City Planning: What the Bumblefuckers Want

Normanskill, NY (AP), “Just thirteen members of The Mayor’s Committee on Strategic Planning for The City of Normanskill, about a quarter of the total group, actually live in the City, with the rest making their homes in surrounding suburbs, according to an analysis by reporter V. Gina Gnome that included Bumblefuck and Normanskill County voting records, Internet-based address databases and the local telephone book.”

Wintermute: I’m a big fan of The Mayor, as you know, but this sort of behavior really frosts my donut. And not in the good way. As a longtime, tax-paying citizen of Normanskill, why in the world would I want someone from Bumblefuck County making decisions about my City’s future? What do all those people from suburbs out in Bumblefuck County actually want, anyway? A few more Starbucks to visit at lunch?

The Bumblefuckers: More parking for the two times a month we come into the city. All the cultural stuff in a nice sanitized area with no brown or poor people around. Cheap apartments for poor people that we can buy and flip a year later after having some poor, brown people repaint them for minimum wage, without benefits or social security. Maybe an indoor shopping mall. No gay people making us uncomfortable. More shows by The Dave Matthews Band, but acoustic ones in nice clean bars, so we can talk while they play. More cool nightclubs and restaurants with rope lines so we can feel exceptional when we get in. But they have to be in brightly lit areas with plentiful parking lots (we can’t parallel park, you know) and no poor, brown, gay or poor brown gay people around. In fact, when it comes to parking lots, let’s have some new deluxe “wider vehicle” spots designated for our Hummers only. You could put them where the handicapped spots are now, since no disabled people would get past the rope at our kinds of nightclubs anyway. That would pretty much do it for us. Good thing the Mayor put us on the Committee!

Wintermute: Why are you Bumblefuckers always so concerned about parking? Why, according to the Normanskill City Website, there are over 2,000 parking spots within a four block radius of the intersection of Asshat Avenue and Grand Street.

Karellen: Oh, come on, Wintermute. You know that most of those parking spots have been full since 1925. The last time I was heading downtown to the Asshat and Grand area and there was something going on at the Armory I ended up having to park up on Millard Fillmore Avenue. It’s a somewhat obvious choice, but for whatever reason (too freaky for the Suburbanites?), I didn’t have too much trouble finding a spot there. There’s always Hippie Hollow too. There’s always plenty of good parking underneath the overpass there. It’s kind of stuffy down there, though, so it’s good to leave your windows open. It’s so peaceful down there. Sometimes I just drop the kids off there and go for a walk. I need a lot of alone time, you know.

Louie Shakes: That’s right! There’s lots of nice young neighborhood people there who are willing to keep the kids entertained while you walk, and with the windows down, it’s okay to leave the kids in the car. Be sure to give the kids some money in case the ice cream truck comes while you’re gone. And leave the trunk open for them, too. They can play fort in it.

Guy Who Blocks The Flow: It is pouring down rain now, even though the sun is shining. Are the Four Horsemen sure to follow soon?

Guy Who Esplains Thins: They ditched their horses and are in motorboats now, following their yachts down the Hudson.

Pestilence: If there’s one muffuckin scratch on my yacht, Normanskill is going down with bird flu tomorrow!!

Famine: Are we there yet? I’m huuuuuuuuungry!!!!!

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The Flaming-Bag-of-Poop-Maker: Charles Darwin vs The LORD

For the uneducated man one of the most convincing of all “proofs” for the existence of a God is the watchmaker argument. It was presented by William Paley in Natural Theology, and the opening passage begins like this (Paley, 1802): “In crossing a heath, suppose I pitched my foot against a stone, and were asked how the stone came to be there; I might possibly answer, that, for anything I knew to the contrary, it had lain there forever: nor would it perhaps be very easy to show the absurdity of this answer. But suppose I had found a watch upon the ground, and it should be inquired how the watch happened to be in that place; I should hardly think of the answer I had before given, that for anything I knew, the watch might have always been there.” Further down Paley continues: “Every indication of contrivance, every manifestation of design, which existed in the watch, exists in the works of nature; with the difference, on the side of nature, of being greater or more, and that in a degree which exceeds all computation.”

Charles Darwin (in Hell): As Paley notes, there is indeed a reason for the complexity of everything in nature, and that reason is merely survival of the fittest. A tree exhibits all its idiosyncrasies as a result of those particular traits’ abilities to ensure the tree will receive adequate sunlight, water, and minerals. The “guiding hand” or “watchmaker” in this respect is simply nature. Cruel, heartless nature. That lets the weak die off and the strong feed on its bones. That punishes the sick and the poor and rewards the rich and powerful for their blameless fates. I guess what I’m trying to get at here is, if that’s what God is, then I can’t see how it is a benevolent force or one worthy of admiration at all. Especially since He’s had me cooking down here in this flaming sarcophagus for a century and half now.

