tickets about the place. Girls in undersized drawers are like the second best thing to naked girls. Two of them looked like Anna Kournikova but younger and one looked like Michelle Wei but younger. I recognized two of them and felt good that there are at least two women left in the universe that I recognize in their underwear. Original sin was in the air.

I entered the bar telling myself that I would have one beer, not a cocktail but just one beer. I would let the one beer take the edge off and then find a polite way to tell my turncoat friend to go fuck himself and also lightly but professionally grovel for work from any friends that I have that just may happen to be sitting upon a giant municipal contract. As I walked in, a roar erupted from the back of the crowded bar. As I approached I was accosted by an unfamiliar hand offering a Heineken. It was ice cold! I was home! I might have two but that’s it.

Amongst the crowd at the rear was a sizable contingent from the St Bernard Parish Department of Sewer and Water. They were what we down here call “essential personnel.” They greeted the highest storm surge on record for North America and waited 5 days longer than the City of New Orleans for the first Army Hummer to arrive. They had stories!

I was sipping my third beer with one of the Kournikovas on my lap. She was a sweet young thang in every sense. Not real good with the English though. She was awfully cute and awfully young and was probably not a victim of some sort of Eastern European white slavery ring. She was however on my lap and her perky supple rack could barely be contained in her too small frilly top. Linda from the sewer of God’s Country had lit a Kool, it smelled of ambrosia. Absence makes the heart grow fonder!

Linda told a story of the desperate days in God’s Country in the early days of September. They had survived the storm and the floodwater was receding with every tide. They had made it to the secondary command center on the upper floors of Chalmette General Hospital. They watched as people wandered both by boat and self out of the marsh. Desperate times had called for desperate measures. Two teams were sent out to forage which as you know is what white people do instead of looting. The primary destinations were the Family Dollar in Chalmette and the Home Depot in Meraux. Their instructions were to gather anything usable that was above the water line and all the beer that they could carry whether above or below. Priorities are important as is anesthesia.

She said that they took what they needed in order of importance was beer, cigarettes, feminine products, toilet paper and bottled propane. I asked about water, she said that they got water and soap from the National Guard a week later and it was welcomed. She explained an elaborate sterilization process for the beer that had been submerged utilizing bleach and science. She finished the story with a community wide understanding of important priorities.

As she told this story, I was hearing the other version from a couple of my bros from Garbage. On the one week anniversary of landfall, little to no outside help had arrived in St Bernard. The Sewer folks had begun to assess the ability or inability to get pumps back in operation. They had yet to see the first element of the federal government and had only seen a few helicopters fly over. Most of the aircraft seen were running search rescue in neighboring Eastern New Orleans and the Ninth Ward. A lone helicopter landed as close as possible to the Chalmette General Site. Aboard were my two bros one of which is formerly of St Bernard Parish Government. They had purchased 50 filet mignons with all the trimmings from Ruth’s Chris Steak House in Baton Rouge and flown it to the downtrodden in God’s Country. I thought that was beautiful and ridiculous in all its splendor. As Linda said, “we were getting desperate and up flies Stevie with a large amount of beef!”

She also explained that somewhere along the way in that week it just did not seem so important not to smoke as she had quit in 1998. She has been smoking and quitting ever since.

When I first arrived, the lingerie whores came around hustling off their raffle tickets. When I was accosted, I was with my turncoat friend who also is possibly the tightest son of a bitch on earth. His tightness that I reference was during a period during which he was taking down 6 figures a year. Now that he has been unemployed for 3 or 4 months, I could only imagine that he could give Shylock a lesson or two on misering. A golden opportunity presented itself when the lingerie whore arrived. I announced that I would forgive him for fucking me if he bought me some tickets.

It was perfect I envisioned, he couldn’t possibly do something as full fledged squanderous as buying these tickets knowing clearly that it was as pointless of an expense as recreational income could ever encounter. Then, his refusal to buy the tickets would open the door to a little long overdue berating of saving his own ass and then being fucked the same way by the same guy that he sold his soul to. He bought the tickets without hesitation! Fucker!

He didn’t just buy the minimum either but an amount pissed away to a degree that encouraged one of the Kournikovas to come sit on my lap to get more. That’s a lot of tickets. So this whole thing completely derailed my ill intention. How could I ever hold this against him now? He left me nothing to do but give him unconditional absolution in this matter. That was okay because I still didn’t have to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he lucked into a little unconditional absolution. I was feeling good as number 3 hit the bar and Kournikova lept into my lap like a galloping gazelle. Damn that cigarette smelled wonderful.

