DCU croaked:
| So what is your suggestion/recommendation to clear up a political
| matter you oppose? Don't hold back, let it all out.
at your service, old chap
Chapter XIX Citizen Jafo
Alone in his Jeff Gannon original two-man love-seat, Jafo was
recuperating from multiple well-deserved head injuries sustained after
his last racist prank.
Left to reflect upon his crimes and misdemeanors by the others, who
were in the outhouse holding an impromptu baby shower for Stain de STD
aka omareno el moron, the Dirty Uncle was in a foul mood.
[Jafo's idea of a baby shower is described below in greater detail]
Not only had Jafo lost his toe-hold on the Empire that was once his and
His Alone, alt.california, but he had also lost both of his Number One
lovers of convenience, Bombsaway Bob aka The Pervert, and Stain de STD,
who all of a sudden had found "other priorities" on which to spend
their anti-creative juices. One another. And Mimi.
He'd even lost his uniquely merciless stranglehold on Mimi, the
she-scapegoat he had been priming as his next Manchurian rocker-bottom
voodoo doll of woman-hatred to be knocked down time and again at his
whim.
Now, instead of being All That, Jafo was just Home Alone, with nary a
Macaulay Culkin to be picked up anywhere in sight, neither far nor
wide.
Unblinking, unseeing, Jafo gazed into the embers of what had once been
his underwear, cracking and popping as it does after a good solid day's
Spankodin-inspired farting sessions. Visions started to appear in the
charred vestibule of Jafo's imagination.
He saw all of Los Angeles in flames, burning like his buttocks after a
steaming bowl of takeaway Uncle Tom Yung Kung. He saw Spankodin-crazed
vigilantes taking pot-shots at anyone who looked vaguely less than
Wal-Mart White, using real ammunition and Willy Pete grenades.
He saw hospitals blown up by friendly fire, female babies used as live
rounds in flame catapults. He saw young recruits having casual anal
sex with him, like in the old days of his patent draft-dodging youth.
Jafo saw dollar signs in all of this for Halliburton. He saw the
depleted genius of Evil contaminating the planet for thousands of
radioactive years. And he saw ***** Cheney appointing him as Vice
Chancellor designate to the Reich.
It soothed Jafo's personal humiliation to picture the Emerald City on
fire, unable to digest the pork rind race wars he and his bozo Friends
Unknown (and Unelected) in Washington DC had relentlessly unleashed
upon, served up and force fed it in his dreams, instead of just doing
their fucking job, such as it was.
Such as, getting out of Iraq. Such as, repairing blow dryers. Or just
not going out of their way to harm other people. But that would be so
not Jafo. Not W. Not Scooter Libby and definitely not cricket.
Knott's Funny Farm. Oh, no indeed.
One word came to Jafo in his uneasy solitude: "Rosebud". He repeated
it softly, hoarsely to himself.
It formed a moue in his mind, suggested by the maiden-form cusp, the
jewel in the crown of Stain de STD's bald derriere when they'd first
met. Meantime, that receptacle had widened to a channel as convenient
and bumpy as the Garvey all-access onramp to the 10 Freeway.
But in its virgin rosebud state, the ***** that was omareno el moron
beckoned, flirting and twisting in Jafo's mind's eye. A tear of
paradise lost dribbled down Jafo's beak, as the Rosebud of his dreams
jiggled and winked at him only virtual inches before his jaded
bipartisan countenance.
Jafo reached out giddily toward it, or where he imagined it to be, like
a first-time visitor to the nearby IMAX theater at the Edwards Cineplex
- that is, if they ever started showing underage male porn in IMAX
3-D. Which, despite Jafo's frequent stern letters of entreaty to
Edwards' management, they had steadfastly refused to do. Years of
uncustomarily civil input from him, and what had they done in return ?
Nothing.
It was then that Jafo had first considered emigration. The USA was
becoming too PC for his liking. He would pack up his P2 IBM
compatible, his Jeff Gannon love-seat and anatomically correct doll
collection, a spare colostomy bag - possibly a change of incontinence
underwear - and just leave. Like *that*.
Leave. But ... to where ? He considered The Bahamas, where they
still watched Benny Hill and spoke with the same stilted fruity
Britticism inflections which Jafo liked to adopt as his own. But there
were no doubt "blacks" there. Also, a folding currency minimum to
which he could only aspire to yet never fulfill. If only we had that
in the States, thought he, there's be that much more for W and
Halliburton to misappropriate.
Jafo had petitioned with several stamped, self-addressed envelopes
President Pooty Poot of the former Soviet Union, where no doubt things
were about as decadent and violent as Jafo could only dream of, but
turns out they didn't speaka de English there, nor did they appreciate
taking in any extra fascist pansies, especially indigent, unhealthy to
the point of ghoulishly haggard ones such as himself. Not unlike
everywhere else, they had plenty of those in Manchuria as it was.
Would any other country have him, after his relentless decades-long
onslaught against other cultures ?
In his present state of utter dissipation, Jafo could think of none.
"Rosebud..."
<to be continued>
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