the end

They say that what you are thinking about before you go to sleep is what you’ll dream about. When I went to bed last night, I must have been thinking about the story about the AK-47 that I told you the day before yesterday. It was a weird dream. Here’s how it went.

I don’t know how I got there, but the first thing I remember is being in a warehouse building, and there were three of us, in a triangular pattern, pointing guns at each other. It was like the scene in the movie Reservoir Dogs, near the end where there are three guys standing there pointing guns at each other and a fourth, Tim Roth, lying on the floor. In my dream, there were only three of us, and here is what makes me think that I was thinking about the AK-47 right before I went to sleep.

First of all, I was holding my Glock 17C, in firing position, pointing it directly at Osama Bin Laden, who was at the point on my right, holding his Kalashnikov waist high, pointing it directly at me. On the point of the triangle to my left was President Bush with some sort of newfangled, short-barreled weapon I’d never seen before. It was small like an Uzi or a Tec-9, but it wasn’t either of those. I guess when you’re Commander-in-Chief they let you carry all the latest stuff. He was pointing his weapon down toward the floor, somewhere in between Osama and me.

I was somewhat concerned that Osama was pointing his gun at me and I addressed those concerns, but I recall my voice was kind of squeaky and shaky like it always is right before you kick somebody’s ass or you cut them up. I remember I yelled as loud as I could and summed up my argument as follows.

“Put that motherfucker down, you fucking camel jockey, or I’ll be sending you on a trip to meet Allah a little earlier than you planned!”

I didn’t realize that Mr. Bin Laden spoke fluent English, but he addressed me in very understandable terms, again, in very elevated volume.

“You can kiss my ass, you God-fearing son of a bitch! Your handgun is no match for this Russian bastard. You’ve seen what havoc your own countrymen have done with these things in fast-food restaurants from coast to coast in your ‘land of the free!’”

“I’m not fucking with you motherfucker!” I screamed back at him.

“Allah be praised, I’ll put you in your fucking grave!” Was his high-volume response.

“I mean it, motherfucker!” I yelled. “You fucking better bet I’ll do it!”

“You’re gonna eat lead, you bare-headed western bastard!” Replied Bin Laden.

“Gentlemen,” shouted President Bush, “I’m sure we can settle this without bloodshed. Put the guns down and lets talk this out.”

Osama gave a quick glance toward the President and smiled.

“George, my dear friend,” said Osama. “He knows the truth and we can’t let him carry it out of here.”

At that moment, I knew it was him or me, and despite the western morality of letting the other guy get off the first shot, I figured that it was now or never, so I squeezed off two rounds. The Glock has a very easy recoil and I was steady in my aim, so both shots hit Osama’s chest within half an inch of each other. His eyes bulged and I knew my shots had made their mark, but I knew instantaneously that I had had it. Out of reflex he hit the trigger of that Ruskie spray gun and filled the air with metal. The shots hit me like a White Freightliner and immediately I was on my back on the floor with my life expectancy measurable in seconds.

“Oh, my God!” I heard the President shout, as he ran across to the body on the floor. “My dear, dear friend.”

In my last moments of comprehension, I saw the face of the President as he knelt beside the dying man on the floor. I saw him put his hands behind Osama’s head and lift it close to his own.

“You were always there for me,” said the President. “I would never have gotten where I am without you.”

“I will be with the virgins, soon,” choked Osama.

“You’ll always be in my heart,” said the President.

It occurred to me momentarily that had I gotten off a clean headshot, I might have lived through this thing and been entitled to the $25 million reward. But, I knew, in reality, had I done that, I would have never walked out of that room alive, anyway.

That was when I woke up.

Some of you might say that I should be careful what I eat before I go to bed and others might say I should get the Kalashnikov off my mind. The truth of the matter is we live in strange times. There are a million stories in this world, and this has been one of them.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

ol' man kalashnikov's christmas toy

Well, it’s time to look back at Christmas and decide what was the best and worst gift. My son gave me a very fine sweater and my brother-in-law and sister gave me a piece of the floor of Allen Fieldhouse. Pretty special. Senora Clinch and I gave each other a new set of living room furniture—leather and very nice.

The worst gift of the holiday season, however, had to be a gift that someone gave my son’s girlfriend's cousin. Well, in the spirit of holiday giving, someone gave this young gentleman an AK-47.

Let’s all go back to Quentin Tarantino’s classic movie Jackie Brown. You’ll recall Samuel L. Jackson, playing the character Ordell Robbie and his classic line about weaponry.

AK-47. When you absolutely, positively got to kill every motherfucker in the room, accept no substitutes.

Let’s further paraphrase Ordell Robbie and say:

So this slack-jawed hillbilly sees Osama Bin Laden on TV with an AK-47, and he got to have an AK-47, too. And Osama has the one with the sweep-forward clip that holds all the extra ammo, so he can’t have the standard perpendicular clip. No, he has to have the extra-large clip, like Osama, does.

