Sunday, March 25, 2007

Stephen Colbert calls Dems pussies - Remind me to tell you about the time that I killed Osama ibn Laden

Remind me to tell you sometime about the time that I killed Osama ibn Laden. Its a funny story invovling mistaking the book by Neil Strauss called "The Game" for some book that Zbigniew Brzezinski told me to read about "the Great Game". I wasn't really listening because his secretary was hot, and bringing around the coffees about the time I was told how to prepare for my mission.

So after a fashion I ended up seducing Osama ibn Laden, whose name really spells out "OiL", not "UBL" as some loud voices in the Administration insisited on calling him. Wars for "OiL" tend to get protesters out in the street, but a war on UBL was more saleable to the unwashed masses.

Anyway, the many variations of the "neg" that I used on ibn Laden, chiefly about his beard, or pretending to pluck larger and larger pieces of lint out of his beard during our long afternoon teas, is what caused his ego to totally be destroyed, and for him to go to greater and greater lengths to seek my approval. He became putty in my hands. One afternoon, after lots of insipidly sweet green tea mixed with Tang, and a massage, I managed to hack his head off with a rusty machete and pack it out of there in hatbox.

I donated my $25 million reward to researchers working on "cruelty-free" beard care products that don't do any animal testing... a small outfit located in southeastern Cuba.

I'll be here all week, be sure to tip your server...

Seriously, though, I am not sure that stuff from the Strauss book, like "negs", should ever be used in Minnesota, because the standard of beauty here is so different. I feel bad, I ended up negging some poor, probably sweet girl tonight, who either had a surpringly strong bitch shield, was hallucinating that I had "touched her skirt". I make it a point to not touch a girl at all when I am dancing, unless she touches me first, and I usually end up with some amazingly hot and sweaty, and conventionally beautiful, girl collapsing and gyrating in my arms and twisting her hips against my hips. I didn't touch this girl, but she followed me off of the dancefloor with her friend, and complained about it.

In this case it was a girl that was "Garrison Keilor" beautiful, a big blond, ox-like and strong, like you might find in some idyllic small northern prairie town, a clone of Lake WoBeGone, like Twin Valley, or Climax.

I hit her with the IOD first, the "indicator of disinterest", telling her I didn't touch her skirt, because I am gay. Then I hit her with the "neg", that I didn't find her attractive, despite the fact that she was "mannish". I turned my back and started walked away, with the over the shoulder admission that I really wasn't gay, that I was just fucking with her.

Then I went and danced for the rest of the night with the conventionally beautiful girls, the ones that could really dance like they just popped out out of an MTV video, or more likely, a shift at Deja Vue. Boring.

I'll take the girl who can push my car out of a snowdrift any day, after all, this is Minnesota.

Disclosure: I first heard about the Strauss book, and Mystery from an Al Franken radio podcast, so I have to say that balances out hearing the hype about faux progressive and complete asshat, I mean "sexy, sexy wonk", David Sirota.

Like wonks can dance, or hold their own in drunken shit tests with big Minnesota farmgirls who also can't really dance. How I love them. I suppose deep emotional wounds administered causually like that prove that I would be soulful lover, or that I should move out to LA as soon as I can raise the bus fare. Not that it matters. Not at all.

I am literally descended from clipper ship captains. I am married to the sea.


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