Christopher Moore's Blog

Spence Kelly is a JAG in Afghanistan. He just got his copy of TSA and wanted to share with you guys.

I do like the juxtaposition of the M-4, the pistol, and the peace sign.

Here’s to you guys who are overseas for Thanksgiving. We’re thinking of you.

By the way, your Commander in Chief is still a fucktard. But you guys are in our hearts and prayers.

Since the election, since the media announced a major coup in the culture war, since President Bush declared a two percent win a mandate, since the head of Focus on the Family started to dictate who will chose our judges, I’ve been thinking. And I think that we all know that no good can come of that. Here’s what I’ve been thinking:

Anger, Denial, Depression, Bargaining, and Acceptance. The Kubler-Rossities of life and death — the five steps of dying, and so often, the five steps one goes through when anything comes to an end. (Who can forget the Anger, Denial, Bargaining and Acceptance that we all went through last season, when Friends and Sex in the City went off the air? We thought that water cooler chat would be nothing but uncomfortable silence — nothing to distract us from staring at the birthmark over the eye of that skinny guy in accounting, now that we couldn’t discuss Jennifer’s new hair-do or who Kim Cattrell blew this week. But alas, life, did, indeed go on. And can’t they take those things off with lasers now? It looks like someone paint-balled him in the temple, gangland style, for Christ’s sake.) So since Tuesday night, I’ve been going through the stages.

Anger. I yelled at the weather, my girlfriend, the roosters in the yard, the lawn mower, the TV (a lot), and some random passers-by who had the bad judgment to drive down my street in a suspiciously Red State-looking rental car. I wrote rants (see previous posts), essays, eulogies (death of hope, justice, intelligence) polemics, and what I think is a new genre, liberal white whines. Friends and I worked ourselves into a frenzy over the phone, something akin to Christian charismatics being “taken with the spirit”, speaking in tongues, daring the Rove vipers to bite us, as we invoked the names of Jefferson, Madison, and Hillary in order to cast out the evil, flight-suited cheerleader. Possessed by the holy ghost of righteous indignation and free evening and weekend minutes were we, and we were pissed.

But no, it couldn’t have really happened? There’s just no way it could have happened. Too many cared, too many turned out, too many saw through the lies. There had to have been a mistake. Oh what dangerous rapids we did ford o’er that most treacherous of Egyptian rivers, the great Blue de-Nile. Nearly drown, we were, in denial. I noticed a lot of nodding among us, as if we could reassuringly bobble-head our way to salvation, if we only agreed with each other hard enough. Alas, we were but passengers in the back window of a stinking cab piloted by a crazed Arab with an RPG and a younger, leaner, hungrier God than our own. No paperless trail would reveal the mistakes, no deus ex machina would righteously pluck the poser out of the palace, we were, most inexorably, fucked.

Then depression set in. There was a fatalistic “to hell with it” among the defeated. Phone messages were mumbled, voices trailed off, everything seemed unimportant in the face of our collective misery. But it was collective misery. We had company! There was a reason that you can dance to the Blues, that you can make love to the Blues, that you can rejoice at the Blues. It’s the commonality of spirit, the shared suffering, the release of grief — keening through twelve-bar progressions in the key of glee. (So that’s why Black people — used to this shit by now — sounded so happy at church, sang so pretty at funerals, and invented the Blues. Nice of them to share. About time we understood.) We found, knew, and became in a single lament. We were the Blues.

Lawd have mercy, if I’d not been born without rhythm and melodically challenged I mighta’ composed me a requiem for a dream, but instead you get this toneless tocatta for a nightmare. (That can happen, by the way, nightmares, if you eat a tocatta right before bed. Particularly a cream cheese tocatta. I’m just sayin’.)

