 Do you know why this stupid blog is as successful as it is (thus far – if I do say so myself)? It’s because at the root of it all, the American people, by and large, are a sarcastic and snarky bunch. We really are. I’m just another cog in the wheel of giving you a daily dose of sarcasm and snark.
And, at the bottom of the source of all that vitriolic cynicism is a horde of idiots, who provide us with an unending stream of things for which snark and sarcasm are the healthiest outlets. Otherwise, we’d be repeating the French Revolution (1789-1799). We’d wind up setting around a table eating crusty bread and wonderful cheese while washing it down with red wine. We’d have intellectual discussions about the propensity of latter-19th century French novelists to use footnotes in their fiction. Now, isn’t that an idyllic scenario? Oh, hell no! Give me the red wine (copious amounts, please) and the bread and cheese plate along with heavy doses of snark, sarcasm, and a fake news feed. I’m good! Long live Social Media, I say! Okay, so back in January The Trump signed one of his now infamous executive orders (EO). This particular EO was directed at what he referred to as criminal aliens. Of course, at the time, little asexual bipeds from the planet Playtex were the last thing on his mind. ICE – the immigration and customs enforcement thugs – in keeping with The Trump’s EO – earlier this week opened a brand new office: the Victims of Immigration Crime Engagement office. They refer to it as VOICE – aren’t those ICE thugs clever? The best part of VOICE is that it includes a hotline for victims of criminal aliens (HFVOCA – okay, maybe they aren’t so clever). Once the word got out about the hotline, the news spread across social media, even overtaking The Trump’s tweets about a sinister plot hatched in the White House to deflate his hemorrhoid pillows…thanks, Obama! It wasn’t long before the criminal alien hotline (800-rat-outyourannoyingneighbor) was overrun with calls from people reporting having been abducted by aliens or learning that their mother-in-law is actually an alien facesucker from the planet Xytphhhtis and could the U.S.G. (that’s Gubment to you and me) come take her away? See, that’s what I love about America! We take nothing too seriously. We find humor in just about anything and dearly love to subvert the Gubment in ways they (the Gubment) find less than amusing. Over the past 24 hours or so the calls have stepped up and are becoming increasingly descriptive. By hour 23, calls were coming in about abductions aboard criminal alien aircraft (alert the FBI, that’s kidnapping – where the hell is Efrem Zimbalist Jr. when you need him?) and said abductees being anally probed. “Okay, we should probably alert the FDA on this one…are colonoscopy procedures performed by criminal aliens moving U.S. citizens outside the territorial airspace of the United States authorized? Can we PLEASE get a determination on this?” Call in the lawyers dammit! I admit I’ve called the hotline myself and using my best Elvis voice informed them that I was on planet Ulyttestantzwkc along with Richard Nixon and we wanted “the boys at ICE” to know that there are no criminal aliens on Ulyttestantzwkc, so “leave us the f$#k alone…uh huh huh…thank you, thank you very much.” The number, if you’d like to call yourself is 855-48-VOICE – just don’t tell ‘em I sent you. That is all!  Happy Thursday, you blog-starved peoples! I’m happy to report that Cousin Fred has emerged from The Cab into the light again. And, I’m happy to report he emerges a changed man. He has given up (for now) trying to find some surreptitious manner by which to contact Gigi, the hairdressing hydrologist. He was elated after watching the press conference on the tax code overhaul from the White House yesterday.
Cousin Fred is always watching WH press conferences in the hopes that he’ll catch a glimpse of Gigi as she pastes whatever that is atop The Trump’s skull back into place. That he’s elated about the news of tax reform is because he hasn’t filed a tax return in twelve years. He refers to that as living his life as our founding fathers intended, free of a 70,000 page tax code. Having just written a largish check to IRS, I was having trouble sharing the joy. Still I wanted to know what the newly announced “we’re gonna fix this, you’ll see…we’re not lying this time” tax reform had to do with him. I pointed out there was nothing in yesterday’s announcement about abolishing the IRS. Even if they did abolish the agency, Cousin Fred is likely grandfathered in (there’s an entire generation of returns to be filed after all) and someone will come after him for his few measly bucks I pointed out. There wasn’t anything substantive in that announcement yesterday. Nada. I loved the part where the bald-headed guy (we share the same barber) said that “we” will reveal the income levels that will fit their new 10-25-35 tax structure when “it’s appropriate to do so.” Pssst…yesterday’s press conference would have been a most appropriate time to do so, you idiot. Seriously, why announce something big if you don’t have details? Ooooooooh, right, this is a move by The Trump to fluff up his 100 days of (few) achievements. Substance is nothing, schmooze is everything…remember that people! On, the other hand, with regard to Cousin Fred, I’m not sure over the past 12 years that he’s even had income. He just moves around, mooching off relatives until they chase him off with a shotgun. It’s his job, it’s what he does. Speaking of which (bad segue, I know), I’ve decided that I missed my life’s true calling. I should have been a research scientist. Seriously. How do I know I was cut out for research science, you ask? Okay, I’ll tell you since you asked…and remember, you asked! But, I’ll shape the telling into a question (I’m clever that way). Friends, how do you tell that it’s a slow