'Tis the Sneezin' - old seasonal Snarls

Actually, you can just scroll down the column on the right (thataway>>>> over there>>>>) and find the link to this and other seasonal columns, but what the heck. Here's an old Christmas Snarl, from your own Mean One, Mr. Grinc- ah, Mr. Mean, himself.

'Tis the Sneezin'
With germs, some people are generous to a fault.

by Scott McNutt

It's Christmas time, when people share germs, the gift that keeps on giving. In the spirit of the season, I usually swap colds with coworkers. But, as a child-free person, my contribution to the office germ pool is negligible. My coworkers, however, are extremely giving with their germs. It's only fair: They have the most to give, because they have kids in school (or "Breeding Grounds of Pestilence," to use the Centers for Disease Control term). Supplied by the germ traffic that flows from those epidemic epicenters, parents always give at the office, early and often. In our office, one nose a-running inevitably leads to 12 coworkers a-phoning in sick.

Parents, a little prevention goes a long way. When you make your list of Christmas activities, check it twice before taking your darling Brendan to see Santa Claus. Do you really want your little angel standing in line with a bunch of flu-bearing, disease-carrying imps? And what about the Jolly Old Elf himself? Do you know where that lap has been? Please, take some standard germ-avoidance precautions, such as bathing hourly, learning to turn doorknobs with your toes, and quarantining yourselves in your homes until flu season passes. Say, around June. 2020.

Does it sound as if I welcome the arrival of this time of year like the coming of the plague? Yes? Good, I'm getting my point across. Think about it: This time of year, our society actually CELEBRATES the return of Santa Claus, the one guy who comes into contact with EVERY germ-infested child on Earth. No wonder Rudolph's nose is always red. You can leave the cookies and milk welcome mat out if you want, but I'm boarding up my chimney. Typhoid Merry Christmas presents won't be left under my antiseptic, disease-free, artificial tree!

Yes, while the typical seasonal silliness transforms the rest of the population into jolly, happy souls, indiscriminately hugging all and sundry as if December were just one long encounter-group session, I take no chances. I try to avoid contracting the holiday's usual stocking stuffers of suffering: cold, flu, fever, chills, sore throat, runny nose, itchy eyes, aches, pains, coughing, sneezing, and wheezing, all contributors to the 12 sick-days of Christmas. So I withdraw even further into my curmudgeonly solitude. I don't do Christmas office parties. I don't go riding in a one-horse open sleigh. I don't go caroling. I don't come a-wassailing. Call me Grinch, call me Scrooge, call me Good King Wenceslas if you want, just so long as you don't have to call me a doctor.

I put "Do Not Disturb" signs on my office door and "No Trespassing" signs in my yard. True or false: It's perfectly okay for you to deck my halls with bows of holly, fa-la-la-la-la-la, la-la-la- FALSE! By God, I'll arrest ye, scary gentlemen, if you come any closer! Mistletoe? Makes me break out like poison ivy. Besides, you really think I'm going to let your lips caress my own germ-free ones? 'Cause that tickle in your nostrils isn't Jack Frost nipping at your nose—it's a virus, insinuating itself into your sinuses, settling in as a long winter's guest. Yep, you're already infected. That jingling you hear? It's pharmaceutical companies ringing in the new year with their cash registers, full of your silver and gold.

Of course, if the germs don't get you, stress will. With all the vying, buying, and flying, the hustling, bustling, and tussling, the hurrying, scurrying, and worrying, not to mention the gaping maws and reddened schnozzes of the in-laws, I don't understand how people can still call this "the most wonderful time of the year." Wonderful for masochists, maybe. You truly want to bring joy to the world? Then join me in a chorus of "O Little Tab of Valium." In other words, just chill, dudes and dudesses.

Really, if you have good will toward men, then relax and stay home this holiday season. If everyone would do that, we'd have peace on Earth. (Until the arguments start over who's #1 in college football, anyway.) Failing that, I offer up this prayer of hope: If Jesus does return at the beginning of this new millennium, I pray he brings lots of tissues. God bless us, every one! Achoo.

another cartoon

I did this bit to accompany an article about the dangers of online scams.  In retrospect, the doc's name should have been "von Pullenlegger."

Latest Toxic Fumes - Toward a More Humane Society

Normally, I wouldn't put this column up before the Hellbender hardcopy it's to appear in has been released. But I figure 1) Hellbender vol 8, no 6 will be on the stands any day now, and 2) all three people who might read the column here won't be swayed from picking up the paper just because of that. (But for that trio of readers, let me reaffirm the value of obtaining the hardcopy: Good nutrition in the reporting, good fiber in the editing.)

Let me doubly reaffirm that. I just picked up the hardcopy and the edited column's got quite a few more good bits in it. Plus, M. Gunner Quist's illustration accompanying the column is must-see hilarious.

 

So here's the latest "Toxic Fumes."

Toward a More Humane Society

by Scott McNutt

Normally, "Toxic Fumes" trades in lowbrow humor. But this is a serious column about a serious issue. A dire problem confronts our nation: pet overpopulation. Accurate numbers are unavailable, but based on data collected from large animal shelters around the nation, the American Humane Society estimates that 9.6 million cats and dogs were euthanized in the United States in 1996. The number of stray, domesticated animals that die outside shelters is unknown, but probably at least equals the total euthanized in shelters. And, of course, the numbers can have only grown in the ensuing decade. A reasonable projection might be a 30 percent increase. So, let us say 25 million unwanted animals will perish this year in the United States.

Twenty-five million unwanted animals. It’s unthinkable. And unacceptable. Some do-gooders will argue that the solution is to encourage responsible pet ownership. This appeal to rationality is touching, but reality is brutal. Convincing irresponsible pet owners to take proper care of their pets is an impossibility. You have more chance of passing a law mandating the spaying and neutering of pet owners who do not have their animals spayed and neutered than reasoning with such idiots.

A significant part of the problem is that currently, pets are seen as an end in themselves. They are something to be bought, brought home, played with for a time, and then discarded when mom and dad realize little Bobby won’t take care of Fido, and darn it, he pees in the corner. And while Bobby’s pissing, Fido’s chewing up the furniture. So Bobby is sent to the bathroom, and Fido is cast into the cold.

Even those pets that are well-cared for are essentially ornaments. At present, our society invests pets with no intrinsic value. Owners lavish food and attention on them, while in return the animals produce nothing but poop and hairballs. Oh, some romantics will argue that pets do offer more than crap and barf. Unconditional love, they’ll say, is what pets provide. Pfah. Unconditional love my ass. Unconditional love doesn’t pay the bills.

The principles of consumerism must be applied to the pet industry. America must come to think of pets like cars: useful, status-enhancing items to be maintained and replaced every few years. We need to get Americans keeping up with the Joneses’ dog.

So what’s needed is to make the trade-in value of a well-fed pet worth the investment. And a used pets industry must be developed as well. Animal shelters have a significant consumer base already trained to regularly visit them. All that’s needed is to build their foot traffic to become successful retail outlets.

If an outright shift in America’s pet paradigm can be effected, and animal shelters can establish a trade-in system, half the problem is solved. Then the pet industry, using puppy mills already in place, instead of producing 25 million unwanted pets each year, should easily turn out hundreds of millions of desired pets, none of which need die as outcasts.

What becomes of the used pets? Simple. All that’s needed is to educate the American palate and start serving up plates piled high with fresh, hot dogs and chili kitties. The problem of pet overpopulation is in reality an opportunity to capture an untapped market, with the perfect new fast-food franchise: Humane Hut! Or possibly Pizza Shelter. The name is crucial, so focus-group testing is a must.

Animal farming is a profitable industry. For instance, chicken farmers can typically grow birds weighing four or five pounds in about 45 days, with a feed conversion ratio of 2-to-1 or less. That ratio makes for a fat profit. Now, according to the Doris Day Animal Foundation, if you mate two cats and allow all of their descendants to breed, in seven years, their yield will be as many as 420,000 cats. Apply chicken farming principles to that equation and think of those 420,000 cats as the profit from 420,000 Happy Meals. Surely, with all the nutritional science already invested in pet feeding, savvy pet owners could raise crop after genetically enhanced crop of plump, succulent, profitable puppies too.

An ad campaign is needed to get consumers salivating like Pavlov’s dogs for meals like broiled shank of setter with a side of fried mice and calico cakes for dessert. If the campaign successfully changes America’s tastes, then the current homeless pet population becomes free advertising for Humane Hut menus. When a passerby sees an abandoned dog on the side of the road, rather than feeling compassion, pity or indifference, he would feel his stomach rumbling.

Cats and dogs would make up the bulk of the menu at most franchises, of course, but uncommon pets are frequently abandoned at animal shelters too. Perhaps some franchises could set up specialty shops, specializing in such delicacies as Gold Fish Filets, Guinea Pigs in a Blanket, Snake Steaks, Welsh Rabbit, Hamster Humus and Canary Custard Pie. Perhaps at even more upscale Humane Huts, a family could bring in an old pet, have it prepared right at the table, dine upon it, and leave with a new pet in its stead. Doggy bags would have a whole new meaning.

Beyond that, Cruella DeVille had the right idea: Every part of the animal should be used. Pelts, bones, guts – nothing should be wasted. For instance, canine testicles, properly prepared and marketed, might take American snacking predilections by storm. A catchy name and the right spices, say, jalapeno-flavored Zesty Testes (or maybe Cayenne Cohones?), and these useless bits might become the biggest snack hit since Little Debbies. Or perhaps Puffed Naddies is the next big thing in children’s breakfast cereals.

For this common sense solution to work, we must learn to obliterate that so-called virtue, "mercy," in dealing with pets. There is nothing merciful about letting these creatures live – living condemns most of them to an existence we prefer not to subject 1.3 million annually aborted unborn children to. And these are animals, not people. It’s not like they have feelings to hurt.

To this end, we must begin conditioning our children to utterly disdain the lives of their pets. Neighborhood stray animal hunts should be organized. An experienced sportsman who has hunted in large groups should oversee this operation. Vice President Dick Cheney would be ideal for the position. Pets bagged in the hunts would, naturally, be taken to the local Humane Hunt to be prepared as a victory repast for the successful hunters. Little Bobby, rather than being disciplined for not supervising Fido, would be trained to slaughter the dog and feast upon it instead.

Gandhi said, "The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated." Well, fuck Gandhi. Recycling pets is the best and final solution to pet overpopulation. Our moral progress will be judged by how many of our pets are eaten.

Another inMotion cartoon

This only makes sense if you know that some insurance companies are putting a "one prosthesis per lifetime" cap on their policies - and that child amputees might need a dozen prostheses before they finish physical maturation.

