The Lipstick Chronicles

The Penis News Network

By Me, Margie, who is doing an audition tape for a new satellite radio channel, and this is the transcript

Welcome to the Penis News Network. It's Me, Margie, filling in for your regular host, Dick Hancock, who is still recovering from that bit of nastiness he picked up on the Virgin Islands. Just keep taking the antibiotics Dick, and you'll be back to fighting trim in no time. Hang in there, buddy - we're all pulling for you.

Now, the news. Here are the Penis News stories making head lines today: Halliburton is still screwing stuff up over in Iraq, but their billing system is top notch. In politics, efforts to shut down all the jagoff talking heads by wholesale decapitation was met with some fairly firm resistance, and in weather, it's too damn hot for April. Stock up on talc, boys. Seriously.

What? A Jagoff? What do you mean I can't say that? Are you fuh-- I mean, are you freaking kidding me? Whateve. I'll put the F back in FCC around here, bub.

Back to the news. Last week, Dikipedia inducted Eddie Murphy. I can't compete with the writers over there at Dickipedia, so I'll just read you the entry and you can check out the rest on their website.

Edward Regan “Eddie” Murphy (born April 3, 1961) is a former foul-mouthed comedian, current “family” actor, and can be considered a fallen star in both categories. He is also: a famous frequenter of transsexual prostitutes, apparently a non-fan of condoms, and a dick.
Somehow ranked as the number one grossing actor in history, Eddie Murphy has appeared as a James Brown wannabe, a discontented prince, and a talking jackass. He has also played those roles in film.

Hey, I don't write the news, I just report it. So if you think Pluto Nash is the greatest movie ever made, don't come whining to me, okay?

Now, a word from our sponsor - "Remember, friends, it's better to be safe than sorry. Use Troganz. Troganz: Where There Is No Size Small."

Next up, our Top Story. Which reminds me - for those of you who always wondered why we never talk about the Bottom Story, I have found the answer. It's on a different channel - I think it's called the BFN, but I'm not positive.

Our Top Story is a very troubling tale out of Africa - thanks to Reuters News Service for grabbing this story and not letting go until it's over.

Panic hit the Congo capital city of Kinshasa this week, when rumors of Penis Snatching hit the sheets. Streets. Police arrested 13 suspected snatchers and 14 purported victims. "We had to bring them all in" said a police official, who asked to remain anonymous because he didn't want anyone checking out his privates, "the only way to get to the root of this is to put everything out on the table and evaluate the evidence." A wise man, no doubt.

I mean, no one wants a repeat of what happened in Ghana ten years ago, and I think you all know what I'm talking about there. And that mess up in Chad in the '80s? Please. Those poor people are still in therapy.

Now - no one is telling you this, but like all good reporters, I have a source. This latest round of Penis Panic all started when a group of innocent people signed up to attend a Lorena Bobbit Motivational Seminar. Hey - I have nothing against Ms. Bobbit, although I will say that one difference between her and Me, Margie is that with her, at least they found the remnant. Just saying.

So - a group of men showed up to protest the Bobbit Seminar, and the promoters of the seminar, who already had a fortune tied up in T-Shirts, came out to respond, and some harsh words were exchanged. Next thing you know, the promoters (who are also the inventors of that Whack-A-Mole game, which makes total sense) are bringing in witches, and the rest just snowballed. When asked about their role in the chaos that followed, the promoters referred us to their official spokesman, Craven Moorehead, who had no official comment.

Police were at a loss to comfort the men who claimed to be victims. "I'm tempted to say it's one huge joke," the Police Chief said, "but I've seen these guys, and you just can't use the word huge. Just saying."

Indeed. Just listen to what one observer had to say: "It's real. Just yesterday here, there was a man who was a victim. We saw. What was left was tiny," said 29-year-old Alain Kalala, who sells phone credits near a Kinshasa police station.

Here in the U.S., the story was met with both panic and empathy. "I knew it!" said one man, who consented to be identified only by his nickname, Peanut, "when I was in high school, this bitch invited me to a dance, and I said no, and she cursed me. Now at least I have some hard evidence to back me up. I'm going to start calling lawyers."

When contacted, a local class action lawyer was already setting up a hotline. "This is an epidemic - it's the dirty secret no one wants to talk about - but now, those witches are going to pay, or my name isn't Jack Meoff".

And that's it for this edition of Penis Update. Stay tuned for our live radio drama, Penis Puppet Theater, up next.

***

So - whatd'ya think? It's pretty good, but it needs work - I need hard news for this tape, so let me know about other Penises in the News, okay?

My New Friends

By Me, Margie

Hi everybody! It's me, Margie, checking in from the RT Convention in Pittsburgh, which is not that far from Canada, or Atlantic City, especially if the driver goes really fast, the limo has tinted windows, and a bar and one of those really big seats you can sleep on. I like learning geographic stuff.

I have been so busy making new friends that I haven't really seen any of the Book Tarts. Well, actually, I've seen them, but they haven't seen me. Because my new friends are really good at hiding things. Like Me, Margie. You can't even see me, but I'm in the photos too. Nancie the Gun Tart took them, but do not even try to ask her any questions about it because she will not answer plus she is really, really good with weapons, okay? So don't push her. Just saying.

