Trump

Takin’ a spin on a Gigolo +PLUS+ Didja notice…?

There exists online a European-based hook-up site for gay

men called “Recon” – recon as in reconnaissance, as in gay men meeting up online to do offline, and sometimes even online, what only we can do; and if you examine the links closely you will soon find an invitation to visit their online store.  (“Shop till you pop?”)

Follow that link, Murgatroyd, and once in their store you’ll find, among the jock straps and cock rings and puppy costumes made of rubber—I know—and lube, and ball gags fit for a queen, a product called, with that certain European flair, “F-Machine Gigolo”, and I’m just guessing that “The One and Only Acme Butt Bandit” didn’t make it through the branding brainstorm.

Please remove your unoccupied hand from your eyes to see the image on this page, an image which you will, by the way, never be able to forget, ever.

This is when “je ne sais quoi” becomes “je sais very well indeed quoi! Taber-NAK!!”

F Machine Gigolo

Hey, Big Spender! Who’s a naughty 2017?

Ze F-Machine Gigolo, she is, ‘ow do you zay, quite ze va va voom, ja?

Ja! Und sie also sells for 399 Euros, not including the probably helpful F-Machine Anchor, and the obviously almost stupidly important F-Machine Suction Base Universal Adapter with USB port.

We all knew that boys and their toys were a sublimation of sex; now it seems we’re advanced enough to dispense with the sublimation and get right to the, as it were, shameless meat and potatoes.

Can’t you just hear them over at “Fred’s Garage and Live Bait Open 24/7 Closed Sunday” :

Jim:   Sweet F-Machine Gigolo, dude!
Fred:  Frickin’ AWESOME!
Bert:  Sweet ride, man!

Which may give “take her for a spin” a “hole” new meaning.

Geddit!?  “Hole”?!!!?? L M Friggin’ A O!

(Secondary bonus: Martha Stewart reports that your F-Machine Gigolo makes short work of the twenty-six egg whites you’ve been saving for meringue in a Tupperware container in the fridge, just the ticket for those “Floating Islands” you’ll never in a million years do anything but aspire to.  TIP: Remember to Wet Wipe first! Yowza!)

You know, and can I just say, seriously.  I was trying to come up with a way to describe the year 2017, to distill its essence; to find solace, as does a sub under the bull-whip, in a metaphor that would encompass its sleazily impersonal yet obnoxiously persistent modus operandi; then I casually clicked on that store link and—!  Whaddaya know! Eureka!

I have found my metaphor, distilled my essence, and she is beautiful, to wit:

Two thousand seventeen is a lean, mean, bend-you-over-against-your-will, spread-those-cheeks-and-prepare-to-die fucking machine. (And the white girls sing: Oh, yes it is, uh-huh, uh-huh, oh yes it is.)

Take America.  Please.  Shoved face first to the sawdust-strewn floor of the bar by Trump, pants yanked down.  Prepare to die, America!  You ARE Korean bar-b-q, extra kimchi version! Crank that Gigolo up to HIGH!

Two thousand seventeen is, first and foremost, the year of Trump. TR-R-R-R-UMP! The name rolls off the tongue like that unchewable wad of gristle from a cheap cut of steak that you can’t swallow but still can’t bring yourself to spit into your napkin.

Well. At least he survived the second disaster of his Presidency.  The first being, you know.  His Presidency.

Hurricane Harvey strikes, answering the diabolic chants of every gay male in every coven from Salem to Esalen; Melania, ever devout, petitions Saint Manolo of Blahnik to intercede. And while we’re on that topic: Was there a conversation before their departure for Texas?  Something along these lines?

Hey Mel. Mel?”

“Yeah, what?”

“It’s the shoes. The six-inch stilettos. The hooker heels. With the Capri pants.”

“Yeah, what?”  

“How much did I spend on that.”

“You like, baby?”

“They’re fucking awesome.” 

“This I am also thinking.”

Admirably suppressing any pesky brain cells that might get in the way of his being irrelevant, Trump rhapsodizes about hurricane water:  “This is big water!  The biggest water ever! So much water! It’s like frickin’ ten infinity pools at Mara-Lago!  This is just— so much the biggest water! Than was ever seen! Ya know? Like, check out this water! Lotsa water! WOW!”

Gettysburg Address, I Have a Dream, Ask Not What Your Country Can Do For You? Keep your Lincoln Memorial, I see in its place Donald’s Water Speech carved on a plinth, topped with an inflatable Trump, as if there were any other kind, rendered by Jeff Koons in 24-carat gold.