news day? Yesterday obviously was. I mean sure you had the no-news news announcement from the WH about tax reforms (details, we need details you dolts), but that was it. Oh, there was news that North Korea’s army was carrying fake weapons and wearing non-designer sunglasses in a parade. Slow news days mean that news editors get to dig into the pile of crap (pardon my future pun) on their desks and publish some article so inane that even savvy media guys like me scratch their heads and say, “Huh?” I saw a piece go by on the Daily Mail website yesterday that some research scientists were paid to study mammal poop habits and they made astounding findings. Clinch your buttocks together for this one folks…it’s gonna be, well scientific. So, this bunch of research scientists (see, it even sounds cool saying that) descended upon the zoo in Atlanta (as in Georgia) with the specific purpose of studying the poop habits of mammals at the zoo. Of course, the other purpose was to burn through the grant money they had received. Among their findings…get this…all mammals, including humans (suppose people go to the zoo in Atlanta to relieve themselves on the sidewalks?) take an average of 12 seconds to do their daily doody. The researchers figure it’s a survival thing. The longer you’re engaged in that activity, the more likely it is that a predator will consume you – they follow the smell…yeesh. Of course, this doesn’t explain why my creepy Uncle Carl can stay in the bathroom for nearly an hour at a time. In an hour, you could sing the first two acts (movements) of La Traviata. They call their study…ready for this? They call it the “Hydrodynamics of Defecation.” Seriously, I can’t make up stuff like that! Obviously, you have to have some completely serious sounding title for your study to get the grant money. The team’s report will be published in the research science journal, Soft Matter – again I can’t possibly, in a million years, make that up! The head research scientist said, and I swear this is a quote, “…the physics of fecal discharge remain poorly understood…” No sh*t, Sherlock (nyuk nyuk). Let’s keep it that way. Cousin Fred will accompany me to the Twister Alley Film Festival kick-off reception tonight at the Josey Wales Center for Cultural Chaos. He’s anxious to meet up with some “Hollywood types” to see if we can get traction on a second season for our reality show, “Bigfoot: Naked and Untamed.” That is all!  Today, o’ readers of CCB, we’re going to have a history and geography lesson all rolled into one. And, we get to take on one of my favorite targets of the past…Sonic Drive-in. But, this time it’s corporate Sonic. Ready? Here we go.
So, first of all Sonic Corporate is headquartered in Oklahoma City. The very first Sonic Drive-in was in Oklahoma. In fact, depending on who you talk to, the very first Sonic Drive-in…technically…was here in Woodward. Yes, I can defend that statement, but won’t waste the brain cells to do it today. In fact, there are 247 Sonic Drive-in locations here in Oklahoma, out of 3,557 restaurants in 45 states. They’re big, no doubt about it. Now, here’s another fun fact for you. There are 38 Native American tribes located here in the great state of Oklahoma. The vast number of those tribes were forced here back in the day, literally uprooted from their homelands and marched here. So, it’s a bit astounding to find that Oklahoma-based Sonic Corporation would create a commercial featuring a character that I believe the Cheyenne-Arapaho tribe finds particularly despicable and murderous. Okay, if you’ve not seen it. Here is the link to the commercial, just in case Sonic Corp. has already pulled the thing from the air. Sonic is trying to sell some custard treat and I guess they couldn’t resist the pun of featuring General George A. Custard as the spokesman, played by one of the two idiots they use in their commercials. The actor of course is dressed as George A. Custer. When I was a kid, our Oklahoma History class taught us about the “Battle” of the Washita River (here in Oklahoma). It wasn’t until later that I realized that it wasn’t so much a battle as it was a massacre. Custer and the 7th Cav. rode into Black Kettle’s camp at dawn and indiscriminately killed old people, children, women…anyone who happened to be there, including Black Kettle. He was the Cheyenne leader who had made a name for himself as a peacemaker and truly wanted his people to live in peace with the whites. Now, you can say that I’m being overly sensitive about this. You may also point out that Custer got his at Little Bighorn. Honestly, Custer really pisses me off. He had an ego the size of the Great Plains and viewed himself as invincible. That’s an easy explanation for why he rode the 7th straight into an ambush at Little Bighorn. He chose to ignore the pleas of his scouts who were quick to point out that the U.S. Seventh Cavalry was outnumbered and outgunned. So, is it my place to question the wisdom of Sonic Corp pushing these ads out that feature a lunatic from the past seemingly bent on genocide? Probably not. After all this is just a stupid blog. But, on the other hand, it just doesn’t seem wise of a longstanding Oklahoma corporation to promote product with the walking and talking (or in this case custard lapping) image of a murderous Army officer 149 years after the fact. The thing is, Sonic, people have not forgotten. If you’re interested in reading more about the determined U.S. policy to eradicate the aboriginal populations, I can recommend a couple of books – “Son of the Morning Star: Custer and the Little Bighorn” by Evan Connell and, “Eyewitness to the Indian Wars, 1865-1890: Volume III Conquering the Southern Plains” by Peter Cozzens. That is all!  Friends, happy Monday! The tough part is over, you survived the weekend. It’s downhill from here until Friday when the vicious cycle begins anew!