Is he going to use the Kalashnikov for hunting some big game? Oh, hell no! He says you can’t use these things for hunting. And he is right. By the way, let’s visit the website of the Ruskies that make this Goddamn thing so we can see a picture, with the big clip.

http://kalashnikov.guns.ru/models/ka50.html

So, what the fuck are you going to do with this motherfucker? I guess you take it out into the boonies somewhere and play like you’re a hard-ass. If you have one of these things, you can feel like you can whip anyone’s ass with it. And I guess that is the only thing it is good for, unless you get pissed off at the world someday and decide to take it into McDonald’s and grind up a couple of kids. I understand it is good for that, although I have no first-hand experience.

When you have an AK-47, you know you can be just as hard as Osama is and you can know that Bush is going to protect your right to have it, just like he protects Osama from any danger that might befall him.

Dick Clinch doesn’t have an AK-47. That makes big Dick different from old Osama. That, and a bunch of other things. Also, big Dick doesn’t see why anyone should be running around shooting things with one of those bad boys. Osama would disagree as would the NRA and Dubya, but all of them can kiss my ass. Your man Dick feels like he is on firm footing on this position.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

a hoar frost

There is a hoar frost covering most everything outside chateau de Clinch this morning.

I’m sure that prompts most of you to say, “He said ‘whore.’”

Which is not exactly true. I said hoar, not whore. A whore is a woman who sucks you until juice comes out. A hoar frost is a white coating all over everything that almost looks like a dusting of snow. A hoar frost is so thick it makes everything outside on a winter’s morning look ancient. A few of you are probably going to remind me when a whore pulls out a split second early she gets a white coating on her and sometime that can make her look ancient.

Damn it! Will you please get whores off your mind? Is that all you ever think about?

The hoar frost covers everything like a coat of fresh paint, only not smooth and glossy. It’s like when you paint something without sanding it first, figuring the paint will cover the flaws. Then, after the paint dries, you look at it and say, shit, I should have sanded that first. Later today the sun will come out and the frost will be gone and everything will be back to normal, but for the time being I’ll look outside, drink coffee and say to myself that everything looks pretty and white.

See! Dick Clinch has a sensitive side. I’m not all shock and awe. You’ll notice I didn’t even say, “fuck” once. Oops! I just did, didn’t I?

It just goes to show you that a brother can have the eye of an artist and the sensitivity of a poet and be the bad ass responsible for defining the new world order.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

a very wal-mart christmas

What’s a man to do when it is the day before Christmas Eve and he comes to the realization that, although all the presents are bought and safely in the closet, they need to be wrapped and there are no boxes in stock anywhere in the Clinch household in which to put them prior to wrapping?

The proper question would probably be better posed by saying that we came to this realization last night.

You’re probably thinking, “Goddamn it, Clinch! You dumb fuck! How could a responsible person in a civilized society allow this to happen?”

My response is, get off my ass. The solution was a trip to Wally World at about 6:30 this morning and I have achieved the solution to avoid the Christmas rush. Actually, I achieved the first half of the solution a couple of weeks ago by shopping on line. In this case, however, it appears our Wal-Mart is open 24 hours and there were only a handful of people there. It was like being on the floor of a Vegas casino at 6:00 in the morning—a sure way to beat the crowds. I got my last items for Christmas taken care of; so now shopping is out of the way.

Now it is time to spend the day wrapping.

To those of you who read earlier about my dislike of hip-hop, you are probably wondering why the change in heart. To which I respond, not rapping—wrapping.

And you can bet your ass I am wishing you happy holidays.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

the power of song

I read today that most Iranians are not concerned about their dipshit President banning western music. They are listening to our music, anyway. One person whom I saw was interviewed in the article said not to take their President seriously. They are going to listen to their music and tell their President to keep his nose out of it. They are treating this ban the same way big Dick would. Faced with this ban, most people would have the standard Dick Clinch response, which would be, “Hey, Pres, suck my dick.”

I would like to believe if the same thing happened here, our President would get the same response. Once people have rights, whoever decides they are going to take away those rights is either treading on thin ice or in over their head.

It’s like that Goddamn Friedman family down the street and the fucking little beanie the old man wears and all of their weird religious ideas, including not worshiping on Sunday. We can criticize them all we want and we can chuckle at their religious beliefs. But if Dubya says they have to start wearing armbands with a yellow Star of David on them to differentiate themselves from the rest of us, you fucking better bet that big Dick will be wearing one of those armbands, too.

Yeah, we all have different beliefs and we like to listen to different music. When the government tells us we can't worship like we want or we can’t listen certain music, you bet your ass I’m going to develop an interest in that religion and a taste for that music. And I’m going to show whomever tries to ban them, whether it is the President of Iran or the President of the United States, the second finger of my right hand.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

a song in my heart

I was wondering today whether it is considered a breach of etiquette to call the leader of another country a rat-fucker or a no good, piece-of-shit motherfucker? I was wondering that because I heard President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad of Iran is banning all western music. No, this doesn’t mean he is banning that hillbilly, country and western crap, although it is probably among the music included in his ban. This monkey-fucker is banning all western music. This includes classical music, rock and roll, hip-hop, C&W, jazz and, well, you name it. As an aside, I wonder if it is a breach of etiquette to call this monkey-fucker a monkey-fucker?

