Dick Clinch's Diary

bush should resign today

2008-05-15T20:13:00.000-07:00

I don't like having a president who is incompentent. I don't like having one who sells out his country for thirty pieces of silver.

But what I will not tolerate is one who is a pussy cocksucker.

Today, Bush compared negotiating with foreign leaders to the appeasment of the Nazis prior to World War II. In doing so, he showed his hand and he may as well have shouted to the world, "I'm George Bush and I'm a pussy cocksucker!"

Georgie boy, you dick head.

Your man Dick Clinch is a negotiator by profession. As such, I know what negotiators do. When you sit down at the table with someone to negotiate a deal, you don't do it with the intention of appeasement. You do it because you plan to crush them like a worm.

What the fuck is the president doing? He is announcing to the world that he is a hapless pussy.

Someone who said what the president said today is not fit to be in charge of a MacDonalds franchise, much less a country-- and sure as hell not this country. By this reckless behavior he is putting our country at risk.

Do the right thing, Bush! Resign tomorrow.

Anyone who would sell us out like that has no place in a position of authority.

Or, sure as fuck, my name isn't Dick Clinch.

what would you pay to see marilyn monroe give head

2008-04-14T16:17:00.000-07:00

The greatest thing about the internet is that you can research almost anything on line. The second best thing is that you can buy almost anything on line. The third best thing about the internet is that you can keep in instant communication. The fourth best thing is the porn is free.

As a sort of contradiction to the last statement, someone has purchased a film of Marilyn Monroe giving head for fifteen minutes for $1.5 million dollars. That's about $100,000 a minute, if my math skills are still as strong as they used to be. That's about $2000 a stroke. That is pretty good money, but it was probably pretty good head.

How much would you pay to see Marilyn suck off some guy? If I had the mill and a half, I would probably pass it up. As I said, the fourth best thing about the internet is that the porn is free. I would bet that you could watch some pretty good head-- probably better than Marilyn gave-- and not have to pay anything for it. Of course, the caveat here-- and there is always a caveat-- is that there is speculation that the john was John, himself. John Kennedy, that is. I have a problem believing that it was big John supplying the pipe. It was probably some non-presidential type. We don't know, because the man's head was out of the picture.

But the best thing about the internet is that you can research anything, and before the week is out, five-hundred old grizzled fuckers (or, perhaps alleged suckees) will come forward and say it was their pipe getting primed. If Marilyn was alive today, she would be in her eighties, so it wouldn't be a stretch that some octogenarian whose pipe hasn't been exposed to the light of day while erect this century will claim to the the headless hoseman.

I can imagine the spectacle of old cocksmen parading before the news cameras saying, "Yeah, it was me who tickled the tonsils."

Actually, the thought of this is beginning to make me wonder why I went here in the first place. Keep the million and a half. I'll just keep watching the free stuff.

Or my name isn't Dick Clinch.

thanks for your patience

2008-03-23T07:10:00.000-07:00

Somehow, I lost my bearings and I have been wandering in cyberspace for a over a year, aimlessly.

I was hoping I would come back from my amnesiac state and realize the last year or so had just been a bad dream. You know, one of those kinds of dreams where you dream some crazed maniac is sawing off your arm or leg, and then, you wake up and realize that all your legs and arms are still there?

Unfortunately, though I was relieved to see that I had all of my arms and legs, I was sorry to see that some crazed maniac had excoriated my country's soul.

Damn, that crazed maniac!

But, I'm back now.

Or my name isn't Dick Clinch.

sideshow saddam

2006-12-31T15:44:00.000-08:00

We’re on the verge of the New Year and your old buddy Big Dick is looking back over the recent past, trying to decide who was the most influential person of 2006. Just as Time Magazine couldn’t put their finger on anyone in particular and gave the honor to you and me, I am having trouble naming the person of 2006, too.

I figure that since a number of the freaks out there have been watching Saddam Hussein dangling at the end of a rope this weekend, I have been thinking about him, George Bush and Herschel Krustofski.

By the way, why is it necessary to watch Saddam’s neck breaking? You know and I know that the cocksucker is dead. Why is it necessary for all of the sick fucks out there to watch it over and over on line? I don’t plan to watch it and I’m sure most of you highly educated and sophisticated readers are not going to either.

I don’t think Saddam Hussein was the most important person of the year per se, but I am going to name him as that, because no other single person has influenced the way the Untied States behaves so far this century as Mr. Hussein has. I am officially nicknaming the man Sideshow Saddam. A brief explanation for that is coming, but first, I think it is necessary to document why Saddam has been so influential on the way we do things as a country.

First of all, the greedy bastard tried to extend his influence by invading another country. First he tried to invade Iran with the backing of the United States. Then he invaded Kuwait. This time without our backing, so we went in and kicked his ass. Because Saddam invaded another country to impose his will, our own slack-jawed President figured he would follow Saddam’s lead, and he invaded another country too. Coincidently, old loathsome George decided that country would be Iraq.

Saddam suspended due process in Iraq and spied on his people and locked them up without trials and threw away the key. Because Saddam did it, dumb-ass Dubya decided he would do the same thing.

Saddam turned Abu Ghraib into his personal political prison and mistreated the inmates there. Well, guess who else figured he’d better follow suit? I’ll let all of you fill in the blank.

Saddam decided he was going to use torture against his enemies and the enemies of the state. Because of the need that our President has to be as much like Saddam as he can, now we have evidence that this country is doing it, too.

But so much for running down that lower life form that occupies 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, I’m sure the question running through everyone’s mind right now is, “Why Sideshow Saddam?”

Perhaps you remember that Herschel Krustofski, under his stage name, Krusty the Clown, loaded his sidekick, Sideshow Bob into a cannon. He then allowed some child from the audience to ignite the device and blow Sideshow Bob to kingdom come.

“Don’t blame me,” said Krusty. “I didn’t do it.”

I thought of that line on Friday night when they took Sideshow Saddam to the gallows. Our own somewhat-less-than-perfect President came on television and said the Iraqi people had finally brought their ex-leader to justice.

Yeah, right! It looked a lot like traditional Iraqi justice to me, with a somewhat Western flair.

So where do I get off comparing the President of the United States to a cartoon clown?

Well, if you follow The Simpsons and Krusty the Clown, you are aware that Herschel’s father, much like that of the current President, was somewhat of an authority figure (a Rabbi) and that both had substance abuse problems and tipped the bottle a bit. You may recall they both have a problem with correct decision-making. While Krusty merely blew his sidekick out of a cannon, old loathsome George handed Sideshow Saddam over to the Iraqi posse, which strung up the old dictator.

While hangin’ may have been too good for him, I wonder what it really accomplished? I wonder if the world will be a better place, or if Sideshow Saddam merely passed along his evil to the one we call Dubya.

If your New Year’s Eve celebration consists of sitting in front of your computer and watching Sideshow Saddam drop over and over, then you are a sick fuck.

For all the rest of you:

HAPPY NEW YEAR

I hope you all have a great 2007, or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

more reason for christmas hope

2006-12-23T07:45:00.000-08:00

You may recall that a couple of weeks ago your buddy Dick wrote an open letter to Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the “President” of Iran, responding to the open letter he wrote to the American people. You also may remember that the Iranian leader criticized our President and his mistakes in the Middle East. While both George and Mahmoud share only one positive quality—that is the ability to jack off with either hand—neither one of them, nor that quality, is worth as much as a pile of chicken excrement to the voting public. Unfortunately, Mahmoud’s comments could only best be defined as the pot calling the kettle black.

