In the Hall of the Humorless King

I recently read an article written by Gilbert Gottfried. I really enjoyed it.

I had no idea that Gilbert Gottfried was such a potty mouth! Now, I am not trying to hate on Gilbert, not at all. I am just totally surprised. Here is where I proceed to probably insult Mr. Gottfried, and should apologize in advance. But I fired my Public Relations department, and do not have the faculty to write an insincere, public apology. Instead, I shall revel in the fact that he will more than likely never read what is written here and just go ahead with my story.

I remember G. when he was on “Saturday Night Live” back when I was a child to young to be watching and appreciating “Saturday Night Live.” Then, I did some other stuff for a couple of years decades, and he was the voice of some Disney bird. Then he was a goose. I am pretty sure that I saw him in many other places, I am rather fond of the dude; I just think those memories have been lost to absinthe, redheads, and random acts of weirdness. But I am rambling…

I may have possibly dated myself, but I am still younger than you, Gilbert.

I knew that fucking goose sounded different, and I guess because I have really been avoiding the news due to various elephant-related publicity/legal reasons, I was unaware exactly what happened. During my media blackout I was hornswaggled and provided with a discount Gottfried (that was not intended to be as potentially bad-ish-sounding as may seem. Although now that I have said that, it sounds worse, eh?)! As all of you non-cave dwellers know, there was some alleged improper joke business involving a tsunami – I accept that I am extremely late to the party.

Yadda yadda yadda…I am not writing a Summation of Gottfried. So, toward the end of the article, he drops the “c” bomb. You know, that word that somehow manages to make everyone wince: “corporation.” Yeah, those corporation cunts at Aflac fired him, and he goes on to talk about how he is a comedian who uses the word “cunt.” Here is where I had to stop and make sure that my coffee was in fact coffee, and that I had not been sitting in the kitchen drinking Honey Jack Daniel’s for the last hour from a very, large mug. Did Gilbert Gottfried just write/say that? Yes. Yes, he did. And he said/wrote a bunch of other stuff. Here he was that Aflac bird, that parrot from Aladdin…cussing up a storm like he just started channeling the bastardized child of a grizzled old sea captain and Andrew “Dice” Clay!

“No one remembers me…”

I was totally taken by surprise…for a couple of minutes. Then I remembered that Gilbert Gottfried was a comedian. And a foul-mouthed one. While that may sound like a kick in the nuts to find out that there is a such thing as a foul-mouthed comedian, I find myself hard-pressed to find one that is not named Sinbad or Bill Cosby. Maybe some of those religious comics. But really, are they comics? Is it really funny to know that your humor exists because someone was brutally executed by Romans? I am getting way off topic. The point is that comedians have potty mouths, they say potty things, and sometimes these things are very inappropriate. That is why many of them appear on shows that warn about language and sexual content. Or have age restricted shows. Or have warning labels on their albums. Or dress in leather and manage to offend every woman on the planet by just smoking a cigarette and holding a greasy comb. If I know this, then surely someone has to know this before they operate under the apparent assumption that this person is not going to say something that is going to offend someone, somewhere. It may even be a nation full of people that a different nation dropped giant bombs on…shit happens.

Upon further perusal: that Donkey from that movie, Eddie Murphy, right? Being a child of the Eighties, I was technically not supposed to see most of Eddie Murphy’s movies. Or listen to his stand up. Or ask him about transvestite prostitutes. He was definitely as potty-mouthed as Gilbs (I feel suddenly close to Mr. Gottfried, like nickname close). And Don Rickles was a talking potato-shaped childhood toy. When I was a child I would have never imagined in my wildest dreams that the plastic potato whose eye stalks I often chewed off, would be voiced by a guy who I found funny, but was supposed to not like because I am, technically, a minority. In the Seventies comedy was horribly segregated; I am ashamed that to this day I am surprised if a white person claims to know who Redd Foxx was, not Fred Sanford – Redd Foxx.

“Lies! He hath mentioned!!!!!!!”

At this moment I would like to point out that somehow Disney, allegedly the most family-oriented thing in the fucking world, nee, universe now that they own fucking “Star Wars” and George Lucas’ soul, hires potty mouths to amuse children. This is bigger than that whole Walt = Nazi thing. Look, at the same time that temporarily cuss-mouth restrained Gilbs was masquerading as a neurotic parrot, Robin Williams was subjecting the Arab community to his potentially ethnically insensitive, blue-skinned shenanigans. He also wore tights and called himself Peter Pan, and did some Popeye thing.

Now, there are some obvious persons involved in children’s fun-things that have gone on to due things that people have complained about, and later found reason to call said actions criminal (for example Bill Clinton) that I have not mentioned due to them being easy, unfair targets. But I am not talking about criminals, I am just discussing the foul-mouthed legends that we have all grown to love. Or fear. Like Sam Jackson. That dude can fuck your shit up in many ways, and sound awesome doing it. That is some shit there. It is because of that shit that parents go to these “kid’s films,” pay a gajillion dollars for stale, chemically enhanced “popcorn” and ten ounces of flat pop.

Jackson is no Joke, homie!

“Two of the many ways that I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger!”

So what is the big deal about the Gil-to-tha-bert? There was a time when stuff could be funny. All kinds of stuff. Almost everything. Go ahead, tell me with a straight face that you did not have a serious problem stifling your laughter the first time you saw a little kid fall face-first in a grocery aisle: legs up giving the kid the appearance of an arrow hitting a bullseye at a forty-five degree angle, arms flailing, sliding along on the side of the face as the siblings jump and point and da throws cantaloupes in an effort to slow the approach to the carefully stacked boxes of “Wheat Thins”. “Who the fuck looks for ‘Wheat Thins’ in produce?!” Dad screams while mom is worried about the potential wreckage to the teeth and realization of a life that will grow into a lonely existence masturbating in her basement with a disfigured face and too many empty packages of Oreo cookies to possibly belong to one person. But they do belong to one person. One sad, disfigured, sticky-handed person.

But I digress, or so I have been advised by my all-up-in-ma-grille secretary.

