Saturday, October 22, 2011

Zombie Gaddafi

When Hell is full,
the dead shall walk the earth.
When President Obama calls, I jump.
     It's the least I can do for the man who once saved my life in 'Nam.  But this particular favor caught me by surprise.
     "I want you to go to Libya," he told me, smoothly.  "You're the only one I can trust to verify that Gaddafi is dead."
     "Of course he's dead," I answered.  "We've both seen the pictures."  I paused...  and then we both broke up laughing at the same time.  Pictures.  What a joke.
     "Don't worry," he assured me.  "Your little problem's been smoothed over." 
     That's Obama, for you.  Mr. Smooth.  And that's how I found myself in Libya, taking a freight elevator down to the basement where Libya's "liberators" kept Gaddafi's murdered body. 
     The elevator stopped.  There were three guards.  All of them big.  The one in the middle was the approximate size of a truck.  He stood in front of me.  Not moving.
     "He wants a gratuity to let you in," my interpreter explained, business as usual.
     The Incredible Bulk took an aggressive step forward.  He was trying to use his size to intimidate me.  His mistake.  I gave his kneecap a swift kick.  It shattered, and down he went.  He fell in slow motion, like a giant oak in the forest, screaming all the way down.  I like fat men.  When they fall they make more noise.
     I knelt over him, and relieved him of his weapons.  An old AK-47 that had been hung casually over his shoulder, a worn hunting knife strapped to his ankle, and... a .45.  The .45 was brand new.  He must have collected a lot of "gratuities" to pay for for it.  I secured the gun in the waistband of my jeans, and then I stepped over him.  The two guards got out of my way.
     In the middle of the room was a wooden table so old Jesus probably used it at the Last Supper.  On top of that table was the lifeless body of Colonel Gaddafi.  The real one.  Not the decoy they were preparing to display.  I stepped closer.  They hadn't even bothered to clean him up.  I took out a pair of scissors, and clipped a lock of his hair.  It was filthy.  I put it into a small plastic baggie and sealed it.
     "Did he have any last words?"  I asked my interpreter conversationally, but I didn't really care.  With a cardiac syringe I took a sample of his blood directly from the source.
     "He vowed to come back.  To revenge himself on his enemies.  You know, the usual camel dung."
     "Is that a fact?"  My mind was a million miles away.  I put away the blood and hair samples.  Just one more thing to do.  I forced open his jaw.  It opened easier than I expected.  In fact, it took no force at all.  Using several sterile cotton tipped applicators--Q-tips-- I swabbed the inside of his cheek.  I couldn't help but see his teeth.  They all had gold fillings.  Every one.  I laughed.
     "Only the living are rich," I said in Arabic.
     "It's a shame to let all that gold go to waste," my interpreter said, sticking a finger in Gaddafi's mouth to take a look for himself.  The guards both agreed.
     Gaddafi's eyes opened suddenly.  They were a milky color.  He bit down viciously, like a starving jackel.  My interpreter screamed.  Blood sprayed everywhere.  The two guards rushed to help.  I don't know why they bothered.
     Me?  I headed for the freight elevator.  As I stepped inside I could see Gaddafi grab one guard by the head, gouging out the man's eyes with his thumbs.  Then he brought the screaming guard closer and took a nasty bite out of his neck.  More blood.  Everywhere.
  Gaddafi was standing, off the table now, and began lumbering toward me.  Every step he took an effort.  I looked down.  The guard with the broken kneecap was trying to crawl inside the elevator with me.
     "Mercy," he cried.  "Mercy."
     Using his own gun I shot him in the head, and then I rolled his body back, out of the elevator.  A quick death is mercy of a sort.
     I pushed the "up" button, and the freight elevator began to move.  The elevator was slow.  It barely moved.  I could hear screams all the way up.  Finally, the screaming stopped. 
     No sooner did I exit the elevator, than it began to descend back down.  It stopped.  A few seconds after that it began its way back up again.  I stepped back and waited.  The .45 in my hand.  Whoever got off that elevator... 
     I would be ready.
Fifty Shades of Funny

