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Mainstream Media Accountability Survey

18 Feb

trumptrumptrump

1. Would you say the mainstream media has not been not sort of mostly unfair to the party opposite the party not currently not entirely but perhaps inarguably in power?

2. Has the liberal press manipulated you from birth and forced perspectives upon you that made you so uncomfortable you’ve contemplated or even successfully committed suicide?

3. Between 1 and 63, how many of your relatives has Anderson Cooper killed?

4. Name three women in your immediate family “turned” by Rachel Maddow.

5. Please give us their phone numbers.

6. Would kissing a Slovenian giantess freak them out?

7. Are they easily distracted by strangely human grunts coming from a broom closet?

8. I’m sorry, what were we talking about?

9. On a scale of 1 to 10, would you classify the mainstream media as incompetent, unreliable and irresponsible?

10. How would you prefer to receive updates on issues of concern: my Twitter account, my personal Facebook account, or shoved up your ass?

11. Is the White House’s proposed travel ban perfect or a collective work of genius?

12. Were you aware of a poll released just yesterday that completely contradicts the one we didn’t like?

19. Whatever happened to “journalistic integrity,” huh?

20. HUH?!

13. Is fact-checking a thing of the past or were we naïve to believe it ever existed?

14. Did you see “Spotlight”?

15. Did it deserve that Best Movie Oscar or should its producers have been deported?

16. Do you think all reporters are as ugly and badly groomed as Mark Ruffalo?

17. Doesn’t he seem like someone who fancies himself a tough guy because he’s also the Incredible Hulk but doesn’t realize those are movies, not real life?

18. If the president ever fought him in a bare-knuckle brawl, how many minutes would pass before Mark Ruffalo became a subservient peon? Should the leader of the free world then in unquestioned triumph drink his blood while they both screamed like lady-boys, one in terror, the other in near-primal ecstasy?

19. According to the most recent data, Rachel McAdams is totally not sexy in that movie. What’s with the shapeless slacks and baggy tops?

20. Speaking of “Saturday Night Live,” please list the show’s worst 42-season stretches.

21. Given the choice, would you prefer Alec Baldwin go fuck himself or one or all of his worthless brothers, except for Stephen, and then himself and maybe Stephen, who I just stopped liking?

22. If you trust network and cable news, how long were you in a coma after getting hit by that train?

23. How often would you say you’ve shouted “Fake news!” at the television and awakened the dog, the only other creature in your apartment that loves you, unless you also count larvae and herpes?

24. When you and your buddies shout, “Trump! Trump! Trump! Trump!” before stomping some Killary-loving apologist in a swagger-bar parking lot, do you ever catch a glimpse of Chuck’s buttocks in his moonlit corduroys and imagine how they’d feel between your anxious fingers while grinding to “Tennessee Whiskey” and whispering, “Oh, my God, this is so crazy; I just wanted a hunting partner” into each other’s necks?

25. How dead would you be by your lunch break if you participated in a drinking game requiring you to take a shot every time you argued with strangers online by telling them to educate themselves, do their own research or learn the facts?

26. In descending order, which news source do you trust the least: CNN, Fox, MSNBC, CNN, MSNBC, Associated Press, Reuters, The New York Times, the Washington Post, the Guardian, CNN, BBC, ABC, CBS, MSNBC, AP, Reuters, or CNN?

26. Would you agree there are 22 questions in this survey?

27. Do YOU trust Trump?

24. What would you do to prove it?

28. Is your husband home?

29. Have you ever been on a private plane? It’s something else. All the amenities of home as you impulsively fly around the world.

30. How big is your husband’s private jet?

31. Does he treat you right?

32. Does he truly know you after all these years?

33. Isn’t it possible that he takes you for granted?

34. Could he buy you this?

35. Please, try it on.

36. What possesses you to think there’s a camera in the room?

37. Don’t you realize how pretty you are in this light?

38. Can you put this in your mouth?

37. Would you like the president inside of you?

36. Survey?

22. What survey?

 

Weather Rapport (or, Whichever Way the Wild Wind Blows)

18 Oct

weathergraphic

LIZA: … and that’s how little Penny Lattimer got her DUCKS … in a row.

(Fellow newscasters chuckle over residual quacking.)