The net positive that I have seen is that Iran held elections this week and the opposition parties won a majority of the seats that were contested. It reminded me of another election last month here in the United States. In both cases neither of the presidents were actually running, but the voters informed them, by means of the ballot box, that the presidents were not doing the will of the people. Or, perhaps, the voters in both cases were simply stating that being able to jack off with both hands wasn’t a sufficient skill.

In the case of Iran, we have known for a time that the people were voting by means of blaring western rap music through the streets of Tehran that freedom is freedom, and that people are going to gravitate toward control of their own lives. People are always going to have confidence in themselves and their own abilities and will not have someone else’s will imposed upon them. I think the people of Iran—and the people of the United States a month earlier—were saying they didn’t care which hand their leader jacked off with, just as long as he cleaned up afterward. The voters in both places were telling their leaders to go to their own respective jack yard and back off.

Will either of these two elections really make a difference? Probably not that much. But it is a start. It renews ones faith in the advancement of Western civilization. It gives one hope that one day the people of Iran will vote their jack-off out of office, and one day—when our jack-off is gone, we’ll replace him with someone better.

Fuckin-A right.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

regrets and things i wish i hadn't said

2006-12-14T19:45:00.000-08:00

This is the time of year to look back on where we’ve been and what we’ve done this year, and what we’re going to do and where we’re going to go next year.

For your old buddy Dick, however, this is the time of year I look back at my entire life—especially my recent life, or at least my life over the past decade—and think about what I’ve done. And how I’ve acted and the things I said. Tonight, and for most of the last few years, something I said once keeps coming back to me and I wish I had a chance to take it back.

Here is the story.

I had a boss one time who second-guessed everything I did. Whether it was an important business decision or something trivial, he always had some kind of negative comment about it and he always bragged how he could have done it better. Here is an example. I ordered some material from Europe the day of July 3. The material took about six months to engineer, manufacture and assemble and took about a month to move across the Atlantic in a cargo container. Well, when the shipment showed up in February, there was an ice storm and the container couldn’t deliver because of the bad weather. He told me if I would have ordered it a day earlier, it would have been there before the storm. He contended that had he been responsible for placing the order, he would have made sure it was done on July 2.

Once, on a Tuesday morning, the guy who ran the football pool handed a wad of bills to one of the engineers who was in the break room. The engineer shoved the bills in his pocket while the football pool guy handed me a ten-dollar bill.

“Tough luck, Clinch,” said the engineer.

“What’s the deal?” asked my boss.

“We both picked every game right this week,” I said. “It came down to the tie-breaker on Monday Night Football. It was total points scored in the game. They were two good defensive teams, and neither had solid offenses, so I went low. There were defensive backs intercepting passes all night long and dancing in the end zones after running them back all the way. Big score. I lost.”

“Dammit, Clinch,” said my boss. “You should have known those defenses would be scoring a lot.”

One day my boss was on my ass big time about something that required a three-month lead-time and it was going to be a day late. He told me I should have ordered it a day sooner.

I had finally had it. I exploded. I yelled the following at my boss.

“If I wanted to listen to some fat cocksucker tell me I was wrong, I know a rather heavy nigger whore in Kansas City, Kansas, who likes to point out my shortcomings when I go to visit her. I’d go listen to her instead of you.”

Not a week goes by that I don’t think about that day and wish I could take back what I said. More than anything in the world, I wish I would have said “black whore.”

I know we all have regrets and things we wish we could take back, and that is mine.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

a christmas tale of hope

2006-12-09T10:48:00.000-08:00

Christmas time always makes me think of happy stories and I have this feeling that times are going to get better. Maybe it is the anticipation of the start of a new year on the horizon and it comes to mind that no matter how bad we fucked up, we have a chance to start with a clean slate. Maybe it is just the spirit of giving—you know, peace on earth; good will toward men—good will toward women, too. If you’ve heard me say it once, you’ve heard me say it a million times. I’m as straight as they come. I’m all for gay rights, but I don’t fuck no man in the ass and no man fucks me in the ass.

Anyway, tonight I am thinking of the joyous season almost exactly five years ago today. It was a bright, sunny afternoon and I was driving around out in the country with my ex-wife. It was a workday, but I was burning some vacation time, like I always do this time of year. My ex was living with Dick, Jr., and me because she had just been released from confinement by the State. She didn’t have anywhere else to live, so it was either with me or in a halfway house, and she convinced us that we should put her up until she was on her feet.

She had done some time for killing some dude. She always carried this 26-caliber gun about the size of the palm of my hand, in case of emergency. She had a 22-caliber pistol, but it was too big and she traded it to some country and western singer or some blues musician for that little 26-caliber. She said the ammunition that she used in the 26-caliber was some special bullet that would break up after it penetrated bone, so it would do a lot of damage. I guess she was right, because it killed that dude deader than anybody would care to be.

The story she told me was that the guy was stalking her. The story she told the court was that he had tried to sexually assault her. The state didn’t completely believe her story, so they did a deal where she did some time, but not as much as she would have if a jury told her to do time.

I think the truth was that she and the guy were acting as buyer and seller and the commodity over which they were negotiating their transaction didn’t meet her expected quality standards. The random sampling of the material which she had removed for testing purposes failed to live up to the agreed to minimum requirements. I believe the volume or weight of the purchase was also less than what had been agreed to. She, being the harmless buyer of limited liability in the eyes of the law (or, at least, common law), felt that the product offered by the seller was not of the size and quality specified by their purchase contract. Her demand of the seller was that some of the legal tender exchanged for the merchandise be returned to her in compensation for the lack of volume and the less-than-premium grade of material. She, unfortunately, had made the mistake of giving the seller the money in advance of the sale. The seller, unfortunately, had used the proceeds to purchase said material and had used his profits for a six pack of malt liquor, to pay part of a gambling debt and to pay a white whore to perform fellatio on him. He may have also kept a portion of the material for himself, or may have given that portion to his landlord as payment of rent. In either case, the brother was unable to produce the money to his buyer to make up for the difference, so the buyer removed the small pistol and put a 26-caliber hole in his head.

I can’t vouch for this being true—like being able to testify in court—but these are the facts to the best of my knowledge.

Anyway, lets fast forward, if we may, to about a year later, and she had been released from jail and was spending the Christmas season with yours truly. As I mentioned, it was a sunny afternoon, and we were out on a journey. In a conversation with her, I mentioned that I would someday like to retire to some lakefront property and she remembered where there was a very nice secluded lake, just miles from my house. We chose to take that afternoon to go looking for it.

She told me she knew exactly where it was, so I followed her directions. Unlike the three wise men from the East who went in search of the Christ child a couple thousand or so years before, we had no star of Bethlehem to guide us. Plus that, as I mentioned a couple times, it was during the afternoon, so there were no stars visible. We had only the navigational directions of a woman who was somewhat less than wise, and, of course, a man behind the wheel who was not about to ask anyone for directions. In my defense, however, I don’t believe we actually saw a soul after we left the main road—just a few cows and horses.

