Dear Kissinger,
Maybe I’m out of touch. Hell, I’m 71 years old. But...
“Bad boy” chefs? Can someone explain this to me?!
God bless America,
John
# # #
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Happy feet
Dear Kissinger,
O, happy day!
The new Manolos come out today! I’ll be hitting the Scottsdale Neiman Marcus first thing. Nothing I love more than watching the women trying on those shoes...slipping them seductively on and off their feet. Mmm.
I remember being a teenager, working in Lehmann’s Department Store. I used to guide each lady customer back to the dressing room with her items. Then I’d surreptitiously hang back and watch the opening at the bottom of the door — waiting, just waiting, for her to slip off her shoes. Jesus Christ on the crucifix, the sight of those strange bare feet sent neurons zipping through my pubescent brain, and instantly my cock would be engorged until it throbbed mercilessly. I had to run to the toilet in the back store room to rub it out eight, nine, ten times a day. O, to be sixteen again! (Instead of an old man with a penile pump in his bedside table drawer.)
Anyway, this is just the sort of diversion I need. Things have been rough on the campaign trail, Hank, and it’s only July. Who needs this kind of pressure?
God bless America,
John
# # #
O, happy day!
The new Manolos come out today! I’ll be hitting the Scottsdale Neiman Marcus first thing. Nothing I love more than watching the women trying on those shoes...slipping them seductively on and off their feet. Mmm.
I remember being a teenager, working in Lehmann’s Department Store. I used to guide each lady customer back to the dressing room with her items. Then I’d surreptitiously hang back and watch the opening at the bottom of the door — waiting, just waiting, for her to slip off her shoes. Jesus Christ on the crucifix, the sight of those strange bare feet sent neurons zipping through my pubescent brain, and instantly my cock would be engorged until it throbbed mercilessly. I had to run to the toilet in the back store room to rub it out eight, nine, ten times a day. O, to be sixteen again! (Instead of an old man with a penile pump in his bedside table drawer.)
Anyway, this is just the sort of diversion I need. Things have been rough on the campaign trail, Hank, and it’s only July. Who needs this kind of pressure?
God bless America,
John
# # #
Monday, June 30, 2008
“It’s the economy, asshole.”
Dear Kissinger,
This recession is killing me.
Seriously, it’s the last fucking thing I need right now. Here I was, all set with a fine fear-based campaign message rich with patriotism, and now I have to address a practical concern that has my hands tied.
First of all, let’s face it Hank, there’s not much I can do to spark the economy. Tax cuts for the middle class? Yeah, okay. How? Since I’m in the pockets of corporate investors to the tune of tens-of-millions, I can’t very well raise their taxes — so where’s the money gonna come from? Iraq ain’t cheap, and I’ve pledged to keep us there as long as possible. Can’t go back on that.
Second (and this is what really has me walking on egg shells), how long can I talk about economic reform before Obama’s camp wises up and pulls out my S&L file? I’ve been chewing my fingernails over this for weeks, just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Christ Hank, I was one of the Keating Five! There’s no way that old disaster doesn’t get resurrected between now and November. And you thought the swift-boat thing did damage. Good God almighty.
Sometimes it shames me that I suffered so much for this country. These people today...fine, I'll say it: they’re selfish pricks. We live in a country that comprises me-first bastards who care more about their own wallets than about fighting terrorism.
And why, because gas prices got a little high and the dollar got a little low? Let me ask you: Was I worried about the value of the fucking dollar when I was locked up in a tiger cage? No.
Suck my dick, America,
John
# # #
This recession is killing me.
Seriously, it’s the last fucking thing I need right now. Here I was, all set with a fine fear-based campaign message rich with patriotism, and now I have to address a practical concern that has my hands tied.
First of all, let’s face it Hank, there’s not much I can do to spark the economy. Tax cuts for the middle class? Yeah, okay. How? Since I’m in the pockets of corporate investors to the tune of tens-of-millions, I can’t very well raise their taxes — so where’s the money gonna come from? Iraq ain’t cheap, and I’ve pledged to keep us there as long as possible. Can’t go back on that.
Second (and this is what really has me walking on egg shells), how long can I talk about economic reform before Obama’s camp wises up and pulls out my S&L file? I’ve been chewing my fingernails over this for weeks, just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Christ Hank, I was one of the Keating Five! There’s no way that old disaster doesn’t get resurrected between now and November. And you thought the swift-boat thing did damage. Good God almighty.
Sometimes it shames me that I suffered so much for this country. These people today...fine, I'll say it: they’re selfish pricks. We live in a country that comprises me-first bastards who care more about their own wallets than about fighting terrorism.
And why, because gas prices got a little high and the dollar got a little low? Let me ask you: Was I worried about the value of the fucking dollar when I was locked up in a tiger cage? No.
Suck my dick, America,
John
# # #
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Cock blocked by a black guy. Two, really.
Dear Kissinger,
I was in the bedroom last night watching CNN when Cindy walked in wearing nothing but a newly acquired pair of knee-high boots. Louis Vuitton. Ostrich leather with stiletto heels. Good God in Heaven.