The point is that we used to be a nation with a sense of humor. We laughed in the face of death, racism, sexism, commies…you name it. Now, we are so worried with offending someone’s sensitive feelings because we have developed a thin, lacy skin. Granted, there are assholes, and people who just are generally offensive. I would venture to say that there was a time when most of us could tell the difference between an insult and a legitimate attempt at humor. Maybe, it is time we started to try that again.


The Chauffeur

“…and the droning engine throbs in time with your beating heart…”

Duran Duran, “The Chauffeur”

Except for the brief mention on the The Foundation Page, I do not believe I have spoken much about the other members of the prestigious Rothechilde Foundation. They are a wonderful group of people, without whom, the Foundation would not be the monster of charity that it has become. In addition, they are my “family,” in far more ways than one. They have all been selected by me to hold close and dear. That does sound a bit narcissistic, even by my standards; yet, we all have family that we have selected. Most of us choose not to say such things for fear of retribution from “true family.” I, however, am not bound by such limitations.

Strangely, the person involved with the Foundation that I probably depend on the most is my personal secretary. My secretary whom has informed me that her title is Executive Assistant. When I pointed out the irony of her taking such a corporate identity in the workplace, she replied that it was more to distinguish her from the Board Secretary, and to get her position printed as a proper noun. Besides, she said: “You would think you would be more concerned with the pay increase that comes with the title. Oh yeah, you wouldn’t. You have no idea how payroll works.” That is my girl. Snarkier than Dennis Miller mocking Bill Maher. But…

…without her, I would admittedly be a complete and utter confused mess. For example, she is the one who suggested that I try matching my Derringers to my ties or cufflinks, instead of my shirts (for some reason, I have been adding color to my wardrobe. I am terrified and elated.). That way, I could pick a metallic color from a paisley or something to highlight the color or the “pearl” handles. I remember a while back, I was obsessing and stressing over some legal issues regarding elephants and alleged amok-running. I had not come to Samurai City for weeks; choosing to stay at the Orchard and Estates and never leave my bedroom. I think I lost count of how much absinthe I drank that couple of weeks and I had a crazy beard. CRAZY BEARD!!! I had no idea that I was getting that much gray hair. I seriously considered getting some of that stuff the jocks advertise for “weird beards” and “trashed staches.” I have since abandoned that cray-cray and opted for a clean shaven look.

Whoa! That is getting way off track. As I was writing, No wash, crazy beard, drunk as can be thanks to Alandia. There, no we are caught up. Anyway, my secr..er…Executive Assistant (I personally think she likes this to fuck with my OCD and make me type more) shows up:

E.S: “Hey! Get up. Get clean. Get dressed. We need to head down to Samurai City. You have an important meeting tomorrow. Press conferences, insurance claims, all that shit is not going away because you want to stay home and hide.”

Me: “No, thank you. I think I will enjoy a few more days solace. The Vice President can handle these things. Is it really six in the morning?”

E.S: “Yes, it is. And no, I got here last night. I do have keys. You probably were passed out or just couldn’t hear me over that movie of you and Charlotte that you were watching. You’ve got issues, serious issues, dude. Speaking of which, she could always come and get you, she says. She’d be sooo pleased to have to show up and deal with you acting like a baby”

Me: “No, that will not be needed. Fine! I will go. But I am going like this…”

E.S: “Naked..?”

Me: “Grrr! No, I will go in my silk jammies and this robe. I even think I still have a pair of slippers to wear.”

E.S: “Oooh cute! You’ll look like the bastard child of Howard Hughes and ‘going-to-the-courthouse-Michael Jackson’!”

Me: “Ugh You. Suck. I will be ready in a few minutes.”

E.S: “And that is why you love me.”

No, that is not why. At least not the only reason why. I do not think that I can put all of those reasons down without turning this blog into some kind of sissy sap-fest, and I have to keep a certain level of testosterone about, you know? But I will say this, this something that may be better left unsaid. I am not sure why I love my Executive Assistant, there are far to many ideas that come to mind, and my OCD picks out the same one, and the ADHD chases it away; distracted by the Vulcan-looking woman discussing sociopaths in the background. One thing I am certain of is that I possibly love her too much. The kind of too much that is disturbing because it may both please and frighten tremendously at the same time. Scary, huh?

It could be scary if I were simply your run-of-the-mill-type person. I am pretty different. I have a hard time relating to most people on any level but the most superficial. The level of relation that is left to public speaking, or mingling, or demanding the highest quality apples and cherries from one’s orchards while keeping your overhead low. With my Executive Assistant, the relationship is most different; I can talk to her, and she always knows how to motivate me when I would rather spend the day with my head in her lap ranting about not knowing whether to cry or head out to the range and shoot every round that I have stored on the property. She deals with my alleged quirks, and stands beside me when I clearly may not be acting as my best self (a rare treat!). And she will not leave! Either she is the most loyal person in the world, or she is a stubborn criminal who has something important to extort me with; I have fired her many times and she always replies with “Yeah, yeah…” or “whatever,” or “No, I’m not. I’m sure you meant to tell me that I am getting a raise and more vacation time.” It is a good thing that she never takes me seriously with those shenanigans, or I would never be able to leave my closets due to not being able to decide what to wear (which is a total nightmare now that my clothes are more than black and white). Hell, I would be really screwed seeing that I do not know how to buy clothes and rely on her to keep me looking spectacular.

And those are just the things that she does for me, personally. Apparently, she is the one who communicates with payroll, purchasing, and all of those departments that make up the Foundation. She says all we board people do is squawk in the Boardroom, demand checks, and make public appearances to take credit for the Earth rotating while she does all of the work. I always counter that she is not paid enough, and we should vote on giving her a raise. Her reply: “You have no idea how payroll works…”

Which is true, I do not. Thank the goddess I have someone who does.

Friday Night with Charlotte

Last week was quite a week. It started with scandal and ended with an ugly attempt to discredit The Foundation. The scandal was a bit of ugliness involving The Foundation’s war elephants. While it seems that the issue should have been over quickly and with a few payouts here and there, that was not to be. Fortunately, I had a fun night out with Charlotte the Friday before the treacherous attempt to ruin your beloved charitable organization.

I could go on and detail the incidents that led to the horrors of the weekend, but instead, I have decided to go the honest route and provide the transcript of a local news programs morning interview of yours truly.

