Condi and Georgie Porgie Doing the Double-Back Beast?
Do you believe that? That's the gossip I just heard on Randi "Roaring" Rhodes radio show this afternoon. [I think it's June 2nd, though I've fallen two days behind with the Daily part of The Daily Growler, though I'm here whatever day it is.] Now let's see, here's the nitty-gritty (let's connect the dots). It seems Pickles has moved out of the Big White House and into the fashionable Mayflower Hotel in the District of Corruption. Now would you pick Condi as the babe Little "President" Horny is sticking his thumb into to get his plum out of her Christmas pie? Nasty boy. If this be true, and I believe everything Randi Rhodes says--she got it from some magazine writer, then why hasn't it made the headlines anywhere? Hillary's cutting Bill off was headlines in the New York Times. I've heard since Georgie Porgie was appointed "president" that is hitting the sauce again and a real prickheaded bastard to work with. Could be on the nostril candy, too, again; who the hell knows? Well, I know who knows: Pickles.
Here's the story as Randi Rhodes told it: It seems Condi and Georgie Porgie were at a party given by some New York Times keiko-muckity-mucks (what a dolce vita these goons have!), you know, the Salzbergers were there. And at this party (don't they have sound clips of this? I think I've heard this goof) Condi let slip and called Georgie Porgie her husband and afterwards "they" said she was terribly embarrassed and that Pickles was pissed beyond repair. Oooooh-GAH! Gossip. Don't'cha just love it?
Feelin' Good in New York City
Osama bin Ladin must have told Homeland Insecurity that he has no reason to blow up anything in New York City or Washington, District of Corruption (Unka Dick is still keeping his private bunker dusted off just in case bin Ladin is lying this time) anymore, so the Homewrecker boys cut NYC's and Washington's Homeland Insecurity funds. Why? you might ask. Well, Homeland Insecurity says it's because neither of these cities has any "icons" (their word) worth blowing up--I hear bin Ladin laughing it up over this one with his CIA buddies in his Pakistan apartment complex--the roar you hear is his dialysis machine. "That stupid donkey ass Georgie Porgie, my half-brother, believed me when I said there were no more icons in New York City to blow up for me--hot damn, don't you love these fools--I mean, NYC is home of the United Nations, the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, and remember, the stupid dick Amuricans have forgotten what my Plan B was if the attack on the WTC had of gone awry--you guys remember, you came up with it [he speaking to the CIA agents drinking mint coffee with him]. It was to crash the planes onto Fifth Avenue, the street my brother Prince Bandar Bush's elegant apartment is on...er-ah, why, I think I, too, have a mansion on that street, don't I, my dear friend from Dubai?"
So New Yorkers are layin' back and takin' it easy after this big relieving announcement. No more orange alerts for New Yorkers and now never a red alert. YOUR SAFE NEW YORKERS and it's thanks to our own top-quality-run Homeland Insecurity under that skunk-looking weirdo Michael Chertoff. Hot damn, fire all the extra cops and stop their stupid diaster training sessions everyday where they race a stream of 18 or 19 cruisers all hopped up with Police Chief chrome and their multilights all flashing different dullish bright colors and their sirens squealing like a pig squeals right before the pig butcher slits its throat race up and down the big avenues before they end up back down at New York City's Police Headquarters Building, which looks like the Green Zone in Baghdad it is so well fortified down there. Yep, well fire a bunch of cops and firemen now--Mayor Bloomingidiotberg will start talking girlishly quaint about how pissed he is at his own crooked MF'in' party for kicking him a swift boat of a boot right smack-dab in his well-heeled ass by cutting 40 million from the big Homeland Insecurity windfall of fresh-printed U.S. worthless dollars that they are used to having fiscally yearly in the till; yeah, the till they all have their greedy little paws dipped into. Just think what you, We the People, could do with 1% of 40 million bucks. Oh, but no, I'm sorry, everybody's gettin' rich off this wonderfully thickly providenced scare tactics slush fund. FEMA (Federal Emergency Muck the Fuck Up Agency) is now spreading the horrid rumors that the East Coast is gonna get blasted this hurricane season and, by the way, they are not going to be able to handle it again, you know, like they did in New Orleans under the leadership of Michael "You're doin' a heck of a job, Brownie" Horse-Show-High-Arsed-Jockey Brown, and now under the leadership of that very scary looking Michael Chernoff. What storm blew him all the way to the top of that FEMA slush pile of money for the grabbin'?" Yeah, I'll bet old Chernoff has a full set of skeletons in his multimillion dollar mansion's closets.
Is Condi Rice Hot?