And thus the bargaining began – not with God or man, but with ourselves, as we tried to somehow set the terms that would make it, perhaps not all better, but tolerable. They would see, when enough farm boys were ground up in the desert of Iraq, teenage girls were squatting over coat hangers in alleys, when their grandchildren were born owing enough to buy a Yankees center fielder, when the trees were gone, the air was brown, when they were all dressed in rough-cut burlap and Broadway was silent because all the Gays went to Canada — then we would show them the face of righteous social justice. We would rescue them, let them beg us to take our country back and run it for them. Apologize, they would. Dig a giant hole and drop all things Bush into it, covered with concrete and imprinted with warnings to future generations to never ever dig them up. The name Bush would be expunged from all documents, and chiseled from our monuments, like Aknatan, the Pharaoh who dared bring mono-theism to the Eqyptians, whose name uttered aloud brought down a death sentence for a five-hundred years after his execution. Even arboreal reference would be forbidden, so in the land of the free we would have to merrily go round the mulberry shrub, and a woman’s pubic patch would ever be know as a curl-meadow. Only then, then we might feel better.

Or we could move to New Zealand. For days you could walk up to any random Blue-stater and get a price quote on a three bed, two bath in Auckland, Sidney, or Vancouver. (Toronto’s too cold and Montreal is, well, it’s Fucking French, isn’t it? I mean, at least with the French in France you get France, but French in an Ohio-like setting? Don’t think so. And fuck me, I only know how to say orange juice and pizza in French. How am I gonna be culturally elite?) But with no binding arbitration by a vengeful God willing to smite the shit out people using his name for their own political ends, the bargaining broke down,.

So can we move to the final stage, acceptance?

I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about it a lot. And what I’ve come up with, after much pondering, and with consideration of the teachers in Oregon who were arrested for wearing “protect our civil rights” shirts, and the kid in Missouri who was arrested for posting a “If George Bush is King, Off With His Head” bumper sticker on his car, and with no little concern over that F.B.I. computer program called Carnivore (Atkins Diet-based program), which scans the internet for threatening language…

I’d like to make a modest proposal…

AN IMMEDIATE CHEERFUL OVERTHROW OF THE US GOVERNMENT

Let’s go, people. Let’s see a great big smile, you’re on camera. The revolution will definitely be televised.

[Editor’s note: The photos of Chris’s torture by guards at Gitmo are still on the way, but he wanted me to let you know that when you see the redneck chick pointing to his genitals, the look you’re seeing on her face is not mocking, it’s shock and awe, baby, shock and awe. ‘ target=’_blank’>

Let me tell you a story that came to mind today, while I was thinking about the election, and reading the depressed, anxious, disappointed, e-mails from many of you guys. See if this doesn’t make you feel, as it did me, a little bit better.

My Uncle Johnny was a mechanical genius. He could completely disassemble an automobile down to the smallest part and put it back together and it would work. In fact, he did that once, a black Lincoln, during his vacation. Socially he was a little rough, a Georgia boy with an eighth grade education and a bit of a mean streak, but he could make anything mechanical sing. A tall, skinny Southerner with a cigarette dangling perpetually from his lip while he worked, one eye squinting and watering under the smoke, the irritated look on his face something between a scowl and the evil eye, a shock of blue-black hair falling in his other eye – Uncle Johnny frightened some people, but machines smiled when he passed. Machines loved him.

Early on, shortly after he married my Aunt Geneva, my mother’s sister, Uncle Johnny took his family North to work on the giant steel freighters that prowl the Great Lakes, hauling steel from Ohio and Pennsylvania up to Detroit, where it is pounded into Fords. Before long he was made chief engineer on one of the ships, spending the bulk of his time below among the giant pistons of the diesel generators that ran the giant electric motors that turned the screws that pushed hundreds of thousands of tons of steel across the water. Uncle Johnny, lived most of his life in the company of his gargantuan machines (and a couple of machinists’s mates he liked to yell at.) I don’t remember seeing Uncle Johnny smile, but I’ll bet he did when he was down there in his engine room.

So, one cold October day, Uncle Johnny’s ship was making the run from Toledo to Detroit with a full load and a new captain at the helm, and as they were approaching the dock, at full speed, but still a mile or so out, the machinists’s mate called to Uncle Johnny. “Sir, we are coming in way too fast. We need to reverse the props.” “Nope,” replied Uncle Johnny. “Wait for the order.” And the great ship plowed on. “But Sir, we have to reverse the props or we’ll hit the dock.” “Yep,” said Uncle Johnny. “We sure as hell will. Wait for the order.” “Wait? Sir, there’s no way we can slow the ship down in time.” “Goddamn right, son, and if I reverse her now, it’ll be my fault when we hit, but if I wait for the order, and then reverse ‘em, and go full throttle, and we still hit, then it was the Captain’s fault. I was just waiting for the order. So I’m waiting for the Goddamn order.” “But we’ll hit either way?” “Yep. You be ready to reverse when the order comes down, and then you best grab your ass and brace for impact.” “Aye, aye, sir.”

