from the case files of Sam Stain, Private Eye, who's been hired by Donald Trump to go to Honolulu to bring back the President's placenta
Two-and-a-half hours after Trump left my office I was sitting in a first-class seat on a Hawaiian Air jet, a portable DVD player in my lap. It was one of those fancy, new, high-tech jobs that weigh about as much as a feather. They were all the rage and would be for about two weeks, until the R&D boys came out with one that was even smaller.
Trump had the dingus sent over before I left, along with a manila envelope full of DVDs. Of Fox News. “Background, Stain,” he’d told me, “on Obama’s birth certificate. I want you to watch these on the plane. All of them, or you’re fired. I want you to hit the ground running when you land. I want to nail this guy.”
Fifteen hours of Fox News? I wanted to tell him to stick the feather up his pink, puckered taint, that way we’d both be tickled to death, but I needed this job. I needed it bad. So I put a disk in the dingus, and I watched. God help me, I watched them all.
Fifteen hours and seven bourbons later we touched down in Honolulu. I staggered off the plane and onto the tarmac with the sun beating down hard, the air as hot and heavy as Limbaugh’s breath. My head felt like the King Kamehamehas – all five of them – had taken turns sitting on it. It was five o’clock in the afternoon and I was drunk, but not on bourbon. I was looped up on Fox.
All the nuttiness, all the lies, fifteen hours worth, had been pounded into my skull. My brain was spinning like Bill O’Reilly on crack. A parade of wingnuts marching to some crazy, mixed-up tune only they could hear. Steve Doocy, Megyn Kelly, Britt Hume, Karl Rove…. After an hour I filled up the airsick bag. But they kept on coming, as relentless as the tides. Ann Coulter. Dick Morris. Bill Kristol. David Brooks. And oh, yes, Glenn Beck with his crazy, teabagger conspiracy theories. Obama’s a muslim. A socialist, a communist, a nazi. He’s the antichrist. He wants to redistribute our wealth. He should have gone into Libya. He needs to get out of Libya. We need to lower taxes on the rich so they can create jobs. Supply-side economics, trickling down to the rest of us. It just kept on coming, like rain in the tropics. It was a typhoon of batshit, an endless downpour of drivel, and it soaked me to the bone. But then somewhere over the great Midwest – Iowa, maybe – a funny thing happened. The batshit turned to guano, and, like any good fertilizer, it fed nutrients into the parched, gray soil of my braincrops. Something was happening to my think tank. It was all starting to make sense. The drivel was seeping in, saturating my mind with a new truth. I could feel it easing into my bloodstream, filling me with warmth. My worries lifted like helium balloons at a little rich girl’s birthday. Bozo the clown was there, with his giant feet, honking his big, red nose. It was all so … easy. For the first time, everything became clear. A dark veil had lifted. All those things I’d spent my life niggling over, global warming, the poor and the downtrodden, world peace, a woman's right to choose, minority rights, worker’s rights, all of it, slipping away, like traitors in the night to join the enemies of America, freedom and the marketplace. For the first time, I had someone to blame. For everything. The illegals and the unions. Old people on medicare and social security. Environmentalists. The Gays. Liberals. Hippies. Planned Parenthood. Acorn! It was like Ayn Rand wrote. They were parasites, sucking the lifeblood out of honest, hard-working Americans like me.
And of course, there was the Big Kahuna, the reason I was here. The birther conspiracy. Orly Taitz, wearing that ridiculous wig, but speaking the truth. Obama was born in Kenya, of that there was no denying. If he wasn’t, where was the birth certificate? What were they hiding with this phony baloney certificate of live birth? It was up to me to find out. The placenta. I had to get the placenta.
Reeling, I made my way up the tarmac. A hula girl in a grass skirt came wiggling towards me, hips shaking. She was holding a flowery wreath in her hands. She came at me, lifting the noose. She was trying to strangle me with it. I grabbed her arm, twisting it behind her back. “Hold it right there, Tokyo Rose. What are you, an illegal? You don’t look American to me. What are you trying to do to me with that thing?”
She cried out in pain, her double mocha brown eyes suddenly big with fear. “Ow!” she screamed. “You’re hurting me! It’s just a lei. A traditional Hawaiian greeting…”
I sneered, hissed in her ear. “Nice try, senorita. A lei. Ha! Buncha fruity colored flowers. It looks gay to me. Are you trying to make me gay?” I pushed her away. “Take a hike, kewpie doll. Save it for the NAMBLA parade! Go peddle your commie filth somewhere else.”
A couple of half-naked hula boys came at me, brown, SPAM-fed muscles rippling in the sun. They were nothing to me. The dark-skinned minions of the gay, liberal nanny state. I laid them out on the tarmac. They could sleep it off. Maybe I’d knocked some sense into them. Then again, maybe not. They were wearing skirts, after all. They’d probably wake up, head down to the courthouse and get married. Hawaii was one of those states. Like Vermont. I shuddered, heading for the rental car lot. I would have to watch my back here in the Aloha state. It was clear these tax-and-spend, bleeding-heart liberal gay bastards would stop at nothing to keep me from finding the President's placenta.
