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scrutney

genrecide.

some people say that the universe is infinite.

and that's quite a concept for the human brain (which quite frankly goes into cerebral lock up when any number larger than a buck three eighty is concerned) to grasp.

but there it is.

and in an infinite universe, infinite worlds are not only possible, they're the order of the day.

on one world, the theory goes, robin hood and his merry band of community activists are redistributing wealth on a scale that would make the most humble tea partier shiver.

on another world, george gershwin has just put the finishing touches on his masterpiece, "rhapsody in tinker toys".

and on yet another, slumgullion the benevolent has just consigned the krill people to be entombed in a continent sized vat of bubblegum.

and so it stands to reason that; if the universe is infinite, there must be worlds quite like our own, that are half a bubble off plumb.

like the world where john mccain was elected president and pulled the croak chain, 15 minutes after inauguration.

obviously, some worlds in the multiverse are too horrible to contemplate.

so we won't.

did i just use the word multiverse? let's back up a sentence or two and take a look.
yup...i sure did....multiverse.

and the very essence of the word implies that there are a multiplicity of universes.

confusing, isn't it?

so let's break it down to something our brains can get their metaphorical arms around.

the world i'm imagining, doesn't exist, except that it does, somewhere in spacetime.

somewhere.
somewhen.

pick a point in space.
any old point.
i'll wait.

got it?
cool.

now pick a direction.
any direction but be careful.
in the multiverse there are directions upon directions upon directions.

if you think of the two dimensional face of a clock and multiply it, three dimensionally and add another dimension just for giggles, the place to which we are headed, corrected with kentucky windage, is roughly at 31:13 o'clock, on the seventh time piece to the left.

so, we have our point and we have our direction.
let's take a stroll.
we'll be traveling beyond the speed of light, because in our reality, in our universe, in our multiverse, we can do that.
we're headed towards "the third star to the right and straight on til morning."(which, with apologies to james barrie, will be quite a trick for morning, ya know...catching up to us, seeing as we're moving at such a sprightly clip.)

and here we are.

and we didn't even have to listen the the kids in the back seat asking; "are we there yet?" every 11 seconds.

if you'll look over there to the left and down a bit, you'll see the world we're imagining.

a giant azure, obloid pizza with a niggardly compliment of verdant mozzarella.

if we can get the celestial cameraman to zoom in a bit, we'll take a better look at, what one wag has deemed the american hobby horse...the one with maine as the horse's head, florida as the pegleg, (think of it as the italian boot, cut down for an amputee.) and california as the horse's....

but it's the pegleg with which we are concerned.

and if we zoom in a bit further, we'll see a first coast that isn't, but could be and maybe shall be...or was.

and if we close one eye and put our hands on both side of our head and pull one up and push the other down (like we're making the oogy-face our mothers warned us would magically lock into place) and squint really hard we'll see:

a dew dappled, glimmering, jewel encrusted, something or other, that in a perfect world, or reality, or multiverse, would be bedecked with a pearl necklace of national parks.

and at this point in timespace, the realization should be dawning on the gentle reader that; he/she/they/them are being sold a bill of goods...something unsavory, that's been reheated and served up as the genuine article, with ketchup. and not very good ketchup, at that.

like head cheese ala mode.

it's been said that too many cooks spoil the broth.

and i'll concede that point, after last nights confrontation with my left over taco meat, tarted up a bit, with my sweet baby's contribution of curry and ginger...served up on a waffle.

not quite shit on a shingle.

more like crap on a quilt.

food allusions aside, genrecide is back.

i'm not abandoning the other fiction thread.

i like "love's passionate splendour."

and i'm not going to ignore the harlequin/zombie/dallas/beezer timeline, either.

maybe we can figure out a way to integrate it into the genrecide semi-ality.
then again, maybe not.

all things are possible.

i'll be reprinting, with editorial emendations, all the various and sundry episodes of genrecide.

and i'll be adding episodes, wedged in between the existing installments.

and hopefully, i'll finish it, if such a thing can ever be finished.

love's passionate splendour will run concurrently with genrecide...and the gentle reader/aspiring writer, is invited and encouraged to interact with the splendour time line.

but genrecide is mine.

and if the reader wants to comment on genrecide...i urge them to do it elsewhere. (the obama thread, springs to mind.)