They smashed the shit out of the dock in Detroit, did about 1.5 million dollars of damage, and that was in 1970 dollars. Nearly sank the ship.

Uncle Johnny had a long career, and retired with a clean record. The captain, he went on to pilot a Yellow Cab.

Well, imagine, if you will, that the United States is a big ship. A really big ship. Like one of the great steel haulers, it takes miles and miles to slow her down once she’s moving. And whoever gives the order to reverse the props is going to take the blame for the damage that is done. Isn’t it right that the captain who put that ship up to full throttle without looking at the charts to see how far from the dock he was, should take responsibility for the damage?

There you go.

Could John Kerry have changed the direction of the war, reconnected with our allies, repaired the environmental policies, bolstered the economy, and fixed the health care system in four years? Probably not. I was hopeful, but things really are a huge mess. I don’t think anyone can turn this leviathan ship of doom around. Too much momentum. So, looking on the bright side, grab your ass and brace for impact. At least it’s not our guy at the helm. We did, after all, yell “lookout”, the 48% of us. We did our duty and we can sleep safe in the wreckage, our consciences clear, our hands clean, our souls light.

And if, by some bizarre stroke of irony, things actually do get better, the killing stops, our friends respect us, our rights are protected, we can all afford heath care, well what a joy it will be to have been wrong. What a narrow escape we will have made from disaster. And in our little ship metaphor, the dock, which is the rest of the world, will be happy and safe and we will all smile like Uncle Johnny’s great machines. It could happen.

Churchill once said, “There is no thrill so great as being shot at, and missed.” What a thrill we will have had!

But just in case, even as you enjoy the sense of speeding toward a bright and hopeful future, grab your ass and brace for impact. Just know that it ain’t your fault.

It’s a pretty simple equation. The purpose of terrorism is to terrorize in order to change people’s behavior. To scare people. When people start making major decisions based on acts of terror, the object of the terrorist has been accomplished.

Could be any major change in behavior, I don’t know, say, the election of the most powerful leader in the world (next to Osam Bin Ladin, of course, because you just gave him the power too, you realize? Even if he’s dead, he beat you.).

Pretty much all of the pre-election polls said that the economy was not going in the direction people wanted it to, that they were the same or worse off than they were four years ago, that they were not satisfied with the direction the country was going, and we were about fifty-fifty on whether we should be at war in Iraq at all, but 62% of the people thought the war in Iraq was being mis-handled. Yet Bush won. How is that possible?

The one issue where Bush consistently polled better than Kerry was in the war on terror. Because he told us that he would do a better job. And here’s where Osama got your vote: you believed that the war on terror was, in the final analysis, the most important issue of the campaign. You were frightened enough to vote based on fear of terrorism.

And here’s the kicker, the states that went for Bush are the last that will ever have a terrorist attack. The only terrorist attack that ever happened in a red state was perpetrated by a right-wing redneck from Michigan, not some international Muslim mastermind.

No one disputes that the attacks on 9/11 were tragic, and scary, and that seeing three thousand people lose their lives is horrifying, but if it’s fear of being killed that motivates you, take these figures into account:

In 2001, while 3028 Americans died from terrorist acts….

922,334 died of heart disease 156,058 died of lung cancer 42,443 died from auto accidents 38,784 died from kidney failure 32,238 died of septicemia (that’s right, general infections) 29,573 died from firearms (16,869 suicides, 11,348 homicides, 802 accidents, 323 police) 27,035 died of liver failure brought on by alcoholism 21, 683 died from drug reactions 15,019 fell to their deaths 14,078 died of accidental poisoning

That’s right, you have a nearly five times better chance of poisoning yourself than you do of being killed by terrorists. Would you have voted for Nader if he’d promised you syrup of ipecac, activated charcoal, and a skull and crossbones on every scary bottle, despite the fact that he’s a certified loon? Well, you did it with Bush. You voted for Osama. He scared you and you voted.