And just FYI, an adult amputee is going to need more than one prosthesis - probably several. They  wear out, they malfunction, they break, they no longer fit for a variety of reasons.

Insurance needs to cover more than one prosthesis per lifetime.

More inMotion cartoons

See, some people might say, "oooo, I wonder who does her hair?" But with an amputee...well, at least it's based a true event.

Novum Amphibium Knoxiousvilum: Not Latest Toxic Fumes

The Sept/Oct issue of The Hellbender Press is out, and with it, the latest Toxic Fumes. You can find a copy of the new Hellbender at these fine locations, http://www.hellbenderpress.com/where, but you can read the unedited column below.

Novum Amphibium Knoxiousvilum

By Scott McNutt

KNOXVILLE, TN – A new, pollution-eating amphibious species is thriving in a creek watershed in a sleepy sub-Appalachian city, the Center for Confirming New Species announced today. The unprecedented discovery set off shockwaves in both the local and national political arenas, set creationists and evolutionists to clashing over the creature’s origins, and set up Knoxville and Knox County for a fall.

Discovered in Knox County’s First Creek watershed by local amateur species hunter Ricardoblan "Rikki" Hall, the large brown lizard has been designated Novum Amphibium Knoxiousvilum or "New Knoxville Amphibian." It mostly closely resembles a hellbender salamander, leading Hall to dub his discovery a "hellblender."

The new species is causing conniption fits locally because of its diet. Apparently subsisting on nothing but solid wastes and water and air pollution, the hellblender’s epicurean predilections have caused the EPA to void all current anti-pollution measures within the confines of Knox County and further declare that no new measures may be taken until a determination of the species’ rarity has been made.

Several businesses considering relocating to the area have suspended negotiations pending resolution of the issue and are likely to move elsewhere. Knoxville and Knox County, already stinking up EPA’s nonattainment doghouse for air quality issues, are therefore "Up First Creek without a taxpayer," according to Hall.

Reportedly, Knoxville City Mayor Bill Haslam took the anti-pollution ban philosophically. "Well, even though the city is suffering, my family is in the pollution-enablement business, so we’ll just keep making money like rabbits make whoopee," he is rumored to have said.

Knox County Mayor Mike Ragsdale’s reaction was more civic-minded. He welcomed the announcement of the new species and proposed to secure federal funds to build a transit center on it. Asked what he would do if federal funds were not forthcoming, he replied that he would propose that the hellblenders "pay a creek tax to fund a new library downtown and a school out west."

Local residents’ reactions to the new species were mixed. Of the announcement, Man about Downtown Knoxville Underground (AKA Knoxville’s Dark Underlord) Michael Haynes said, "If hellblenders support a downtown liquor store and curb their dogs, we welcome the little hellspawn with claws retracted." But when asked for his reaction, aboveground streetperson Diggin Dipper, who frequently camps near First Creek, only muttered something about not being able to trust the hellblenders with his valuables.

While the local New Knoxville Brewery celebrated the announcement of the new species by rolling out a new beer in its honor, the Hellblender Muddy Brown, Amber & Stout Git Yoreself Totally Polluted Brew, five Knox County Commissioners announced that they would sue to prevent hellblenders from appearing on the local ballot in the November elections.

In Washington, Tennessee Senator Lamar! Alexander said, "As long as the hellblenders agree not to build windmills in the First Creek watershed, I have no objection to recognizing their existence."

After watching a videotape of some of the newly found creatures playfully devouring a supermarket cart filled with aluminum cans someone had carelessly left in the creek, Retiring Tennessee Senator Doctor Pre-Presidential Candidate Bill Frist, M.D., reportedly diagnosed the hellblenders as "presenting with indications of significant brain function in both their occidental and prenatal lobes."

Upon learning of the new species’ existence, President Bush immediately dispatched Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice to negotiate a ceasefire agreement with the hellblenders. When it was explained to the president that the amphibians were, by all reports, peaceful, Mr. Bush is said to have proposed bombing them "just to make sure."

Sources report that First Lady Laura Bush talked the President out of this action by remarking how cute the creatures were and suggesting that maybe he could buy her a pair of hellblender-skin boots for Christmas, instead. Reportedly, the President then asked Mrs. Bush to "pull his finger" and ordered in a couple more shots and beers, then subsequently became absorbed in re-reading The Pokey Little Puppy and forgot about the amphibian menace.

Meanwhile, CREATIONISM (the Center for Recognizing the Existence of the Almighty through Technology, then Instituting the Omnipotent One in the National Infrastructure, Schools and Media) released a statement acknowledging the importance of the new species. The press release asserted that the discovery of a heretofore unknown species with such valuable attributes in such an already exhaustively documented region was so miraculous as to be a definitive refutation of evolution and proof of God’s ability to spontaneously generate whatever he wants, whenever he wants, wherever he wants. (Regarding the misspelling of their acronym, which should actually be CREATIOONISM, CREATIONISM spokesbeing Holly Rawler said, "The ‘O’ in ‘One’ is silent, in recognition of God’s silent, invisible hand guiding us in all things."

When asked for a reaction to CREATIONISM’s statement, no supporters of evolution were able to respond because they were all overcome with uncontrollable, spasmodic bursts of derisive laughter.

Eventually, species discoverer Rikki Hall snickered, "Yep, they got God’s hand up their asses all right."

Thus far, no comment has been forthcoming from the hellblenders themselves.

Taoist Cowboys - Body and Soul

Jeff Bills' posting of the St. James Sessions over on Knoxblab and Knoxviews recently reminded me that Lynnpoint records used to sell the Taoist Cowboys album, Punt.

The Cowboys were my favorite Knoxville band back when I used to go see live bands, mostly because they just seemed to be having a damn good time (although great, accesible pop hooks and witty lyrics helped too).

A couple years back, Jack Rentfro asked me to write the entry on the Cowboys for his Cumberland Avenue Revisited project. It's copied below, but it hardly does the 'boys justice.

Something I left out of the piece though, was that I was fortunate enough to actually get band member Scott Carpenter to put to music some song lyrics I'd written (which Scott amended and improved). "Body and Soul" even made it onto Punt.

Yeah, yeah, if my glory days are one song recorded by a local band that broke up in 1992, then the days weren't so glorious. That's ok. I'm still proud of it.

Lynnpoint doesn't appear to sell the CD anymore, but you can listen to and download all the songs from Punt here: http://www.lynnpoint.com/taoist_cowboys/index.html

I especially recommend Bob McCluskey's "Mind Chime" and "Shit on You." But the album is solid, through.

Anyway, below are the lyrics to that long-ago song, and below that, the brief bit I write for the Cumberland Ave project.

Body and Soul

Scott Carpenter & Scott McNutt

If I could give you the flesh from my bones

would it be enough to feed you?

If I could give you all that my heart holds

would it be enough to please you?

I don’t think so lately

But maybe a forty-hour week

in a suit and a tie

if that’s all it takes

I’ll try

Chorus:

You got me body and soul, you have control

to ashes and dust. Is it enough?

Does it satisfy your lust? I’ll pay your toll

but will I ever earn your trust?

If we were to dance arm in arm

would you lead if I followed?

If we were to see each other eye to eye

would I be what you’re looking for?

It don’t seem so sometimes

But maybe with a forty-hour week

in a suit and tie

if that’s what it takes

all right

Chorus

If I were to tell you the thoughts in my mind

would it be enough to know me?

If I could give you the embrace of my arms

would it enough to hold you?

I should hope so

‘cause that a forty-hour week

in a suit and a tie

are all that I have

to make you mine

Chorus

The Tao of Cow

by Scott McNutt

"Sloppy garage pop with heart." "Pop meets punk." "Music played by four guys who always drank way too much before getting on stage." These descriptions and many more have been put forward in an attempt to define the sound of the Taoist Cowboys. Probably all of them are accurate. The band was around from circa 1988-1992, friends and perhaps musical soul mates of other Knoxville-based bands of that era, like the JudyBats, the Swamis, and Smokin' Dave and the Premo Dopes. It's been said before that there is no "Knoxville Sound." I wonder. If not a sound, perhaps Knoxville has a musical spirit, which these bands captured. I won't attempt to articulate that spirit, other than to say "fun" must be a big component of it.

And the Taoist Cowboy shows were fun, memorably fun. Venues like Planet Earth, Manhattan's, China King, and Gryphon's witnessed the high-energy antics of the 'Cowboys and the 'Cowboys' fans. There was the night at Planet Earth when so many people were out on the floor dancing, I felt the floor trembling beneath me and wondered if it were about to collapse down into the ground level. What a way to go. There was the honor of being the first band to play in the newly relocated Longbranch. There was the beefy fellow in Gryphon's doing cartwheels to the tune "Dancing Bear," looking very much like a namesake for the song's title character. Whatever may be said of the the Taoist Cowboys' music, the live performances must always be remembered as part of the total package.

Not that the music cannot stand alone. Far from it. To these jaded ears, at least their second release, Punt still sounds fresh. Had the band been able to afford higher-quality production values and been somewhat more selective in song choice, "Cholo," their freshman effort, might rival "Punt." Even so, "Cholo" was selected as one of the Greatest Knoxville Records of the 1980s by Metro Pulse (Vol. , No. , 2000).

So what was their music like? Again, "fun," comes to mind. As does poignant, poppy, countryish, hard-driving, churning, burning, and yearning. From Cholo's twangy, country-tinged "Not Even Johnny," march-cadenced, alto-sax-accompanied "Baby Pool," and raucous rock rave-up "School Girl," to the jangly guitar-driven pop of Punt's "Back with You," sweet, shimmery "Mind Chime," and bass-stomping, guitar-crunching proto-metal "Liquid Plumr," the Taoist Cowboys charged through a gauntlet of musical styles, seemingly indifferent to where that charge might end up.

As it was, the band ended up stumbling over the rock of domesticity. Bassist, husband, and father Brad Deaton took a night job that interfered with playing regular gigs, and his bandmates, Jeff Bills, Bob McCluskey, and Scott Carpenter elected to disband rather than attempt to replace Deaton. All four ended up playing in various local bands after life in the 'Cowboys, Bills probably most famously in the now-also-defunct V-roys. Although Cholo is no longer available, Lynn Point Records issued Punt as a CD in 2000.

Old Yikes!: Deja Ewe

Once again, I have no rationale for reviving this piece, except that it never made it on line in the first place. I'm not sure when it first ran. My guess would be 1999. And that's all I have to say about it.

