[an excerpt from another old piece, just for the hell of it]
[& my bid for the "prohibitively-long-entry" contest]
Those of you on the East Coast may have noticed that news from rural Nevada hass been spotty & irregular, like Oscar Wilde at the end. Theres a reason for that.
Shortly after arriving back in Nevada I took a long, hard look at self in mirror & said Self, youre not getting any younger. Quite the opposite, actually. Perhaps its time that you actually, you know, did something with your, you know, life. You know what I mean? (I can be quite inarticulate at, you know, times.)
Then I said, What are you getting at?, which was rather clueless of me but whatever.
Im saying that lots of people have gotten gobs of money, written books, achieved fame & such when they were way younger than you. Why, Dickens published...
Lets not drag Dickens into this, thank you.
Fair enough. Alls Im saying, see, is would it be so bloody difficult to build a wall around Nevada & have yourself named unquestioned ruler & dictator?
Well, gosh, when you put it like that. Why didnt I think of this before?
You did, but there was something mildly amusing on the telly & you lost interest.
The telly, eh? Whats with the casual British slang?
I have no idea. Well, get cracking.
I dont know...Im intrigued, yet terrified. Curious, yet far too drunk to operate a motor vehicle.
The thing is, you see, you find yourself a good majordomo. They do all the hard work. Networking & suchlike. Yup. Majordomo.
And what is that, exactly?
Damned if I know. You could look it up.
Yes, quoth I, nodding decisively, Yes I could!
Then I felt rather silly discussing the future of a budding nation whilst reeking of cheap gin with a Snoopy towel draped over my shoulders. This was something that required pants. Do you ever see any of the big boys--Castro, Pinochet, Amin, Tupac Shakir, wearing a towel? Nope. Pants-wearers all.
Once I was fully--panted? pantsed?--whatever, I got to work. The yellow pages produced a serviceable majordomo & I got some Wetbacks to build the wall. (Specifically, Saul & Vicky Wetback, from Tocoma, WA, local 419.)
Things are kind of a blur after that. I did learn a few things, such as the secret to being a dictator is quite simple, actually: Keep it real, keep close to the peasantry, put big pictures of yourself up all over the place & never forget the usefulness of the occasional savage beating. (See my article in Novembers Readers Digest, Where Would I Be Without The Occasional Savage Beating?, condensed from Octobers Hustler.) I designed a flag (Naked chick straddling a Camaro with flames painted on the sides. Very classy, & the first flag that I know of that cant be saluted by a citizen under 18 unless accompanied by a parent or guardian.)
Along the way, I learned the value of simply listening to people, & telling them what they want to hear. For instance, youre chilling in the palace. Youve got your shades on & your feet up. Perhaps you are enjoying a cool glass of lemonade.
Peasant walks in, crumpling his hat in his work-roughened hands, practically wetting himself in terror & awe, the dear.
You say, Hullo, peasant.
Peasant says, Oh glorious Il Comodante, never has the corn been so shiny & high since you have come to power.
What can I say? I make the corn grow, I make the sun shine. The trains run on time & indoor plumbing is foreseeable in the near future. Stop, youre making me blush with modesty & rage, peasant.
I would be cataleptic with bliss if only... Eyes on the floor.
If only what? Ask & ye shall receive.
That lemonade looks really good.
You shall receive lemonade! Majordomo! I find it helpful to do a little clappy thing with my hands at this point. Majordomos love that. Me too. It makes me feel like a big man.
Actually, I was merely distracted by the pitcher. Im attracted to shiny things, you see. What I have actually to ask for is...a new donkey.
A new donkey it is! Majordomo! Clappy thing.
And one other thing...Its my daughter. She has expressed...distaste...at being a palace concubine. She finds it somewhat...degrading.
Well, she shoulda thought of that before she became a concubine. you might quip.
In all fairness, glorious leader, she was hustled off in the dark of night by your cadre of thugs.
Ah yes, the cadre. Good lads. So there you have it.
Excuse me? There I have what?
