There was this thing called

…and between late summer 2008 and late May 2009, I produced a blog for them called Dr. Faustroll Writes the Wrongs, which I later moved to, until Apple shut down blog hosting and switched to cloud storage. 

Today was an annoying click-troll site that paid bloggers based on page views with individual bloggers grouped by subject matter, such as mommy-blogging, asshole-blogging, scumbag-blogging, dipshit-blogging, political-blogging, money-making-blogging, craft-blogging, and other boring topics of interest to the nation of miserable fucks (NOMF™).

I can’t remember what category I choose to be included under, not that it mattered. 

Blogging with was like running a printing press at UNC, Chapel Hill (“A pat of butter bobbing in a sea of grits”) where the bossman believed the way to motivate underpaid employees was to pit them against each other with an Employee of the Month certificate displayed behind glass just inside the employee entrance, because that’s the American Way! 

Whenever I encounter a particularly obnoxious crowd control method (and lord knows it is hard to avoid mindfucks and buttreams in the increasingly Great Again America of ours), I like to diddle with it and make it so uncomfortable and embarrassing to maintain the illusion of importance and value until the offending carrot or stick approach is retired while management gathers at a retreat to develop a new and even more degrading reward system for the proles.

While writing for, I discovered that I could generate large numbers of page views by blogging about how insignificant my penis was. In fact, once I settled on my insignificant penis as a recurring theme for Dr. Faustroll, as he wrote the wrongs, my blog quickly rose up the list of most visited sites, which, of course, got me fired. 

I like being fired. It reinforces my conviction that I don’t really belong anywhere, because I don’t believe in anything or anyone, and I don’t particularly like people, except to fuck with, as Hungry Chuck Bukowski often wrote.

I mention this because I recently came across a trove of material that I had completely forgotten about. Going forward, Today will resurrect that #alt_juvenile material.


Another unexplained phenomenon

Didn’t he ever hear of the second amendment?

Published by drfaustroll at 4:54 pm under Insignificant dingalings, Invective, Literary Terrorism, Pataphysics, Phleghmish Masters, Poopadoodle, Second Amendment Roll of Humour, Sedition, Sit down tragedy work
May 18, 2009

Despite my best efforts to educate this nation of miserable fucks (NOMF™) in the kinds of things they would have learned in school if anyone was paying attention and we had an educational system where students got some real rewards for their efforts — such as being able to bust a cap in some stupid English teacher’s petulant buttocks every now and then — some people just won’t get with the program.

Take the case of Andrew Mizsak, a man of undetermined seniority according to my sources in the liberal media, who called 911 in Bedford, Ohio, over the weekend after his 28-year-old son threw a plate of food and shook his fist at him. I have no idea what Andrew Junior had on his plate at the time, but at least one of my imaginary sources claim the attack was backed by the FSM, a known pataphysical terrorist organization committed to the end of irrational thought.

I suspect, however, that Junior Mizsak’s fisting gesture was simply the final straw for his hard-working Mizsak parents — no relation to the Meshachs or Abednegos of South Bedford — who had fully expected their son to get a real job after leaving high school or at least get married to someone of the opposite sexual persuasion, not that there is any hint in the story that Junior is gay, other than a mention that he is a school board member.

Whenever I hear anyone is a member, I look at my crotch. Wouldn’t you?

So yes, Junior Andrew Mizsak is a Bedford school board member who also works as a political consultant, which is also kind of gay, but that’s not the point. After the police responded to the 911 call, the elder Mizsak — who is also not related to the Vilsacks of Iowa — decided not to press charges because he didn’t want to ruin his son’s chances for the kind of political career that made Hod Rod Blagojevich such an impressive role model for millions of young Americans from sea to rising sea.

According to at least one report that we made up, the younger Mizsak breathed a sigh of relief when he learned he would not be arrested, falling to his knees and thanking the God of his choice for being lucky enough to be living at no cost in the family home in these troubling economic times in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

He also promises that he will keep his room clean until it is no longer profitable to do so, and he hopes that the people of Bedford will give him another chance at a bright political future, as they have given members of the Bush family for decades.

