Sunday, November 27, 2005

Room Cleaning Day

I'm cleaning my room today. That is my bedroom, as I don't want to give you the impression I live in one room. I actually have two rooms, my bedroom AND my living room. But the bedroom is where I live, and the living room (where there is more stuff!) is my walk-through.

Cleaning is both a cleansing and dirtying process. Cleansing in that I get a little workout and I find and throw away all my great junk I've often thought about, but never turned the mattress to look for. Who the hell turns mattress', anyway. Other than these spectacular cleaning fits I go on, the only time I turned my mattress was when I could no longer fit my butt around the coil that's been springing from it for the last few years. And dirtying, since I am such a slob, I foul myself with things I long ago forgot I lost.


I found five spoons under my mattress. Since I don't eat under my mattress and the spoons can't eat without me, how they traversed from top to bottom will remain a mystery. Sure there are crumbs there. But that's part of the underbelly of mattress life. Crumbs migrating, I understand. Spoons, no.

May God forgive me, but I found a bug. He was in a corner of the room I haven't visited lately, so what he was doing there (dead) is a question. There was nothing to eat. You'd think that if five spoons can get what must be five or six miles (in spoon measure) from the top of my mattress to the bottom, a once live bug could scarf out those same crumbs. Maybe he was just too stupid. He died for his dopiness. Too bad for him. Good for me.

I really should give serious and careful thought to at some point in the future, after deliberating the subject, and considering the alternatives, to stop eating in my bedroom. It ain't such a good idea. And I've been lucky so far. I would hate to wake up one morning sharing my bed with a rat, who having been told of the good eats under Joe's bed, instead is contenting himself with suckling at my teat for nourishment.

Well, back to cleaning!

Joe

Thursday, November 24, 2005

Young Turk Turns Eighty

George Will in a wonderful piece in his column today celebrates the 80th birthday (today) of the man who brought back the ideas of limited government, constitutionalism and personal freedom, and revived a conservative movement that was less than moribund in 1950.

William F. Buckley WAS that young Turk, a man who, in a vast wasteland of liberalism, leftist fellow travelers and communists, stood up to it all and said STOP! Liberalism was not the dominate ideology by that time, but the only one. Embraced by "me too" Republicanism, there were few souls willing to cast their fate against the wind. Ayn Rand, Henry Hazlitt, Ludwig Von Mises, and just a smattering of others fought the intellectual fight not only against the inroads that modern liberalism had made into the freedoms guaranteed by the constitution, but the positive case FOR capitalism and individualism.

Those in the above paragraph were mostly fighting the good fight in academia, or, as in the case of Rand, in popular fiction, where the dicta of free markets and free minds had difficulty finding popular understanding.

And then along comes Buckley, standing athwart history, yelling Stop! In the face of what Lionel Trilling had essentially described as the "end of history", William F. Buckley was about to launch a popular counter to the accepted "wisdom of the day".

Lionel Trillings famous observation, made in 1950, is worth recalling:

"In the United States at this time liberalism is not only the dominant, but even the sole intellectual tradition. For it is the plain fact that nowadays there are no conservative or reactionary ideas in general circulation... the conservative impulse and the reactionary impulse do not... express themselves in ideas but only in irritable mental gestures which seek to resemble ideas".

Almost alone at the time, Bill Buckley set upon to change all this. And with the introduction of National Review Magazine in 1955, he gave a reinvigorated movement a solid rock of intellectual ammunition to call upon. The ideas of our founding father's were back, and the warriors were taking no prisoners.

It was a heady time, the late 50's and early 60's. The two most popular speakers on college campus' were Ayn Rand and Barry Goldwater. Perhaps, the brain and the brawn of individualism and freedom. Without Buckley, there would have been no Goldwater movement, and despite its prematurity, without Barry Goldwater there would have been no Ronald Reagan. And without any of the above, with Buckley as the intellectual drummer, there would be no libertarian movement.