Everybodys happy, right?
Im not sure I quite...are we having the same conversation here?
Probably not. Clappy thing, Majordomo! A savage beating!
And there you have it. Everybodys happy.
Anyway, after a while things started to get a little out of control, & after riding the wave for a while, I found it necessary to enroll in a program for the power-mad. So now, whenever I feel the urge to purge dissidents, make peasant children dance for my amusement, or erect a 20-foot tall statue of myself made of solid gold & encrusted with rare gems, I call my good friend General Pinochet. I can always count on him to talk me through, although generally not after 3pm or so, when hes usually stoned & giggly & just wants to talk about Japanimation. I found it necessary, to make such a call just the other day & it went something like this:
General Pinochets office.
Yeah, is the General in? Tell him its me.
Hold on just a moment & Ill check.
(He usually answers the phone in a different voice, pretending to be his own secretary, which I think is kind of lame, but whatever.)
Hey, bro! Whats up?
Not having such a good day, Shay. My girlfriend left me, there was an unflattering caricature of myself in the dissident press, & the U.N. is threatening some kind of embargo.
Dude, thats rough. An embargo of what?
They wont tell me. Anyway...thing is...
Cmon, man. Spit it out, I have a country to run.
I almost instituted a pogrom this morning.
Pogrom, eh? But you didnt, right?
Nah. There was something good on TV. It was about pirates.
Dont sweat it. Hey, this is me youre talking to, the freaking General. Ive been there. Now repeat after me: Just because I can institute a pogrom...
Just because I can institute a pogrom...
Doesnt mean I need to institute a pogrom.
Doesnt mean I need to institute a pogrom.
Thanks, Shay. Whos the man with the 3-year plan?
Fuggedabout it. By the way, did you happen to catch that A&E Biography thing they did on me the other night?
Whoah, talk about your hatchet jobs.
Yeah. I mean it was all negative negative negative. They didnt even touch on the volunteer work Ive done for Habitats for Humanity, or the fact that I spend every Wednesday night reading to sick children down at the hospital, or my passion for orchids.
(I thought Again with the orchids, & rolled my eyes.)
Dont let it get you down, Shay. Hey, I noticed at the last meeting Idi was getting a bit tubby.
He quit smoking.
Ah.
Yeah, Anyway, the other day I went over to his place to get back a c.d. hed borrowed, that album of gangsta rap that the Kronos Quartet put out last year, you know YoYo Ma, I Did Yo MaMa, in D Minor?
Good album.
Yeah. Anyway, I was putting a mix tape together for Meg...
Meg who?
Meg Thatcher.
She lets you call her Meg? She doesnt let me call her Meg.
Well, no offence, man, but you dont even have a freaking Navy. Chicks dig despotic rulers with a lot of boats. Or that play in a band. Anyway, we used to be sort of...involved.
You & Thatcher? Tee hee, Pinochet & That-cher, sittin in a tree...
Knock it off. What can I say? It was spring, love was in the air, it was the Falklands...
Cool. Um...what was she...you know...like.
A gentleman never tattles.
Youre no gentleman.
Good man. Shes a freaking tiger. It was insane. I hardly knew what happened...One minute were discussing sanctions, I turned my back on her to grab another beer out of the cooler & I hear this low, throaty growl behind me. She grabs me, throws me down on the tarmac, & chews off my uniform.
Wow.