TO BE CONTINUED
picture
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
From the Case Files of Trump's Hawaii Investigator: Aloha, My Lovely, A Sam Stain Caper
Part One: Dial "B" for Birther
He said his name was The Donald. I should have known the foof spelled trouble when he walked into my office and started blathering about the President’s birth certificate.
I stubbed out my Lucky Strike and glanced up at him, taking in the $12,000 Armani suit, the perfectly bronzed-yet-bloated face, lapis lazuli eyes as blue-as-the-Blue Lagoon. I half expected Brooke Shields to go swimming across them, one to the other, with Christopher Atkins in hot pursuit. And of course that brass-blond thing on top of his skull he called his hair, all combed forward in a crazy swoop, held in place with enough hairspray to blow a hole in ten ozones. It reminded me of cotton candy. Or maybe a dead marmot.
“That thing on your head,” I said, splashing a shot of bourbon into a Styrofoam cup. “Has it had its shots?”
He didn’t like that. The half-crazed, half-stupid look in his eye caught fire and he leaned back in his chair. “You’re fired,” he said, lifting his chin defiantly.
I raised the Styrofoam cup to my lips. “You can’t fire me. You haven’t hired me yet.”
He pursed his lips, eyeing me across the desk like a proctologist studying a polyp. “That’s true,” he said. “You’re a smart guy. I need a smart guy like you, Stain. That is your name, isn’t it? Samuel Stain, Private Eye?”
“That’s what it says on the door,” I said, nodding at the flaking sign on the frosted glass window, right above the bullet hole. Souvenir from an old client. I really should have got that fixed.
He pulled an airline ticket out of his pocket and dropped it on my desk. “How’d you like to spend a week in Hawaii, all expenses paid? Plus your fee, of course.”
The bourbon came shooting out of my mouth like Old Faithful and splashed down on his expensive silk shirt. It had been yellow when he sat down. Now there was a dark brown stain spreading across the front, with little flecks of green. That would be the relish from the hot dog I’d had for lunch. Oops.
“The dry cleaning comes out of your bill,” he said.
“Tell me what I need to know, Mr. Trump.” I refilled the Styrofoam cup, lit another Lucky Strike, put my feet on my desk and listened.
Turned out he’d been peddling his story for the past few weeks on every talk show in the country. The one about the President not being born in this country. Nobody believed it, except for the wing-nuts. I shouldn’t have either. But when someone waves an all-expenses paid trip to paradise in your face, you don’t say no. Not to The Donald, anyway. Maybe that’s why I didn’t throw the foof out of my office. Or maybe it was the picture I had in my head. The one of a pale, tired sap, broke and going nowhere, lying on a sun-splashed Waikiki beach next to a gorgeous bottle blonde. She was wearing a little green bikini with pink polka dots on it, like in the song, only hers held a pair of gun turrets the size of the ones on those sunken battleships at the bottom of Pearl Harbor. I kept listening.
He was after the President’s birth certificate. The original. He’d sent two tough guys from Jersey out to the islands to get it. That was a month ago. At first they’d reported back regular by phone. Twice a day, like clockwork. We’re making progress, they’d said. You won’t believe the stuff we’re finding out here, they’d said. It’ll blow the doors off this whole story. They said. Then suddenly, three days ago, the phone calls stopped. He tried calling them. No luck. So he called the hotel where he’d put them up. The Trump International, of course.
“It’s a beautiful 38-story property, located just steps away from Waikiki’s famous white sand beaches.” He sounded like a bad infomercial. “With gorgeous views of the Pacific, Diamond Head, the Honolulu skyline, and the magnificent Ko’olau Mountains. It’s opulent. You can’t beat it, Stain.”
I stared at him, at the soft, almost imperceptible tan-lines around his eyes, those lapis lazuli eyes that pulled me in, like the sparkling cerulean waters of the Pacific.
I took a long drag off the Lucky Strike and blew smoke rings at him across the desk. “Opulent,” I said. “Huh. So did you find out what happened to the Jersey boys or what?”
He shook his head, but his hair didn’t move. “No, Stain. I didn’t. The girl I spoke with at the hotel, delightful girl, Phyllis, I think her name was, said they’d checked out. No idea where they went. I’ve checked up with their associates in Jersey. Nobody’s heard a thing from them. They've disappeared, Stain.”
“And you want me to go find them,” I said.
“That’s right,” said The Donald. “Find out what happened. What they found out about Obama. I want to know it all, Stain. Everything. And if you do find them, tell them, for me, they’re fired.”
I looked down at the airline ticket on my desk. I hadn’t had a vacation since I was ten. My old man took me to Coney Island for the afternoon. I ate three elephant’s ears and threw up on the Tilt o’ Whirl. Some vacation. I grabbed the ticket.
On his way out, Trump stopped at the door and spoke at me over his shoulder. “One more thing, Stain. I don’t just want the birth certificate now. I need more proof.”
My eyes widened. “More proof than a birth certificate? Like what?”