At the end of this week, of course, we have the Twister Alley Film Festival coming to the Cosmic City. This is the third year for this event and a very big deal for the city, though most don’t realize it. I’m actually looking forward to being there and having the opportunity to meet Oklahoma native, Gray Frederickson, who produced two of my all-time favorite films, The Godfather and Apocalypse Now. Both of those films are towering American classics. If you’re within driving distance of Cosmic City, I encourage you to come and spend some time with us at the Film Festival. Ah, but, back to my weekend, the bulk of which was spent putting together Bertha, my new 400 pound off-set smoker grill. Those of you who know me well (2 or 3, I think), know of my fondness for spending 12-13 hours on a weekend praying over the top of a grill and/or smoker to cook a brisket that literally falls apart as you fork it. In my case, though it generally turns out like shoe leather. BUT, each time I do it I learn something new and vow to do better next time as I feed the brisket to The Compound Mutts…they can chew on one of my briskets for a month and still have leftovers. So there I was, trying to get the thing together. The Wife is off to Mexico on another of her Fabulous International Vacations. Cousin Fred was no help, he’s too busy trying to bounce phone calls and texts across four continents before they land at the White House in a desperate attempt to contact Gigi. I was actually able to leverage Bertha’s weight in assembling the damned thing, which came in a gazillion heavy pieces. I had read online comments by people saying that one person could assemble the thing though it was difficult to do. I was breezing through assembly, thinking “well, this isn’t too bad” and then…I got to the firebox. The firebox itself was easily 100 lbs. You have to be able to lift the firebox and get at least two bolts set to hold it onto the main chamber so you can easily add the remaining 8 bolts. Well, I finally got it done. I used a couple of my old (read as ancient) high school annuals to help prop it up – knew those would come in handy someday. Of course, my internal organs are currently down around my knees, but hernia notwithstanding, it’s done. So after wrapping that up I found myself with little to do. I wasn’t able to watch the Thunder game on Sunday because the WAR CRIMINAL HEATHEN BASTARDS at DISH TV are now holding the local ABC affiliate hostage. Third time in a year they’ve pulled this crap. I’m done with DISH. Our DISH agreement here at The Compound is up in August, I’m headed for the exits. So what do you do when you can’t watch TV and find yourself wondering if wearing a girdle would be sufficient to hold your guts up where they should be? Well, I don’t know about you, but I head to Walmart and read magazines. Seriously, they don’t mind. Besides, before I go, I load myself up with little yellow sticky notes upon which I write derisive notes to the unsuspecting people who actually buy the magazines and take them home to read. Won’t they be surprised?! I almost got caught recently because I remove the stupid “subscribe now” cards they stick in magazines and replace them with my sinister notes. Of course, that leaves me with pockets bulging from the cards which I then deposit inside the various cookware on display in the store. Nothing like pulling the lid from a crockpot only to find 100 subscription cards from People. But, I digress… Have you seen the latest issue of Time? It’s the 100 Most Influential People (100MIP to those of us who are hip) issue with Jeff Bezos on the cover. I riffled the issue, but alas, I didn’t make the cut this year. And, in the big scheme of things, maybe I don’t want to be listed among the most influential. Let’s take a look at who made this year’s cut shall we (attention: spoiler alert)? There’s Jared Kushner, whose contribution to fashion can’t be denied…where else would we have gotten permission to wear a flak jacket over an expensive Italian suit? Oh, and don’t forget to accessorize with high-dollar sunglasses as radical insurgents are plotting your destruction. Then there’s Ivanka Trump, who happens to be the only person in the WH that made nice with Angela Merkel. The Trump is reportedly sending her to Germany to collect a check for overdue NATO membership fees. Bet the check bounces. Julian Assange made the cut. Yeah, he’s influential…he’s taught all of us how to hide from authorities by taking sanctuary inside a foreign embassy to avoid charges of rape. Putz… Interestingly, The Trump and Vlad the Poot both made the list. Curiously Vlad the Poot was ahead of The Trump on the list. That will cause outrage and threats of a first strike on The Trump’s part. He hates finishing second. Oh, and the pudge-put with a really bad haircut, Kim Jong Uno made the list. Go figure. F*#k Oh Dear, Her Royal Highness Mary Queen of Fallin made the list. Really? She can’t even influence the morons in the Oklahoma State Legislature to pass a RESPONSIBLE state budget. What the hell has she ever influenced? So, as you can see, there’s a lot left to be desired (nyuk nyuk, secret pun) when it comes to the list. Why couldn’t a little-known Oklahoma blogger (aka, Me) make the cut? I’m influential in my own special way. Yes, I am! Say, maybe…just maybe…if I keep putting my derisive notes inside the magazines at Walmart, I’ll become influential too! See you next year, Time! That is all.  Friends, I don’t know how many of you rely on CCB as a news source. It’s hard for us to gauge given that our #$@!ing web host doesn’t give us access to proper statistics to measure that sort of thing (I need a new web host).
