Dear Esteemed Citizen,
Some of us have been given gifts and talents in life. Successful people like myself have many of both- gifts AND talents. A great many others have a number of gifts and no talent to speak of. Others still may possess one great talent but no true gifts. Then there are those unfortunates among us, o brothers and sisters, who have no gifts or talents whatsoever… NONE AT ALL. I guess that’s not really true. Everybody shines at something, right? And now that I think about it, the main talents these folks possess, and it is EXCEPTIONAL, is for plundering their noses and mining their own asses. And for whatever reason- more often than not- these creatures are the ones drawn to public service- I mean, for GOG’S SAKE, look at their fingers if you really want to know what they’ve been up to! If you are reading this then you are, more than likely, one of these abundant beings and your gifts and talents… if you had any to begin with… have been dashed on the palings of your ruefully tended public service. The fragments of these dreams lay soggy and scattered on a dim, dust caked horizon that now looms large before you. Either that or your life-goals were really low to begin with. Whatever the case, it is your privilege to serve your fellow Ohia-uns as a Patsy of State Government. In theory, public service is a noble calling and like many of you, I have spent most of my life in pursuit of that calling for some seriously dubious reasons. Now more than ever, you are being called to engage your reptilian brains as public serve ants to transform our ant farm from a place that has of late struggled with: non-governmentally sanctioned (NGS) drugs, alcohol, spousal abuse, pit bulls, declining property value, repressed homosexuality, Dumbshit’s Disease, incest, retardation, Head-in-Ass Syndrome just to name a few… not to mention: the ACLU. There’s more where that came from because we got Stinkin’ Ass Skinnies, Conniving Secret Agent Chinamen, Stoned Greasy Wetbacks, Gun Totin’ Porch Monkeys, Card-Carryin’ Jihads- and their hairy ilk- literally infesting us, posing as friends and neighbors.
In order to transform Ohia, we must first smash it… because it is broken… and then trash it, so it can rise from its own toxic ashes like an overinflated football full of helium.
And here’s where I come in, to sweep that listless bird out of the sky with my butterfly net and throw it in a sound and light proof box where I can set to work on it. That’s how O.R. rolls.
And what shape will Ohia take once re-formed in my own image? Maybe a clean, new human warehouse slash steel and glass strip mall where Ohia-uns can work to realize their Gog-Given Potential. Maybe a vast stretch of strip-mined land or the peaceful skeleton of an oil drained nature reserve is an image to hold in your mind’s eye. Use your gift of creativity, Ohia! I’m counting on you to make me look GREAT!
Your State and fellow citizens have faced difficult times lately. Too many of our neighbors are fat and lazy or some race you can’t relate to. Too many of the most vulnerable among you are texting, hooked online, with their phones shoved in their ears and, as Grandma says, “up their asses.” Many of your cities and towns smell bad– never fear that’s all a byproduct of Progressive Urban Development or PUD. Still, too many of your cultural centers are so anti-cultural that businesses leave to dump their shit in greener pastures. THIS MUST END. We want to make the few remaining fertile hills of the Ohia cuntryside a welcome mat spread for these Big Corporations to descend upon and pinch a huge Hometown Loaf, right here where we eat, so we can all enjoy the spoils… er… no pun intended.
I am going to help Ohia get back on track and we are going to do it by tightening your collective belt. As I said in my inaugural speech, which is attached, I believe very strongly that our only shot at success is to harvest the combined life forces, as well as a urine catch, from a random sampling of public serve-ants across the state and mix it with the freshly drained blood and beating hearts of two discarded babies culled from the overflowing dumpsters covering our Great State. Then, after the bodies of these hapless infants are ceremonially thrown down the steps of the State House, properly incinerated over a flaming trash can, and I have stripped myself bare and ranted my Doppelbock, cocaine fueled incantations at the new moon, I’ll drink the tincture we’ve made together, o brothers and sisters! I’ll become reddened and incontinent with the enflaming power and inspiration necessary to carry out the next four years of work ahead of me. Of course, affairs such as these are closed to the press, but you everyday people can rest assured that we operate with the full authority of the stock exchange backing us.
I don’t know about you, but I’ve got goosebumps right now!
Like any organization State Government has, over time, slowly degraded into a slime mold with commensurate IQ. As distasteful as this may seem, I call it home… I live it, I breathe it, and I have night terrors over it. With this in mind, together we can take our state, dip it in bleach, pound it with a meat mallet for a good hour or so, stretch it to breaking, prick it with a host of needles, then fashion it into a tube to relieve my gentleman tensions with before smooshing it back into shape and marrying it off to my newly appointed Office of Budget Management Director, Vlad Násilník. And I have to say, the filthy things he’s going to do to Ohia after I hand him my sloppy seconds will make what I just finished doing look like a family-oriented cooking show.
My point, if there is any, is this: your most important goal, as serve-ants to the people of Ohia, is to sign over your most pliable and able bodies to our offices at The Department of Administrative Services- or your nearest military enlistment station- immediately! It’ll just be easier that way. There’s a line forming at my zipper for any smooth, blond hopefuls.
But seriously now… I’ll give you a swift kick in your butt Ohia… just to get you goin’. You are down and out (to lunch) and wandering around in some goddamned untapped coal, oil or natural gas reserve somewhere with your head in the clouds. Will you get back in time for dinner at Bob Evans? Will you even be able to afford Bob Evans’ food in the near future? That’s the question. Get up and on your feet, Ohia! It’s a brand new day. Wipe that crap out of your eyes and push your slack head into a sink full of ice water. Roll up your sleeves, sedentary citizenry; you have work to do. Together, under My Super Divinely Inspired Supervision, I can do something. Cha-ching! Let’s do this thing!
Bada bing bada boom!
Governor Monsieur O.R. “All-Street” Grabischi
Private Inaugural Speech
Grace Brethren Church, Columbus, Ohio
January 11th, 2014
TIME: 12:00 a.m.
Well, I have to start by thanking my great family, my tiny trembling daughters, Big Leg Emma and Reesie Cup. Look at them over there cowering in that corner. It makes a man proud! They look innocent enough today, don’t they?