The Death Of Osama bin Laden

I've been listening to a lot of this "is Osama bin Laden really dead?" news coverage because, well, what choice do I have?  The news is like a pit bull.  When it gets its teeth into the neck of a story it doesn't let go until the story's as cold and dead as Charlton Heston's gun-holding hands.
     Conservative pundits like Rush Limbo and Bill O'Really grudgingly give President Barack Obama--the man who once saved my life in 'Nam--credit, but with a "but" so big it could be one of the Kardashian sisters.
     "Obama gave the okay," to paraphrase one, "BUT the machine was already in place to take bin Laden down."
     "It happened on Obama's watch," to paraphrase another, "BUT he's only benefiting from what President Bush had already done."
     Oddly enough, the uber-conservative, Michael Savage, had no problem giving sincere credit (well, as sincere as Michael Savage can be) to President Obama, and chastised those of his listeners who didn't.
     However, the point of view that I found most amusing was the one that speculated bin Laden had already been dead for several years, and had been kept in cold storage until the time he could be brought out to score political brownie points.
     Alex Jones presented this grand conspiracy, and supported it by quoting people who are so unknown that, when you Google them, even Google replies:  "Can you give me a hint?"
     I have to laugh at all the various sordid conspiracies.  The same shadow government that successfully assassinated JFK couldn't "take care of" the one minimum wage security guard at the Watergate Hotel who started the falling dominoes that ended with the resignation of President Nixon.
     President Clinton had a lot of suspicious "suicides" tied to his political career, but wasn't able to shut up the chubby intern in the dirty blue dress who almost brought down his presidency.
     Conspiracy theorists always bring up why neither black box of either hi-jacked plane on 9-11 was ever found.  My argument would be that if the Illuminati could bring down the Twin Towers in New York, couldn't they have easily fabricated a counterfeit black box that would confirm the story they wanted us to believe?  Also, if President Bush and Dick Cheney were behind this, don't you think they would have "found" a few of the Weapons of Mass Destruction they were looking for in Iraq?
     So, if Osama bin Laden was indeed frozen and stored somewhere with Ted Williams and Walt Disney, why didn't Bush use it to his own advantage?  He could have left office on a high note.  Why wouldn't Obama--have I mentioned how he once saved my life in 'Nam?--use it to secure his re-election in 2012?  No, my friends, there are no conspiracies.
     And I'm not just saying that because there's a gun pointed at my head.

The Aw, Nuts! Humor Blog


Saturday, October 15, 2011

My Interview With Rick Perry

     "You're a man of Faith, aren't you, Governor Perry?"
     "Yes, I am.  I've read the Bible 14 times, and when I get to the part where Jesus builds the ark and saves all the animals, I find that incredibly inspiring."
     "Uh, it was Noah who built the ark."
     "It was Noah who built the ark."
     "Are you saying I'm wrong?  I'm not wrong, I'm the man!  And you'll notice that Jesus didn't save the unicorns.  That's because unicorns have horns...  the devil has horns...  I don't think I need to spell it out for you."
     "Do you feel, then, that your political career has been more of a calling than a choice?"
     "Let me put it this way:  I've never lost an election.  Never.  I give all credit to my Lord and God, Yahtzee."
     "Uh, you mean Yahweh."
     "Yahweh.  You know...  the God of Abraham."
     "No, I'm certain it's Yahtzee."
     "Anyway, the reason I asked for this interview is I wanted to ask you about your misrepresentations and mistatements concerning El Paso.  You've portrayed El Paso as some kind of third world war zone with car bombs going off in the streets, when, in reality, it's the 2nd safest city in the country.  Some say it's the safest."
     "Who said that?  Obama?  Obama's either stupid or a liar.  The truth is there was a woman there who was recently sentenced to ten lashes just for driving a car!"
     "For driving a car.  Women in El Paso aren't allowed to drive.  Or read.  Or to be out in public without a male relative as an escort."
     "Uh, that's the Middle East."
     "Are you saying I'm wrong?  I'm not wrong.  I'm the man.  It's like the Beach Boys sang:  'Well, since she put me down, there's been owls puking in my bed.'"
     "Governor, those aren't the lyrics."
     "Of course they are."
     "No, they're not, and that doesn't even make any sense.  What the Beach Boys sang in their song Help Me, Rhonda was:  'Well, since she put me down, I've been out doin' in my head.'"
     "Talk about not making any sense.  Besides, I don't need to make sense.  I'm the man, you understand?  The Man.  Now, excuse me for cutting this interview short, but I've got to go.  It's like the great Jimi Hendrix--a personal friend of mine--once said:  'Scuze me, while I kiss this guy.'"
     He was wrong.  What Jimi Hendrix sang was: 'Scuze me, while I kiss the sky.'  Plus, he's been dead since the sixties.  I was going to correct him, but then I thought about all the lies he's told about El Paso.
     "You're the man, Governor," I told him.  "You're the man."