Even if it was determined that you had to die this year, the chances of the causes of death being a terrorist attack is less than 1/100th of 1% . If your tag isn’t up for sure, if you’re in the mortality tables with the rest of us, your chances of being killed by terrorists are less than 1/1,000th of 1%, or, about one in every 87,000 people, and that’s based on the year of the worst terrorist attack in American History! (In any normal year the odds are about 1 in 100million, and that’s only if you count getting your head cut off in Iraq.)

So what in the hell were you so afraid of, that you allowed the biggest political decision you were ever going to make, to be swayed by a terrorist? Shame on you.

Time and again I’ve heard the born again conservative, Dennis Miller, end his descriptions of world events and conditions with, “and it scares the hell out of me.” It’s his number one rational for turning into a Bush toady, yet I can’t help but think, “Here’s a guy who I used to admire, who obviously has a head on his shoulders, yet by his own admission, will kow tow to an administration who only a few years ago he satirized and criticized, because now he is afraid.” The cowardice disgusts me.

So how about a suggestion for those of you who felt that the tough-talking cowboy would better protect you against the renally challenged Islamic tunnel rat than an actual combat veteran? The damage of this election is done, but here’s an idea for what you, personally, can do to fight the war on terrorism.

DON’T BE AFRAID

Instead of picking the guy who turned his boat into machine gun fire and charged the enemy, you picked as your protector the cheerleader who hid out in Alabama, so I’m at a loss as to your definition of courage, but just try the whole, “don’t be afraid” experiment. Courage is not the absence of fear, it’s carrying on in the face of fear. It’s power over fear. Try it.

You got your guy, now grow a set, for Christ’s sake. The sweater on the chair is just a friggin’ sweater. You fucked up the country and possibly the world for the rest of us, the least you could do is have the courtesy to not sleep with the light on.

So that sucked.

Okay, so there was this really nice article in Publisher’s Weekly today about me. Or it might not be today, but it will be soon. Someone sent it to me today. And they say all kinds of nice things about Stupidest Angel, and you guys, my readers, and so forth, and that’s great, so I am officially lifting the fatwa I put out on PW for calling Lamb “frat boy humor” three years ago. They gave Fluke a decent review, they gave The Stupidest Angel a rave, and now they wrote a swell bio article, so they are no longer on my shit list.

But here’s the thing, the woman who interviewed me, Natalie Danford, asked me about why my web site and my relationship with my readers seemed so personal. Evidently this is unusual. And I replied, “Well, because it is personal. I answer every e-mail I get from my readers (unless it’s unduly creepy), and they write back, and I sort of just share my end of the world with them and they do the same with me.” And then I went on to sound all literary, by saying that because I write humor, the work has a pretty strong voice, and people really get a sense of someone being there telling them the story, so by the time there’s any contact at all, my readers have hung out with me for hours. We’ve had some times. And that’s true. (None of that made it into the article, by the way.)

I’m sharing that with you guys, because after I posted about being too freaked by the election to be funny, many of you wrote to me, not just in the blog comments, but by e-mail, and you said it was okay, it would be okay, that you were fine with a few weeks of stressful rambling, and that you were going through a very similar thing…

and you know what?

Thanks. That was really fucking cool. Beyond any of the myriad pleasures of interacting with you people on the receiving end of my art, that was a major payback. So Thanks.

I was getting on a plane earlier this month, going for a quick turn around at a conference all the way across the country, and because ever since I completely destroyed my life about seventeen years ago in October, and totaled my Datsun 200SX about fifteen years ago on an October 13th, October has not been the luckiest month for me – let alone the whole seasonal defective thing I get every year when daylight savings time kicks in. So as I do sometimes, I sat Charlee down, told her where my will was, where the bank accounts were, that it was okay to sell the house, and that if she couldn’t figure out how to finish the next book, she owed money back to my publisher so don’t go buy a new Jag or something. Because flying is a perfectly unnatural act, and irony is the most powerful force in the universe, and since The Stupidest Angel actually had a chance of making the NY Times best-seller list, and I was flying in October, the unluckiest month, my plane was probably going to crash before I would ever see one of my books in the top 15. That’s how the Universe works, right?