They’re ten going on 35 thanks to the Kardashians… and don’t even get me started on that little hoor Iggy Azalea. Who would have thought back in 1975- when a fresh faced, bug eyed 17 year old Oswald Rockford Grabischi was working as a page and getting handjobs from Senators- that in 2011 our children would act and dress so whoreishly? I mean a slutty prepubescent girl- or an androgynous goth boi in skinny jeans- is cool for all the swingin’ bachelors out there- but not so great for Dads. Am I right, men? Any Dads with little girls- or boys who want to be little girls- out there?
(A DOZEN OR SO MEN NOD AND RESPOND IN ACKNOWLEDGEMENT)
If so… I’m available for baby-sitting. BA-ZOWWW!!! Some of these little teenyboppers put the HO in HOT! Makes me feel like I’m 13 again!
(SPARSE MALE LAUGHTER)
But seriously folks, I beat the ever lovin’ hell out of those mouthy little broads if I catch ‘em going anywhere dressed like that, except Senate cocktail parties, rest assured. Anyway… the girls will be 11 here on the sixteenth of January and it’s very exciting for them. Whenever I leave the room at night, often Big Leg Emma says, “Daddy? Who are you?” Bittersweeter words were never heard, bittersweetheart. That’s how we talk to each other. And my other daughter Reesie Cup, the other cupcake in O.R.’s pantry, she gives me those stiff little awkward hugs that I’ve grown accustomed to. And when I get ready to go to a big fund raiser- or phone in a perfunctory good night call… when I remember… from Washington- she says, “Daddy? Please come home tonight. Are you cheating on mom?” No, honey, that’s not cheating… it’s politics.
You know, my wife Déchets is- as we all know, just packing on the L.Bs. She’s ballooning before your eyes like a bloomin’ onion… made of prime-rib fat. Stand up and show ‘em your dumpy ass, darling.
(DÉCHETS, WHO IS SEATED IN THE BACK ROW OF THE ROOM, REMAINS SEATED AND WAVES TO, MOSTLY FEMALE, APPLAUSE)
But this old broad is a human shock absorber. I love you honey, but you if you gain any more weight I’m gonna have to use a heavier hand than I do now to see the results of my handywork. It’s like having an overstuffed training bag for a wife, it takes some brute force to get it moving in the right direction. Just like my approach to the citizens of Ohia. The personal is, indeed, political! Listen, when I first met her, she had the ass of a nine year old boy… in other words, a stone cold fox. With the additional weight she’s put on, and the extra weight I’ve added to her pocketbook, she’s become extra sassy… demanding… cruising for a five knuckle refresher on patriarchy. Nagging me to curb my drug usage, which is all prescription by the way… mostly. She harps on me about crap like date-night or other Gog-awful stuff. And what does she want ti do on this so-called date-night? She proposed sudoku. Friggin’ sudoku! I don’t care what they say, it’s not true that fat people are happy. You folks don’t get a chance to see that side of her. Be thankful. You just get to see a red smiling bulb of a gal who feeds the poor on holidays. Oh yeah. But, behind closed doors, she’s a shrew. But when you get right down to it, what woman doesn’t fall into these behaviors? Am I right, gentlemen?
(MOSTLY MALE GOLF CLAPS)
Sometimes I feel like I’m gonna snap her in two! Holla! But seriously, I love her. The love life of an alpha male/career politician, such as myself, is a murky and complex one. So, as you might imagine, at the end of the day, tensions can run high. A man needs a sturdy woman he can ventilate all over, if you know what I’m saying kinsmen (winks)… I know you do.
(LOOKING AT DÉCHETS, WHO SITS SLUMPED AND EXPRESSIONLESS)
I just want to say thanks, babe, for being my toxic dumping ground all these years and bearing me two dilfs for my cronies to pass around on special occasions; they’ll be available later backstage for a generous contribution… those wild Kochs get first dibs as always. They’re especially fond of Reesie Cup, but don’t push boys… there’s enough to go around at least twice. But back to Déchets. What do I say about Déchets? Your abilities to absorb and transform my stress into your own personal suicide mission are unparalleled. But that’s not really what drives her or drives me over what’s becoming of her. See, every relationship is defined by conflict and competition. I’ve got my agendas… she’s got hers. I’ve got my hairless, gaysian lady boys and she’s got her well-built, twenty something Thai yoga therapist. We share so many experiences; like the time we were hiking in one of our many State Parks… I think it was Old Man’s Cave… she talked and talked and nagged and prodded and nagged and bitched and complained and talked some more- I thought it’d never end. It’s always the same old story with her: I make her feel ugly, I neglect her womanly needs, I’m a chauvinist, I do too much blow, too many Perkies. I mean… ON AND ON. It was one of those 90 degree days too that felt like 120 with the heat index and I was coming off a bender after visiting some… allies… in Chicago; I was not well. As Judas Iscariot is my witness, I almost threw her off a cliff. Remember that, Cuddlepuss? Listen, try taking care of 2 overly precocious daughters. Man, can they gab! Whoa! Sometimes I just want TO SHOOT THEM AT CLOSE RANGE THEN PULL OFF MY FACE WITH A LINOLEUM KNIFE. On the rare occasions when we both have time to kill- and are not pursuing our self-centered, all-consuming career goals- instead of talking or, Gog forbid, having sex, Karen and I will exercise, if you want to call it that. Nothing we ever do is really like it’s supposed to be. Our lives are like some weird alternate reality that requires a lot of formal wear and a battery of lawyers and PR guys, am I right babe?