Fifty Shades of Funny

Zatta Fact

The writing was on the wall.
     After spending four weeks at Zuccotti Park in New York City with the Occupying Wall Street protestors, I decided to come back home.  The smell of ripening hippies was starting to get to me. 
     (On a side note, my great-grandmother, Mama Tortalini, made the best zuccotti you've ever tasted.  The pasta would just melt in your mouth.  When we were kids we would go into her kitchen while she was cooking, and beg for a taste of her special tomato sauce.  She'd line us up, take a swig of her "medicine" from a flask she always had close at hand, and smacked each of us in the head with her heavy wooden spoon.  "Shadduppa you face!" she'd scream at us with love.  It was a Sicilian thing.  An old world tradition.  I miss my Mama Tortalini.  God rest her soul.)
     Once home, I was hungry to catch up on what's been happening in the world, so I picked up the El Paso Times newspaper and brought myself up to speed.
     I see that the U.S. economy added 103,000 jobs last month.  Unfortunately, none of them found their way to any of my deadbeat relatives who are constantly hitting me up for some cash.
     "God will pay you back," they usually tell me. 
     Well, God better, because Lord knows they never will.
     More than 1 in 10 parents skip or delay their children's vaccinations.  I see that as a good thing.  I'm nostalgic for diseases like polio, t.b., and whooping cough.  It brought families closer together.
     Texas Governor Rick Perry suggests sending U.S. troops to Mexico.  Why not?  That's where all our jobs are going.
     Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, D-Nev, wants a millionaire surtax to pay for the jobs bill.  "If we let the millionaires keep their money," he reasoned, "they'll just waste it on silly things like expanding their businesses and hiring new employees.  Better to give it to us so we can squander it properly."
     A new study finds that texting while driving slows your response time.  It also found that if you drive while wearing a blindfold you can't see the road.
     The new iPhone was revealed, but it wasn't the 5 that everybody was expecting.  Instead, it was the 4s.  Apple wants to take what little money you have left after buying the 4 before they gouge you for the 5.
     Mexico's blind photographers share their world of images.  There's a joke here, but it's in such poor taste I'd better not write it down.  What isn't in print can't be held against me in a court of law.
     President Obama wants to raise our taxes to pay for his jobs bill.  "For every dollar we take out of the economy," he explained, "we're going to put 11 cents back in.  That's called Chicago mathematics."  That's like the hospital taking out all of your blood so they can put one pint back in.  If the procedure doesn't kill you, you might get better.
     Obama lays out $447 billion plan to boost the U.S. economy.  Now, how does he plan to come up with the $447 billion?  Wait a minute, my wallet's missing!
     Finance chiefs from the Group of 20 rich and developing nations are wrangling over whether the eurozone should pick up the whole bill for its escalating debt crisis, or whether the rest of the world should help more.  Wherever my wallet is, I'm sure it's crying.
     East El Paso crime drops by 12%.  Homicide rate in El Paso maintains low trend.  Somewhere, Texas Governor Rick Perry sees his bid for the presidency slipping through his fingers.
     Speaking of Rick Perry, Pastor Robert Jeffress, the senior pastor at First Baptist Church in Dallas, Tx, who backs Perry says Romney is "not a Christian.  But that's okay, because Jesus wasn't a Christian, either.  I'm sure gonna be sad when I get to heaven, because, as a Jew, Jesus won't be allowed in."
     Black students are suspended more frequently than whites.  Each year, more than 3.25 million public school students nationwide are suspended at least once.  Black students are suspended 3 times more often than white students.  All I can say is I'd sure hate to be the one hired to do the counting.
     And they say there's no jobs.
     In Mexico City, the "Zeta Killers" have killed 32 of their fellow countrymen.  Boy, the "Zeta Killers" sure were given the right nickname.
     Puerto Rico is in no danger of becoming a state any time soon.  Nobody knows how to design the U.S. flag to accomodate 51 stars.
     Heir to Wal-Mart (approximate worth $20 billion) is arrested for drunk driving.  In a related story, the arresting officer has been fired and is now the new greeter at Wal-Mart.
     India debuts a $35 tablet computer.  If you think that's cheap, you should see the price of their hookers.
     And speaking of hookers, in Las Cruces, NM 3 prostitutes were arrested while working in a massage parlor.  Two were in their mid- to late forties, while the third was 62.  That's right, 62 years-old.  Why anybody would pay for a geriatric prostitute when they could pick up a similarly aged skank in any dive bar is crazy.  That's why I was so disappointed with President Clinton when it became public that he was having an affair with his fat intern.  How can I respect a President whose conquests I can easily have on one of my off nights?
     8% of parents regret the name they give their children.  I get the feeling this poll was taken in Hollywood.  Let's see...  Paltrow named her child Apple, Michael Jackson named his son Blanket, Frank Zappa named his daughter Moon Unit, and David Bowie named his boy Zowie Bowie.  Yep, it's Hollywood.
     And, finally, movie action has-been, Steven Seagal, has been sworn in as a deputy by Sheriff Arvin West with the Hudspeth County Sheriff's Office.  Really.  No joke.
     Maybe it's not too late to go back to those ripening hippies.