We eventually gave up our search as the afternoon sun was beginning to disappear on the horizon, but I remember the last few rays of sunlight—last light on one of the shortest days of the year—struck a small cedar tree on the top of a hill. The valleys all around were fading into twilight, but the sun illuminated the lone cedar, in a field devoid of other trees. There were the small blue balls—a quarter-inch in diameter—that cedars have in the fall and it looked as if someone had decorated it for Christmas. The normally pale spheres—or seeds, or whatever those things are—shone bright and colorful in the light that would soon fade. Daylight on that late December day would disappear forever. The sunlight the next day would be different and nothing would be exactly the same. We gave up our search and went to some country diner where we had dinner. I remember she tried to bum a few dollars off of me for smokes.

You’re probably asking, what is the point.

Does every fucking story I tell have to have a fucking point?

Okay. If you absolutely have to have one, the point is that this time of year there is always something to which to look forward. Whether it is peace on earth and good will toward men or whether it is a new beginning. Whether it is a new year and a clean slate to see how far into January we can get before we get dirt all over it. Whether it is the quest for lakefront property or whether it is just a search for something for which you are looking, but you’re not sure what it is. Sometimes when you are right in the middle of your search, you look up and there is Christmas.

No matter how badly you have pissed away your life or how hopeless you think it is, there is always Christmas and there is always the New Year and there is always the chance that you may turn it around.

Not much of a chance, I’ll grant you. But always a chance.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

letter to mahmoud

2006-11-29T16:14:00.000-08:00

Today, Iran’s President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad released a letter he wrote to the people of the United States. In the letter he pointed out that he, like us, is a monotheistic person, faithful in his devotion to God. He said that governments are there to help people. I couldn’t agree more. He criticized our involvement in Iraq. I couldn’t agree more. He said that we have an administration that doesn’t accept its accountability for its actions. Again, I can’t disagree. I thought it was necessary for me to respond, but I don’t know Mr. Ahmadinejad’s address so I can’t mail him a letter, or even a Christmas card, for that matter. Since I can’t mail him a letter, I thought the best way to respond was to send him an open letter in my weblog, much the same way he sent his letter to us. Here is my response.

Dear Mr. Ahmadinejad,

I read with interest your letter to the American public and I was more than a little surprised that there are so many things with which you agree with the majority of Americans, including yours truly. I also thought it was interesting that you felt enough familiarity with Americans that you felt the need to communicate with us. I have a suggestion, however.

Go fuck yourself.

In a democratic, progressive society, there needs to be an exchange of ideas, and you have the perfect right to express your ideas and be heard in the context of said democratic, progressive society. However, you have forfeited your right to participate in this exchange of ideas simply by your support and participation in your own thirteenth-century, totalitarian society.

Your suggestion that “blind support for the Zionists by the US Administration” is in some way responsible for the current state of world affairs is somewhat self-serving to your own pretzel logic.

You may suck my dick, you piece of shit.

You ask why the problems in Iraq have not been resolved, suggesting that in an open society, the people ought to be able to influence the government to change its policies. Well, it’s you that is the cause of the problem. The intelligent choice of our leaving Iraq is complicated by the fact that we have to make sure that pig fuckers such as yourself aren’t going to move in and move the place even further away from civilization.

Probably the only thing that gives me hope is that despite your government’s effort to outlaw civil rights for your citizens and to ban any influences of western civilization that your citizens continue to wear western clothes and listen to rap music. As much as I hate rap music, I can’t help but believe there is little in the world more beautiful than the sound of Snoop Dogg and Notorious BIG blaring through the streets of Tehran.

Yes, sir, your people don’t listen to you and your old ways, so don’t expect Americans to be listening either—or at least paying attention. As bad as our government is, if I have to choose between you and Bush, my choice is going to have a Dubya in his name. That was an insult, if you didn’t catch the subtlety. I might even pick Cheney over you—although I would have to think long and hard.

Anyway, please let me summarize. Go fuck yourself. Suck my dick, you piece of shit. Go fuck a pig, you pig fucker. And let us Americans handle the governing of America.

Have a joyous holiday season and give my regards to the family.

Yours truly (or my name isn’t),

Dick Clinch

the spirit of christmas

2006-11-22T22:18:00.000-08:00

Call me sentimental, if you will, but I like a good Christmas story as much as the next man. I was in the line at the supermarket tonight and I heard the next man in line tell a Christmas story to the man next to him. I can’t vouch for it being true, but let me relate it to you, dear reader, as it was overheard by me. Here is what the guy said.

It was a few days before Christmas last year and he was carrying out some routine shopping. He was just not in the Christmas spirit—just going through the motions. Where was the feeling of wanting to be with the ones he loved? Why was it necessary to go to the local super center and fight the crowds? Why didn’t they ever have the things on the top of his shopping list? Why was it necessary to go almost to the bottom of the list before he found some of the things he was looking for? Where had the Christmas feeling gone?

Anyway, he found some of the items on his list and pushed his way through the crowds up to the checkout line. The line stretched out and he had to wait quite a while before he got close to the checkout counter. There was only one more person in line in front of him, but there were a bunch of frustrated-looked people in the line behind him. He looked down and noticed the little kid in front of him had only one item—a necklace. This shouldn’t take long, he thought. I may get out of here before the store closes, after all. Unfortunately, there was a catch. The kid didn’t have enough money for the necklace.

“That’ll be $39.95 with tax,” said the clerk.

“But this is the one in the sale paper for $10.99,” said the boy, with some tinge of despair in his voice. He picked up the circular and pointed to a necklace pictured with the $10.99 price next to it.

“I’m sorry, son,” said the clerk. “That is not the one you have, here. This one is $39.95.”

The boy shot a panicked look at the man behind him in line.

“But this necklace will look so perfect around my mother’s neck when they put her in her casket,” he said.

The first thing the man thought about was that awful fucking “Christmas Shoes” song and he thought about kicking the shit out of the little cocksucker. However, when the boy looked up at him, with tears forming in his little eyes, the guy figured he better not resort to violence.

There was a problem, though. That was the Christmas of 2005. Who still carries cash around with them? Well, maybe some people still did, but the man didn’t have a dollar in his wallet. He was going to pay with plastic. He sure wasn’t going to give the little urchin his credit card, so he was kind of fucked.

The little boy figured out really quick that the man behind him in line was going to be no help, so he looked deeper into the line. The next person was an elderly lady, and granny was already going for her purse. Almost instinctively, though, the child knew he had to say the right thing to seal the deal, so he addressed the old lady.

“I want my mommy to look her best when she talks to God, tonight,” he said. “That necklace will look good on her and God will like it a lot.”

Shit, the old crone was counting out some bills and the guy behind her had his wallet open. The girl in line behind him looked to be in her early twenties and she didn’t look like she had much money to spare, but her purse was open and she was looking inside.

Apparently, the little boy wasn’t sure he was going to be able to accumulate enough capital to complete his transaction, so he went to the well one more time, just to cinch the deal.

“I’ve been going without lunch for two weeks now—saving my lunch money to buy this,” he said. “I’m sure hungry, but I can go without if it will make my mommy pretty and make God happy.”