(DÉCHETS STARES BLANKLY AT HIM)
Anyway, while exercising, we don’t have to talk… so that makes it nice. We go jogging at Antrim Park sometimes. I only speak to her when I need something or when I have a directive, because otherwise she tends to get “the big head.” We’ve got years of built up resentment and frustration that really doesn’t lend itself to honest, intimate communication, yet fuels the competitive spirit between us. News flash! She runs like an old lady. I can hear the sandpaper sound when she runs… no joke. And that bulgy bread dough neck of hers gets bright red and pulsates. When I see that- oh man! I goose step it triple time, leaving her sucking dust. This is no great feat; as you can tell, I’m no super athlete. And I certainly don’t want people to think I’m with that over-inflated crone with the wood rasp between her legs! Even in my degraded physical state, I lap the biotch, have a seat in the shrubs and do a bump off my car keys, lap her again, do another bump and watch her running like a plumped, pluck’d chicken. Then… you guessed it… I lap her again. BAM!!! She’s pussy-footing around, gasping for air like any deep-fried fish-stick and former beauty-queen. Like any other dessicated Ms. Congenital has-been. You’ve all seen the pictures of it in the Lifestyle section of the Columbus Pisspatch, I’m sure. Sometimes I give her a little shot in the ass with the tazer for motivation as I fly by her for the umpteenth time. And, take it from me, my quote unquote running stride is barely above an earnest power-walk.
Our faith in almighty Gog is strong but our faith in the even mightier greenback is stronger. We connect with our bank accounts on a spiritual level by pretending, externally, we are just normal people. Meanwhile, internally, we’re screaming our guts out and abusing everything in our path. Our reasons for doing this are quite different, but, trust me, we both have good reasons. Sourheart, I need you. The illusion you help me create for the public is the most important thing in my life after me… and quite possibly after that lady boy pimp I found. Even after all my chemical meltdowns, indiscretions, beatings, neglect… there you are… like it or not… rain or shine. Thanks, babe… I owe you a six pack of Slim Fast.
You know, it’s sort of faith, family and then friends that are tied for 12th place in my top 10 life priorities. I see a number of my well connected friends here.
(GAZING AROUND THE ROOM)
And I have been a very blessed man to have as many powerful people who, on the surface, appear to be friends. People who will furnish me with the illicit sex and drugs I need to make the tough decisions facing you all. Sometimes I have to figure out ways to slip it to the constituency without them knowing it and so I have to find inspiration. I have to find the right means of presentation. I need more connections like these. You see what it is with most of my “friends” and with “me,” is that we love to outsmart and best one another. You know, it’s really… if I may be so blod… all about keeping corporate levers greased and producing. And ready to go again and again, with their loyalty towards me and support towards me… because I mean big business. And you know what? This has made my bottom line very thick and dark. I will make you all a little richer in the bargain too IF you do what I demand of you ESPECIALLY IF IT MAKES NO SENSE. I’ve never been so blessed to have a collection of ass-kissers like the current crop of people I’m surrounded with now. Yeah they may whimper at first, like the rest of the destitute cunts that populate Ohia. But eventually they’ll see the reality of things, which is: I’M RIGHT. And you know… the other side to this ten inch, double-sided blade is that these self-same “friends” are not so rare and special that they can’t be easily discarded and replaced if necessary. But, for now, these folks are here to support me in my petty tyrannies, to strengthen me by letting me feed on them, and to allow me to wring every last scrap of their vital essences to aid my master plan that I’ve named Operation Hollow Earth. It’s a plan of catastrophic magnitude which, if successful, will give me national control. This, in turn, will give me access to enough capital to start the privately funded and run Mexican/Arab concentration camps/brothels we need so desperately.
Excuse me? Does someone have a question? Is there something you meshugeners want to ask?
(TAPS FINGERS ON PODIUM)
Okay then… if you don’t mind, I’ll continue. Now I lost my train of thought. Can I have my glass? Where’s my goddanmned glass? I’ll be right back…
(THE GOVERNOR ELECT EXITS FOR FIVE MINUTES THEN RE-ENTERS WITH HIS TIE LOOSENED AND A TUMBLER)
… Sorry, but I was parched. All this enthusiasm makes a guy thirsty.
This stuff is the smooth stuff here. Old Godfather 66. Much better.
(SAVORING THE LIBATION, LOOKING AROUND THE ROOM)
I see some of my partners in crime sitting in the front three or four rows. But let us remember the other, less fortunate of us who are now serving time. This is for them…
(POURS BARELY A DROP OF HIS LIBATION ON THE CARPET BESIDE THE PODIUM.)
… and I see other associates cowering in the back of the room. All I have to say is Ink in, Ink out. I can get pretty creative with my executive language. I’m watching you. You know I love you, right? You know I love you. Seriously. Mean it this time.
To my supporters, you know, from 1979 on, you let me wipe my ass with your bodies and souls. There’s no way that Ozzy Grabischi could have stormed in here from that rusted-out iron town I come from that’s not even worth mentioning… I think I forgot the name of it, quite frankly. But, y’know, my brain is filled up with more important things now like my futures and stock options and a little package named Sonthi that’s tied-up and waiting for me back at the Marriot. Let me tell you, there’s no way that I would’ve gotten anywhere near where I am in my political career without you all as my social stepping stones or campaign trail ATMS. I’m proud of the fact that we’ve worked together, united for my gains. And some people call me self-absorbed… and in the political world they call me an A-Hole. And THEY’RE RIGHT! You want to know why? Because all I can see with my poop-filled mind’s eye are the supporters, the one’s with the BIG MONEY.
How we like them. We like ‘em a lot…
(AWKWARDLY CONTORTS FACE)
… as Jim Carrey says in that old movie.
No, it’s the- it’s the housewives back in 1979 and 1980 who made the phone calls and put the signs up and looked the other way while their sons and certain husbands who hadn’t yet gone to seed licked my overgrown patches. Some of these housewives showed up at odd hours of the night bringing their husbands with them. Since my first wife was a superfreak, these meetings never disturbed her. But, that’s when I truly connected to my constituency and we got to the nitty gritty of our lick and stick campaigning! And the young people that I’ve met that have become casualties, the collateral damage, I assure you it may be worth it in the long run. To those slender, fair-skinned youths… budding young men sprouting their first short-hairs… that I’ve forced, sometimes literally at gunpoint, to do many things the least of which is to go door to door in some of the most wealthy and powerful neighborhoods in the State and offer up themselves for the greater good. Then I had them work their way down to the Blue Collar neighborhoods, going along, undoing the rust belt with the well-worn mouths of my like-minded hacks. When the Blue Collars are all hot and bothered, we go a little further down to the taint of the underclass leaving our slippery snail-trail along the way. Passing through quickly, we throw these thirsty bitches a bunch of red herrings (with as much of a compassionate expression as we can muster). Then we’re out, like thieves in the night… but not before picking up some DL brothers off the corner for a quick eight-ball and some stinky Governmentally Sanctioned (GS) jungle-love in the back of my limited edition Chrysler. All I gotta say is I’m glad those seats are brown leather.