As in art, so in politics: If you’re a hideous and hideously expensive joke, a 24-carat balloon, everything depends on how many people you can fool, and there’s a helluva lot of fools in the U. S. of A.

trump-0cbb608c-6e23-4639-9e35-a301f82f6f65

Margaret Atwood and Doug Ford?

But back to me <heaves audible sigh of relief> and my insular yet glamorous Toronto life of rent tribunals, NSF charges that are bigger than the actual payment I missed, and being the hostage in home invasions.  How I find the time to twirl my big toe in the dirt and weave those garlands of daisies, I’ll never know!

I’m seriously post-trauma. At least, I will be when I figure out when one trauma ends and the next begins. The sound of the bedroom door chunking open like a missile silo at Cape Canaveral to blast Roommate # 335a into my face, and the metallic slap of the mail slot against my front door after it vomits another unpayable bill on to my porte-cochère set my heart to pounding and my blood pressure spiking like Oprah’s weight, but without the soothing mud mask that helps her forget. Impending strokes are my cardio, though given the choice, I’d sooner implode.

“Let me guess, 805?” snarls my super to my buddy, caught walking while black, who has decided to follow another tenant inside instead of ringing up.  I realize that, to Timbercreek Property Management, I am the living Christ: Their personal put-upon scapegoat in cheap sandals that taketh on the sins of the world. I can just about live with it as a final phase.

The next day, a car jumps the concrete barrier to the underground parking at my building and crashes; I contemplate sending a note to management apologizing just in case I actually did cause it. It feels quite possible. I’m looking a lot like Carrie White these days, all drab hair and bald spots, cardboard shoes and unchanged panty pads. Ashtrays vibrate on the corners of desks at my approach.

There’s more. The rental office tells a prospective roommate that my apartment is the source of cockroaches for the building. The source! I am forced to write to them stating in no uncertain terms that I’m far too busy dealing with my own roaches to supply the other tenants. They will unfortunately have to provide their own.  Score: Dave, 1.

Next, we top the Danish open-faced sandwich of public life with yet another steaming-hot curlicue of horror, this being the announcement by Doug Ford that he has decided not to spare us the inevitable. Yes, he will run for Mayor of FordNation!

Well, puncture my toe with a rusty nail at Hanlan’s Point, he never! Let’s hop right on that Gigolo and never dismount till 2019, and what you wanna bet she’ll be corkscrewing outta my ear before this baby’s done, hot damn!

Seriously, is there no respite? How many, oh lord, how many more zombieFords still float in their tanks of formaldehyde like so many Damien Hirst prototypes, awaiting reanimation in that festering Fordlab littered with empty buckets o’ chicken and Labatt’s 50 cans? It feels, here in the City of the Undead, like we barely managed to kill off the last one, and just in time, too, before he tore down Margaret Atwood and replaced her with a casino.

Nine PM. A strapping young lad decides to make my online day. “Hey, Gramps!” he chirps.

Yeah. Shoulda stuck with the pics from ’85. They got a great response, perfect if you’re into bondage, long walks on the beach and door shock (as a bottom).  I reckon, or Recon, he’s German. He probably meant to say “Gran”. Or “gnädige”.

I decide to tackle those Christmas cards from last year I never sent out.

Things just might be looking up.

~

Didja notice my redesign and didja like it?

Even better:  My online store is now at shop.slowpainful.com.  That’s right.  I configured a sub-domain.  The tits are off the bull!

Check out the link “Buy Merchandise” at the top of the page.  Tell me what you think. And buy merchandise.  Kind of thing?

And if you enjoy my blog, why not consider 1.  Making a donation through Paypal; 2. Buying merch; 3.  Adopting me so I can live in your penthouse.   I could really use the support right now.

And a Gigolo.

DR

 

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“Obamacare Watch” exclusive: National Rifle Association steps up to the plate with no-payer health care solution for GOP.

healthcaretardsbillboard

In an inspired, audacious,

“why-didn’t-anyone-think-of-this-before?” move that has Americans smacking their open palms on their foreheads from Fire Island to Big Sur, the Trump administration and the National Rifle Association have joined forces in an unprecedented nation-wide initiative to reduce and eventually eliminate health care costs.

“Stand Your Ground Against Health Care-tards!” is the second program implemented under Trump’s so-called “Great Big Yuge Agenda”, just two weeks after the start of “What Has Intelligence Ever Done For YOU?”,  the educational program which has Betsy DeVos overseeing the winding down of the public school system.

But what about rumors that the new health care plan was inspired by a recent shooting at a New York City hospital?

christmas.png

Senior citizens enjoying their final Christmas Surprise as part of Trump’s “Stand Your Ground Against Health Care-tards!” initiative.  A NRA-approved program.

