Lawyer's Letter

Dear Mr. Taylor,

I have just been retained to represent Ms. Lotta Screems. You may recall that she wrote to you about your product the Vibrolux/Clotomax Premiere Edition several months ago and you failed to respond to said communication.

I understand that you were arrested last week and are currently being held in premature house detention on charges of reckless womanslaughter (7,003 counts), email fraud (12,457 counts), unborn child molestation (3,673 counts), negligent virtual sodomy (I forget how many counts), and RICO (23,238 counts). Accordingly, I do not expect a response from you, and indeed have been informed that your 14 Macs and 19 PCs were seized and quarantined as evidence. But my client, understandingly, has unrequited, rightful retribution urges and has therefore requested most strenuously that I write to tell you she has every intention of suing you, in and out of prison or ankle bracelets or sanctuaries foreign and near, and in fact it is my obligation as an officer of the court to advise you that we have successfully garnished a your immodest bank account, anticipating your imminent attempt to transfer your assets to one of those money laundering countries inimical to the interests of law-abiding Americans.

Ms. Screems suffers from irreversible paralysis that struck her on May 14^th. I am certain that you are well aware what caused this tragic condition; there is no need to elaborate at this point. Ms. Screems, a grandmother who can no longer work due to said disability, is confined to a substandard hospital, as she cannot afford a mediocre one. Her insurance company is refusing to cover her expenses, claiming that she knew what she was getting into when she used your product. They have also claimed that they do not cover medical conditions related to “female issues.” Accordingly, she must pay $549 per day for her shared room with 6 (without television). Ms. Screems's first medical bill totaled $8,900.00 (8 times the amount of taxes she paid the government in 2009). Needless to say, the doctors have done nothing but pat her hands, pinch her cheeks, order tests, and talk to the female nurses on the floor, who talk to each other when the doctors aren't around. The doctors are holding her “for observation.” She is growing yellow from malnutrition and is rapidly losing massive amounts of weight.

While my client expects no more remorse from you than that felt by Massey Energy Co. CEO Don Blankenship --who stated this week that he does not feel guilty about the Upper Big Branch mine disaster that killed 29 of his workers, and said he could not rule out another mining disaster because of the industry's inherent dangers-- a bouquet of pale pink geraniums would be a nice gesture.

Sincerely,

Mada Gaff, Attorney at Law

Gaff, Geff, Goff, and Guff, Ltd.

674 Thornhill Way,

Scranton, Pa. 18505

In honor of International Women's Day

Demonica

Published in Cellar Door, Winter 2005; Big Bridge, January 2006.

Monica’s my name.  Don’t think of that Monica, though. My game plan has nothing to do with sucking up to “great men” to imbibe their power and flatter myself they care for me. I live in the underground; reside in the virtual dreams of great men aspirants, the ones who equate sex with power. The wives, with their fallen breasts, the ones with the breasts that droop to their heels one year and rise to their chins the next, well, they owe me. Their men will never be great. I suck the embryonic power out of them. The women are as relieved as my corporate clients.

There’s a great man aspirant now, chatting with the receptionist Very large he is, taking up all the pixels on my screen. Well done makeup, green-grey eyes, dark hair with silver temples, Romanesque nose, the eyes the right melange of cool and warm, a hint of erotic charisma, aspiring CEO type, number 666, sent from Hallyburton’s HR office; our favorite client, Hallyburton.

Number 666 saunters into my plushly appointed office, back straight, arm extended, prepared to shake virtual hands. What, are you kidding? You don’t shake hands with haute hookers. Hah! There’s a tidbit of martini blubber round his middle, but I can tell he’s been frequenting the tanning salons and I’m past such trifles as blubber. Double chins make me swoon. This number’s sort of cute, predictably so, but bearable, without pig features; looks as if he’s prodding 40, wears wedding band. A slight hint of reflective melancholia in his emotional aroma . . . ah, it’s nearly intoxicating, along with the plump lower lip, implying sensuality.

“Take off your shirt and let me see what you have,” I say, “Ducky duck, you’re a fine example of the species, you obviously work out 7 days a week and I love those assertive nipples – just the right shade too. So what’s wrong with Mitzy? Ah, but you’re not here to discuss her now, are you, darlin, so remove your pants.”

Great man aspirants are always obedient. It never fails. At least the first few times, they do whatever I tell them to do. After four or five sessions with smartass me, they want Shirley or Lulu, aficionados of Harlequin romance novels. The men panic after my recitals of deviant literature. Sooner or later, I’ll quote Barthelme, Parker, Gaitskill, Borges, Ballard or Borroughs. Depends on my mood. Never Rand, Mailer, Fitzgerald or Hemingway, that’s for sure.