Hey, now… I’m just sayin’… I’m not trying to get divorced again… but Politics, as you know, can get reaaaalllllly sleeeeeaazy. And let’s face it, I’m a Rabid Repressive and when I cut loose… whoa momma! Don’t let me cut loose on you! Am I lyin’, Babe?
(DÉCHETS NODS MEEKLY TO SCATTERED CONVERSATION AND APPLAUSE)
(UNINTELLIGIBLE COMMENT FROM THE FOURTH ROW)
I know, right?! Ha! Anyway… what was I ranting about? Oh… my supporters. All the tiny people who helped me reach for the sky only to find their hands filled with that blue stuff they flush out of airplanes! To them I say: you, and you alone, stopped it from hitting your head! Yes, you’ve reached for the sky and CAUGHT the brick I’ve shit from my private plane. And with these bricks I’ve supplied you, you can now build a fabulous brown brick road to better options for my futures. Am I right? Am I right? I have no doubt. And to the other human furniture in my life, I love you too. Thank you for sacrificing your minds and lives for me. It has definitely made me a richer person and you will all be rewarded… when you get to heaven. But for right now, I want to thank Ohia-uns, all the little jerkwater Ohia-uns, for giving me the chance to form my tactical unit… to form a covert mercenary division in the Governor’s office, above the law and operating beyond all jurisdiction. SSShhhhhh. Don’t tell. With the help of my cabinet that is more like a closet, we can transform Ohia into a sleek, beautiful corporate community, a postmodern eyesore or a gleaming, stream lined prison that is more like a vending machine type apparatus that dispenses prisoner made product out front and heroin round back. The landscape will again be littered with smoke stacks, satellite dishes and lots of drilling rigs with ready supply of dead heads to operate the deal. I’m picturing lots of gas-holes, farting out energy for the families of Ohia. Nothing says progress like an army of active smoke stacks leading to a blow out of fruitful gas-holes.
You know a few years ago, I used to use the word “I” an awful lot. I still do. It’s important that you get used to it… because there can only be ONE chief in this tribe. In fact, I want you to start referring to me a Lord O.R. Grabischi, Master of Reality. It sounds classier. I don’t know whether it’s age or… or the constant tramplings of anyone- including family and friends- that gets in my way, but the power and money is coming to me in tank-fulls, natural gas tank-fulls. I’m thankful for my tank-full today. I learned long ago working with my friend Yves Boner that only mercenaries… only mercenaries can accomplish great things. And you know, ole Woody Hayes was right, THERE IS NO GOOD REASON NOT TO PUNCH ANY DUMB SON-OF-BITCH WHO GETS IN YOUR WAY RIGHT IN THE COCKSUCKER.
You know, at my inauguration, as the conductor of this great train wreck with all of you screaming like a bunch of pussies in the caboose that you’re afraid to die, my victory is my victory and live or die, sink or fly… you’ll all probably need intensive care once the stout State Worker sings. But hey, you can’t make a delicious, rare, bloody burger without chopping up some very large heifers now, can you? Trust me, you’ll be thanking me once your guts are tucked back in and you’re sewn back together by the shaky hands of State House Senate President Maxim Johnson. Hell, you’ll probably feel better than you have in years after I rip out those unnecessary organs you’ve got and replaced them with GS natural gas powered devices and credit card meters. Then I can split your wig, as the kids say, and stick some of those wires in your brain that can be remote controlled and you will ALL be my shills, doing my work night and day. Ha ha. You know, I really wish that were true. Can’t blame a fella for dreaming, now, can ya?
(WISTFULLY TAKES ANOTHER SIP FROM THE TUMBLER)
I want everyone to understand that this mess is really your responsibility to fix. And if it doesn’t work out, I hope that you’ll be man enough to take the blame that is rightfully all yours, Ohia. Because, I’ve got the answers. I’m showing you the game strategy. I have a sense that across Ohia, people know they’re screwed. Today, we’re all inaugurated into a mess that I’m beginning to think only an ethnic cleansing can solve… which involves strict adherence to the GS eugenic guidelines I’ve detailed in my personal memoirs, Grabischi’s List. But, you know, I’m only a business man. You know, I report to no one but the Whore of Babylon riding on her seven headed, ten horned beast. I report to you…
BABYLON THE GREAT, MOTHER OF HARLOTS DISGUISED AS PIOUSED LEADERS WHOSE DUTY IT IS TO SUBDUE THE ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH a.k.a THE WORKING CLASS.
And, by the way, I only report a bullshit version of the truth to special interests for monetary support and special favors. Listen, I want you all to understand something… I know it’s no news flash, but: I-work-to-advance-MY-SELF. I wish I didn’t have to, but there’s just no other way to realize my lopsided and narcissistic goals… it’s what they used to, in olde Americaner, call “rugged individualism” and if more of you did it instead of riding old O.R.’s big coat tails then this ramshackle state would be in a lot better shape than it is today! In other words, I work to advance myself by promising to advance you. The reality is in the long run, I will simply drive my new Chrysler over you to get where I need to go. Ya follow? Better not follow to close is my advice to the blind horses out there.
Does this approach work? Well… look at where I am now and then take a look at where you are- the evidence speaks for itself. My future, my self-interest is ALREADY PAID FOR.