I caught up with Ms Peggy Wagstaff, Trump’s most trusted personal confidante and official White House Playmate of the Month, half-way into her graveyard shift at the Trump Tower Full-Pay Medical Clinic and Make America Great Again Souvenir Concession.

“We were watching the news about that hospital in the Bronx, and—well, I guess you could say it was a lightbulb-over-the-head moment,” said Miss Wagstaff, as she carefully arranged ashtray replicas of the Las Vegas replica of the Great Pyramid of Ra.

“Cuddles got this weird look on his face, and then suddenly he shouted, ‘Health Care-tards!  That’s it!!  It’s fiscal responsibility, state lottery and reality show all in one!!!’  You know how he gets.”

First steps?  Ms Wagstaff hesitated for a moment.

wagstaffGun

Ms Peggy Wagstaff, Spokesplaymate for “Stand Your Ground against Health Care-Tards!”, and all-round good-time girl.

“I mean, the plan’s a little rough around the edges at this point, but so far we’ve issued firearms to all the doctors, the residents, senior nursing staff, the secretarial pool, and Mrs Pereira the night-shift cleaning lady, but we’re still fifty-fifty about giving one to that old guy with the aluminum pie plate hat who sleeps in the biohazard bins in the alley.”

Ms Wagstaff began polishing an enormous Jeff Sessions crystal paperweight, $49.99 on special.

“Donald says your average American does not want some little punk with a disease regular people can’t even pronounce lying around on a gurney the rest of us paid for, talking to a stuffed animal and getting sassy with the grown-ups, you know? Demanding more than his share of rice pudding and whining about the choice on the cable TV.”

What was the message here? Was this a teaching moment?

“Hmmm. Well, basically we’re talking I am not your keeper, every man for himself, all the things Ben Franklin put in the, you know. Bill of Franklin. Oh, snafu, or was that Bill Wrights?”  She sighed. “There’s so much to remember!”

Bill of Rights? I suggested.

But Ms. Wagstaff was interrupted by an anxious-looking elderly woman carrying a small suitcase and sleeping bag. She handed Ms Wagstaff a bunch of crumpled papers.

“Hey there, Mrs… Campbell!  Let’s get you sorted out! I see you’ve been booked in for our Half-Price Exploratory Heart Valve Procedure today at three. That’s awesome!”

I couldn’t help but be impressed as Ms Wagstaff moved on to the up-sell.

“Would you care to “Super Size” that to full open heart surgery for only fifty grand extra? You’ll also get an additional night in our shared single room, our post-op free gift of two aspirin and a glass of water, AND sheets for the bed!”

The woman opened her mouth as though to answer, took one loud, wheezing breath, and fainted dead away.

“Is that a definite ‘no’?”, said Ms Wagstaff, which I thought was pretty droll under the circumstances. “Alrighty, then, dear, no problem!  You’ll find it’s two floors up then hang a left for your pre-op holding pen.”

“Cheapskate,” she added, as a couple of Candy Stripers dragged the woman up the stairs marked Economy Class. “Doesn’t seem to matter to some people that I’m on commission.”

Ms Wagstaff strapped on her holster, donned a fresh white lab coat and gestured for me to accompany her.

“Walk this way,” she said, heading with a no-nonsense stride down the hallway.  I followed her through the double doors marked “Maternity”.

“I think this would be a great time to demonstrate the Random Cull”, Ms Wagstaff continued. “So, like—everyone in emerg, or everyone with a name that starts with C, or like today, I think we’ll do—black single moms. You get the idea?”

Ms Wagstaff suddenly whipped out her Glock, took aim and blasted the relevant beds and their occupants to kingdom come.

My ears were ringing from the explosions. Wagstaff grabbed an orderly by the arm as he ran by.  “Hey, you! Wipe that blood off your face and go tell Mrs. Pork Chop in Housekeeping we need her up here, pronto. Routine spill. Thanks, sugar.”

Ms Wagstaff looked wistful.

“Just between you and me, sometimes I wonder why Cuddles hired me in the first place. Whenever I ask him, he just laughs his head off and says, there’s two great, big, YUGE reasons, Pegs—but then he never tells me what they are.”

~

Ben Franklin and Bill Wrights are—still flying their kites.

~

Some days you’re just —inspired.  On the other days, you write an ode.

Presenting, quite contrary to public demand, the cornea-straining, soporific, “can’t seem to stop my eyes rolling back in my head before I face-plant onto the keyboard” verbosity of my Canada Day ode, first trotted out a year ago.

Widely acclaimed by this guy I met at a party who works for The Globe and Mail, who said:

… destined to become a Canada Day 
read-out-loud-by-Dad-before-we-have-Kraft-Dinner-yet-again tradition with every patriotic, middle-class Canadian family.  Well, you know. Since they can’t actually afford a TV.  