Deja Ewe

Stepping in the Cloning Controversy

by

Scott McNutt

A while back, President Clinton made many folks happy by calling for a ban on human cloning. This took most experts by surprise, given the many demands on the president's time. The experts pretty much agreed that, between critical fund-raising luncheons with felons, time-consuming gropes of passing females, high-priority phone sex calls, and the super-top-secret strip Yatzee games with Boris Yeltsin, the prez could use a clone of himself.

What motivated the president's ban? Perhaps he feared that the cloning technology would fall into the wrong hands, the hands of someone who could hold the entire country hostage with the threat of a truly unspeakable act: Cloning a hybrid of Monica Lewinsky and Kenneth Starr. Or maybe Clinton is cagily waiting to find out whether, if he cloned himself, he would be able to convince the clone to assume the responsibility of sleeping with Hillary.

Regardless of which immoral instinct drove Clinton to act so precipitously, I want to add mine to the chorus of voices crying out in a soft contralto that the prez has made a mistake: Clone humans! Ban cloning animals! I mean, look what we've got more of since this business started: sheep. As if the world needs another sheep.

Of course, for all we know, the sheep cloning incident may have been a hoax. After all, what evidence do we have? A bunch of guys in white coats claiming they are scientists call a press conference and announce that they're about to clone a sheep. They bring in the sheep, hook it to some wires, throw a switch, then bring in another sheep and tell the waiting flock of reporters that this is a clone of the first sheep. As if a reporter could tell the difference.

Not that I fault reporters for being unable to distinguish one sheep from another. (That's a Scotsman's job.) I will readily fault reporters for virtually everything else, but this I forgive. Why? Because in this one respect, reporters are no different than the rest of us. You know what I mean: If you've worn a fleece-lined coat or a wool sweater, you know everything you need to know about sheep. You have had The Sheep Experience. Whatelse is there?

Besides wool, sheep produce crap and more sheep. They all look alike; they all act alike (sort of like Young Republicans). For all intents and purposes, every sheep alive today might as well be a clone. So what's the point of cloning sheep? Unless, of course, you're trying to develop a new, far superior strain of Bee Gee. Besides, a ban on cloning humans is silly because it's obviously already being done. The United States Congress is proof of that.

So it makes much more sense to clone humans. But it is a sensitive issue, and it's vital to put someone respected and trusted in charge. Which is why I am asking the people of this great nation to put me in charge of Clone Central. I am both respected and trusted by myself. I assure you that cloning approval would be an exacting process, and I would take each and every relevant factor into account. Specifically, if you wanted to be cloned, you would pay me exactly $1,000,000 and I would take each and every one of those dollars into my Swiss bank account.

Think of all the advantages having a clone offers: It would no longer be such a chore to round up that fourth player for golf or bridge. When someone asks, "Can you lend me a hand?" you could easily oblige, and throw in a foot to demonstrate your generosity. Follicle-challenged guys such as myself would have an easier time checking the spread of their bald spots. (If this seems trivial to you, you've never been a balding guy.) Why, I don't believe there's an issue confronting our society today that could not be remedied with the judicious application of the cloning process. Except perhaps for the spread of Rosie O'Donnell.

And as Head Cloner, I want you to know that I would not flinch from addressing disquieting issues such as creeping Rosie O'Donnellism. This dark side of cloning -- scientifically known as "God, Not Another Talk Show Host!" -- would not escape my scrutiny. In fact, I already have a solution: I would accept bribes to not clone certain people. Jewel, Bill Gates, Orrin Hatch, Gilbert Gottfried, Dr. Laura -- this is just a small sampling of the people whom you could persuade me not to duplicate with just a few measly millions.

This may seem like a lot of money to the average citizen, but ask yourself, "Average citizen, isn't it worth $3,000,000 to know there will never be another Jerry Springer?" It's a pity I wasn't put in charge earlier. We could have avoided this whole Hanson thing.

To those who say that I have no social conscience, that greed is my sole motivator, I say "Feh!" And as proof, I submit this list of The Ten People That I Will Never Clone Really Truly Honestly You Don't Have To Bribe Me Cross My Heart And Hope To Die:

1. You

2. You

3. You

4. And

5. You

6. You too

7. Ditto

8. The same

9. Likewise

10. And that goes for the rest of you! Why? Because you're all just sheep! And you're bad! Baaah-aaad!

Not Really Latest Toxic Fumes: Hey! Idiots!: Letter from the Future

Here's the latest "Toxic Fumes" column, which appears in The Hellbender Press, East Tennessee's environmental journal.

Hardcopy Hellbenders are available all over Knoxville, and I highly recommend you pick up one. Not only can you read all the environmental news you won't get anywhere else, but you can also peruse a version of this column that has benefited from the tightening up and battening down that only editing by the HBP's braintrust can provide.

Anyway, here's the unedited column:

Letter from the Future: "Hey! Idiots!"

by Scott McNutt

Of the means by which I acquired the letter below, all I can reveal is this: It was procured through a rip, torn through the dark matter that knits time and space together. And if he talks, I’ll kill Rip Torn.

The apparent date of the letter is July 4, 2076. It’s in English, albeit with some changes in form and spelling; "newkewler" for nuclear, for instance. Parts of it are illegible, but the extant passages trace the remarkable path to civilization’s circumstances in 2076. Herewith then is a letter from our future:

*************

"Dear Lil’ Mikey,

"…On our new Independence Day, I refer you to the early years of Fowler Über’s reign, when he was still known only as Gorge Gumpya Bush II, Prissy Dip of the United Estates, and none foretold his imminent global ascendance. Astounding, isn’t it, that the era we call the Cow-Tipping Point should not be recognized as significant at the time? If one could call back to those uncomprehending denizens of the planet, one might say, ‘Hey! Idiots! You SUCK! Don’t you get it? Fowler Über was civilization’s savior!’

"…Bush’s grand vizier, whom we know only as Snarlpuss, is said to have been architect of the War on Feathers. Even before the Bird Flew Panic of 2007, Snarlpuss foresaw the necessity of ridding the planet of feathery things. In 2005, he had ordered the clandestine development of a Newkewler Nest-Buster bomb. In late 2006, when the United Estates launched preemptive operations in Oxtrailer to contain bird flights, Snarlpuss deployed several test nest-busters out back of Oxtrailer.

"The unreasoning and contemptible Oxtrailian natives complained that the radiation was wrecking their environment. After a full and fair hearing, Snarlpuss had nest-busters deployed on their pointy heads, efficiently wrapping up that front in the War on Feathers...

"…The penguins put up fierce resistance, but eventually the Phenomenal Fowl Extinction was complete! Well, as we later learned, some penguins must have survived in the nether regions of the world, and some seabirds escaped to dive-bomb us even today. But still, the overall plan worked, and it was a great victory of man over plumage!

"…The birdbrains in the opposing Demoncrack party wailed that whole forests would fail, because birds helped pollinate trees. Others whined that the birds were the least of their worries. They claimed Bush’s decision to unleash logging in national forests and his order to invade Canada for its timber resources (obvious necessities after the depletion of building materials wrought by the catastrophic 2006 hurricane season), ‘were the acts of a wanton Paul Bunyan.’ In public appearances, Bush took to singing ‘Oh, I’m a lumberjack and I’m OK’ to belittle these critics. Or possibly he just liked the song. The mind of Bush was known to no one…

"Still more critics shrieked that the total vegetation loss attributable to the fowl extinction would cause astronomic atmospheric concentrations of carbon dioxide, meaning glaciers would melt quicker than butter on hell’s kitchen table. Most, however, grumbled that they’d have no more Chicken McNuggets.

"The McNugget munchers lacked vision. Bush had already foreseen such consequences and had taken steps to address these petty concerns. Even before the first fowl was plucked in the War on Feathers, the Singular Piscatorial Concentration had already commenced, in mid-2006.

"All was set in readiness with Bush’s designation of a vast area of ocean around the Howie islands as a national monument. Great sea walls were constructed around the supposed monument and all manner of piscine creatures were agglomerated there for breeding and experimentation purposes…

"…Meanwhile, the Demoncracks struck back. At the Big Important Cinematic Auteur Festival in the fabled land of Sundunce, the party leader, whose name comes down to us only in an allegory, showed a movie titled An Incontinent Tooth. It was a nonsensical story of how our appetites would wreak our destruction. This celluloid fairy tale won the top prize, of which we still have the precise title: The Rachel Carson Self-Congratulatory Award of Self-Flagellation for Letting Liberals Express Limp Outrage and Feel Like They Were Doing Something About the Environment When They Were Only Using Up Gas to Drive Someplace to Watch a Fucking Movie.

"Hereafter, the record falls silent on the fate of the Demoncracks. One assumes they all died of tooth decay. However it happened, when a species frets over how best to survive rather than simply getting on with the business of surviving, it is only fit for extinction anyway…

"…Meanwhile, with McNuggets extinct, the unwashed masses dined on fish sandwiches. Massive fishing expeditions harvested whole species to feed the ungrateful grousers’ grubby faces. Dependency on the sea for food grew exponentially. Its imminent exhaustion was apparent. Less-foresighted nations soon demanded access to the newly named Howie’s Finny Friends Fishery, now teeming with genetically engineered scaly things…

"…Bush ruthlessly beat the beggar nations back. ‘Bring it on! Let them eat steak!’ he cried triumphantly. And his subjects recognized their ruler’s beneficent wisdom, hailed him as conqueror, bestowed upon him the title of ‘Fowler Über, Pisces Ascendant’ in commemoration of his grand victory over worm-eaters both feathered and scaled, and proclaimed him hereditary sovereign…

"…Then a killer asteroid was identified as on an Earth-impact track! All nuclear missiles and rockets had already been expended in the Seven-Minute War with whatever leftist lands used to be to the right of Yourup, so another approach was needed. Fowler Über gathered his counselors and conceived the most imaginative, the most elegant solution possible…

"…Thus, all cows on Earth were rounded up. A speedy conventional war was waged upon the cow-worshipping subcontinent of Indy, utterly destroying it. Unfortunately, hundreds of millions of cows that could have been better used also perished in the conflict.

"Even some of the Fowler Über’s own subjects failed to appreciate their tyrant’s wisdom and took up arms in a bloody rebellion, known as the Revolt of Bessie’s Udder. This resistance was pinched off through systematic annihilation of the surviving arable soil in our former homeland. This was all part of the plan, for the fittest among our forebears had already departed to settle the rapidly thawing southern continent…

"…A methane-powered cowship was quickly constructed and the cud-swallowers were shot into space to intercept the looming space rock. With the bovines’ belches, burps and butt-gas powering the vessel, it successfully caromed off the killer asteroid like a sirloin-flavored cue ball, breaking the asteroid into fragments.