Fifty Shades of Funny

Friday, October 7, 2011

SpongeBob SillyPants

Apparently all the great questions of the cosmos have been answered, because researchers have been studying...
     ...wait for it...
     ...SpongeBob SquarePants!
     That's right, the popular Nickelodeon cartoon.
     In particular, they are studying what effects watching the cartoon may have on a 4-year-old child.
     Heck, I could have told them what the effects were, and it wouldn't have cost anyone a dime.  Its effects are that its outrageous potty humor makes 4-year-old children...
     ...wait for it...
     And its moronic main character causes them to talk in an annoyingly high-pitched squeal. But since my conclusions didn't cost any tax-payer dollars, they aren't considered scientifically valid.
     My observations aside, what the researchers discovered--after spending tens of thousands of your tax dollars--is, gee, the government sure is stupid.  They have no problem shelling out big bucks to any crackpot scientist with a half-baked notion.  And why not?  The money's not coming out of their pockets.
     However, when all is said and done, the researchers have to justify the grant money they received and spent somehow, and coming clean about the group trip to Thailand for, ah, research wouldn't be the sensible thing to do.  So they came up with (as far as I can tell) a problem where there wasn't one before, and two conclusions that are so obvious they wouldn't have been allowed to join the army 20 years ago. 
     The first conclusion is that 4-year-olds who watch SpongeBob are more apt to want things now, rather than later, or, in other words, it causes them to act just like a 4-year-old.  Secondly, 4-year-olds who watch Mr. SquarePants aren't the problem solvers that 4-year-olds who fall asleep watching PBS programming are.  In other words, kids who enjoy sitting and reading aren't as good at sports as kids who enjoy playing football.
     Makes sense?
     Of course it does.
     I'm sure you read all about this study in your local newspaper, assuming, of course, that you weren't sitting on pins and needles watching America's Got Talent on TV and trying to decide if you like it better than American Idol.
     Myself, what I found interesting in this study were the findings that didn't get reported.
     SpongeBob SquarePants may decrease a 4 year-old's attention span, but there are several things that can help to focus it.
     One of them is a smack to the back of head.
     If a child, for example, is supposed to be doing his or her homework, and stops for a few moments to appreciate the graceful beauty of a butterfly fluttering just outside their window, a quick smack to the back of their head will get them back to studying PDQ.
     The researchers also found that, although a shock-collar (like the ones used to break dogs of their spirit) works at improving a child's attention, a cattle prod works even better.  This is because with a cattle prod you can focus the electrical shock strategically to various parts of their little bodies, where the welts and burns can't be seen by the authorities.
     Interestingly enough, a stun gun doesn't work.  Mainly because it, ah, stuns them.  Hence, the name.  And, while you might think it would, a taser doesn't work at all.
     Not even if you set it on low.
     It was also discovered that 4-year-olds who watch SpongeBob SquarePants are more apt to choose sushi over candy, although whether or not this is a good thing has yet to be determined.  Curiously, they are still grossed out by oysters, but that's okay.
     So's my wife.
     Moreover, it was found that these sushi-eating toddlers are more apt to have higher instances of mercury poisoning, intestinal parasites, and fish-breath.  Further study is needed to determine if there's a correlation.
     The government grant...
     ...wait for it...
     ...has already been approved.
Fifty Shades of Funny