The man looks puzzled, then vaguely frightened. I want to swallow him.

“So spread your legs, my darling dove,” I coo. “Lie down on the virtual red rug there, costly Turkish rug, imported, tasteful, elegant. I never let janitors lie down on it, not to worry.”

He lies down, spreads his legs, a comforting sign of early surrender. I gaze at the painstakingly molded thighs and the pulsing worm between them, as the hungry little creature gains in stature. I can see the great man in the making and I know he wants me to take the worm in my hot red mouth. I don’t.

I stand above him, my legs straddling his body. He begs me: “Let me see them.”

“What?” I ask, innocently, “What is it you’d like to see, my dovey dove?”

“I want to touch them. They are so big, like mountains I want to climb with my tongue and fingers; like modest Everests they are. I am but a poor climber, disarmed,” he tells me. Sure.

“You are but a cliché of a man,” I respond, with feigned fatigue, as I stroke my precious cavern through the mesh steel miniskirt I wear to work. Fucking irritating uniform they make me wear and these idiot phony nails, violet this week.

“Plead with me and recite a poem. Perhaps then . . .” I add.

He recites that Wordsworth poem about daffodils.

“You’re going to have to do better than that.”

So he tries T.S. Elliot; switches to Ezra Pound when I yawn vociferously. Then attempts the obvious: Shakespeare, some sickening sonnet or other.

I yawn again, without restraint. “I don’t want to see your godlike face, with the chin dent, or hear you quote poetry I’ve heard before, so many times. You have no imagination, I say, only that expressive writhing creature you want me to consume. Lie on your back, so I can play with it, perhaps . . . as I wish.”

He reverses himself. I gaze at the brown mounds of his buttocks, as he waits. He waits to be touched some way or other, even if it pains him, he must be touched.

He turns his head to look at me when he hears the sound of the chains.

“Don’t look at me, not now.  Maybe later, if you’re good.” You should know what happened to Orpheus. You did go to Yale now, did you not?

I check the rule book. I always forget the routine, though I actually know it by heart; I do not own it, simply play it. I’m supposed to undress loudly, with obscene moans, but slowly, and I’m supposed to slap him when he gives in to the impulse to see what I’m doing. I’m advised to anoint my skin with aromatic oils, telling him precisely what I’m doing. Then, when he can no longer bear the suspense, I’m to tell him he qualifies for a second mortgage at extremely low rates.  After that, I’m to tickle his cock with a feather pen.

Yes, I know it’s tacky, but it’s only a script. Once in awhile, I don’t follow it, like now. The man is crying; I don’t know why. He is sobbing without restraint. There is nothing to take from him. There is nothing I can do but wrap myself around him like a birthday gift.

missive to the fiction editor of the new yakker yeah the new yakker

One of the satires accepted for the new, juicy Big Bridge. I'm not holding my breath for the second. Everything's screwed up this year and possibly next year as well.

President Obama To Issue Executive Order to Execute Members of the Notorious Bush Mob.

President Obama To Issue Executive Order to Execute Members of the Notorious Bush Mob.

1-22-09 (Rooters): According to an anonymous source, as yet unverified as reliable and accordingly hush-hush-strictly-entre-nous, the President met secretly at midnight in the Trapezoid Room with his Chief of Staff, select members of Cabinet, old Harvard pals on and off Staff and three Christian ministers to compose an Order of Execution to execute Bush Jr., Cheney, Rumsfeld, and Rove “within the year.” The quartet of “thugs” is cited as “co-conspirators under 7,890 counts of RICO, as well as “perpetrators of a multitude of violations of international human rights treaties and criminal statutes enacted by The International Criminal Court, unrecognized (for good reason) by the former regime.”

The indictment to be alluded to in the Order will be voted upon democratically “by the American people and enthusiastically endorsed by world leaders, where appropriate.” The document shall include, but not be limited to counts against the above named as: perpetrators and co-conspirators of heinous criminal acts against the American people’s first and fourth amendment rights (not to mention the penumbra of rights and statutory voting rights); psycho-pathologically perjurious and homicidal acts of a fascistic nature against the American people and others (currently tabling as unpopular inclusion of the intentional destruction of the Twin Towers and various suspect deaths of “people who knew too much and spoke against the administration”); and grossly negligent and homicidal conduct against Nature, animals, and fish and the economic well-being of the human species, said acts “endangering the very survival of the species.”