Bush and Katrina shitting in a tree

Ah, poor Goober, the Bush baby

Published by drfaustroll under Invective, Pataphysics, Phlakes, Poopadoodle, Sedition
December 30, 2008

At first I thought the headlines I was seeing about how the First Idiot never recovered from Katrina indicated that he actually had the intelligence to realize what a terrible job he had done and that the realization of his monumental incompetence and disregard for human life on his own continent had brought him to an understanding where he asked forgiveness of his God.

That misperception did not in me engender a sense of calm, considering that any God this fuckwad was in touch with no doubt made Tony Soprano look like the right hand man to Pope George Ringo.

As it turns out, the stories behind the headlines indicate that Bush never recovered from the bad press and ill-will he earned from refusing to budge from his routine vacation schedule as the entire world watched poor people in New Orleans get kiboshed not only by nature but also double-penned by the Department of Vaterland Insekurity and FEMA Director Mikey Brownie, the Arabian horse guy who did such a heck of job, according to Mad Goober Fubar the Decider.

Former insiders who contributed to the Vanity Fair Little Oral Annie special edition of what it means to have survived eight years of malignant incompetence, suggest that the administration response to Hurricane Katrina was the tipping point, where even brain-dead Americans were forced to open their eyes and use their limited brain capacity to consider the possibility that this man was not worthy of serving as a boot-scrubber at the door to a remote cabin in the Gifford Pinchot National Forest.

Think about the concept of a tipping point in terms of George Dubya Bush. It makes me think of drunken butthole surfing frat boys pushing cows over in the fields around Crawlforward, Texas, where the local folks would probably be happy to hear the asshat is planning to move to a book depository in Dallas, across the street from the grassy knoll.

Another thing that pisses me off during this joyous season is how at this late stage anyone can suggest that up until the sorry ass administration response to Katrina no one suspected what a bunch of fucktards was managing the First Idiot’s grueling vacation schedule. Katrina was not the first major catastrophe that Bush and his little neocondi rice and beaner buddies managed to mishandle to the point of malfeasance without the liberal media so much as raising a questioning eyebrow.

Anyone recall the Presidential Daily Briefing from August 6, 2001, which Fubar was too busy clearing brush for a photo-op to read? You know, the one about al Qaeda being about to fly a bunch of planes into buildings less 40 days later? The one that Condoleeza Rice later testified was unimportant because its title was something like Osama bin Laden plans to fly passenger planes into the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and a secret Pennsylvania biological weapons lab on September 11, 2001?

I’ll let slide all the treaties abrogated by the slimeball and his galloping gravy train of market force greedheads and fast forward through the never-ending vacation of Bushmania to the Christmas prior to Katrina when the asshat finally emerged from the Cindy Sheehan seige to announce that the country was contributing $35 million dollars to aid the victims of the Indonesian tsunami catastrophe already estimated to total more than $4 billion. What a man, George!

But what can you say? Indonesian poor people, even hundreds of thousands of them bloated and floating in the aftermath, are still not Americans, you know? So the liberal media let the administration get away with its typical amoral incompetence, and the American people waited for the bowl games. Some of them sent contributions to phony charities set up by Bernie Madoff, who continued to make off with everything that wasn’t nailed down until just recently.

Back then, the same stupid wad of fecal detritus had already authorized the use of torture, the suspension of civil and human rights around the globe as well as at home, approved disinformation disseminated about Jessica Lynch and Pat Tillman, and yet the major miscalculation made by his administration was that his handlers really thought no one would care if a bunch of poor people in New Orleans drowned because he had a prior commitment for a Labor Day barbecue.

Somebody should grab the neck of Matthew Dowd and smash his face into a coffee table for suggesting that Katrina was the first instance where the “president broke his bond with the public. Once that bond was broken, he no longer had the capacity to talk to the American public. State of the Union addresses? It didn’t matter. Legislative initiatives? It didn’t matter. P.R.? It didn’t matter. Travel? It didn’t matter.”

The president never had a bond with the public. He had a megaphone. He had aides. He had a worshipful and pussy-whipped liberal media. He had a nation of miserable fucks (NOMF™) who loved to be ruled by idiots. That’s the American Way. Fuck yeah!