The LORD: Don’t make me punish you and your followers up on Earth again, Charles. I could turn New York into a red state too, you know. Or I could make it so that when your fans get home tonight, instead of finding a rock or a watch sitting on their doorsteps, they will find a big flaming bag of dog poop. Then they will truly know who the Flaming-Bag-of-Poop-Maker is.

Sandy Twistedpanties: Aaaah, you ain’t so big, The LORD. Anybody could be the Flaming-Bag-of-Poop-Maker. In fact, I’ve been leaving flaming bags of poop in front of every church, temple, and mosque for years. Those bastards get everything tax free. The hell with that! Step in the poop, you!

The LORD: But who makes the poop that you put in your bags, Sandy? Well, yeah, dogs do. But then who makes the dogs? That would be me: The LORD. I am the one true maker of poop.

Guy Who Blocks The Flow: Someone told me once that Buddha was the one true maker of poop.

Buddha (in Hell): Nah brah, that’s The LORD. Srsly.

Guy Who Blocks The Flow: Buddha? In Hell? Really?

Buddha (in Hell): Yeah, it’s not too bad, really. The LORD set me and my followers up real nice down here. There’s a cow in every garage, for starters.

The LORD: Hey, no problem, Buddha. I’m all about equal opportunity when it comes to eternal damnation.

Sandy Twistedpanties: Aw, c’mon, The LORD. Dogs make the dogs that make the poop! Everyone knows that!

The LORD: But who made the dogs that make the dogs that make the poop, Sandy? Well, yeah, they were wolves long ago. But I made the wolves. And the single-celled organisms that they descended from. But that last point is just between us here on Upstate Ether, okay? If anyone from a red state asks, then tell them I invented all of those things over the course of a week some six thousand years ago. And I invented all living creatures with poop in their colons, so as to avoid any “which came first: the food or the poop?” debates. And now, if you will excuse me, I’ve got to get down to Washington, DC. I’ve got some cabinet and Supreme Court positions I’ve got to fill.

Charles Darwin (in Hell): I’ve got to respectfully disagree, The LORD. A combination of amino acids and outlandish weather and geological conditions made that one-celled ancestor of wolves all those years ago, and then natural selection took it from there. All you did was take credit for it. And send me to Hell for calling you out about it. I’ve got to say that I certainly don’t think I deserve a conscious eternity in this flaming coffin just for following the scientific method to its logical conclusion.

The LORD: Charlie, Charlie, Charlie . . . how many times do we have to go through this? Who made the amino acids and outlandish weather, Charlie? That would be me. But, oh, let’s see, I’m thinking you want to cite the prevailing scientific theory, something along these lines: that all the matter in the entire universe existed in a space smaller than a helium atom until a big bang blew it all up and created everything, all in matter of milliseconds. Suuuuuuuure, that’s real believable. Your astrophysicists don’t use scientific method. They make leaps of faith, and bad ones at that. I think it makes more sense to just suck it up and say “And the Earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the spirit of The LORD moved upon the face of the waters. And The LORD said, let there be light: and there was light. And The LORD saw the light, and it was good, fo’ shizzle!” That makes just as much sense to most folks as the Big Bang theory does. Now, excuse me while I go put together an extra big bag of flaming poop for Sandy Twistedpanties’ porch, and appoint Pat Robertson as attorney general. ‘ta!

Buddha (in Hell): You cows stay away from Charles Darwin, please. He is unclean and untouchable.

Charles Darwin (in Hell): That hurts, Buddha. That really hurts.

Chicken Fluffer

Karellen: I’ve got a bit of sensitive request for you, my Overbrethren. Last night, Mrs. Karellen and I set up the boudoir video cam to capture a little rumpy-pumpy for posterity’s sake, and when I watched the playback, I have to confess that I wearied of waiting for myself to reach full tumescence. I’m thinking that I might need to hire a fluffer. Someone to wait in the wings, as it were, to prime the pump, so that once Mrs. Karellen cries “action,” I’m ready for the fleshy swordplay right away. Can any of you recommend a good fluffer?