"These stony chunks mostly devastated the United Estates’ southern neighbors, where remnants of bovine sympathy still stewed. Yourup was inundated with billions of tons of burning beef shank, and consequently most Yourapeeins died of iron poisoning. Thus was Fowler Über’s steak prophecy fulfilled. The Cow-Tipping Point had passed. The remaining cow remains careened into an elliptical solar orbit, the source of the chuck roast showers that sometimes fall, like well-done manna from the heavens, on our new homes here in the United Steppes of Antarctica.

"Even unforeseen events favored the followers of Fowler Über. In the wake of the Cow-Tipping Point, tidal waves, which no one could have expected, breached the Finny Friends Fishery, allowing the genetically enhanced experiments to escape. This was fortuitous, because we no longer had means to reach the fishery. But now the fishes come to us! Often, they crawl right up onto our steppes. Sometimes, the seabirds provide aerial support for them…but still, we usually prevail!

"Beef in the sky, fowl from the sea and fish on the land are but a few of the many gifts of Fowler Über’s legacy. He sagely saw that an Earth mostly depopulated of humans, mostly exhausted of known resources, and with hugely swelled oceans sundering the remaining, miniscule lands, would be an Earth where the fittest survivors enjoy a tropical year-round climate, free from war, sharing the bounty of Mother Earth’s residual resources.

"That is, we’ll share the resources as soon as the oceans recede enough to force the mutant penguinsharks farther from our shores.

"Yours in Fowl Überly,

Lady Elle Eva Job Braunie"

Like I said - corny. But I did think the shiftless skonk at the lower right of the frame came out appropriately shady looking, though the quality of this image pretty much prevents one from seeing that...

Apropos of nothing, except that I finally got around to scanning some of the cartoons I've done for inMotion magazine. They are amputee-centric and quite corny.

Left on the Right Planet

Some schtick I was noodling with that'll never amount to anything. So I thought I'd deposit it here (and elsewhere). It might elicit a chortle or two. Thus,

Left on the Right Planet

I'm left-handed.

So I came across a NYT review of a 1992 book that says left-handed people have a life expectancy nine years shorter than right-handed people.
(http://tinyurl.com/pa52n)

The world's already made for right-handed people. Everything is designed for right-handed people to use: can openers, scissors, computer keyboards, golf clubs, guitars, drill presses, industrial meat slicers -- and let me tell you, you don't want to operate a right-handed industrial meat slicer left-handed.

Unless you already cut your right hand off. In which case, you're a klutz and deserve whatever happens to you.

And you guys get nine more years of life? It isn't fair!

It's a right-handed world. Everything is right-handed. Cars. Cars are designed for right-handed people. If I ever had enough money to buy a Lamborghini -- not that I would -- but if I ever had enough money to buy a Lamborghini, it wouldn't be designed for the convenience of newly wealthy, left-handed me.

No.

It would be designed for the convenience of some right-handed dentist from fuckin' Farragut having a mid-life crisis, who'd total it right out of the show room while lighting his cigar with his right hand and adjusting the volume on his cell phone with the left.

And he gets an extra decade of life too?

And doesn't-phone-and-drive, left-handed me gets to die early?

It isn't fair that right handers get the whole planet built around their needs and then get a decade more of life added to boot. Right-handers should get more life expectancy penalties for certain behaviors.

For instance, lung cancer is a leading cause of death in the U.S., and smoking is the smoking gun in lung cancer right? You know how many years smoking knocks off the life expectancy of a right-handed U.S. male? 2.3.

2.3 years.

That means that damn right-handed, cigar-smoking dentist's got a life expectancy of 72.7 years compared to 66 years for pink-lunged, left-handed me!

And that means left-handedness is 4 times as lethal as smoking!

That ain't right. Dammit, you know what I mean!

OK, so obviously, this book review got me all worked up. And I decided I'd better find out more about left-handedness. So I did a little more looking on the internet...

...and found that more left-handed people are gay. (http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases...0710071931.htm)

Now, I'm comfortable with my heterosexual orientation, and I'm comfortable with others' sexual orientation too, whatever it may be. But, still...

...I decided to figure out a way to extend my heterosexual life expectancy.

So I took up smoking. With my right hand. I figured that would add at least 6.7 years to my life.

But I kept masturbating with my left hand. But only while looking at pictures of right-handed women. I figured that would ensure everlasting heterosexuality.

And...I found out you shouldn't masturbate and smoke at the same time. You get confused about which hand’s doing the stroke and from which hand you’re sucking the smoke.

Now I'm wondering about my sexual orientation...

Not Latest Toxic Fumes: Throwing the Trashcans Out with the Trash

The latest Hellbender Press is out, and I'm fortunate enough to have a column in it. But I suggest picking up a hard copy and reading the rest of the mag, too -- especially the editorial.

Check out the web site of East Tennessee's Environmental Journal, at http://www.hellbenderpress.com/ for a table of contents of the latest issue.

Throwing the Trashcans Out with the Trash

By Scott McNutt

This is a story of the Knox County Government.

We once had a beat-up, ratty-looking indoor trashcan. Its lip was cracked, its lid ill-fitting, and its once lustrous white exterior, dulled with age and discolored with countless spilled beers, had dimmed to a grungy, chalky color – to grasp the degree of decrepitude I’m trying to convey, picture Bill Frist’s face as a trashcan. See what I mean?

My wife wanted it gotten rid of -- she not being a fan of Frist -- so on trash collection day, I set it on the curb for pickup next to our big, black outdoor cans. Its plainly poor condition, its empty state, and its out-of-place character I thought would announce to the garbage collectors that this trashcan was itself trash.

We returned home that evening to find the unwanted bin standing next to the other receptacles.

The next week, I carefully lined up the three outdoors cans, then delicately composed the refused refuse container atop them. The resulting arrangement resembled nothing so much as the corpse of an oft-married belle dame sans merci, dressed in her frequently used wedding dress -- now faded, threadbare and dingy -- being borne to her final repose by dark-suited pallbearers, would-be consorts of the great lady during her days upon the earth.

Surely, I thought, if this tableau could inspire me to such flights of achingly bad simile, the overt symbolism of the array must signal to the garbage collectors that this can was destined for the Great Garbage Heap in the Sky.

That evening, there it was, crouched behind its larger cousins, like a wraith returned to haunt the living – or, at least, to irk them.

The following week, I poured as much foul, stench-ridden slop as I could into the increasingly antagonizing can, then crammed it into an outdoor can. When we returned home, it was standing next to the container I had placed it in, looking like Jonah sprung from the whale. And smelling worse.

The next week, I had an inspiration. On garbage collection day, I once again put the wanton indoor can on the curb next to the outdoor cans. To it, I taped a piece of cardboard on which I wrote "THROW THIS AWAY." That evening, it was gone. The sign, I mean. The can remained.

In the end we had no choice but to sell the house and flee, to start life anew far from the influence of the relentless, ineluctable trashcan.

Twelve years ago, Knox Countians resolved to impose term limits on county officeholders. Specifically, they voted that "After January 1, 1995, no individual shall be permitted to hold the same elected office of Knox County government more than two (2) consecutive terms."

After the votes were counted, it was clear that the term-limits resolution had passed. County officials deliberated long and carefully on the matter. After this lengthy, considered discussion, county officials made an announcement. The announcement was that what the voters had meant with this resolution – what they had really, truly meant -- was for only the county law director to be term limited. All other elected county officials declined to vacate their offices. They became the trashcan that couldn’t be trashed.

In response, we Knox Countians shrugged, picked up the old trashcan, brought it back inside, and continued filling and emptying it for another twelve years.

Then a miracle happened. A case involving Shelby County officeholders was decided by the Tennessee Supreme Court in favor of term-limits. It was further adjudicated that the ruling applied to Knox County officeholders, too. Finally, the trashcan would be tossed out!

Since that decision, everybody who could has acted to restrict the impact of the State Supreme Court’s decision. Like the trash collectors who refused to take away the shabby can, The county Powers That Be have done what they could to ensure that the county government would, as much as possible, continue exactly as it has.

So somebody decided it was too late to remove the names of the term-limited county commissioners from the primary ballot. And somebody decided that if these commissioners won their primaries, then their parties could pick their replacements for the general election. Somebody else said, no, dammit, term-limits don’t apply to the sheriff! Because the sheriff is God and nobody term-limits God! Except those darn evolutionists, and they’re wrong.

We won’t even go into the write-in candidates. Because we don’t really care anyway, do we? Because we Knox Countians tend to pay as much attention to the quality of the government we elect as a sphincter pays to what’s passing through it.

Amidst all these rulings, one chancellor did opine that Knox County’s charter form of government may be illegal. So five commissioners have filed suit to have Knox County's charter ruled invalid. If that happens, Knox County would revert to the standard form of county rule per the state constitution, which, naturally, contains no term limits for county commissioners. The five commissioners all solemnly swear on their constituents’ graves that that fact had nothing to do with their suit. And, yes, their constituents will die of old age before these commissioners and The Powers That Be behind them willingly relinquish control. The suit is still pending as of this writing.

Like the cliched cold, dead extremities you must pry loose to take something precious from someone, the local political parties are a moribund hand, and these commissioners are the five frigid fingers still clutching to power by any means possible. Something must be done. And for a problem this serious, the tired "dead hands/grip on power" metaphor won’t do. We’ll return to the trashcan motif, instead.

So, what my wife and I ultimately had to do about our trashcan (flee and start life anew) may apply here. Only in this case, rather than literally fleeing, we Knox Countians may have to distance ourselves from Knox County metaphorically, by tossing its current political structure into the trash. From whence it will return, with all irregularities redeemed, born anew, like the Phoenix, rising from the ashes.

Because they don’t have term-limits in Phoenix. Do they?

Thirteen Pitiful Points -- New Column for New Alternative Mag

Knoxville has a new voice -- Knoxville Voice. You can check out some samples of the kind of stuff they do at http://www.knoxvoice.com/. They were kind enough to ask me to contribute something:

Thirteen Pitiful Points

What to do about voter turnout?

by Scott McNutt

A few weeks ago, the Knox County primaries generated about 33,000 votes, or roughly 13 percent of the approximately 245,000 registered voters in Knox County. This is absolutely outrageous. Something must be done. This creeping rise in voter turnout must be nipped in the bud.

Don’t these 13 percenters recognize the pointlessness of it all? Everything is controlled by the major parties anyway, and besides, no one vote is ever going to make a difference. So why bother? As someone who has voted and been disappointed, I can attest: Nonvoting is the better path. If you haven’t considered nonvoting, please do. Because life would be so much better if only everyone would nonvote.