Now, you might say - "Hey you, Margie! Why do so many of those new friends wear such small shirts?" And that would be a very good question. I, myself, prefer small shirts, so I guess it makes sense that I would make friends who have the same taste as I do, right?

Plus, I found out first thing that my new friends like to keep the same hours I do - which is another reason the Tarts haven't seen me. Because, the Tarts pretty much konk out just about the time I'm ready to roll. Usually, I see them around breakfast, before I go to sleep. Breakfast before sleeping instead of after sleeping is totally the best. All the really fun nights end with breakfast, don't they?

Here is a picture of some of my new friends, all in a row. They have a calendar, you know, and they all signed their own pages with cute messages to Me, Margie. I mean, sure, I had to help a couple of them find the right month, but not everyone is a genius, now are they? No. And we shouldn't judge people if they are dumb as a box of hammers, especially if they are nice and they smell good.

Some people ask my new friends questions like -- "Don't you feel like you are being objectified?" At first they just smile, and say the wiring is fine. Sometimes, I explain words to them. Sometimes not. I mean, not everyone wants to act like a smartypants all the time. If you do, it will be much harder to make new friends. Hey - this is really good advice for some of you and you should probably be writing it down.

They don't just run around in small clothes all the time either. They have other jobs. Like modeling for catalogs, and book covers, and making special movies. "This is a young man's game," my new friends tell me, "you have to work before everything dries up." So naturally, that reminded me to ask if that whole thing about using steroids is true. My new friends don't know because they don't use steroids. Which I believe, because, I am a fairly observant person, especially when guys are wearing very small shorts.

It turns out that lots of people would like to be friends with my new friends. Some people really, really want to be very special friends with my new friends. Those people are confused. Because some people only want to be very special friends with other people who look like them. Duh. I mean, just because a couple of guys run around without shirts doesn't mean they want a bunch of women groping them. You should never really grope anyone without some kind of invitation, in case you didn't know that.

That's where I come in. I protect them. They all can say - "Oh, sorry, we're with her - Margie - and she doesn't share." Then I give those other people one of my best "Back off, bitch, or I'll smack you upside into next week" faces. So as, you can tell, I'm really just doing a public service. You can plainly see that my new friends need someone to look after them. Which is no problem, because that's what friends do.

So, what has everyone else been up to this week? Has anyone else made any new friends?

***

Morning update from the Book Tarts: How nice for you, Margie. Let's just be sure you and your new friends don't require any legal services before this thing is over.

Last night, the Mystery Lovers Bookshop's Little Night of Romance was terrific -and TLC was more than proudly represented by both Tarts and distinguished members of the Blog - our roving photographer, Nancie the Gun Tart, Janetlynn, Peach, Joyce Tremel - and a cadre of Wise Women from the East - Laura (in PA), Maureen, Debby (Our Lady of the Brownies), Lora, and Jenn. Look for them and their flashy-blinky TLC lipsmack pins. Can't wait to see them and the rest of our TLC community tonight at the Omni William Penn at 6:30. My guess is that it won't be hard to spot us!

WTF Did You Say?

By Me, Margie

Okay, we all say stuff we shouldn't. Even someone with the communication skills of Me, Margie, can blurt out something idiotic once in a while.

But seriously? Some things are just beyond belief. So let's play a game. I am going to list some of the stupidest-ass things I have ever heard, and you can guess who said it. Then you can do the same. I mean, there are plenty of moronic statements to go around. To be fair to all you people who are, you know, not really old, but are older than me, I am going to include boners from before I was born. Ready?

1. "The Internet is not a dump truck. It's a series of tubes."

2. "Always go to other people’s funerals, otherwise they won’t come to yours."

3. "The word ‘genius’ isn’t applicable in football. A genius is a guy like Norman Einstein."

4. "If you’re killed, you’ve lost a very important part of your life."

5. "I’ve never had a problem with drugs. I’ve had problems with the police."

6. "I always listen to ‘NSYNC’s Tearin’ Up My Heart. It reminds me to wear a bra."

7. "Politics gives guys so much power that they tend to behave badly around women. And I hope I never get into that."

8. "What a waste it is to lose one's mind. Or not to have a mind is being very wasteful. How true that is."

9. "You mean they've scheduled Yom Kippur opposite Charlie's Angels?"

10. "Whenever I watch TV and I see those poor starving kids all over the world, I can't help but cry. I mean I would love to be skinny like that, but not with all those flies and death and stuff."

11. "It could take six days..six weeks-- I doubt six months."

12. "Rarely is the question asked: Is our children learning?"

13. "(T)he feminist agenda is not about equal rights for women. It is about a socialist, anti-family political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians."

14. "I mean, it was exactly the same, even though it's run by blacks, primarily black patronship...There wasn't one person in Sylvia's who was screaming, 'M-Fer, I want more iced tea.' "

15. “I can honestly say, all the bad things that ever happened to me were directly, directly attributed to drugs and alcohol. I mean, I would never urinate at the Alamo at nine o'clock in the morning dressed in a woman's evening dress sober.”

