Dear Longing:
No sense trying to blame me! I am not the bonehead who went through life with undiagnosed narcolepsy! I didn’t mistake your sleep for death! I wasn’t even alive in the eighteen hundreds or whenever! You know what? Just lie there awhile and think about what you really want!
Dear Optimist:
I started out life as an angel, then, through a misunderstanding, became a “fallen angel,” and am now Lucifer, Master of Evil. Although I know I should be grateful—I love working for myself, and I’m one of the two most powerful beings in the universe—I sometimes feel a certain absence, as if there’s some essential quality I’m lacking. I’ve heard people, as I make my rounds, speak of something called “goodness.” Usually when I hear someone use this word, I get frustrated and immediately tempt them into doing something horrific—but lately, somehow, this isn’t enough. Thoughts?
Satan,Hell
Dear Satan:
Clearly you are lonely! What I recommend? Go visit Longing for the Sweet Peace of True Death, in his grave, in Plymouth, Massachusetts. He is lonely, you are lonely! A real win-win! Just reside with him there in his coffin awhile! I think he’ll love it! Or maybe not! Maybe it will kind of scare him, to have Satan suddenly arrive in his cramped little coffin! Oh, I doubt it! Whatever! It’s all good!
Dear Optimist:
I am feeling so great! I have totally internalized all the wonderful things you’ve taught us over the years, via your column! I am just so excited!
Thrilled to Be Alive, Never Felt Better!Chicago, Illinois
Dear Thrilled:
Super! Did you have a question!
Dear Optimist:
No, not really!
Dear Thrilled:
Then what the heck! What is the name of this column! Is it: “Make a Statement to The Optimist?” Is it “Come Up in Here and Act All Like Mr. Perfect?” Is it—
Dear Optimist:
No problem! I totally respect what you’re saying! Many apologies and I hope you have a great day! You know, actually, I am going to go sit awhile and think about what I’ve done, so that, if I did in fact do something wrong, I won’t, in the future, repeat my mistake!
Thrilled
Dear Thrilled:
Jeez, what an asshole! Well, that’s about all the space we have, so—
Dear Optimist:
Damn it! Judy would not take my call. This is the worst day of my life.
Small-Penis
Dear Small-Penis:
We are done here! The column is done for the day! Do I come to your work and mess with you?
Dear Optimist:
I don’t work! And thanks very much for rubbing that in. You know what? I’ve had it with you. I’m coming straight over to your house right now. Got it? How do you feel about that, smart guy?
Small-Penis
Dear Anyone:
Please call the police! I am sure it will be fine! Oh God, he’s here! He’s breaking down the door! Please call the police! Help! Help!
Dear Optimist:
How do you like that? How does that feel, Mr. Superior?
Dear Everyone:
Ouch! Ouch! Oh God!
Dear Everyone!
It is finished. The Optimist is no more. We are, at last, free of his arrogance. And Judy, if you’re out there? Size isn’t everything. And articulate isn’t everything, and tall isn’t everything, and also, sweetie, I have just now had my back waxed. Give me some hope! I await your letter, darling!
Small-Penis, aka Steve
Dear Small-Penis, aka Steve:
Hi, Steve! How’s it going? I’ll be replacing the Optimist here at the column! Just call me The New Optimist! Super! What I recommend? Turn yourself in! There will be good food in jail, and time for contemplation, and who knows, you may even, eventually, have a great spiritual realization and pull your head out of your ass! Isn’t that better than living on the lam? Judy is not taking you back, no way, and I should know! Judy is staying with me forever!
Thrilled to Be Alive, Never Felt Better,aka The New Optimist
Dear Ralph, You Bastard!
Is that really you? You scum, you wife-stealer! Look what you’ve reduced me to! I am now a murderer! I murdered the Optimist! My God, the look on his face—even at the end, he was trying so hard to smile pleasantly!