So, number 5 came to the bar as cold as number 1. Number 4 was a shoo shoo as my former boss dumped it before its time with a drunken arm. 4 ½ was 3 ½ passed my self imposed limit but still 26 or 27 pints less than my driving threshold that is itself a few gallons less than my spend the night in jail threshold. The Kool tasted like shit as I enjoyed every breath of it. At this moment and just for a moment, it was Xanadu or may I even say the mythological Elysian Fields that were only a mere mile or so away.

I hit the road with a pair of jeans that fit a good bit better than when I arrived. The tobacco buzz was still there on top of the long weeks end Heinekens. I drove back to River Ridge lavishing in all the immature wonder of driving with a buzz. At that moment, Led Zeppelin was playing the perfect song and the buzz of original sin was fresh in all of its repetitive grandeur.

The Lake Pontchartrain Basin Nuclear Test Range

2006-05-25T00:20:00.000-05:00

Brad Pitt and Global Green want a C-note as an entry fee for designing a sustainable neighborhood so that won't be happening in my spare time. Besides, I am thinking the best thing for the City's sustainability right now would involve the development of the Lake Pontchartrain Basin Nuclear Testing Range. I envision enormous amounts of spending that will provide for numerous types of tactical nukes being detonated in and around the City. Most will fail, and locals will call them shoo shoos just like misfired bottle rockets. Everyone will blame our leaders for the shoo shoos and assign them the blame for inhibiting New Orleans ability to becoming the finest Nuclear Test Range in the world. Faced with our dreams of being the premier irradiated wasteland slipping away, no one will suggest or consider redeveloping and modernizing the port that was the largest port on earth for the better part of 300 years dating back to a time when we built our homes on high ground. To punish our leaders for allowing our dreams to be squandered yet again, we will lift the ban on term limits and begin re-electing them to force them to lead us until they get it right. The ones that detonate will give off spectacular mushroom plumes that will be immediately followed by unscathed jobless New Orleanians returning to their stoops to watch the parade of silly men in silly outfits roam their City.

In the aftermath, the world will watch as the media reports of all forms of life being exterminated except for a group that will be limited to humans born within a zip code that begins with 7-0 along with mosquitoes, roaches and azaleas. Science will not be able to offer an explanation for their survival but will note that the surviving alligators are more aggressive than before the bombs exploded.

When asked why they think that they survived the atomic apocalypse, groups of locals will immediately change the conversation to the racist nature of the federal government's invasion of Bill Jefferson's congressional offices and note that it is perfectly normal for "a man of color" to have $90,000 wrapped in foil and stuffed in used Popcicle boxes in his freezer because of the banks being controlled by white jews. "Homey don't trust no Israelites!"

If only Congressman Jefferson had stuffed the money in Fudcicle boxes, my spiritual world would have found balance, zen even!

Stablemaster nominated

2006-04-08T07:28:00.000-05:00

In the last 8 months or so since that whore came knocking, we have seen an abundance of reasons why we are incapable of handling our affairs. In fact, we are less capable of self-governing than your run of the mill Islamic nation whose polling places are known for the presence of soldiers and U.N. inspectors. As I write this morning, ominous anvil shaped thunderheads are building in the sky from the west.

Whether this will be merely rain or a "rain event" is anyone's guess. Whether we have reversible flood gates and or sheet piles closing the feet of canals is also anyone's guess. But what really matters is what I can make a damn pretty good guess of, and that is that all of the area Pump Operators have the day off because it is Saturday and "nobody could have ever guessed that we would have a thunderstorm on the weekend." Another near certainty is that the Knights of Columbus in their annual forage for palm fronds, tomorrow is Palm Sunday, will have their holy task made a little easier this afternoon because the fronds will be spread all over the lawns of any thoroughfare like Dickory or Carrollton that has palms on the neutral ground.

As we less than eagerly await to find out that today's potential flash flood was in part the result of our Pump Operators foraging for palm fronds instead of turning on the blasted pumps, I reminisce of all of the other unique personality disorders that have reared their heads since the whore came knocking. We have acts of the masses and the individual that note the inherent character flaws of the indigenous Metro-New Orleanian.

These most notably include those that did not evacuate. I am not speaking of those in nursing homes or who live everyday in abject poverty, those intended to be in the evacuation buses funded by dollars that C Ray Fudcicle thought better spent on basketballs, but the other 50,000-100,000 who with their running automobiles, barbecued the days away on August 27th and 28th, 2005 thinking that the whore would make a last minute turn and that they would look like geniuses compared to their neighbors who will sit in traffic for hours trying to come home. Of this group, I particularly want to note the one's who thought, expected and demanded that the Superdome, Convention Center and superstructure of the Crescent City Connection be well-appointed resorts at which to spend the early days of September. The parents of the teenagers who returned home on August 30th with guns, video games, and televisions and never considered questioning their source(s) also get dishonorable mention. These were the masses.