Bill Buckley is today, more a libertarian (small l) than a conservative. Tragically, with opportunity within its actual grasp, the Republican Party has killed the conservatism that William F. Buckley labored decades to revive. With all branches of government in the hands of those who promised to not only stop its very growth, but to even gut its grotesquerie, the party is no longer a conservative party. It has become what it had always condemed; a party, where if only the right people can be put in place to run things, can manage large government well. That cannot happen. It has not. Power does corrupt.

Buckley continues. Vigorously promoting the same brand of freedom he sought fifty years ago, he remains a great hero of those true small government conservatives and libertarians. And perhaps someday, either through the Republican Party or the Libertarian, the ideas of the original intent of our founding fathers will once again be revived.

Thank you, Mr. Buckley for keeping them alive till now.

Joe Postove

Happy Thanksgiving!

Since the holiday is on Thursday this year, I want to take this opportunity to wish all of my friends here at the bus station pinball machine area a very happy Thanksgiving.We will be enjoying the traditional meal at our house today, as we watch football, and stare out of the windows waiting in silent vain for the Good Humors man.

Our menu will start with Hot Stink soup with lipstick doll babies, then a salad with Portuguese dressing. Our main course, of course, will be a 24 pound turkey, stuffed with large mouth bass, paper dolls, extremely hot hat diddies, corned beef and spiff pie delight, crank case oil, cheese flip flops, tasty cakes, untasty cakes, and pudding from an old woman recently run over by a bus, but resting comfortably in the emergency ward of the 7/11.

That's a whole lotta food, but then comes dessert! We'll enjoy feet meat with arm cabbage, slathered with potato flunkies and a tincture of dime store ice cream, polished with an old bowling ball rag.

I hope you have a nice holiday too!

Joe


(Normally I also wish everyone a nice "go to hell" on the holidays, but I'm cutting you a break this year. Don't be surprised. I can be extra generous, if I wanna. And I wanna! So quit your beefin', or I will say the words, I'm holding back, so that you and your family can rest in peace.

Good Evening.

Monday, November 21, 2005

Country Music Awards In New York City

A couple of weeks ago the hicks from the sticks brought their awards show to cocktail and nightclub country, New York City, in the hope to cosmopolitan country music a bit, and let city folk know that you can be country and still read Truman Capote and attend talks at the YMHA.

Ain't gonna happen so easy, pardner. Who's going to clean up the horse shit when all the Jasper's have gone back to Nashville? And besides, after spending time in NYC, the dudes and dudettes were quite traumatized by wickedness they can't even sing about in their songs. The only ones who wear cowboy hats and chaps in New York are gays, and they still string them up down south. They string them up in New York too, but that's a good thing there, which I won't write about on this family friendly website.

Hank Williams Jr., the best country singer in the world once wrote a song called "If Heaven Ain't A Lot Like Dixie". Dig these words and you'll understand why there's no country music radio station in New York, and why the Opry boys won't ever really feel good there:

If heaven ain't a lot like Dixie, I don't wanna go.
If heaven ain't a lot like Dixie, I'd just as soon stay home.
If they don't have a Grand Ole Opry, like they do in Tennessee
Just send me to hell or New York City
It would be about the same to me.

After the awards show last week, Hank Jr. Even wanted Mayor Bloomberg to pick up his bar tab. When the mayor refused, Hank gave him a nice "Attitude Ajustment" by throwing him out the front window of the Lone Star bar and grill.

So, cowboys, do yourself a favor, and keep country and western music a southern thing where people understand what the hell you're talking about and you can sing songs about writing home to your gal from the front and eating hog jowls for the Fourth Of July.

New York City ain't a country town. It's rap. And she will slit your throat if you get pushy. I'd say Norfolk is about as far north as you should giddy up to.

Joe Postove

Like Sucking the Dimes From A Pay Toilet Timer

Like all of you, I get moody and don't want to post or want to do anything at all. Here I am taking up all of this internet space (which could be used for gambling or lessons on how to cheat a pay toilet) and I get all guilty inside if I don't carry my weight.

Not that I owe you one second of my time, it's just that if I'm gonna have a blog, I must try not to be so moody and get with it and post. Post, post, post! Now hear this: I have nothing to post about at this time. This is a trick posting, which many high tone authors use as a device to make it seem that he's writing about something. I'm writing about nothing and I'm filling the spaces on this white sheet here, and go to hell!