Lopez Leaves!

When I found out that our fearless leader and former Chippendale dancer, Chris Lopez, announced he was leaving the newspaper business in general and the El Paso Times in particular, I must admit I was a bit miffed.  You see, I found out about it like the rest of the rubes at the carny.
     How could he be leaving so soon?  Why, it seems like only yesterday he was brought up on those indecency charges.  And how could he be leaving without letting me know?  I thought we were friends.  Maybe even more than friends, especially after that drunken weekend we spent at John Travolta's beach house celebrating Tom Cruise's birthday, where...  well, let's just say that you're not allowed to ask and I don't have to tell.  Though I will say this:  if Richard Gere ever wants to show you his disappearing gerbil trick, just say no.
     So I went to Chris' favorite spot in the city, where he enjoys collecting empty aluminum cans as a hobby ("It relaxes me."), and, sure enough, there he was.  Collecting cans, and putting little rocks inside of them.
     "Did I ever tell you that I'm originally from Alamosa, Colorado?" Chris asked me.
     "Yeah, but only fourteen times.  Tell me again."
     "It used to get so cold in Colorado my parents would wet my lips and stick me to the town's flagpole.  It saved them a fortune on babysitting fees."
     "Your parents were poor?"
     "No, just cheap."
     One thing about Chris, it doesn't take much to get him yammering about himself.  Getting him to stop, well, that's another matter.  He told me that he's wanted to be in the newspaper biz ever since he picked up his first pencil.  Later, after jabbing his little sister with that same pencil, he considered a career as an interrogator for the CIA.
     In grade school, while the other boys were playing baseball, football, and basketball, Chris was busy being made fun of for the way he played baseball, football, and basketball.
     "We're not laughing at you," his coach explained.  "We're laughing with you."
     "Really?" Chris asked, hopefully.
     "Nah, we were laughing at you."
     In high school, his and his brother's hearts were broken when their dates to the prom wouldn't answer the door ("We're not home!").  In retrospect, Chris and his brother should have cancelled the romantic horse-drawn carriage ride to the dance.  Maybe that way they would have avoided all those cruel rumors.
     His college years were a definite improvement.  His face--which earned him the affectionate nick-name of "Pizza Face" from his friend, the janitor--finally cleared up.  He also decided to join a sorority.  He thought it would increase his chances for getting a date.  It didn't, and thus was born the expression:  "You couldn't get a date in a woman's prison with a fistfull of pardons."
     After college, Chris realized his dream and became a reporter for The Pueblo Chieftain newspaper in Pueblo, Colorado.  He handily met their high standard of "anyone who will work for free."
     His years in the newspaper business had its share of ups and downs.  Victories and defeats.  Abbotts and Costellos.
     I met him when he came to work for the El Paso Times in October of 2008 ("You missed a spot."  "Thanks.").
     I recently asked Sergio H. Salinas, El Paso Times President and Publisher, what he saw in Chris.  He answered:  "I saw in Chris a willingness to work for free."
     It's going to be sad to see our beloved editor, Chris Lopez, go, but we all respect his decision and desire to build a second career.
     "So, what are you going to do now?" I asked him.
     He lifted his plastic Wal-Mart bag, full of empty beer and soda cans, and bounced it happily up and down.
     "You're looking at it!"
Fifty Shades of Funny

Saturday, October 1, 2011

Sarah Palin, Superstar

(The following is an excerpt.)