This country has been seized with this whole fake news thing since the end months of Cataclysm 2016, when candidate The Trump began lashing out at fake news outlets (e.g., CNN, MSNBC, etc.). I think it’s caused most, if not all, of us to sit back and reflect on whether or not what we’re reading is true. I know it has for me. I’ve even begun cutting out articles from that almost-daily local newspaper here that still accepts articles from me, but still won’t allow me to mention them by name. I cut out those articles that I suspect of being fake news and paste them to the living room wall here at The Compound (for later review). But, in the big scheme of things, what is fake news? I sneered (sneered, I’m telling you) at something that appeared at the top of my Facebook page from the good folks at FB. It was a primer in detecting fake news so I wouldn’t be sucked in. I laughed haughtily (haughtily, I say) and thought to myself, I am truly a prince among fake news writers…I don’t need no stinking Facebook help in rooting out fake news! Fake news falls at my feet! I own fake news! Long time readers of this blog (there’s still a few of you that we’ve not offended) will recall CCB running a story about a Thanksgiving morning when a woman came downstairs to find her husband fornicating with their thawed turkey. She attacked him with a knife, the cops showed up and arrested them both – her for the knife attack, him for crimes against nature – blah, blah, blah. Guess what, that was fake news. Come on, have a little faith in humanity for pete’s sake. Maybe I should have read that FB post after all. Last week I recall seeing an article on one of the major news outlets about a married couple in Mississippi that had gone in for DNA testing prior to an in-vitro fertilization procedure. Turns out the couple (unbeknownst to them) were biological twins. Gadzooks! I thought to myself…ain’t life weird? I scan a lot of news outlet sites every morning and found that same story or slight variations thereof on at least four more. I spent FAR TOO MUCH TIME thinking about the couple and what the hell would they do now? I suspect marrying your sister, even if you’re in Mississippi, is some sort of felony. And, how was it that they were separated, presumably at birth, lived separate lives and then suddenly found themselves in this situation? These are the questions for which I needed answers…at least for 10 minutes before I was to a story about a mother snake that had adopted a bunch of abandoned kittens and was raising them as her own. Well, guess what? Turns out that story originated on a website called the Mississippi Herald that does nothing but publish fake news. Seriously, they make the sh^t up! Now, why can’t I get a job like that? I’d be good at producing fake news. Seriously, right out of the gate, I’d break the news that The Trump and the Queen of the Unindicted had been caught sexting in the middle of the night by a secret service agent whose father, also a secret service agent, was at one time, the Queen of the Unindicted’s boy toy. Wouldn’t you want to read about that? Sure you would! It’s an episode of the Jerry Springer Show! But, I digress. So the biggest news outlet to pick up and run with this story…come on, guess. Believe it or not, it was Fox News! IKR? Everybody got fooled and quickly pulled the story off their website. I used to read with some regularity one of the tabloids in the supermarket checkout, NEWS of the WORLD. It was a good one. From that I learned that Elvis was alive and well and living on some planet where he was breeding with all the alien virgins to create a race of hip-swiveling singers who subsist entirely on fried banana and peanut butter sandwiches. You can’t make that up!!!! I think there may be a place for fake news in the world. I mean, reality can be downright depressing, you know? That is all! Disclaimer: CCB’s altogether shamed and dis-barred attorney here: CCB has no actual evidence of The Trump and Queen of the Unindicted being caught sexting at night. Also, the part about Elvis breeding with alien virgins…made that up. The part about Mr. Robin cutting articles from the outstanding last bastion of local professional journalism that he deems fake is true…but, then again, Mr. Robin is a paranoid idiot in serious need of psychiatric care.  Friends, I hope you’re well this post-Easter Monday. Judging by the posts on Facebook, it appears that everyone had a fabulous day. Me? Why, thanks for asking.
