Elder (self) abuse

Nature sometimes mingles her effects with sombre appropriateness, as though she desired to make us reflect. The soul of the just contemplates in sleep a mysterious heaven.

It has come to my attention that a recent pall of newspaper reportings seeks to engender the idea of a phenomenon of "elder abuse" existing in our nation. In such light, one question remains for the serious patriot. Just how much of this abuse is self-abuse?

I commend our media, of course, for taking a stalwart (if belated) stand against senior onanism, but I must plead clemency for our mature constituents in this instance. After all, the senior-American is not like you or I! For, lo! The senior-American encounters temptation at every turn!

In the aged, a general increase in flesh relates DIRECTLY to an increased interest in the flesh of others. (And the flesh of onesself!) Dental and maxillofacial implements that can be removed AT WILL present seniors with gaping, toothless seductions toward unnattural lingual acts. The supple, pliable skin of the aged man or woman likewise leads the mind into naught but sinful conjecture as to how this or that fold of flesh might be manipulated.

Heavy lies the crown of the aged-American!

I consider myself lucky (and, on this day of thanksgiving, thankful) to be able to count myself a reanimated-American, with all of the corresponding benefits of a lowered sex drive.

I shall land mine... mine own conservative woman!

Further liberal depravity!

There are two theories of Revolution: to arouse the people, or to let them come of arousal themselves.

In this case, they must be aroused or they stand the likely chance of never experiencing proper arousal again!

Clicking the linked co-ordinates above will take the reader to a website of an organization as seeking to re-define female beauty as arising from the subtraction of limbs via buried explosive devices!

Yet be not afraid, fellow conservatives, for I have devised a program to counter this threat to proper female beauty. Following in the steps of our brothers upon the Isle of Man, I shall put forth a paradigm of female beauty wherein more than two legs are desired, thus creating a counter-balance!

What does a ponce-say? I care not!!!

The word "ponce" has a variety of meanings in the English-speaking cultures, and all of them are negative!

In England, the term refers to an effete, decadent man, preoccupied with fashion and lacking in the wholesome vigour that is becoming to a male of the species.

On the so called "Emerald-Isle" (decadent as it already is), the Irish use the term to refer to a procureror of prostitutes.

And on the Isle of Man it is synonymous with vanity, buggery, and a "camp" that has naught to do with the hearty outdoorsmanship of sleeping under the stars!

In all of the above cases, the word "ponce" is monosyllabic and intoned with a vitriol reserved for acrimonious profanity. Yet according to my PBS affiliate here in Chicago, the word is now pronounced as "pon-say." And, moreover, not only is it used upon the public airwaves supported by taxation of the electorate, but it is THE VERY NAME of the host of the daily television newsprogramme "Chicago Tonight."

Each evening at 7pm, Phil Ponce purveys and proffers a decadent, liberal newsprogram, intended to sway leftwards the hearts and minds of the solidly-conservative Chicagoan. His agenda is, obviously, as dark and crafty as his tactics are! Just as he intends to create a normative attitude toward THE SCANDAL THAT IS HIS VERY SURNAME, so too does he intend to engender normative attitudes toward bigamy, sodomy, and hemlines that terminate above-the-knee!

We are on to you, however, Mr. Pon-Say. Your attempts to pervert the citizenry of the City of Big Shoulders will prove as feckless as your attempts to foist your liberal name upon us!

A Ray of Hope in the Republic’s Darkest Hour

I have many times warned that allowing lesbians to abandon school-marmism so that they may openly pursue softball and dour fashion will erode the sophistication of the electorate. Now the nation is governed by a generation of citizen who has never feared the switch of a brawny Sapphist -- with consequences as predictable as they are tragic.

Indeed, the citizens of Boston ignored my call to depose tyrannical district attorney Daniel Conley. The less said about that day the better. Suffice to say the most salacious members of Conley’s constabulary snatched me off.

I write now weighted with shackle, clad in orange union suit, shod in the thong sandal of the china-man-- but with calm mind. For while I am now domiciled in the State Penitentiary, penitent I am not. I have written the Reverend Al Sharpton of my predicament and reminded him that moral consistency militates that he come to my aide. I have every faith that the Reverend's persistent nattering will secure my freedom and I shall stride from this dungeon with hat cocked in jaunty and defiant confidence.

In the meantime I have opened a new front on the terrorist's war against us here in this prison… and also discovered in myself the capacity for a pure and untainted love.

But I get ahead of myself. I spent not a week in prison before I happened upon a klatch of dread Mohammedans!

"Hold there, skull-capped barmpots" I warned the terrorists. "You'd be of the kind that Zombie-fied my boon and huckleberry friend Johnskyn!" I exclaimed (in retrospect confusing the Mohammedans with Juju-men of the tropics).

My accusations were met with silence.

"Speak" I ordered. "By Jove, confess your flirtation with necromancy!"

Still no response.