Mind you, there are those who will not allow for the possibility of achieving zero percent voting. The officials who would know about such things decline, officially, to speculate on the matter. When asked (by email) to comment on what would happen if no one voted in the general election, Knox County Administrator of Elections Greg MacKay replied, "At least until the smoke clears, I have given up answering questions that contain the phrase ‘what would happen if....’"

Also via email, Knox County Law Director Mike Moyers agreed, saying, "I am pretty much in agreement with Greg on this, given the volume of litigation that is in the works."

Moyers went on to say, "I would say that the possibility that no one, including the candidate him/herself, would vote for a candidate on the ballot is far too remote to even speculate about."

You can take Moyers' word for it if you want, and resign yourself to exercising your franchise, voting in the fall elections and thus securing your right to be governed by a government you don’t even like. Yes, you can take that pessimistic, defeatist path and decide that you have no choice but to go ahead and vote.

But you do have a choice! Dadgumit, this is America, known for its fiercely independent streak. Every day, Americans are demonstrating their fierce independence by not doing things that they don’t want to do, like obeying the "walk/don’t walk" sign or flushing afterthey use public toilets.

Why, think of George W. Bush’s old pa, H.W.: He courageously banned a vegetable from the White House and Air Force One, declaring: "I'm President of the United States, and I'm not going to eat any more broccoli!" Pa Bush is the perfect symbol of the little guy standing up against impossible odds to thwart the implacable will of American Green Vegetable Lobby.

Like H.W. keeping his jaws clenched tightly shut against the broccoli florets determined to throw themselves upon his revolted taste buds, you too can resist when an electronic voting machine suddenly leaps at you from the alleyway, thrusting its buttons at your all-too-vulnerable fingers. You do have a choice. You can run away. You can hide. If we really, really want to, we can all nonvote in the fall elections.

Now, again, you can take the word of government officials like Moyers and MacKay, and believe there is no way possible that no one will vote, or you can take the word of a faceless curmudgeon such as myself, and establish a paradise right here on earth. Because nonvoting would usher in a shining age of peace and contentment in Knox County.

Look at it this way: It stands to reason that if no one voted, then no one would take office. If no one were in office, then nobody can sue anybody to get somebody out of office. (And Wanda Moody and Herb Moncier are two such nobodies, eh?)

And all this hassle with county commissioner term limits and such like? Gone. All that squabbling over how much the school budget should be this year? Forgotten. All those pesky services like tax collection, education, road construction, automobile registration, business certification, law enforcement, and so forth? This is America! We’re Americans! We don’t need the government taxing, collecting, educating, constructing, registering, certifying, enforcing and just generally restricting us. The free market will do all that.

After all, if the government that governs best is the one that governs least, then the government that languishes in limbo must be the ultimate government, the Übermensch of government, the Who Wants to Be a Millionaire champion of government.

Speaking of popular TV shows, if we could get everyone in Knox County to nonvote this fall, we’d be famous. If all 212,000 of us nonvoters convince those other 33,000 deluded voters (or "voterians") to remain neutral in the August general elections, we’ll knock "All Cock Fighting, All The Time" Cocke County off the throne as the most nationally known Tennessee municipality.

It should be easy to sway those 13 percenters not to vote. We’ll use the force of logic and the proud tradition of democracy to prove our case. There are 212,000 nonvoters compared to 33,000 voterians in Knox County. In a democracy, majority rules. Once we demonstrate our nonvoting will is the majority, the would-be voter minority must abide by our decision to nonvote.

How do we demonstrate our numerical superiority on this issue to those fanatic voterians? Perhaps a show of hands? No, bad idea, that’s like voting. Well, there are six and a half of us nonvoters for every one of the voterians; we can just physically restrain them. However we do it, not one person can vote in August. Then fame and fortune will roll into Knox County.

If we achieve zero percent turnout, our accomplishment will be so significant, we’ll be acclaimed from coast to coast. All the big shows, the important shows, would want us. Rush Limbaugh would be calling us. Jay Leno and David Letterman would be racing each other to broadcast their shows live from Knox County with us as their guests.

After that, it’s a natural for at least one network to build a new series around us, a show where other major municipalities would try to match Knox County’s no-vote achievement. They’d call it American Idle. Simon and Paula would stop bickering and try to talk at least one of us newly minted celebrities onto their show to shore up their sagging ratings.

If we keep our nonvoting record unsullied in the coming years, more of our American dreams of celebrity and status will come true. Jeff Probst would keep us in the limelight with Survivor: Knox County, where zealous wannabe voters from other parts of the country are dropped here to try to register and vote with only their new proofs of residency to aid them. Knox Countians, naturally, would strive vigilantly to preserve our sweetly hygienic nonvoting record.

All of this is within our grasp. All that must be done is to stop the 13 percenters. Only they are standing between Knox County and glory. For the good of the many, the few, the 1.3 of every 10 Knox Countians, must be prevented from mindlessly and futilely voting in the general elections in the fall.

Yes, it’s a grand dream. There’s only one problem. It won’t work. Ultimately, sad as I am to admit it, Moyers and MacKay are right. Somebody will vote. No matter how hard the rest of us try to forget that we live in a country where our vote can make a difference, somebody always remembers. No matter how much we strain to be indifferent to who governs us, somebody always cares. No matter how fervently we wish otherwise, somebody will always vote.

And we won’t really restrain anyone from voting, because we’re Americans, and we don’t do that. Mostly, we don’t. So if you don’t want somebody else’s single vote to decide your fate, come August, you’d better go vote. All 244,999 of you.

The Limb Loss Experience: Stages of Grief, Phases of Recovery

Although this is amateurish, and some of the lettering is downright bad, I'm excited about it: My first published, illustrated page, from inMotion, May/June 2006, Vol. 16, No. 3.

Next-to-Latest Toxic Fumes: Hunting Legal Eagles

"Toxic Fumes" appears in East Tennessee's Environmental Journal, The Hellbender Press (http://www.hellbenderpress.com/).

Note: This version of the column reads somewhat differently than the one in the print edition.

Hunting Legal Eagles

By Scott McNutt

Legal eagle shoots, such as the one held in Texas for Vice President Dick Cheney back in February, have many defenders. Some enthusiasts argue that, Dick being the VEEPEE, he should be able to shoot whoever he wants to, rank having its privileges and all (a concept derived from the original Latin legal term, "Vaddus Biggus Dickus Vantus, Biggus Dickus Gettus"). Others say attorneys’ incessant, smug use of that insufferable Latin legal jargon is reason enough to gather them up and shoot them. "‛Pro bono’ this up your ASS," these others say.

Some claim that left to their own devices, lawyers would breed like jackrabbits and eat themselves out of house and torts and would eventually overrun the planet. So, managed kills are necessary to control the population. Of course, this argument ignores the fact that many such hunts are either on reservations stocked with game, like the Texas ranch Dick visited in February, or are "canned hunts," which the Dickman also enjoys.

Canned hunts feature legal eagles and other game that are raised in captivity, then released mere yards away from a hunting party. This tactic spares the party the tediousness of doing any actual hunting, allowing them to jump right into the joy of killing. Indeed, that’s probably an advertising slogan for canned hunts: "None of the Hunt, All of the Slaughter!"

Yet other hunt proponents suggest that lawyers don’t feel pain, so shooting them in the face at close range isn’t barbaric. The argument is that killing lawyers can’t be considered "inhumane" because, well, lawyers aren’t human. At least, run-of-the-millionaire Texas Republican legal eagles that work as political operatives aren’t. Thus are canned lawyer hunts justified.

True though that may be, let me appeal to your sense of pity. Now, I know what you’ll say. You’ll argue that political legal eagles are a subhuman species whose usual method of accepting a client’s retainer is to gleefully bite off the hand the retainer’s held in. It is also true that, if caught in a legal trap, rather than answer a question honestly, they are more likely to gnaw off their own foot, then sue for damages to their bridgework. In fact, when it comes right down to it, I can’t blame you for having no sympathy for them, since I harbor nothing but creeping, goose-pimply revulsion toward political legal eagles. OK, skip the appeal to pity.

Instead, let me appeal to your sense of fair play. Set aside your distaste for species "politicus jurisprudencius fowlus." They may be shiftier than Eve’s serpent and lower than a dung beetle’s belly, but they are God’s creatures too. And besides, this isn’t specifically about such legal eagles. This is about the unfairness of "canned hunts" in general. Just consider the circumstances of Dickster Trickster’s recent Texas massacre.

The lawyer that was the prey in that hunt was so stupefied by being in the great outdoors that it blundered "prima facie" (that is, "face first") into Dick’s shotgun blast. How sporting is that? Even the farm-bred pheasants that the Dickey likes to have tossed from nets into his line of fire during canned hunts have sense enough to attempt to fly away from the guns’ discharge.

During one canned pheasant hunt at the Rolling Rock Club in Ligonier Township, Pennsylvania, His Dickness is said to have slaughtered 70 of the plump, harmless, bewildered fowl, while the rest of his party tallied up another 347 of the pheasants. For desert, the shooters annihilated an untold number of similarly docile and corpulent mallard ducks.

As ghastly and unsporting as that may sound, just picture row upon row of dazed, dumb Republican lawyers lost on the range where the deer and the antelope play dead, stumbling into the VEEP’s sights, only to be mowed down by his shotgun’s blazing barrels. Only Dick’s occasional need to reload or one of his spasmodic urges to shoot a member of his own political hunting party would allow the confused consiglieres any respite.

So, if there are to be lawyer hunts, at least hunt them in their natural environs, so that they may use their natural defense mechanisms. After all, in the wild, quail and pheasant use defenses such as natural camouflage, flight, and shitting in hunters’ eyes to escape death. Similarly, let political barristers be sought in their usual haunts, so they have a fighting chance at survival.

Track them prowling down Senate lobbies, slaking their thirst in their private clubs, trailing behind ambulances and, of course, sleeping in their clients’ beds (with their clients’ wives). Seeking political legal eagles in their natural habitat is simply fairer.

In such settings, wild mouthpieces may fight back with natural defenses of their own, making for more challenging sport. Imagine yourself cornering the untamed attorney in a bar, when the bayed creature turns on you with an argument "in loco parentis" (literally, "if you kill me, my firm will have your parents declared insane and will steal their estate from you"). Or perhaps you’ll be stalking it outside the courthouse when it turns and presents with "writs of habeas corpus" (literally, "if you don’t want your house seized, guarantee in writing that you won’t turn me into a corpse"). Possibly you’ll have tracked it back to its lair when it springs upon you with its most desperate defense, statements of "flagrante delicto" (literally, "I’m not flagrantly delicious; don’t shoot me").

Wouldn’t such hunts afford more pulse-pounding thrills for Dick than simply slaughtering tame, sluggish, pudgy birds? If you happen to know the VEEPer, will you suggest this to him? And while you’re at it, how about suggesting arming the quails and pheasants in his next canned hunt, too?