Bert Berterson: “Good morning. I’m Bert Berterson appearing on this special edition of ‘Samurai City Saturday Morning’ with local mogul, Xavier Rothe…”

Me: “Mogul?! What the fuck did you call me? I am not a snowy lump on a ski slope! Nor am I some brandy sipping curmudgeon sitting by some fireplace in some cavernous, drafty, Victorian mansion. I am a humble orchard operator and general all around nice guy. I am really tired of your slander and libel. You really need to get over that camera incident with Manthony.”

B.B: “No, that is not the issue. True, there have been ‘incidents,” but they aren’t what this interview is about. We are here to discuss the elephant rampage that you and your associates with The Rothechilde Foundation are responsible for causing, avoiding, and admitting no responsibility.

Me: “Berty darling, that is exactly what I am talking about! Okay, so unfortunate things may have happened. People may or may not have been allegedly had the misfortune of standing where an elephant may have been walking. Whatever the case, there is no need to start throwing around faulty, unproven allegations that could result in a hefty lawsuit or potential burying in a shallow grave in Nevada or somewhere.”

B.B: “Did, did you just threaten to kill me and bury me in Nevada?”

Me: “I have done no such thing! I was merely stating things that could happen to a person. I have never gone to Nevada. The sand would destroy my wardrode, I believe. Speaking of which, I have been experimenting with adding color to my wardrobe…”

B.B: “Let’s not get off topic, Mr. Rothechilde, Xavier, may I call you Xavier?

Me: “I would not if I did not want to get ‘punished’ severely.”

B.B.  “Ahem. Before we begin, let’s refresh your memory. Ronald, roll the footage please.”

At this moment, a clip was played that showed a large group of people hanging about Downtown Samurai City. In the background, the Foundation Thunderdome stood majestically in the background. In the foreground, more people. Then the clip cut over to the ass-biscuit that I was currently being tormented by in this interview. Mr. Berterson was interviewing people who were “Occupying Samurai City.” Yes, the wave of civil unrest and general unhappiness of the populist poor had spread to Samurai City and the occupiers were occupying various areas of the city. This was exactly why we at the Foundation came up with the idea to have the war elephants. The occupiers had not come as far as the Thunderdome, but a group of counter-occupiers had begun to head in our direction. These counter occupiers were those who supported the one percent or something like that. Berterson interviewed a few of them as well. Approximately two minutes into the clip, a wave of people could be seen coming toward the camera. In the background, the image and sounds of a herd of elephants rapidly approached the news crew. Fleeing to a safe area (who knew there was a safe place from a herd of stampeding elephants?), the camera still recorded, Berty-baby’s panicked reporting in the background:

Bert: “This is Bert Berterson! A herd of elephants is now rampaging in downtown Samurai City! People are running everywhere as complete and total pandemonium has erupted! Oh my God! An elephant just tossed a police car into the side of the bank! This, this is terrible! Absolutely terrible! Hey! Someone grab that little girl! What the hell are you talking about? You do it! I’m Bert Berterson! I’m not getting stepped on by a freaking elephant! What the hell?! Is that elephant wearing a monocle and a tophat? My God the police have shot the elephant in the tophat! Tophat elephant is down! Holy shit! That elephant has that old lady by the neck! Wait, wait…the elephant has gently set her down. People we have a miracle, the elephant just set her…Shit! He kicked her! The elephant kicked her! Oh my…oh my…she’s, she’s barely moving. Paramedics are trying to help her. Okay, she’s giving the thumbs up. What? Headed where? Oh shit! Run! Ruuunnn!!!

And the clip ended there. To be honest, I was very upset by that footage. There was not one mention or shot of Sister Constance and the nun-wranglers coming in, taking down the rest of the pachyderms with tranquilizers and getting them safely back to the Thunderdome. Two elephants were slaughtered by the man on that tragic day. The monocle and top hat have been turned into monuments in the arboretum.

B.B: “Now, Mr. Rothechilde, clearly you could see what a tragic series of…hey! Are you texting?”

Me: “Yes, you were boring me with that biased video footage. There was no mention of the nuns and their success at bringing this unpleasantness to an end. Not to mention you subjected me to having to witness the brutal slaying of the vainglorious Lord Phant, a pachyderm of distinguished character and with obviously superior fashion sense. I was consulting our legal team to be sure that my comments will not be taken out of context and that the video delay is sufficient for Foundation security personnel to edit out any sensitive information before this hits the airwaves.”

B.B: “What?!”

Blue Boy?

Me: “You know, like they do on awards programs to filter out the potty mouths. Anyway, about fashion. As I believe we were discussing briefly earlier I have been experimenting with making changes to my wardrobe. I have been adding color. Unfortunately, I do not have a picture of me in the lavender and purple, or gold-brown-black, but I do have a picture of me in blue. Ronald, show the clip, please. As you can see, instead of my trademark black and white two-piece combination, I am sporting a stylish three-piece suit. I even have on a blue tie. Blue! And took a picture that I did not insist be made black and white or some sort of old-timey sepia look. Eventually, I will have some photos of me in the other color schemes soon, and I may come back to your program to discuss them again at that time. However, thank you for the interview, it has been a pleasant…”

B.B: “Excuse me, sir! I tell Ronald what to do around here, and we weren’t discussing fashion. We’re here to talk about your reckless unleashing of elephants on our fair city and what exactly you plan on doing about it! You have some things to answer for sir!”

Me: “I do no appreciate your tone, little man. Now see here, if it were not for those stupid one percenters parading about in their diamonds and smelly perfumes, the elephants would not have gotten upset and that misfortune would never have occurred. The elephants were simply a part of a parade that The Foundation was sponsoring in support of the “Occupy Samurai City if You Want, But Stay the Fuck Away from the Thunderdome” rally. As you can see the rally was a success, the Thunderdome is untouched and still stands as a glorious symbol of compassion and beauty. And we are not even going to sue the city over our beloved Lord Phant. Although it has caused Sister Constance a great deal of sorrow. We had to give her an extended vacation, pay raise, and purchase a new elephant, monocle, and top hat to alleviate her lust for revenge.”

B.B: “Are you saying that the life of that elephant is worth more than the hundreds of people that were injured in carnage laid out by your elephant horde? Are you seriously equating humanity with lower animals?!”