Okay, your turn. Once somebody guesses correctly, I'll confirm it. And I left out a LOT of good ones, so you guys have no excuse for not adding to the list.

MID-DAY UPDATE from Me, Margie

We did so well, that it's time for more fun - as you know, some of you (okay, us) only come here for the sex. So here are some classic funny quotes about - what else? Here's a hint - for a change, none of these are from politicians. Those kind are more nauseating than funny.

A. “I know nothing about sex because I was always married.”

B. “Bisexuality doubles your chance of a date on Saturday night.”

C. "When the authorities warn you of the dangers of having sex, there is an important lesson to be learned. Do not have sex with the authorities."

D. "There are a number of mechanical devices that increase sexual arousal, particularly in women. Chief amongst these is the Mercedes-Benz 380L convertible."

E. "Sex at the age of eighty-four is a wonderful experience. Especially the one in the winter."

F. "Sex is one of the most wholesome, beautiful and natural experiences that money can buy."

G. "When I'm good I'm very, very good but when I'm bad I'm better."

H. “Women need a reason to have sex. Men just need a place.”

I. “A man can sleep around, no questions asked, but if a woman makes nineteen or twenty mistakes she's a tramp.”

J. “I'm too shy to express my sexual needs except over the phone to people I don't know.”

K. "Women might be able to fake orgasms. But men can fake a whole relationship."

L. “Hell, if I'd jumped on all the dames I'm supposed to have jumped on, I'd have had no time to go fishing.”

Margie's St. Patrick's Day Story

By Me, Margie

Okay, let's talk about St. Patrick first. When most people think of him, they think of snakes. Okay, they think of green beer, and then they think of snakes. St. Patrick was a priest who is credited with driving the snakes out of Ireland with a big stick and a drum.

But scientists will tell you that the reason there are no snakes in Ireland is because of weather and water. Snakes can't survive in cold weather (which kept them out for the first coupla thousand years) and snakes can't swim (which kept them out after things warmed up). So forget that whole snake thing. Unless you take the position that by 'snakes', people meant pagan heathen types. Not me, Margie. To me, a snake is a snake. Can the metaphysics.

Next up, people think of celebrating St. Patrick's Day. Guess what? That didn't even start in Ireland! It started in New York, where the first parade was held. The parade was led by dogs, incidentally, not snakes. It's hard to get snakes to do parades. Their agents ask for all kinds of perks, and it ends up costing you more than Spitzer's 'pay the bucks/take the butt' consultants. And may I just say that I do not mean to insult any snake here. From what I understand, a better reference to him would be an inchworm. Hey, people tell me things.

If you've ever been to New York for St. Pats, you know it is a total free-for-all. Chicago too, where they still dye the river green. On purpose - not like, you know, Love Canal (somebody got me the anniversary edition of "Tootsie" - which is totally worth seeing, even though it has nothing to do with St. Patrick.)

In Ireland, St. Patrick's day was always celebrated as a religious holiday - and until fairly recently, all the pubs were closed - by law - on that day. Isn't that a surprise? Then, some genius who happened to work in the Bureau of Tourism figured out that they could make a ton more money catering to visitors who were used to the Party Patrick, as opposed to the Pious Patrick.

But everybody knows all this stuff about St. Patrick. Me, I'm here to enlighten. So I'm googling shit on this, and y'know what? St. Patrick's dad - and I think even his grandpa - were both priests too - AND they were both married. Which makes sense, because otherwise, he's like some bastard kid who ends up with a made up name.

"Now wait just a minute, Margie" (you are saying to yourself) - "priests aren't allowed to get married!"

Guess what? That's a pretty new thing. And sorry, but it really has nothing to do with one of the Ten Commandments, or even a message from a burning bush (easy, boyos). It's not even in the bible. Although, I wouldn't know - when you're raised RC, you don't read the bible - you just listen to the priests. And don't quote me the stuff about 'eunuchs' either - that's a different kind of surgery - and I can make that happen if you want, by the way. I know people.

Here is what really happened - it's about land and it's about money. Priests and bishops were powerful people who controlled a lot of land. See, if a priest was married, his heirs got all his land and stuff. The church decided that wasn't working out so well. So they started dreaming up these bullshit rules. The first one was: okay, if you are married, you can't perform any sacraments (that's like Communion and Baptism and Marriage and stuff) if you've had sex in the last 24 hours. Huh? Yeah, it's moronic. But not as moronic as the reason they gave - brace yourself for this shit - because having that kind of intimate contact with a woman made the priest unclean.

That's right - unclean! Because women were considered to be inferior and less pure. As if, by virtue of some dick's contact with some part of our female bodies (presumably an open kind of part) they were contaminated. Excuse me, but WHAT THE FUCK?

It gets better, too. Since the priests' main jobs were to convert people, they ended up doing sacraments almost every day. That meant less and less sex with their wives. It was only a matter of time before the priests had to choose between a real marriage and their vocation. And people wonder why there are all these sexual scandals? No shit, sherlock. Take away the normal, healthy outlet for a man's libido and what the shit did you think was going to happen, assholes? Oops. I think that's what they call a Freudian slip.