Thanks, “pal”.  Another seven minutes I’ll never get back staring at the water mark on the ceiling.  Those Cialis cost money.


“A Beaver in Polite Company”

(An Absolutely Epic Ode
for Canada Day, July 1st, 2016)

1.

O, Cana-DA!

O frozen fatherland,
I sing of thee –!

From the depths of my igloo
(Or in summer, a teepee)

While moms in babushkas from Hudson’s Bay
Bake their collective, corn-syruped way
All beneath a stunning display beavercoin-500x505
Of shimmering Northern Lights,

Eh?

(For it is enshrined in the
Charter of Rights
And Freedoms
That …

“… WHEREAS the provision of
butter tarts, 

Being an essential service,
May not suffer even the slightest pause …”

To make a summary:
Federal laws,
While exempting pecans
From the “Notwithstanding” clause,
Have ensured every mother will
Obtain her degree from
Butter Tart University,

Majoring in raisins.)

Welcome to Canada,
So cold in December,
But then we remember our
National Winter Sport,
Played on ice, with a puck.

Yet so hot in July,
It takes all our willpower
To manage even a

Nice game of lacrosse.

Yes, this is Canada.
The Superhero who’s always Clark Kent,
As tasty as we might look in tights;
The land where the indigenous people, Inuit, not Eskimo,
Reportedly have a hundred words for snow,
Where we finish our summer vacations
With full septic tanks
And scratching scars from mosquito bites.

And we all give thanks
We need never go to Mars,
Instead, we head to Winnipeg to experience minus fifty—

—(that’s approximately a nifty
Freeze your ass off, eh?
In American, non-communist temperature systems—

And while we’re at it, kudos to the lady from Texas
Who had heard of us.
Though she thought to visit meant sailing an ocean,
Then maybe —taking a bus?

Y’all got that wrong, ma’am.
But even knowing our name,
And that we’re north,
Shows, at least for a lady from Texas,

Rare devotion)—

And there in The ‘Peg, we play a traditional game
Where, for good luck, you lick the icy posts of metal fences;
Such innocent fun!

Till we find our tongues are stuck,
And, being Canadian,

Come rapidly back to our senses.

CHORUS:
And we all put chains on the tires of  our cars.

We wear plaid shirts, and we wear combinations,
We summer in Muskoka where all Hollywood vacations
and we never never never, I mean NEVER go to Mars!

Land of clear-your-ice, your winter civic duty!
We even declared Family Day in February,
So we can be sure of finding an ice floe
For packing with our elderly, so it will be a nice flow

Up the Saint Lawrence and out to sea.
Frankly, in February,
They’re too cold to
Make a commotion.

“Here’s the snow shovel, grandad!  
Don’t bother with the salt!
Or the commie-red Canadian Winter Olympics toque
That would cover what’s left of your hair!
And remember to leave my St-Jean-Baptiste Day card 
By the leftover tourtière!

Hey, how’s that hip replacement?  
Still hurtin’?”

Ah, Kwanzaa-ligButter Tartshts on fir trees!
I mean, pine!
The ring of the shovel on ice!
Each step a crunch of
Canadian Tire mukluk,
You can be certain!

Mon dieu !  Qu’est-ce qui ce passe ?!??

His asthmatic wheezing, the left arm pain!

“Don’t worry, children, I feel just –fine — !”

As he falls, pardon my French, on his ass!

The sudden thump, the lifeless lump of —

“Here’s your Timmies hot chocolate, Grandad!
Did you decide to have a little nap?
And why did you take off one new mukluk?

Your face and hands are a funny shade of blue!
Grandad?

Grandad??!!  

Holy fuck!!!”

Au revoir!  Goodbye!  Oh, grandad, it’s true!
Nous sommes tous Canadiens/Canadiennes !
We’re Canadian!
We’re – more or less – glad we knew you!

 

2.

O Cana-DA!

Taut muscle + tousled hair + Winner of the Rim Job Thought Experiment = The Person Called Trudeau.

Land of fortitude, of hunky men!
Land of Lumberjacks, RCMP’s!
And a dishy, non-crazy Prime Minister who makes us all weak at the knees,
Whatever his (to an American, anyway) socialist-verging-on-North-Korean proclivities!

Goodbye, general elections!
Hello, seeing Justin
And getting erections!

CHORUS:

Cause…. He’s… the…

Person-called-Trudeau,
Yes! he’s the Person-called-Trudeau!
His dad was Pierre, his mom was Maggie,
He’s working real hard to make legal the “baggie” –
That’s all you have to know, you know?
That’s all you have to know!