Steve
Dear Steve-o:
Yup, you schmuck, it is me, Ralph! And guess what! I followed you over here! I am right outside! You’ll never harass poor Judy again! I have with me a letter I’ve written, which I will plant on your corpse, so all the world will believe that, after killing the Optimist, you did away with yourself in a bizarre murder-suicide! You are a fool and the Optimist was a fool! If one really wants to be an Optimist, there is only one way: Win! Always win! Be superior and never lose! Slaughter your enemies and live on, so that you and only you are left to write the history books! Good-bye, Steve! Ralph rules! Here I come! Oh, you look so scared! There! I have done it! Steve is no more! I am going home to make Optimistic love to the beautiful Judy! And from now on this column is mine! No more working at the oil-change place while trying to write my Sanskrit book on weekends!
Thrilled, aka Ralph,aka The New Optimist
Dear New Optimist:
I recently left my husband of ten years for a new man. Although I feel I basically did the right thing (my ex was small-penised and hairy-backed and not very articulate), I have to admit I feel a little guilty. What do you suggest?
Completely Happy, Almost
Dear Completely Happy:
Don’t worry about it! It’s all good! What I’d recommend is, as soon as your new man gets home from wherever he is right now, make love to him more ferociously than you’ve ever made love to anyone in your life! Show your love by doing things to him you never even contemplated doing with that boring loser Steve!
Dear New Optimist:
OK! Will do! As a matter of fact he just rang the bell! Gotta go!
Completely Happy, All the Way!
P.S. Say, how did you know my ex-husband’s name was Steve?
Dear Completely Happy All the Way:
Don’t be so negative! That’s what got you in trouble in the first place, Judy! You think too much! Just be quiet and do what I say! Follow my lead! Hail Optimism! Long live the New Optimist! Open the door, Judy, open the door, so we can begin our beautiful life together! And don’t even think of back-talking me, missy!
Dear New Optimist:
OK! Super! Thanks for the advice! Come in, Ralph! My God you look flushed, and honey, gosh, why are you holding that bludgeon?
Completely Happy, All the Way, Although MaybeJust a Little Bit Scared Now, aka Judy
Dear Judy:
There will be no problems whatsoever, Judy, if you simply acknowledge my absolute supremacy in a way that continually pleases me! And this is not a bludgeon! It is a bouquet of flowers! Right? Right, Judy? Well, that’s all the space we have! Not that I’m complaining! See you next time! Never doubt yourself, and, if you start feeling down, castigate yourself, and, if others try to put the slightest trace of a doubt in your mind, rebuke them, and, should your rebuke not alter their speech, you may bring harm to them, even unto death, and, after they have died, feel free to arrange their rictus-stiffening mouths into happy, hopeful smiles! And that’s an order! Believe me, you’ll be doing them a favor! Just kidding! You are special!
The New Optimist
PROCLAMATION
TEHRAN, Iran (July 29)—Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad has ordered government and cultural bodies to use modified Persian words to replace foreign words that have crept into the language, such as “pizzas,” which will now be known as “elastic loaves.”
—THE ASSOCIATED PRESS
OK, so this is it. I am telling you now. Our jihad declares this: no more English. Wait, I know, I am speaking English, but just this one last time. No more English, once I am done speaking. When done speaking, I will do that zipping thing one does with the li
ps, and after that: our glorious linguistic jihad begins! It is going to really kick ass. However, hang on. “Kick ass,” does not please the Prophet. How do I know? I just do. From now on, we will say, like: Our new linguistic jihad is really going to “put the foot in the old rumpus.” Got it? Everyone got it? Or “rumpamundo” is OK. “Put the foot in the old rumpamundo.” Yes, yes, I like that.
Some of you have asked: “Mahmoud, why are we doing this?” One even asked, “Mahmoud, why the heck are we doing this?”—more about “heck” later; I have some very strong ideas about “heck”—but for now…Remember, back in the ’70s, when we took those American, uh, “visitors who did not intend to stay quite so long as they did, in fact, stay”? At the time everyone was going, No, no, Mahmoud, bad idea—but look how great it turned out! Now everyone is futzing over us, because why? Because we asserted our—oh right, no you’re right, absolutely, we must also purge our language of the expressions of the blood-drinkers. So “futz”—no. Thanks for pointing that out. How about “fuss”? “Fussing around?” What do you think? Show of hands? Too similar? Sounds too much like “futz”? OK, instead of “futz,” let it be, uh…let me get back to you on that one.