The church made it official in some big meeting. In 1139, some Official Council imposed mandatory celibacy on all priests. All priests' marriages were declared invalid. And no, I am not going to speculate whether the Emperor's Club was having its inaugural planning session in the same hotel and convention center at the time. I can't figure out everything, you know.

But - and here's the other thing you gotta love about these institutions - loopholes big enough to run a parade through. it turns out that, worldwide, of all the priests who report to the Vatican (that's the Pope's HQ in Rome) 20% are married. Yeah. And they don't even have to wear a big button that says "UNCLEAN" or anything. Most are in Europe, but some are in other countries - because one way it happens is if you are married and then you want to become a priest, you can get special permission from the Pope. This usually happens when ministers from other churches decide to go RC.

I mean, really -- I thought that whole 'Limbo' thing was as idiotic as it could get. But this? This is meshugena.

So listen, St. Patrick - we need you back, man. Bring a big stick too. We've got some serious ass Snake problems and we could use an assist. And I don't mean the snakes who stay on the ground and generally mind their own business. I'm talking about the ones walking upright while living on the down low. They're giving the whole operation a bad name.

In the mean time, for the rest of us - kiss an Irish Lad or Lassie, hoist a few, belt out some songs, and party on. Life's too short to pass up a celebration, people!

My Real Non-Fiction Memoirs

By Me, Margie

I have decided that if other people can make shitloads of money by making up stuff and calling it Non-Fiction, then so can I. So here is my synopsis. Publishers can contact me with their best bids. I do not have time to haggle, people. The advance money is important, but I will also take into consideration other crap, like whether I will be going on an international tour (first class) and whether I will be on The Daily Show. Naturally, I will have veto power over all decisions, including who plays Me, Margie, in the movie. No bimbos need send head shots. Just sayin'.

This is the really and totally true story of my life. I am the love child of Elvis (still alive, natch) and Marilyn Monroe, who is dead now, but at the time of my conception, was being held in a secret room in the White House. If you want to know who is in that room now, you'll have to buy the book.

I spent my early years on a Native American Reservation and Casino in Punxsutawney, PA. In fact, as a baby, I was the one who popped out and saw my shadow. I later passed the tradition on to one of my animal brothers, Phil the groundhog.

After I jumped on a circus train, I ended up in California, where I headed a gang of homeless street kids. We made our living selling Canadian drugs to rich people on the corners of Beverly Hills. In the process of protecting my comrades, I killed many people with nothing but my bare hands and some Q-tips that fell off the back of a Walgreens truck.

I got caught and ended up in Alcatraz. I endured many dangerous and thrilling episodes, which I won't tell you about until you pay. Then I escaped. Why do you think they closed the joint?

Next, I smuggled myself to Europe, where I was a femme fatale in the French Resistance for a brief time. Why brief? They don't shave under their arms over there. That is just plain gross. So I went to Russia, where I headed a team of 300 Black Ops off-the-books agents. Our greatest success occurred in Berlin. You think Reagan brought down that wall? Honey, that TV shot was the only piece left by the time he got there. Seriously.

During that time, I won 14 Olympic Gold Medals - don't bother looking - they are all under an alias, and I never even used crack OR steroids. The Russian jocks made fun of me, but I didn't care. I like my breasts the way they are, thank you very much.

I’ll never forget the day, just outside a squalid software operation in the picturesque suburbs of Bhopal, when Mother Theresa predicted, loudly enough for all to hear, that Crocs would be a big hit. That’s the way she was. When she felt strongly about something, Mother T just came out with it. I always admired her for that.

Then there was the time in the short-term lot at the airport in Jakarta. There we were, in Daniel Day Lewis’ Taurus wagon, smoking the last bit of his son’s Thai stick, saying goodbye again, like before, only different and smelling like Pinesoll. At the end of the day, I concluded then and there, Mike Bloomberg, in my estimation, is not “presidential timber”. Just saying.

I survived Oceanic Flight 815 - and no, I can't tell you who is in the coffin. You will have to buy my book. It's not me, but I killed the vic. Oh yeah - it's the Oceanic 7.5, not the Oceanic Six. I count for more than one person, y'know.

Sure Garbo and I were lovers. But, that’s Munich for you. It was not to be.

"Try using the word 'hammer' instead of 'handgun'" I said to Pete Seeger, and, what do you know, it flowed from there.

Oh - and the one-armed man? He lost that arm when he tried to cheat me in a high stakes poker game.

Okay - now I need your help. Everyone who contributes will get a piece of the action. What am I missing that will make this book just fly off the shelves and make all of us totally famous and filthy rich?

Margie's Valentine's Day Story, or How VD Got Started

By Me, Margie

Well, we're hip deep in the VD madness, and I thought we could all take a little break and hear the story of how VD got started. I'm talking about Valentine's Day, and not the communicable diseases. Although, for some, love and the clap go, uh, hand in hand.