I also find the suggestion by Lawrence “Crazy Larry” Wilkerson that Bush’s election foretold the coming of Sarah Palin to be disingenuous. Crazy Larry was a top aide to the First Idiot and later the chief of staff to Secretary of State Colin Powell, the guy that sold the NOMF on the necessity of invading Iraq by holding up a vial of talcum powder at the U.N. You think Crazy Larry might have given a shit about the country and tried to protect it from one of the most ignorant and malignant developmentally disabled leaders the world has ever known, but no.

Instead, Wilkerson did his job, like all good Nazis, and today he can say something as glib and banal as this: “It allowed everybody to believe that this Sarah Palin-like president — because, let’s face it, that’s what he was — was going to be protected by this national-security elite, tested in the cauldrons of fire.” Well, as the Church Lady used to say, isn’t that special?

I particularly like this Wilkerson quote, describing how vice president in hiding Lon Cheney came to run the government for the past eight years without ever having to run for office: “He became vice president well before George Bush picked him. And he began to manipulate things from that point on, knowing that he was going to be able to convince this guy to pick him, knowing that he was then going to be able to wade into the vacuums that existed around George Bush — personality vacuum, character vacuum, details vacuum, experience vacuum.”

Everyone knows that nature loves a vacuum. Apparently poopadoodle loves it even more.

If Katrina was anything, it was the moment where a couple of journalists found the courage to do what they are supposed to do and point out that the new clothes The Decider was wearing were not that new at all.

Come for the offensive, stay for the invective

To go along with George Carlin’s routine on the seven forbidden words I frequently employ to offend polite company, I also like to invoke the spirit of Lenny Bruce’s Lone Ranger routine and his brilliant defense of insensitivity as a way to defuse the evil in the hearts of men and women. This post, which apparently was supposed to have a companion piece that I have yet to uncover, would not be proper in our current era of political ineptness.

Hi, ho, Fubar! The Lone Decider dry-humps Mrs. Malaprop again!

Published by drfaustroll at 2:10 pm under Insignificant dingalings, Invective, Literary Terrorism, Pataphysics, Phynality, Poopadoodle, SEO, Second Amendment Roll of Humour, Sedition, Sit down tragedy work
May 29, 2009

Hours before crossing the border into Canada to join serial kneepad bestower Bill Clinton in the Conversation on Conservation and avoid bounty hunters hired by Hamas, Hezbollah, and The World Court in The Hague, the former First Idiot of the Untied States of the NOMF™ told The Economic Club of Southwestern Michigan at Lake Michigan College that what he misses most about no longer being the Decider in Chief is not being able to meet with the relatives and friends of “them fallen ones who stratified their lives for me and my country. Meetings such as them has in some ways made me hard and in some ways they was verily push up lifting.”

Another of the things Bush misses since leaving the White House is that so-called journalists now occasionally report exactly what he said instead of what they wished or imagined he had said.

Referring to the 9/11 attacks that resurrected his post-inebriation political career and turned him into the planet’s most powerful developmentally disabled leader after nine months of ignoring the duties of his office while engaging in one of the most grueling vacation schedules “since the crucification of Jesus of Nasaldrip in Christenbaum,” Bush described the days following the events that changed absolutely nothing in terms that evoked a visit to Disneyland or some other amusement park and endeared him to the kinds of people the planet really has no use for.

“It was such a roller coaster opportunity of mixed emotionals, it really was. One minute I was learning to read about goats with a bunch of little black kids who’d never been to Texas, and the next minute I was a War President getting flown to a bunker at a dental floss farm in Montana. I think about it now at times without getting sick,” Bush smirked, “but I definitely thought about it every day on an empty stomach when I was your Decider.”

Bush declined to answer questions about whether the bunker in which he cowered was anywhere near Hardin, which is currently offering to take in Guantanamo detainees at a $27 million high security facility it built at the height of the prison-industrial complex boom during the Bush years. The prison has never been used and sits on land described in a Frank Zappa song.

Here’s a Dave Barry I swear I am not making this up moment. While researching this story, I came across an Associated Press story about the Hardin, Montana campaign to bring terrorists to the Big Sky of the NOMF heartland, and I realized that people up there in dental floss country have obviously been writing this blog.