and so, without further ado or preamble:

tune in tomorrow.

because dorothy is fixin' to jump into her toyota mr2 and go for a ride.
and so are we.

scrutney

Quote:
and if we close one eye and put our hands on both side of our head and pull one up and push the other down (like we're making the oogy-face our mothers warned us would magically lock into place) and squint really hard we'll see:

a dew dappled, glimmering, jewel encrusted, something or other, that in a perfect world, or reality, or multiverse, would be bedecked with a pearl necklace of national parks.



and because this isn't a perfect reality, and because we move at a more leisurely pace here (scrut cues the publix commercial to start playing santo and johnny's sleepwalk) and because we've been trundling along for, what is it? 450 years, give or take, more or less minding our own business, that means we haven't been paying attention...doesn't it?

well, doesn't it?

how else does one explain the conflicted city of st augustine?

it depends on who you ask.

ask a native who's been here for a while, someone old enough to remember when mtv first clogged the cable box and he'd tell you that, if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

ask that native's father the same question and you'd best be prepared for a long and rambling soliloquy, variously touching on topics such as, out side agitators from forn parts, guns, governmental interference, guns, god, country, god's country, country music, guns,  evolution, revolution, rape, riot, and rebellion....and guns.

wonderful stuff but it doesn't answer our question and i'm still trying to polish the tobacco juice stains off my deck shoes.

ask someone from the outside (north of bayard) and they'll smile knowingly and smugly pontificate on nothing much at all, with all the choice buzzwords, (you know the ones, rustic, rural, pastoral, bucolic -and my personal favorite- unaffected.) that candy coat the unspoken but essential perception; we're all a bunch of no neck peckerwoods.

and that's the thing.

we're not a bunch of no neck peckerwoods.

but we're afraid that we might appear that way to the outside and so we put up a "couldn't give a damn" demeanor and staple on a "we don't care how you do it up north" facade, plaster a couple of "florida native" bumper stickers on it and voila:

instant peckerwood.

we're pround of tim tibow.

we couldn't care less that martin luther king called us "the most lawless city."

and we really couldn't give a shit that the entrenched power structure in town is involved in so much governmental incest that our county's pit bull mascot has a club foot.

it's not that we don't care so much as we can't be bothered.

as long as there's food on the table, fuel in the fishing boat, a roof over our heads and a fondly remembered sexual experience in our recent past, we're, if not happy at least reasonably satisfied with our lot in life.

we've got jobs and kids, shopping to do and lawns to mow and at the end of the day( not that officious "at the end of the day" that business leaders  and portentous pundits use to signify finality...i mean "at the end of the day" as in, ya know, night) we're too damned tired to strive mightily to enact social change.

it's not an "i've got mine, jack" attitude so much as a "i haven't got much but, jack, do you think a yard gnome would look good over in that corner of the yard, by the magnolia tree?" attitude.

it works pretty well for us.

but not for others.

definitely not for others.

they're the ones from forn parts, new york, new jersey or (may the good lord have mercy upon us) inside the beltway.

you've seen them.

they're the one's that look just like us...but not quite.

the hawaiian shirt is just a little too loud or, even worse, not loud enough.

everyone wears khaki shorts down here...it's part of the uniform.
khakis or for the more fashion conscious, bermudas.

but theirs have little, embroidered, polo ponies or sailing ships...and cuffs, they're big on cuffs.

and i almost forgot.
crocs.
gaily colored crocs with socks.( a little too gaily colored if you take my meaning...and no, not that meaning, mr. know it all.)

like they're trying too hard to fit in.
but they're trying too hard, on purpose.
and that tells the tale.

like that middle aged guy over there with that bit of jewelry riveted to his left ear, drinking a corona with lime and complaining loudly that there aren't any good florida beers.

the earring is nice, a little too nice, too ostentatious for someone proclaiming their rebel status, for, what other reason can there be, for a straight, middle aged male, to wear an earring and drink skunk piss with a spritz?

they aren't rebels, they're the former people in gray, the faceless bureaucrats, the beltway brigade, who've done their 20 years of public service, bowing and scraping for an unappreciative populace and now they're going to serve the public on their terms, by bending this little jerkwater burg into a shape that they like.

and our local activists love them.

cripes, did i just type that?