It all started, like so many things do, with food and sex. And not just regular missionary sex. Which reminds me - I wonder which order of missionaries should get credit for the man-on-top position? Perhaps a story for another day.

Anyway, there was a Roman pagan festival held in mid-February (before there even was a February, actually, that's how long ago it was) called Lupercalia, which means Festival of the Wolf. Romans are big on the whole wolf thing. During Lupercalia, they, no surprise, had an animal sacrifice. Why? Buy into whatever mumbo jumbo you want, but I will tell you the simple truth: because you cannot have a decent fest of any kind without food. And since there were no big refrigerator trucks back then, they had to pretty much kill, roast and eat all in the same day.

This festival had a bit of a twist - the sacrificed (cooked) animal was skinned, and then the skin was cut into strips. Those strips were used to, among other things, whip the young unmarried women. They said they did it because it made them fertile. Uh-huh. I've heard a lot of reasons for people going kink, but fertility? Nope. Whateve.

Then came the church. The church, in case you didn't already know, was way down on the whole pagan thing. But nobody (at least back then) was dumb enough to cancel a big party. Because you cannot make friends and get people to put stuff in the collection basket if you cancel the parties. Instead, they pulled the old switcheroo and just called the Festival of the Wolf something else.

And of course, there were the wars. The Romans were always fighting someone. For example, even now, many Romans are gearing up for battle in Brooklyn federal court, courtesy of the New York AG's task force. But that is definitely a story for another time.

So sometime in the third century, the Roman Emperor Claudius, who must have had some serious compensation issues, just saying, was PO'd because when he kept his armies out on the road for too long, they got all mushy and lonesome for their wives. He tried bringing in some, uh, professional consultants, but then they had a real run on - wait for it - VD.

Claudio was at his wit's end (which wasn't a long trip, I'll bet, especially after he got the syph) and he came up with this bonehead of an idea: no more marriages. As if. Too bad he hadn't seen, like, Braveheart or something. Because everyone knows that just won't fly. What a hoser. Not to worry though, as you can plainly see, he had so many diseases that eventually his nose fell off. So he got at least part of what was coming to him. And I'm telling you, if your nose falls off, I'll bet it's not the only thing. Just saying.

The church in the third century was apparently worthless on the subject, because they went along with this crackpot plan and advised all the priests not to perform any more marriages.

But lo and behold, (Do we all remember what that means? It means, listen up - miracle comin'.) one priest decided to defy all the dodo directions and he kept marrying couples in secret. His name? Oh yeah, Fr. Valentine.

Padre Valentine got caught. Who ratted him out? Some jagoff who was probably too much of an asshole to get anyone to marry him, in secret or otherwise. Seriously - all throughout history, any time some bad shit happens, you'll find a jagoff somewhere at the bottom of it.

Anyway, Fr. Valentine was thrown in jail and sentenced to death. While he was in jail, he fell in love with the warden's daughter. Tragedy all over this mess, huh? On the day he was sentenced to death, he left her a note, declaring his abiding love, and he signed it "From Your Valentine." The date of his execution? Yup - February 14th.

It took the church another two hundred years to get around to naming the holiday St. Valentine's Day. Not too quick on the uptake, those guys.

Like all good stories, this one has a moral. Actually, this one has several. In the spirit of Fr. Valentine, who was all about choices, I'll let you pick your favorite. Or you can make up your own and share it with the rest of us. See how nice that is? I am very nice today because I have lots of chocolate. Hidden. I'm not that nice.

Morals from the VD Story:

A. Love conquers all, including idiot commanders in chief and heads of church and/or state.

B. War is dumb as hell, and if you try to make it more important than home and hearth, you are going to get a nasty disease and hopefully die miserable and alone. (I like this one the best.)

C. Rat fink jagoffs will always try to ruin a good thing.

D. If you spend enough time in jail, you can fall in love with anyone.

E. If you do something noble and heroic, and you can wait two centuries, you might get a $14 billion dollar holiday named after you.

Happy VD to everyone from Me, Margie. The End.

What About My Right To Choose?

by Me, Margie

Okay, people, we all know TLC is not a political blog. So I'm not going to tell you who to vote for, even though I know the answer. Know why? Because unless you are one of the ONE PERCENT of citizens of these United States who happen to live in Iowa, New Hampshire or South Carolina, you are like me. That means WE DON'T GET TO CHOOSE.

That's right. I put it all in caps, because all caps means YELLING. And I am yelling. Because I am pissed off. And rightly so.

We spend an awful lot of time talking about protecting our right to choose. Yeah, I know that has to do with a different choice. But is there any choice more important than a vote in a democratic election? I didn't even major in Poli-Sci, but I am here to tell you that if we let the current system remain in place, we're all screwed, and not in a fun way, either.

Let's say for purposes of discussion that I am a democrat - as of today, I only get to choose from two candidates. What happened to everyone else? Biden? Dodd? Hell, where's crazy ol' Gravel? Or Richardson? I like him a lot.

And who doesn't love Dennis Kucinich? Everyone does. Not just because he's got that whole Frodo/Galadriel thing going with his knock-out wife. I mean, that doesn't hurt, but it's more than that. So - since it's no longer a live issue, be really, truly, honest with yourself - didn't you agree with most of what the guy said?

