Why is everyone so surprised that Mike Pence is a giant a-hole? I knew this cat was evil the first time I saw him, when he tried to strangle Goldie Hawn in the library in "Foul Play" back in '78. In the library, people!!!
Good to see you're still in league with midgets, Pence...er, Whitey Jackson...
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Monday, February 16, 2015
And then there's Millard Fillmore, our 13th -- and perhaps most irrelevant -- president, who is best known (at least by me!) for successfully negotiating a treaty with Peru for the use of -- wait for it -- guano.
So move over, George and Abe. You’re going to have to share today with the Millard Fillmores and Franklin Pierces, the failures and flops. Because I've written a really bad poem celebrating them and their, uhh, achievements. So for all you Arthurians and Fillmorons out there, this bad poem is for you:
You ended up a Know-Nothing,
After starting out a Whig
But about Millard Fillmore
Now no one gives a fig.
Still, your picture hangs in the White House hall
Though you’re Presidential detritus
But you’d never have gotten there at all
If not for Zach Taylor’s gastroenteritis.
When it comes to mediocrity
Millard, you’re number one
You’re less memorable than Franklin Pierce
Who, while Prez, got nothing done
John Tyler and James Buchanan
Bow to your mediocre ways
And when measuring accomplishments
You’re no Rutherford B. Hayes
Compared to you Cal Coolidge was full of pep,
and Grover Cleveland was the bomb
At least Andrew Johnson was a roaring drunk
and Ford got shot at by Squeaky Fromme.
Warren Harding had the teapot dome
and gambled away the White House china
Martin Van Buren had awesome muttonchops
Why, even Benjamin Harrison was finer.
Herbert Hoover was not mediocre, he was bad
And so he cannot challenge you
And if Hoover was the worst president
Then Bush Junior smells like number two
That leaves just one inconsequential gent
To battle you, mano-a-mano,
But even Chester Alan Arthur can’t
Knock you off your pile of guano.
Friday, January 16, 2015
“So that’s how you want to play it, huh?” yelled Santa. “You wanta play rough?” He leaned down and picked up a tommy gun from the floor. “You wanta play games? Let’s play! Say hello-ho-ho to my little friend!”
I sprinted for the bank of windows along the far wall as he swung the big gun around at me and pulled the trigger, screaming. Santa’s machine gun belched flame as he cut a jagged swath of death across the room: rat-a-tat-tat...
Grandma got run over by a reindeer. Or did she? There's only one man tough enough to take on the Santa syndicate and get to the truth: Johnny Jingleballs, North Pole P.I. But Santa's midget goons aren't about to let Johnny just walk in and bust up the Kringle gang. Can Johnny lick the fat man and his dinky Dillingers? Find out in "Farewell, My Portly," a gooey, raisin-filled fruitcake of a mystery.
Click here to read "Farewell, My Portly"