That was enough to get the deal done. The people in line came up with enough money to pay for the necklace with a couple of extra dollars to spare. The little boy negotiated his purchase, picked up his change and his receipt and looked back at the people in line.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” he said. He was sincere. “My mommy will always have this, even when they put her in the ground and when she touches the face of God.”

At that point, the guy was starting to feel a bit guilty—okay, he was feeling a lot guilty. As he swiped his credit card to pay for his purchases, he saw the old lady pull the young boy aside. The man heard her tell the boy to get something to eat and she slipped him a twenty-dollar bill.

“God bless you,” the little boy said to the granny.

As the man left the counter from making his purchase, he made eye contact with granny and he could see in her expression that the little boy had put the spirit of Christmas in the old woman. After all, the spirit of Christmas is giving, and the miracle of the season is not in the presents one receives, it is in the good one can do and the good will one can express to his fellow man. In a convoluted sort of way, the little boy had given the elderly woman the greatest gift one could give. Sometimes the clarity of truth can come from the mouths of babes. Much as the gifts of the Magi given to the infant son of God were truly fine gifts, the gift given by the old woman to the boy and the boy to the old woman were the finest gifts of all.

At that moment, it became clear to the man what he needed to do. He quickly circumnavigated the terrain of the store with his glance and found the ATM machine by the door. He moved to it as quickly as he could and in the time it took to swipe his card, input his pin number and type in an amount, he had forty dollars in his hand, and he quickly located the little boy moving through the store and was immediately in pursuit. He had some distance to make up but he knew he could do it. The boy cut in line at the customer service counter, and the man stood back, waiting for him to complete his transaction. Was he going to use the extra twenty the old woman had given him to have his gift wrapped with the colorful paper and a fancy bow? The man moved slowly into earshot just so he could hear the young boy’s sweet, innocent voice.

“Not you, again?” intoned the porcine clerk behind the counter.

“Yeah,” said the little boy. “Here’s my receipt.”

“You can’t keep buying stuff, and then bringing it back here for exchange,” said the clerk. “I have to call my manager.”

“Suck it, cunt,” said the little boy. “I gotta receipt. I paid cash. I want a refund. Call your fuckin’ manager. I don’t give a fuck. You’ll just keep all your customers in line and pissed off at you if you call that prick up here.”

The clerk capitulated and counted out some bills and laid them on the counter. The boy picked them up and left the store. The man followed him out the door and followed him down the street. Perhaps, thought the man, the boy was going to use the money for a fine dress for his dying mother; perhaps for food for his family. The man was still ready and willing to contribute to the cause.

The boy reached a street corner where two whores were standing, trying to attract passing motorists. The boy walked up to the white whore—the taller of the two. The whore had a massive rack and she stood a good foot taller than the boy.

“What do you want, little man?” asked the whore.

“I want you to pull off your shirt and flop out them two big motherfuckers and I want you and me to play mommy and little baby for a while, and then I want you to suck me dry.”

“You talk big for such a little man.”

“Don’t fuck with me whore. I’m big where it counts.”

“Come back when you grow up, son.”

“There’s enough down there to choke you, whore.”

“Show me da money, son.”

The boy displayed his roll, pulled off two twenties and rubbed them together.

“Will this get me up close and personal with those two big things hangin’ off your chest and some quality time in your mouth?”

The whore took the twenties, put them down inside her pants and motioned to an alley behind a liquor store on the corner.

“Step into my office, son,” she said. “This is where the little boys go in and come back out men.”

The man watched the little boy and the whore disappear into the alley to the sound of Christmas carols being piped through a tinny steel outdoor speaker outside the liquor store.

That night, as he lay in bed, just before he drifted off to sleep, he thought about the little boy and the old woman and the gifts of the Magi. But the last thing he thought about was that hooker’s rack. It was pretty impressive.

Well, there is my story. I hope you were inspired by it as much as I was. This time of year makes us think about things in a different light.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

the four horsemen

2006-11-10T16:54:00.000-08:00

Another election day had passed and I’m reasonably satisfied with the results, but it is kind of like that national championship game last century when Carolina and Michigan were playing and it looked like it was going to come down to one of the better championship games when Chris Webber called a timeout he didn’t have. I was happy with the result, because I won the office basketball pool. My closest competitors all had the Wolverines to win it all, but forgot to take Carolina to the final four.

My first reaction to the election is that Bush didn’t try hard enough to help the Republicans in congress. It was like he turned his back on them like he did America in 2001. I wonder if he’s drinking or doping again.

Why didn’t he get Osama on Al Jazeera giving us a speech telling us that all of us Americans were doing the right thing wanting to get out of Iraq? All bin Laden would have had to say was that the Republicans in congress were rat bastards and it would have insured they would have kept control of the legislative branch.

Why did Bush parade Chaney out the week before the election saying that we were going to stay the course in Iraq? Why did Bush come out and say, a week before the election, that Chaney and Rummy were staying until the end of his administration?

Why did Bush give a speech three weeks before the election saying that the opposition party was the party of cut and run because they wanted to end the Iraq conflict? Basically he was calling the majority of the American public the public of cut and run. I wonder if Bush just got stupid on us, or if he wanted to lose congress.

Actually, I think it is both. He and the congress have looted the treasury and destroyed the country and it is going to take so long to get back to dead even again. I guess he figured he had done all the damage he cared to, so he’ll turn it over to the other party so they will have to make the tough decisions to fix it.

Many of you are probably saying that old Richard is sounding like a conspiracy theorist. I can only respond to that in one way.

Suck my dick!

And don’t ever call me a conspiracy theorist again.

I just have a bad feeling that Karl Rove feels like he hasn’t fucked us all in the ass as much as he could and he is just trying to get in a few final, unlubricated strokes before he goes to hell.

Rove, Bush, Cheney and bin Laden will all be in hell sooner or later and I guess they all figure we need to experience hell, too.

Yeah, the four horsemen of the apocalypse just have to do it to us one more time.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

donkey dick

2006-10-03T19:15:00.000-07:00

Call me Donkey.

The little woman does.

I’m not going to tell you that I am the most well endowed gentleman you’ll ever meet. Let’s just say I get the job done, if you know what I mean.

While being known as Donkey Dick might be a burden to some, I wear the moniker as a badge of honor.

Have you ever heard anyone speculate on Bush and the hang of the Presidential Johnson? Me neither.

Has the size of Mr. Bin Laden’s undercarriage come up in your casual conversation? I didn’t think so.

The rhetorical question would be, why is it so important? The straight answer is that it is not. A brother can only lay so much pipe, but it makes a good conversation piece.

I used to work at a company that had a large water tank to test pumping equipment. One day a shop supervisor and I were standing by the tank and he said, “That water is cold.”

I responded, “Yes, and it’s deep, too.”

And, I was right, because I looked inside of the tank once when it was empty and it was a long way down. But, he didn’t have to know that.

Yeah. If you want to, you can call me Donkey Dick, too. Just don’t call me late for dinner.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

a telephone message from the other side of reality

2006-07-02T19:05:00.000-07:00

I need to veer slightly off the path of my job search today to explain something that happened this morning. Despite being on the do not call list, we received an automated caller asking whether we had received on latest telephone directory. My second favorite thing is receiving a phone call from some automated whore, and not being able to explain to the whore why she is a whore. My favorite thing, of course, is pouring lighter fluid on my genitals and setting them afire.