I had to inspect the troops wrapped in a shower curtain. We still exchange cards, by the way. Anyway, Im getting way off track here--So I go over to Idis place & its like nine in the morning, & the dudes in full dress uniform, standing in front of a full-length mirror, the stereo blaring Wagner, & I just want grab my c.d. & get out of there, but hes like, Sit down. So I sit. & he doesnt say anything for a couple of minutes, just practices looking dictatorial in the mirror, every now & then doing a little wave, & after a while Im like, Listen Idi, Ive kinda got this thing I gotta go do. & he turns around very slowly & says, I have to ask you something, & I want your totally honest opinion, right? & Im thinking, Oh Christ, hes not going to start hitting on me, is he? Cuz I know Im awfully cute & all, but I just dont swing that way, you know? But no. He pauses again & says: These epaulettes. Do you think that they make me look fat? Im like, No way man. You look like a million bucks. The medals, then. Do you not think that these medals make me look like a hippopotamus? A hippopotamus wearing medals? Or one of those rapper girlfriends? Only he has that accent so it came out rappa goofren. I said, I can honestly say that you would never be mistaken for a rapper girlfriend, Idi Amin, my friend. Youve just got big bones. Big, hulking bones. Youre a huge, leaking bag of inner beauty. But Im thinking, Good God. He is truly the House That Love Built.
Done?
Yup.
The man definitely has some issues. I think he might be lapsing a bit.
What makes you say that?
I bumped into him at the grocery store the other day, & I could swear that I smelled someone on his breath. & he had barbeque sauce in his little basket.
Indeed. Well, at least hes trying. Good talkin atcha, but Ive got a bit of a difficult situation right now.
Lay it on me.
I sort of lost my pants in the last Nasdaq nosedive.
A lot?
Well, just my pants, actually. Its a long, baffling, needlessly convoluted story.
& we cant have that, can we? Which reminds me...
Um...theres this thing I gotta go....
Well, thanks for your help. Peace out, General Pinochet.
Peace out, Il Commodante.
& I usually feel much better.
Anyway, thats it for this Christmas. At present writing I, along with much of the rest of the country can think of little else but the upcoming adaption of David Copperfeild by TNT, curious to see how they handled the controversial brain-eating ending of Charles Dickens original novel. (I hope I didnt spoil it for anybody.) Tune in next holiday season for more scandal, special surprise guests, the addition of a plucky sidekick adept in the martial arts named Wan Ho, &, yes, even more chances to win valuable prizes!!!
Love & kisses,
--D
[& my bid for the "prohibitively-long-entry" contest]
Those of you on the East Coast may have noticed that news from rural Nevada hass been spotty & irregular, like Oscar Wilde at the end. Theres a reason for that.
Shortly after arriving back in Nevada I took a long, hard look at self in mirror & said Self, youre not getting any younger. Quite the opposite, actually. Perhaps its time that you actually, you know, did something with your, you know, life. You know what I mean? (I can be quite inarticulate at, you know, times.)
Then I said, What are you getting at?, which was rather clueless of me but whatever.
Im saying that lots of people have gotten gobs of money, written books, achieved fame & such when they were way younger than you. Why, Dickens published...
Lets not drag Dickens into this, thank you.
Fair enough. Alls Im saying, see, is would it be so bloody difficult to build a wall around Nevada & have yourself named unquestioned ruler & dictator?
Well, gosh, when you put it like that. Why didnt I think of this before?
You did, but there was something mildly amusing on the telly & you lost interest.
The telly, eh? Whats with the casual British slang?
I have no idea. Well, get cracking.
I dont know...Im intrigued, yet terrified. Curious, yet far too drunk to operate a motor vehicle.
The thing is, you see, you find yourself a good majordomo. They do all the hard work. Networking & suchlike. Yup. Majordomo.
And what is that, exactly?
Damned if I know. You could look it up.
Yes, quoth I, nodding decisively, Yes I could!
Then I felt rather silly discussing the future of a budding nation whilst reeking of cheap gin with a Snoopy towel draped over my shoulders. This was something that required pants. Do you ever see any of the big boys--Castro, Pinochet, Amin, Tupac Shakir, wearing a towel? Nope. Pants-wearers all.
Once I was fully--panted? pantsed?--whatever, I got to work. The yellow pages produced a serviceable majordomo & I got some Wetbacks to build the wall. (Specifically, Saul & Vicky Wetback, from Tocoma, WA, local 419.)
