Trump bin Laden Sheen

The world may be a better place without Osama, but wouldn’t it have been far sweeter if bin Laden had been throwing a little tea party for asswipes on Sunday? I can just imagine the scene:

Inside a million-dollar compound in Pakistan—unnoticed by local political leaders and officials of the military academy within walking distance—a banquet table, draped in a dainty floral-patterned silk, overflows with scones and jam, buttery tea biscuits, iced lemon cakes, and delicate China cups brimming with café au lait.

The Donald leans slightly forward as Osama tops off Trump’s beverage. The “winning warlock” gently chews a petit four. Osama wiggles a teapot in Charlie’s direction.

“More tiger’s blood for my favorite infidel?” Osama inquires. Sheen declines with a slight wave.

“No. No more for me. I’ve got to go drain my torpedo of truth as it is.” He spots a twelve-year-old girl hesitating in the doorway. “Excuse me,” he says to his fellow fuckers, “Gotta go grab me a goddess.” On the way out, Sheen playfully flips the Donald’s hair.

“Goddammit, Charlie. It took five hours and six stylists to get that right this morning. Now I’ll never be president,” Trump seethes.

“Oh, comb on, Donnie. If I can get my career back after all the lies CBS has spread about me, then you can bounce back from a little follicle fuck-up. We shall overcomb!” Sheen explodes with laughter at his own dumbassness. Trump executes an inverted facelock elbow drop, and the two celebrated dipshits soon end up naked and grappling on bin Laden’s linoleum. Just as Osama strips his pastel striped dress over his head to join in the gay old time, a team of Navy Seals in night-vision goggles drops in for a treat. They shoot anything that even remotely resembles a dumbass.

And the world lets loose a collective sigh of relief.

Fade to black.

You Know What Sucks? LipoSUCtion.

I admit it. I’ve had liposuction. It hurt like a mother, but it did do exactly what the doctor claimed it would. It “reshaped” my trouble areas. The only thing is that the new shape is more Quasimodo than Barbie. Never did the physician tell me that once I had fat sucked out of my squarish hips and my inner thighs—which I always wanted to have a space between while my feet were together the way cheerleader legs have—that fat cells would sprout up in places I’d never had them before.

In case you’re not familiar, here’s how liposuction works in twenty easy steps:

1.)    Anesthesia is administered, but apparently it is only the “twilight” kind which doesn’t deaden a goddamned thing but makes you “forget” the pain. My ass.

2.)    Incisions are made in areas near the suction sites. The surgeon skillfully slices your tender flesh open with something mother-fucking sharp. I remember thinking, “That son-of-a-bitch is using something mother-fucking sharp to slice the tender flesh of my…private area, which I clearly did not give permission for him to do.” What I actually said was, “Ouch. Ouch. Ouch,” while some gloved hand repeatedly slapped mine away.

3.)    A very long, straw-like canula (from the Latin word for reed because the canula is hollow and large like a reed instrument such as a fucking clarinet), is threaded into the incision and down to the suction site where it is then jammed over and over and over into tender flesh to hack away large portions of fat-cell-filled tissue and to suck them out. The contents are vacuumed into an extra-extra-large Ziplock bag. The canula is mother-fucking sharp.

4.)    There is no attempt at actual cosmetic shaping because the surgeon is too busy viciously slashing as if he is angry with the fat or with you or with all of humanity.

5.)    Once the carnage is over, the incision sites are stitched, and compression garments are heaved up over your vacuumed areas.

6.)    You are sent home high on some drug, your incisions leaking excess saline tinged with your blood, which you deserve to have stain and ruin the car’s upholstery if you forgot to bring old towels.

7.)    You are in sweaty delirium and scathing pain for days and days until you go back to the doctor to have him take out your stitches, which is akin to having some son-of-a-bitch stick needles into your inflamed bruises and then rip them out really fast.

8.)    You continue to wear the compression garments for several weeks, and you may or may not get used to peeing through the cut-out hole in the girdle.

9.)    Finally, the day comes to remove all the bandaging and to view the new you.

10.)  There is lots and lots of cussing.

11.)  You are all lumpy and green and yellow and not at all svelte like those brochure thighs in the waiting room.

12.)  You wait patiently for years for the brochure thighs, which never materialize.

13.)  Meanwhile, your sides grow considerable handholds, which flop over the elastic waistbands you now are forced to wear.

14.)  Your upper back has folds.

15.)  Your upper gut looks like it’s expecting. Triplets.

16.)   No clothes of any kind ever fit correctly again.

17.)  You no longer fit into the “apple” or the “pear” category. You are one of those bumpy, misshapen gourds that comes out only at Halloween.

18.)  You never wear a swimsuit to the beach for the rest of your life without someone calling for a marine rescue.

19.)  There is still no space between your thighs when your feet are together.

20.)  The only thing that sucks more than liposuction is that you have no one but your own sorry fat ass to blame.

Never, EVER Leave Home Without It.