Me: “Well, hypothetically, my statement would appear to be putting elephants above the rest of humanity, but then who needs to be splitting hairs here? Besides, no people were killed, and only a few were maimed or otherwise seriously injured. Further, the occupation business was horribly bad for the already weakened economy. Those people should have been out working and those one percent counter-protesters should have been out subjugating masses or otherwise managing some means of economic oppression. The fact is, those protesters were in all likelihood unemployed; do we need to show the world on the national news that we are a nation of corpulent, unemployed people? No sir! No, I say! If our impoverished looked like those pot-bellied Ethiopians, then maybe we would have something to bitch about. However, we are a corpulent nation that sits on couches and and gets to watch seventy-seven different versions of ‘Law & Order.”

B.B: “Mr. Rothechilde! That is completely reprehensible! Do you even hear yourself? Listen, the Vice President of The Rothechilde Foundation has even come out and said that mistakes were made…”

Me: “Yes! Mistakes were made. Many mistakes! Chief among them was letting that bastard out of the dunge…er, basement during the protests. Had he remained sedated and properly confined, our efforts to fix this bit of unpleasantness could have come to an end much sooner, and I would already be enjoying the adulation of the citizenry of this fair city instead of sitting here and subjecting myself to this horrid interview from a man with the fashion sense of a Mogwai.”

B.B: “What are you talking about?!”

Me: “Your suit is terrible. I know a guy, let me help you, baby.”

B.B: “You’re obviously out of touch. With me and the citizens of Samurai City. They don’t love you, no one loves…”

You are very welcome

Me: “Oh my! I ought to shoot you right in your ugly face! You smug son of a…excuse, what is it? Yes, I understand. Excuse me, that gentleman was one of our attorneys, he suggested, and smartly I should add, that by ‘shoot you right in your ugly face’ that I actually meant “write you a sternly worded note of disapproval, perhaps an email cc’d to your station’s management. As for the love thing, surely you are mistaken For example, take a look at this lovely bit of art; Ronald, show the picture please.”

B.B: “Now see here! Ronald is not one of your lackeys…”

Me: “Obviously, the artist appreciates me and felt that I was worthy of being immortalized in one of her brilliant creations. And then there is Sister Constance. For a nun, she really does go out of her way to accommodate my eccentricities (I am ignoring your lackey comment, by the way. Manthony with surely discuss that with you.) Then, and not the least, there is my personal secretary, whom does me an innumerable amount of service in great variety, and makes sure that I can function on a daily basis. And Charlotte! Dear Charlotte! Why just last night, we went out to a local titty bar…”

B.B: “You can’t say that on public television and this has nothing to do with the elephant incident.”

Me: “I believe I did just say that, and this has everything to do with the elephants. There is nothing better to ease the pain of a deceased elephant friend and huge publicity hit like going out to see some boobs. And this was a great night. There was s lady there named Suzie Malone. She did some classy burlesque dance, magic tricks, and she swallowed a sword. Man, that gave me ideas, I tell you! She even danced around with fire. Fire! Strapped around her waist and in the shape of hand fans she danced with fire. I even had my picture taken with her. It is a topless picture. I am not topless, she is, or else I would have brought it to show. I am not opposed to showing the boobs on television; I just do not want to share them with you.”

B.B: “That is all well and good, sir. But what does any of this have to do with the damage you have brought and the poor people that are suffering because of your mistake?”

Me: “You just really want to beat a dead elephant. Man. Fine. While it is unfortunate that a few people may have received a bump or two because of a few rambunctious elephants, we are not a bank, mortgage company, or publicly traded corporation with stockholders to rape and pillage. The government will not bail us out like they did the people who the occupiers are bitching about (is that what they are bitching about? or is it Obamacare, Afghanistan, gay marriage, or Rick Santorum’s tranny porn stash?). No, as always in these trying time The Rothechilde Foundation will rebuild the damaged property. We have already purchased some of the more severely damaged property and found locations for business owners to rebuild and relocate. We have even offered to allow these business to use the Foundation’s contractors for repair and construction and infrastructure at prices that are much lower than the local business clowns. We are hiring many of the disgruntled occupiers for this Samurai City Reconstruction, and all of this will benefit the local economy. Lord Phant did not perish in vain.”

B.B: “It sounds like all you are doing is making a selfishly greedy cash grab and attempt to increase your personal stake and interest here!”

Me: “And is that not the American Way? Thank you, Samurai City and good day. This is Xavier A. S. Rothechilde, signing out.”

B.B: “Hey!”

And the screen goes black…

Note: Mr. Rothechilde has always reveled in, and proudly proclaimed his status as being a hack writer. If you disapprove of the ending, then you were not paying attention to the original disclaimer. No refunds or apologies should be expected and none will be made.


Rothechilde Foundation and Trust Legal

Happy Hump Day Extravaganza: The Return

Many, many moons ago, in a land called MySpace, I used to make it a point to blog a special blog on Wednesday. I called it “Happy Hump Day Extravaganza” and used the forum to post random bits and pieces about things that had occurred earlier in the week and the week previous. I figured that this would be a good day to return to those lost days and present a new installment for the WordPress edition of my eScribblings. Shall we begin?

Etta James, RIP

There really is not too much to say to this. The lady was an icon with incredible pipes. I will miss her terribly.

The Best Snack…Ever!

This morning when I arrived at one of sites that The Foundation supports, I happened to walk into the main office right as the building administrator was telling a few people there about an incident in Connecticuit. Apparently, a four year student decided to bring the party to his pre-school class and share his snack. Which just happened to be nine bags of pot. Wow! Nine bags of pot. That kid wanted to be sure that his whole class got crazy insane in the membrane! Apparently, the child did not know that the snack brought would have gone over better in the teacher’s lounge, at least they have lighters and the fine-motor coordination needed to roll a decent fatty, but that is of no consequence. The incredible thing is the article that came from the a news site that is local for those particular east coast residents:

MERIDEN — Police and DCF officials were called into an elementary school after a 4-year-old pulled out marijuana during snack time.

The teacher told police the 4-year-old special-needs child pulled out 9 individually wrapped bags of marijuana during snack time.

Police say the bags appeared to be wrapped for sale.

The child is a student at Hanover Elementary.

Police and officials from the Department of Children and Families are investigating the incident.