i swear when i started this (genrecide introduction part 2), i promised myself that i wasn't going to go off on a rant about the local activists.

but how can i possibly explain the carpetbagger elite without at least a nod of the chapeau to their cadre of useful idiots, the humble activists.

they come in two varieties:

homegrown artists (and really, we've been ignoring them for years, so i see no reason to buck a trend).

and the out of town idiot.

it's the latter genus that concerns us.

and seeing as we've reached a convenient stopping point, i'll spare you the rant.

because the whole sub-literate bag 'o beans that follows is a rant.

and like all good rants, it's a rant about things that we can't control.
and probably wouldn't want to anyway, because that, gentle reader, would be worse than that, which the rant was about.


in our next thrilling installment, we cannibalize an old plot line, punch it up a bit, meet some dramatis personae and...well...rant a bit more.

see ya wednesday.

scrutney

full disclosure time...after reading this, some of you may be struck (some may say stricken) with a sense of deja pu...

the sense that you've seen this shit before.

you're right.

the following was posted over at the bum site, roughly 2 years ago.

i'd been sick at home for a couple of days, bored to my teeth and slowly going bugshit.

so i wrote what follows to pass the time.

genrecide. chapter 1.

it was the best of times, it was the worst of times…crap, someone already used that.

in the beginning...nope...no one would believe it and it wasn't the beginning anyway, it was a beginning.



the economy sucked but the weather was nice.

the beach boys were on the radio, honking out ‘help me rhonda’ for the eleventyseventh time.

someone had turned up the midrange on the car radio so that the banjo accompaniment was accentuated but that bothered dorothy not at all, as she did what any sane person would do when on the open road and confronted with as fine a pop song as ever existed…she goosed the pedal.

tater in one hand, a coke in the cupholder, she changed into 5th gear and flipped off the frost top in the lincoln town barge that impeded her progress and careened into triple digit territory.

rounding a corner and emerging from the cover of the trees that had been obscuring her view for the past 10 miles, dorothy noticed a really nasty looking storm and it was right in her path.

“fasten your safety belt, toto…it’s going to be a bumpy ride”, she told the dog sitting next to her, who made no effort to fasten anything other than his snout on his privates.

”damn”, thought dorothy, “the economy sucks and the weather’s not much better” as she flicked an annoyed glance at her narrator, who vainly vowed, yet again to keep the invisible wall between author and character if not intact, only slightly bruised.

as the first tentative yet portentous droplets pattered on her windshield like lugubrious goobers, she shot another nasty look at the narrator, mumbled “these shenanigans have got to cease” and plunged headlong into the deluge.

the storm, if not of biblical proportions was at least a real son of a son of a bitch, alternately buffeting the little sports coupe with changes in latitude and changes in attitude, thereby convincing the author that he really needs to quit these annoying editorial intrusions and come monday, take his i-tunes selection criteria off “b”..

needless to say, the rainstorm got progressively worse and even more unworthy of mention was the funnel cloud that the astute reader saw coming, three paragraphs ago.

as the tornado swept up the little toyota two seater (with a turbocharged power plant that dispersed 320 prancing ponies at the rear wheels, leather interior and power windows at no extra charge, zero down and 0% financing with approved credit, which , parenthetically no one qualifies for, due to the aforementioned crap economy), dorothy relit her joint, took a long pull at her coke and dashed off a quick prayer that her airbags still worked, while her car slipped the steely bands of earth and was deposited like effluvia in what appeared to be an otherwise pristine river.

dorothy barely had time to engage the wipers to scrape an errant turd  from her windshield (of course it could have been a stick…she was reeeeealy stoned) when the cyclone again lifted her car, hoisting it high into the air.

the world spun, the dog howled and dorothy promised herself that, in the future, she’d lay off the expensive dope, just as the car came to a rest in the center of what was, at first glance, an ancient city.

“i don’t think we’re in the matanzas anymore, toto”.

from behind the car, an irritated voice asked; “would you mind moving your vehicle off our councilman”?

“my’ bad“, muttered dorothy as she put the car in reverse and lurched off the recently deceased politico.

“where am i”? she asked.

“heysoos marimba", came the tart response, “is that the best you can come up with… ‘where am I’??? billie burke on horseback…you people pop in out of nowhere, bringing shitty weather, dropping houses and hot wheels on our citizenry and what do we get by way of explanation? where am i?"