I spent the day working on taxes and I can tell you it wasn’t pretty. I had big plans for making a run to the Cosmic City Walmart today to buy up the half-off chocolate bunnies, but instead I’ll be writing big checks to the IRS and Oklahoma Tax Commission. Hey, wasn’t Trump going to do away with IRS? Eh, he’s too busy trying to dismantle healthcare and drop $16M MOAB’s on targets that really don’t have much impact (though it does leave a huge hole in the ground), oh, and then there’s the whole Russian thing. I only got started on the taxes after I emerged from beneath the ground late Saturday night and discovered the Crazy North Koreans hadn’t started World War III…yet. One thing I have learned over the past several days is that I can’t seem to make viable doomsday predictions. You may recall in the last CCB post that I was urging people to do idiotic things in anticipation of all of us being extinguished at the hands of that lunatic Kim Jong Uno (aka, he of weird haircut). Well, it didn’t happen, of course. No death from above via Pyongyang. I know, I sound disappointed, huh? The Crazy North Koreans allegedly tried to launch one of their new ICBM’s over the weekend, but it didn’t work. Reports claim that it exploded before it actually got off the ground. Somewhere in North Korea, a rocket scientist was heard screaming, “I told you it wasn’t ready to fly yet. But does anyone ever listen to me? Nooooooooo!” That was followed by a single gunshot. The Crazy North Koreans have hinted that the U.S. sabotaged the launch via a cyber-attack. Really? Way to go U.S.A. Somewhere in America, an intelligence geek is saying, “We did? Oh right, we did! Yea team! Can we have more budget now please?” That was followed by a bum’s rush out the door. The U.S. countered that Kim’s arsenal is more cardboard than actual whatever they actually use to make missiles. In the meantime, The Trump has a Navy carrier battle group sitting off the coast of the Korean peninsula and he’s threatening to start bombing strategic targets in North Korea. All of this of course is making China really nervous. And, in the middle of it all there are tons of photos of Mike Pence standing at the Korean DMZ and looking way more presidential than The Trump could ever possibly muster. So, I guess there’s still potential for mass destruction somewhere. I just realized that I’ve not seen Cousin Fred since I went into the storm cellar on Thursday in anticipation of total nuclear annihilation at the hands of Crazy North Koreans. He’s been hunkered down in the Cab. I thought maybe he was working on his taxes, but then I remembered that he never files. He doesn’t have income, he just mooches off whatever relative lets him stay. Great work, if you can get it. My guess would be that he’s down there plotting his next move with regard to the hairdressing hydrologist Gigi. If he is, I reckon we can expect more black helicopter raids this week. It’s gonna be great…you’ll see. That is all!  Friends, welcome to the Armageddon edition of CCB. According to my overnight newsfeeds, today is the day we’re all going to die. I would suggest going straight to Walmart and buying all the crap you can lay your hands on. Run up those credit cards! Enjoy your stupidly lavish lifestyle for whatever time you have left ‘cause The Trump is apparently determined to push us into the abyss. Or, is he? Hmmmmmmmm.
But first, really important news…Cousin Fred is back! As you altogether too dedicated readers of his stupid blog (all two of you) may remember, Cousin Fred was whisked away from The Compound by a horde of U.S. Marshals. His crime? Reaching out to contact Gigi, The Trump’s hairdressing hydrologist and Cousin Fred’s former girlfriend. I heard a helicopter buzzing overhead yesterday. I ran out onto the lawn thinking it was another raid by law enforcement. By the time I got outside, the helo was taking off again. Cousin Fred was sitting on the ground with his hands cuffed behind his back. The fiends! Stuffed in his shirt pocket was a release receipt for a federal lock-up in OKC and a cease-and-desist order signed by a federal judge prohibiting Cousin Fred from dialing any phone number east of the Mississippi. Just another day here at The Compound. Okay, back to the whole we’re all gonna die today thing…no, wait…one more thing. Markwayne Mullin. Ever heard of him? Name sounds like he should be a serial killer. No? Never heard of him? Lucky you. He’s an idiot congressman from the Tulsa area. Congress is on a break from doing nothing except plotting their next move to burn any books or periodicals that mention the name Barak Obama. Seriously, that’s all they’re doing right now. So while they’re on break, all the congressional-types, scurrying little cockroaches they are, are scurrying back to their home ground to hold townhall meetings where they tell their constituents what a miraculous job they’re doing so they can rake in the reelection donations and try to save their jobs. After fixing the toilet at the townhall site (Markwayne was a plumber before he became a congress-type…really the same kind of job, dealing with sh*t), Markwayne kicked off his event and was promptly kicked in the face. To say the audience was hostile would be an understatement. Markwayne’s failure was that he started yelling back. Really the best tactic is to fake a heart attack and fall to the ground. The ambulance will be there momentarily. I think it’s safe to say, Markwayne (what kind of a name is that anyway?) is political toast. Hopefully, congressional wannabes are already lining up against him. Okay, NOW back to the world will end today thing…well, with a slight deter. So Rex (The Tex) Tillerson was in Moscow and finally got a meeting with Vlad (The Poot) Putin. The meeting didn’t happen until The Poot could give an interview in which he referred to the people of the United States as “primitive and loutish.” Hmmm, he may be onto something there. Rex (The Tex) tried to engage the Russian in a high stakes game of tiddlywink, but The Poot was having none of it. In the end, Rex (The Tex) left to come back to ‘Merica with the anguished plea, “But, ain’t you gonna give me another medal?” The Trump isn’t happy, I bet. He hired Rex (The Tex) because he was close personal friends with The Poot. That’s obviously no longer the case. Flushed from the Kremlin like so much yesterday’s beef stroganoff (maybe Markwayne can help). Okay, here it is, the real reason you should all run out and max your cards and have meaningless sweaty sex with a total stranger…we’re all going to die! In North Korea today it’s a holiday of sorts. Holidays are tough to come by if you’re North Korean. Hard to celebrate when you can’t eat. Supreme Moron Kim Jong Uno is either going to set off a nuclear test or launch a nuclear missile. It’s going to be a “big event”, whatever it is, kind of like Jong Uno’s ass. The Trump on the other hand has sent elements of the U.S. Seventh Fleet to troll off the coast. Uno says he’ll launch a missile strike on the U.S. if The Trump tries any funny business. I’m telling you…we’re all going to die! Take cover! That is all! Editor’s note: Our unseemly dis-barred corporate attorney feels compelled to make the following statement. Under no circumstances does CCB actually intend to imply that our readership should actually run to Walmart and max out credit cards and/or engage in reckless sex with strangers. Don’t listen to the chief blogger, he’s an idiot. Just go about your normal business and act as though nothing is wrong!  Hey there! Pardon me! Is anyone listening?