Things are kind of a blur after that. I did learn a few things, such as the secret to being a dictator is quite simple, actually: Keep it real, keep close to the peasantry, put big pictures of yourself up all over the place & never forget the usefulness of the occasional savage beating. (See my article in Novembers Readers Digest, Where Would I Be Without The Occasional Savage Beating?, condensed from Octobers Hustler.) I designed a flag (Naked chick straddling a Camaro with flames painted on the sides. Very classy, & the first flag that I know of that cant be saluted by a citizen under 18 unless accompanied by a parent or guardian.)
Along the way, I learned the value of simply listening to people, & telling them what they want to hear. For instance, youre chilling in the palace. Youve got your shades on & your feet up. Perhaps you are enjoying a cool glass of lemonade.
Peasant walks in, crumpling his hat in his work-roughened hands, practically wetting himself in terror & awe, the dear.
You say, Hullo, peasant.
Peasant says, Oh glorious Il Comodante, never has the corn been so shiny & high since you have come to power.
What can I say? I make the corn grow, I make the sun shine. The trains run on time & indoor plumbing is foreseeable in the near future. Stop, youre making me blush with modesty & rage, peasant.
I would be cataleptic with bliss if only... Eyes on the floor.
If only what? Ask & ye shall receive.
That lemonade looks really good.
You shall receive lemonade! Majordomo! I find it helpful to do a little clappy thing with my hands at this point. Majordomos love that. Me too. It makes me feel like a big man.
Actually, I was merely distracted by the pitcher. Im attracted to shiny things, you see. What I have actually to ask for is...a new donkey.
A new donkey it is! Majordomo! Clappy thing.
And one other thing...Its my daughter. She has expressed...distaste...at being a palace concubine. She finds it somewhat...degrading.
Well, she shoulda thought of that before she became a concubine. you might quip.
In all fairness, glorious leader, she was hustled off in the dark of night by your cadre of thugs.
Ah yes, the cadre. Good lads. So there you have it.
Excuse me? There I have what?
Everybodys happy, right?
Im not sure I quite...are we having the same conversation here?
Probably not. Clappy thing, Majordomo! A savage beating!
And there you have it. Everybodys happy.
Anyway, after a while things started to get a little out of control, & after riding the wave for a while, I found it necessary to enroll in a program for the power-mad. So now, whenever I feel the urge to purge dissidents, make peasant children dance for my amusement, or erect a 20-foot tall statue of myself made of solid gold & encrusted with rare gems, I call my good friend General Pinochet. I can always count on him to talk me through, although generally not after 3pm or so, when hes usually stoned & giggly & just wants to talk about Japanimation. I found it necessary, to make such a call just the other day & it went something like this:
General Pinochets office.
Yeah, is the General in? Tell him its me.
Hold on just a moment & Ill check.
(He usually answers the phone in a different voice, pretending to be his own secretary, which I think is kind of lame, but whatever.)
Hey, bro! Whats up?
Not having such a good day, Shay. My girlfriend left me, there was an unflattering caricature of myself in the dissident press, & the U.N. is threatening some kind of embargo.
Dude, thats rough. An embargo of what?
They wont tell me. Anyway...thing is...
Cmon, man. Spit it out, I have a country to run.
I almost instituted a pogrom this morning.
Pogrom, eh? But you didnt, right?
Nah. There was something good on TV. It was about pirates.
Dont sweat it. Hey, this is me youre talking to, the freaking General. Ive been there. Now repeat after me: Just because I can institute a pogrom...
Just because I can institute a pogrom...
Doesnt mean I need to institute a pogrom.
Doesnt mean I need to institute a pogrom.
Thanks, Shay. Whos the man with the 3-year plan?
Fuggedabout it. By the way, did you happen to catch that A&E Biography thing they did on me the other night?
Whoah, talk about your hatchet jobs.
Yeah. I mean it was all negative negative negative. They didnt even touch on the volunteer work Ive done for Habitats for Humanity, or the fact that I spend every Wednesday night reading to sick children down at the hospital, or my passion for orchids.
(I thought Again with the orchids, & rolled my eyes.)