She's weird looking to me. I can see where a politician might dig her. She's skinny, long and lean, like politicians like their "girls." She's gotta kind'a weird truck-driverish-looking face to me, but I'm being vicious. She might have nice legs and feet. Certainly her feet are shoed with the best her stolen money can buy. She's better looking than Pickles maybe, who's a little too dumpy for my and GW's taste. I can see him wanting a black "gal," too. Who the hell knows? I just hope the rumor is true. Maybe they'll find some video footage of them going at it. Like the video camera old stupidass Frank Gifford, Kathie Lee's ancient husband--a football player made good by marrying a rich Jewish girl who claims she's a Christian--performed in front of while he was boffing Susan Johnson ("Oh, I love your big tits. 34-40 and hike, hike."
The politician in me, I must admit, loves 'em tall and lanky like Condi, too, though I wouldn't pick her as my mistress were I the appointed "president." Condi also walks a little bit like a man. She could be like Dinah Shore was supposed to be; but saying that is being vicious, too, though I love being vicious. Old Slick Willie Clinton didn't have very good taste in hussies either, did he? Remember the honker on that Paula creature he whipped it out in front of in that Arkansas hotel room? Or that really creepy Gin-for-breakfast, lunch, and supper-Ginifer babe--the cheesy Arkie blonde he used to bang in Dallas hotels on political trips to Texas. Yee Haw! Stay out of them hotels, now boys; you know they got cameras everywhere in them sin holes.
Nothing creative coming out of me today, just some lusty and pompous hyena-laughing at the inanities being put up in headlines while in Iraq and Afghanistan we are beginning to get our asses smeared, both bloodily and politically. Iraq's "president" cussed out the U.S. Military today over the more-and-more massacres of men, women, and especially pregnant women ("Hell, it looked like a weapon of mass destruction to me. I didn't see the baby till I saw her blasted-open belly and the little bastard was hanging out all shitty and shit), and children and helpless old people. Way over 100 Iraqis have died this week; 20 or 30 citizens and soldiers have died in Afghanistan this week. They are still rioting all over Afghanistan over the brakeless Bradley or Hummer that killed what 5 or 6 in that "accident" over there. No mention of any of this in the news. Plenty a heartthrobbing glory mentioning of foolish Kimberly Dozier, girl embedded war reporter, almost getting blown in half in the car bombing in Baghdad that decimated her cameraman and soundman. She's in Germany getting the best treatment an army debriefing hospital can give you while her crew is going right straight back home in body bags. I can't keep up with the deaths. We've almost equalled the number killed by the 9/11 miracle attack by the 14 drunk-the-night-before Saudi sillies who took over 3 big airliners using only box cutters and killed 3300 people in the WTC attacks. After the death tolls in Afghanistan and Iraq get up around the number of dead left in New Orleans by Hurricane Katrina, around 7,000, Hot-damn, then we gonna have ourselves a "nice little war." God, what F-ing fools are leading us to Hell in a handbasket.
for The Daily Growler
The Daily Growler House Pianist took thegrowlingwolf to dinner at Virgil's in New York City last night. The Wolf Man was seen acting very flabbergasted as the good heart-clogging goodies started coming, first the frozen Margaritas, then the massive snake-like-sex-knotted platter of onion rings and another platter of some top-dog-style baking powder biscuits accompanied by a butter and syrup mixture. Then the Wolf Man ordered a chicken-fried steak with sides of greens and beans--it's a barbecue joint and yet because he was once from Texas, he feels chicken-fried steaks are a reminder of his dear-departed mother and he fondly remembers her cookin' up them chicken fried steaks in her ancient Old West iron skillet she was so proud of in that old home lone prairie kitchen. Nostalgia. The steak was excellent, Wolfie reported stentoriously, as he packed it away in hungry-wolf gulps, which he then washed down with yet another frozen Margharita. The meal was topped off with a slab of key lime pie and a big mug of black coffee. The waitress was also very nice and very sexy and parts of her anatomy were enjoyed by both these rather lecherous older men (that's really disgusting to us). The Daily Growler House Pianist returned with the Wolf Man to his penthouse den of inequity where they woke up the dead by listening to a rousing version of Charles Ives's Fourth Symphony. The Daily Growler House Pianist brought along the score, too, and a good time was had by all. The boys were soused by 2 am when the pianist finally hit the road. The commodity of intoxication? A decanter of Brown and Foreman's Old Forrester's Birthday Batch of bourbon whiskey made in 1995 in honor of Old Brother Brown's birthday. Sales promotion gimmick, but the bourbon was good, oaky, chocolatey, vanilla-y, and spicey. Half the bottle now rests contented on the Wolf Man's penthouse parquet-linoleum floor where it was abandoned by the two Sons of Inebriation as each went his own way into that sleep that Jack Kerouac, a stone drunk, called that world of "beermare" hell in the head, and Dylan Thomas said was the reason he didn't mind dying as he lay dying in St. Vincent's Hospital in NYC's emergency room after falling down deadass drunk in the White Horse Tavern over on Hudson in the Village.
NOTE: Back in the archives of The Daily Growler is Dinah Shore's recipe for chicken-fried steak. It's a doosy of a homespun recipe from the Hills of Tennessee; give it a try.
The Daily Growler restaurantrover--WOOF WOOF