I found this letter buried beneath John Ashcroft’s Water Wiggle in a trunk in the basement. I wonder if we forgot to mail it? Gonna have to go get some stamps…*

mjs

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Dear Snuggle Pumpers,

Look, baby, you know I love you. Your belly full of oil, your eyes full of desire, your swarthy swarthiness—I wanted you in the worst way, which is the best way I want things. When I want something, I take it, and I slap it around and punch it and go to town, you know what I mean? And I wanted you, baby. You. It was always you. Well, since the internal combustion engine anyway…

I knocked you off your feet, and then picked you up by your feet, and then I dropped you…I admit I dropped you—but I picked you up again, and then, admittedly, dropped you once more, oh, but darn it, I just kept on picking you up. And dropping you. It was all good fun…at first. I slapped your thighs but good and gained the golden hall without so much as a titty-tickle and wham! came off like Speed Racer—it was good. Damn good. Get the bleach out good. Emission accomplished good. Jack-off in the shower while visualizing Max Boot good, now-that-I-think-about-it-good.

And remember when I found your daddy and got his buddies to fuck his ass up something fierce so we could be together, just you and me and some contractors? And then it was mostly just you and me (and the contractors, but what can you do?) and a future filled with flying carpets and easy money and then…oh, criminey, but I went soft. I’ll admit it. I went soft like a White House reporter full of cocktail weenies and Swedish vodka. Yeah, that soft.

And could you believe it (oh! wimpy horror of horrors!) my family wanted me to leave you! ???? To hell with them, I said. I’m staying. But my firmness started, eh, diminishing and my balls, just to add insult to injury, started to dry out. But I didn’t let those unfortunate truths deter my ardor. I decided to increase my love by surging deeper inside of you, surging and surging until you screamed with pleasure—you were mine again! Those were screams of pleasure, weren’t they? You wouldn’t have tried to pull a fast one on old mortar butt, would you? Heck, I know I couldn’t feel you anymore, but I knew I was in there somewhere, by golly! I couldn’t feel you but I knew that if I could feel you it would feel good, if I could feel it. Nothing more than feelings for me, boopsie.

True, my love once more spent, I started to slip out again…this was a problem that many lovers my age face. I turned two hundred and thirty-one last July, thank you very much. I knew from experience that I should make continuous attempts to keep our love together: I tried visualizing having sex with your neighbor as a way of raising old glory but it wasn’t enough to make wood, and my damn family kept asking me to come home—to withdraw and return to the fold. Part of me died inside of you. Did you hear that, you Arabesque bitch? Part of me died inside of you every day for over four and a half years. Slipping out was just one more way of withdrawing, and winners don’t withdraw. Winners have to be chased out by bank creditors and crying women and children and Morley Safer.

To be fair, not all the family wanted me to come home. Some of our greatest cheerleading hard-asses wanted me to stay in you forever and ever. Never mind the chafing they said. Never mind the cost. Hell, you’d think it was their dick in there. I always wondered about that part of the family. Hanging around in public restrooms, addicted to pain pills, afraid of brown people. But, by golly, they kept me going. It was like they were getting off on me trying to get off in you, as though they were living through my dick as it slopped around the inner essence of you—my limp, spent dick, flopping in a daily bath of blood, awash in the sangria of the lamb. And then phooey wouldn’t you know it but I started to slip out again for like the hundredth time. I felt bad. And in need of dick balm.

But it wasn’t my fault, not really. How was I supposed to stay attracted to you while you stained the sheets with a seemingly endless river of blood? You just kept leaking all over the place (the world’s longest menstrual cycle!) and frankly I lost my taste for your booty. I’d rather fuck one of Jonah Goldberg’s fleshy folds, ¿comprende? But did I leave? NO. Did I withdraw? NO. Did I slip out? A little, as per usual…you always knew I wasn’t going far, and that you and I would stay embraced for many more than a thousand and one nights. We will be together until once more my vascular system dilates enough for my hummer to harden, and then you will feel me the way I feel you, which I don’t feel yet but if I do it could be great…if it happens. To live is to hope.

Okay, maybe it isn’t love. Maybe it’s something deeper than that. Maybe it’s…oh, for crying out loud, would it kill you to change the sheets once in a while? How the hell can you expect me to occupy your bed for the next one hundred years? I have standards, damn you!

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*Anybody notice we’re still killing Iraqis, and we’re still sending our youth off to die to do it? I forget why this is okay. Something to do with freedom? Drop me a note if you remember.

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Cross posted at Jesus’ General.

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Surely, McCain’s advisers have ever been friends to Rohan and the King…

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Imagine Ben Stein’s ethics
They’re easy to deny
No good faith above him
Below it he will lie
The banality of evil
Stealing all away

Imagine there’s no science
So many people do
Nothing to study or wonder
The end of seeking truth
Imagine all the country
Dumber than a post…

You may say Ben Stein’s a schemer
But he’s not the only one
Many a fool would destroy us
A new Dark Age will have begun

Imagine no progression
Evolution canned
No need for artful discussions
A devaluing of man
Imagine all the children
Burning all the books…

You may say I’m a boomer
And my time will fade away
I hope someday you’ll stand up
And keep ignorance at bay

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When it comes to Scientology I admit that I am biased against it. I find it to be an example of bad fiction made into a “chase your tail” siphon of its adherents money, as if a comatose Kilgore Trout were crossed with mayonnaise and a dying nine volt battery. Toss in an ever elusive brass ring (the golden carrot of being “clear”) that is dangled in front of a believer’s nose and you have a cash cow that squirts a steady stream of manna-droplets into its coffers. Pay to play, pay to be enlightened…and round the neck of the bottle was a paper label, with the words ‘DRINK ME’ beautifully printed on it in large letters.

Instead of giving away money to achieve transcendent tantalusism, I suggest listening to Silard Somerjay instead. All clear!

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