Dont let it get you down, Shay. Hey, I noticed at the last meeting Idi was getting a bit tubby.
He quit smoking.
Ah.
Yeah, Anyway, the other day I went over to his place to get back a c.d. hed borrowed, that album of gangsta rap that the Kronos Quartet put out last year, you know YoYo Ma, I Did Yo MaMa, in D Minor?
Good album.
Yeah. Anyway, I was putting a mix tape together for Meg...
Meg who?
Meg Thatcher.
She lets you call her Meg? She doesnt let me call her Meg.
Well, no offence, man, but you dont even have a freaking Navy. Chicks dig despotic rulers with a lot of boats. Or that play in a band. Anyway, we used to be sort of...involved.
You & Thatcher? Tee hee, Pinochet & That-cher, sittin in a tree...
Knock it off. What can I say? It was spring, love was in the air, it was the Falklands...
Cool. Um...what was she...you know...like.
A gentleman never tattles.
Youre no gentleman.
Good man. Shes a freaking tiger. It was insane. I hardly knew what happened...One minute were discussing sanctions, I turned my back on her to grab another beer out of the cooler & I hear this low, throaty growl behind me. She grabs me, throws me down on the tarmac, & chews off my uniform.
Wow.
I had to inspect the troops wrapped in a shower curtain. We still exchange cards, by the way. Anyway, Im getting way off track here--So I go over to Idis place & its like nine in the morning, & the dudes in full dress uniform, standing in front of a full-length mirror, the stereo blaring Wagner, & I just want grab my c.d. & get out of there, but hes like, Sit down. So I sit. & he doesnt say anything for a couple of minutes, just practices looking dictatorial in the mirror, every now & then doing a little wave, & after a while Im like, Listen Idi, Ive kinda got this thing I gotta go do. & he turns around very slowly & says, I have to ask you something, & I want your totally honest opinion, right? & Im thinking, Oh Christ, hes not going to start hitting on me, is he? Cuz I know Im awfully cute & all, but I just dont swing that way, you know? But no. He pauses again & says: These epaulettes. Do you think that they make me look fat? Im like, No way man. You look like a million bucks. The medals, then. Do you not think that these medals make me look like a hippopotamus? A hippopotamus wearing medals? Or one of those rapper girlfriends? Only he has that accent so it came out rappa goofren. I said, I can honestly say that you would never be mistaken for a rapper girlfriend, Idi Amin, my friend. Youve just got big bones. Big, hulking bones. Youre a huge, leaking bag of inner beauty. But Im thinking, Good God. He is truly the House That Love Built.
Done?
Yup.
The man definitely has some issues. I think he might be lapsing a bit.
What makes you say that?
I bumped into him at the grocery store the other day, & I could swear that I smelled someone on his breath. & he had barbeque sauce in his little basket.
Indeed. Well, at least hes trying. Good talkin atcha, but Ive got a bit of a difficult situation right now.
Lay it on me.
I sort of lost my pants in the last Nasdaq nosedive.
A lot?
Well, just my pants, actually. Its a long, baffling, needlessly convoluted story.
& we cant have that, can we? Which reminds me...
Um...theres this thing I gotta go....
Well, thanks for your help. Peace out, General Pinochet.
Peace out, Il Commodante.
& I usually feel much better.
Anyway, thats it for this Christmas. At present writing I, along with much of the rest of the country can think of little else but the upcoming adaption of David Copperfeild by TNT, curious to see how they handled the controversial brain-eating ending of Charles Dickens original novel. (I hope I didnt spoil it for anybody.) Tune in next holiday season for more scandal, special surprise guests, the addition of a plucky sidekick adept in the martial arts named Wan Ho, &, yes, even more chances to win valuable prizes!!!
Love & kisses,
--D
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
tororo:
So sorry I'm lacking some of the references (television? radio shows?) needed to appreciate fully... but I find it nevertheless hilarious. Hey, when I think of it... Idi, Meg Thatcher... were not getting any younger, all of us, don't we?
earplug6947:
the ghost of william gaddis?