If you have crossed that line where you no longer believe that peace should be our first goal, you need to take a couple of big steps back and re-assess.

I'm not saying that peace is always the right approach, or that force is never necessary. Are you kidding me? My people will throw a punch and ask questions later, if it's called for. But in the big picture, if we're not shooting for peace, we need to re-sight our coordinates.

Okay, back to democratic choice. Today is the first of February, gang, and all my choices are gone except two. What the fuck? Yeah, I said fuck. I'd say worse if I thought I wouldn't get fired on the spot. I had a little incident with a broken table earlier in the week - I mean, you'd think those things would hold a couple of people, y'know? Any way, I'm sticking with fuck. I mean, as my baddest word. hah!

John Edwards was the last one out of the race. That was very troubling to me. It's only February! It's not even SuperDuper Tuesday or Terrific Tuesday, or whatever they're calling it these days.

Now, people will give you all kinds of intellectual explanations as to why this happened. Bullshit. It's about the money. These freaking elections cost so damn much money that if you don't have the right mojo, or momentum, or whatever, and you can't keep raising millions of dollars, you're out. That is well and truly corked. This is one messed up system, guys. If we're going to have a real democracy here, we need to stop making it about who has the most dough.

The same holds true on the Republican side. McCain, who is now the front-runner, was all but written off last summer. He's one of the few who chose to hang in there with no money. It's not as if he doesn't have a full-time job. The other front-runner? Romney, who is writing his own checks. He might have the potential to be the best President ever, but do we really want to limit our choices for POTUS to the richest guys who are willing to spend their own cash? I know I don't. A lot of rich people are total jagoffs.

By the by - I just have to say that I love the acronym 'POTUS' - learned it on The West Wing. But what about the poor Supremes? How would you like to be known as the SCOTUS? That is one unfortunate moniker. Okay, back to the topic.

The answer is obviously some kind of campaign finance reform. I don't know what the proposals are - trying to read that legislative crap is a total nightmare. No wonder no one reads the damn things. They're a mess. And it's not my job, so I'm not doing it. I have enough to take care of with this blog and this office and these authors - I mean, what I have to do around here... seriously, I don't know what they did before I got here, y'know?

So what do you think? Not that I think I'm wrong - because I'm not. But I do like to at least give the appearance that I care about other people's opinions. Not every day, but I am today. So go ahead - tell me what you think.

The Ski Hat

By Me, Margie

This is a true story about Me, Margie, skiing, and my pony tail hat. What is a pony tail hat? Glad you asked. It's a hat with a hole in the back for your pony tail to stick out. (Josh and William, it's a pony tail, not a "handle" so shaddup.) If you have a lot of hair, you can't just shove it under a regular knit hat. The hat won't stay on. And you can't just let your hair fly all over the place because then you cannot see. Skiing is risky enough without playing hide 'n' seek with your perspective. Just saying.

After much searching, I found the perfect pony tail hat. It was a beautiful day, so a group of us headed up the chair lift for our first run. We went in different directions. I'd like to say I headed for the more advanced slopes, but that would be a boldfaced lie. And if you're looking for a liar, don't look at Me, Margie.

As I made a turn to take one of the runs, the wind caught me at just the right angle, and blew my new hat off my head. What follows is the probable communication in my brain.

Left Brain: Head is cold. Hat is gone.

Right Brain: My hat! My new pony tail hat! Find it!

Left Brain: We are moving at a high rate of speed. Focus on balance and avoid collisions.

Right Brain: It's the perfect color - periwinkle! Must find it!

Left Brain: Sigh. Locating hat.

Right Brain: There it is! There it is! Get it!

Left Brain: Awww shit. Changing course to follow hat. Could be ill advised.

Right Brain: Faster, faster - it's heading for the trees!

Left Brain: Trees bad. There are other hats.

Right Brain: No there are not. We looked. We are *getting* that hat!

Left Brain: Heavy sigh. Fine. There is no dealing with you when you get like this.

Right Brain: There it is - reach for it.

Left Brain: Don't drop the ...... pole.

Right Brain: Hurry - reach for it!

Left Brain: Stop- coming up too fast on the trees!

Right Brain: Hat!

Left Brain: Tree!

Right Brain: Get the hat!

Left Brain: Watch the branches - the face, the face -- protect the face!

Right Brain: Forget the face - we're smart, we don't need to look good.

Left Brain: Idiot. Okay - eyes - must protect the eyes!

Right Brain: Eyes. Right. Can't read without them. okay. We can do both!

Left Brain: WTF?! DUCK!

Right Brain: Got it!

Left Brain: Holy shit. Snow. Cold. Pain.

Right Brain: Thank heaven. Just in time.

Head: Shut up, both of you. I need to figure out if this bump is something we landed on or a potential aneurism.

Central Nervous System: I hope you geniuses up there are happy. You've got about ten more seconds of adrenaline before the pain sets in.

Feet: Pain? What pain? We've been numb since you put these damn boots on. Who the hell is running the show up there?