The major issue at the covert meeting ("Well, folks, we can't be open about EVERYthing," explained the President)was the mode of execution. The framers are considering execution by strangulation by polar bear, evisceration by wolves, drowning by water boarding, immersion in hot oil (from Iraq and Afghanistan), and instant eradication by suicide bomb. The President reputedly stated his belief that “the suicide bomb may be most appropriate, but strangulation by polar bear holds appeal.” Secretary of State Clinton suggested “a swift, clean, symbolic break from the past” by guillotine, while one of the unnamed ministers stated that he was “praying for crucifixion.” The President immediately ruled out crucifixion as “likely to lead to martyrdom, an unsavory resolution indeed.”

Sarah Palin Turkey Pardon

This is hysterical!

MESSAGE FROM THE QUEEN

Email Notice, author (sadly) unknown:

Subject: MESSAGE FROM THE QUEEN

To the citizens of the United States of America

from Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II



In light of your failure in recent years to nominate competent candidates for President of the USA and thus to govern yourselves, we hereby give notice of the revocation of your independence, effective immediately. (You should look up 'revocation' in the Oxford English Dictionary.)



Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II will resume monarchical duties over all states, commonwealths, and territories (except Kansas , which she does not fancy). Your new Prime Minister, Gordon Brown, will appoint a Governor for America without the need for further elections (or campaigning for office).Congress and the Senate will be disbanded. A questionnaire may be circulated next year to determine whether any of you noticed!



To aid in the transition to a British Crown dependency, the following rules are introduced with immediate effect:

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1. The letter 'U' will be reinstated in words such as 'colour,' 'favour,' 'labour' and 'neighbour.' Likewise, you will learn to spell 'doughnut' without skipping half the letters, and the suffix '-ize' will be replaced by the suffix '-ise.' Generally, you will be expected to raise your vocabulary to acceptable levels.

(look up 'vocabulary').

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2. Using the same twenty-seven words interspersed with filler noises such as ''like' and 'you know' is an unacceptable and inefficient form of communication. There is no such thing as U.S. English. We will let Microsoft know on your behalf. The Microsoft spell-checker will be adjusted to take into account the reinstated letter "u'' and the elimination of "ize."

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3. July 4th will no longer be celebrated as a holiday.

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4. You will learn to resolve personal issues without using guns, lawyers, or therapists. The fact that you need so many lawyers and therapists shows that you're not quite ready to be independent. Guns should only be used for shooting grouse. If you can't sort things out without suing someone or speaking to a therapist, then you're not ready to shoot grouse.

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5. Therefore, you will no longer be allowed to own or carry anything more dangerous than a vegetable peeler. Although a permit will be required if you wish to carry a vegetable peeler in public.

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6. All intersections will be replaced with roundabouts, and you will start driving on the left side with immediate effect. At the same time, you will go metric with immediate effect and without the benefit of conversion tables. Both roundabouts and metrication will help you understand the British sense of humour.

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7. The former USA will adopt UK prices on petrol (which you have been calling gasoline) of roughly $10/US gallon. Get used to it.

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8. You will learn to make real chips. Those things you call French fries are not real chips, and those things you insist on calling potato chips are properly called crisps. Real chips are thick cut, fried in animal fat, and dressed not with catsup but with vinegar.

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9. The cold, tasteless stuff you insist on calling beer is not actually beer at all. Henceforth, only proper British Bitter will be referred to as beer, and European brews of known and accepted provenance will be referred to as Lager. South African beer is also acceptable, as they are pound for pound the greatest sporting nation on earth and it can only be due to the beer. They are also part of the British Commonwealth – see what it did for them. American brands will be referred to as Near-Frozen Gnat's Urine, so that all can be sold without risk of further confusion.

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10. Hollywood will be required occasionally to cast English actors as good guys. Hollywood will also be required to cast English actors to play English characters. Watching Andie Macdowell attempt English dialogue in Four Weddings and a Funeral was an experience akin to having one's ears removed with a cheese grater.

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11. You will cease playing American football. There is only one kind of proper football; you call it soccer. Those of you brave enough will, in time, be allowed to play rugby (which has some similarities to American football, but does not involve stopping for a rest every twenty seconds or wearing full kevlar body armour like a bunch of nancies).

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12. Further, you will stop playing baseball. It is not reasonable to host an event called the World Series for a game which is not played outside of America . Since only 2.1% of you are aware there is a world beyond your borders, your error is understandable. You will learn cricket, and we will let you face the South Africans first to take the sting out of their deliveries.

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13. You must tell us who killed JFK. It's been driving us mad.