He turned toward me, the blue-as-the-Blue Lagoon eyes gazing down from his oh-so perfectly tanned face. “I want the placenta,” he said. Then he went out, closing the door behind him. His shadow paused on the other side as he turned toward the frosted glass. I saw his lips move through the bullet hole in the window. They said, “Get me the President’s placenta, Stain, or you’re fired.”
TO BE CONTINUED
He said his name was The Donald. I should have known the foof spelled trouble when he walked into my office and started blathering about the President’s birth certificate.
I stubbed out my Lucky Strike and glanced up at him, taking in the $12,000 Armani suit, the perfectly bronzed-yet-bloated face, lapis lazuli eyes as blue-as-the-Blue Lagoon. I half expected Brooke Shields to go swimming across them, one to the other, with Christopher Atkins in hot pursuit. And of course that brass-blond thing on top of his skull he called his hair, all combed forward in a crazy swoop, held in place with enough hairspray to blow a hole in ten ozones. It reminded me of cotton candy. Or maybe a dead marmot.
“That thing on your head,” I said, splashing a shot of bourbon into a Styrofoam cup. “Has it had its shots?”
He didn’t like that. The half-crazed, half-stupid look in his eye caught fire and he leaned back in his chair. “You’re fired,” he said, lifting his chin defiantly.
I raised the Styrofoam cup to my lips. “You can’t fire me. You haven’t hired me yet.”
He pursed his lips, eyeing me across the desk like a proctologist studying a polyp. “That’s true,” he said. “You’re a smart guy. I need a smart guy like you, Stain. That is your name, isn’t it? Samuel Stain, Private Eye?”
“That’s what it says on the door,” I said, nodding at the flaking sign on the frosted glass window, right above the bullet hole. Souvenir from an old client. I really should have got that fixed.
He pulled an airline ticket out of his pocket and dropped it on my desk. “How’d you like to spend a week in Hawaii, all expenses paid? Plus your fee, of course.”
The bourbon came shooting out of my mouth like Old Faithful and splashed down on his expensive silk shirt. It had been yellow when he sat down. Now there was a dark brown stain spreading across the front, with little flecks of green. That would be the relish from the hot dog I’d had for lunch. Oops.
“The dry cleaning comes out of your bill,” he said.
“Tell me what I need to know, Mr. Trump.” I refilled the Styrofoam cup, lit another Lucky Strike, put my feet on my desk and listened.
Turned out he’d been peddling his story for the past few weeks on every talk show in the country. The one about the President not being born in this country. Nobody believed it, except for the wing-nuts. I shouldn’t have either. But when someone waves an all-expenses paid trip to paradise in your face, you don’t say no. Not to The Donald, anyway. Maybe that’s why I didn’t throw the foof out of my office. Or maybe it was the picture I had in my head. The one of a pale, tired sap, broke and going nowhere, lying on a sun-splashed Waikiki beach next to a gorgeous bottle blonde. She was wearing a little green bikini with pink polka dots on it, like in the song, only hers held a pair of gun turrets the size of the ones on those sunken battleships at the bottom of Pearl Harbor. I kept listening.
He was after the President’s birth certificate. The original. He’d sent two tough guys from Jersey out to the islands to get it. That was a month ago. At first they’d reported back regular by phone. Twice a day, like clockwork. We’re making progress, they’d said. You won’t believe the stuff we’re finding out here, they’d said. It’ll blow the doors off this whole story. They said. Then suddenly, three days ago, the phone calls stopped. He tried calling them. No luck. So he called the hotel where he’d put them up. The Trump International, of course.
“It’s a beautiful 38-story property, located just steps away from Waikiki’s famous white sand beaches.” He sounded like a bad infomercial. “With gorgeous views of the Pacific, Diamond Head, the Honolulu skyline, and the magnificent Ko’olau Mountains. It’s opulent. You can’t beat it, Stain.”
I stared at him, at the soft, almost imperceptible tan-lines around his eyes, those lapis lazuli eyes that pulled me in, like the sparkling cerulean waters of the Pacific.
I took a long drag off the Lucky Strike and blew smoke rings at him across the desk. “Opulent,” I said. “Huh. So did you find out what happened to the Jersey boys or what?”
He shook his head, but his hair didn’t move. “No, Stain. I didn’t. The girl I spoke with at the hotel, delightful girl, Phyllis, I think her name was, said they’d checked out. No idea where they went. I’ve checked up with their associates in Jersey. Nobody’s heard a thing from them. They've disappeared, Stain.”
“And you want me to go find them,” I said.
“That’s right,” said The Donald. “Find out what happened. What they found out about Obama. I want to know it all, Stain. Everything. And if you do find them, tell them, for me, they’re fired.”
I looked down at the airline ticket on my desk. I hadn’t had a vacation since I was ten. My old man took me to Coney Island for the afternoon. I ate three elephant’s ears and threw up on the Tilt o’ Whirl. Some vacation. I grabbed the ticket.
On his way out, Trump stopped at the door and spoke at me over his shoulder. “One more thing, Stain. I don’t just want the birth certificate now. I need more proof.”