Bum: Good thing you ate all those pancakes; without all this padding, we'd all be looking at traction.

Skin: If you boneheads don't get up out of this friggin' snow, and I end up with frostbite, I'll give all you bitches a smackdown that will last for a week, yo.

Eyes: I'm not letting Skin watch The Wire any more.

Left Brain: I give up. We need a drink.

Right Brain: Isn't this the coolest hat?

The end.

Margie's Twelfth Night Story

By Me, Margie

Gather 'round - it's time for another installation of Margie's Story Time, wherein someone very smart, but who can speak in plain words, breaks it down so everyone can understand. Lucky for you, TLC readers, that person is Me, Margie.

First of all, twelfth night is not the twelfth of anything - it's twelve days after Christmas. The big Christmas (stay with me, you'll see), you know, where we celebrate Jesus' birthday by, among other things, exchanging gifts with people we'd really rather not spend time with, but we have to because we had the misfortune of being born related to them. Yeah, it's confusing. But not as confusing as what we do on Presidents' Day, which is buy mattresses and cars. Whateve.

Twelfth Night is also known as the Feast of the Epiphany, which is a celebration of the day the three wise guys came to visit the baby Jesus and bring useless gifts. If you missed my Christmas story, check the December 2007 archives - you'll have to catch up on your own time - we're busy here, okay?

It's also celebrated as Saturnalia - which is really "Do the Opposite Day". That's right, just like the Seinfeld episode. Up is down, right is left, blah blah. A real riot if you were the guy who had to clean up after a big fat drunken King - I guess for that one day, the King was supposed to pick up after you. Good luck with that- because lots of Kings are total jags and won't play by the rules if they don't like the game.

Twelfth Night even has it's own desert - round pastries, called King Cakes, shaped like a wreath that have a bean in one piece (yeah, I know - we have them for Mardi Gras too, but they started on twelfth night). Whoever gets the bean is the King of the Bean for the day. Right. Try putting that kind of thing in my cake and you'll be beaned - right upside your head.

In some places, Twelfth Night is also the beginning of Carnivale, which lasts until Fat Tuesday.

And - here is my favorite - Twelfth Night is also known as Little Christmas, because it was the actual Christmas before some church guy changed the calendar all around. In Ireland, Little Christmas is also known as Women's Christmas because on that day, the man of the house is supposed to do all the chores. Uh huh. You can bet that doesn't fly in America - thats NFL Playoff time, baby. (Go Pack!)

So how the hell did all this stuff end up on one day? Well, not many people know this, but I know the real story. How? Because people tell me things.

As usual, it all started, like, a thousand years ago, when some nutball got caught doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing. Big surprise, except this whack was a King of Someplace Big. I can't tell you where, because the people who live there will freak out, and seriously, I'm just getting out of the trouble I got in with that thing with the threesome. I mean the alleged threesome. I heard. I mean, I wasn't even there.

So this King, who is supposed to be Mr. Macho, who claimed to have, uh, beaned every girl in town - turns out he liked to dress up in costumes and pretend he was a bunch of very non-macho things. Like a sheep. Or, you know, a girl. Which, in those days, weren't treated so differently, which is why those societies didn't last. Seriously. The other thing you need to know is that this king was rabid-jackal mean. Don't feel bad for him. He was a real shit.

So he's running around dressed up like Bo Peep, or whatever, and he makes his servants dress up like, you know, the big bad wolf, or a big stick or something (hey, nobody was worried about the details, okay?) and he got caught. By a woman. Like his Mom. And she would have covered it up, like always, except she was having bridge club or something, and all her friends were there, and some of them had really rich husbands, or were in tight with like a bishop or some other important guy, and so they couldn't just kill them all to keep them quiet, because that would have raised a bunch of questions. Royal types, in case you didn't know, do not like the questions.

So his Mom (the brains of the operation, as usual) tried to explain it by dreaming up this big story about a holiday where weird shit happens on purpose and it's all good. Right. At least half the women did not buy this crap at all, and the other half were just really mad that digital camera phones hadn't been invented, because that is major retirement money with that kind of photo proof, y'know?

So this bullshit holiday got more and more complex because Mom had to explain one dumbass move after another. Like "Yeah? Well what about the fact that the bread over there is shaped like, you know, a big stick?" And Mom says: Oh, that's just an early prototype of the King of the Bean Cake. We thought it would be cool to have it shaped like a big fat string bean, but that didn't work. The beta version is round with a hole in the middle." "Oh? You mean like the mouth on that doll over there in the corner?" "Uh, yeah. But, you know, without the rest of the doll parts."

They finally got the women calmed down, then got them all drunked up on some kind of fermented fruit skins or some damn thing, hoping like hell that no one actually had any real proof, then they sent them all home.

Then sonny boy said to the Queen Mother - "Geez, Mom, that was cool. Thanks. I'm going to bed now."