Also are the individual acts of idiocy. The residents of places like Lakeview that after spending years looking up to the trawls of shrimp boats passing their homes in the 17th Street Canal, thought it to be a sound preemptive measure to put their furniture on cinder blocks elevating it as much as 6 inches above the floor, just in case the levees should break. Those everywhere who just before leaving vacuumed their living rooms because, "it's so nice to come home to a clean house" and never thought to clear the leaves and twigs from the storm drain out front. Those like myself who packed four flashlights and two pairs of underwear as evacuation necessities and were quite perplexed in a blacked out Baton Rouge on August 30th trying to wear a Maglite. Those who upon returning who weeded their garden just in case the country club photographer passed, before considering calling anyone to report that their neighbor 3 doors down's house had a strong smell of natural gas.

There are the ones who tell the contractors how much insurance money that they have before getting quotes and the one's that pay the contractors in advance and are shocked when like from that commercial a few years back, they "inexplicably disappear," they dream of the contractors one day returning at which time they will, "give him a big kiss, right on the lips." The people that spend 3pm-5pm every weekday afternoon in the Metairie gridlock and still find it necessary to honk their horns. People who think that any one of those 2 dozen clowns will be able to deliver us from this collective hell by becoming Mayor. Anyone and everyone who for even a second considers using Michael Brown's consulting firm. Those who still look to Nagin, Broussard, Blanco and or our beloved bat-eared President and honestly expect leadership.

The residents of flooded homes whether in the house or in the FEMA trailer that think that their new respiratory condition is the result of the pollen count. The springtime gardeners who look out on the blue tarp horizon and pray for rain. The U.S. Army, Corps of Engineers. For all of these unique characters but particularly the greatest moronic phenomenon of the post-Katrina era, the idiots who still tailgate on the Causeway, I offer this solution.

I hereby, with godspeed and due diligence, do nominate, one Scott Strauss to become Stablemaster and spiritual leader of Katrinaville. This is the guy who after being rear-ended on the Causeway and being forced through the guardrail and into Lake Pontchartrain had the presence of mind to allow his truck to sink to the bottom and fully flood so that the pressure would equalize and allow him to open his door and swim to the surface. Mr Strauss, we need you!

As we spend the next generation recovering from the whore's wrath and with each year progressing closer and closer to the statistically certain landfall of the next whore, wouldn't it offer us a ray of hope knowing that Mr Strauss has planted his seed in each of our cows of child bearing age. Greater than floodgates and coastal restoration would be the hope of an improved gene pool. And by who better than not only a guy with something that so few of us can display on a regular basis, a little good sense but also possessing undeniably a big set of balls. I estimate his balls to be proportionately bigger than the rest of us by at least twice the proportion than the Grinch's heart grew after hearing the Who's sing without presents on Christmas morning.

Obviously, there would be other contenders for our new Stablemaster. We would have to consider that guy who after having a bullshark snatch his arm in Perdido Pass, swam to shore and gave a passing motorist instructions on how to tie the tourniquet on his severed limb. Also, considered would be the guy who has the undisputed biggest balls of them all, no not AC/DC, that guy who amputated his own arm with a pocket knife and then hiked out of the park following his rock climbing accident. Of course, Rick Tonry would nominate himself and demand a popular vote.

Louisiana needs a wartime Consigliere

2006-04-05T11:33:00.000-05:00

Free Political Prisoner Edwin W Edwards

God forgot the ankle twist

2006-04-04T12:05:00.000-05:00

2005 was an interesting year, to slightly understate it. I used to believe that I was someone like Hitler in a former life and was paying off sins with bad luck. I now have come to believe that I am more like a cockroach in the eyes of God. A mere annoyance but one that just brings out the worst in the annoyed. In 2005, God apparently finally had enough of me and kept stomping but also kept making that crucial cockroach stomp error of not doing an ankle twist or using a hard shoe. He kept stomping and I kept annoying like the Energizer cockroach.

The events that lead to my intended demise began when in an attempt to save like three dollars per month elected to stripdown my health insurance coverage by having higher copayments and deductibles. Since taking that action less than fourteen months ago, I have sought emergency medicine more times than in my 41 years prior. The odyssey began to come into view on Easter weekend of last year.

On Good Friday, I arrived in the E.R. for the second time in two weeks with recurring severe lower abdominal pain. It was soon discovered that my nuts were in a bind, literally! This condition at best guess was caused by me sitting upon my testes for great lengths and not realizing it. Guys! Wrap your head around that one and Girls do not even bother trying. I cannot ever hope to describe with words the impossibility of getting ones own balls underneath them much less the notion that one may crush his own nuts and not fucking realize it! And to think, I make fun of the Transgendered.