Mustapha Mond: I’d be happy to recommend and share my fluffer, Napoleon Boner Pirate. He’s an excellent fluffer. Very professional. He’s fluffed for Space Chubby and Commissioner Gordon Haskell as well, plus many others. He’s friendly and courteous, and always senses when it’s time to get in there and get to work. A real self-starter. He doesn’t need anyone pushing or holding his hand while he works through complex tasks. I’ve got his resume here, in fact. It says: “Highly organized and motivated; exceptionally reliable, conscientious and thorough; excellent written, oral and interpersonal communication skills; familiar with all Microsoft Office applications, bass guitar, and ikebana.” Let me get him on the line for you . . .

Karellen: Hmm . . . he seems like he might be a bit over-qualified for my needs. Plus that name sounds French, and I’m not so sure I want his type lurking around the mothership.

Napoleon Boner Pirate: No no no! I’d be perfect for the job! That’s an old resume, actually. I’m no longer pretending to be familiar with Microsoft Office Applications now that my fluffing career has started to take off! Give me a chance. I’ve got the drive and determination to see any situation through. At least watch me fluff before you make a decision.

Karellen: Let’s not be too hasty, there, good fellow. How about a little conversation first, hmm? Tell me: what’s the biggest challenge you’ve faced as a fluffer, and how did you handle it?

Napoleon Boner Pirate: Well, let’s see. If I understand your question correctly, the biggest challenge would have to have been Drunknard in the early days of Space Chubby. I simply couldn’t get a rise out of the guy. Then one time we were in Montreal and saw a porno film with women acting like chickens, pecking up corn, clucking, etc. Drunky pretended not to be interested but I saw a funny look in his eye. From then on I would bring a couple of hens to band practice and everything was, ya know, cock-a-doodle-can-do.

Mustapha Mond: That shows you’ve got some gumption, kid. The world would be a better place if all fluffers were as goal-oriented.

Napoleon Boner Pirate: The first rule of fluffing is that if you’re not goal-oriented, then maybe you need to find another line of work.

Drunknard: It’s true. Before Napoleon, I didn’t really know that I liked chickens. Now I keep a coop in my basement, and I bring chickens to every show. Thanks, Napoleon. You’re in a league of your own.

Gassy Veal Kitten Randy: I can vouch for the chicken thing. Me and High Function Downs Boy tried to practice in Drunknard’s basement a couple of times but we were up to our elbows in chicken shit. I must admit, however, the sound of our awful music was veritably enhanced by the inclusion of the murderous clucking of consistently molested chickens.

Drunknard: Molested? You make what I do with chickens sound so scandalous. The chickens and I make love. Where’s the harm in that?

Gassy Veal Kitten Randy: That’s not the way the chickens squawk it, dude.

Drunknard: You wouldn’t know an ee-yawk from a ree-ikkk, my uncouth young friend. And besides, their language by nature is crude and violent to untrained ears. What you hear is simply their begging for my attention.

Sandy Twistedpanties: Begging for your attention? Oh please. The truth of the matter is that a chicken can never say yes. After all, despite your ostensible comprehension of squawk, the poultry language has yet to be mapped out by the best of our scientists. However, the most commonly uttered phrase among chickens as derived at laboratories and through publications I am familiar with is “rape!” Even when chickens are being violated by roosters, they have no choice in the matter. While PETA refuses to go this far, I must insist that all sexual acts involving chicken are by nature forced and therefore morally wrong. Please consider in depth what you are doing, Drunknard, and release the hens. Otherwise, I’ll make a stink so big my local district assemblyman may hear about it!

Karellen: What’s that smell? Yuck!

Sandy Twistedpanties: You know exactly what that smell is, little man. But you clearly aren’t accustomed to the smell of empowered vagina. Just the mention of that word—“vagina”—makes some small-minded, little men uncomfortable. Grow up. Learn to appreciate the way a real woman smells. Like strength.

Karellen: You have to admit . . . it’s a bit musky . . .

Drunknard: What I have with the chickens goes beyond language. It’s called love.

Sandy Twistedpanties: Okay, Drunknard, I thought maybe you were a reasonable man. But now, once again, I am forced to realize the truth that the only good man is a dead man. Prepare for the stink.

Napoleon Boner Pirate: Sandy, are you trying to make my job more difficult? Do I have to find another vice for Drunknard that doesn’t involve chickens or other animals? I’m tellin’ ya, before I happened onto the chicken thing the guy was like a deflated balloon. Cut a fluffer some slack, namsain?