No arrests have been made.

Really? Nine bags that appear to be wrapped for sale? They are being too hard on that child. He may have been separating the snack for easier distribution to his classmates: “Okay, each table gets its own bag and hookah! We must share little people.” And nine bags? Yeah, right. There probably were many more, but who’s going to admit it? The parents? (“Um, excuse me, but there are actually fifteen bags missing from our stash…”) No there were more than that, they found their way to an after party thrown by a center educator of young people… And this was a special needs kid as well. Perhaps that was his special need! We need to stop hating on people and their nutritional choices. Perhaps he needed to really chill the hell out, and so did the rest of the class. Sometimes the only thing that works is a big fatty.

And no arrests have been made? It is not often that medical cheeba cheeba is bagged for resale and toted about by pre-kindergarten kiddies. Just saying…

Fatkins Eats Humble Pie?

Maybe I was missing something. Maybe the folks that I encountered in the past were misled on the Atkins Diet. Maybe I should have read up on the scheme and learned more. However, that is a lot of maybe, and I did none of the above. My understanding of the Atkins Diet was that you only filled your tum-tum with meat. Eschewing vitamin loaded vegetables and fruits, and eliminating the energy providing carbohydrates was the impression I had gotten from the dieters on that program who screamed its praise, yet still hit a plateau where they lost no more weight. A flock of tired, slightly smaller people, rapidly approaching gout and heart disease to lose the pounds that they worked hard to add to their frames. With no carbohydrates for energy, these tired souls could not attempt one of the most crucial parts of any weight loss protocol: exercise. It helps build efficient fat burning, lean muscle mass. But what do I know? I am just a vegetarian martial artist with low cholesterol, low blood pressure, and the energy to please a harem of nubile wenches (I just felt a little perverse and piratical…this entry was seeming a bit too inoffensive and tame).

But I digress. Where I mean to go with this is the commercial that I recently saw for the Atkins plan that specifies the inclusion of “healthy carbohydrates.” So, score one for the experts and take two from the misinformed puppets of the meat and dairy industry? Who knows?

American I-Don’ts

Do I really need to say more? Pretty soon, the horrible singers will be off, and I can go back to watching the antics of the dumbest whatevers on TruTV. Also, Jim Carrey’s daughter was on last night’s broadcast. She made it through the first audition and on to Hollywood. Jennifer Lopez said that she remembered the chica from the days when Jim would bring her onto the set of “In Living Color” when JLo was a flygirl on the show. And apparently, she made it through on her own merits. We shall see…

And here is a question: why do the contestants who show on one song that they have no talent, insist that they can do better by singing a different one? It never works out with a change for the failure.

Motorcycle Update

So, the saga continues with my poor motorcycle. I have resigned myself to paying for the damage myself. The bastard that ran it over has no intention of paying for the damage, and taking him to court would be too costly considering that the only victory that I would gain is the personal satisfaction of a judgement against him, a judgement that cannot affect his already horrid credit, a judgement that would never be paid.

I saw the bastard and that cunt muffin that he calls his significant other today and asked them about the damage to my motorcycle. I pointed out that October had come and gone, and they had not paid for the damage. That was when I was informed that they did not have to pay me a cent for my “piece of junk that ain’t worth the money I was asking for in repairs.” Well!

Needless to say, I am pretty upset about that situation. However, I do have a plan. A horrible plan. Hopefully, my intention will be clear and their children will not be orphaned. However, I only appealed for the intervention of the Dark Mother. We shall just have to see what she feels is an appropriate compensation to made for my loss. But for the rest of the world: Johnny Benson is a bitch! He destroys biker property and lives in Saginaw, Michigan. If you see him, do as you please. Mind you, I am not advocating any violent acts, that is left to the province of the spirits that should start chasing him in the next few hours…and until he dies. “Anger is a gift.”

And so, that will do it for today’s installment of these Hump Day shenanigans. Have a great one, happy humping!


Happy New Year…!!!

…for some people, that is. As a Greco-Celt, I celebrated my new year back at the end of October, but to fit in with the minority of the world that believes it is the majority: HAPPY NEW YEAR!!! I originally intended to write something a long time ago, to end my absence from blogging and hopefully get over my writer’s block, Curse of Athena, or whatever was keeping words from flowing from my head to the Internet. Instead of following my original plans, I just decided to wait until this day: the first of the days until the end of the world as we know it (I am not sure if I feel fine, however…)

A lot has happened since I last wrote, and nothing has happened. By a lot has happened, I mean a lot of things have gone on: people have been born, people have died, and much, much more. So much has happened that I should be posting a few blogs; that would be the responsible thing for a hack writer to do. However, I am feeling like an irresponsible hack and will take the cheesy easy way out and write a “list” of things that just happen to be on my mind to usher in the new year.

1) The End of The World

I do not think that the end of all that we know is coming on the Twenty-First of December, Two Thousand and Twelve. In the event that I may be wrong, I have definitely got to do something about getting involved in more threesomes. I know that this seems like a weird way to begin this post, particularly after employing that ominous heading. But the reason I started there is because that is the closest thing that I can think of having that one would consider a New Year’s Resolution, which if you read on, you shall see that I never make. Really, it is not even close to a resolution. It was actually a device to lead into the next topic while incorporating some sort of awareness that people will start really getting antsy about the end of civilization. I guess I am saying that while they are freaking out, I will be trying to get my freak on.

2) Do I Exhibit “Sub” Behavior?

I went to a local *club last night. The experience was totally new to me; I have never been out to any sort of bar/party/club on any New Year’s Eve. Well, technically, I still have never done such a thing – I went to the bar after midnight, so I began my year at one of Manthony’s establishments. While there, I strayed from my normal behavior and hung out by the door with Manthony for a bit, then went over and stood next to a table. But wait, I am getting ahead of myself.

After I had gotten there and said my hellos to Manthony and the delicious yum-yum working the door with him, I walked over to the bar and ordered an Absolut and tonic, with no lemon, lime or anything in it. I had noticed the rather portly fellow when I walked in and had also noticed that he had sidled up next to me at the bar, but assumed he was just getting a drink. He attempted to start up a conversation, and his tone suggested that he was, well, I am not sure what to call him yet. Just read on and it may become clear:

Dude: “Hey.”