And this dynasty henceforth defines our nation –
Wait forty years, till little Emperor Hadrien – the Person-Called-Trudeau for our grandkids’ generation – ascends the throne

By Acclamation?
(Yes, though Trickie Dickie’s a tiny bit too dead to have that conversation – )
By Acclamation!

3.

O Cana-DA!

free-shipping-2013-sexy-royal-men-s-mountie-costume-fashion-canada-mounted-police-uniform-for-ladiesGodless refuge of the Devil’s Own North!
Where atheist gays marry dogs with impunity

And polygamy is mandatory, on penalty of death !

Where Québec’s Satanic priests (The original Hell’s angels),
Are allocated one free orphaned choirboy yearly by the State,

And la biche, one permitted per authorized family unit, is kept “on ze side, heins?”

– or else on a leash –

‘Cause to be célibataire is –
Even for a priest with stale whisky breath –
Too awful to contemplate!

All together, now – !

« Tabernac ! »
« Marie-Joseph ! »

4.

O Cana-DA!

Where the word “beaver” is always appropriate in polite company.

Polite company being all of us.

Canadians are so un-apt to make any kind of fuss, Lenin only knows!
Why, we’ll apologize to YOU
When YOU step on OUR toes!

O, Canada, Canada!

Poor we!  These chains that chafe and bind us!
Only a measly handful of banks, who tend, discreetly, to remind us
When our credit’s getting a teensy bit high.

Now what kind of attitude is that?
At this rate, we’ll never make first-class!

I mean, when did we
ever destroy the entire world’s economy?

Moss Park rebuilt, as though somewhere nice to live is what poor people deserve !
The Spadina Expressway, The Island Airport, cancelled – for what?!
Who needs old houses anyway, and parks, and waterfronts – and  — !
Cancelled for sheer lack of
– well, it’s about time someone said it –
Nerve, that’s what!  Nerve!

But that’s us, so lax, no greed!
So callously indifferent to Deluce’s bottom line!

Even considering he’s the man
Who kept us in the dark
About Phase 2, his Porter Airlines plan
To put the runways in High Park.

So lacking in get-up-and-go, that’s we!

So lacking in so many things we need, like –
A casino on Front Street.
A ferris wheel.
Indeed!

Those died with Rob Ford, for Heaven decreed
Not just the one, but three, acts of god.

You wanna know how bad it is?

We’re not even aspirational enough to want
Our own loud, nasty, thin-skinned fraud!

Poor old fat, dumb regular-guy Robbie.
He was good for a laugh as he redefined “shifty”,
Mayoring Toronto like a teen with an I.Q. of 50,
A pipe full of “hard”,
And a not very interesting hobby.

Even then, we didn’t complain.  We just voted.  How boring!
We didn’t even complain when that Tommy Douglas forced us!
Forced us to have health care!

Took our hard earned dollars, of course,
But what’s worse, stole our god-given right of ignoring
the tumors until they’re big as a horse.

Too late it dawned on us:
Yeah, right!  Make us live longer
And then you’ll have longer to fuck us over with more taxes, oh yes,
We’re onto you!  We get the agenda – !

At least the Americans, god bless ’em, didn’t go down without a fight!

And the day of your liberation is so close you can almost smell freedom again!

Soon you’ll have Trump, and he’ll

Cancel your atheist, abortion-reeking
Death-paneled healthcare sort-of system.

Where each year you’re not just robbed of two hundred and change by bureaucrats—
What unbearable duress!—

But robbed of your freedom to declare bankruptcy!

We feel your pain!  But not to worry.
Far, far better, we confess,
To pay fifty grand to the surgeon
Or, if you’re poor, to be thoughtful and die in a hurry!

And up here we’ll be,
In the U. S. S. C.,

Where nothing’s black and white,  just white and red,
Where an evening’s entertainment is lining up for scraps of bread,

And where a Sikh can be a cop, wear a turban on his head!

(Our citizens all disarmed!
Can’t even spend commercial breaks
Protecting our women-folk from stampeding herds of buffalo
Or mowing down traitors – or the occasional homo)

You know for a fact, cause you’ve taken to heart
The incisive reporting you read on Breitbart

That our health-care system, centrally-planned (did
You warn us?  You did!)
Is collapsing five-yearly,

Why, you could see your wife admitted to the crumbling
Central People’s Hospital of Torontokistan while in labour,

thirdworldhospital

People’s Central Hospital of Torontokistan:  Private rooms available!

And not even be issued your visitor’s pass until it’s nearly

Time to greet the first grandkid!

Zut, alors!” cries People’s Revolutionary Atheist Abortion-Assistant Marxist Midwife, Rank 34,

“It is imperative that we find more Jell-O for Bed 4,093, komrad,
48th floor!