Why do they call not wanting to do anything, moody? That would be un-moody, I think. The absence of a thing cannot be called a thing. Can it? Oh, just can it!

I could be out sucking dimes from pay phones, or supervising the pastry chef at my pay toilet company, but I'll wait here.

In case I get any inspiration. Then I'll have a mood.

That is all.

Joe

Saturday, November 19, 2005

Congress Loves, Hates, Me And You

After a contentious session not seen in the halls of Congress since last week, the R's and the D's came to great verbal blows and seemed ready to take up canes, if needed.

This all stemmed from a formally hawkish Democrat, Rep. John P. Murtha (D-Pa.), a decorated Vietnam War veteran, saying what we were all thinking; that many of those troops are demoralized and poorly equipped and, after more than two years of war, are impeding Iraq's progress toward stability and self-governance.

Who knew? Everybody with heads fully attached. And now that this FORMALLY close associate of the President's has come out for peace, and the futility and utter danger further USA troops pose, he's being called a coward. A Vietnam vet, decorated and serving in Congress for 30 years as a hawkish vote, is as much a coward as the chances are that Condi Rice will ever get layed.

Meanwhile, back overseas, where Bush is hiding out, he said "politicians who criticize the administration's handling of prewar intelligence are engaging in dishonest and reprehensible behavior". Don't you get it? He just wants anyone who questions policy in time of war to just SHUT UP! Shut your fat ugly un-American face, and get down and give him twenty, to prove you're in as good as shape as he is in. AND SHUT THE HELL UP! This is a war, and anyone who disagrees with war policy will be shouted down. Or worse.

Not gonna happen on my watch, Mr. Bush. You shut up! I know I'm being a baby, but the man brings out the retard in me. I've written millions of words on the war, and I'm tired of the same old rotten teeth, shit bag conservatives raising politics as the motive behind opposition to this war, which Murtha himself now says is lost.

I wish I could go to D.C. and help W pack a bag...To jail. If you remember one thing about this poorest of presidents, is that everything he says is wrong and false, and out of the extreme desperation that comes from being on the wrong side of a lost cause.

End note: Congress ajourned yesterday after helping itself to a $3100 raise in salary and a two week vacation. No disagreement there.

Joe

Thursday, November 17, 2005

The Democrats Want To Debate The War Now??

2,065 of our men and women have died since the combat began and the "mission was accomplished" about 2 1/2 years ago. NOW our Democrats, who back in 2003 needed to look as hawkish and deliberate in the prosecution of Saddam Hussein as the radical Republicans, are calling for a vigorous "discussion" on the war.

They're about 2,065 dead too late. Few others than Robert Byrd in the Senate suggested that we hold the horses, and give this a good thrashing out. But the Bushite's were so hot for war, that debate was fairly thrown out the window, questions were not asked with any verve about what turned out to be all wrong intelligence, and the old men, as they always do, sent Johnny marching off to war. To die for the egos of black hearted men in pin striped suits, most who have never been touched by battle.

So debate. And (God forgive me) maybe the Democrats will win the off year elections in '06, and some movement can be made to bring the kids home.

At this point, lets just declare victory and cut our loses. Or perhaps the soul of George Bush really does drip with blood.

Joe Postove

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Repeat: To Keep You From Missing Me Too Much

From May 25th of this year, here is a rerun of a blog I did when I had the use of all of my fingers:

Till Twelve...Yeah

It not very manly, I suppose, to admit to wetting the bed as a child, but I did, so there. I think it's better of one to cast off the errors of youth and steam up some of that fresh air of truth, and tell it.I wet the bed until I was twelve, when I learned to aim over the side and hit the pee bucket by the door.

That's a lie, but I thought it was funny, so its included here. I really did wet the bed until twelve, and then, as if the urine fairy had cinched my bladder, I stopped.I don't remember starting this habit (although I was probably peeing as I slid out of my Mom) and interestingly, as horrid as it was, I don't remember the momentous event of stopping. I just did.