"Calliope, muse of epic poetry" I beseeched heaven-wardly, "Strike the vocal chords of these mongoloids, and inspire speech where now there is only…”

"Mothafucka, I'ma FUCK. You. UP!!" interrupted the leader of the heretofore mute Mohammedans.

Never one to allow my enemies a pyrrhic victory, I withdrew.

Later, while pondering my revenge in my shabby accommodations, an enormous amalgam of odors, muscle, hair, secretions and blubber lumbered into my bed chamber, dressed in naught but a bath towel.

"Ahh, I’ll wager that you’re a Golem sent by the Mohammedans," I accused (in retrospect confusing the Mohammedans with Rabbinical Hebrew warlocks).

"Ssup, puss," gurgled the giant upright hedgehog in response.

Ohh, how I blush at this memory. How my eyes must have welled, how my cheeks must have reddened, how my loins must have engorged -- so grateful was I for this good fortune. I instantly recognized "Ssup, puss" as the first line of the epic ribald palindrome "Tub sas or Rosa's but" (which—as any literate will tell you—ponders what is to be preferred between coitus in a washbasin, or anal sex with a Latina).

Even here --deprived of my liberty, dressed in the manner of clown, driven into consort with a most base clergyman, besieged by terrorists, Rastafarians, necromancers, and Semitic sorcerers -- I found a kindred spirit.

Overcome with joy, I thrust myself readily into the hot musk of my shaggy angel's humid mystery.

I have come to know him by his Christian name -- Clifford.

Liberal Cockadoo Garrison Keillor Reaps That Which He Has Sown

Dear reader, a query: when historians look back at our beloved America, will they recall our great technological triumphs, our unprecedented wealth, and, above all, our grand experiment in Republican self-government? Or will our memory be tainted by the bad apples, the flamboyant outliers, the progressive taxers? I ask because the inquiry raises still more questions, themselves unanswerable – and I must confess that they gnaw at me.

Now consider my question anew in light of this article: brazen sexual pervert “Hollywood” Garrison Keillor has returned to the news, and this time not for another paternity suit. No, it is in fact a restraining order issued by a St. Paul judge against one Andrea Campbell, who is charged with “stalking” the swaggering radio host. On what basis, you inquire? She is said to have sent “explicit e-mails and disturbing gifts, including a petrified alligator foot and dead beetles.” As well, the lady stands accused of sending “disturbing, unintelligible and rambling" letters in which she "graphically described making love to [him.]" Finally, Keillor claims that this Campbell attempted to break into his home.

To which I cry: Well of course! How far can the American people be tempted, tweaked and titillated before the man provokes this inevitable eruption? After all, have we not seen Keillor swaying rakishly before a stupefied crowd of 500,000 geriatric hippy-dippies and SDS radicals, numbing their minds with his baritone appeals to “peace,” “small town decency,” and “mutual masturbation”?

Is it not common knowledge that his audience of amateur pornographers, Black Panthers, and North American Unionists rapturously breathe in his cheddary exhalations as though it were the smoke of the cannibis tree?

I ask you: have we not all witnessed him pacing the circular stage like a Norwegian lion, stalking his audience in his skin-tight, day-glo, striped bell-bottomed pants, his no-doubt-musky chest hair enticingly exposed? Have we not heard him crooning sweet lies about climate change and human-ape descent as the crowd, besotted, revels in the sheer carnality of what they breathlessly term The Simultaneous Keillorgasm?

Who among us has not heard whispers about the 72-hour tantric sexual revelries taking place behind the high walls of Woebegon Manor? Have we not each shuddered at hearing the heaving, gulping sobs of unknown creatures and the hysterical laughter of children echoing over the wet flagstones?

And who of us, while seated in our red velvet armchairs at the mid-night hour, has not despised Keillor? Even now the memories of him strutting impudently to and fro rush into my mind unbidden, and my blood stirs.

Beyond these questions lie deeper enigmas: given all that we know about this shameless man, are we to believe that he of all people was distressed by a dowager peering into his privy? And by being mailed fossilized reptile parts? I trust I do not need to repeat the story about Garrison in the hotel room with Marianne Faithful and a petrified alligator foot. You have read the same supermarket journals as I, perhaps even multiple times as an example to one’s own rebellious loins.

Take heart! If anyone is to blame for letting these dangerous erotic energies out of the djinni bottle, it is the Minnesotan nudist himself. A more likely story is that he staged the entire matter in order to generate controversy – the coin of the realm in these confused times. I do not yet have all the answers to these manifold mysteries, but I am confident on this point: history’s millstone will grind down your lies and your will to resist, sir, until one day you consent to wear modest garb. And I swear this, Keillor: I will be there that day to watch you clothe yourself, stitch by bloody stitch if need be.

For if America is to remain great, our anatomies must remain covered – especially those of Garrison Keillor! On that count I am in agreement with the reverend Mullahs and Ayatollahs.