And as long as I stay on that track, as long as I stay on that path, I will remain a fierce businessman as my little tart, Reesie Cup, over there says. Sit up straight, honey! We talked about that! I’m not raising a little hoor now am I? Hey, as you can see, beneath all my rootsy aggression, underneath all the pinched ugliness and tortured facial expressions, within this empty suit, I’m just a nice, normal guy… or at least I’m passing for normal… which means I’m doing one of my jobs right. One of my purposes, one of my passions in all of this has been to make Ohia competitive again and to create more dead-end jobs to keep the dirtier races busy working under us… heh heh… while we movers and shakers make bank. I kinda like that way of describing things, don’t you?
(FIVE OR SO MEN HOWL. THE REST ARE SILENT)
Man, this audience is… whew… I gotta tell ya. If I had my way, I’d have all of you shot. So, what was I saying?
(TAKES A SIP FROM THE TUMBLER)
We got to keep Ohia’s little families, struggling to make ends meet. You know, the great unwashed masses who are raising all those kids they never shoulda had. Because idle hands and minds mess things up, we need to keep the denominator occupied and working harder than ever to fill the great class divide as prophesied in the great books. Because, when our families have jobs… they have false hope for some kind of future. Nourished by a few- but only a few mind you- drops of milk squeezed from the public teat and the right types of GS A & R, they may even develop pipe dreams. It’s all about perception in our courtrooms, in our esteemed halls of just-us. Perception is a funny thing. When I wake up every morning, I call upon Apollyon to guide me through the day, to help guide the perceptions of those around me, as well as those in by breeks. Then, I hug my money, kiss my wall safe and I focus on restructuring Ohia… one shit brick at a time. Nothing, nothing can stand in my way… not even organized crime ‘cause I got friends there too.
(MAKES FINGER INTO A GUN AND “SHOOTS” SELECT MEMBERS OF THE AUDIENCE)
As that song by that old broad goes: ya gotta have friieeeennds!
I am a servant of the Dow. I am a servant of Nasdaq.
GS white collar crime has opened doors all my life. Thugs haven’t pushed me off a cliff yet… and lord knows they’ve tried- I get death threats like some people get Kroger coupons in the mail. I’ve spent a large amount of my life trying to figure out how to control the minds of everyone I meet; if that doesn’t work by subtle means then I’ll resort more permanent solutions, because I’m a solutions guy. Hey… listen… I got a message one day- I was alone, parked at Hoover Reservoir. Sometimes I go there undercover, you know, wearing a peel-off moustache and a stocking cap to monitor the site for illicit activity. You’d turn positively green with embarrassment if you saw the stuff I’ve seen there. But, anyway… I got this message… it wasn’t a voice… it wasn’t a telegram… it wasn’t a phone call… but it was clear: “Just shoot yourself right here in your car. The Whore of Babylon and Apollyon need their renewed blood tributes this coming cycle.” I was shocked. The message continued: “Besides, you’ll never be as rich as that left wing, black-bitch Oprah so you might as well just go ahead and do it.” Why would I want to do that now? I still haven’t attained the highest political office in the land?! This cannot be right, I said to myself. The Dogs will get their blood feast but certainly not from me. O.R. is nobody’s fall guy, Celestial Being or not. I asked Hoover Reservoir for clarification, literally rolling down my window screaming it out into the open air several times. I definitely scared the S-H-I-T out of those five dudes crawling all over each other in the State van next to me. Funny, it turns out I misinterpreted the divine message. In my clarified state, I realized that they didn’t want me to shoot myself but rather to set my cross hairs on that nest of broads I call a home… as a package they were the perfect blood tribute for The Mother of Harlots.
Oh… hey… did I wake y’all up? Hey… I’m just kidding. Sort of. Awww, lighten up! Listen… I’ve got a newsflash for ya: truly great men didn’t get to be great by keeping their hands clean. Not to mention the fact that great men are never truly married to anything other than their careers. Look at any man of vision, any genius and see. But when you’re in office, you got two choices. Either get saddled with some pathetic beard or LOSE. All-Street isn’t a loser. No he isn’t. And Déchets over there is… well… she just is. At least I got a few good rides on the old plow-horse before she turned to a desert buried in mounds of expired cottage cheese a few decades back. Man, I wish we woulda met when I was with my first old-lady back in the mid-seventies… wow. Eustice woulda been down on Déchets’ muffin in a New York Minute, so to speak. Probably could have given her that sorely needed sex ed she soooo lacks. Man, did Eustice and I have some fun then! Whew, Gogdamn!
(TAKES A SIP FROM THE TUMBLER)
Here’s what I do know: there’s still so much more money to make and, like a tick, so much more vital human energy to gorge on. So many more Afghani boys to dance with under the magic of fluorescent light. So much work to do, so much work. So much more chaos and dissention to engender in the small-time rank file. It’s funny to watch the commoners go at it… amiright? Amiright? It’s like some absurdist, expressionist puppet show. Here’s what I propose for our communities: shake ’em up and see what rises to the top… see what settles to the bottom. Then here’s what I propose next: skim off the top… dump the bottom down the drain. Good solid plan that works in the kitchen as well as the political arena. As I said earlier, we haven’t all been created with special talent. The key to life is to weed out those talentless bastards, even at times when this task seems daunting and impossible. But boy… I’ll tell you what… when I finally achieve this you’ll find me pounding my chest on top of the Leveque Tower while being orally serviced by those Bromos Columbus Mayor Mye Colon and Ex- I repeat Ex– Governor Ed Shrinkgland. No pointing at the sky. It’s all me and my elaborate plan for all of you via the grimy alleyways and board rooms of commerce. Apollyon wants us always to remember to use our talents to also increase his power in this world. He reminds us that no one is superior to the chosen ones.
You know sometimes I see the little Mexican scrub lady and I realize that in the next life, I might have to live a meaningless, squalor-filled existence just like the one she endures with a smile every day… bless her heart. Then again, there’s always hope that in the next life both my bank accounts and my penis will be a lot larger. Not that my bank account in this life is lacking by any means.