Now I pee anywhere I want and all the time. I don't in bed, but as a man I can, and do, almost anywhere else; behind car doors, in back of trees, big gulp cups, pay toilets, almost anywhere I choose, except in bed.I am a grown man.

jp

Finger Still Sore...Pus Remains..But Must Blog...Must Blog...

The damn middle finger on my right hand is still sore, and for those of you with a bit of an appetite, there is a little pus, but most of that is gone. This is my most important finger, of course, reserved for politicians, ladies who think me invisible, 7/11 clerks, and any others who deserve a nice "fuck you" from me.

I have been doing my paper route for over a year now, and I just know that it is the dirt and paper cuts embedded around the cuticle that made this monster rise up in a flurry of offensive pus, to eventually be beaten back with Neo-Sporin and hot finger baths.


So I haven't really been bloging much at all since this all started. The World Wide Web will have to forgive me, please, or here comes Mr. Finger once I'm over my illin'. I hope you have missed me as much as I have missed you.

So I'm here, you wonderful 6 or 7 people on the web who love me. And I promise to be back to regular darts as my most precious of digits recovers.

Peace.

Joe

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

You Can Play With Yourself

One reason I haven't been posting to the World Wide Web much the past couple of weeks is that I hear a shift is taking place on the internet, and most blogging and email will now take place via billboards, on the eastern shore of Virginia and in southwest Iowa.

Also I have a very infected finger that I'm sure I got from the newspapers and it is fire to type. The papers won't deliver themselves, so if I get blood poisoning, please tell the mortuary guy that I prefer it on the right.


I hope to return to more blogging as soon as I can drain all of the pus from my finger into a can of soup and sell it to the idiot 7/11 convicts. I'm sure they've eaten worse. And besides, pus ain't that bad once you get used to it.

Soon you can see me on my billboard near the Stucky's in Onancock, Virginia. On the right, heading north.

Enjoy this really neat play toy my friend in
Ballmore sent via old style email.

So, enjoy.

joe

Monday, November 07, 2005

11/7

One year ago today
A thousand suns away
The world ceased to exist

A mindful walk
Or fair repose
Cannot answer the questions
That arose

Since the world stopped
A thousand skies ago

All is dark and still
Left only with the memory of all good gone

And the deconstruction of a man's song

Who wanders forever now
Bootless in the snow

Thursday, November 03, 2005

The NBA Needs A Rosa Parks

I haven't watched a full NBA basketball match since Allen Iverson's bris, so the issue of what players should or should not wear when they are representing the NBA is not as important to me as the current pay toilet situation here in Norfolk.

Nevertheless, this is a line in the sand, drawn by the fat white owners of the clubs, who want a better image for the league, and thus is an issue that should be noted. Most of the players in the NBA are black, and many are from urban ghettos. The culture, dress, speech patterns, and lifestyle can be very different and rather annoying to fat white America, who wants everyone to fart strawberry and clean up real nice.

Side note: President Lyndon Johnson said to an associate in the 60's that if you don't wash your ass in the shower, then you are not really clean. He had a point, and the NBA poobahs don't think the crackers who love the sport, but wouldn't take a meal with the sportsmen, can handle well the chains, sweatsuits, jewelry and other Negro accoutrements that come with. And so, yes, the sport is not spic and span while the players wear their culture, literally on their sleeves (or sleeveless). Isn't that too bad?

The NBA needs a Rosa Parks. A player who tells the front office that this is who I am, and I prefer to represent myself, and my community if I wanna, by the way I dress. Certainly the analogy is not right on the mark, but the point is the same. The NBA IS a private organization, and they can have the players dance naked (like at the circus) at half time, if they demand so. I would run naked, free and easy throughout the arena all during the game for the scratch those guys collect.

But a strict dress code for the young, cool, safe gangsta style of the players is a bad idea. There should be at least one dude with balls enough to wear balloon pants, ear rings, neck chains and jewelry on any body part he chooses (watch the scrotum, fellas) to protest this action.

I hope some NBA guy has enough guts to challenge this disrespect for black culture, and the NBA changes its mind and allows hood culture to live side by side with whitie's wingtips.

Joe Postove