“okay hot shot, how about; where the hell am i”?

Chapter 2

st. augustine is as fickle as a whore’s caress.

fickle, I can take  but like any back street strumpet, she’s rotten, lousy with corruption.

from her thoroughfares riddled with obnoxious billboards to her gated communities, infested with sleazy politicos, hey boys and energumen.

and greed, did I mention greed?…lots of greed.

fear stalks the night in the nation’s oldest city. homophobia, misogyny and racism run rampant through our streets and infect  our institutions of higher learning, our government and our blogs.

but not my blog…no, my blog is a paragon of virtue, a shining light of sanity, surrounded by an oily cesspool of venality…speaking of which…I have a phone call to make:

sound of a phone ringing.

“national environmental response center, how may I help you?

“I’d like to lodge a complaint…about…um… rush limbaugh”

“we don’t monitor the airwaves, sir…we respond to complaints, serious complaints about environmental pollution”

“he’s polluting my environment”

“that enviornment is beyond redemption, mr. clavin*."

Clickzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

“harridan bitch!”

my name is clavin*, ed clavin* of the turd squad…I carry a badge….the disdain of the community at large is my badge of honor and I wear it proudly.

i blew into town several years ago after being deprived of my livelihood by a legal decision as malodorous as the infamous dred scott case.

shaking the radioactive dust of tennesse off my flat feet, i breezed into the redneck peckerwood burg of st. Augustine and was immediately filled with a sense of fear…fear and loathing.

there was something wrong…something out of place …something as vile as a cockroach on an ice cream sundae.

which reminds me...

sound of a telephone ringing:

“national environmental response center, how may I help you?

“yes…I’d like to report a cockroach on my ice cream sundae”

“oh, for chrissake” clickzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

harpies, carping harpies, who know not that they know not,  that they don’t know and in not knowing what they don’t know, know less than nothing, only knowing, not only nothing but something wholly not worth knowing, like knots and not knowing knots is not nautical and not for naught are knots not known.

know what i mean?

but i digress…where was i?

this town had gone septic and it was up to me to flush the entrenched power structure of hey boys, b girls and si senors from the body politic, like the contemptible sewer trout they were.

that I was as unwelcome in st. augustine as a floater in milady’s footbath didn‘t bother me too much.

as I sat in my office that saturday afternoon, alternately pondering the insides of my eyelids and tracking the peripatetic  flight  of the house fly that was my sole companion, the thought of going on a world class drunk was held at bay, only by an iron will and a lack of funds.

the iron will, I could make short work of.

being tapped out was somewhat more problematic.

house fly?
house fly?

sensing an environmental crime in the offing,  i punched # 1  on my speed dial.

“national environmental response center , how may I help you”?

“i wish to report an eco-crime of monumental proportions”

“listen bub, we’ve had just about enough."

“madam, do you have any idea with whom you are conversing."

“unfortuantely yes, you’re..."

“i am ed clavin* of the turd squad."

“and you’re....."

“the offal officer”.

“right…you’re the shit sheriff and a gigantic pain in my ass.”

“yes…the county’s poop is my bread and butter….and i demand to talk to your supervisor."

“would you please stop calling."

clickzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

they just can’t hide from the cold light of justice.

as I walked over to my computer with the intention cyber-goosing the guilty by sending out prying emails, asking stupid questions that demanded stupid answers, all in the name of sunshine and transparency…I was jolted from my quiet reverie by a knock on the door.

“go the hell away."

"open the door, ed...we've got a newbie in town, who just dropped a ton and a half of steel on one of the city elders."

things were looking up.







*if you've had the misfortune of reading genrecide before you may have noticed that ed's last name has been changed from shamus (which didn't make much sense to begin with...i had originally envisioned ed as a two bit, private dick. but it takes an amazing amount of talent to write cheap detective fiction, talent that i don't posses. so ed morphed into a sort of clown prince of activists, which i found didn't take any talent at all...or even imagination.) to clavin. (in homage to a character from one of my favorite sitcoms...cheers....both clavins are prone to using large words, of which they may or may not know the definitions and are fond of pontificating at length, on subjects about which they know absolutely nothing.
scrutney

more refried beans from the vault:



chapter 3.

the lanterns were lit, the guttering candles were, well they were guttering.

the  effigy, clad in a painters cap and clogs was aflame.

the masked members were seated in the usual places. everyone had had a couple of drinks. all was in readiness.