(TAKES A SIP FROM THE TUMBLER)
My point in bringing her up is not to bore you within an inch of your lives but to tell you all to not pass the small people by… the Puerto Rican bus boy, the sassy Spade with the big fake nails and overblown ass, the stupid Oriental driver, or the Prima Donna, twentynothing bank teller with the bright red lips, bad attitude and enormous chi chis…
(CUPS HIS HANDS AT HIS CHEST AND ACTS LIKE HE’S SQUEEZING HIS OWN BREASTS)
… you could be passing up a life changing encounter, an extremely gratifying power play, or a possible happy-ending. Always maintain your sense of self-importance thoughout, in all interactions… that’s your center… your home base. The danger in relating too much to these people is that you can get sucked into worthless intangibles like feelings and scruples or worse yet get ensnared in the fubar webs of their lives. You have nothing in common with them. And trust me; their kind of morals will never serve the rugged individualists among us that live a life OUT LOUD… and I mean REALLY LOUD. Like that amplifier in Back to the Future that knocks Marty McFly on his hairless, teen ass. Explosive obstinacy in defending right thinking is necessary every day so as not to get lost in the flaccid philosophies of the weak. We are the true conquistadors of the 21st Century.
D.L. Moody wrote about a Civil War general who was facing a huge battle. He spent two hours drinking whiskey and sexually assaulting a teenage woman who had sassed off at him in the town. After that, he prayed in earnest for two hours. His subordinates said to him, “How could you waste four hours doing these horrible things before this big battle?” He said, simply, “How could I not?”
You know, I so loved the memories of my family visiting Ohia, which is as much of a mind-fuck as the state I’m from. My grandpa uncle Harry, cousin Harry’s stepbrother father, used to tell me when we went to Vermillion and we passed the Pennsylvania line into Ohia, “Ozzy, we’ve reached the promised land.” When I started to get excited, he continued: “Yes sir. Ohia promises to provide an affordable haven for genetic mutants and grass roots whack jobs to thrive and grow large.” I could feel my five-year-old enthusiasm swelling like a tumor, “Ohia promises to give you a surprising assortment of industrial diseases from the mining run-off, the burning river and the airborne effluvia of arbitrarily regulated manufacturing.” I paused, my eyes misty with wisdom, “And Ohia promises you that you’ll probably become an alcoholic or drug addict by the time the Mafioso crooner sings.” Then his expression changed as he looked me directly in my eye… “But in all seriousness, these people are so imbecilic here you’ll have them paying you to suck your feet while you tell ‘em it’s Pigs in a Blanket!”
Even as a young boy, I knew that grandpa Uncle Harry was right. You see, Ohia has lots of swollen people and lots of crazy people and hundreds more WTF people and there’re thugs and farmers and brainiacs and fuffets and wannabe thugs and Gogs of Commerce who’ll cut your throat as soon as look at you and fashion models and insane athletes and hundreds of pornographers and a few nice people! OHIA IS AN EXCITING PLACE. It’s been a melting pot for so long that it’s turned into a gooey lukewarm mess like a skinned-over fondue. I fuckin’ hate fondue.
I guess we’re about common denominator. We’re about common denominator. And we can drive this country… from the back seat, screaming out opinions with our mouths full of Wendy’s. Believe me, I’ve had a mouthful of Wendy’s before, when I was driving, and I gotta tell ya… that would’ve worked better if she was upside down. Bada bing bada boom. Hey! It wouldn’t be long before I rear-ended somebody! Probably her brother. Hey now!
Oh. That’s how it is? I know you are my people… and my neighbors… and shit, but YOU SUCK. What a bunch of twat waffles.
(DRAINS THE TUMBLER)
This damn thing’s almost empty… and I feel like I’m just getting started here.
(THROWS THE EMPTY GLASS OFF THE DAIS)
I need some help. We ALL need some help. Can somebody freshen that drink for me? NOW??? DÉCHETS????
(A FLURRY OF ACTIVITY ERUPTS IN THE BACK OF THE ROOM)
Oh yes… we’re about helping our neighbors and loving the ONE TRUE GOD… who as it happens is conveniently split into wallet sized segments of green paper with pictures of His various holy faces on them. We’re about building a better future for our children and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. You know what? Ohia has been the Promised Land for me because of my over-developed political skill set and my hankering for shed ticklin’, as grandpa uncle Harry called it. I’ve been successful here because of these simple folks’ mass double-standards and high susceptibility to chicanery. For my next trick, let me pull a senator and a media mogul out of my ass. I hate to bother ‘em ‘cause they like it up there, but they told me I can always use ‘em in a pinch. Pinch. Ass. See how it all fits together?
I’d like to live in a state where there is no behind left unattended. In fact, that’s my new motto. Is my secretary here? He better fucking be! Write that down! No behind left Unattended. I want you to know that if you knew what was good for you, you’d let me do what I wanted. Put on the seat belt, because WE’RE GOIN STRAIGHT TO GS HELL.
(HOLDS UP RIGHT HAND DISPLAYING “THE DEVIL’S HORNS” TO THUNDROUS APPLAUSE)
The weeds are all grown up and they’ve become politicians. The obstacles we’ve created for ourselves seem great as the spotlight is shifted from our Great Stain. But I believe you haven’t yet begun to fight for your families, for your children and for my legacy. You know, I’ve slowed down in my life… and with a little help from a FRESH DRINK, I can slow down a whole lot more.
(LOOKS AROUND TAPPING FINGER EXPECTANTLY AS A YOUNG, MALE AIDE APPEARS WITH A FRESHENED TUMBLER)
(DRINKS DEEPLY, EYEING THE BUTTOCKS OF THE AIDE AS HE EXITS THE DAIS)
You know, slowing down affords me time to look deep into the swirling black eyes of oblivion and that, o brothers and sisters, is truly priceless.
Oh yes, I’ve drank of the beast. I’ve abandoned the dying and maimed in my wake. I’ve seen, up close, the heart wrenching white, panic stricken faces as the market crashed. I’m a veteran, you see. Yes, I’m a veteran of an undeclared class war… and the deep lines on my face and the asymmetry of my body are only the visible scars. And I’ve seen strength in my clenched fist as it comes down on…
(LOOKS AROUND THE ROOM)
…hell… insert your name here.