Democracy Inaction: First Snarls

The following was the first "Snarls" to appear in Metro Pulse, back in May of 2000. Because of recent developments with term limits re: the Knox County Commission, I thought it might be appropriate to re-post this (slightly) fictionalized account of one of that august body's meetings. 

Democracy Inaction

A mostly true tale of local government

by Scott McNutt

Every citizen should attend a local government meeting at least once. It's a great opportunity to see your tax dollars at play—I've been there, and it sure didn't look like those little greenbacks were working. Yes, it's time eligible voters acknowledged the spawn of their democratic inactivity. Some readers may think the following account is exaggerated. But honestly, only the names have been changed to amuse the innocent.

I should begin by describing the Community Commission. Membership is restricted to humans, mostly. No doubt because of the anti-smoking ordinances for government buildings, no backroom wheeling-dealing appeared to be going on. All the Commissioners sat in full view of the public, around an enormous semicircular desk. Which made them perfect links in the political food chain for Winnifred "Pooh" Corners.

Every local governing body seems to have one guy who's been there since the Jurassic Period—and who has the political bite and walnut-sized brain to prove it. Ours is Pooh Corners: a crusty, fossilized crustacean of a politician, with an agenda and a hairstyle all his own. Pooh's head looked as if some exotic jungle bird had lost half its plumage when crash-landing into his cranium. His approach to government had a similar eye-catching flair, no back-room deals needed.

Pooh controlled the course of the meeting through forceful, penetrating observations. "Who are all these people?" he shrilled, gesturing imperiously at citizens there to present their opinions on community business. "Why are they here?" he asked querulously. "Don't they know we have community business to attend to?" At which point one or two political parrots echoed, "Community business! Community business!"

A debate ensued over whether the citizens should, indeed, be allowed to express their views to their representatives. Before any action could be taken, Pooh suddenly announced, "I'm going to the bathroom!" Someone responded, "Do we need a motion on that?" And another called out, "Nay!" and someone else shouted, "What are we voting on again?" Then a loud chorus of "Recess!" broke out, and the Chairman banged his gavel on the table and called for a sandwich from the vending machine, hold the mustard.

Eventually, the citizens got to speak. And I appreciate our local leaders allowing that. It's true, many of the Commissioners seemed completely indifferent to what the citizens had to say, and sometimes baffled and resentful that the citizens wanted to speak at all. But I thought I detected a Commissioner listening occasionally, and I appreciate that. Really. Truly. Thanks.

But on other issues, Pooh Corners, this octogenarian velociraptor, this dart-full codger, seemed to cow the Commissioners, who were the usual assortment of "yes-men" and "no-men," though the biggest group was the "I-don't-know-men." For instance, on the subject of whether a large, costly parking garage had been kept in or cut out of a larger, costlier, downtown jail project, the consensus was, "Huh?"

I can't really blame the I-don't-knowers for not understanding the proceedings. Even without Pooh's distraction tactics, every discussion was couched in a pseudo-legalistic dialect. Whenever an issue was put to vote, the Chairman would say something like, "Okay, we're voting on a three-part, subjunctive declension of the secondary amendment to dismiss the motion to proceed with a vote on whether to take a recess for lunch, which was the original item. And this item comes with a side item. I'll have the fries."

Pooh would then interject, "I have to go to the bathroom again!" And someone would courageously proclaim, "I still don't understand what we're doing!" Then the Chairman would bang his gavel and declare, "We are recessed until we figure out what it is that we're voting on. Can I get some cheese on this, please?" To which Pooh would reply, "I move against that! Cheese gives me gas!"

I left after about five hours.

Was this the sort of democracy you envisioned when you didn't vote in the last election? Of course not! That's why I say it's time to revoke the ban on smoking in government buildings, and return to the shady-deals-done-in-smoke-filled-backrooms kind of government that made this country what it is today. All in favor stand and say, "I have to go to the bathroom!" 

http://www.metropulse.com/dir_zine/dir_2000/1022/t_snarls.html

Profits of Doom -- Old Yikes

No particular reason for reviving this, except that it hasn't been available on the Internet since it was first published. Some of the links referenced in it probably don't work because (a) this first ran in 1999, and (b) the world ended in 2000.

Profits of Doom!

Standing at ground zero in our own backyard

by Scott McNutt

The end of World War II brought sudden notoriety to East Tennessee. People the world over marveled that atom bomb parts could be manufactured in an area previously unknown, except for -- well, just previously unknown. Oak Ridge’s dramatic entry onto the historical scene prodded us locals to speculate about the region’s future, in the sense that we wondered whether there would be a region left in the future.

For decades, Oak Ridge’s role as weapons supplier for the US in the nuclear chess match with the USSR had us worrying that the last sound heard in East Tennessee might be “OOPS!” Then the crumbling of the Berlin Wall did to the Cold War what a microwave does to a frozen burrito, and our overwrought psyches relaxed a bit.

But recently Chicken Little has warned again of fallout falling on the Atomic City: Van Hilleary, the area’s Representative in the U.S. House, has rehashed the familiar doomsday scenario of Oak Ridge being targeted by nuclear missiles.

In his tableau, the dread devices fall short and detonate on a patch of highway that’s been continually under construction since the Polk administration. Hilleary seems to regard this as a terrifying prospect, but for those of us who actually have to drive on that highway it makes sense, because it’s the only unused excuse for further construction delays there.

This resurgence of old fears got me pondering whether Oak Ridge might fit into any of the end-of-the-world, millennial prophecies currently circulating. After all, as high-tech as Oak Ridge is now, it is well-documented that the city’s very existence was foretold in 1900 by John Hendrix, a local visionary without so much as a crystal ball -- or indoor plumbing, for that matter -- to give him a hint what the future looked like (for information on his prophecies, visit www.ornl.gov/swords/vision.html and thesmokies.com/features/places/oak_ridge_tn/index.htm on line).

Given this fact, I wondered, if Oak Ridge's beginning had been foreseen through mystical means, what about its ending? And what about THE END? Could Oak Ridge and Armageddon be connected? And could the connection already have been revealed by some other great soothsayer, like Nostradamus, Edgar Cayce, or Jimmy "The Greek" Snyder? And, most importantly, could I make a buck off it?

 Unfortunately, I couldn't find any end-of-the-world forecasts from Cayce or The Greek in the five minutes I allotted to researching them, so my investigation was pretty much limited to Nostradamus. Even worse, my search found no specific mention of Oak Ridge in his predictions.

But I persevered, and my persistence was rewarded: My research also revealed that Nostradamus wrote his auguries in quaint phrases called quatrains, within which he veiled his apocalyptic visions in cryptic references and arcane symbolism, as shown in the following example:

"Ah, Lou-ie, Lou-ie,
(Oh, no) Say me gotta go.
Ah, Lou-ie, Lou-ie,
(Oh, buddy) Me gotta go, me gotta go now. RIGHT NOW!"

Despite the author's attempts to obscure the meaning, this quatrain speaks volumes about the end of the world and the existential angst the speaker feels in the face of this impending catastrophe. (Note: A popularized version of this prophecy, composed by Richard Berry and later recorded by the singing group The Kingsmen, created an uproar and was sometimes banned from air play when released as a single in the early 1960's. No doubt the authorities feared that teenagers would discover the awful truth behind the seemingly innocuous lyrics.)

This discovery strengthened my belief that, yes, a buck could be made off of this silliness. But I was no closer to discovering how to do it. I am no singer.

Delving deeper into the matter, I learned that to further disguise his divinations, Nostradamus wrote in French, cannily leaving to others the translation of his words into a speakable language like English. So Mr. Damus's writings are more open to interpretation than, say, a Magic Eight Ball. It's simply up to us, his devoted fans and followers, to find the applicable meaning. This seemed promising, so I searched further...

...And found that a lot of us have been up to it, apparently. Making a profit off the prophet are hundreds of books (including The Mammoth Book of Nostradamus and Other Prophets, Damon Wilson (Ed); The Elixirs of Nostradamus: Nostradamus' Original Recipes for Elixirs, Scented Water, Beauty Potions and Sweetmeats,Knut Boeser (Ed); Nostradamus: The Novel of the Movie, by Knut Boeser; and Nostradamus Ate My Hamster by Robert Rankin), dozens of web sites (e.g., www.nostradamus-repository.org,), and at least one official Nostradamus Society (visit them on line at www.nostradamususa.com/).

 Truly, there's a pot of gold at the end of the world: In addition to the Nostradamus product line, there are countless other prophetic works for sale, drawing on sources from way-right Christians to long-gone Mayans, providing a broad selection of doom predictions for the discriminating apocalyptic shopper.

At last I saw my opportunity: Why not take advantage of Oak Ridge’s unique selling position as the city that ushered in the Atomic Age? I mean, right here in my own backyard is the town that fixed the anxieties of the whole Cold War generation on doomsday.

I am going to dig back through old Nosey’s quatrains until I come across one unintelligible enough to apply my own spin to it, and then I’m in business, baby! Through the right interpretation of a previously obscure prognostication, I can place Oak Ridge smack in the middle of the millennial Armageddon madness.

With a “genuine” apocalyptic prophecy to lure tourists to my cuddly nuclear neighbor, I will make a fortune from fortune-telling, selling t-shirts with slogans like "Oak Ridge 2000: The End Begins Here," "Apocalypse Now, News at 11:00," "Oak Ridge: City of the Future -- If There Is One," and "My Parents Went to the End of the World at Oak Ridge, Tennessee, and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt."

 “But if you’re wrong, nobody will buy your stuff. You’ll be humiliated,” you scoff. To which I reply, “What planet do you come from?” Earthly prophets have been missing the doomsday date for at least 1,967 years, but nobody ever holds them accountable. For instance, in 1999, on the internet there were web sites (e.g., members.aol.com/OLIlori/Jubileerap.html, callisto.worldonline.nl/~hjhoekst/index.html, www.kiwi.net/~mjagee, www.win.or.jp/~eileenl/index.html) that were continually updating their doomsday predictions as the year wore on.

Were they ashamed, abashed, or in the least way fazed by being wrong over and over and over again? Heck, no! And I expect them tobe going strong well into the new millennium. They know that you can fool enough of the people enough of the time to make a supremely comfortable living.

Or consider the case of Oral Roberts, who, in 1986, prophesied his own personal doomsday, claiming that God was going to "take him up" within a couple of months. It didn't happen, of course; a bunch of Oral's flock got together and, with an offering of 4.5 million dollars (payable to Oral, of course), bribed God to call off the hit.