And just as I started strapping on my penile pump, I caught him on the TV screen. Obama. Talking about MLK again.
I knew this was going to come back and haunt me, Hank — that I spent seven years opposing a federal holiday that would recognize Martin Luther King. (And then there was the other thing where I defended those southerners who were flying the Confederate flag. In retrospect, not my best judgment.) I was just following my heart. But shit, I know, you gotta play to the masses. Damn me for being so short-sighted. This might wind up being the issue that keeps me out of the White House. (No, the irony is not lost on me.)
MLK. Let me tell you about that socialist traitor, Hank — the truth, and not the bullshit spun by revisionist historians. He was no hero. Neither was Bobby Kennedy. The peaceniks that followed those two fuckers around never supported our boys in combat. Never. My memory is very clear on that. I would certainly remember if I ever received a care package from one of those do-gooders; and I’ll surely never forget how they spit on us when we came home.
I was trapped in a fucking tiger box for five-and-a-half-years. Those “heroes” and their followers did nothing but question us at every turn. Their false sense of entitlement was more than a little unnerving then, and it’s just about infuriating now — when terrorists ‘round the globe have us in their scopes.
Certain people in this country are under the impression that freedom is free. Well, it isn’t. Will they ever understand that? A daunting question, to be sure. Unfortunately, learning sometimes comes only by the most difficult lessons.
I hate to say it, but maybe this country could use another 9/11 to set it straight.
God bless America,
John
# # #
I was in the bedroom last night watching CNN when Cindy walked in wearing nothing but a newly acquired pair of knee-high boots. Louis Vuitton. Ostrich leather with stiletto heels. Good God in Heaven.
And just as I started strapping on my penile pump, I caught him on the TV screen. Obama. Talking about MLK again.
I knew this was going to come back and haunt me, Hank — that I spent seven years opposing a federal holiday that would recognize Martin Luther King. (And then there was the other thing where I defended those southerners who were flying the Confederate flag. In retrospect, not my best judgment.) I was just following my heart. But shit, I know, you gotta play to the masses. Damn me for being so short-sighted. This might wind up being the issue that keeps me out of the White House. (No, the irony is not lost on me.)
MLK. Let me tell you about that socialist traitor, Hank — the truth, and not the bullshit spun by revisionist historians. He was no hero. Neither was Bobby Kennedy. The peaceniks that followed those two fuckers around never supported our boys in combat. Never. My memory is very clear on that. I would certainly remember if I ever received a care package from one of those do-gooders; and I’ll surely never forget how they spit on us when we came home.
I was trapped in a fucking tiger box for five-and-a-half-years. Those “heroes” and their followers did nothing but question us at every turn. Their false sense of entitlement was more than a little unnerving then, and it’s just about infuriating now — when terrorists ‘round the globe have us in their scopes.
Certain people in this country are under the impression that freedom is free. Well, it isn’t. Will they ever understand that? A daunting question, to be sure. Unfortunately, learning sometimes comes only by the most difficult lessons.
I hate to say it, but maybe this country could use another 9/11 to set it straight.
God bless America,
John
# # #
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?
Dear Kissinger,
I can’t stand it anymore. Seriously.
What do the kids care about today? Protecting goddamn baby seals. It’s a fucking joke. Our country is dependent on oil like a junkie is on heroin. These terrorist sandniggers have us by the goddamn balls. I’m just trying to guide us away from the drug dealer and toward the Methadone clinic — but all anyone wants to talk about is protecting the Alaskan fucking wildlife.
(Al Gore can kiss my dick, btw, for starting all this eco-minded bullshit.)
Hank, I wish I could’ve served with you and Richard back in the good ol’ days. When OPEC started fucking with us and raising prices, you played hardball — started drilling for oil in the North Sea and off the Gulf of Mexico. That’s called “fuck you!” It’s what men do. But no, these faggots today don’t get it. They think you can have it both ways. You can’t. Sensitive liberal bullshit is tolerable when things are loose; but when things get tough, you gotta bring the hammer down.
In related news, actual faggots started legally marrying each other yesterday in California. (Shaking my head.) I heard that on the new form, where it used to say “Bride” and “Groom,” it now says “Partner A” and “Partner B.” I’m sick to my goddamned stomach, Hank. I can remember a time when kids grew up with heroes like Douglas MacArthur and Joe DiMaggio. Today, you can probably buy bubble-gum cards that feature Will and Grace and Charles Nelson Reilly.
God bless America,
John
# # #
I can’t stand it anymore. Seriously.
What do the kids care about today? Protecting goddamn baby seals. It’s a fucking joke. Our country is dependent on oil like a junkie is on heroin. These terrorist sandniggers have us by the goddamn balls. I’m just trying to guide us away from the drug dealer and toward the Methadone clinic — but all anyone wants to talk about is protecting the Alaskan fucking wildlife.
(Al Gore can kiss my dick, btw, for starting all this eco-minded bullshit.)