Raspberry flavour!!”

And when you can’t take it anymore, Just slip the surgeon
A few crumpled rubles.

If it gets them the Jell-O, hell, oh he might
Do you a favour.

5.

O, Cana-DA – !

The dad of current Person-Called-Trudeau, who coincidentally
Was himself also A Person Called Trudeau, and so on and forth,
Once said
That to live with our restive pal, our buddy to the south
Was rather like sharing a peanut- and shrapnel-filled bed
(Alright, I’m putting a few extra words in his mouth)
With an elephant—

—An elephant with sleep apnea;
Plus the occasional attack of
Restless Leg Syndrome;

And a tendency to, every so often,
Just out and out
Shove you.

Tant pis.

He made the joke, if you check the fact,
Just before enacting the War Measures Act.
Which was itself a shove and a half.
Nonetheless, Quebeckers always have the last laugh, because –

We have to sing O, CanaDA, forever that way.
The word-setting works perfectly – but only en français.
They were first to get their hat in.

Terre de nos aïeux.
Je me souvien

And O, CanaDA,
No matter who may
Shove you:

A Mari Usque Ad Mare!
Or, rough translation from the Latin:

Fuck, I
Love you.

©David Roddis, 20162017


UPDATE:

A reader has made the sniffy comment that my ode is “not very catchy”.

This is the kind of entitled, sour-grapes kind of sniping from political hobbyists that I’m forced to endure these days, and I’m well aware that this goes hand-in-hand with the kind of celebrity I enjoy now that my stats are well above 10.

Bernie Sanders told me to expect this and I didn’t believe him, well, no one did, really, and it’s to his eternal discredit that he didn’t mention this to me earlier.

Yeah, way to go, Trouble-Hair, and I’m just about fed up enough to reveal you stole that campaign slogan from your local Indian restaurant, “Mama Patel’s Tandoori Palace And Head Shop Buy Your Stiffie Pills Heer-Walla”.

“Feel the Bern”, indeed.

WhateVVVVVER. I welcome the completion of our “Giant Ice Palace from The French People” border wall once the sun goes down again, around August, which is when email transmission becomes dodgy, unless you’re with Rogers and never had any to begin with.

But you know, and can I just say, seriously. Try dancing my ode to the tune of that traditional Newfoundland fiddle classic, “Maple Syrup for my Beaver, Welfare for my Cod” and you’ll feel your toes tapping soon enough.

Even Ashley MacIsaac couldn’t piss on that one.

DJR

[PPS:  Justin – Called 83 times since 3AM but goes to VM, WTF???  The percs and the razor blades are lined up and I’m running a hot bath, so if you don’t want this on your conscience you better get your “cul” over here and continue our conversational French. Capisce?

Just tell Sophie you’re “going jogging so you can test drive those new socks.” Yeah, that’ll work.

Ditchez la biche et faites le Switch, baby. Ah, oui, tabernac, Marie-Joseph !!!!]

Grammar Dominatrix Miss Elvira Smedley whips your candy ass with commas, and you love it, bitch.

I have to get this off my chest.

It’s about something grammatical that is tearing my heart out by the roots, if a heart has roots in addition to all of those gross, rubbery-looking tubes and valves and shit. OK, so maybe not roots. But torn out.

Look it’s a metaphor, OK? Are you trying to help or not?

Alrighty then. What was I saying?

Oh yeah, restrictive and non-restrictive clauses and the correct use of commas.

I thought this was just something that illiterate millennials, if that’s not redundant, suffered from when posting stuff online about Adele’s latest “album” or trading instructions about how to microwave food faster.

Awe-SOMMMMMME!

But no. It is pandemic. It is appearing in PhD theses, in supposedly high-end magazines, but – let me make an analogy:

hbcYou can take The Bay – a byword for any brand whose defining character is beige, boring, my grandma would love it and I-wouldn’t-be-caught-dead – change the name to “Hudson’s Bay” styled in a groovy-antique serif font, shove a Saks Fifth Avenue concession up its ass, and after all that—

Nobody’s fooled, honey. Where’s my itchy throw with the ghastly stripes, my dog needs one, and then I’m outta here.

It’s exactly, I mean literally, the same with grammar.

HERE IS WHAT IS TEARING MY HEART OUT BY THE ROOTS OR THE GROSS, RUBBERY-LOOKING TUBES AND VALVES AND SHIT OR WHATEVER WE DECIDED ABOUT THE METAPHOR THINGY, I MISSED THAT BIT:

What is wrong with this sentence?-

Prokofiev completed the ballet in the latter part of 1935, only a few months before fellow composer, Dmitri Shostakovich, was officially condemned in the first of two scathing editorials in Pravda.