My eyes widened. “More proof than a birth certificate? Like what?”
He turned toward me, the blue-as-the-Blue Lagoon eyes gazing down from his oh-so perfectly tanned face. “I want the placenta,” he said. Then he went out, closing the door behind him. His shadow paused on the other side as he turned toward the frosted glass. I saw his lips move through the bullet hole in the window. They said, “Get me the President’s placenta, Stain, or you’re fired.”
TO BE CONTINUED
Saturday, April 16, 2011
The Legend of Ryan Hood
It being the week we celebrate Shakespeare’s birthday -- Happy 447th, Bill! -- we thought it would be a good time to present the bard's most obscure play, regarded as the least of all his writings, possibly written in a state of pixillation, the forgotten disaster:
The Legend of Ryan Hood
He stole from the poor and gave to the rich!
A tragecomedie in one act
Cast of characters:
Ryan Hood
Little John Boehner
Friar Tucker Carlson
Maid Palin
Trump – A foole
The Sheriff of Newtingham
Lord Kyl of Arizonae
King George the Lyin-Heart
Sir Eric of Kantor
Sir Guy of Gingrich
Sir Mitt of Romney
A peasant
and introducing The Merry Mainstream Media Men:
David of Gregory…. a dancing fool
David Brooks….. a dunce
Dana Milbank …. a knave
Wolf Blitzer …….a buffoon
Dick Morris ……. a preening dolte
Joseph of Scarborough….. a nincompoop
ACT 1, SCENE 1
Sherwood Forest. Ryan Hood, Little John Boehner, and the Merry Mainstream Media Men lie in ambush. As a peasant approaches on foot, Ryan Hood leaps out from his hiding spot, brandishing his pie chart.
RYAN HOOD: Halt, measly peon, and deliver your coin,
or my boot I’ll deliver into your loin.
For we are in the midst of a budget deficit,
so I need all of your money, hand it over, you twit.
PEASANT: Faith, good sir. I am but a poor farmer of dirt,
and have no coin to deliver, the bankers of Wall Street took all but my shirt. Pray tell, if I may be so bold to inquire,
who are you, and why make this debt sound so dire?
RYAN HOOD: I am Paul Ryan of the forest of Sherwood,
commonly known as Ryan the Hood.
You know Robin Hood, that socialist?
I’m the opposite of him, if that gives you the gist.
I rob from the poor to give to the rich,
so that it can then trickle down to you in the ditch.
I represent King George the Lyin-Heart, who in Persia, wages war,
on crusade, against the moor.
MERRY MAINSTREAM MEDIA MEN: (singing)
He’s so serious and courageous,
It really is contagious,
With his flow charts and his pie charts
Oh, Ryan we give you our hearts
There’s no need to check the numbers
He really is a wonder!
His fair form so fab, so devoid of flab
I’d give everything I have for one glimpse of his abs…
DAVID BROOKS: He says we spend too much, it must be true!
DAVID OF GREGORY: (dancing) His hair’s so black it’s almost blue!
WOLF BLITZER: He says we must lower taxes on the rich 30% more.
DANA MILBANK: I wonder how he works his core?
DICK MORRIS: He rises early to the gym – no sloucher.
JOSEPH OF SCARBOROUGH: ‘sted of medicare he’ll give us vouchers!
DAVID of GREGORY (dancing):
See how his six-pack abs do ripple?
At the castle gym, perhaps I’ll see his nipple!
DAVID BROOKS:
Yes, ‘tis true. He is most boyish and quite handsome.
And his ideas, though discredited and old, put a puptent in my pantsome!
DANA MILBANK:
See how his pie chart gleams, as he brandishes his powerpoint pen?
‘Tis is a good thing I have money from the Orient, because for Ryan I have a mighty yen… (swoons)
LITTLE JOHN BOEHNER: Come join our tea party and listen to Maid Palin’s ravings, where we shall relieve you of your life sav… I mean, we shall toast to freedom and the troops!
PEASANT: Fie! I have already told you, o orange oaf, I have no coin,
for by the Wall Street knaves, it was purloyned.
LORD KYL: Come now, bumpkin. Fork it over, without abatement.
We know you have 9 gold pieces. That was not intended to be a factual statement.
RYAN HOOD: Good serf, I beg of thee. Look o’erhead.
The cloud of deficit should fill thee with dread.
It looms like a drunken giant whose full bladder poses threat
We must increase your burden, lest he wet us with debt.
PEASANT: (Reaching into his pocket) All I have is this old ha-penny,
which I have saved for years long and many
toward purchase of a mouldy crouton,
which I hoped my grandchild, one day, could gnaw on.
RYAN HOOD takes the ha-penny and flips it to the Sheriff of Newtingham.
RYAN HOOD: Sheriff, give this to the Earl of Koch, as a taxing,
For I hear his golden shoehorn has needs of a-waxing.
SHERIFF OF NEWTINGHAM: (Whips the peasant)
And wax is not cheap, you slag from the heap!