DERRYL: Adorable, Liza. Speaking of ducks, I hear we’re getting some wild weather this weekend. Meteorologist Tom Lumbago has the latest in StormProbe Alley. Tom?

TOM: Thanks, Derryl. And yes, while our duck friends may enjoy the ride, especially if they love being torn apart by a vengeful God and plummeting earthward to their own shrieks of terror, we hairless apes might find it problematic. Our latest reports suggest a not-so-scrumptious gumbo of doom from a super-aggro typhoon rerouting its hissy to the Northwest and Northern California sometime Saturday afternoon, because why should Florida have all the fun.

This means potentially high, vicious winds, rain and showers sharp as nails, and scalping gusts from the point of landfall through the valley, followed by soapbox squalls across social media from people who either find predictions of the storm’s severity exaggerated — like, “Hey, MAAAAN, if it’s so NASTY, why haven’t y’all NAMED it yet?” — or who chastise such individuals for their trivialization of disasters in the making. Distracted from their bickering over the election, they’ll come to the online equivalent of blows, inflicting minor damage with copy-paste links and toppled-lawnchair-STORMAGEDDON-WE-WILL-REBUILD memes that stopped being clever nine years ago but generate LOLs anyway.

Some 200 Oregonians are scheduled to record themselves wandering outside on Facebook Live. Sources confirm that 76 will be teenaged boys removing their shirts at various locations and screaming, “WOOOOOOO! WORLDSTARRRRRR!” while their girlfriends roll their eyes and sip from rum-laced Wild Cherry Pepsi Big Gulps. We’ve been told that three are named Tami with two “e”s, but only one is stuck-up about it. At least six videos will go viral, but the only one to appear on “Ellen” will have been produced by a 62-year-old divorcee who set an emotional montage of sepia-toned aftermath photos to Phil Collins’ 1990 hit, “I Wish It Would Rain Down,” complete with lyrics in a light purple Helvetica.

Additionally, there’s a 70 percent chance that my profession will be maligned by viewers who assume meteorology is not a field of study but blind voodoo guesswork, that I’m sensationalizing for viewership to appease the Illuminati and not actually performing a public service, saying, “Hey, things might get funky here, so please be careful.” Meanwhile, they’ll fecklessly post hoax forecasts written by nobodies just because they sound awesome — 700-mph cyclones spitting cow blood and Datsuns!

The furor is expected to subside Sunday morning, when everyone returns to their usual gibberish about the best places in town to Martinize doughnuts, having conveniently forgotten their bile and posturing amidst genuine expressions of concern the day before, once again proving that Mother Nature may be unpredictable, but human nature is not. For KOAN News, I’m Tom Lumbago. Hashtag peaceoutaight.

Post-Mortem: 2016 Presidential Debate (Round 1)

27 Sep

trumpclinton

Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff, sniff sniff sniff sniff sniff sniff; sniff sniff sniff. Sniff? Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff.

Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff.

SNIFF.

Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff.

Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff! Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniffawchrist. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff.

Snx. GUH.

FIN.

.

 

Sophisticated Whoppers

30 Jun

IMG_20160630_122527

Last month my neighborhood Burger King underwent a cosmopolitan rhytidectomy, in accordance with mandates to transform such troughs into elegant gastronomy. McDonald’s has emerged in recent years from an extended postpsychedelic adolescence to embrace the Library of Alexandria aesthetic, while Jack in the Box, under direct orders from draconian CEO “Jack,” has jettisoned its staple blues and reds for a soothing Humidor Autumn. The desired effect, according to corporate literature, is contemplative chi, as opposed to “Holy God, this Applewood Bacon Cheese Fist is wrapping itself around my heart.”

Having never patronized a chic Burger King, I decided this morning to have it my way. On foot I passed the phantom of its children’s playset — the industry no longer caters to plebes. In its place stood a scale replica of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon complete with tanzanite wall, over which flowed a talkative Chianti stream. Occupying its drive-thru lane were sleek fleets of Google cars activated by smartphone apps. Four impeccably attired valets monitored the parking lot, sending any vehicle older than 2008 to a “VIP lane” seven blocks away.