Me: “Hello.”

Dude: “I’ve never seen anyone order a mixed drink and tell the bartender to “hold the produce.”

Me: “A lot of people touch those things. People without gloves, or potentially clean hands.”

Dude: “That’s pretty funny. You from around here?”

Me: “I am from up north, but stay down here from time to time.”

Dude: “You come to this bar often?”

Me: “An associate of mine works here, I drop in to say hello now and again.”

Dude: “That’s a nice suit.”

Me: “Thank you.”

I then excused myself from his presence and walked back over to the door area and resumed tending my space near the door near Manthony. Eventually, a table cleared up and I went over to the table and stood there with a space to rest my drink while sending Twitter updates voicing my displeasure at the dancing ability of the crowd. Really! I felt like I was watching a field of epileptic seals frolicking under a disco ball. Sure there were some folks who could move extremely well, but in general, it was a mass of people who were going to be masturbating at home, alone, after the bar if dancing ability was a prerequisite to getting laid.

Extremely pleased with how clever I was with my Tweeting adventure, I looked up from my iPhone and noticed that the portly fellow from earlier had a portly female friend with him, and if my observation was correct, they were trying to figure out how/if to join me at my table. Finally, dude strolled over and asked if they could share the table. I obliged.

Dude: “Hi again. This is my girlfriend, Frieda” (no real names are used in this tale).

Me: “Hello, Frieda.”

Dude: “I’m Corky. I didn’t catch your name before.”

Me: “I did not throw it. I am Xavier.”

Dude: “See? Told you he was funny. And check the suit.:

Frieda: “It is a nice suit. Corky says you’re from up north.”

Me: “That is my primary residence. My business is there and so is the family home. I stay here most of the time.”

Frieda: “I wanna dance. You wanna dance?”

Me: “Oh, no thank you. That floor is too crowded with spasmatics for me at the moment.”

Dude: “Ha! Fuckin’ spazs!”

He said that he was going to go for another beer and I decided to go out and have a cigarette. I had been out there smoking and taking in the scenery for close to ten minutes when I was joined by Frieda, who I learned smoked Marlboro menthols. We stood there in silence for a bit, when Frieda decided to take a giant ice pick and shatter the ice:

Frieda: “So, Corky never knows how to do these things…”

Me: “Smoke?”

Frieda: “Heh. No, he never knows what sort of guy a guy is. And so I hafta to try and figure things out. He thinks I’m good at judging things. Actually, I just find a time to just be blunt and ask whatever.”

Me: “Okay…”

Frieda: “Well, Corky and me were wondering if you’d like to leave the bar with us and maybe hang out at our place and you know…whatever happens, happens…”

Me: “Um…”

Frieda: “Corky likes to be with guys and girls. I mean, we could do some stuff together, but we’re mostly into finding a guy to be with Corky and me, rather than me and Corky. If that makes sense.”

Me: “Yes. Thank you for the gracious offer, but I must respectfully decline. I tend to engage in such fun with my dearest Charlotte and in her absence, I could never agree to such things.”

And we said some good byes and I did not see them any more for the remainder of the evening. I guess beyond the fact that I was not where near attracted to them on either level, I was a little offended by the offer. I mean, if I interpret the offer correctly, I was being invited to join in sexual submission with this couple, this woman and I were to be pleasured, but more so to pleasure him. Now, to each his own, and I may have my own unique interests, but I certainly not the type to allow myself to be the sex toy of some arrogant jock who cannot even talk to me on his own. Oh well, c’est la vie.

3) New Year’s Resolution?

I never make a resolution for the New Year. I know that as soon as I come up with one, I will have broken it by the time one second after the New Year begins. One could say that I should try harder. Yes, one could say that…and be ignored. I never make a resolution because I think it is pointless to set myself up for what I know is going to be a failure. If I had changes that I wished to make that were that substantial, I would have noticed and begun to make it before the advent of the New Year.

4) Demanding Merry Christmas

Okay. I get it. Christmas has been in my face for many months, and now that it is out of my face, I feel like I can bitch about it. If memory serves me, I began seeing ads for Christmas stuff before Samhain hit the calendar as more than a prospective holidate. However, the true horror of the season never really hits me until December. Actually, it hits me on the tenth of December: my birthday. I do not like to make a big deal out of my birthday, but on that day, I do not want to hear about Christmas shopping, gifts, or whatever. Less than that, I do not want to hear crap about someone’s right to go about and just wish people Merry Christmas.

Do you know what I am talking about here? No? Well, I shall expand on the issue. On December 10, 2011, someone posted something on my Facebook wall going on about how they had a right to hear Merry Christmas and resented the meaning being taken out of the public forum and saying “happy holidays” “and so on and so on and scooby dooby doo…” Hey! I do not care. I deleted the offensive propaganda. I deleted the offensive propaganda despite the fact that I abhor any act of censorship. I like to let things go to spur on debate, but the inevitable Jesus-ing up of my Facebook page had to be prevented.

Really. The whole deal is a bit presumptuous. I understand that Christmas is a big deal to SOME people. SOME people. However, not everyone celebrates that particular big deal and why in the Hell should the rest of us just accept your random wish of Happy Christmas when that may not be what we want to experience. You do not catch me wishing a wondrous Yule or gleeful Solstice (which, by the way, is the ONLY non-debatable holiday/occurrence of the month) to everyone I see and getting my drawers shredded because someone does not share my belief.

5) Jujitsu

There is really not too much to say here. I reconciled with my Sensei and my school. I received my official instructor’s certificate and got a new belt. The new belt is not one of new rank, it is just a new belt. You see, I had tied and untied my other belt so often that it had turned from black to green. The only way to tell my rank was from the kanji on the belt. A couple of months ago, I was given a new belt. Now, the other senior students have stopped making jokes that I got demoted, and I can stop having to explain the color of my belt to new students by hurting them more than necessary…lol

And so ends my first post of the year. The New Year that many think is the only and most important New Year. The New Year that is supposed to be the last year according to the Mayan calendar. A year, that for me, is eagerly anticipated, horribly dreaded, and ready for me to grab by the balls.

*I believe the hours of operation posted are incorrect.

