SUPERMILK: August 2005 Archives

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August 19, 2005

Schaincöer Raga Pouch

now my hunger is growing claws. it has become a sort of fascination for me. something i can stand apart from, like a naked almond-girl with a really smooth ass, and say, "good lord, that is a nice slab of buttock there!" you know, as if i were standing apart from it. from her, that is. the naked girl. as if she were my hunger. so what i am saying is that my hunger is like a naked girl. i hope that makes sense to you because i've got an itch and i'm about to tear out my fingernails to reach it. i think i want her skin to brown slightly near the creases. in this way i can know there is true butter involved.

god i'm hungry.

i begin to feel both faint and as if someone is shoving a huge steel spike through my gut. i'm nauseated and all images of browning nakedness dissolve into greasy limbs of double-crispy chicken, actual hallucinations o'ertaking me (everyone should use that contraction at least once) as i stumble into the bathroom to cool my head by dunking my face in the toilet. ah, cool, pulpy water. i exhale happily, my lips vibrating and sending a delicate spiral of small bubbles to the surface.

as i make my way through the living-room, i exaggerate my walk so that all the sausage in the house plumps at once, and as i am quite aware that fourteen pairs of binoculars and three bb-guns are trained on me, i pass by the plate-glass window more than a few times. in the green shawl.

i frown quite obviously so that the people across the street are quite aware that those growls are not my stomach, but are, in fact, the sounds of large cat trapped in my closet. i shake my head at them, conspiratorially, as if to say can you imagine? these cats we all have to put up with!

SUPERMILK is an expert Squeezer of Lemon, Thumber of Nose, and Navigator of Moronity. His mark can be found on the Bedpan of Hammurabi, the forehead of Dagonet, and the office stationery of Jorge Bourgoise. Additionally, he approved this boatload of kielbasa for export at 12:29 PM| (0)

August 10, 2005

A Good Guy to Sniff a Tube of Glue With

I've often heard people say "Now there's a guy you could drink a beer with!" about our President. You know what? I have to agree. Dubya is a damn fine man to have a beer with. And that's not all! How do I know this?

Well, I just got back from Crawford, Texas, and man did I get loose! I"m not really supposed to be blogging any of this, but I can't help myself. Hell with it. Later, if they grill me, I'll just claim that I heard it all first from a reporter. That's known to work in these types of situations.

Well, good ole Dubya had one hell of a bash down there on the ranch, and just like ole Condi, I did my "ranch time." Tell ya what—I had no idea what that entailed until yesterday! Hot Damn, as george likes to say, grabbing his crotch—hot damn.

I know, it's somewhat unsettling to think of, but you should see the man when he gets trashed. now that is something. I hate to say it, but he does get sort of obsessed with horse penises, and it really tended to make everyone uncomfortable. I mean he is the president and all. Nobody really wants to confront him. But after the third bottle of tequila (I think it was right around the time that big fella with the happy face painted on his beer-belly was handing out those little green pills?), Dubya led us all into the stable and was just making the biggest deal out of the horse's member. He was like pulling it out, like stretching it out and just making the strangest noises. Sort of like a "WHEEEEEE" type of sound. He'd tug it until it was stretched, and then let it go, so it bobbed all over, and then he'd crack up like it was the funniest thing in the world. Seeing him there, all leaned over and pulling on the horse schlong, well, we all just laughed and laughed and laughed. You know...in that "Jesus-Effin-Christ-How-In-the-hell-do-I-get-out-ofthis-one?" sort of way. When he started up with the whole "Watch, here's the Rove leak, get it, the Rove leak" thing, it got really weird. Finally, somebody started talking about war or death or terror or something, and that distracted him. Rummy threw big Dubya a horseblanket to wipe up with, and that was the end of the whole leak joke.

we were actually having a beer, but Georgie started getting restless. He starts grinding his jaw, like moving his jaw erratically, like after every sentence. I noticed a while ago he does this while speaking in public, and I had to send him a quick text message on my Blackberry, it went Yo, Big W—ixnay on the whole jaw indingray thing...it gives away the fact that you just snorted a few lines before arriving at the podium So I think it was after the sixth or seven (damn fine) beer that we shared together when he whips out this little envelope. He winks then, at me, and says "weaponized grade" before emptying the packet on a mirror. Before I could object to such illegal and dangerous behavior, the man bends to the mirror and snarfs up the whole pile! Needless to say, I was a bit concerned. "I don't know, Mr. President..." I began, gesturing to the others in the room.

"Fuck it," he said. "At least people know where I stand!"

"True." I said. "That, they do...."

It only got worse from there. Before you know it, Dubya is prancing around in this tight, latex suit that—one had to admit—showed off his package quite admirably. The gas mask thing was weird, I have to say. But you know. He was the host. We sort of let him go on that.

So yeah. A good man to drink a beer with. Even doing E with W was a blast. The second night of "Ranch Time" entailed dropping about three tabs of ecstasy and laying around in togas. Good Ole Dubya was a blast to chill with, although I'm not sure I appreciated all the foot-rubbing he kept sneaking in. And if he wanted to yank on my johnson, I would really rather he just was forthright about it, you know? I don't much go in for all that "Hey, I'm just looking around for Weapons of Mass Destruction!" Although it was kind of flattering when he claimed to have found the largest cache of long-range missiles he had ever seen. Anyway, I pushed him away, rearranged my toga, and went off to find a card game.

In summary, I would have to agree with the common wisdom. George W. Bush is a good man to have a beer with. A damn good man. He is also a good man to snort coke with, drop Ecstasy with, and a good man to sniff glue with. Let there be no doubt. I can only imagine how much fun he is to fabricate intelligence with. Now you're talking about some serious partying.