Remember Karl Malden’s commercials back in the 70’s for American Express Traveler’s Cheques? “Never leave home without them!” Remember? (Shut up, you fuckers who weren’t even alive in the 70’s. Youth is entirely overvalued. A smooth forehead cannot make up for missing cool shit like Tony Orlando and Dawn, Pong and disco balls. No, disco balls are not the bedazzled testicles of gay men. Although that would be kinda cool. But probably painful.)

If you don’t remember Karl, titleholder of one monumental schnoz—in which there existed a small, underdeveloped country with poor water quality and mud for dinner, or maybe a ball field—then you can look him up on YouTube. He touted traveler’s checks in a time before debit cards made them obsolete; but his message was that in case of “unexpected” emergency, there are certain fundamentals one should never leave at home. (Is there ever really any other kind of emergency? Planned amputation? Tornado on purpose? I don’t know.)

For example, a woman should always tote an extra feminine product for those unforeseen red tsunamis, which invariably occur before Labor Day when she is wearing white. Unless you are trashy and wear white after Labor Day. But then you are not reading this because you are not my friend.

One should never leave home without a granola bar (unexpected hunger), a cell phone (unexpected abduction), a pair of tweezers (unexpected chin hair), and a surgical clamp (unexpected birth when you thought you had just been eating too many KitKats lately or other medical surprise). Here’s the MOST important thing never, ever to leave at home for any reason. Ever: Your freaking computer. If you are a writer, you never know when an opportunity for readership may arise. Take yesterday, for instance. I went out of town and left my everloving laptop behind. When it became apparent that I would not make it back home in time to write my blog for the day, I could’ve beaten the bloody shit out of myself. I didn’t, though, because I wasn’t carrying an extra pad.

P. S.- Dear tens of readers, I promise not to miss a day again.

Oh, God. We’ll ALWAYS have Paris.

Jesus. When ugly old Humphrey Bogart snarled out of his overbite the words, “We’ll always have Paris,” to his torn-between-two-lovers dame in Casablanca, NEVER did he imagine the heinous association that would forever taint the word “Paris” four decades later. Mona Lisa, the Eiffel Tower, even buttery croissants cannot redeem their homeland because any mention of its name conjures up that other Paris. You know. The one with the pocket pooches. The one with the mouth-breather stare so utterly blank that there simply can be no other explanation than this: Fred Flintstone lives inside her hollowed-out carcass, working the controls like he used to on the dinosaur down at the rock quarry. Or maybe the little bird inside Fred’s camera needed a new job. Whatever. There is clearly no one home inside that vapid blight. Her show wasn’t called The Simple Life for nothing.

Why is this skinny sack o’ money constantly in the fricking news? The possibilities:

  1. She has a new reality series coming out, so we all need to know exactly when to tune in to see her keen mind working about as fast as dead mule. With ankle weights.
  2. She has been arrested, and we all need to tune in to see her spend a harrowing eleventy seconds in jail.
  3. She has to appear in court to testify about the “scary” incident of waking up to find that she was in no danger whatsoever because some stalker tried to break into her “mansion,” but her “security team” dispatched his ass in less time than she’s spent in jail.
  4. Some stalker (i.e., skank she screwed, who probably expects lots of money) has “assaulted” her current boyfriend (i.e., skank she is currently screwing, who probably expects lots of money)…and it was surprisingly caught on tape! Just like that time she screwed that skank who then sold the tape to the tabloids because he expected lots of money! That’s fucking news. Literally.

Why doesn’t she just go away? How does she continue to perambulate to and fro even though I am positive L.A. uses those pesticide trucks to fog its neighborhoods? And do you suppose she ever flits around the room like a balloon when her security team lets all the air out of her at night? Just asking.

Houston, We Have a Problem

I blame America. If it weren’t for the pervasiveness of our national language, Spanish, I would not have to be assaulted daily by clueless minions of the service industry who toss off that overused phrase for which life imprisonment in the hold should be the minimum punishment: “No problem.” Oooooo. I just want to pummel within a millimeter of death anyone says those three little syllables.

I thank the waiter for bringing my food. “No problem.” I tell the girl who let me in front of her in line how much I appreciate her kindness. “No problem.” I hand the doctor my entire life savings to pay him the ten-fucking-thousand dollars I owe him for a ninety-second surgery. “No problem.” Well. I’m thrilled as holy hell that no one has to put forth any effort on my part these days.

The phrase, “No problem” is the ugly twin-sister of the Spanish answer to “Thank you.” Gracias for the taco. De nada. Gracias for the boost over the border fence. De nada. The Spanish phrase means literally “of nothing” or “It was nothing.” In other words, “I didn’t have to expend any unnecessary energy to do that for you. Otherwise I wouldn’t have done it.”

Every time someone hurls a “no problem” at me, he/she is really saying that I’m not worth his/her spending any real time/money/labor/thought. Every “no problem” is a personal diss, which just gets my goat. And I have a problem with that.