It is the commas before and after “Dmitri Shostakovich”.

You do not use commas with a RESTRICTIVE CLAUSE.

Here’s the deal: can you remove the words “Dmitri Shostakovich” and still have the sentence make sense:

…only a few months before fellow composer was officially condemned….

No, you can’t. You have to have that clause there or it doesn’t make sense. What fellow composer? Dmitri Shostakovich.  The clause is restrictive, the words must flow and work together.

So here it is corrected using that restrictive clause:

Prokofiev completed the ballet in the latter part of 1935, only a few months before fellow composer Dmitri Shostakovich was officially condemned in the first of two scathing editorials in Pravda.

You could rewrite the sentence so that you have a NON-restrictive clause:

Prokofiev completed the ballet in the latter part of 1935, only a few months before Dmitri Shostakovich, his fellow composer, was officially condemned in the first of two scathing editorials in Pravda

Here, you CAN take out the words “his fellow composer” that are between the commas, and it still makes sense:

Prokofiev completed the ballet in the latter part of 1935, only a few months before Dmitri Shostakovich was officially condemned in the first of two scathing editorials in Pravda.

RESTRICTIVE Clause – NO commas (the clause is essential for the sentence to make sense)

NON-RESTRICTIVE Clause – Commas (the clause can be omitted and the sentence still makes sense.)

SO:

Secretary of State Hillary Clinton traveled to London in 2015

NOT

Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton, traveled to London in 2015

BUT also correct is:

Hillary Clinton, the Secretary of State, traveled to London in 2015

Geddit?

This error is now present everywhere, and it is an appalling example of what happens when people no longer read anything but garbage online. But when you read quality stuff – printed, published literature – that has jumped through all the hoops, you absorb correct language just as quickly.

Look out for this egregious error in your online travels, if accuracy and truth matter to you. Because when you can’t accurately use your own language, you can’t accurately express your thoughts.

Here endeth the lesson. Thanks for being there!  I love you guys!  You’re Awesommmmme!!

Now drop those knickers.



BONUS QUESTION:

What’s wrong with this sentence:

Donald Trump, Supreme Leader of the world’s greatest democracy,  hater of press freedom, four-time bankrupt, manipulative demagogue, proud misogynist, a man who holds the judiciary in contempt, someone with no experience of governing or knowledge of the workings of his own country’s democratic structure, was elected POTUS and given sole possession of the nuclear codes by a minority of eligible voters in November, 2016.

HINT:  It ain’t the commas.

~

In which the author, exhausted by maintaining his consistently superhuman level of blogging excellence, fobs you off with a “Twitchie”; +PLUS+ Dave be like “Click the button!”

20140731_084047-motion

First signs of President Trump Stress Disorder:  “The Twitchies”.

You may be wondering.

I’ve been lying in my bathtub since, you know—“the election”—my chin wobbling like my mother’s infamous tomato aspic from the effort of holding back my wild, existential cry of “What The Fuck, dude!?“.

For a little variety I count the missing chunks in the tile grouting,  while I figure out what necessities I’ll take to the special Alaskan holiday camp for homosexuals when Pence sends the order.

So far I’ve come up with:

two pink toothbrushes (one of them manual in case it’s hard to find batteries);

flap-in-the-back longjohns pinned to “open”;

Canada Goose parka, whose astronomical cost will force me to obtain an undercover coatcheck job at The Black Eagle and nab one while its naked owner is firmly strapped to the St. Andrew’s Cross;

the fluorescent stuff your manservant puts on your nose in Gstaad before you frappez la piste;

my own bag of rocks (in case the ones they provide for hacking with a pickaxe “aren’t doing it for me”); and

DVD Special Extras Editions of “Now, Voyager” and “All About Eve” (which latter title always makes me want to scream, in desperate parody of those rabid christians who oppose equal marriage:  “They made ‘All About EVE’, not ‘All About STEVE’ !!).

So you see, though you may think I’m spending my time lolling like a catamite on black satin sheets, peeling grapes and licking Reddi-Whip off the butt-cracks of random 20-year-old skateboarders, I am, in fact, limp as a Cossack after a hard day’s rape and pillage. All this AND a case of severe,  possibly terminal, President Trump Stress Disorder.

PTSD is a parlous state manifesting as reflexive mouse-clicking while asleep, nicotine overdose and an attention span stretched so wafer-thin that I’ve had to several times during my breakfast revisit the instructions on the Kellog’s Frosted Flakes box (for some reason I keep bungling Step 6: “Enjoy!”).