Is it just me, or has the entire world, as we know it gone completely, irretrievably, stupidly insane? Where to start? Where, oh, where indeed. I know, let’s start with an all-time favorite for me. That last bastion of mediocrity and woeful stupidity…the Oklahoma State Legislature. If you live outside Oklahoma, hang around, I’m just getting started. Ya’ll are next. So, let’s see…the Oklahoma Legislature in a move that rivals even its worst days has seen fit to pull state funding for science and/or technology fairs. What’s next, the death penalty (no wait, you can’t get that right either) for kids who want to be in band? Now, I know there are those of you sitting there reading this and thinking, “Hey, Dumbass (that would be me), why should the state of Oklahoma pay for dumb old science fairs anyway?” A very good question my Neanderthal friend! Let’s start with science and technology fairs have a way of helping school age children find their way to critical thinking, WHICH IS SOMETHING THAT IS WHOLLY LACKING IN THE MAJORITY OF THIS STATE’S POPULACE! In fact, if you have to think about what the term critical thinking means, go away…don’t read this stupid blog anymore. By tapping those kids’ competitive nature in something as seemingly pedestrian as a science fair, you’re encouraging them to explore possibilities in areas of science and technology that contribute to the betterment of all of us. But, not in Oklahoma. We’ve raised and continue to breed a state rife with morons, who lack a basic understanding of the world around them. I will grant you, there are exceptions. There are very bright kids out there, but not enough of them. Instead, we’re saddled with the morons of North Lincoln Blvd who prefer to wage war on (education) science and who can’t see the forest for trees BECAUSE THEY’RE LITERALLY ALSO THREATENING TO CLOSE DOWN THE STATE PARKS. Enough! Vote these people out of office. Otherwise, this great state is doomed! Next. United Airlines…judas priest…what were you people thinking? Seriously. Even if the 69 year old man was being a jackass (and I’m NOT saying he was, it would piss me off to be forced off a flight to make room for airline employees), but you have a public information crisis of HUGE proportions on your hands. And, what do you do? You let your CEO get on TV saying how wonderfully his flight crew handled that situation. Dear CEO Jackass, did you see the video of the poor guy with blood streaming down his face? Obviously, you didn’t take time out from your very special gourmet breakfast served on a golden plate while seated at your mahogany desk that morning to watch it before you made your statement. How do we know this? Oh, let’s see…maybe it’s because less than 24 hours after your faux pas, you issued a statement saying how deplorably that poor man was treated. Guess what, Dipsh*t…it’s too f&^%ing late! Them chickens have done come home to roost – and not on your golden plate. Not your fault, you say? You’re in charge. Everything that happens on your watch is your responsibility. End of discussion. You sir, should be fired. Next! (sigh) I think everyone knew Sean Spicer was in over his head as soon as Melissa McCarthy started doing him on SNL. Once SNL begins pounding on you, Pal, it’s all over. Here’s a suggestion, Fool. Shut up. Just STFU. Don’t start trying to explain what you already tried to explain in answer to the idiot media’s question about what the f$#k you said in the first place. (I’m whispering now) It’s a trap! Run! So, Spicy, as he’s known throughout the office, starts trying to make the case for what an evil rat bastard Bashar Assad is (oh, he truly is). In the words of the late, great Sam Kinison (RIP), I hope Assad’s hell comes in the form of being run over by a gasoline truck, dragged four blocks, and has to taste his own blood. But, I digress. In what I’m sure Spicy saw as a great analogy (in a moment of panic), he decided to point out that Hitler (definitely at the top of the all-time evil human beings list) wasn’t nearly as bad as Assad because he “never gassed his own people.” (Sound of a pin dropping a mile away) At that point, I think one of the helpful media (speaking of rat bastards) gently pointed out that – ironically – today was the start of Passover. After I heard him say that, I actually had to keep hitting rewind to make sure I was hearing what I thought I was hearing. I knew I must surely be mistaken. But, you know what, you could see it in his eyes as soon as he realized what he did. Seriously, find the clip and play it back. There’s a point where it sinks into his thick skull what he just said…his eyes get huge and he begins trying to defend his statement. Not happening. The job of WH press secretary sucks. It’s horrible. I wouldn’t do that for anything. Maybe United Airlines will hire him as press relations consultant. So, hopefully you see what I’m saying? The world is going completely insane and it’s beginning to be painful to watch. I’m moving to Oklahoma…no wait, I’m already here! DOH! And, people wonder why I drink. That is all.  Yeah, yeah…it’s Monday morning. Umm, is it Friday yet?