To celebrate tax day I passed a kidney stone. I sucked that one up and let it pass without much dismay. Apparently, at this point, God realized that he was lacking the standard New Orleanian ankle twist but did not fret since he also knew a thing or two about the human genome long before any of us. It seems that just in case he may have to kill me one day, he created me with a condition conducive to blood clotting. To hedge his bet further he gave me a tinge of self-destruction and introduced me to his second and third true wonders of the world, beer and cigarettes. I hear ya! Well, I say fuck that free will shit, if he gets credit for the Great Smoky Mountains, he gets credit for this too. So, realizing his lack of ankle twisting and my shrugging off the kidney stone with much less fanfare and whining than may have been expected in my hypocondriactic existence, he put his little Deep Venous Thrombosis into motion.

Less than a month after the stone, the first of several bloodclots began traveling from my leg to my lungs. Bigger and badder his techniques were becoming but still no twist! I walked out of the hospital with a new lease on life in time for the upcoming summer solstice. I just knew in my heart that the worst of 2005 was behind me and that all would be a cakewalk from here. It was June 15th, the opening day of the Atlantic tropical storm season.

Twisted nuts, kidney stone, DVT, Pulmonary Embolai, the warm-up was over, let the games begin! I awoke on the morning of August 27th vaguely recalling that the night before I had heard that yet another hurricane was hammering Florida. A little early morning channel surfing had me stumble across the local weather guy, Carl Arridondo standing next to the infamous national hurricane center, cone of death with the mouth of the Mississippi River dead center. It was 4a.m. and I was watching a 10:00p.m. rebroadcast. I turned on the Weather Channel and found that Jim "the angel of death" Cantore was stating that he was leaving Mobile and heading for New Orleans............I thought, "we're fucked!"

I was right!

Bigger and badder but no twist! As the world's finest news source reported with their lead headline under which was a picture of the flooded City taken from the Crescent City Connection and viewing down the Pontchartrain Expressway towards the Lake, "God outdoes Terrorists, Yet Again!"

Half a month later, as I began cleaning the remnants of my recently dewatered offices, he gave me another swift kick, Atrial Fibrillation. A little reminder of the emobolai and of his omnipotent wrath. Back to the E.R., I went.

A friend of mine sent me an email that I had sent her from my refugee villa in Baton Rouge shortly after getting out of East Jefferson and hustling a ride out of Katrinaville. Actually I have no recollection of how I got back to B.R. I must have driven to Metairie before being carried to the E.R.

When I first read this draft, I thought it to be more para-psychotic than usual and was not going to post it here much to her dismay. As I have read it a few more times along with a few more trips to the E.R.(God can really be relentless), I have decided to post it not only because it offers a snapshot of my refugee days but because I think it has just a wee bit hint of post traumatic stress going on and I am certain it holds some value in the ultimate acquisition, the Crackrock of Knowledge.

Sunday September 18th;

spent a couple days in the hospital, had some live current run through my heart, I feel fine!

Lotsa military types with IV's laying round East Jefferson General. Apparently, New Orleans in September is actually less bearable than a wartime desert. Who'da thunk it? Me for 1!

Its the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine!

I got a knock at the door this morning which is not uncommon since I have become like the resident assistant for Allied Waste families residing in the Villages of Northgate. At the door were these four dudes on horseback although their horses were more like 8 foot tall demonic wolverines. I invited them in for quesadillas and Lil Debbies. They obliged.

They introduced themselves as Death, Famine, Pestilence and War. Pestilence goes by Plague for short and was a real motor mouth. They were looking for directions to the Quarter apparently Southern Decadence is just their kind of gig. I shut Plague up by breaking out the Zebra Cakes and Fudge Rounds. He made a real glutton of himself. Mr Death explained that much to my surprise that God is a Methodist and is particularly down on fags and savages. War chimed in and said that he is also aggravated by all of the folks who themselves try to act like gods or at least deities. This bunch is a hodgepodge of clergy, soldiers, doctors and cops. Famine brought it all into perspective.

Famine chose to eat nothing and politely sipped on a Dasani that I served. I think it was a She but I cannot be certain since the girl was shriveled and down right homely. She explained that they had been summoned to lay waste to a number of Sodomites in sort of a market correction of mankind sort of way. The onslaught of Katrina was the mere beginning but clearly laid waste to the biggies of misbehavior for the Methodist. Gambling and homosexuality. I questioned if Southern Decadence was in fact the target why did the Quarter seemed to be spared.

This really got Mr Death's panties in a bind. Apparently, this bunch aint use to fielding questions and just like to be heard. But what the fuck? They were after all eating all of MY snack cakes and tortillas! Death explained that a choice had been made to target the most offensive homos. While the Quarter certainly has a concentration of gay men, it is the lesbians that are by far the most offensive so the dike breeding neighborhoods of Arabi, Faubourg St John and Northern East Jefferson were targeted. I had to agree that generally speaking dikes tend to be salty and down right unpleasant kind of like Martha Stewart......wait, same thing!