How can I say that? Well, I’m no Elizabeth Barrett Browning, so I won’t count the ways, but doesn’t this bit about the second amendment yingyang ring any bells with you people? When I say you people, I’m not suggesting that my readers are all just niggers, spics, dagos, wetbacks, huks, japs, chinks, slopes, heinies, jews, ragheads, junglebunnies, or any of the other questionable people listed on this site. I’m just acknowledging that you people are not me, and in a court of law, assuming the world is actually governed by the rule of law, shit like that matters.

By the way, if I failed to include a pejorative for your particular ethnic, religious, sexual, cultural, national, or any other affiliation, please comment so I will be sure to not to offend you by excluding you from the groups I routinely offend in future posts. I wouldn’t dream of not offending anyone who really deserves it. I am willing to give humanity the benefit of the doubt that everyone really deserves derision.

I don’t know what made Matthew Brown write the following, but don’t these two paragraph inspire you to go back and examine the past couple of months of this unholy blog and its obsession with the second amendment daily body count and insignificant penises from sea to polluted sea?

"Notwithstanding the reputation of Montanans as Second Amendment-loving gun owners, they said that putting terrorists on Montana soil could invite attacks from the detainees' sympathizers.

"'These Gitmo guys, they're a scary bunch,'" said Sen. Jon Tester, a Democrat. "'You've got to realize what you're getting into.'"

Notwithstanding the reputation of Montanans as Second Amendment-loving gun owners, they said that putting terrorists on Montana soil could invite attacks from the detainees’ sympathizers.

“These Gitmo guys, they’re a scary bunch,” said Sen. Jon Tester, a Democrat. “You’ve got to realize what you’re getting into.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself if I gave a shit, which I don’t, but this quote seems uncannily close to another Zappa lyric about Christian fundamentalism and exactly what the meek are going to inherit.

To be continued…

It seems like its Christmas all year round!

Have an imaginary Christmas shopping season

Published by drfaustroll under Invective, Pataphysics, Phlakes, Sedition
December 1, 2008

I bought another GPS on Gray Saturday to double check the accuracy of my other GPSes that have yet to tell me exactly where I am, where I’ve come from, or where I am heading that differs from my personal experience, which has not been particularly edifying. Several casual acquaintances have used me as a role model over the years, and I’m reluctant to admit that I’ve outlasted most of them, but I’ve always considered optimism evidence that someone is not looking at the entire picture. There is no big picture, by the way. There is an entire picture, and millions of details, most of which are simply distractions.

When I explained to the clerk where I bought my latest GPS what I considered to be the fundamental flaw with the entire GPS concept, she tried to reset my expectations and repeatedly corrected my imaginary assumption that I could use a GPS to find out where I was going to end up and when.

“Sir,” she smiled brightly, “If you need spiritual guidance, you shouldn’t be shopping.”

Ah, what a refreshing way to deal with a difficult customer, and believe me, I can be the mother-in-law of all difficult customers. Like the president elect, my middle name is Hussein.

But what this post is about is what you can give imaginary people like me, who don’t need anything, have more than they will possibly ever use, and don’t even want anything. I don’t believe that being content is an unnatural act. Granted — you caught me — that’s not a fair statement because I don’t believe in anything, but you get the gist. It’s just that not everybody in this nation of miserable fucks (NOMF™) really needs gifting or re-gifting.

And suddenly I just remembered the time my German teacher related a story about how German civilians after WWII refused assistance from our heroic liberational forces because the Care™ packages were stamped GIFT, which in German means poison. Ain’t communication grand? But that’s another post for another dollar a day, along with how the same German teacher explained during class that he smoked a single cigarette a day for its laxative effect.

So what can you do to keep people like me from annoying people like you? Well, there’s the obvious, of course. You could stop coming here. You could commit suicide. You could enlist and help in the war on terror to avenge the honor of the lameduck First Idiot’s father. You could go totally blonde and paint your display with Whiteout™.

Yeah. I realize that I am once again being impractical and totally pataphysical. There is probably no way that I can be prevented from thinking and writing things that upset you, so I’m content to accept ephemeral gifts of the kind that kept Mithridates at the top of his game for several hundred years that have nothing to do with you.