This lifetime-benefits-worthy level of election-induced disability is completely related to my self-imposed burden of riffing on the greatest show on earth, the recent coronation of Citizen Don. Even more than Obama, he proved that, in America, anyone—and believe me when I say, anyone—can make their American Dreams come hideously true.

But The Donald, with his secret, award-winning recipe of a thin coating of élite enclosing a filled-with-nuts Trump-lump of pure white trash, topped that heap without any of that fancy book-larnin’ and puttin’ on airs, don’t ya know;  and, it should by now go without saying, definitely without flaunting any unpatriotic skin tones.

Real ‘Murcans, as it turns out, like a bit of authenticity with their despots.  Not grace under pressure, but pressure sans grace, sans eyes, sans teeth, sans everything. President O, are you taking notes?  Really, some of my best friends are Hahvad grads, but did you hafta be so goldarned – well, <whisper> BLACK about it? Property values, dude, property values!

And dull!?  OMFG!! The country that invented serial killing then brainstormed it into production-line hamburger franchises was hardly in the mood for Percy Faith and his hundred and one strings; this high-minded mellow; this,“let’s take it slow, ACA, baby, and if I said you have a beautiful body politic would you hold it against me?”  No tantrums, no marital problems, no scandals —

Basically, Barry:  Who the fuck do you think you are?

You have patience alright, my fine dusky-feathered friend, patience in spades; and I’m very sorry about the crude pun, but hey. Come February, 2017, you could probably find a job watching glaciers melt.

I hear there’s positions opening up as we speak.

~

Moving right along, allow me to throw off this lead apron of despair that god-the-invisible-dentist has fastened around my neck as casually as Luigi at the Spaghetti Factory used to fasten the red and white bib so you shouldn’t get sauce on your tie.   And while I’m lightening the tone,  may I say, to the accompaniment of the little smooching noises I make into my webcam,  I’m just LOVIN’ ME some new header (see above. Where did you think the header was? Are you a Luddite? I mean, seriously, dude).

I’ll be honest—and you may want to sit down for this bit after getting your impressionable youngsters out of earshot—it’s a “me” thing.  Ya know??!   I like it because it’s created by me, which makes it a macaroni pic par excellence, and I like it because it’s all portraits of me at various points in my life, including the day I invented “male camel toe”, when I was five.

Oh yeah, baby.  I had ambition back then.

I like my header because Hillary’s in it, gallivanting in rainbow pantsuits across my gaunt, vicarious election-losertard face. How many millions of people can say that?

Exactly!

Do I come across as shallow?

Please, please don’t despair. Just because I’m my own schizoid fan club, including the mousey, horn-rimmed secretary, a phone-it-in role for Patricia Hitchcock, AND the sultry, wisecracking, torpedo-breasted head of the social committee, a turn that simply begs for the ministrations of Lauren Bacall – that doesn’t mean I don’t, you know. TOTALLY CRAVE your clicking my “Like” button.  

No, you can’t go to Breitbart just yet, honey. Settle down, OK?

Don’t think for one second that your opinion doesn’t matter, because, dudes, since you asked, and I’m only going to say this once:

« I’m the neediest friggin’ cocksucker from here to Des Moines. »

No question.  I’m so fucking needy, it’s insane.  I’m like the baby bird in the nest, cheep cheep!  opening my naked maw for the slimy, wiggling worms of your validation;  I’m your golden lab puppy whining for food and water, yapping its promise of total, abject love from the cold basement room;

I’m Richard Burton tied to the bedpost while Liz sits at her dressing table, removes her bra, puts scarlet lipstick on her nipples:-

That’s how much your opinion matters to me; in fact, this may be the ONE TIME today, in your life even, when your opinion matters so much to someone.  Or at all!

Think about that, my collective Virginia. Think about that really hard. But only for a short period of time, because the implications – well.

It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?  Unless you make sure you think with extreme, concentrated effort, and keep it, like, under twenty or maybe thirty seconds, tops. That could work.

Alrighty?  So, just to make absolutely nail-it-to-the-floor certain we’re all on the same page, my final instructions are:  Think REALLY hard for a SHORT time about your opinion mattering.  To me. OK?  Let’s see how well you get on.

Frankly, with most of you we’re happy if we can hold a mirror to your lips and see some fogging, so the bar is, I admit, extremely low. But I’m reasonably confident about the “Like” button thing being within your grasp. At least for some of you.

OK.

I feel, and don’t ask me how, that at this point one or two of the more-or-less uncoachable ones amongst you may be wondering:  Is David being bossy ? Is David, like, a bossy person?

PUH-LLLLEASE!  Let me set the record straight once again.  Since you asked.

I am not bossy.  I am goal-oriented.  Like, MY goals for YOU.  OK?

Now, CLICK, dammit.

CLICK!!??!!

-£-