“and here we are” said the man at the head of the table. at least he sounded like a man. he could have been a woman with a very deep voice for all anyone knew. the robe that he/she was wearing hid any hint of gender but for the sake of brevity and to save the author the trouble of writing he/she every time he (the author) was referring to him/her, we’ll just assume he/she was a him.

“then let’s get down to business” he continued. “we’ve got a pretty full agenda and..."

“it’s traditional to call the meeting to order” said the man at the other end of the table.

“oh for christ’s sake, bier. can we just get this thing moving?"

“sure we can, as soon as we call the meeting to order. and remember, we’re supposed to refer to each other by numbers."

“thank you number 11. i’d like to call this meeting of the plazacrumbpacbumbench political action committee to order. those in favor?"

“you don’t have to take a vote to call the meeting to order.”

“number 11, you are a pain in the butt.”

“it’s what i do” 11 answered.

“alright…let’s get on with it. old business?"

“ahem.”

“YES, #11?"

“the pledge?”

“the what?" said the man at the head of the table.

“the pledge, # 7...we’re supposed to start the meeting with a pledge, or a mission statement or some self important, self serving, something or other that gives us our raison d'être.”

“goddammit bier, we don’t have a pledge.”

“please call me # 11...look, it doesn’t make any difference but it seems to me we ought to do or say something, you know...menacing…i mean, we are an unregistered political action committee.”

“um…if i may make a suggestion” said a woman’s voice from the middle of the table.

“for gods sake, please do #10."

“we don’t have a pledge…we don’t have a mission statement…for all practical purposes, we don’t have a mission…how about an evil laugh?"

the silence around the table was deafening. and then it started slowly and worked it’s way from a tentative twitter to a cacophonous comedic crescendo:

“BWA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA."

“well, that was cathartic, thanks dun…” said number 7...”alright, let’s get this show on the road. old business?"

no one said anything.

“new business?"

again, nothing was said.

“i move that we adjourn” said an as yet unheard voice.

“coebul, we can’t adjourn, we haven’t done anything yet” said #7.

“a motion to adjourn is always in order” said #11 “ and by the way, thanks for flying in from the west coast, coebul.”

“and boy are my arms tired.” answered coe as he dodged a barrage of pretzels.

“IF I MAY” said the man at the head of the table. “as the putative leader of this meeting, i feel it incumbent upon me to at least find out who activated the plazacrumbpacbumbench decoder rings for an emergency meeting?"

“hey bum…I mean #7” said the recording secretary. "incumbent??…putative???? those are some pretty spiffy words…have you been reading ed shamus’ blog?"

“scrutney” said #7...”you’ve been silent for the entire meeting…let’s try not to break a winning streak. now, as i was saying, does anyone know who flipped the emergency meeting switch on the decoder rings to call this gathering. anyone. anyone…skookum?”

“you guys are tards” said skook.

“my chairman, if i might make an observation?"

“please do, bier. i mean #11."

“thank you, bum. i think it’s obvious that whomever called this meeting wishes to remain anonymous, so i think our best course of action is for me to read the list of casualties from ‘operation enduring freedom’ from beginning to end…or at least until the guilty party fesses up."

“mr chairman” began coebul “i disagree. i think... "

“coebul disagrees with bieramar” the bum interrupted “i’ll alert the media”.

at this point the meeting pretty much disintegrated into a shouting, name calling, melee and to save the reader from the necessity of experiencing the whole, filthy sordid spectacle…i’ll just touch on the high points.

mac 3 called coebul an ass. coebul accused mac3 of being a cowardly dick.

food was thrown.

tsiya laughed like hell while cleaning his handgun.

drinks were thrown.

some female was ejected from the meeting for having nothing better to offer up than LOL.

five minutes later she tried to sneak in again, wearing a different robe and mask and was summarily ejected a second time but not before she swore her vengeance , finishing with “i’ve been thrown out of better places than this, LOL." which left everyone at the meeting scratching their collective heads.

someone...i think it was lee padgett (i’ll have to review the video tape) threw a stink bomb.

skookum walked out, but not before calling island girl a racist and island girl responing with a suggestion of what skook could do to a rolling doughnut.