I’m talking about things like Goober devoting his final 50 days to touting a legacy that he continually told you he wasn’t interested in for eight years because he really believed he was going to be the next Franklin Delano Roosevelt of this freedomocracy and serve as many terms as he wanted because 9/11 changed everything, and he was The Decider and you gave him his mandrake.

And then there’s Neocondi Rice and her Republicrat spokesbeaners assuring us that she’s not going to sabotage Hillary Clinton, the far more astute and intelligent incoming Secretary of State, because Neocondi is going to show the former First Lady the ropes and then move on with her meaningless, incompetent, and internationally criminally insane world view by teaching a new crop of idiots at Stanford. Isn’t that special?

And let’s not forget about that cute, cuddly, Sarah Palin, who apparently did not get the memo about her effectiveness on November 4th and is actively campaigning for one-term Georgian Senator Saxby Chambliss, who is apparently too polite to tell Alaska’s governor to go moose hunting or care for one of her name-disabled offspring, or that the Georgia he serves was never part of the former Soviet Union.

With Sarah down there, the Demopublicans have shifted their operatives to Minnesota, where they can focus on absentee ballots that were rejected because they were cast for the wrong candidate, without having to rely on Garrison Keillor to do all the math. Nothing adds up in Lake Woebeggon. Of course, it doesn’t help that the challenger is a known terrorist organization called al Franqen.

What? I just heard that the stock market has crashed again. This is Sarah’s fault. You betcha. She hates Santa and the Demoblicans, and she just wants someone Clintonesque to blame.

Mock them up! Mock them up!

You know what really pisses me off?

Published by drfaustroll under Literary Terrorism, Pataphysics, Phynality, Poopadoodle
December 29, 2008


The absence of anything. That’s what pisses me off.

And you know what? My entire life has been spent observing the absence of anything. So many things I’ve encountered that I have questioned have only resulted in actions intended to crush me. This does not make me special. I’m sure hundreds of millions of others have likewise been bludgeoned by morons and thugs and beneficent authority figures as they wend their way through a terrestrial existence ruled by nothing.

Take the Holy Land.


Nothing does not imply, by the way, a lack of matter. Matter, after all, is simply the inert form of energy, which is what the universe depends upon to continue to do whatever the fuck it does. I am not convinced that the universe has any purpose or that life contributes to or derives any value from whatever the implied purpose that thousands of years of preserved philosophy pretend to present as truth, should there be one, which is highly improbable, implausible, and likely impossible.

My goal in life is to laugh forever. I have been digitizing my laughter and sending it out on an improvised radio telescope that is designed to interfere with official efforts costing billions of dollars that are not going to make life better for any of the unfortunate idiots involved in gullible travel from one stupid place to the next idiotic destination.

You know why?

Really? You haven’t a clue? Shit. I was hoping that somebody knew. Well, fuck me then.

What actually inspired this post was the recent Pew Research poll that found that most Americans no longer give a shit about outgoing President George W. Bush and wouldn’t give a fat rat’s booty if that worthless piece of shit was suddenly vaporized by a cosmic ray from an intelligent life force somewhere in the cosmos, even accidentally. Assuming there is such a thing, which all of my personal experience seems to refute.

What pissed me off most is that the Pew Research assholes didn’t include my ongoing descriptions for the 43rd malignancy in charge of the NOMF™ since before his election was certified in 2000 by the least inspiring cluster fuck of judicial arbiters since the introduction of Twinkies.

You can view the complete article here, but first you must understand that Goober or The First Idiot could have piled up significant tallies if the braindead sample had been given the opportunity to vote on those terms.

I introduced both terms into the NOMF vocabulary without asking for compensation, although I am now reconsidering that inebriated decision.

There’s a chart of the terms surveyed in the Pew poll and the perfectly predictable results.

Imagine if these scumbuckets could have included a few imaginative descriptions of the lame dick leader of the NOMF. What a wonderful world it could be.

Go to sleep now. You have to get up in the morning and do it again. Amen. To paraphrase and corrupt Jackson Browne.

Who says fake news can’t be fun?