TRUMP: Pray, good Ryan, stem this talk of horn-waxin’,
For I’ve heard rumor that the socialist Obama is neither Anglo nor Saxon.
I have been commissioned by the crazed Birther Lord,
To inspect his placenta, or at least his umbilical cord.
RYAN HOOD: Faith, yes, but take heed, foole, before blood is shed,
For thou seem’st to have a hedgehog crouch'd upon thy very head.
(They away)
... To be continued. Or perhaps not...
The Legend of Ryan Hood
He stole from the poor and gave to the rich!
A tragecomedie in one act
Cast of characters:
Ryan Hood
Little John Boehner
Friar Tucker Carlson
Maid Palin
Trump – A foole
The Sheriff of Newtingham
Lord Kyl of Arizonae
King George the Lyin-Heart
Sir Eric of Kantor
Sir Guy of Gingrich
Sir Mitt of Romney
A peasant
and introducing The Merry Mainstream Media Men:
David of Gregory…. a dancing fool
David Brooks….. a dunce
Dana Milbank …. a knave
Wolf Blitzer …….a buffoon
Dick Morris ……. a preening dolte
Joseph of Scarborough….. a nincompoop
ACT 1, SCENE 1
Sherwood Forest. Ryan Hood, Little John Boehner, and the Merry Mainstream Media Men lie in ambush. As a peasant approaches on foot, Ryan Hood leaps out from his hiding spot, brandishing his pie chart.
RYAN HOOD: Halt, measly peon, and deliver your coin,
or my boot I’ll deliver into your loin.
For we are in the midst of a budget deficit,
so I need all of your money, hand it over, you twit.
PEASANT: Faith, good sir. I am but a poor farmer of dirt,
and have no coin to deliver, the bankers of Wall Street took all but my shirt. Pray tell, if I may be so bold to inquire,
who are you, and why make this debt sound so dire?
RYAN HOOD: I am Paul Ryan of the forest of Sherwood,
commonly known as Ryan the Hood.
You know Robin Hood, that socialist?
I’m the opposite of him, if that gives you the gist.
I rob from the poor to give to the rich,
so that it can then trickle down to you in the ditch.
I represent King George the Lyin-Heart, who in Persia, wages war,
on crusade, against the moor.
MERRY MAINSTREAM MEDIA MEN: (singing)
He’s so serious and courageous,
It really is contagious,
With his flow charts and his pie charts
Oh, Ryan we give you our hearts
There’s no need to check the numbers
He really is a wonder!
His fair form so fab, so devoid of flab
I’d give everything I have for one glimpse of his abs…
DAVID BROOKS: He says we spend too much, it must be true!
DAVID OF GREGORY: (dancing) His hair’s so black it’s almost blue!
WOLF BLITZER: He says we must lower taxes on the rich 30% more.
DANA MILBANK: I wonder how he works his core?
DICK MORRIS: He rises early to the gym – no sloucher.
JOSEPH OF SCARBOROUGH: ‘sted of medicare he’ll give us vouchers!
DAVID of GREGORY (dancing):
See how his six-pack abs do ripple?
At the castle gym, perhaps I’ll see his nipple!
DAVID BROOKS:
Yes, ‘tis true. He is most boyish and quite handsome.
And his ideas, though discredited and old, put a puptent in my pantsome!
DANA MILBANK:
See how his pie chart gleams, as he brandishes his powerpoint pen?
‘Tis is a good thing I have money from the Orient, because for Ryan I have a mighty yen… (swoons)
LITTLE JOHN BOEHNER: Come join our tea party and listen to Maid Palin’s ravings, where we shall relieve you of your life sav… I mean, we shall toast to freedom and the troops!
PEASANT: Fie! I have already told you, o orange oaf, I have no coin,
for by the Wall Street knaves, it was purloyned.
LORD KYL: Come now, bumpkin. Fork it over, without abatement.
We know you have 9 gold pieces. That was not intended to be a factual statement.
RYAN HOOD: Good serf, I beg of thee. Look o’erhead.
The cloud of deficit should fill thee with dread.
It looms like a drunken giant whose full bladder poses threat
We must increase your burden, lest he wet us with debt.
PEASANT: (Reaching into his pocket) All I have is this old ha-penny,
which I have saved for years long and many
toward purchase of a mouldy crouton,
which I hoped my grandchild, one day, could gnaw on.
RYAN HOOD takes the ha-penny and flips it to the Sheriff of Newtingham.
RYAN HOOD: Sheriff, give this to the Earl of Koch, as a taxing,
For I hear his golden shoehorn has needs of a-waxing.
SHERIFF OF NEWTINGHAM: (Whips the peasant)
And wax is not cheap, you slag from the heap!
TRUMP: Pray, good Ryan, stem this talk of horn-waxin’,
For I’ve heard rumor that the socialist Obama is neither Anglo nor Saxon.
I have been commissioned by the crazed Birther Lord,
To inspect his placenta, or at least his umbilical cord.
RYAN HOOD: Faith, yes, but take heed, foole, before blood is shed,
For thou seem’st to have a hedgehog crouch'd upon thy very head.