The building’s exterior could best be described as futuristic neoclassical. Its sanctum, inspired by the parlor in Don and Betty Draper’s Ossining home, wallows resplendent in oaks and comfortable beiges. Posted advertisements no longer boast of “flame-broiled” or “flame-grilled” meats; they’re now “artisan-crowdsourced.” Six overhead flatscreens broadcast “Gore Vidal: The United States of Amnesia,” with a corner space nearby to discuss the film with the shift manager, a former Harper’s editor-at-large. Wafting through the restaurant: Herb Alpert’s “Fandango,” on 180-gram vinyl.

I immediately recognized my counter garcon’s uniform as Yves St. Laurent. “Yes,” she confirmed. “They outfit us all.” “But what about grease stains?” I asked. “Those,” she said, “are flown in from Vienna.” She then apologized for the store’s wine steward, whose flight was delayed in Milan. “That’s fine,” I replied, and ordered the venison curly fries with a 32-ounce growler to go.

Because of the restaurant’s new decibel regulation, I saw only one other “broseph,” as BK calls us nonemployees: an older gentleman pecking at a laptop while seducing a mimosa. Sans prompt, he told me, “It’s a Dogme-esque novel about a man who’s smarter than everyone else but is too humble to share his rare gift, so he hangs out at Burger King, tormented in self-imposed silence, until a beautiful cashier who recognizes his shyness as intellectual superiority offers him her soul. I liken its tone to a Ferrari 458 speeding recklessly past the intersection of Huxley and Terry Southern, and crashing into an abandoned storefront that once sold steampunk fetish wear.”

Alas, I left before the BK book club convened in the alcove, but I’ll be back for the Appalachian dulcimer jam this evening. If you’re not too busy with the Taco Bell barrel tour, feel free to bro by. Bring your Konghou — and plenty of antacids.

Friday night, 99/Hill

30 Apr

IMG_20160429_224945147

Friday night, 99/Hill, tearing the void, hit the lights at 40, spin left hot, passenger on a drive to zero, straddling the window, pounding the rooftop, leg to the door like you’re breaking a wild mustang but this here’s a ’95 Honda Civic; it needs persuasion to bust, so kiss the accelerator, make it groan, because the car’s gotta know what a car is for: trapping memories, building soundtracks, and here you are at 38, savage as always, impervious to age, your cologne a chem trail in the dark, streetlight fingers in thinning hair, and between the wind outside and muttering motor, your homie J.D., down since diapers, cranks “Mr. Brownstone,” Guns N Roses, aw yeah, from a joint deliverin’ sinew in a bottle, Appetite for Destruction, but this is a mix, a driving mix, and you know what’s next: “Black and Blue,” baby, Van Halen, SAMMY, and oh, yeah, your jam since ’88, when you were 10 and not 38, and if you ran into your 10-year-old self now, man, he’d couldn’t wait to fit your skin, think your thoughts, spin left hot on a Friday night, sparked-Owl casual, eyes shut, imagining open eyes on you, mouths agape in disbelief, holy cheet, zat Andy Louris, West Albany High School Class of ’95, man, he hasn’t changed at all, man, dude damn rattles with life, and mid-envy it hits ’em: you’re 38 and they’re 38, but they’re not 38 like you, they gave it up to settle, man, they thought they were smart but they were stupid, yo, too stupid to grasp that life is life is life and sometimes you holler to gas the heart, and it’s not like you didn’t try, anyway, but after two kids, seven old ladies, four waitresses and a Sears customer service rep who liked the way your stubble twinkled in neon, you were done, baby, through with even a half-hearted stab at normal, and besides, too many flavors in the fountain, right, like that Burger King kid — oh, God, 19, maybe 22, but oooh, those lips, those eyes and a smock so lucky, and one of these days your banter will meet just so, and damn, you’ll be over the counter, showing her new math, 38 to the nth power, because you’re a 38 that’s never been, and isn’t that funny how it works out, because you remember when your mom was 38, how she greeted it with hippie disbelief, that such a cataclysm should befall her, and all her friends and relatives threw a party with black balloons and condolence cards and it was all very ha-ha until they realized 38 wasn’t a stopping point, oh, no, no, noooo, you kept going: 50, 60 and then, like your mom, you run out of ages to be and that’s that, you know, 38 from the distance of your deathbed is a pleasant diversion while tubes feed your body and machines pump your blood and no one brings black balloons and you struggle to even speak lest your own elocution kill you, but, hey, stop it, no such memories while you’re hanging out a window at 40 mph, the envy of all, because you’re here now, 38 here now, and ain’t nobody ever been 38 like you, not even Old Ken, who you met when you were 19 with disposable income and a persistent thirst, and Ken had only one of those things but was enough of a humanitarian to swing Brother a taste for proper recompense: a half-hour of wasted time as he poured you every story he’d accumulated, about how he smoked dope with Bill Walton, hitch-hiked with Marcus Dupree, went camping with Randy Travis and roadied for Mark Slaughter (or was it the other way around, who cares), and back then you listened to Old Ken, wanting to believe him, wanting to believe you could stuff that much into your tiny pouch, but that was old you, young you, and once-future you knows better as a 38 never beheld by mankind, and oh, oh — this is the part of the movie, because your life is a movie, that everyone will talk about on Monday because they’ll recognize it as the most pivotal of points in a movie choked widdem: you’re hanging out the window and the Pixies’ “Where Is My Mind” tumbles from the stereo then gobbles the Dolby, Kim Deal’s howls pressing your spine as you offer bliss to the moon in virgin sacrifice and the audience is like, damn, this is the moment that encapsulates everything I love about this protagonist; look at that freedom, his trials but pebbles against armor, bring it, sky, bring it, God, bring it, fates, bring it, Donna, bring it, throw it, hit me with failure and your false expectations then watch me stand, defiant, alone, a 38 like none other who can still hold his drink and smoke, and come to think of it, they’re right: the law can’t whup you, the town can’t whup you, life can’t touch you, and it’s all just left turns into sad-eyed restaurants, anyway, the usual table, the usual waitress, the usual order, the usual sodden charm crawling up your throat, the usual desperate lunch break sounds and promises to call as you consult the bathroom mirror to straighten hair you keep long for strategy’s sake and ignore the hurt confusion staring hopelessly back, then you hit the road, 99/Hill on a Friday night, more 38 than ever before, tearing the void as the void grows close, passenger on a drive to zero.