And she said: "Ya think? Sit yer ass down, boy, and get schooled. From now on, just so you remember not to get caught, every year on this day, you are going to let your servants be royalty and the royals be servants, AND all the men are going to do all the chores while the women sit around and do whatever and watch whatever movies they want, and they get to keep the remote." (She was a psychic, did I mention that?) "And you're going to have to eat cake with your least favorite veggies in it too. Plus, I'm going to leave a note only to be opened by a kid named Willy Shakes who is going to write a story about a girl dressed up as a boy, but SHE is going to get a happy ending. Unlike the rest of your massage appointments with Sven."

"You can't do that - I'M the KING!"

"You bet your ass I can do it, or you'll be playing sheep boy for real when your brothers find out about this, so can it, Jag." That was the King's nickname; his real name was King Mortemus Platapus Jagoff Preposterum, IV.

"But Mo---ooom", King Jagoff whined - "You can't do that - it's the same day as the Epiphany. That would be wrong - and confusing as hell. Plus, everyone will call me names."

His Mom was having none of it. She stomped out and yelled over her shoulder: "Shut up you twit. I can't believe you're my kid. You brought this on yourself."

And the King threw a big tantrum, jumping up and down, and getting all his footmen or whatever to jump up and down too. They looked idiotic, but it was very cool for the Court Minstral, who said to himself: "Finally! Some damn thing to come before the eleven pipers from yesterday's funeral. Now I'm almost done with this freaking song."

And that is how all those different things ended up on the same day. And also how the term jagoff came to mean jerk of the highest order.

The end.

Joseph's Christmas Ups

By Me, Margie, who thinks Joseph deserves them. Seriously.

Last time, I told the Hanukkah story. I was going to tell the Christmas story, but everyone knows that one, and if you don't, all you have to do is listen to Linus Van Pelt: Peanuts Christmas

Instead, I am going to tell the story of Joseph, Mary's husband, who really does not get enough props. And he deserves 'em. Totally.

Can you imagine - here's a teenager, training to be a carpenter, and his girlfriend shows up one day and says 'Hey, uh, Giuseppe (yeah, I know, but it's my story) I'm uh, having a baby.' And Joseph, who has been, you know, respecting her wishes to wait until they are married to do it, says: 'Yeah. Good one, honey. Hand me that lathe, will ya?'

But then she convinces him that not only is she pregnant, but she's still a virgin. You know how many teenage girls have tried that? Millions. Nobody believed them either. And let's remember that Joseph didn't get any visits from angels or anything telling him how this was all supposed to come down. Because a message from an angel? Okay, I'd believe that, because angels are the total 'Holy shit!' experience, y'know?

So Joseph, God bless the guy, takes it all on faith. Even though she's having a baby that's not his, they get married, probably right away so it's not so totally obvious, y'know, that she's got - I mean, with child. And he settles in to his carpentry and she does whatever, and goes to visit her cousins and stuff, where they probably had a baby shower, except instead of little monogrammed bibs, they got a goat. Or in this case, probably a donkey.

Then she gets back and they find out that the whackjob dictator has decreed (which means he made them do it even though it was dumb as hell) that everybody had to go to their father's city - and I'll tell you, if some nutball told me to go to some other place just so I could pay taxes, I'd tell them where to stick it, but that's me and I didn't live back then, thank heaven, because they didn't have indoor plumbing, which is totally gross.

So they go on this long trip, and Mary is totally uncomfortale - because can you imagine being that pregnant AND having to ride on a donkey? We're talking major pain in the ass. heh. And then they finally get there and no room at the inn and so forth, and they end up in a barn. (P.S. Next time someone says: "Whatsa matter wit' you? Were ya born in a barn?" Consider your company. Just saying.)

So here's Joseph, having to help deliver a baby with no female relatives around. And you know, birthing babies is a big mess, which I'm sure he wasn't ready for either, because I'm sure his Mom didn't let him anywhere near his sisters when they had kids - women in olden times knew that if the men knew too much about labor and delivery, they'd run screaming into the night and the species would die out. I'm not making that part up, either. Everyone knows that. Duh.

Plus he had to have been really upset too because I know he was planning to make a kickass crib, but they had to use a trough or something.

And just when he gets everything cleaned up - as much as you can in a freaking stable - all these people start to show up. Shepherds and kids with percussion instruments, which are nice except when you just got the baby to sleep, which is why my brother Joe always gets the drum set for the oldest kid after the second one is born.

Then these wise guys (and they look nothing like Pacino, DeNiro, or even Paulie Walnuts) show up and deliver gifts - but not the good kind, like food or wood to build a house, or morphine or something, or even a camel, so it's easier to travel. No - they bring stuff that is shiny and smells good. Great. Plus, they say 'Uh, we hate to break it to you, seeing how you just had the baby and all, but some psycho is going to try to kill you, so you want to get the hell out of dodge.' Super.

And then they're off again, back into the desert. Do you know what kind of havoc the desert wreaks on a decent set of carpentry tools? Nightmare. By this point, Joseph, no matter how swell of a guy he is, has got to be wondering how in blazes he got into this mess. But does he bail? No way. He sticks, and he gets them out safely, and everything.

And that is why I think Joseph deserves the proper respect. Which he totally did not get. Until now. Capisce?

The end.

And Merry Christmas.