War was preoccupied with some stuff he was coordinating over in ancient Mesopotamia. Clearly a racist, I was uncomfortable with his constantly using terms like kike and sand nigger. Plague explained further now that Famine and Death had drowned the gamblers and lesbians of the gulf coast that he was stepping up to handle the idolaters and self proclaimed deities. His sword will be TD#18 that by the time it reaches the mouth of the Mississippi will be a Cat1 hurricane and will stall over Lake Borgne for 40 days and nights. The flooding rains will inundate the Ohio and Tennessee river valleys as well as drown every spare cop, fireman, doctor, nurse and preacher in the hemisphere as they are all congregating in a flood zone after brazingly deliberately undermining its flood protection.

The technique was first used by the Trojans but was mastered by the Nazis and the provisional IRA. The idea Plague explained was that when bombing innocence it is best to use multiple timed blasts with the first drawing attention from emergency response types and the second being of an anti-personnel type to lay waste to the egotistical do-gooders. Mr Death had a walking stick or perhaps one might call it a shaft that played Bauhaus. A rather eery device considering the subject matter.

Before leaving they told me that next week Memphis will look like New Orleans last week and that New Orleans will look like ancient Alexandria that is 35 feet under the Dead Sea. They also said that beachfront developments in Cleveland will be all the rave next summer and that if we all do not straighten up and get on the W wagon that the next Cat5 will stall over Lake Michigan.

Upon leaving, Pestilence mentioned that he wants to be a late entry participant on Rockstar INXS, curious, I think!
**********************************************************
A few noteworthy points;

The Villages of Northgate in Baton Rouge is a shithole off campus student housing complex for LSU. It has a high concentration of Indian(like Ghandi, not Geronimo) and Pakistani residents. These kids in my view were amongst the hardest hit by Katrina. Not only had every available unit been rapidly occupied by displaced New Orleans garbage men and their families but for a really sad few they had their own families living with them. What could be scarier than going away to college and having your parents move in with you? Well, being a hard working American citizen and having a group of Indian exchange students pool their beer money to buy you bed linens and your kids toys is pretty fucking scary!

It was Methodists that burned those churchs in Mississippi and Alabama. I guess he don't like Baptists either.

savages: post-Katrina brought out the best in most everyone but when I sit back and look at last year it becomes obvious that most of the time my neighbors particularly in New Orleans itself are absolutely a bunch of fucking savages that do not have the good sense to get out of the rain.

On September 18th, TD #18 was the storm that eventually became Hurricane Rita, a Cat 5 storm with the fourth lowest central pressure on record. I missed the landfall by 200 miles but it respectfully kicked the living shit out of Acadiana and flooded Memphis. I aint Nostrodamus as far as you know but ..................

Undermined flood protection: As I write today, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers is rapidly closing the feet of every major outfall canal in Jefferson and Orleans to protect us from the potential storm surge of a 25 year storm hitting us this year after being hit by two last year. Allow me to take a stab at some more Nostrodamus shit. A future press conference by the Corps and local officials apologizing for closing the outfalls with University experts being quoted that nobody ever expected that it might rain a whole fucking lot in a single day in New Orleans.

The Memphis/New Orleans/Alexandria comparison was better stated by my Sister a few weeks ago who said Baton Rouge may become the next New Orleans since New Orleans has become the next Pompei. I was down below the industrial canal a few weeks back and traveled all the way to Toca in lower St Bernard and there is definitely a Pompei quality about the landscape that is primarily gray. Pompei it is!

I rang in the late evening and early morning of the popularly recognized new millenia at Le Bon Tempe on Magazine Street, half heartedly waiting to welcome the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. It was January 1st, 2000. Much debate has come and gone over whether the new millenia actually began on that day or one year later but since the computers had the Y2K issue to overcome and because people generally when left to their own designs are idiots we opted to celebrate the new millenia a year early, or not? I am sure that there is a calendar expert somewhere that can attest that the new millenia actually arrived in Central Daylight Time in the wee hours of August 29th, 2005.

Embrace the Apocalypse for it is upon us. Or maybe, just maybe, it is just God fucking with Hitler incarnate, moi.

I had another embolism hit my lung last week.

Still no ankle twist though!

The Neopolitan Code

2006-03-23T19:39:00.000-06:00

Good Evening,

Yes, Joy you are correct that I should post more often but to what was the pouldeau reference I am not sure. It was however excellent spelling of a rather obscure term. A pouldeau is one step better or worse than a dogree(sp?)? One Mardi Gras several years ago, I met a guy who introduced himself as Dogree. I am not sure whether this was his God-given name but I'd imagine that being named Dogree is like ten times worse than being a boy named Sue. I suspect that he may have been transgendered.