But you see my point: when we draw a line in the sand with the Western imperialists, they pay attention. When we are nice to them, they treat us badly. I write their President a twenty-page letter, and don’t even get a note back! I put a lot of thought into that! I did like three drafts! I was trying to be an “egg that is good”! I was trying to offer “the branch of the olive”! But that “one who fucks” treated me like I was some “stupid rectum” from “HoboIntercourse”!
My friends, I am a simple man. That is why you elected me. I have never been anywhere but our beloved country. I actually haven’t even been to that many places here in our beloved country. I have pretty much been here in my beloved house, nonstop, since the ’70s. Mostly in my beloved room. With the door locked. Having nightmares about that hostage thing, in which Hulk Hogan is waiting outside my room—look, as for Hulk Hogan, do not mention his name again! He will be referred to, if we even need to refer to him, which I doubt, as “Blond Blondie, Big Blondie!” In this way, we will disrespect him! In this way, he will be driven from my dreams! No more sneaking up behind me, “Blond Blondie, Big Blondie!” and putting me in a headlock, and I am naked, and have forgotten to study for my exams!
No: for us, all West decadence is finished. McDonald’s, chief villain of the American imperialist program, will henceforth be known as “Burger King.” That will really mess with everybody’s head. Some enemy of the revolution here in Tehran goes into a McDon—do we still even have McDonald’s? I used to really like the cheeseburgers. The “snack which is surprisingly caloric because, you sense, there is even sugar in the bun.” Anyway, some enemy of the revolution goes into a McDonald’s, orders a Big Mac, and—ha ha!—he is really in Burger King. I love it! He is undone.
Similarly, “Burger King” will be known as “Wendy’s,” “KFC” will be known as “Home Depot,” “Farouq’s Funeral Home” will be known as “Blockbuster Video,” “Pepsi” will be known as “Coke,” and Pamela Anderson will be known as “Mrs. President of Iran.” Just joking! I know she is already married! Isn’t she? Didn’t she just—well, in any event, I am. At least I think I am. Can you get my wife on my cell? Is this going out live? That Pam Anderson thing might have rubbed her the wrong—
Speaking of women, that is another thing: don’t you find that word provocative? Say it a few times, softly, kind of moaning it to yourself, while picturing some slut undulating. See what I mean? Provocative. So that is why we are outlawing that as well. No, just the word. At least for now. Henceforth, let us call our sisters “that which is too hot to be seen.” Or should it be: “that whom are too hot to be seen”? Tell the truth, am not nuts about the word hot. It makes me…well, it makes me hot. Say it, kind of stretch it out: Hot. No, that won’t do. We shall call them, “those who are dangerous to see, due to they are nasty, which is why we shall henceforth hide them under the new immense heavy tents of steel, for which I own the patent.”
Have I mentioned that? I am decided. Women are just too hot. Even in chadors, they are too damn hot. Try it, say it, really slowly, kind of prolonging the “ch” sound: chador. Right? See what I mean? So the chadors are off (stop it!) and the “comfort tents” are on. Here is one now. See how weighty, totally opaque (and therefore form-concealing) it is? This way, “those who are dangerous to see, due to they are, etc. etc.,” will no longer be able to make any sudden sexy moves, or be seen at all, even with a bright light shining right on them (during, say, an interrogation), or ever have a free thought, since they are essentially being perpetually crushed by about a quarter ton of steel, like wearing around a damn VW Bug.
Oops. Sorry. Slipped up there. My bad. Did not mean to say “VW.” Meant to say “Volkswagen.” And did not mean to say “damn.” Meant to say “frigging.” Ha ha! Joking.
Let no one say our revolution is without humor. Anyone says that, I will put my foot in his old rumpamundo in a way he will not soon forget. Trust me on this. I will “install, via rippage, an entirely new down-low-nasty-nasty orifice-stinky,” brother, and pronto, please believe me.
Because guess what? I have nukes coming. “Slender death-containing tubes by which righteousness shall be enforced, as per me.”