Anyway, the bitch gave me three choices:

whether I had received my new phone directory
whether I had not received my new phone directory
whether I had somehow not received the valuable coupons in the package with the directory

I listened to the message several times, because I needed a fourth choice, which was unavailable. That fourth choice was, of course, “please dial four if you wish to refer to me as a cunt and that you are outraged that you received this call despite being on the do not call list.”

I couldn’t press the correct button this morning and so I thought tonight I would express my opinion about the automated cunt that called. Sometimes it’s just good to get these things off one’s chest lest one be tempted to suggest some medieval torture remedy for the person who came up with the idea for these automated calls, and the person who authorized their use.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

a big-money job

2006-06-30T16:17:00.000-07:00

Your main man Dick is in the process of being downsized. An upshot of this, is that, as I move toward a nirvanic state of unemployment, I am taking steps to find employment elsewhere. I thought it would be good to touch on the theme of my job hunt and to help other job hunters out there to ease into their next career with some helpful advice from the Dickster.

First of all, I checked the online employment ads today on a website that boasts of having 1.3 million jobs available. Not to blaspheme the website—they are great—but some of their jobs are lacking. Here is one I came across today.

A four-year degree is required. No problem, I have that.

Four years of experience in the field is needed. No problem there, either.

Then there are about ten other job requirements, some very sophisticated. However, none of them are a problem for me. I meet them all or exceed them.

Then, the kicker. The job pays $15 per hour. That is slightly over $30,000 per year. That is obscene. This is George Bush’s America, all right.

If you listen closely, you can almost hear the sound of George Bush’s urine splashing on to the American flag. Thank God no one has been able to transfer smell across the Internet, even with broadband, or the unpleasant aroma of the Commander-in-Chief’s waste product would permeate your computer room.

I thought it was interesting this week that the Senate tried to pass an amendment against flag burning. While burning the flag is a recognized and legal form of protest—at least for the time being—old glory is being stained by the constant yellow Republican stream. And no one seems to care.

It is a Goddamned shame—or a fucking shame, if you will.

And I mean that.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

global warming is our friend

2006-05-19T18:53:00.000-07:00

A little girl blows the white seed head of a mature dandelion and the fluff is dispersed in the breeze. We’ve all done it, but when a cute little girl does it, we all feel sort of warm and fuzzy. We’ll all be seeing it on television soon, and when we do, we’ll feel good about ourselves and we’ll listen to the message coming from our television and believe. Yes, we’ll believe when they tell us that carbon dioxide is good. And, they are right. It is. Life couldn’t exist without it.

When you see and hear this commercial, keep in mind that carbon dioxide is very good, when taken in moderation. Whisky is good, too—in moderation. Many things are good, but when we overindulge, or we have too much, they can cause us problems. Water is good, but if you are under enough water too long, it can be harmful. A mild summer breeze is good, but when it blows your house away, it can be considered a negative. A warm ocean in summer is a thing of beauty, but if it gets too warm, it can fuel storms that will wipe you out.

It is an odd coincidence that on the day when the official death toll from Katrina was increased to 1577, some splinter group that is interested in convincing us what a good friend carbon dioxide and global warming are announced their advertising campaign to change our minds about global warming.

Many of you are probably wondering where old Dick Clinch has been and I’m sure many of you are thinking I’ve come back as a kinder, gentler Dick.

Well, you can throw that bullshit out the window, because here I come and it's just the same old me.

First of all, you can bet that anyone who would use the image of an innocent little girl blowing a dandelion probably has some aspirations of having you blow them, or fuck you in the ass. But, don’t worry. I’m here to protect your oral and anal cavities from unwanted violation.

Whenever you see advertisements that are trying to persuade you that global warming is a good thing you can assume they are not necessarily acting in your best interests.

What’s next? Some advertising campaign to convince us that international terrorism is a good thing? Perhaps a little girl blows the fuzz off a dandelion with the burning World Trade Center towers in the background.

“Some people think that fire from above is a bad thing, but it is what Allah wants,” a voice intones. “Plus that, think of all the snotty, high income people in those buildings that won’t be competing for your job.”

How about a campaign to promote child prostitution? Assume, for the sake of argument, the same little girl and the same dandelion.

“Think of all the poor little girls and boys who wouldn’t have companionship, or know where their next meal is coming from, without this commerce,” the voice would say.

Or kiddie porn.

“Sodomy is the magic word that bridges the generation gap and brings adults and children together,” says the faceless voice.

Or, maybe cigarettes.

“Take a puff. It’s springtime.”

Oh, wait. That one has been done already.

Let’s face it, there will always be those who will sell their soul for a few pieces of silver and try to convince the rest of us that black is white; that good is bad and global warming is all sweetness and light.

Perhaps, if there is justice, those who prosper by this mindfuck will use their earnings to finance that dream vacation to Cozumel, when the big blow makes an unexpected southerly turn, and they get to be up close and personal with global warming.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

locked and loaded

2006-02-21T18:12:00.000-08:00

Dick Clinch is not one who is afraid to say that he might have been wrong, so I’m going to say it. I may have been wrong.

In my zeal to bring to light that the Vice-President of the United States may have had too much to drink and while he was drinking, pumped a friend full of bird shot, I may have given the great sport of poker a bad name. Many of you read my hypothetical account of the incident and my suggestion that it could have happened during a poker game that went horribly wrong. Now, word is spreading around the globe like wildfire that the game of poker has gotten another good man shot and hospitalized.

“Yet more poker-related violence,” is the mantra we are beginning to hear.

Please, my good friends, let’s nip this in the bud. Please disregard the setting of my previous accounting of this story as being situated around Mr. Hoyle’s glorious game. Instead, let’s take this thing back out to the back forty.

The point I wanted to emphasize was that the Vice-President may have had something in addition to the beer at lunch and that the event was not immediately reported so any alcohol would have had time to pass through the Veep’s system. By not reporting the incident to the press, any drinking the Veep may have done was long forgotten. Anyway, here is the way it may have gone down.

Mr. Cheney unscrewed the cap from the bottle in his hip pocket and took a long, refreshing taste. He looked up at the late-afternoon Texas sky and felt the warm breeze wash over his face, renewing his spirit, much like the bourbon in the bottle had renewed his tongue. He put the bottle to his lips again and swallowed hard.

“Maybe you should take it easy on the booze,” suggested one of his hunting comrades.

“I’m the motherfucking Vice-President of the motherfucking United States, motherfucker,” intoned Mr. Cheney, “And I know when I’ve had enough to drink, and motherfucker, I haven’t had nearly enough.”

He fired a random blast into the air and shouted, “Yee Hah! Now, point me in the direction of those motherfucking birds.”

Cheney closes up his bottle, puts it in his hip pocket and at that exact moment the dogs scare up a covey. The Veep gets off a quick shot and it’s a lucky shot, too, because one of those little bitty quail sort of disintegrates in mid air and the dog hunts down its mangled corpse and brings it back to the Vice-President. The Veep gets down on one knee and looks at the decimated bird on the ground. As his comrades gather round, he looks up like Michael Parks in Kill Bill and says, “Little cocksucker’s still breathin’.”

“Really?” Asked one of his party.

“No, not really. You dumb fuck, I blew this little cocksucker to bits.”