andrew walked in…. glanced around with a horrified look on his face and walked out.

enuff just sat there next to auntmarty moo and they both smiled, exchanging pictures of favored canines and equines which prompted martymoo to say something about a dog and pony show. both dodged the flying food.

mike handed out ball caps, while ducking bottles and the occasional chair.

someone, i think it was sunspotbaby, commented that this was the kind of performance art that would go over well down on st george street.

virgo tried to sell his ball cap to coebul.

peter f dunkin was in the process of singing an unintelligible yet obviously filthy bar song, when he threw up and passed out.

dunrobin buffed her nails, smiling…nodding at bieramar who stood in one corner, and the bum who stood in  the other.

finally the bum walked to the head of the table (pulling spaghetti out of his beard), picked up the gavel, banged it once and, as everybody came back to some semblance of order, remarked :

“and this is the group that our good friend ed clavin believes, walks in lock step, speaks with one voice and pulls the strings that run the city…well done,  bums, well done."

“now, before we were so rudely interrupted...i asked a question...i’ll ask it again. does anyone know who called the meeting?"

a door flew open at the end of the hall with an ominous thud and a sonorous voice answered:

“i called this meeting."
scrutney

i'm stalled out at the moment and way behind schedule...i could post an old episode but with all the news out of washington i thought we'd re-visit some old friends.

the new installment is half written.

something new should appear this weekend.

scrutney

auntmartymoo wrote:
It was just like old times on the genrecide thread.



there’s an old truism:

‘start a line and people will stand in it.’

whether  it’s a genetic predisposition for inclusion or a case of misofreeophobia (the pathological fear that someone’s getting something gratis and you’re not), it works every time.

at least that’s what santa thought when he paid a couple of the better dressed bums in town two dollars to cue up in front of his hastily erected christmas shack, in the slave market, downtown.

santa, to be frank, didn’t really look like the fabled kris kringle represented in children’s books. where the real santa was fat and jolly, this ersatz st.  nick looked paunchy and peeved. instead of a full white beard he sported a threadbare, salt and pepper moustache and goatee.  and in a surreal nod to the season, in the place of big black boots, he wore white knee socks and a pair of crocs, one red and one green.

still, if the secular personification of christmas looked a wee bit odd, he was no stranger than the tea partyers who paraded through the market, in incorrect period costume and waving a patched gadsden flag.
or the geographically inept ‘occupy wall streeters’ who had missed the mark by about 1,000 miles.
or the legion of ripening bums that occupied whatever seating space was available.

it was business as usual. friday night in the nation’s oldest (european founded) city.

“let’s light ‘em up, judy,” santa said to his henna haired,  elven companion, who took the hint and opened the velvet rope in front of the christmas shack, to admit the first of the pint sized petitioners.

“now this” said randy beckinger to his wife, “is pretty cool.” randy had been a lifelong county resident but had quit going down town in the evening, several years ago, when their first child was born. two more kids and eight years later, randy and his wife debi, had decided to brave the unseasonably (for st augustine) cold weather and check out the yuletide festivities with the whole famdamily.

“i don’t know randy, the whole thing looks like a carnival side show to me.”said debi. “there’s no color, it’s too forced, too bright…the only thing that’s missing is a tilt-a-whirl. and that skeezy santa kind of gives me the creeps.”

“where’s your christmas spirit, babe?” randy asked.

“in my purse, you want a  jolt?”

“maybe later.” answered her husband. “what say we send the kids through to see santa?”

“if you say so..kid’s get in line to meet santa and make sure you hold each others hands…timmy if you lose your brother and sister, i’ll personally see that you only get switches in your stocking and i’ll happily introduce you to them.”

“okay mom.” timmy replied.

“have fun kids,” randy called. “this is great, debi. for the first time in years, it really feels like christmas. that bonus from the county will sure come in handy.”

almost as if on cue, the tea partyers paraded through the square chanting,” no sir, no sir, no siree. no bonuses for county employees.”

as randy stared at the marching throng, he felt a jerk at his coat.

“spare a buck, mister?” asked an obvious vagrant.

“not right now,” he replied.

“when?”

“piss off.”

randy felt another jerk at his coat. he turned around and saw his daughter.

“daddy, whats a nashnul park?” she asked.