Hank, I wish I could’ve served with you and Richard back in the good ol’ days. When OPEC started fucking with us and raising prices, you played hardball — started drilling for oil in the North Sea and off the Gulf of Mexico. That’s called “fuck you!” It’s what men do. But no, these faggots today don’t get it. They think you can have it both ways. You can’t. Sensitive liberal bullshit is tolerable when things are loose; but when things get tough, you gotta bring the hammer down.
In related news, actual faggots started legally marrying each other yesterday in California. (Shaking my head.) I heard that on the new form, where it used to say “Bride” and “Groom,” it now says “Partner A” and “Partner B.” I’m sick to my goddamned stomach, Hank. I can remember a time when kids grew up with heroes like Douglas MacArthur and Joe DiMaggio. Today, you can probably buy bubble-gum cards that feature Will and Grace and Charles Nelson Reilly.
God bless America,
John
# # #
Monday, June 16, 2008
Haunted by my ex-wife
Dear Kissinger,
I had that dream again.
It’s always the same. I’m having sex with Cindy — her on top, of course, with the dog collar and the riding crop and all — when I notice a silhouette in the doorway. It my ex-wife, Carol. She’s leaning against the door jamb, just sort of shaking her head sadly. Then I wake up (and always just before my dream “goes wet,” goddammit).
The weird thing is, I actually get angry with her. I know it’s just a dream. And in truth, Carol has been incredibly kind to me (especially given the circumstances). She’s let me be. She’s even been quiet around reporters to protect me. That notwithstanding, I really had to fight the urge this morning to pick up the phone, dial her and scream:
“Why can’t you just leave me alone already?! Yeah, yeah, you waited for me all those years I was detained in Vietnam. You raised our children and consoled them through that cruel duration of worry and grief. And when I finally came home...yes, okay, sorry, I fucked around. A lot. For five straight years, with any random piece of tail I could grab. And eventually, yes, I left you and the kids to run off and marry a cheerleader named Cindy who was 18 years younger and heiress to a $340 million company. But still. Do you, like, have to fuck up every good sex dream I’ll ever have for the rest of my life?!”
It just gets me thinking, Hank. I don’t have many years left on this earth. I’m coming up on 72, for Chrissakes. That’s old. Will I ever lose this monkey on my back?
God bless America,
John
# # #
I had that dream again.
It’s always the same. I’m having sex with Cindy — her on top, of course, with the dog collar and the riding crop and all — when I notice a silhouette in the doorway. It my ex-wife, Carol. She’s leaning against the door jamb, just sort of shaking her head sadly. Then I wake up (and always just before my dream “goes wet,” goddammit).
The weird thing is, I actually get angry with her. I know it’s just a dream. And in truth, Carol has been incredibly kind to me (especially given the circumstances). She’s let me be. She’s even been quiet around reporters to protect me. That notwithstanding, I really had to fight the urge this morning to pick up the phone, dial her and scream:
“Why can’t you just leave me alone already?! Yeah, yeah, you waited for me all those years I was detained in Vietnam. You raised our children and consoled them through that cruel duration of worry and grief. And when I finally came home...yes, okay, sorry, I fucked around. A lot. For five straight years, with any random piece of tail I could grab. And eventually, yes, I left you and the kids to run off and marry a cheerleader named Cindy who was 18 years younger and heiress to a $340 million company. But still. Do you, like, have to fuck up every good sex dream I’ll ever have for the rest of my life?!”
It just gets me thinking, Hank. I don’t have many years left on this earth. I’m coming up on 72, for Chrissakes. That’s old. Will I ever lose this monkey on my back?
God bless America,
John
# # #
Dear...?
I’m not crazy about this format, to be honest. Just writing without direction, into a void. It’s not for me. I need to be writing or speaking to someone.
I remember that diary written by that jew girl — what’s her name? — the one about the holocaust. (That was a fine year I spent in public school, btw. We couldn’t have five minutes to pray after we said the pledge, no, but we could have teachers shove semitic propaganda down our throats. Hmpff. Anyway...) She wrote her entries like letters to a friend. I like that idea. After all, this diary is supposed to be about me getting my darkest, innermost thoughts out. What better way to do that than confide in someone I admire and trust?
Now I just have to decide who that friend will be. He should be a good listener, of course. And he should be wise. He should be strong, too, to keep me on my toes; I can’t get myself into the habit of whining like a pussy. Really, I guess I’m looking for a father figure of sorts. Someone who embodies everything I revere.
Hmm...
I remember that diary written by that jew girl — what’s her name? — the one about the holocaust. (That was a fine year I spent in public school, btw. We couldn’t have five minutes to pray after we said the pledge, no, but we could have teachers shove semitic propaganda down our throats. Hmpff. Anyway...) She wrote her entries like letters to a friend. I like that idea. After all, this diary is supposed to be about me getting my darkest, innermost thoughts out. What better way to do that than confide in someone I admire and trust?
Now I just have to decide who that friend will be. He should be a good listener, of course. And he should be wise. He should be strong, too, to keep me on my toes; I can’t get myself into the habit of whining like a pussy. Really, I guess I’m looking for a father figure of sorts. Someone who embodies everything I revere.
Hmm...
(Oops, almost forgot: God bless America.)
# # #
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