I’ve smelled strength in the halitosis of a young woman in A-shat-a-bula who is committed to growing her small business as well as her ample bosom. And she said, “Monsieur Grabischi, please don’t wreck my business.” She begged me on her knees there in that WalMart back lot. “I own a spa that caters to men like yourself.” She said, pulling at her shirt. “We pamper our guests with all the extras. This week’s special is a full body shampoo for 35 bucks.” I felt for her, so I gave the best advice I could to someone in her line of work: “Brush your teeth, toots. And make friends with local law enforcement.”
(GULPS FROM THE TUMBLER)
I’ve seen resignation in the sunken eyes and sallow faces of the people of Scioto County. We have pledged to win the fight against ALL NGS drug addiction. To clarify, that’s all addiction that doesn’t benefit Farma Force, Roxane, Abbott or Perdue. By the way… can I get a round of applause for them… a number of top execs from those different companies are getting all wastey-faced with some CIA operatives and their prepubescent mules in the back of the room. Say hi, guys. Yeah… I see some of them pawing all over my old-lady and daughters. That’s all right boys… have your way with ‘em. Just rinse ‘em out before you return ‘em. Déchets and the girls love big pharma and the CIA, too. Dontcha, babes?
If you care, you must save these communities… your communities and your families… from these social blights by locking up the poorest low-level offenders in the special concentration style camps I’ve designed during my increasingly diminished personal time. I have a number of great, great contractor buddies hand selected to build these ‘factories.’ I hope to have the plans finalized and have the diverted funds for them factored into next term’s budget.
A couple of days ago, about a dozen women… not a good looker in the whole lot of them… wearing tacky lime green T-shirts- all bearing the same entirely forgettable slogan- cried to me about saving their loved ones from their devilish NGS addictions. How was I going to help these assholes, really? I have my own monkeys to feed and love. And then it came to me. I quickly gathered their names along with the names and addresses of their drug-addled loved ones and submitted the list to the appropriate law enforcement agencies who planned to do a sweep of these vermin the following day. I’m doing my part to help these sons of bitches… now what are you going to do? Help them. Help them. I can’t throw them all in my strategically privatized jails myself!
I have seen devastation in the eyes of a mom and dad at Bob Evans. Right, Bob Evans. Country fried steak, gravy, biscuits, diabetes and hypertension all before noon.
You know, that mom and dad were eating for a family of five, and it was just the two of them. That old broad really bent my ear off while her old man sat there reading the morning news. These people were the fattest fat of the land… they bred indiscriminately and chewed with their mouths open. The mom, I think her name was something silly like Summer, literally said, “We’re counting on you, Monsieur Grabischi, to help us grow our impoverished community when you get elected.” Whatevs, as that singin’ slut with the underwear model boyfriend says. So, I go: “And I’m counting on you to be exactly what you are: A FREAKIN BLACK HOLE.” I wish I cared, but with all my other irons in the fire and the global markets tanking every other week, this is like the last thing on my mind.
I’ve seen triumph in the eyes of the people looting a food pantry in Wilmington after someone set off a couple of smoke-bombs. They refuse to let tough economic times defeat them. My ex-beard and I were so moved when we looked into the tired, blood-shot eyes of those poor schmucks in Wilmington. I mean just saying the name of the place makes you depressed- these bozos have foolishly played by the rules, dupes who have worked their hands until they were misshapen, who navigated through their shit lives with their dull, shitty monkey senses and Gog Fearing and then one day, their overextended lives are pulled out from under them. Not to be a total downer, because hope springs infernal. These peoples’ overly simplistic views on life were so quaint that I immediately felt the need to rush back to Washington, murder a street-kid and DRINK HEAVILY. Speaking of which…
(GULPS FROM THE TUMBLER)
you’re going to help these poor ignorant sods in Wilmington, aren’t you? You guys are going to pitch in and help them, right? Hey… I did my tour of duty when I had the energy back in the early eighties with Eustice… and I took what I could away from it… which was more than a couple grand in back door deals, if I remember correctly. That’s like ten grand today.
I’ve seen high-resolution in the triple-wide keisters of the people of Walbridge. This was the salt peter of the earth… the true common denominator we’ve spoken of here so… eh hmmmm… reverentially?… tonight. These people are determined to rebuild their community after the devastating tornado, but between you and me I don’t think they have the chutzpah to do it alone. And, like everybody else, they have their pudgy hands held out to government for assistance. I gotta tell ya, to drive past that devastated school house and to sit in my car and listen to those people go on and on. Some of them had their school age kids with them. It was, I gotta say, hard not to drift off into the more attractive ones’ crotches. At one point, the car got a little stuffy and I actually had to roll the window down which brought their background noise to the fore and I had to turn down the radio. But in their unrealistic mish mash, I began to realize how they all blended together and sounded the same after a while. They’re the business leaders, community pillars, clergy… they’re role models for you… because they’ve woven an illusion for you to fall for. You know, when one part of Ohia hurts, you all need to rally together and, using my big foot, help give yourselves a swift kick in the ass to get going again. And when one part of Ohia succeeds, I look good. Besides which, some of us admire and are inspired by our fellow Ohia-uns who work to overcome difficult, self-inflicted circumstances. Right?
(GENERAL AGREEMENT AND APPLAUSE)
Our enemies. Now let’s talk about our enemies. Our enemy is anyone whose insistent suckling of our engorged assets keeps us from progress. Then there are our shitty Ohia cities: those lowbred enclaves of Midwestern muckaluck. We must rebuild a lot of these… because they suck, inherently. This is their legacy.
Contrary to what pussies say, our enemy is not the love of money and business or our vibrant caucocentric culture. Our enemy is the perversion of the underclass. The underclass, the dark side of human nature that rubs stinking reality in our faces and derails dreams whenever we cross the street. Our enemies are those who pay NO tribute or respect for those who got them there, those who support them, those who give them a field to plow or a widget on a conveyor belt to sweat their life away over. They forget that there are other hungry Honey Badgers out there that won’t even think twice about eating a hole through them to get to their goals. Tribute is respect.