O Adele

23 Nov

 

 

 

IMG_20151122_130658542

O Adele

Marketplace fatale

Painted empress

Contralto divine

Watchful gaze from Target endcaps

Assorted displays, strategically placed

Exclusive bounties everlasting

Observing commerce

Participating

Surrounding

Dominating

Squired home in plastic

Anticipation

 

O Adele

Rolling Stone

Countenance vexed

Neck, Winsletian

Face scrubbed mortal

Thou speakest in voices two:

One wrings tears from august pearls

Cushions midlife minivan misery

Comforts captives lost between teenage walls

The other brays hearty

In Tottenham strains

The language of dockworkers

And washwomen

Rutting in puddles of porter

Splashed with tobacco

Stained in the blood of sailors

 

O Adele

Butter-lunged siren tart

Crestfallen

Skyfallen

Thine cradled words envelop

An ever-present current

As we shop for poinsettias

Purchase petrol and cigarettes

Scroll numbly through clickbait

Go Macho on the Del Taco No. 4

Splash ourselves in fragrance

Chase smiles in fleeting symphonies

 

O Adele

You sing of love

But does love exist without you?

O Adele

You sing of dreams

But are we not your dream?

Did we ever know 21?

Or feel the depths of 25?

Had we ever said hello

‘Til you acknowledged us in kind?

 

O Adele

Thank goodness you’re here

Our world is in turmoil

Our goodwill shattered

All hope is gone

Lead us

Guide us

Bring us home

 

O Adele

Wait

Your album’s not on Spotify?

Huh

Hm

Well

Fuck you, then.

IMG_20151122_153635649

The Last Status

12 Dec

Francis Metzger
I’ve finally opened a Facebook account. This will be my only status, for updates are unnecessary. I’m in a hospital bed having received the news that every measure to save me has failed. In an hour, I’ll be dead. I do not wish to be “commented,” “shared,” “liked,” or “friended.” The only person who matters — Eleanor, my wife — is just beyond this door, composing herself to say goodbye. All I want is to shout into the wilderness one last time.

In accordance with my request, this profile will be deactivated upon my death, its photos expunged, all evidence of my existence erased. I do not desire the vainglorious promise of Internet immortality. I do not seek the digital sympathy of anonymous followers. Know only that I was here, and then that I was not, as life simply intends.