Missouri Loves Company

This post has nothing to do with the state of Missouri. At least I am not planning for it to have anything to do with the state of Missouri. To be completely honest, I have no idea where this blog entry is going, what the intent of this entry may be, why I decided to write this item, nor whether I will publish this article or not.

Before I go any further I have a question for any professional bloggers, internet geeks, and/or language freaks. I know that this whole deal that I am writing here on WordPress is a blog, but what do I call each blog entry? I mean, I switched between “entry” and “blog entry” above to see which one felt better. One seemed a bit long and dorky, the other seemed a bit clerical. Either way, the whole pseudo-alliterative, redundancy of that started to really annoy me. So, I switched to item, which seemed too short. Then I tried article, which, for reasons that elude me, does not seem to apply.

Earlier today, I was on my way to a local college where I am taking a nutrition class. With the mild temperature, sun and cloudless sky, it was shaping to be a pleasurable motorcycling experience. I would call it fahrvergnügen, only my motorcycle is Japanese…and not a car (however, there is an ironic “Axis” relationship here…). Anyway, I came to this intersection which is a four-way stop. As I began to cross the intersection, the horrible excuse for a bitch just turned out in front of me. She was just chatting away on her cell phone, not paying any attention to anything around her. Maybe it is the low profile of the motorcycle. Maybe she was just too concerned with her phone and where she had to go to think that she could have killed a person who was not paying attention. Whatever the case, I have learned to be even more attentive when out riding. It is a strange thing, it is: what you gain in freedom while riding in the open air, you almost have to surrender to paranoia regarding the big things in that open air being driven by people not in the same air.

The Republican party is complaining again. They are saying that this new proposal from President Obama is class warfare on the rich. Now, it is this sort of lunacy that drove me from my gun-toting, wealthy brethren long ago in favor of using my own clout to affect the local politics in my area to suit the Foundation’s and the Rothechilde Estate and Orchards benefit. I grew tired of the hypocrisy that they are spewing on near elephant projectile vomit proportions! They are crying class warfare because they are being asked to pay a little bit more in taxes. But, cutting social programs that benefit the poor is not? And, cutting funding for the public schools (which is where the poor tend to go to school if they want an education) is not? Smashing the unions, sending the “unfortunate sons” to war in foreign lands is not? Wow. I guess I understand. When it involves asking the rich for more, then it is class warfare. When it involves asking the poor and middle class to pay all, then it is sound economic policy. Jeez. That poor little picked on one percent of the population who has all of the cash better hope that the poor do not start listening to what dear old Jim Morrison said: “…they got the guns, but we got the numbers…”


This past week has been a real roller coaster for me. I have been both busy and not busy, annoyed and not annoyed. For the most part, the days rolled by pretty swiftly, but I still had my random bouts of being annoyed and irritated.

Irritation Number One: There is nothing more annoying to me than to have someone talking over me. Apparently, others have discovered that this is a pet peeve of mine and are doing all that they can to get on my last frayed nerve. Really. Is it that hard to respect someone when they are trying to get out a few words? If you really do not care to hear what I have to say, then just quietly ignore me. There really is no reason to stop talking louder and louder because you want to be heard over everything and everyone else.

Irritation Number Two: My motorcycle.

Irritation Number Three: Casey Anthony. I am really tired of hearing about her over and over. We get it, there was allegedly a gross miscarriage of justice regarding her trial and non-conviction. Yet, this is the result one gets for holding a trial in the media and coming to a verdict before the trial is settled. If you were not present in the courtroom, how can you say what is guilty and what is not? The hating needs to be directed away from Anthony and towards the prosecution who must have botched this case if the chica is guilty of killing her daughter. Oops. Did I say “if she is guilty?” Apologies, C.A, there is no if, your peers declared you not guilty…

Irritation Number Four: My Ni Dan belt. It is supposed to be black. The problem: it has turned green from my tying and untying it. The makers of this particular brand of martial arts belt decided that it was a better idea to cover a green belt with a layer of black cloth. This was not a good idea. My belt has turned from black to green, with the only indication of my rank being the kanji embroidered on the belt. While this situation is annoying, it is not enough for me to order a new belt, I know my rank; the deal is that I am sick of explaining it to newbies.

Irritation Number Five: Internet shopping is anal rape. It really is! I needed to order a two dollar part to repair the oil leak in my motorcycle. The shipping for the part was three times the cost of the part. Am I the only person in the world who sees something horribly wrong with this? I went to a local motorcycle shop and was able to order the needed part, it cost about sixty cents more, but the shipping cost is no where near the astronomical numbers being asked for from the site I visited.

Irritation Number Six: Lately, I have come across several articles about proper behavior in threesomes. Why does this irritate me? Because the volume of articles may lead one to believe that there are a lot of hotties out there waiting to explore their bi-side in a naughty, naked romp with some lucky dude and his woman. Yet, these women are no where to be found. Is there some conspiracy generated by the writers of Penthouse that seeks to convince everyone that sexy fun with multiples simultaneously is just around the corner? I think that is the case.

Irritation Number Seven: The heat. It is hot, damn hot. Too hot to fuck. Hopefully it will cool off tonight…

Warning: This Post Contains Many Penii

Lately, I have been overwhelmed by penis. Many women will tell you that men only think about their dicks, but that is not really true. We tend the pass most of the day without paying much attention to the trouser mouse unless we have to go to the restroom or if something “motivating” happens to pass by. However, the sad case is, the fellow is often neglected unless we need it for a wank or some other thing. You would think that it would be something that is thought of more often seeing that it is an appendage; we know it is there, we just do not pay it much thought. Unless we happen to be baseball players and have to give ourselves random gropes to keep the closet homosexuals watching the game titillated. Okay, now that is not fair. I know that all baseball fans are not homosexuals, and homosexuals around the world are probably better off for that fact.

But this is not about homosexuals or baseball it is about penises. The ones that have been overwhelming me lately. Ironically, I do have to admit that a homosexual/homosexual hater will be mentioned later on, and he happens to be one of the dicks that have been overwhelming me lately. If you have an image of me being covered by male genitalia or assaulted by a gang of cocks wearing leather coats, swinging chains, and singing about the glories of being a Jet, LOSE THAT IMAGE! I have not been invaded by schmeckels. Rather, I have been subjected to numerous media occasions that feature swinging meat of various types and flavors. Personally, I blame it on iPhone literature and the Kindle for the iPhone app.