So Oral’s flock got thoroughly fleeced, Oral proclaimed that God's will was done, and the failed prophecy was forgotten. Most important, neither Oral nor God ever stood trial, although I think even Little Bo Peep’s sheep would recognize this as a clear-cut case of collusion and extortion.

John Hendrix may spin in his grave, but I say, if it's good enough for Oral, it's good enough for Oak Ridge. Besides, the letters "O-R-A-L" could stand for "Oak Ridge Atomic Lights-out," a sure sign I’m destined to profit from doom-saying. Don’t bother me with petty issues like accuracy. If the world hasn’t ended by the time you read this, it just means I have another year to part fools and money.

And don’t try to scare me by suggesting that making light of such cosmic events will draw the wrath of the heavens down upon me. Through my painstaking study of Nostradamus’ prophecies, I have discovered that the real THE END will begin with an Apocalypse Dow, which won’t come until the stock market tops twelve thous- OOPS!

 

Ad Age Adage: Old Superbowl Snarl

Ad Age Adage

Got milk? Then shut up and drink it.

by Scott McNutt

This "New Millennium" is the Advertising Age. Our Pavlov-dog-like anticipation of new Superbowl commercials proves it. THAT's "waaaaassssuuupp!"

You may say, "So what? Civilization is new and improved, society is fresher, stronger, and anti-static! So where's the beef?" Here's my beef: Advertising...It's everywhere you want to be. Oh, I wish I were an Oscar Meyer wiener, that is what I'd truly like to be, 'cause if I were an Oscar Meyer wiener, then I wouldn't have ears to hear crap like this.

I don't care if it's butter or Parkay! I don't care if I can have it my way! I don't want it! I want the inundation of advertising to cease. I'd give Arsenio Hall a buck or two to shut up. I'd walk a mile to avoid a Camel ad, but Calgon would still find me and take me away. I'd head for the mountains and hide in the bush, but that's Ford country now. Advertising excess: You won't leave home without it.

How do I spell relief? N-o—A-d-s. Yo quiero Taco Bell to go to hell! Thank God they finally put that rat-dog out of my misery! But that isn't enough. I deserve a break today. I need a day without advertising that isn't like a day without sunshine. I need something that will put a tiger in my tank, 'cause I've fallen and I can't get up. I need a quicker picker-upper that isn't Folger's in my cup.

I'm part of the Pepsi Generation, whether I want to be or not. No, I wouldn't like to be a Pepper, too. I don't want to have a Coke or a smile. Screw perfect harmony, I'd like to teach the ad world to sting. If I let my fingers do the walking to reach out and touch someone, it'd be Snap! Crackle! and Pop! time for Madison Avenue types. I wish those marketing geniuses had ring around the collar. A ring of my fingerprints, that is. I'd squeeze their Charmin, but good! After I was done, they'd be stuck on band-aids, 'cause band-aids would be stuck on them. Like mummies.

But advertising takes a licking and keeps on ticking. It just keeps going and going and going and—AAAAAGGH! Pontiac is driving me crazy! This is my brain. This is my brain on ads. Any questions? Yes: Can't we stop the madness? 'Cause sometimes I feel like a nut, sometimes I don't. And a mind is a terrible thing to waste.

Why not go for the gusto? Let's really make quality job #1. You know, truly be all that we can be, instead of some hyped-up idea of what Madison Avenue wants us to think we have to be. Let's just say "no" to advertisers. Or get a piece of the rock, and give them a nice Hawaiian punch with it. Remember, Smokey Bear says, "Only you can prevent advertisers."

Just do it! Once we got started whupping advertisers, I bet we couldn't beat just one. Thrashing them would double our pleasure, double our fun. It'd be good to the last drop-kick we laid into their larded butts. They'd be flying the friendly skies after that. Pop, pop, fist, fist! Oh, what a relief it is!

After that, Bo knows we won't have to say it with flowers. When we care enough to send the very best, we'll say it in plain English; doesn't matter if it's live or Memorex, so long as it's straightforward. Honest communication is mm, mm, good! It's the real thing!

Because children are the future, we need to start them on this anti-advertising, pro-plain-speaking regimen now. I mean, look at me: I can't believe I ate the whole advertising thing for all those years. I even believed it was finger-lickin' good. For a better tomorrow, choosy mothers will choose not to let their children know that Weebles wobble but they don't fall down. The choice of a new generation will be not to care that a little dab'll melt in your mouth, not in your hands, as long as we sell no wine before it's Miller time. If you do this, your child will become a shining example for his peers. Someday, they'll look at him and say, "He likes it! Hey, Mikey!" 

 
Originally appeared: http://www.metropulse.com/dir_zine/dir_2001/1103/t_snarls.html

God Joins an Anger Management Group: Revised, amended and expanded

God Joins an Anger Management Group: A Passionate Play of Dialogue

by Scott McNutt

Setting: a nondescript room in which a half-dozen nondescript individuals, some sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups, have seated themselves among a dozen chairs arranged in a semicircle, facing a central chair; before this chair stands a slight, bearded, bespectacled middle-aged male wearing a white lab coat.

Group counselor (the bearded, bespectacled individual): Hello, everybody! Today, we're welcoming a new member to our Angerholics Anonymous group. (gestures to figure approaching from doorway: billowing white robe, flowing white beard and fierce white eyebrows frame an imperiously craggy face)

God (whispering to counselor): Uh, what do I do?

GC (gently): Just take a place in the group, introduce yourself, and tell us about yourself, about why you are here.

God (to GC): OK. (moves to stand in front of a chair, then, to group): Ahem, hi, I'm God Alm-

GC (pleasantly, but firmly): First names only, God.

God: Ah, OK. Well, anyway, I'm God.

Group: Hi, God!!!

God: But I'm also known as Yahweh, Jehovah, The Lo-

GC: First names only, The. So you have a lot of street names? Do you suppose that tells us more about you than just one name? Which name do you prefer?

God: Uh, God will do, I guess...

GC: Great! So! Tell us about yourself?

God: Well, it's not really so much about Me. I mean, My Son, He wanted Me to come here.

GC: Can you tell us why he might have wanted that?

God (long pause): Well, I guess maybe He thinks I have...issues...

GC: What kind of issues?

God: Well, you have to look at it from My Perspective. My People, the Israelite tribe-

GC: Your tribe? Are these your homeboys? Is your gang called the Israelites?

God (staring): Excuse me?

GC: Never mind. I apologize for interrupting. I'm just trying to be sure we understand where you're coming from.

God (to GC): From heaven, thank you. (resuming to group): So you have to understand, My People, the Israelites, were surrounded on every side by enemies. So I had to be...extreme with some of them... (long pause)

GC (gently): Tell the group what you did, God.

God: Well, a lot of things. More than I can remember, really. For instance, I ordered the sons of Levi to kill all their neighbors, about 3,000 of them, and I had Moses kill all the Amorites. And Moses led My People to victory in battle with the Midanites. So I told him to kill all their males, even the kids, and the women who were not virgins, but to take all the remaining 32,000 virgins, young and old, as booty. I let him decide how to determine who was a virgin. I bet he enjoyed that! (chuckles, pausing as if thinking back)

Where was I? Oh, yes, foreign virgins. But when one of My Tribe brought home a foreign woman as his wife, I was pleased that Phinehas threw a spear with such force that it went through the Israelite man and through his foreign woman's belly. I was really pleased by that. So pleased that I decided not to bring the plague down on the Children of Israel.

GC: So you have done some harsh, extreme, some might even say cruel things. But sometimes these actions you take or order, they are contradictory?

God: Not to My Eyes.

GC: OK, we'll move on from that. Is there anything else?

God: Oh, yes, lots more. Like I said, more than I can remember.

GC: All right, we'll leave that alone for now. So why did your son want you to come here? (long pause)

GC (prodding): God?

God: OK! Maybe I- Maybe I toy with lesser beings sometimes. Like that whole business with putting the Tree of Knowledge smack in the middle of the Garden of Eden and then telling Adam and Eve they could eat of any fruit except from that tree. Of course I knew they were going to eat it! I just wanted to punish them, I like inflicting punishments, it's how I get my kicks, so what.

Or ordering Abraham to sacrifice Isaac as a burnt offering to prove his loyalty to me. He was going to do it! Just before he shivs the little brat, I sent him a goat to do instead. You should have seen the look on Abraham's face when the goat showed up! A gag for the ages, that!

GC: Let's talk about this concept of "lesser beings." What do you suppose this tells the group about you? Maybe we might get the impression that you feel a little superior?

God: Well, I am The Alm-

GC (sharply), God (in unison, mimicking): "First names only, The!"

God (grumbling): Right, right, just call me "Almighty."

GC: OK, let's move on. So your son pointed out that you toy with other people?

God (mellowing, sitting down): Well, it's more than that. Truth to tell, I started feeling bad about some of the...things I had done, even to My Tribe. The truth is, I was a real bastard, especially to them. Really, it went on forages. I was always hardening my heart toward them and turning my face from them and bringing pestilence on them and sending foreign marauders among them and having thousands of My Tribe stolen away into slavery. Terrible stuff, really. Heh. I was such a stinker. Anyhoo, you want the full story, you can read it in My Autobiography, The Old Testament.

GC: So, after all that, how did you feel, God?

God: Well, after that, and the destruction of the temple, the scattering of the Tribes, I...I dunno exactly. I just began to feel a little... (pause)

GC (gently): Tell us what you felt, God.

God: It’s like this. I’d had sort of a…covenant with My Tribe, but with some of them in slavery and just sort of spread hither and thither across the Middle East, the agreement was really just a shambles at this point. I just kind of…wanted to make amends, start a new chapter, you know? I wanted to…give something back to the world.

GC: Good, good. Let it all out...

God: So, I thought about it and came up with a plan. I raped this girl from Nazareth...

GC (gasps, then recovers composure): You raped a girl to give something back to the world?

God: Exactly! Wasn't it a cool idea? I gave the world My Son. And then I arranged for the world to torture Him and kill Him. Whaddya think? (long pause)

God (repeats): Whaddya think?

GC: OK, let me see if I have this straight: You commit murder and mayhem your entire existence, decide you want to start fresh, so you rape a girl to have a son because you want to have him murdered to make up for all the wrong you'd done?

God: No, no, his death would atone for all the wrongs everybody'd ever done or would do. Isn't it brilliant? Whaddya think?

GC: I think we're all out of time for this week. (to group) Same time next week?

God (growing impatient): No. I want to know what you think.

GC (soothingly, reassuringly): We have to be considerate of the schedules of everyone in the group, God. If we're going to get you through this, you are going to need everyone's input. You want that, don't you? Isn't that what your son wants you to want?