The group continued on their hunt until the dogs scared up another covey. This time the lawyer got off a clean shot and sent one of the quail to its reward. While he and his dog were fetching the feckless fowl, the feculent Veep went again to the well in his hip pocket and drank long and deep from its soothing liquid.

A young secret service agent close by spoke up at that time.

“Mr. Vice-President,” he suggested, “Perhaps you should finish that bottle after the hunt.”

“Oh I should, should I? Perhaps when you’re in my position, you can make that call. But let me remind you, young man, I’m the motherfucking Vice-President of the motherfucking United States of America and I know when I’ve fucking had enough, motherfucker.”

He shouted the last line and it scared a covey of quail, and the Veep immediately reacted to the sound of a dozen flapping wings, turning and firing almost instinctively. Even through the haze of bourbon he saw his friend fall and he knew he had screwed up bad this time. While the secret service and Cheney’s medical team ran to the spot where the lawyer had fallen, the Vice-President fell to his knees, removed the bottle from his hip pocket and threw it across the field. He raised his teary eyes to the heavens and asked for help. God looked down upon him.

“Go fuck yourself,” said God.

The young secret service agent recovered the bottle and brought it back to the agent in charge.

“What do I do with this? “He asked.

“I don’t give a fuck,” said the agent in charge. “As long as it is never seen by a human being again.”

“What do we do after I get rid of the bottle?”

“We get medical care for the mouthpiece. We put on the biggest fucking pot of coffee you ever saw in your life. We get the Veep out of Day-Glo orange and into butt naked, get him in the shower and then fill him full of coffee. That is, after we get him dried off and some clothes on his bare-naked ass. Then, we act like nothing happened for eighteen hours, or until he can pass a Breathalyzer.”

“Yeah, but if we wait eighteen hours to tell everyone what happened the press’ll have a field day.”

“If we don’t wait eighteen hours, and someone sees this slobbering drunk, ain’t no amount of spinning that’ll save his ass.”

So, there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. That story will have to do until I can make up a better one. In the meantime, lets have a drink to our health.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

the adventures of "shotgun" dick cheney

2006-02-12T18:02:00.000-08:00

As if it were not bad enough that “Shotgun” Dick Cheney was running around telling the Democrats in Congress to go fuck themselves, now we hear the old buzzard is pumping some bird shot into one of his “buddies.”

More crazy exploits of “Shotgun” Dick “The Assassin” Cheney

They say it was a hunting accident late yesterday afternoon, but I have my own suspicions. I’m willing to bet that the Vice-President was engaged in some late-night card playing and the guy on the other side of the table, who just happens to be a trial lawyer—and you know how much the Bush administration hates trial lawyers—hit one too many good hands. And you know the Bush administration is going to be even more pissed off at trial lawyers when Alan Shore takes my case that I told you about this morning. The barrister probably looked down and saw the pocket bullets (no pun intended) and figured he’d play them slow and try to sucker in the old fart. He knew the Vice-President was a hard-assed old motherfucker and the cards had been going against him all night and in favor of the lawyer. He also knew the old geezer was good for the dough and he was way ahead of Cheney unless the veep caught a pocket pair that tripped on the flop. The flop comes down a rainbow with one spade—the most beautiful card in the deck—which gives the lawyer a set of aces.

The lawyer knows he’s way ahead, now, but he checks to see if he can sucker in the ill-tempered old asshole. Sure enough, Cheney either hit something, or he’s on a draw, or –more likely of all—he is on a stone-cold bluff. Either way the veep decides to push it and the lawyer check-raises him. That pisses off the old fart even more because he knows his present employer is bad assed enough to lay waste to an entire country in the Middle East. He knows his previous employer is bad assed enough to make a fortune trying to put it back together. He knows that every time his present employer knocks something else down, his former employer is going to rebuild it, so there is a never-ending river of cash flowing his way. And here is this smart-assed lawyer going over the top of him, calling his bluff or acting like he has the best of it. So Cheney pushes it all in and gets the immediate call. One of the rags on the flop pairs on the turn, so the lawyer has the boat and the Vice-President misses his hand and after another rag on the river, the lawyer drags all the chips into his stack. The old geezer could live with that, except the lawyer adds a quick comment.

“Just not your night, Shotgun,” he says.

Now, the Vice-President has been nipping a little all evening out of the bottle he keeps in his hip pocket. Hell, if he wouldn’t have gotten a snoot full, he would never have pushed that last hand. So Cheney responds the only way he knows how.

“Go fuck yourself you fucking ambulance chaser,” he shouts.

The lawyer is offended by that and starts to react, but seeing the secret service all over the room, he sits back in his chair and allows the anger to subside. But his ego won’t allow him to let it go completely, so he lifts up his stack of $5000s about a quarter of an inch and lets them all click one-by-one back onto the table.

As far as the old prune is concerned, that just crossed the line and the Vice-President goes for his shotgun and gets off one shell in the general direction of the lawyer before the secret service wrestles the shotgun out of his hand.

I hope the Vice-President will learn the error of his ways. If you’re going to be drinking, leave the shotgun in the gun safe. I know when I am going out for the evening and I know I will not be in any condition to drive home, I leave the Glock 17C in the safe. I’m told that even Osama Bin Laden will put away his Kalashnikov if he expects to end up the night in a ditch or whorehouse, stinking drunk. Ladies and gentlemen, drinking and shooting don’t mix. My advice is to leave your firearms at home if you are going to get snockered.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

gimme back my money

2006-02-12T05:21:00.000-08:00

I need a lawyer. I need one that has the cojones of Alan Shore on Boston Legal. Okay, it doesn’t have to be a man, but I have found that if you need to kick the shit out of somebody, then a man is usually your best bet. If I can find the right woman, I would take her in a heartbeat. This would be a plum case for any lawyer and maybe they’ll beat a path to my door. There is just one catch: I can’t afford to pay them what it is going to cost. There, that’ll get rid of the ambulance chasers. The upside of this case for any lawyer is that you’ll be famous until the end of time. Maybe I should start at the beginning.

Dick Clinch owes a shitload of money.

“You cocksucker!” many of you are asking, “What the fuck did you do with all your money? You are supposed to be so tight with a buck and such a careful investor. ‘Always pay your bills on time; pay off your credit cards,’ you tell us. You always tell us not to mortgage ourselves to the hilt, and here you are owing money.”

To which I answer, that is a good point. Let me explain, and stop calling me a cocksucker.

Fuck no, I didn’t run up a bunch of bills! Give me a fucking break. I live within my means—meager as they are—but my problem is bigger than that and it’s your problem, too. The dickhead you elected president and the grafters you and your fellow countrymen elected to congress have taken it upon themselves to help themselves to our money. I guess they figure that “these people elected us; that means they want us to fuck them in the ass.” So they are taking our money and throwing it away on any- and everything that has a price tag on it.

Since Bush has been in office, the federal government has put over $27,000 worth of debt on its credit card for every man, woman and child. It’s estimated that every child born today has a debt of $156,000 in current deficit obligations and future entitlements—the moment he takes his first breath. I’m used to the government fucking with me, but their debt is going to have to be borne by our children. And when you start fucking with my kid, you’re “walking on my fighting side.”