Unneccesary, slightly related, pseudo-porn

Recently, I purchased a collection of horror stories that were all centered on cannibalism. Really. I want to say that the book is called “The Book of Cannibals,” but I am not sure. I could go and look on my iPhone to be certain, but that would interrupt my flow and my ADHD would lead me to other venues…like Lego Star Wars III: The Clone Wars…and this would never get finished. But I digress. One of the stories in this collection is titled “Of Priapism and Big Breasts” or something like that. The quick summary: a hot chick with big boobs lures men via the internet. She lures men with big dicks. She meets the fellows, drugs them, ties them to a bed, and cuts off their tumescent cocks. She then cooks said cocks and eats them in front of the poor guy as he bleeds out.

Eventually, she meets a guy with a tremendous member, who by virtue of being crazy, resists her drugs, ties her to a chair and cuts of and eats her bountiful boobage. Yes, that is quite a story, and the associated graphic is a bit “extreme,” but I do have a vivid imagination and I wanted to make sure that your senses were as overloaded as mine. In any case, after reading the story, I started noticing that I was surrounded by a sea of floppy hu-Man sausage.

I do not include Ally-boy in the penis encounters because I have encountered his cock, but rather because he sets my gadar off as if I were hanging out at a RuPaul show, apparently hates gays, and is an intolerant prick. He is one of the dicks that has overwhelmed me lately. Remember, this is the same guy who created an app for the iPhone that would instruct others on how to cure gay-ness. Apple pulled his app soon after receiving many complaints. Perhaps they did not see that his blog clearly identifies him as a “leading speaker on gender issues.” If they had know that, perhaps he would have been appreciated as more than a homophobic penis.

Alan Chambers: sexy in lavender!

Having cured himself of his problematic gayness, Mr. Chambers seeks to spread the word to others that faith in Christ can help save you from your rump-rangery urges. Faith can help you stop acting gay and just keep up the gay look for shits and giggles or whatever reason you may be trying to pretend that you are a “reformed homosexual.” He believes that sexuality is a choice. If you believe this as well, then I ask you, if you are a heterosexual, when did you make that decisison?

For my next penile encounter, I have to travel back to last night. I watched a program on the learning channel called “Taboo” (sorry, no clever pictures here). This show featured “adult babies,” women who carry around real-looking fake babies, cosplay, and a thirty-six (I think that was the age) year-old virgin. I am not going to address the adult baby people. The man looked like a giant baby, his “mommy” had tits that hung to her knees (kind of like Ogra, from “The Dark Crystal”), and he disturbed me a bit. The other two items on the show…not too much to go on. The one item, I left out, was a transgender person, who is going to get a surgery to change him into a male physically. You see, he was a girl, and now wants to finish the look, so to speak.

Now, I am all for doing what makes you whole, and technically, I do not feel to comfortable including this story in the penis discussion. However, penis was in my face during this segment of the show as a surgeon discribed the procedure involved to create a penis out of female genitalia. A main part of this surgery is the installation of tubes that air can be pumped into for the creation of an erection. A cyborg balloon dick! Resistance is futile and safe to fourteen PSI! His lucky girlfriend is going to select the size his junk is going to be. Word on the street is that she is a size queen…

And that about does it for my pertinent experience with dick this week. I am sure there are others. There are dicks driving about all over the place, and generally showing up in everyone’s lives at some point to pee in the lemonade or spread their verbal smegma about the atmosphere to annoy and pester the general public. However, it should be noted that being a dick can be catching: if you spend too much time around penis you start to behave like one yourself. It has happened to me. What is coming next could be seen as penis-y behavior, but I am who I am, and sometimes, I am a dick. But you can still love me, I am harmless to most.

Yesterday I was Binging friends (Bing is my default search because I am too lazy to switch to Google; so I Bing things, I guess) and associates and I entered my dawg, Manthony’s, name for a search. First, I noticed that terror of language, Urban Dictionary, had a definition of Manthony. I was not amused. I was amused by this MAnthony, however. Oh, Mr. Secretary, if you only knew that skinny, Asian men are stealing your namesake and using it to promote their scrawny frames that they hope to turn into pillars of muscle in the future. After taking a closer look at the spelling of this cat’s name, I observed that he was not really a “Manthony.” He is a “MAnthony.” The extra capital letter really makes a difference on Facebook. Ha.

After reaching this Manthony, however, I immediately stopped looking for Manthonys and could not stop laughing. Really. I had to stop writing this, bribe my secretary to start writing this so that I could enjoy a hearty laugh. I think I need to get a drink to calm my hysterical nerves! This Manthony is like the opposite of the Manthony that I have grown to love and mock.

About Time

Greetings and Salutations! At long last, I have suitably completed another page. And so ends a horrid bit of cognitive torment and now I can start to write in earnest. And read in earnest. And “Frank and Ernest.” (If you do not get that, some of us will hum a couple of bars of “The Girl from Ipanema” until you finish Googling…)

What I am babbling on about is that I have completed the page that provides details on The Rothechilde Foundation. I have been struggling to add enough content so that I would feel comfortable showing it to the world, and now, I have done so. I am pleased. Now, I can go off to sleep and get ready for another long day.


…for now. My posts are showing up online as posts and not drafts. I am still unaware what is going on between this account and Twitter, but I am not too concerned with that yet.

While I hate that content warning at the that pops up when I go to see my blog, I so believe that the warning is more than necessary. I do have a romantic attachment to profanity at times.

I have decided that I am beginning to enjoy writing once again. Maybe the Muse had returned…

An upgrade of my blogging format is definitely needed. I think I may try WordPress and another Webhost (is that one or two words? I do not believe that I care enough to check that right now).

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Yet Another Test

And here is yet another test of the iPhone-as-a-blog tool.

Up until five minutes ago, I could only save drafts from this accursed iPhone app; the software kept attempting to post to Facebook and/or save each post as a draft. Changing the settings to de-activate FB seems to have worked.

Now, I have turned on Twitter; I am curious to see what happens now…

I apologize to any who may have come across these ramblings. I do have more interesting things o come. However, my OCD demands that I “make my bed” before I write in it.

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:The Foundation (North)