"The Secret of the Bottle"
Ole'
"Dubya" always struck me less as a man of Presidential timbre, but more like the
gum-poppin' assistant clerk working behind the desk at the National Guard supply
depot "P.X", your back-slappin' buddy who passed out candy and soda and girlie
rags-- and if his eyebrows weren't perked up at the magazine itself, his big
ole' jug-ears stickin' out on either side of his head like "the dummy" who at
least understood "that much" to know that "this was hot stuff". Not so much
"dumb", but just "incurious" who wanted to know the basics of "the bottom line"
whether forking over the barbeque on the grill for an even thaw or runnin'
the local K-mart or Texas Rangers ball club like an arm-swingin', ground-poundin',
loafers-up-on-the-desk "big picture" manager who'd tape it together with
scotch tape, chewin' gum, and a prayer like the thinly-scripted plotline out of
some peanut-headed 1960's Don Knotts movie, the southern rubber-mouth wanderin'
around the campus and "asking not" of the broader implications of meat n' dairy
fascism and the boot-heel of Buford T. Justice.
And after it is all over, he crawls into the arms of the former First Lady-- a warm, drawn-mouthed librarian-- and scratches his head with a monkey-like expression, wondering "where it all went wrong". Yes, even as the twins stand up on the tables at the local FU-Bar and shake their inebriated titties like a pair of tarnished "silver spoons" speckled with evil and worse.
Makes you want to turn a blind eye to some distant past of nostalgia. . . . .
"If I were 21, I'd vote for Nixon!"
"And stand tall against 'The Negro League of Communist Women' infesting our slums!"
". . . . . . . . . . . . ."
".
. . . .or Loud-assed Yentas who mask their professional concern through the guise of
"information control" as a blatting, blintz-stuffing power-play"
"Or zonked-out parents still off somewhere emotionally on 'Cult Cupcake' with tooshie-shaking unmanly irrelevance, a few short off "a baker's dozen" as the wolves circle and growl with slobbery, rotten gums like a portent of 1980's corpses o' crud?"
--"Well:
what do you think, Dad?"
-- "I think he's a manipulative mother-fucker with control issues, who 'gets off' on making others feel uncomfortable.
But "Don't ask me for my opinion"! After-all, I'm your father and I love you very much and I was there in the 60's and did things that would make a dog gag!
Remember that life is "an either/or proposition" and you're either "with us" or "against us"! It's his Intolerance I don't like, Winona! He must be de-legitimized and silenced and chased out like an invader or possibly killed! But that's just my counterculture thinking and 'taking a stand' for 'truth'!
"It's free speech for the dumb, man!"
I rest my case. Call me anytime.
(The phone ain't bugged!)
(Jeepers-Creepers. . . . . . Look at those Peppers!)
(I won't confiscate them)
(I AM NOT THIS MAN)
*******************
"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
(Rheeee of Crickets)
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
("I heard that, Missy!")
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