I tell you, this was a long, drawn-out weekend and not in a good way. The Compound was invaded twice over the weekend by jack-booted thugs descending from above in black helicopters. Both times allegedly because Cousin Fred can’t keep his libido in check…allegedly. But, I digress… So let’s see. For those of you who have been berating me for not posting anything on Friday, I can tell you that comms here were cut-off. All comms. There was a largish airplane circling this area all day Friday and into Friday night. It was apparently here to jam all cellular transmissions, cutoff satellite television signals (although DISH does a great job of that with their damned contract negotiations) and even block the broadband to/from The Compound. Why was someone picking on little ol’ me, you ask? Two words…Cousin Fred (allegedly). Following the U.S. raid using cruise missiles to hit back at that f#@% Assad for murdering his own people with an apparent nerve gas, there is now a photo being circulated showing the “War Room” at The Trump’s golf resort Mar-A-Lago. Word has it that they were using a converted broom closet – “They’ll never think to look for us in here,” The Trump was quoted as saying. Anyway, in the photo we can see The Trump and his advisors including ace son-in-law The Jared sitting around a cramped table in a cramped room (it’s a broom closet after all) with a mysterious array of white boxes in front of them. Lots of speculation about the white boxes of course. Well, I can state conclusively what those are, because I know (allegedly). They are some sort of secure communication devices, only not so secure (allegedly). So in the middle of watching the action unfold in the eastern Med, the tension so thick you could cut it with a spork…Jared wondering who in the room forgot to put on deodorant…Reince the Prince Prius wondering why he took this job…The Trump thinking tactically about how he’ll take a few strokes off his golf game…in the middle of all that, a voice. “Is Gigi there?” “Who the hell is that?!” The Trump exclaims. “It’s Fred, I’m looking for Gigi.” “Well, I’ll tell you what, Fred, get off this seeeecure channel, we’re bombing the crap out of someone right now.” “Look, I just want to talk to her. I won’t be long. I’ve thought it over and I know what I’m going to say to her.” “Somebody get this guy off my secure channel,” The Trump screamed. That brought (almost immediately) the orbiting signal-jamming plane. The first raid came at dawn on Friday morning. I stepped out onto the front porch with my first cup of coffee to find Cousin Fred face down on the ground in front of The Cab, his hands cuffed behind him. The Men in Black were walking out of The Cab with boxes full of various electronic devices…any electronic devices. When they were satisfied they had gotten everything, including the Mr. Coffee with a special sensor that turns the hot plate on and off so the coffee doesn’t taste burned, they departed. Keep in mind, Cousin Fred was still handcuffed and on the ground as the black helo lifted out of The Compound. Fortunately, for Cousin Fred, I have a universal handcuff key that I keep in my wallet (don’t ask). I unlocked his restraints – after a suitable amount of time (I had to finish my cup of coffee). He sat up rubbing his wrists and asked if he could borrow my iPad. I pointed to the still orbiting plane and shook my head. The Wife came out with her first filterless Pall Mall of the day clinched between her teeth complaining that with the plane blocking our communications she can’t get HGTV. She muttered something about “weinbag men” before jumping into her Jeep and leaving The Compound, presumably to take up residence at that cheap motel on the edge of Shattuck. So Saturday all was pretty quiet here. The signal blocking plane had departed The Compound’s airspace. I was watching a live shot on Trump TV from The Trump’s Florida golf course (wonder if he pays greens fees) when suddenly a cell phone in his back pocket began ringing. Perhaps it was Putin with a rational thought, you think? Think again. I looked up to see Cousin Fred with MY iPhone to his ear. Next thing I hear is him asking someone, “Is Gigi there?” The Trump throws his phone into a nearby lake where an alligator caught it in its mouth and disappeared below the water. The Trump then began beating his putter into the ground and cursing. At least I think he was cursing, The Trump’s channel kept beeping out his words. What a great channel. I ran and hid in the storm cellar expecting cruise missiles to begin dropping all around us. I sat in the cellar and calculated in my head the flight time of a cruise missile to The Compound launched from the Gulf of Mexico. I had to take into account the time required for The Trump to gather his national security team in the converted broom closet before issuing an attack order and the prevailing winds and all, I figured it was safe to come out ‘round midnight. The jackbooted thugs raided The Compound again on Sunday morning. I had just watched a report on TV about OU’s freshman quarterback and defensive back being arrested for public intoxication and thinking it’s beginning to look more and more like Switzer-era Sooners Football. Hey, maybe Mike Stoops should just start recruiting from the county jail down there for defensive players. But then, here come handcuffs from above. This time they identified themselves as U.S. marshals and hauled Cousin Fred away. I toyed with the idea of acting all outraged and stuff and raising a fuss about jackbooted federal thugs dragging my poor stupid cousin away, but decided to make some biscuits instead. That is all!  