And, by the way, the last gasp of air in the coal mine IS MINE. So, give Caesar his due… or “I’mma break my foot of in yo azz,” as they say in the vernacular.
My enemies are those who refuse to recognize my power and vast influence. The boldness of my fresh, old ideas.
I’ve raised the bar; but my enemies refuse to help me swing it at all the dead-beats stumbling around the streets of Ohia’s grey and heroin blighted cities. And as our mother used to tell us, “Donna…” that crazy old bitch always called me Donna, but that was no surprise because she used to keep dead goldfish in her underwear drawer too… anyway, she used to say, “Donna, SWING THE BAR. Make the world better for the fact that you’ve knocked as many idiots out of the way as possible. Then, the real work can get done.”
The people who refuse to kiss my seat of power are lame. The people who refuse to swing the bar at the shabby and shoeless ARE WEAK! Poverty is contagious. And when we get done with them, contagion will damn near be pandemic! We will defeat them at their own games. We will batter them under our leaden fists.
WHORE OF BABALON, I LIVE IN SERVICE TO YOU!!!
Well, as far as it relates to our enemies, we can make them our bitches. That’s all I’ve got to say and that’s the future plan. I’ve been making it happen in my many meetings and taxpayer funded trips, like the one I made to Taiwan recently. I left a veritable broken trail of geisha boys and other businessmen- crippled and maimed- in the name of our great nation, many of them with GS mushroom tattoos from ear to ear. Because that’s how All-Street does business, see? What, you ask, does that have to do with the price of a share of Japanese steel stock? I’ll tell you… we can make our enemies our bitches by simply reaching in and snatching what we want… or by at least rearranging everything to confuse them until we can reach in and snatch what we want. For all you lumpy bumpkins, I’ll break it down like this: we lead by doing not by caring. Hard as it may be for you to believe- it’s cuntry simple because it’s absolutely true. And if you all would do more of the same, this cuntry would be a lot different. We can show our enemies that NOT every person has their fifteen minutes of fame… that some are simply relegated to die in obscurity surrounded by their ignorance and filth. We can prove to them beyond a shadow of a doubt that they have missed their true window of opportunity to establish a legacy that will be honored for generations. I am RICH. I’m A STAR. I’m an American Idol without the looks or the talent or charisma, but I’ve got a lot of what it takes to swim with the Shwine… an awesome GMO mix of shark and swine… that run our Great Society. Can I get an Amen?! It’s all about the big shots, ladies and gentlemen loosely speaking. It’s about the President, Governor, the Senator, the Speaker as well as the Justice- and the contents of their front and back pockets… oh heck… let’s just say the contents of their pants in general. That’s not overarching. It was never about our fathers or our grandfathers or our grandmothers or all those other grave-robbers who scrambled America’s lamest generation, one dimwit at a time, blindly repeating cycles of conformity and blandness. Not that I have an issue with conformity and blandness; I wear these like a daily Halloween costume. It’s part of the great illusion. However, the reason the World War 2 generation are the lamest is because they had such hope… such monumental hatred and bigotry, so much so that the bulk of it was left untapped. The trick they learned well is the one where you turn another’s misadventure into a strong profit margin for yourself while setting off a media smoke-bomb to distract from the process. And that, my friends, is the signifier of true wealth, true power. The sixties and seventies were a perfect time to set it all straight in America. They could have hammered everything back into place because everyone was wasted and disorganized. But the lamest generation just handed it all to ‘em in a Styrofoam hamburger container. The lamest generation was run right over, usurped, by touchy feely granolas who get boners by contact with gardening and cooking and talking about feelings. It’s disturbing. But I’ve got more news for you: the bleeding hearts are still spinnin’ their wheels tryin’ to get out of the sucking ditch of losers and back onto the road of true power.
(APPLAUSE FROM THE PHARMACEUTICAL BROKERS)
Yes they were America’s lamest generation. We honor them with our recession and multi-trillion dollar dent. We toast them with our high fructose corn syrup, our NGS slave and pedophile rings as well as our supposed ground contamination (which I’m convinced, is a figment of that fruitcake Nader’s imagination). Listen. The pigs are sitting in their own pudding and I’m going to do my best to shoot ‘em dead as they sit there with that stupid look in their eyes. Then I’m gonna take their bodies to a good, salt o the earth farmer friend of mine and have them ground into ham salad or link sausages. It’ll be the only thing I take with me when I make my final exit from this ass-backward state to ass-first District of Columbia. I’ll have finally driven Déchets to her grave by that time. Listen, I don’t want another divorce on my record, so I’ll just have to go about exercising my freedoms through other means. What can I say, I gotta be me and I always will be. Old All-Street promises to be the pain in the game forever. That’s my pledge to all of you, both pubic and private. All this AND I’ll have a lifetime supply of ham salad sandwiches and sausages to nourish my ambitions!
It’s so exciting to be part of a movement that answers a bell with a drooling mouth. Hell, I’m used to hanging out with lab rats and Pavlov dogs… I’ve been instrumental in unspeakably filthy acts of Government. So when we, my buddies and I, smell the cheese and the bell rings, we’re the hungriest rats in there and everytime you turn around we’ll be there, baring our crudded teeth and leaving scads of dirty little GS pellets behind us. We’ll be watching you for weakness. We’ll be following you with our many traffic cameras and eyes in the sky.
We are not Republicans. We are not Democrats. We aren’t really conservatives and we certainly aren’t liberals. We are Ohiabots. We are Buckeyebots. We are programmed to generate revenue! We are a machine made out of gravy and pork and computer chips and opioids and paperless paperwork and sucker rods and shale and rigs and coffee grounds and Glenlivet 18.
Folks… it’s our pooch to screw. Can you see it? Can you see that pooch? I know you can. We can mount it. One poke at a time. The big Dogs, helping each other with my guiding hand in your pockets, we’ve got all the elements for a great game. Together, we’ll bring that pooch to a paw curling climax!
Apollyon bless America. Apollyon bless Ohia.
TIME: 3:15 a.m.