The timeliness of my postings, I shall work on. I am still a bit reluctant or apprehensive of this particular vehicle of media however, every time that I call a press conference nobody shows up. Well, except for that guy from the Pink Hood, which as I am sure you know is the homosexual faction of the Ku Klux Klan. Their reporter makes me very uncomfortable and I suspect him of being a social deviant of some sort.

And No, you do not wish to know the derivation of Big Tuna. I can imagine telling you and visualize you closing your eyes and shaking your head slightly in dissatisfaction. You know, that ever so slight shaking thing that you and our mother do? It is kind of like an aging Richard Prior on awards night.

And you, the Anonymous H-Dogg are a racist bastard but one funny muthafucker just the same. Anonymous H-Dogg reminds me of that jewelry store in the Fat City of our youth. It had huge letters painted across the side of the building that read, "Genuine Faux Pas Diamonds." I love that term. It is like fresh sour cream to me.

In today's Times Pickyernose Aaron Broussard unveiled the all new and improved "Doomsday Plan" for Jefferson Parish. Allow me to paraphrase;

Jefferson Parish President Aaron Broussard unveiled on Wednesday drafts of his overhauled "doomsday plan," a set of detailed policies that attempt to keep pump operators and other essential employees as close to their work stations as safely as possible during hurricanes.

Broussard offered up the plans for comments from council members and the public until he finalizes them in April. The policies are expected to be the most significant revisions to the parish's previous emergency plan that ordered crews to evacuate to Washington Parish, a 110-mile journey that was into the direct storm path of Katrina kind of like when that goofy chiropractor that lived around the corner from me as a child evacuated his family from Metairie to Biloxi for Hurricane Camille and when faced with the idiocy of that plan remained on the coast and scrambled to Pensacola Beach, an area that was still lambasted by Camille. Contrary to Broussard's numerous explanations for pump operators being evacuated that include numerous conflicting causes for flooding in East Jefferson, most residents and engineers believe that all flooding in East Jefferson was to some degree the result of surge water blowing through the unmanned pump stations and could have been avoided largely had operators been in place.

As they stare down hurricane season, parish officials rarely miss an opportunity to declare as a top priority finding safe lodging for essential employees inside the parish.

The plan is the elaborate sort of preparation that everyone in the Parish thought already existed for the potential threat of the Big One coming to Metry. It is a monumental undertaking that Broussard is certain can be completed by the June 15th start of Hurricane Season. It is funny really in a deeply sickening funny sort of way that the media reports nearly everyday of new major infrastructural improvement that will be complete by June 15th. The entire Metro area will be better prepared for a storm by June 15th than it was prior to Katrina. Am I the only one who has noticed only very small or meager accomplishment in the last 7 months but we are going to be the envy of Holland and Japan when it comes to flood protection in less than 3 months?

June 15th, 2006 or June 15th, 3006?

The Jefferson Doomsday Plan was rolled out by Aaron Broussard, Dr. Walter Maestri and Deano Banano. It involves constructing safe houses for essential employees on both sides of the River.

Dr. Walter Maestri, whose original name is Wilhelm Merkwurdigliebe but changed it after his father was indicted to the Nuremberg Tribunals is Emergency Preparedness Director for the Parish. He envisions 4 safehouses on each side of the River. Each will be able to house not only the much reveled pump operators but also other essential personnel. They will be located above the 3rd floor of structures that can withstand Category 5 Hurricane force winds. These "safehouses" will be stocked with long term supplies of survival needs in the event that the Big One may actually one day enter the Mouth of the Mississippi and flood roughly every neighborhood on the River's floodplain south of Memphis Tennessee.

The Big One

In preparing for the storm that Katrina almost was, Maestri acknowledged that in addition to supplying immediate and essential service that these safehoused personnel will be required to repopulate the Parish after it is dewatered of the estimated 25 ft of water that will occupy the area following the Big One. The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers estimates that it will take 97 years to dewater Jefferson following the Big One but anyone who has paid attention to Corps estimates before, during, or after Katrina's landfall knows that it will more likely be a matter of months. However, the length of time needed to dewater the Parish will be irrelevent since anyone outside of the safehouses that does not evacuate will perish.

Safehouses

The safehouses will be equipped with flotation devices and rafts should the occupants need to evacuate from rising water. Each resident will have enough personal space to lie comfortably and also to store their personal container of human waste. In another plan, Broussard intends to sponsor a referendum that requires all residents of the Parish during a declared state of emergency to be required to retain at all times their own "personal human waste." When asked, Broussard did confirm that he, in fact, is cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. The safehouses will require being staffed with persons not only well trained in their individual essential specialty for instance pump operators but will also be chosen for their ability to properly repopulate the Parish.