The Rogue:  Searching For The Real Sarah Palin
by Joe McGinniss

rogue (rog), n.:  Someone I vehemently despise, but am not above making a few bucks off of.


Saturday, May 22, 2010

I moved in next door to Sarah Palin today.  It was a dazzling spring day:  sky blue, air cool, sun warm, shoes shined, laces tied, Abraham begat Isaac, Isaac begat Jacob, and Jacob...  jacob...  zzz...
     Excuse me.  I'm so boring sometimes I even put myself to sleep.
     Sitting on my deck overlooking the lake at 11:00pm, I consider myself as lucky as a man can be.  Registered sex offenders aren't allowed to live near public schools or parks, and yet here I am, living right next door to Sarah Palin.  Of course, I knew my task would be difficult.  The former Governor of Alaska had already ordered those close to her not to let me anywhere near their children.  That may sound suspicious, but I'm sure she knew that I've always gotten my best information from children.  Children are honest.  Unless they're talking about me.  In which case, they're rotten little liars.  However, I've found that if you threaten to kill their parents, that usually shuts their filthy little pie-holes.  And, for the record, it is NOT true that if you Google-search NAMBLA, my picture comes up.
     I remember the first time I was arrested.  I was falsely accused of something I'd rather not repeat.  I don't know why everybody got so upset when they found me with that toddler.  I was only trying to help him find his pants.
     "Hey, Joe," my agent, David Larabell, joked, "I hear your favorite place to shop is K-Mart."
     "Why's that?" I asked.
     "Because that's where little boy's pants are half off!"
     Everybody laughed.
     Later that day, when David fell down the up escalator, they were no longer laughing.  It took him half an hour to tumble to the bottom.  It wasn't a pretty sight.  I don't think anybody believed me when I said I didn't push him, but I wasn't even there.  I don't care what the video showed.
     So, yes, I did move in next door to the Palins, and, believe me, I was as surprised as everybody else when the authorities found all my video recording equipment pointing toward the window of the Palin's children's bathroom.  I don't know why her husband got so upset.
     But I couldn't let that unfortunate incident keep me from doing what I was there to do.  I went to the children's park.  I usually get my best leads there.  I looked under a rock, but Sarah wasn't under it.  I vowed to check back later.
     "What are you doing, mister?"  It was a young boy.  About five years old.  Ah, my first lead.
     "Well, hello, little man," I said.  "What's your name?"
     I vaguely remembered the judge telling me to stay away from children, but I was determined to get the dirt on Sarah Palin somehow.  Besides, I feel that it's up to the parents to keep their children away from me.  If they don't like it, they can move.  Why should I always be the one who has to move?  I'm an author, for Christ's sake.
     "Did Sarah Palin ever do drugs?"  I asked my young friend.
     "Don't touch me there, mister," he answered, confirming my suspicions.
     "Has she ever cheated on her husband?"
     "Ow, you're hurting me, mister!"
     "I'll just mark that down as a yes.  Thanks for the help, kid."
     I took him further into the woods at the north end of the park, so we could play a little game I like to call:  "Who's Got The Duct Tape?"  I'm sure his parents will find him.  Eventually.  In the meantime, I had to get back to finding the real Sarah Palin.  I looked under another rock.  There was no one there but Levi Johnston.  I quickly put the rock back.  What a loser.
     I was exhausted.  I took a break from my intensive investigative reporting, and looked out toward the children's park.  It was filled with young boys.  I was going to have more fun here than a barrel full of monkeys.
     Yes, indeed.  I consider myself as lucky as a man can be.
Fifty Shades of Funny