Sandy Twistedpanties: Typical male perspective, Napoleon. As if everyone has the same voracious sex drive that must be satisfied. Why don’t you just leave him alone, and not expose all those helpless chickens to psychological devastation in the process?

Guy Who Blocks the Flow: I had a dream that David Bowie was telling me what a wonderful artist I am. I told him he was wrong and to fuck off. “Shut up, David Bowie, you’re full of shit.”

David Bowie: You insult me in a dream, you’d better wake up and apologize.

Federalism Along the Normanskill

Normanskiller: Me and the kids just got back from dumping some old tires and used oil in the Normanskill ravine! Now, we’re gonna take the afternoon off to spend some live free or die quality time together, just to put the finger in the face of the Patroon, who’s been sniffing around at the gate again, looking for his tithe. I’m so sick of him and his ilk and their crazy redistributionist schemes! They better watch their backs, ‘cause some day, we’ll come for them!!

Patroon Pieter Van Vreebenhuyck: There there, my little man, my little Normanskiller. Facts are facts, and you owe me for working my land fair and square. Pay me, or I’ll send a tax man with an itchy trigger finger, a man who likes to make his rounds at night. Because he has another job during the day, trying to fight back the Giant Hogweed that threatens every ditch between here and Boght Corners. He’s a nice little fellow. From Ghent.

Normanskiller: Oh yes, you send that tax man, and I’ll put a hole the size of West Troy in him as soon as he sets foot on my holdings. You can’t tax the land! It’s like trying to put a tax on the sun! How you gonna squeeze a dollar out of that? So send him on over. I’m ready.

Patroon Pieter Van Vreebenhuyck: That makes no sense at all, my gentle Normanskiller. Why, you’re starting to sound like one of those crazed Calico Indians, or, even worse, a New Scotlander! You know how it all works: I’ll just take some crops or meat or something. Come on. You know that’s my acreage you’re on. You signed a contract, so now pay up. There’s free land out west if you’re man enough to make the journey, and can farm it for a few years while fending off real Indians and other people out to do you harm. But we don’t have those rules here on the Normanskill. So pay up!

Guy Who Blocks the Flow: Hey, what has become of Upstate Ether? Now we’re in some sort of wacked historical hallucination?

DeWitt Clinton: Welcome to the new Upstate Ether, Guy Who Blocks the Flow! Nice to meet you! I’m one-time New York State governor Dewitt Clinton, prime proponent of the construction of the Erie Canal, that mighty channel of commerce that now runs from Waterford to Tonawanda, and is known as the “Barge Canal.”

Patroon Pieter Van Vreebenhuyck: Mister Clinton, Governor. Please, don’t mind the populists that sprout up occasionally here. We’re generally good folk, with a love for great men of politics like yourself. I know we have some mutual friends, Buffalonians, building a harbor that’ll bring more commerce our way. Oh how rude of me! Brandy and a cigar for you, Governor? This fine bottle traveled with me from Holland about 10 years back. It’s a fine malt. Why don’t we step into the back here where we might have a little more . . . privacy. Shall we?

Normanskiller (shouting from the crowd): DeWitt Clinton is a federalist whore!

DeWitt Clinton: Federalist whore, am I? Well I’d like to see how you Normanskill populists would fare without the support and protection of the mighty United States of America!

Normanskiller: We’d be fat, stoned and happy, dumping old tires and used oil into the Normanskill, the way our parents and their parents before them did! But now, with taxes to the Patroon, and taxes to the state, and taxes to the Feds, it’s all we can do to buy any tires and oil in the first place, much less to have extras to dump. You’ve destroyed our way of life!

DeWitt Clinton: And a jolly good thing that we did, you inbred, ditchweed yokel. There’d be no progress in this great land of ours if you and your kind were left to breed freely and make decisions about anything other than what type of offal you’re going to stuff into your pie holes from meal to meal. You, sir, disgust me. Good day!

Normanskiller: Clinton, you bastard, I know you’re a dueling man who put two bullets in a man’s leg a few years back. We could stand here and bark at each other like angry dogs, but why not settle our dispute in a matter of moments, the way that men do? Shall we say coon rifles at dawn?

DeWitt Clinton (pulls pistol from waistcoat, pumps four slugs into Normanskiller): I said, sir, GOOD DAY!

Normsankiller: I die! And I blame federalism along the Normanskill!

DeWitt Clinton: Now, about that brandy and cigar, Patroon Pieter . . .

Patroon Pieter Van Vreebenhuyck: Right this way, Mister Governor, right this way.

Published in: on January 19, 2010 at 3:55 pm  Leave a Comment