It’s kind of like taking my ex-wife and setting her up on a big pile of money and telling her to be careful with it and manage it wisely. You come back in a little while and she’s sitting flat on the floor with this big fucking pile of expensive shit she doesn’t need piled up behind her. But let’s leave my ex out of this. I was just using that as an example of what can happen when you put irresponsible people in the position to spend your money. And brother (or sister), we’ve done it.

“Yeah,” you say, “But that’s the way it’s been since time began. The poor man and the average guy are always going to be expected to pull their pants down and bend over. It’s always been that way and it’s going to always be that way.”

Well, sir (or ma’am), I’m all for gay rights, but I don’t fuck no man in the ass and I don’t let no man fuck me in the ass. And, it’s time for this ass-fucking to stop. It’s time for us to form a “class,” engage a lawyer and get congress and the president to pay back the money they stole from us. That’s why we need somebody like Alan Shore. I need somebody to get me in touch with him—get him in touch with me. I’d like to see him get Bush on the stand.

“Mr. President,” he would ask, “Where did all that money go?”

“Mr. Shore, we had to spend it on a lot of important projects. You ever try to burn a country the size of Iraq to the ground? Takes money.”

Yes, sir. Yes, ma’am. We put these incompetents in office. We have the moral responsibility to get our kids’ money back. How do you do that? You sue the motherfuckers.

Are you with me, or are you against me?

Yeah, I was pretty sure you were. It’s time to kick some ass.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

beware of homophobes bearing hatchets

2006-02-03T18:26:00.000-08:00

I read today where some kid went into a Massachusetts gay bar and hacked up a couple of queers with a hatchet and shot a couple of others, or vice versa. The story is kind of confusing. The story is not confusing in that the bar had pink walls. The story goes on to explain there is outrage about this hate crime and that the region is stunned that this happened. I guess the consensus of opinion is, “How can this happen, here?”

Perhaps I can clear up some of the confusion and explain why this young man might feel it was his destiny to carry out this act. It might help some of you understand his motivation.

First of all, we have enjoyed, for the last five years, the leadership of a homophobic President. He has been returned to office despite failing to keep his guard up and allowing the country to be attacked on its own soil. He has been returned to office despite failing in his duties as CEO and allowing the economy to go straight to hell. He has been returned to office despite his pension for pissing away our budget surplus and looting the treasury. He has been returned to office after bankrupting the social security fund into which all of us have paid huge percentages of our income. He has been returned to office primarily on “moral” issues, and primarily because the electorate that returned him to this position knows he hates queers. That electorate, of course, hates queers, too.

That President and his electorate hate queers so much that they are willing to amend our constitution to exclude queers and to attach a state religion to our country, despite the fact that the framers of the constitution specifically wrote it to avoid that happening.

Aren’t you proud that I managed to get the first four paragraphs on paper (or virtual paper, as it were) without saying, “fuck” once? I’m sorry, but that is as far as I can go without telling it like it is. So let’s recap.

The motherfucker in the oval office is a homophobe. The cocksuckers that voted for him are homophobes. They are willing to throw away 230 years of American history and tradition just because they want to lynch a queer or a few hundred thousand.

Anyway, some cocksucker comes along with a hatchet and a gun and he starts hacking up queers and shooting them and everybody gets all excited about it and saying, “This is America. How can that happen here?”

What the fuck is so difficult to understand. If, as a nation, we hate queers so fucking bad that we are willing to change the most sacred document in the history of civilization to take away the rights of gays, then where is the confusion? If some dumb-fuck, impressionable kid hears all the bullshit about how the gays have more rights than the rest of us and thinks he needs to take matters into his own hands, how can society be surprised?

We only have ourselves to blame for this whole thing. Okay, maybe someone should take the kid and break a Louisville Slugger over his head—you know, a 33-ounce, 32- inch—and tell him to cut out this crazy shit and leave his hatchet at home. But as a society, we caused it. By our being afraid of anything different—by our universal fear that if we are around gays we will realize they are all correct and we’ll all turn gay, too—so we all have to act like we can’t coexist or we’ll turn queer.

I can’t help but think that this whole thing goes back to Leviticus, chapter 18, verse 22, which says, “Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is an abomination.” Verse 23 goes on to say, “Neither shalt thou lie with any beast to defile thyself therewith…”

I contend that most of the guys who voted for Bush might have had a woman once or twice, but Goddamn it, you know every one of them has fucked a pig or a sheep on numerous occasions.

The good news is that, if there is a God, every one of the Christian right will burn in hell for eternity. The bad news is that most of them are still going to be alive tomorrow. And, you never know when one of them is going to zone out and start hacking on some queer with an axe.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

a saddam in the hand is worth about the same as a bush

2006-01-29T07:23:00.000-08:00

It’s my opinion that some men are born leaders and some are not. I can’t help but think that Saddam Hussein fits in the first category.

Now, if you have them impression that I am a fan of Mr. Hussein, please let me retort politely.

Fuck that bullshit. The cocksucker is about a valuable to this world as a steaming pile of horseshit. So get that the fuck out of your mind right now.

My point, however, is that, even as a prisoner, he is able to control his trial and exert his will in the courtroom. He is obviously a man who is still in charge. He has managed to turn this thing into a circus and he will continue to do that until he convinces a large number of people this trial is a sham. And, maybe it is. There is no doubt in my mind he will be convicted someday before Bush leaves office, and he will likely be executed.

The motherfucker is hard-core and he will be until the day he dies. I’m talking about Saddam, not Bush. Okay, maybe both of them. The truth is that Saddam will be able to make this look like a kangaroo court, and there will be people who will go to their graves believing that Saddam didn’t get a fair trial. They will be just as positive as all of those whom Saddam sent to their graves who were absolutely positive that Saddam was the devil himself.

Saddam is as much a leader as Bush is a dork. Bush could learn a lesson, but he won’t. Saddam will have followers long after he is gone. He will be considered a martyr. Bush would be forgotten soon enough, except he will be a necessary character in the Saddam Hussein legend. He will be the powerful king who persecuted Saddam.

Only time will tell how the Saddam Hussein legend plays out. The only sure thing is that we sanctified this worthless piece of crap. I’m talking about Saddam, not Bush. Oh, well, maybe both.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

a love note to osama

2006-01-21T10:01:00.000-08:00

I hadn’t had time to read or listen to Osama F. Bin Laden’s recent diatribe, so I was interested to find today that he had mentioned a book in his musings and that sales of the book had taken off, since. Apparently, Osama agrees with some of the points made in the book. Unfortunately, I have not read the book, so I can’t comment intelligently on Mr. Bin Laden’s critique.

Usually, when Osama tells us to do something, we do just the opposite. If he says Bush is a dipshit, then we all say Bush must not be a dipshit. If he says don’t vote for Bush, then we vote for Bush.

I guess that Osama’s speech was somewhat like a game of “Simon says,” in that if he doesn’t say, “Osama says,” then we can ignore what he says, but if he says “Osama says,” then the motherfucker is serious as a heart attack.

I guess the guy who wrote the book is happy that he got an “Osama says,” as the sales of his book are increasing. I’m just glad that the towel-head didn’t mention my blog or give it an “Osama says.”

I guess I shouldn’t say this, but here goes. This is my personal plea to Osama Bin Laden, so the rest of you can ignore it if, you wish. Here goes.