The Chosen

Safehouse residents will be chosen on their individual outstanding physical and mental attributes. In addition to performing an essential task, women will be chosen who are of child bearing age and possess "highly pleasing sexual characteristics," men will be chosen who are highly intelligent and physically well above average. "Sadly, we will have to suspend statutes regarding monogamy as it will become necessary for the chosen to breed prodigiously to properly repopulate the Parish with true Jeffersonians" said Maestri with a slight Bavarian accent.

Deano Banano elaborated further on the development of the Safehouses. Banano whose family name in the old country was Banana and was changed after his ancestors arrived at Ellis Island and found that people just did not take them seriously. The Bananas have had many reformist ideas on good government in the new world including one that would run government as a business by turning over all power to the highly respected Sicilian multi-national conglomerate La Cosinostro. In later years, the Bananas, now the Bananos, fostered a program for better physical hygiene in New York's Little Italy that required residents to wear under garments. When faced with the difficulty of enforcing the under garment requirement, they proposed that everyone must wear their undergarments on the outside of their clothes for ease of enforcement. It can only be viewed as a matter of destiny that Giuseppe Banana's great-grandson Deano Banano would hook up with Broussard and Maestri to complete the unholy trinity.

The Safehouse Gap

Banano, said that the exact number of safehouses and chosen must be kept secret due largely to the fear that the City of New Orleans will follow Jefferson's lead and develop safehouses of their own. The New Orleans safehouses will likely be staffed with persons of a less desirable nature that could lead to an imbalance of genetic perfection in the Metropolitan post-Big One era. Bonano said, "we must be careful not to loose our lead in what will surely become a recognized safehouse gap. We have a duty to ensure that Jefferson and the entire Metro area continues enjoying vanilla ice cream in at least the same quantity that they were prior to the Big One."

The Neopolitan Code

After 400 years or so of undoing the rather back-asswards guidelines of the Napoleonic Code, Louisiana immediately upon finally disavowing the Napoleonic Code adopted the Neopolitan Code by which all residents must only enjoy one flavor of ice cream. Under the formation of the Neopolitan Code, the PACs and Lobbies for Vanilla and Chocolate roughly divided the entire state by population. It was designated that the Chocolates would receive the population center of New Orleans and the Vanillas would receive the remainder of the State. The Strawberries having no organized political apparatus was relegated to accepting a sliver of Chocolate territory since politically they lean much closer to chocolate than to vanilla. The Strawberries were given, though small, the most desired property in the State, the New Orleans Vieux Carre but it was conditional that they also accept the slums of Faubourg Marigny to which they had no choice but to agree.

A rare few, rather twisted, Louisianians still insist to partake in multiple flavors. Both the Vanillas and the Chocolates had to accept these mutts. They have ended up with small pockets in New Orleans' Mid City and rural Acadiana. Curious is the idea that God prefers pure bloodlines. Perhaps the keeping track of all of his creatures is hard enough as it is or perhaps he is a vengeful God that doesnt care for those who tamper with his divine wisdom. In either case, his short-lived but very impressive creations, Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, cleansed Louisiana of all signs of these cross flavored freaks.

The Parish Council agreed on Wednesday to lease 23,500 square feet on the third and fourth floors of the Clearview Shopping Center, which would become East Jefferson's emergency operations center stocked with key supplies, equipment and boats. The parish would lease the space for $2,000 a month during the six-month hurricane season. It was unclear whether Clearview Shopping Center actually has a fourth floor and the Council did not respond when this question was raised.

Broussard said he wanted residents to review the draft documents to feel more secure. He said he would send them to civic and business groups for feedback and offer tours of the safe houses on April 6. The parish would post the plans on its Web site -- www.jeffparish.net. -- this week, Bonano said.

"You're seeing a lot more specifics in this rendition than we had in the old plans," Broussard said. "All aspects of our plans are being revised."

In Other News:

A team of federal inspectors lead by Michael Chertoff arrived at the Ernest N. Morial Convention Center today to put to rest constant rumors that it was an impromptu shelter overwhelmed with starving refugees. Upon finding no signs of anyone at one of the nation's premier convention facilities, Chertoff reiterated the White House message that New Orleans is experiencing a robust economic boom following Katrina and that clearly Brian Williams is a biased left wing propaganda spinster seeking to discredit our beloved bat-eared president with rumors of evacuees dying of dehydration. Chertoff pointed out eleven chalk outlines of human bodies on the sidewalks outside the Convention Center and wondered aloud that he hoped to see the premier of CSI-New Orleans this fall.