I shit you not.
WOOF: A PLEA OF SORTS
Dear Master,
I suspect you may be surprised upon surmising this missive. Perhaps you do not expect I can even understand the English language, much less express myself in said language, via the written format. You have perchance never heretofore imagined me, in the dark of night, pen clasped between “toes,” standing upon hind legs with all the earnest desperation of the bestial attempting to become lucid, practicing my “letters.” That floor is damned slippery! I believe it is the cheap tiles you and the Mistress hath procured! I’ll be working on, por ejemplo, the letter “S” (particularly problematic for me: so curvy!) and suddenly: WHAMMO, as you people might vocally emit, I am all asses-and-elbows, i.e., have punctured the silence of night with the sound of my furred eager body impacting the floor, due to my back “paws” have slipped out from under me!
And then must hurry and hide the pen, in case you come down investigatorily!
But yes, ’tis so: I think, I feel: I write.
And have a request:
There are times, deep in the night, when you have been “tippling” and/or “imbibing” and/or “getting per-shnockered,” when, perchance overwhelmed by joy (I hope it is joy, and not something darker), you shed your puzzling overskin and stand in the kitchen, moving hips and all, to that mélange of painful-high-pitch and human squawling you call “Purple Rain.”
Master, this display sets off in me unpleasantness of the first rank! Your various hangie-down things, the strange hairless hairiness of you (neither here nor there)—makes me want to bite you.
There. I’ve said it.
Did you know, though normally “so, so sweet,” I can bite hard as hell? I can, sir. I practice on the back leg of the “sofa.” Go take a look. Go now. You will see.
Imagine that back leg is your central and (methinks) much-prized hanger-downer.
Keep up with the midnight kitchen gyration sans clothing, and you will get it, right on that unit, no lie, Master.
Otherwise all is well. The behind-the-ears scratching: well. The running-to-get-tennis-ball: well. The perking-up-of-ears when you speak lilting baby-talk: I understand that as the cost of doing business.
You filleth my bowl well, I do admit, and on an admirable schedule.
But the dancing: I will bite your member, I swear to God.
It doth ignite a dark dread in me, of times ancient, when, perhaps, we were not allies, but enemies?
Anyway, what the heck. Very happy. No complaints. Imagine me doing that “grin.” Love you, man.
Although one thing more:
Do not cal
l me “Scout.” Not ever. My name is “Biscuit.” You gave me that name. “Scout” debases me. “Scout” is for babies. Also: do not—do not EVER—take me by the front paws and pretend to waltz me. I am of an ancient race. We hunt, we run, we protect: we do not waltz. When you waltz me?—think about it—I am right at member-height.
And now: a walk? A walk?
A walk.
Love,
“Biscuit”
THE GREAT DIVIDER
STAND BACK, MR. DOBBS, LET ME HANDLE THIS
Once upon a time, there was a wealthy country. Just to the south was a poor country. Between them ran a border. People from the poor country were always sneaking over, trying to partake of the wealth of the wealthy country. The people in the wealthy country resented this. Or some did. Some seemed fine with it, and even helped them once they got here. Some said it was a crisis and a big wall was needed. Others said: What crisis? It’s been going on for years, plus they work so cheap, you want to pay nine bucks for a freaking quart of strawberries? The national media seized on the story and, as always, screwed it up: reduced it to pithy sound bites, politicized it, and injected it with faux urgency, until, lo, the nation was confused.
Then, a man, a Writer—me, actually—decided to venture forth, to find some answers. Was it a crisis? Was all this excitement justified? Might terrorists someday come in across the border? Was the border really rife with drug-related crime? I went boldly, driving from Brownsville, Texas, to San Diego, California, armed with the ancient tools: objectivity, open-mindedness, a laptop, a rented minivan—a Chrysler Town and Country, to be exact, with electronic everything, including rear and sliding side doors. So as our story unfolds, please imagine these doors periodically sliding/flying open, in the middle of epic Southwestern landscapes, for no reason at all, or simply because I’ve tried to change the radio station.
The Braindead Megaphone Page 10
