bush should resign today

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.