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14. An internal revenue agent (i.e. tax collector) from Her Majesty's Government will be with you shortly to ensure the acquisition of all monies due (backdated to 1776).

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15. Daily Tea Time begins promptly at 4 p.m. with proper cups, with saucers, and never mugs, with high quality biscuits (cookies) and cakes; plus strawberries (with cream) when in season.

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G_d Save the Queen!

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

Well, it's time to re-post this whatnot.

__________

Happy Holidays!

by yours in dementia

(published in Pindeldyboz)

"Happy Holidays, Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, Ho Ho Ho," exclaimed Bobo, the black cat with green eyes, the young Marlon Brando cat, the way he moves. He (Bobo not Brando) was lying next to me as usual. His chitchat induced me to surrender sleep and remove my American Airlines eyemask, which had drooped to my chin.

Bobo opened his mouth, sang, "Hark the Herald Angels sing," till I placed my hand over his tiny lips. "I hate that hymn. I hate Christmas and all those angloid things," I exclaimed, fiercely. "I want another planet real bad I want it. Stop drooling all over me."

So I got out of bed and fed all of the cats cornflakes and watched my upstairs neighbor float by the kitchen window as my coffee brewed. "Hi, Gloria," she shouted, gaily, waving her eggbeater. "Aren't you going to Saks? Big sale on, beating the crowds. I'll be the first through the doors." Henrietta was wearing her red leather shopping bag Santa shaped with green handles. "Ho ho," I replied, squirting cheap vodka in her face with my plastic pistol.

Henri sailed by, blue suit with black umbrella. "Goya Knoll," he remarked gravely when he saw me gazing out the window.

There were no pigeons around, not for a change -- only a baby puma basking in a pocket of shade on the sidewalk opposite my building. How cute, I thought, till she started singing: "Silent night, holy night . . ." Evidently, she had lost the map to the manger. She was shaking a cup full of coins.I grabbed my coffee and ran to my computer, only to hear "We wish you a Merry Christmas" emanating from a pop-up. Mephistopheles Ribs of Arkansas was offering me a free Christmas fruit and cheese basket at a discount. I decided my email could wait. I would burn the first fake pine tree I saw.

So I put on my flannel nightgown and left. I burned the fake tree in the lobby, within the purview of the President of the Co-op Board. She snapped a picture of me with her nifty digital, said, "Smile, Merry Christmas oh I mean Happy Chanukah, we'll leave a bill for you, $375 for the tree plus ornaments, including the burning Menorah, you fuckin idiot. The price of oil has gone up, you know."

It was tepid out, due to global warming, of course, drizzling slightly, but a terrific day for the boardwalk. No one would be heading for Brighton Beach days before Christmas, no way, I thought I'd skip the crowds and have a quiet time not writing holiday cards.

But a bunch of reindeer with boom boxes was heading for the beach, "going AWOL, dearie," one of them confided, they'd had it with Santa; "sweatshop exploitation," shouted another, competing with Bing Crosby crooning that cloying White Christmas song. Fuck the lot of those deer, thought I, dreaming of Caledonia. Daddy was kissing Santa Claus, and the reindeer were truly fucked. Two cops named O'Malley bound their spindly feet together with green and red ribbons and placed the reindeer under arrest for desertion. They were going to Guantanamo Bay, those terrorists. New York's bravest tied up the train for nearly an hour, but that's how it goes with traitors.

When I arrived at Brighton Beach boardwalk, it was pretty deserted and dry except for a little fat boy with barely any eyes eating MacDonald's hamburgers and fries. "Hey lady," he yelled, tossing a Russian fur hat at me. "Give some money for Christmas dinner for the Brighton Beach dogs, please!"

I tossed the hat back to the kid, emptier than it was before. I threw a thousand gold coins and a dollar bill into the Atlantic and plunged into the navy blue waters. Swam all the way to the middle of the world, where I could no longer see land. I had escaped.

A fancy ocean liner passed by. People waved at me; cheery holiday music was rising like smog from the ship. "Happy Happy!" they shouted, tossing me martinis with olives and blood sausages with apples. "Happy, Happy!" I waved, as I swam toward the South Pole.

Bush Seeks to Ban Marriage Between Fictitious Gay Characters

Bush Seeks to Ban Marriage Between Fictitious Gay Characters
Harry Potter Revelation Prompts President’s Move

By Andy Borowitz


Just days after “Harry Potter” author J.K. Rowling revealed that the popular professor character Albus Dumbledore was gay, President George W. Bush told the nation that he would seek a ban on fictitious gay weddings.