God (rising to his feet in anger): You shouldn't concern yourself with what He wants. You'll concern yourself with what I want if you know what's good for you!

GC: (still soothing): Why are you so angry, God? Is there something you aren't admitting to yourself?

God: There can't beanything I'm not admitting to Myself; I am all-knowing!

GC: (quietly): What about your son?

God: What about Him?

GC: The truth is, he didn't ask you to come here, did he?

God: You dare to question the Word of The Lord!?

GC: First names only, The. Look, if he's dead, if you had him killed, he couldn't have told you to come here, could he? This rage you have, it's all about the guilt you feel for having him killed, isn't it?

God (starting forward, shouting in his anger): You deny the truth of the resurrection?

GC (gently, backpedaling): Now, God, perhaps you meant it symbolically that your son told you to come here, or perhaps you believe his spirit was speaking to you...

God: Don't even bring the Holy Spirit into this! We're not on speaking terms!

GC: OK, now you've lost me...

God (contemptuously): Lost! You were never found! Never saved! You gentiles make me puke! Pfah! Pfah! (sounds of puking)

GC: I'm sorry, what does this have to do with your dead son...?

God: You deny the Miracle of Resurrection! You've taken His Name in vain! I am a Wrathful God! The Lord is a Man of War! I-

GC: First names only, The!

God: That's it! You're getting the ravenous bears I set upon the punk kids who mocked My Prophet Elisha's baldness! Sic 'em bruins! (shrieks from AA group members, gradually fading)

Jesus (appearing in a puff of smoke, looking around): Aw, geez, Pop! Not again! How am I going to explain this to Mom?

God (sulkily): My actions do not require explanations. Shall a faultfinder contend with The Almighty? He who argues with God-

Jesus (tiredly): "-let him answer it." Yeah, yeah, I know all about your conversation with Job, Pop. How many millions of times did you tell it to me before I was knee-high to a cross? And how many times do I have to tell you before you get it through that omniscient skull that I know everything you know? Who is the One Who Is Three?

God (even more tiredly than Jesus): Oh Me, not with the damned metaphors again!

Jesus (wanders over to a coffee pot on a table in a corner, picks up a Styrofoam cup and helps himself to some of the beverage): Am I not to you as the face is to the obverse of the coin that is worn with time till no edge remains of it? And is not the Holy Spirit that seamless divide, that edgeless edge, which cleaves us in twain and yet cleaves us one to the other? Lord, let this cup pass away from me.

God: What?

Jesus: This coffee. It’s cold.

God: Enough! I justify Myself to no man! (disappears in a puff of smoke)

Jesus (sighs): I’m not just a man to justify yourself to, Pops. Oh, well. (toeing one of the bodies amidst the carnage) Let’s see what I can do with this mess. Arise. (spirits emerge from the torn and ravaged bodies)

Group Counselor’s Spirit: What happened?

Jesus: Well, my friend, it’s like this. Poppa was a rolling stone. And he rolled all over you and yours.

GCS: I don’t understand.

Jesus: I know. Nobody every did. Probably half my parables sailed by the disciples like a breeze through the lilies of the field. They were the best we had, just never the brightest. (shakes his head) Yes, never the brightest. But having not bright gold to work, mold the dull clay of the Earth.

GCS: What?

Jesus: Never mind. It’s like this: We don’t do miracles anymore, not the flashy kind that you’d need, anyway. If I tried to resurrect you, it wouldn’t work because you wouldn’t buy it -- and neither would anybody else. Even if by some miracle -- heh -- you believed in your own resurrection, you’d be pestered and bothered and hated and feared and ultimately destroyed -- because you would represent something inexplicable. The world’s too sophisticated to accept the inexplicable anymore. The supernatural is unnatural. You’d probably end up on some lab table being dissected while still alive by some myopic technocrat who calls himself a scientist, believes himself a god, and acts a butcher.

GCS: I still don’t understand…

Jesus: Of course you don’t. That’s the point. Look, I miss the miracles, truly I do, but we’re about hearts and minds and souls now, not special effects. The best I can do is have your group come sit by my side, crowned in majesty, in heaven.

GCS: But I’m an atheist!

Jesus (shrugs): Doesn’t matter. You’re all martyrs for a higher purpose, whether you knew the cause or not. It would be graceless of me not to offer heaven as a reward. Look, consider it job security. We can use you and your group. The Lord, He’s got these issues…

GCS: First names only, Jesus. (they disappear in a puff of smoke)

Not-So-Latest Toxic Fumes: Bush Retracts Promise of Peaceful Human-Fish Coexistence

"Toxic Fumes" appears in East Tennessee's Environmental Journal, The Hellbender Press (http://www.hellbenderpress.com/).

Bush Retracts Promise of Peaceful Human-Fish Coexistence

By Scott McNutt

Citing confidential evidence, President Bush today asserted that intelligent fish secretly engineered Hurricane Katrina and called on Congress to authorize him to do "whatever it takes" to address the piscatorial threat. Following is the text of the President’s speech.

My fellow Americans, I come before you to tell you that the unprecedented devastation caused by Hurricane Katrina beginning August 29th, 2005, was not an act of nature as previously believed. Nor was it an act of God. I have spoken with Him about that and He cleared that up for me.

No, it was a terrorist act. We received a communication from a school of Jewfish, AKA Epinephelus itajara, and members of the Goliath Grouper clan, claiming responsibility for spawning the killer storm. The communiqué states that the terrorist Groupers acted to draw attention to their candidacy for the United States Endangered Species List. They accuse our government of ignoring the mass harvesting of their species until 1990, when their candidacy was first announced, and delaying their addition to the list since then.

They demand their immediate and unconditional inclusion on the Endangered Species List. They claim other fishes will join their cause if we do not submit. They threaten more hurricanes if we do not submit. They also insist that humans cease referring to the slaughtering of fish species to the brink of extinction as "harvesting."

First let me say that their claim is without foundation. As a candidate for the presidency of the United States of America, on September 29, 2000, I stood in Saginaw, Michigan, and proclaimed, "I know the human being and fish can coexist peacefully." As president, I have stroved- stroven- -strived? -strife? -strife to fulfill that promise. And I still believe that man can cohabitate with most of our little gilled brethren and cistern.

But with the Jewfish who perpetrated this terrorist act, we cannot and will not cohabilitate! These Groupers are nothing but extremists angling to extort the United States into underwriting their extreme, tropical lifestyles.

Well, I believe this extreme species is not representative of other marine life. I know they don’t represent the bluegills. So the United States will not yield to blackmail by a group of Groupers that are nothing more than a rabble of grousers. And we will continue to refer to the slaughtering of fish species to near extinction as "harvesting."

At this time, it is unclear how the Jewfish came into possession of the technology to create Weather of Mass Destruction. I have directed Deputy Chief of Staff Karl Rove to form a White House Intelligent Groupers Group modeled after WHIG, the White House Iraq Group, which hauled in the evidence we needed to invade Iraq. He has already learned that yellow cake is a tempting lure for Groupers, and there are more leads like that out there. We will play those leads out. Even as we speak our forces are diligently trolling the bayous of Louisiana. Have no fear, we will entangle these rogue fishes in the nets of freedom.

These Jewfish have made it clear that the shores of the Gulf Coast is now the central front in their war against humanity. We saw the future the terrorists intend for our nation on that fateful morning of August the 29th, 2005. That day we learned that vast oceans and friendly dolphins are no longer enough to protect us.

August the 29th changed our country; it changed the policy of our government. We adopted a new stratego to protect the American people: We would hunt down and scale the Groupers wherever they group; we would make no distinction between these terrorists and the oceans that harbor them; and we would advance our security at home by advancing fishing in the sea.

We are now confronting new dangers with firm resolve. With these murderous, aquatic thugs we will stand nose to gill and toe to tail and fight them hand to fin. We will fight this war without wavering - and we will prevail.

August 29th also changed the way I viewed threats like Jewfish. I saw the destruction they could cause with big wind, lots of water and dangerously underfunded levees - and I imagined the destruction they could cause with even more powerful weather systems.

At that time, the leaders of both political parties recognized this new reality: We cannot allow the world’s most dangerous fish to get their flippers on the world’s most dangerous weather. Now, some spineless jellyfish in the other party are saying we should put into port, that we’ve exceeded our limit. To retreat before victory would be an act of recklessness and dishonor … and I will not allow it. I will not be chicken of the sea.

In an age of terrorism and Weather of Mass Destruction, if we wait for storms to fully materialize, we will have once again ignored the warning of the National Hurricane Center. The terrorists understand this, and that is why they have now made the Gulf of Mexico the central front in the war on terror.

The enemy of harvesting in the Gulf of Mexico is a combination of inclusionists and terrorists. The largest group is the inclusionists. They are ordinary fishies, who miss the privileged status they had under the surf before men came. They desire all fish to be placed on the Endangered Species List. We believe that, over time, most of this group will be persuaded to support their own eventual extinction, fed by a federal government that is strong enough to reel them in with false promises while ignoring their sad little bubbly cries.

The terrorists affiliated with the Jewfish are the smallest group, but the most lethal Groupers. These terrorists have goals. They want to stop the advance of progress in the gulf. They want to make the gulf what the arctic was before global warming - a safe haven for indigenous life forms. They are brutes, living lawlessly, in a state of nature, indifferent to civilization’s allure. They don’t even wear pants. These are fish without conscience - and against such enemy, there is only one effective response: We will cast our lines long, we will keep them taut, and we will keep the jig moving.

To achieve their goals, the Groupers are targeting innocent human people. They know they cannot defeat us militarily. The enemy has only the ability to create chaos for the cameras with spectacular acts of weather. And to cunningly slip our best-set hooks – they have that ability too.

To meet these challenges, our tactics will continue to evolve, but our goal will not change: a fish-free and fully drilled Gulf seabed. I strongly believe a Gulf full of drilling platforms is a crucial part of our stratego to defeat the terrorists. As more gulf drilling platforms strike oil, American citizens will have a stake in the utter destruction of all marine life in that region.

So the Groupers are trying to break our lines in hope of forcing America to leave the seaweed fields early. But the terrorists can prevail only if we lose our rods and leave before the drilling is done. And that is not going to happen while I have the con.

Victory will be achieved by meeting certain clear objectives: When Gulf Coast trawlers can feed their own people, when the gulf’s seafloor is completely drilled and when the Gulf of Mexico is not a safe haven for fishes to hatch attacks against our country. These objectives, not size limits set by politicians in Washington, will drive our force levels in the gulf.

As fish populations go down, we will stand down. And our troops will come home with mission accomplished, with the enemy defeated, with honors aplenty, and with the catch of the day.