Not Zune enough if you axe me

Published by drfaustroll under Blather, Pataphysics, Phlakes
December 31, 2008

You have to admire Microsoft for its persistence in avoiding actually fixing anything in its terrible products as it marches ever onward, pushing a cartoon balloon of obfuscating speech in front of it, as Howard Nemerov once famously described in The Human Condition from the 1967 classic collection of poetry called The Blue Swallows.

Today, the final gasp of 2008, thousands of 30 gigabyte models of the Microsoft’s bottom-feeding iPod wannabe MP3 player failed during start-up and displayed Y2K error messages that the company apparently forgot to remove from its bloated code eight years ago.

Users of the unpopular gadget found themselves the target of ridicule throughout the known universe, with teenagers from technogeek families committed to Moore’s law and other specious market-based constructs particularly hard hit by taunts and jeers from their iPhone owning anarchist classmates.

One Modesto, California skateboarder apparently launched himself from the food court of the Modess Sanitary Napkin Mall to escape a taunting mob of Shuffle users, killing two elderly shoppers attempting to return gifts to a Brookstone storefront on the lower level as well as himself.

Spokesrobots for Microsoft called for calm early this afternoon after responding to more than 2,500 posts and calls about the problem, representing approximately 200% of Zune 30 G models thus far manufactured.

Microsoft blamed the problem on rogue elements associated with Apple, Inc., a suspected binary terrorist organization that ignited the personal computer revolution in the 1970s with the Apple II and reinvented the personal computer in the 1980s with the Macintosh before steering the industry through innovation.

Unnamed sources deep within the short intestine of Microsoft blamed the Y2K failures on efforts by Apple operatives to capture the digital media market with its portable music and video players and iTunes online store, as well as expanding its influence in popular consumer culture through the introduction of the iPhone.

According to at least one cheeky observer, the failure of nearly every Zune currently used by dimbulb members of the nation of miserable fucks (NOMF™) illustrates that Microsoft has “finally decided to deal with the Y2K problem through a series of incoherent press releases.”

On the positive side, the Redmond, Wash.-based company has acknowledged the problem and offered a solution that does not require users to smash their Zunes with 4-pound hammers and sending them back for replacements.

No. It appears that Microsoft has finally begun to respond to consumer complaints that its products are useless, unfriendly, and impossible to understand or use by actual humans, by posting simple stepped procedures on its support Web site to lead ordinary users through the simple process to get their Zunes operating again.

  1. First, wait until January 1, 2009.
  2. Let the battery fully discharge.
  3. Do not masturbate for 48 hours.
  4. Reconnect the Zune to a power supply.
  5. Pray to whatever God you are not currently on the shit list of.
  6. Restart the Zune.

If this does not work, drop your Zune off at the nearest faith-based charitable organization or Goodwill to get a deduction for 2009 and buy an iPod or iPhone when you receive your tax refund.

Have you people lost your damn minds?

Well, of course, you have. That’s The American Way!

My father worked 26 years for one company

Imagine that.

 He got screwed out of his pension because the company went bankrupt after having invested its share of negotiated contractual obligations into capital improvements which it used as collateral for loans to pay bonuses to its executive management. This was in 1967.

I’m sure many other members of The Greatest Generation were similarly biblically entered into by their employers at the time, because employees are routinely cornholed by the care and compassion of capitalists. It seems like every 10 years or so, the business community manages to enter into their workers and the taxpayers of this great nation of miserable fucks (NOMF™) with the full cooperation and adoration of the victims.

My father was a master machinist. He worked on the turbine shafts for the prototype X-15. He and several of his playmates signed up with the Airborne to fight against the Japs the day following Pearl Harbor, but he never made it out of the states after breaking his back during training in a jeep accident while trying to get his lieutenant back to the barracks to retrieve the orders of the day.

After Machinery Builders Incorporated went under, my old man worked for a telephone company, Rockefeller Center, and Swansons Foods before he died from Gilles Barre Syndrome, a complication of a reaction to the swine flu vaccination. I had not seen my father in 15 years, but I flew back to Virginia to pull the plug on him, because nobody else would. The government and insurance companies had kept him alive for more than a million dollars that they split amongst themselves.