I will leave you with a final quote from the Campbell woman: "It's transcendental love, that's all…between a writer and a reader."



Indeed.

Current "conservative" options for First-Lady are completely unacceptable

The image you see represented in this posting is that of former First-Lady Abigail Powers Fillmore, the touchstone of female beauty in these United States since 1853. Current candidates for our nation's highest office should mark her well (though, it must be said, the Daguerrotype is a poor conductor for her noble and powerful visage).

When you have completed the near-sacred act of basking in her reflected patroitic glow, I ask you to turn your attentions (even as it may turn your stomach) to the current nominees for this position, especially on the so-called Republican side of the aisle. One candidate for president (I shall not name him directly) wishes, by his surname to be identified as a Son-Of-Thom. Yet he is also a Husband-Of-Harlot by and through his actions! The wife of Mr. Thompson (Do I name him directly? Very well, I name him directly.) is better suited for the exotic-dancing pole than the inside of the White House, with her "tanned" skin and medically-augmented bosoms!

Consider also the case of Cindy Hensley McCain! This beer-baron's daughter applies "make-up" to her face and prances to-and-fro wearing leg-stockings like a common saloon floozy. These decorative touches may have their place in the barroom and ale-house, but in the Executive Branch of our Government? Johnskyn Kantilever thinks not!

Likewise, Judith Giuliani (already named in such as way as to arouse suspicion of Semitism) comports herself with the painted face and immodest garb of a burlesque! The very idea!

Now look again to Mrs. Fillmore. She is purity. She is resolve. She, she is America.

Women desiring to become First-Lady of these United States would do well to avoid the cosmetics and perfumes of the decadent French, and instead follow the regimen of Mrs. Fillmore herself.

No, the daily ingestion of a full pint of cod's-liver-oil is not easy. Likewise, bi-weekly internal purification via the enema's nozzle has, granted, unpleasant aspects. Yet no unerring look into Abigail's face can leave any doubt that the ends of our great nation justify the means!

He Who Would Not Risk All for Freedom Shall See a Time When He Has Nothing To Risk

The depravity of Daniel Conley is breathtaking. The illiterate Suffolk County District Attorney is unable to comprehend my modest and temperate request that Grover Swain’s Illustrated Treasury of Ribald Palindromes be made available to the public (see below). Moreover, Conley- that hoary jumble of desires with no backbone, no bottom- has thrown his debased stock in with the Porcine Ms. Smith.

Indeed, Mr. Conley has failed to prevent the yoke of an illegitimate restraining order from being placed upon me.

The defeat is solely Mr. Conley’s, for he has treaded on that witch should not be tread upon. Be it a tax on my tea and stamps, or the incoherent attempts at law of a papist potato ape- the rights of a citizen and property owner are not negotiable.

Thus, I, Grover Swain, seed of the Revolution and modern day Minuteman shall MARCH. I now lay down the pen, the plow and the hotpocket, and take up my decorative flintlock musket.

All who would not be slaves have a duty to take up this struggle for Freedom. Therefore, I will meet all those worthy of his or her citizenship at the gate of the District Attorney’s lair at three-bees-past-midmorning ON THIS VERY DAY!

Our breasts will swell with manly pride as the deposed tyrant and drunkard draws his last, fetid breath. He will long for the day when his mutated country-men were only denied a work application!

My disregarded letter is the catalyst of the Renewed American Revolution, and will no doubt heretofore be deemed the equal of the Declaration of Independence, both for its import to the Republic and artfulness of its wording. For the benefit of scholars- alive and yet to be born- I reproduce it in its entirety.

***********************************************

Dear Ms. Smith:

I shan’t enumerate the offenses I take from your recent correspondence, in which you suppose to reject my offer to furnish your collection with two dozen volumes of “Grover Swain’s Illustrated Treasury of Ribald Palindromes.” Long experience has taught me that one only compounds ones error when one expects more than a great oinking and snorting after addressing a sow. Again I have cast my pearls before swine, and the she-pig grunts accordingly.

However, I must inform you that you lack discretion to deny my generosity! Suppose the national archivist decided on a lark to throw the United States Constitution into the ash bin, thus making room for the pornographer Danielle Steele. He would be thrown into the stocks forthwith! On the same theory of justice I shall ask that you reconsider, lest you find yourself locked in amongst the sodomites by the county turn-key.

You will note that I have sent a carbon copy to Daniel Conley, District Attorney of Suffolk County. You have but two hopes to retain your freedom. First you may hope that Mr. Conley- flush with drink- smudges the carbon with his stout Celtic digits beyond legibility. In fairness the odds of this are not remote. However, the more prudent course to securing your freedom is to accept my offer and install the Treasury into your collection with all the dispatch your trotters can muster!

You want not for brass, trollop. Let us hope you retain some sense of self preservation.

Cheers,

Grover Swain

CC Daniel Conley, Suffolk County District Attorney