As you long time readers (believe we’re up to 10 now) of this blog know, I’m an early riser. Not for any particularly good reason, but it’s an old habit that’s hard to break. By early, I mean 4AM. I let the mutts outside to do their business, make some coffee, let the mutts back inside, pour a cup of coffee, give the mutts treats for going outside and not doing their business on my bed…well, you get the idea. Finally, I’ll settle in my chair at the computer and begin reading through the overnight news. The best stuff happens at night when the freaks come out to play. So I’m reading about Steve Bannon’s fall from grace (jettisoned from the NSC - let the memes begin), followed by a story about how Steve Bannon wears a button-down oxford shirt over the top of a polo shirt and a t-shirt and I’m thinking Steve Bannon may be a freak I can behind for this blog when suddenly my internet speed goes to near zero. (How’s that for a run-on paragraph? I’ll be teaching English in middle school starting next year.) I was just beginning to curse the name of my internet provider when I noticed that all the lights were on in The Cab. So, now I’m wondering what the hell Cousin Fred is up to so early in the morning. Thursday morning is trash day here at The Compound and the rolling container has to be down at the road by 6AM. So, at 4:40AM, I’m rolling the container down the 100+ meter driveway here. As I pass in front of The Cab, I can see he’s inside with several laptops and tablets scattered around the room and he’s moving from device to device doing something. Ah, the source of my bandwidth siphon, I think to myself. When I stepped up onto the porch of The Cab, he raised his head and looked at me and began gesturing for me to go away. No way, I’m letting a bandwidth pig get away with hogging my internet…no, sir! Turns out he had a total of 16 devices connected to the internet down there. He was bouncing emails all around the world, across different servers in an effort to get one, just one through to the hairdressing hydrologist Gigi. But, to this point, everytime Gigi receives an email from him, she blocks the server. He’s desperate to reach her. Wants to reconnect with her. Blah, blah, blah. I just want bandwidth. I thought about asking him where he got all of the devices, but I’m not sure I want to know. I told him to shut down at least 10 of the devices so I could finish the blog, which he agreed to do. I tell you, if this keeps up, I’m going to have to bring a mega-circuit into The Compound and I don’t want to do that. It attracts attention, if you know what I mean. And, speaking of attracting attention…yeesh…there I go with the bad segues again… Friends, I know you’ve all heard the phrase “life imitating art”…well there was an instance recently that caught the attention of us here at CCB and we feel the need to warn all of you, our dedicated readers. It seems that Kendall Jenner – oh, you known her – she’s a blood relation of the Kardashian sisters. You know, the Kardashians, the people who became famous without doing anything. They don’t sing, dance, or tell jokes, but the f$#^ing media hangs on their every move. Well, I did see one of them once on television doing a really bad karaoke lounge act somewhere. So, anyway, poor Kendall apparently has even less talent than her who-knows-what-their-talent-is half-sisters. She recently appeared in a Pepsi commercial that was some kind of weird attempt to make the police feel easier about dealing with the rest of us slobs. The premise of the commercial if you’ve not seen it (you likely haven’t because Pepsi pulled the ads), is that Kendall is at a protest march of some sort and approaches a line of police – not real police by the way. You can tell because these guys are all slim, trim, and Hollywood handsome, not a Bavarian cream to be seen. She offers one of the cops a can of Pepsi. Said Hollywood cop drinks it and suddenly the world is a much more peaceful place. Maybe Pepsi should ship their product to Syria, North Korea, and DC. We’ll all be much happier. And, people flipped saying the ads mocked the Black Lives Matter movement and others. Pepsi pulled the ads and Kendall now has to cover her face (for some reason) when she’s out in public. Sigh. Okay, life imitating art in weird cosmic sort of way. Some dumbass in Portland, Oregon, during a contentious city council meeting, approached the Mayor at the front of the room and told his honor he had something for him. He reaches inside his coat – said mayor is freaking – and brings out a Pepsi. The police rush the dais and drag Mr. Pepsi away. Reportedly the CEO, COO, and CFO of Pepsi are now locked away in a safe room hugging one another close and saying, “But, it worked for Coke back in the 60’s.” Ah, the BIG picture. That is all! |
Archives
March 2019
Categories |
RSS Feed