“a what?”

“a nashnul park. santa says that if we don’t get one, you’re gonna lose your job and we’re gonna live in penury…where’s penury, daddy?”

“what the hell?”

another jerk came at randy’s coat. He turned around.

“what?” he replied with a modicum of exasperation.

“mister, i haven’t eaten in a month, can i have a dollar?”

“i haven’t got a dollar.”

“do you have a debit card? visa? mastercard? I can process anything but j.c. pennys.”

“daddy, are you gonna lose your job?”

”daddy’s not going to lose his job, sugar,” Debi soothed.

“that’s good” cooed his daughter “ cuz we’re gonna need all our money to fight viormental race-mism. that’s what santa said.”

“i take traveler’s checks,” said the bum.

“good,” answered randy. “now will you kndly f**k off?”

“daddy!!!”

another jerk, another turn, another “what?”

“hey dad…what’s an indonesian sweat shop?” asked his youngest son.

“why do you ask?” randy fairly screamed.

“calm down dad…jeez. santa said i couldn’t have a new pair of nikes for christmas because they were made by kids in indonesian sweat shops… by kids younger’n me. he wanted me to ask for a pair of crocs cuz they’re sustainable… but i think they look really gay.”

“i think i smell a rat,” huffed debi.

a tug at randy’s coat was followed by “hey dude.”

randy turned around and said; “no you can’t have a dollar.”

a young college student was standing there. he replied; “i don’t want any money. we’re collecting signatures to run the capitalist lackeys out of town.”

“which capitalist lackeys?”

“i mean, really…does it matter?”

“probably not. where do i sign?”

“hey pop?” his eldest son interrupted.

“jesus jumping, baldheaded christ…WHAT?”

“gee pop…i was just gonna ask, what’s a land raping developer?”

“don’t tell me…santa?”

“yeah…he said the whole town’s gonna be over run with them and they’re gonna cut down all the trees. and throw poop in the rivers.”

“cut down all the trees?” the other two children wailed in unison. “christmas trees too?” asked his daughter, barely holding back the tears.

“this has gone far enough!” randy bellowed and stalked off towards the santa shack.

“don’t do anything stupid,” debi shouted at randy’s retreating back.

“what’s dad gonna do?” timmy asked.

“make an ass of himself, i’m afraid,” replied his mother.

as randy rampaged to the holiday house he punched two panhandlers and walked through the “don’t tread on me” flag blocking his way as the tea party chanted to the tune of jingle bells;

” mitt, mitt, mitt, mitt’s a twit, liberal all the way.
we’ll vote down obama care, let freedom rule the day.”

approaching the shack, randy saw a young girl running away,  crying “but i don’t wanna gender neutral barbie doll.”

randy stopped and stared.

santa had a tow headed eight year old boy on his lap.

“and what do you want for the holiday, little man?”

“i want a lego ‘queen ann’s revenge, pirates of the caribbean ‘ set and a …”

“no you don’t “ prompted santa. “you want a local whistle blower protection ordinance, don’t you?”

“no, i want a queen ann’s revenge.”

“listen you little energumen twerp, you’ll do as santa says, or…”

“SANTA!!!!” bellowed randy. “WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE SEVEN HELLS DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”

“why, raising the consciousness of the littlest citizens,” santa replied smugly.

“you’re trying to program them?”

“facilitate them.”

“but you can’t do that.”

“i AM doing it. The first amendment in it’s majesty gives me the right to….”

randy cut him off....“but the second amendment in IT’S majesty…..”and reached into his jacket.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


headline from the saint augustine record:

MAN PULLS GUN ON SANTA CLAUS.

In a bizarre altercation in the slave market last night, a local man apparently assaulted santa claus with a loaded 38 revolver. No shots were fired and the crowd successfully disarmed the alleged assailant, Randy Beckinger of 62829 Triphammer lane in St.John’s county.
Police are searching, as yet without success, for the victim of the assault, described as a middle aged, paunchy fellow, dressed in a santa claus outfit with a supercilious look on his face.
When last seen, Santa and his accomplice, a woman dressed in an elf costume, were fleeing down Riberia street.
The investigation is continuing.



merry christmas bum rejects.

God bless us, everyone.
auntmartymoo

Thanks, Scrut.  Best present of all!

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