(They away)
... To be continued. Or perhaps not...
Monday, April 11, 2011
Trump produces certificate of live birth for his hair
Challenged to prove that his hair is, in fact, American, Donald Trump today provided a certificate of live birth, proving once and for all that his hair was born in this country.
Trump made the announcement Monday morning at a news conference in the lobby of Trump International Hotel in New York City.
“I have here a certificate of live birth from Dr. Alfred J. Flintlock, D.V.M., proving once and for all that my hair was born on November 17th, 1979, on a weasel farm in Booger Hollow, Kentucky. It says here that it was named Sparky, classified as being of the species Mustela Frenata, order Carnivora, family Mustelidae, genus Mustela, commonly known as the North American long-tailed weasel, sometimes referred to regionally as the yellow-bellied polecat.”
Trump went even further, handing out his hair’s death certificate and certificate of authenticity to reporters.
“This document of Sparky’s death proves that my hair lived its entire life in the United States of America," Trump proclaimed proudly, waving the document in the air. "Until it was run over by an ATV on July 6th, 1982, on State Road 27, just outside Pigslide, Kentucky. I also have a sales receipt and this Certificate of Authenticity from Ned’s Taxidermy Shop in Lexington, Ky., certifying that my hair came from Sparky, proving beyond any doubt that my hair is completely and 100 percent American.”
A crowd of about two dozen Trump supporters gathered outside the hotel seemed jubilant at the news, firing pistols into the air and whooping. Lyle Little, 61, of Turpentine, Ala., was arrested for discharging a firearm within the city limits. “I don’t care,” said Little as he was led off in handcuffs. “I’m happy. I won the pool. My cousin Cooter over yonder said it was a ‘possum, but I know’d it were a polecat all along.”
“We’re celebratin’,” said teabagger Boone Arliss, 58, of Wingnut, Ga. “Trump’s our man. It’d be nice if he let us in the hotel, though. We tried to go in, but the doorman said we were too scrungy-lookin’. If I’d a knew it was gonna be so fancy, I’d a worn my good tooth.”
Trump’s popularity with the Teabaggers has surged since he began questioning whether President Barack Obama is an American. A recent poll found that 51% of likely 2012 Republican voters believe the President was not born in the U.S., to just 28% who firmly believe that he was, and 21% who are unsure.
Said Verlene Huskins, 43, of Raccoon’s Tail, W. Va., “I can’t wait till Trump walks into the White House and tells black Spock, ‘You’re fired.’”
Trump made the announcement Monday morning at a news conference in the lobby of Trump International Hotel in New York City.
“I have here a certificate of live birth from Dr. Alfred J. Flintlock, D.V.M., proving once and for all that my hair was born on November 17th, 1979, on a weasel farm in Booger Hollow, Kentucky. It says here that it was named Sparky, classified as being of the species Mustela Frenata, order Carnivora, family Mustelidae, genus Mustela, commonly known as the North American long-tailed weasel, sometimes referred to regionally as the yellow-bellied polecat.”
Trump went even further, handing out his hair’s death certificate and certificate of authenticity to reporters.
“This document of Sparky’s death proves that my hair lived its entire life in the United States of America," Trump proclaimed proudly, waving the document in the air. "Until it was run over by an ATV on July 6th, 1982, on State Road 27, just outside Pigslide, Kentucky. I also have a sales receipt and this Certificate of Authenticity from Ned’s Taxidermy Shop in Lexington, Ky., certifying that my hair came from Sparky, proving beyond any doubt that my hair is completely and 100 percent American.”
A crowd of about two dozen Trump supporters gathered outside the hotel seemed jubilant at the news, firing pistols into the air and whooping. Lyle Little, 61, of Turpentine, Ala., was arrested for discharging a firearm within the city limits. “I don’t care,” said Little as he was led off in handcuffs. “I’m happy. I won the pool. My cousin Cooter over yonder said it was a ‘possum, but I know’d it were a polecat all along.”
“We’re celebratin’,” said teabagger Boone Arliss, 58, of Wingnut, Ga. “Trump’s our man. It’d be nice if he let us in the hotel, though. We tried to go in, but the doorman said we were too scrungy-lookin’. If I’d a knew it was gonna be so fancy, I’d a worn my good tooth.”
Trump’s popularity with the Teabaggers has surged since he began questioning whether President Barack Obama is an American. A recent poll found that 51% of likely 2012 Republican voters believe the President was not born in the U.S., to just 28% who firmly believe that he was, and 21% who are unsure.
Said Verlene Huskins, 43, of Raccoon’s Tail, W. Va., “I can’t wait till Trump walks into the White House and tells black Spock, ‘You’re fired.’”
Friday, April 1, 2011
Maine's Governor Goes Into Labor
Last week the Republican governor of Maine, portly teabagger Paul LePage, removed a labor-themed mural from the state’s Labor Department headquarters and hid it in an “undisclosed location” because he said the mural -- which depicts mill workers, labor strikes and child laborers among its scenes -- is biased in favor of organized labor.