Crackrock of Knowledge

2006-03-11T17:21:00.000-06:00

I have been compelled to begin blogging as a result of when I am hopped up on a number of things but most notably sugar or booze, anyone and usually everyone within earshot have uttered the words, "dude, you gotta blog." Sometimes it's a request and other times it's a plea. My main reluctance to do so has been the simple fact that the term "blog" is an utterly bullshit term to the degree that I do not even have a starting point to attempt to explain with some level of authority where it is that the term comes from or what the fuck it means. Of blogging, I am without knowledge and as Emil Faber said, "knowledge is good!"

Secondly, I have very little knowledge of the technical know how needed to set up such a thing as one's own blog. With everything I attempt to do, I try to have a little knowledge going in. There were hard lessons learned by mankind when I did not follow this motto with my endeavors into marriage and parenting. I would have attempted this years ago I think, had I known how to publish and lay out something like the Onion. An interesting point and perhaps one of my encouragements to getting this thing going is that every major legitimate newspaper in America has a poorly laid out web page. Perhaps, the Onion IS America's finest news source!

Over and above my reluctance to begin this fact finding episode in my lifelong quest for knowledge has been the encouragement of many but significantly that of two persons that I hold dear. In the end like so many of my endeavors I hope to achieve an enlightenment that can only be derived from something in it's purest form. Yes, this blog is an attempt by me to find the Crackrock of Knowledge. In the event that this attempt becomes a huge failure of which I cannot fathom how such a thing would be graded, I must now malign through association the respected names of the principal two that have driven me to this point.

The first and most recent is my bro T-Roy. Anyone from down here in Katrinaville knows that the placement of the T in front of someone's name gives them the distinction of either being big, little or the absolute individual One. Not so much the One like Keanu Reeeves, more like the significant article used as it was by the Dude or El Duderino if you can't handle the brevity of it all. In this function, T-Roy is more of The Roy than that of big Roy or lil Roy. T-Roy like the other chief encourager holds an official post in a communist nation and I must note that I do not seek out these heathens of which to associate but I believe that they are a byproduct of my fondness for the three R's, Reduce, Reuse and Recycle as an optimal alternative to landfilling ones backyard full of their waste. T-Roy is a politburo designee of the State of Oregon known for it's liberal bias and selective engineering as well as very respectable recycling recovery rates that I suspect can only be achieved through the elimination of property owner rights and embracing regional communism. I will discuss more about the Oregon poverty pimps and their methods of selective engineering in a later publication. T-Roy guilted me when I was at a moment of weakness and convinced me that my words were "art" in a way that only your diehard pinko can do. It was T-Roy's amazing powers of intuition that knew I had unfinished blog business with the other principal encourager. Yes, folks, mindfucked by a girl yet again! But particularly troublesome is the fact that it was done by a commie chick with a dude's name.

The true principal encourager and whose fault this will be in the event of it's utter failure, I just heard this morning, will likely be named this coming week as High Minister of Socialized Medicine for the Peoples Republic of San Francisco. I claim no responsibilty for association with this individual as he married my sister, an act that was completely out of my control. On a humorous side note however is that my sister while on a search for love in San Francisco, the kind of homogenized love that is never associated with the letters GLBT, she was forced to import herself a straight man from Georgia. A future publication or two may also address this GLBT phenomenon. Particularly the T. I think it was the Marquis de Sade in the 120 Days of Sodom who wrote, Transgendered? That shit sounds scary! So, my brother-in-law, a few Christmas' back, put a $20 bill or two in my stocking for the sole purpose of funding my blog of which at that time I was using the excuse not to do so as the unknown funds that it may require. You see, Guilt, as useless of an emotion that it may be, is my driving force, my lifeforce if you will. I am actually very proficient at feelings of guilt and dare not overlook the coincedence that this may or may not be attributed to myself like most all of my fellow residents of Katrinaville being Catholic. Certainly not Opus Dei Catholic, in fact barely ever see the inside of a church Catholic, but equally fucked up guilt ridden Catholic just the same. I can't fully explain but what I can say is that during lent, which is occuring as I write, my belly wants fried crustaceans. 300+ days a year at any moment, morning, noon or night, I crave the porterhouse but every lent for only God knows why it's, crabs, crabs, crabs, and maybe shrimp, crawfish or flounder but usually crabs. More on the theory of crustaceanism in a later publication.

I now find myself unemployed with nothing but time and an internet connection to deal with, the guilt of knowing Dr. Brother-in-Law's endowment was squandered long ago. Does anyone think if he reads this, he may not realize that the site costs nothing and that I actually get 25 or 30 cents a month, if you click on that banner ad? Don't answer. Don't think. Just click!