First of all, last week this shithead said he doesn’t believe the holocaust actually happened. Now, many of you will point out that we have enough slack-jawed, inbred nazi dickwads here in the United States who say the holocaust never occurred. I would respond that we have enough slack-jawed, inbred nazi dickwads that don’t believe in Darwin, either. But, none of them is ever going to be elected president. Okay! Okay, I stand corrected.

But, anyway, let’s get back to this presidential turd in Iraq. Why is it that when you put a conservative into office, he feels like he has to take away your freedoms one-by-one—a little here; a little there—until none of your freedoms are left. And why is it the people who put him in office are happy to give up their freedoms.

I’ll tell you what. You may have gathered that I’m not a fan of country and western music, and if you read what I wrote a few days ago, you probably figure I don’t have a lot of hip-hop in my collection. While I don’t currently listen to these types of music, if our government, or some other slime ball government bans them, you can bet I’ll become a fan. You can bet I’ll be listening to some cowboy telling me about a love that done gone bad to the strains of a pedal steel guitar. You can bet I’ll be listening to some African-American gentleman describing himself using that word to describe African-Americans that we don’t use. I’ll be singing the following lyrics to a thump-thump-thump accompaniment.

Motherfucker, motherfucker
Motherfucker, motherfucker

You can bet your ass—if you are the kind, like your friend big Dick, who is not afraid to put his ass on the line—that we will let whomever it is know that our freedom is not for the taking. And you may also wager that same part of you anatomy that the only salute we will give the President of Iran is the tall man, right next to the ring finger of our right hand. When a pig-fucker tells us we can’t listen to a particular kind of music, then you know we’ll be cranking up the volume.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

cramer

I don’t watch much television, but I have come to the conclusion that Cramer is just too fucking weird. It seems to me like all of the other guys and gals you see on TV with him have their little foibles and idiosyncrasies, but he takes it too far—way too far. You see him hopping around your television screen, making all those spasmodic gestures. He’s loud and makes faces and just seems to try to be dramatic.

No, I’m not talking about Michael Richards on Seinfeld. Hell, he’s fucking great. He’s one of my favorites. If he ran for President, I’d vote for him, even knowing he would get himself in trouble with all sorts of madcap schemes. I have absolutely no problem with him.

The one I’m talking about is James Cramer on CNBC. I watched about three minutes of Mad Money the other night and I had to turn it off. Holy Shit! Hold it down! Why is it necessary to shout all the time? Why is it necessary to scream your fucking head off when you tell us about a stock? Sure, I like to slide some money into the pot as much as the next man and I like to have a little professional knowledge about the market or the particular equity I’m about to get married to. There’s no doubt that Cramer knows a thing or two about the market and his advise is probably good, but Goddamn, man, can’t you do it parva voce?

You know, when he was the guest commentator on Squawk Box, he got a little carried away, but Mark Haines would lasso him in, so I could stand to watch him back then. Also, he seemed to be a progressive thinker and some of the things he said made sense. Then when they matched him up with Lawrence Kudlow on Kudlow and Cramer, I figured he would be a good balance to that relic of the Nixon administration. Next thing I know the two of them are both chanting the same mantra, and then slapping high fives. Cramer became just another conservative yelling his fucking head off so anyone else couldn’t be heard. Fuck, if I wanted to hear that, I’d just listen to right-wing radio. I finally had enough of them when they started doing that fist thing the brothers do down at the schoolyard. I thought, shit, you motherfuckers are too old and too white to be doing that. I was just glad Nixon wasn’t still alive to see it.

Anyway, the great thing about America is that we have that little button on the remote and when we see something that disgusts us, we can hit that button until something less disgusting is being displayed on the screen. You can fucking bet that I’ll always be quick to hit that button when I see James Cramer’s face.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

hey, fuku man

If I were Japanese, I would want my name to be Fuku.

I was reading today about a guy who is the head of Honda, whose name is Fukui. I don’t know if it is the same Fukui, but there was a guy quoted by that name who is one of the hot shots at the Bank of Japan. Then, I read there is an island off the coast of Japan called Fukui. Their website is:

http://www.fuku-e.com/

No shit! I shit you not.

Go ahead and click on it. You won’t be able to read it because it is all in Japanese—or at least some Asian characters not meant for Americans to be able to read. You just know there are lots of teenaged boys going to that site hoping to see chicks sucking dicks and getting fucked. You can bet there are a lot of disappointed young men at the end of that particular internet surfing experience.

Anyway, you can bet that Fuku is a noble name somewhere, and there is probably a country on the other side of the earth where the word Jones is an unspeakable profanity. I can imagine some guy showing up there and saying, “My name is Jones.”

And when he does, the guy he says it to says something back that is not comprehendible to our American ears that means, “What did you call me, motherfucker?”

There will be a group of attractive young women who will overhear and they will giggle among themselves and one will same something equally not comprehendible that means, “That jackass will not enjoy the pleasure of our bodies and mouths anytime soon.”

Of course, there is the flipside. What if one of the natives of that island came to the US and someone asked him where he was from. He’ll say, “Fukui.”

To which the questioner will say to his friends, “What an asshole.”

This could happen. I shit you not.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.