LePage, currently vacationing in Florida, refuses to tell anyone where he’s hidden the mural. But here at the Daily Wedgie, we’ve learned that the removal of the labor mural is just the first change that LePage and his anti-union wingnuts are planning to make. Here’s a few of the other changes on their list:
* Change the title of the federal holiday that falls on the first Monday in September from Labor Day to CEO’s Day
* Change the title of composer Aaron Copland’s “Fanfare for the Common Man” to “Fanfare for the Billionaire”
* Change the folk labor song, “John Henry” to “David Koch” (lyrics changed from “John Henry was a steel-drivin’ man” to “Dave Koch was a wealth-inheritin’ man”)
* Change the title of John Steinbeck’s novel from “The Grapes of Wrath” to “The Teabags of Wrath”
* Remove the story in the Bible that depicts Jesus feeding bread and fish to the multitudes and replace it with the story of Jesus serving champagne and caviar to the country club members
* Have the child’s toy GI Joe removed from all stores and replaced with an action figure named Heroic Haliburton War Profiteer Dick
* Change the official soft drink of Maine from Moxie to Koch
* Change the Arthur Miller play from “A Streetcar Named Desire” to “A Private Jet Named Desire,” and the hero from Stanley Kowalski to Donald Trump (“Ivankaaaaa!”)
LePage, currently vacationing in Florida, refuses to tell anyone where he’s hidden the mural. But here at the Daily Wedgie, we’ve learned that the removal of the labor mural is just the first change that LePage and his anti-union wingnuts are planning to make. Here’s a few of the other changes on their list:
* Change the title of the federal holiday that falls on the first Monday in September from Labor Day to CEO’s Day
* Change the title of composer Aaron Copland’s “Fanfare for the Common Man” to “Fanfare for the Billionaire”
* Change the folk labor song, “John Henry” to “David Koch” (lyrics changed from “John Henry was a steel-drivin’ man” to “Dave Koch was a wealth-inheritin’ man”)
* Change the title of John Steinbeck’s novel from “The Grapes of Wrath” to “The Teabags of Wrath”
* Remove the story in the Bible that depicts Jesus feeding bread and fish to the multitudes and replace it with the story of Jesus serving champagne and caviar to the country club members
* Have the child’s toy GI Joe removed from all stores and replaced with an action figure named Heroic Haliburton War Profiteer Dick
* Change the official soft drink of Maine from Moxie to Koch
* Change the Arthur Miller play from “A Streetcar Named Desire” to “A Private Jet Named Desire,” and the hero from Stanley Kowalski to Donald Trump (“Ivankaaaaa!”)
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Walker ignores court order, invades Minnesota
Just before dawn today, Wisconsin national guard tanks, infantry and security forces supplied by Blackwater CEO Erik Prince invaded Minnesota. Soon afterwards several private jets belonging to the Koch brothers bombarded the cities of Duluth, Minneapolis and St. Paul. They have been making swift progress in penetrating Minnesotan defenses which are heavily outnumbered in artillery, infantry and air power.
“We have it on good authority that people in Minnesota have been sending food and other aid to the workers of Wisconsin,” Gov. Scott Walker said. “Since we are at war with the state’s workers, this is an act of aggression by the state of Minnesota. This morning, our forces have moved against the aggressors.”
The attack comes just one day after Dane County Judge Maryann Sumi issued a second order enjoining the state of Wisconsin from enforcing Walker’s new union-busting law. Walker had refused to abide by the judge’s initial ruling, insisting that he is the Supreme Ruler in the state. Walker had the state Legislative Reference Bureau publish the law, and the next day the state began charging state employees more for their healthcare and pension benefits.
“We’re not going to let some activist judge tell us what we can and can’t do,” said Walker, who appeared to be sporting a short, new mustache. “Elections have consequences.”
Meanwhile, state senate Republicans introduced a bill that would force all middle-class workers to begin wearing yellow badges with pictures of Rosie the Riveter on them. Republicans were seen in the state capital of Madison, putting up flyers depicting the new labor badges, with the phrase: “He who wears this symbol is an enemy of our state’s business people.”
There were also reports of workers being rounded up and relocated to abandoned “ghettoes” in Eau Claire, La Crosse and Green Bay.
Said Walker: “It’s a protective measure, to keep our workers safe from union thugs who want to force them to pay union dues. We’ve put up barbed wire around their new homes so that they don’t have to worry about being bothered by these union gangsters, and they can get a good night’s sleep, which they’ll need because now, without the unions, they’re free to work seventy, eighty hours a week without having to worry that all that overtime pay will push them into a new tax bracket.”
“We have it on good authority that people in Minnesota have been sending food and other aid to the workers of Wisconsin,” Gov. Scott Walker said. “Since we are at war with the state’s workers, this is an act of aggression by the state of Minnesota. This morning, our forces have moved against the aggressors.”
The attack comes just one day after Dane County Judge Maryann Sumi issued a second order enjoining the state of Wisconsin from enforcing Walker’s new union-busting law. Walker had refused to abide by the judge’s initial ruling, insisting that he is the Supreme Ruler in the state. Walker had the state Legislative Reference Bureau publish the law, and the next day the state began charging state employees more for their healthcare and pension benefits.