Osama,

I don’t care so much that you are out flapping your gums, because I can’t understand the language you speak. So, go yap your fucking head off. But here is my warning:

If you ever—and I mean ever—mention Dick Clinch’s Diary, or if you recommend that everyone read it, I’m going to find you and kick your ass. I’m fucking serious, here. I mean it. One fucking mention and I’m gonna open a can of kickass on you that you’re gonna remember for a long time. You got that, you worthless cocksucker? Well, good!

-Dick

There, that ought to do it. I don’t think you’re going to hear him mention me anytime soon. He should know that I’m not the kind of man to be messed with.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

an old fashioned preacher man

2006-01-17T18:41:00.000-08:00

I thought about Ordell Robbie today. Ordell was a character in the movie Jackie Brown, played by Samuel L. Jackson. He and his friend Louis, played by Robert DiNiro, were watching Chicks Who Love Guns, and Ordell was describing the weaponry. When the girl in the red, white and blue bikini began discharging the Tec-9, Ordell lamented the decline of our civilization.

“This gun is advertised as the most popular gun in American crime,” says Ordell. “Do you believe that shit? It actually says that in the little book that comes with it: the most popular gun in American crime. Like they’re actually proud of that shit!”

The reason I was thinking about Ordell was I was starting to sound like him.

I read that a pastor in Oregon is calling for a boycott of Microsoft, Hewlett-Packard, Boeing, Nike and some other large corporations. It turns out his beef is that they all have signed a letter supporting adding the two words “sexual orientation” to an anti-discrimination bill. Now I guess it’s his right to be pissed off. After all, the man is purportedly a Christian, and a member of the religious establishment. Because of that, I guess he figures that he has to carry on the Christian tradition of being backward and resisting any progressive thought. In following in the footsteps of those religious people before him who nailed Christ to a cross and slaughtered millions, it is his innate responsibility. However, this preying minister had to open his Goddamned mouth and the following came out.

"This is not a threat, this is a promise. Check out the past presidential election. We made the moral issue the number one issue," he was quoted as saying.

That was when I started thinking like Ordell Robbie.

Do you believe that shit? He cited the last presidential election like he was proud of what he did. The motherfucker acts like he is proud that he ignored the truth, just to put a man in office who hates niggers and queers. He was happy to help put a man in office who, like him, hates some of his fellow countrymen, even as the President he elected pisses on the American flag and wipes his ass on the constitution. He was happy to put a man in office who is going to spy on his own people, just on the off chance he might get the opportunity to lynch a queer.

He was happy to put a man in office who was so asleep at the wheel that his Arab buddies were able to sweep in and put a couple of planes into the eastern liberal establishment while he wasn’t looking.

Not only is this pastor proud of what he did, he is bragging about it. And, he’s ready to do it again. Do you believe that shit?

Ordell Robbie may have been a killer and a gunrunner, but at least he had the morality to be outraged and offended when he saw something that was really repugnant. And as Ordell said, “This is some real repugnant shit.”

And I can’t disagree.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

je ne sais quoi

2006-01-13T03:32:00.000-08:00

It’s hard to put your finger on, but most of you have to admit that Big Dick has a certain je ne sais quoi. Big Dick is like that ugly-assed mongrel dog that you know nobody is going to take home, but he looks up at you in that pathetic way dogs do and you tell him, “Forget it, you son of a bitch. That sad look ain’t gonna work.”

Then, that drop-dead gorgeous woman in the short dress made out of that clingy fabric that molds to the shape of her boobs and emphasizes her nipples comes along. You, know, the one with the long legs, the long blonde hair and the eyes that make you all goofy when she looks at you. She says, “I think he’s just darling.”

She touches him on the head and everyone agrees that he is just about the neatest dog there ever was. Then, when she leaves, and everyone is flaccid again, you look back at the dog and say, “Forget it. Ain’t gonna work.”

Let’s all use the expression je ne sais quoi in our daily conversations today—at least once. The people around you will think you are one smart, sophisticated motherfucker.

They’ll say, “Did you notice that (insert your name here) is one smart, sophisticated motherfucker?”

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

cleaning up

2006-01-07T11:54:00.000-08:00

It’s been a good week in the financial markets for those of us who are long.

Most of you are probably happier than a pig in shit to know that Big Dick is long, too. You’d better bet I am!

I would hesitate to say that I “cleaned up” this week, but it is nice to have a positive week. I would say with confidence that I am cleaning up this morning. However, the cleaning up I am doing today is discarding a bunch of junk—including stuff in my file cabinet that has been there for years. I’ve had a couple of reminders yesterday and today about what it was like when we were partying like it was 1999, back in 1999.

I used to keep stocks that I was trading in my portfolio at Quicken.com. As a matter of fact, I still do. I used to keep a detailed spreadsheet on my weekly profits and losses and I printed the portfolio page in Quicken every Friday night. I keep a spreadsheet today, but it contains my totals and I don’t keep track of the movements of individual stocks in my spreadsheet. Today, I am throwing away a pile of those old printouts of the portfolio in Quicken. I don’t have to worry about getting rid of the old spreadsheet. I lost a hard drive and lost the spreadsheet a few years ago. I know some of you are thinking that I should have backed up the file. Yeah, like I don’t know that? Where were you with your advice four years ago?

In 1999, I knew the Internet was the future and I traded Internet stocks. One of my pets was CMGI, an Internet incubator. CMGI acquired Internet startup companies for a song and then sold them off when they were worth tons of money. My printout on Friday, November 12, 1999, shows that CMGI was trading at $101.50. On Thursday, December 23, 1999, it was trading for $270.81. The markets must have been closed on Christmas Eve, as Christmas was on a Saturday.

Holy Fuck! Had I been holding a couple of yards of CMGI during that period, I would have been able to afford that yellow Ferrari. It goes without saying that when you’re driving a yellow Ferrari it can induce high-quality women to pop off their seatbelt, lean over the console, unzip your pants and improve your quality of life. Since I’m still driving the same car today I was then, I must have not been holding a half-million dollars worth of it. But I never would have held that long, anyway. My trading pattern back then was to take the first grand in profit off the table and put it into my pocket and let the other high-fliers take the risk of the rest of the ride.

Just as a brief aside, the NASDAQ closed on December 23, 1999, at 3969. The Dow closed at 11405 and the S&P at 1458. Shit! We still had another 25% to go on the ride to March 2000, when the markets hit their highs.

Holy Fuck! We still had three of the greatest months in the history of the stock market in front of us. That was when Dick Clinch was one liquid motherfucker, and getting more liquid every day.

The other part of the equation is that yesterday I received two large envelopes in the mail. They were telling me I could participate in class action suits to recover damages for money I had lost trading Commerce one (CMRC) and E-Piphany (EPNY). I can get one cent for each share of the former I owned and two cents for each share of the latter, less a 33% commission for the lawyers. Big fucking whoop! I used to trade these in odd lots of ten shares, because they traded in hundreds of dollars per share. I could net a dollar or two.

Fuck, that won’t even buy a blowjob in Thailand.

I remember 1999 and I remember the party, but I barely hung on to half the money I made—which is better than most people did—but it is still a bunch of shit. Maybe this time it will be different, but I’m not counting on it.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

the end

2005-12-29T14:02:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-26T19:43:00.000-08:00

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.