Unlike my father, I never expected to work with one company for my entire employable life. At age 61, I can no longer remember how many jobs I have had, although I once worked nearly 9 years for a single employer. Usually, I work contracts from 3 months to a year. I have been many things: teacher, tax collector, writer, clerk, administrator, team lead, formatter, pizza jock, turkey hanger, furniture warehouseperson, test engineer, usability consultant, and certified content editor.

This means I get to be like a fly with English translation skills on feces who can chuckle inside while either raging or bumbling on the outside. I remember, in particular, a strategerizing session long before the current First Idiot assumed the decidership role for the NOMF™ in which the assembled team was given little sticky notes to help identify all the necessary steps and the time required to accomplish the tasks predetermined as required to support an articulated dump truck to be introduced at a trade show by former Miami Dolphins fullback Larry Czonka.

I had already been shot down for suggesting that the company spend $15 thousand to purchase a server and four seats of FrameMaker to support an entire revamp of service, parts, operator, and maintenance publications for this dysfunctional concern, so I just took notes and computed the sequential time required to produce the impossible deliverables for a Las Vegas tradeshow.

After the meeting had devolved to the point where everyone had agreed to the steps on the board and deferred to the whims of our Australian president, who had all the intellect of an alcoholic Oregon banana slug, the developmentally disabled sucker asked for questions, so I asked “Hey Rod. I wonder. Who does your math?”

Although no one else had thought of it, I had added up the dependencies and compared it to the actual drop-dead date. The latter was 62 days. The former was nearly 150 days.

I was fired within six months of that escapade, although I did produce fake publications for the tradeshow that were shrink wrapped, except for the set that was autographed by Larry Czonka. This cost the company more than $40 thousand, nearly three times what I was asking to solve the company’s complete publications problem.

I’d like to say I pissed on the president’s leg as I left the building, but I’m still alive, like Eddie Vedder, which wouldn’t have happened had I gone for the cheap thrill of the moment. A word to the future literary terrorists. Hold them cards close to your chest.

Making A Mirrorball Great Again

With apologies to Nobel Laureate Bob Dylan, let me sing: “For we were so much smarter then, we’re dumber than that now.” On October 23, 2008, long before anyone realized how many of our neighbors believed that America was not quite as great as reality showed (not reality shows) it to be and instead dreamed of the day when it would once again be okay to discriminate, damn, disdain or otherwise dismiss anyone who didn’t toe the party line, ordinary people were already pretty dumb and proud of it.

That’s when I first posted this piece at

Welcome to your imaginary world

Published by drfaustroll under Pataphysics

Alfred Jarry says hi. I say high. Julio says jai alai. Jean drinks a mai tai.

I’m still wondering what exactly was so great about the Great Depression. Was it named first and the Greatest Generation followed, leading inexorably to the nation of miserable fucks (NOMF™) in which we live today, wallowing in our imaginary pig filth, wondering why the world has become so fucking dull and binary.

And what is this crap with Joe the Plumber? Who has decided that some uncertified tax-delinquent wage-slave who dreams of owning a business he is not currently qualified to purchase is in any way a newsworthy item? Who gave John-Boy McCain and Sarah “Plainly Simpleton” Palin immunity from derision whenever they play the plumber card?

Main Street or Wall Street? What about Klickitat street? What about Smegma Drive? What about the folks who used to live in Idiotville, home of the brave, land of the free?

The universe is not binary. There is no right or wrong. There is no left, no right, no center. Hell, even W. B. Yeats was more intelligent than to believe in a center. He knew it would not, could not hold. After watching Crazy Al Jarry’s play Ubu Roi in 1896, Yeats wrote “…after all our nervous colour and subtle rhythm, after the faint mixed tints of Condor, what more is possible? After us the Savage God.”

Just who is this Savage God? What does She want and when does She want it? I’m beginning to think She likes to smile a lot and wink and say folksy things that mean nothing.

I have yet to find meaning in life or death. In fact, I am so convinced that there is no meaning in life or death that I have given up on looking at either. Instead, I focus on what is and not what people want it to be. The cup is neither half full nor half empty when you drink directly from the bottle.

Yes, I’ve been doing all right and getting good grades, as someone used to sing. The future’s so bright, I’ve got to wear shades.

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