“We’re not going to let some activist judge tell us what we can and can’t do,” said Walker, who appeared to be sporting a short, new mustache. “Elections have consequences.”
Meanwhile, state senate Republicans introduced a bill that would force all middle-class workers to begin wearing yellow badges with pictures of Rosie the Riveter on them. Republicans were seen in the state capital of Madison, putting up flyers depicting the new labor badges, with the phrase: “He who wears this symbol is an enemy of our state’s business people.”
There were also reports of workers being rounded up and relocated to abandoned “ghettoes” in Eau Claire, La Crosse and Green Bay.
Said Walker: “It’s a protective measure, to keep our workers safe from union thugs who want to force them to pay union dues. We’ve put up barbed wire around their new homes so that they don’t have to worry about being bothered by these union gangsters, and they can get a good night’s sleep, which they’ll need because now, without the unions, they’re free to work seventy, eighty hours a week without having to worry that all that overtime pay will push them into a new tax bracket.”
Friday, March 25, 2011
Help Wanted: Sicko
Job posting from the Sarasota Herald-Tribune:
We want to add some talent to the Sarasota Herald-Tribune investigative team. Every serious candidate should have a proven track record of conceiving, reporting and writing stellar investigative pieces that provoke change. However, our ideal candidate has also cursed out an editor, had spokespeople hang up on them in anger and threatened to resign at least once because some fool wanted to screw around with their perfect lede.
We do a mix of quick hit investigative work when events call for it and mini-projects that might run for a few days. But every year we like to put together a project way too ambitious for a paper our size because we dream that one day Walt Bogdanich will have to say: “I can’t believe the Sarasota Whatever-Tribune cost me my 20th Pulitzer.” As many of you already know, those kinds of projects can be hellish, soul-sucking, doubt-inducing affairs. But if you’re the type of sicko who likes holing up in a tiny, closed office with reporters of questionable hygiene to build databases from scratch by hand-entering thousands of pages of documents to take on powerful people and institutions that wish you were dead, all for the glorious reward of having readers pick up the paper and glance at your potential prize-winning epic as they flip their way to the Jumble… well, if that sounds like journalism Heaven, then you’re our kind of sicko.
For those unaware of Florida’s reputation, it’s arguably the best news state in the country and not just because of the great public records laws. We have all kinds of corruption, violence and scumbaggery. The 9/11 terrorists trained here. Bush read My Pet Goat here. Our elections are colossal clusterfucks. Our new governor once ran a health care company that got hit with a record fine because of rampant Medicare fraud. We have hurricanes, wildfires, tar balls, bedbugs, diseased citrus trees and an entire town overrun by giant roaches (only one of those things is made up). And we have Disney World and beaches, so bring the whole family.
Send questions, or a resume/cover letter/links to clips to my email address below. If you already have your dream job, please pass this along to someone whose skills you covet. Thanks.
Matthew Doig
Sarasota Herald-Tribune
1741 Main St.
Sarasota FL, 34236
(941) 361-4903
matthew.doig@heraldtribune.com
We want to add some talent to the Sarasota Herald-Tribune investigative team. Every serious candidate should have a proven track record of conceiving, reporting and writing stellar investigative pieces that provoke change. However, our ideal candidate has also cursed out an editor, had spokespeople hang up on them in anger and threatened to resign at least once because some fool wanted to screw around with their perfect lede.
We do a mix of quick hit investigative work when events call for it and mini-projects that might run for a few days. But every year we like to put together a project way too ambitious for a paper our size because we dream that one day Walt Bogdanich will have to say: “I can’t believe the Sarasota Whatever-Tribune cost me my 20th Pulitzer.” As many of you already know, those kinds of projects can be hellish, soul-sucking, doubt-inducing affairs. But if you’re the type of sicko who likes holing up in a tiny, closed office with reporters of questionable hygiene to build databases from scratch by hand-entering thousands of pages of documents to take on powerful people and institutions that wish you were dead, all for the glorious reward of having readers pick up the paper and glance at your potential prize-winning epic as they flip their way to the Jumble… well, if that sounds like journalism Heaven, then you’re our kind of sicko.
For those unaware of Florida’s reputation, it’s arguably the best news state in the country and not just because of the great public records laws. We have all kinds of corruption, violence and scumbaggery. The 9/11 terrorists trained here. Bush read My Pet Goat here. Our elections are colossal clusterfucks. Our new governor once ran a health care company that got hit with a record fine because of rampant Medicare fraud. We have hurricanes, wildfires, tar balls, bedbugs, diseased citrus trees and an entire town overrun by giant roaches (only one of those things is made up). And we have Disney World and beaches, so bring the whole family.
Send questions, or a resume/cover letter/links to clips to my email address below. If you already have your dream job, please pass this along to someone whose skills you covet. Thanks.
Matthew Doig
Sarasota Herald-Tribune
1741 Main St.
Sarasota FL, 34236
(941) 361-4903
matthew.doig@heraldtribune.com
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