In a nationally televised address last night, Mr. Bush said that he devote the rest of his term in office to obtaining a constitutional amendment banning marriage between fictitious gay characters.

“In order to protect the sanctity of marriage in the real world, we must first protect the sanctity of marriage in fiction,” Mr. Bush said. “This is the most pressing goal of my Administration – even more important than bombing Iran.”

While the president’s address was for the most part consistent with his earlier statements on gay marriage, it was uncharacteristic in that it demonstrated an awareness of books.

And in attacking the Mr. Dumbledore’s right to wed, Mr. Bush may have raised the ire of one of the most militant constituencies in the U.S.: Harry Potter fans.

Jude Ralston, 34, one of over 5,000 Potter devotees who dressed as Dumbledore to protest the president’s speech outside the White House last night, said that Mr. Bush could be playing with fire: “Harry Potter fans take these things very seriously, and we don’t have anything else going on in our lives.”

As for Dumbledore’s gayness, Mr. Ralston said that he had overlooked obvious clues the first time he read the books: “I, like, totally missed that scene in the airport bathroom.”

Elsewhere, a national survey of slutty nurses shows that they are undecided about what to go as for Halloween.

Better than Court TV: Sensational Cases from the NYC Courts

For those deprived readers who haven't read my latest column at Mad Hatters' Review, here it is.



Better Than Court TV: Sensational Cases from the NYC Courts
by Carol Novack

NYC COP ON STAND BLAMES COHEN OPTICALS FOR MISTAKING 12 YEAR-OLD BLACK KID FOR OSAMA BIN LADEN.

6/22/2007 6:54 PM EST
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK (Rooters)

Anonymous jurors sat impassively while the defendant, Officer Robert Reilly Johnson, testified about his trip to Cohen Opticals a few hours before he fatally shot Ishmaeli something or other we can't pronounce on a rooftop in Bensonhurst. According to Alphonse Derschovitz (bigimportantlawyerblog), this is the first instance in America that the defense of “Myopia Nervosa Cornea,” a.k.a. “Negligent Optical Illusions,” or rarer, “Negligent Optical Retailers,” has been permitted to proceed to trial. “On every other occasion, well, really only one," Dershovitz is alleged to have said to his former student Gertrude Klotz (an intern with Fox News, and a gad about town at MySpace), "the courts have refused to consider the affirmative defense, which is widely recognized in Ubetzuasshcanstand and other parts of the former USSR nobody here has heard of except Borak, but then of course, he's not from here.”

Tensions were ascending when the defendant took the stand, as nobody thought he'd get up and swear. On direct examination, Johnson testified: "The sun was laying down on the roof like this glaring monster alien egg yolk. I couldn't see with those dang new glasses. … I swear this kid, with these huge sunglasses, looked just like that Osama guy, and when he did something with his left hand, I did like any good American, like they teach us to shoot before we gets shot at. It's what you do when you're an officer of the law and you love your country and you're faced with an Arab looking guy you have reason to believe is a terrorist. God bless America."

Judge Weezel admonished an elderly male juror, known as "the knitter," for giggling "inappropriately" when Johnson blessed America.

At the close of today’s proceedings, the defendant's mother, Gertrude Kvetzchinitz Johnson, of somewhere around Nashville, Tennessee, stated: “He was always a quiet boy, a bit slow, to tell the truth. It took him at least 15 minutes to pull the feelers out of the ugly creeping critters around these parts. It was hard to get him in to supper ’cause he took so long. And he was kinda quiet too, and a bit messy, drooling all over the cats and them babies and all and it were kinda strange how those babies and all would plum disappear and he was always eating crickets without gravy. But BobBoy was always a good boy and quiet. We were mighty right proud when he became a policeman in that awful city.”

Stay in tune tomorrow when the Kings County District Attorney Amanda Poccolocco —still under investigation for fraud and bribery — is scheduled to make a rare appearance to cross-examine the defendant. According to her ex-husband, real estate mogul Horace H. Houghton, Ms. Poccolocco has never cross-examined anyone but him, and that was during his alleged affair with the infamous Madame Beatrice. Houghton alleges that his ex-wife did a “pathetic job.”

The outcome of this case may well make waves in the legal field if the defendant is acquitted and the action holds up on appeal, post-appeal, post-post appeal, and certiorari, although legal scholars unanimously agree that the optical defense would hit a fatal blindspot if it were to proceed to consideration by the U.S. Supreme Court, as a majority of the justices believe that “defenses are not rights that are protected by the Constitution, as if defendants had any rights to begin with.” Flugmire v. U.S., 1463 U.S. 2777 (2007) (Scalia, J).