And she said, and I’m not making this up, “You can’t get killed. How would I tell your readers how much they mean to you?”

So, what I’m saying is, you guys are my homies. I do not, for a second, take you for granted. Where else am I gonna find people who have such great taste in literature? 😀

Thanks. Peace.

Now go vote out the retarded cowboy and his evil robot sidekick.

Every day I sit down at my desk, and for a few hours I try to tell stories and be funny. Every day I read and answer a bunch of e-mails from readers who tell me how much laughter they found in my books. Short of hearing people laugh, hearing that you made them laugh is the best. But the last few weeks I have been hard pressed to come up with anything funny to write down. You’ll even notice that the blog entries have been pretty scarce, and the last time this happened was in the six weeks following 911, when everything I did just seemed trivial in the face of the disaster. And I’m feeling it again because of the election.

The election.

The other night, late, I had just finished reading a front page story in the NY Times about 3600 volunteers in Ohio who were going to challenge newly registered Democrats at the polls to try to discourage voting. 1600 of them would be assigned to Cuyahoga county, largely urban and ethnic. Right up front, the Republican party was saying that they were trying to win the election by depriving people of their right to vote. This seemed a just okey-dokey way to go about winning an election to them.

Then I signed onto this bulletin board, and I read the election poll that someone had put up which at the time showed 82% Kerry, 18% Bush, and I completely went off my rocker, wrote a vicious post pointed toward the 18%. A few hours later I came to my senses, was hit with a wave of remorse, and erased the post, I hope in time for only a few to have viewed it.

So here’s the thing. People are going to get hurt over this election. I’m from Ohio, and if someone challenged my right to vote at the polls, after I had gone to the trouble of registering for the first time in my life, I would, at the very least, bitch-slap them. And I am a relatively mellow, Buddhist, tropical island-living Ohioan. If I had to live in Cleveland I’d be looking for a reason to beat someone’s ass every day of the week.

So, that said, you guys don’t need me to vilify someone for his political opinion, and you certainly don’t need anyone to throw gasoline on the fire of divisiveness that’s burning out of control in this country. I figure if you’re reading this board, you like my books enough to come by here, and you enjoy a good laugh. You “get” the humor. You are probably a pretty intelligent and reasonable person. So even if you’re in the 18%, well, I’ve had my crazy moments, you are allowed yours. Or vice-versa.

I ask this, from both sides: tease, cajole, jape, jive, raze, rib, and satirize, but in the midst of practicing the fine art of fucking with each other, here and in the real world, try to do the right thing. Try to think, be perceptive, see things as they are, and do the right thing. As critical as this election is to your own life, and your own agenda, or even, as in my case, your own piece of mind, try to allow the opposition to be wrong. You’ve been wrong before – or most people have — you can allow people to be wrong. You must, in fact, allow them to be wrong and forgive them for being wrong. Because the alterative is to face a nation in which half of your countrymen are idiots. I’m not sure I can get up tomorrow and be funny if I truly believe that.

So, apologies in advance for my extended lack of humor. This may take some time to get past. In the mean time, practice your Christian forgiveness, your Buddhist tolerance, or your human compassion and give your brother’s and sisters a break. They are not the ones who are pissing you off. They are not the ones spouting the rhetoric that rings so falsely to you. They are just as clueless as you are.

As am I.

I have to go chill now. Peace.

So, in case you guys haven’t noticed, they posted a new home page for me today. Looks spiffy, I think. This one is a joint effort by some designers, the main web person at Harper Collins, Julia Bannon, and our own Ken the Web Guy, who will remain part of this whole goofy effort.

Some stuff sort of disappeared, and there is a bunch of new stuff, but I think it’s going to grow as we go along. I’m hoping that I’ll be able to get more A/V content to you guys more often with the new design. Right now there are some pretty cool video interview questions.

The good thing, is that this is a good beginning for our cult compound. I think, in addition to the tin foil hats and the swimming pool, that we should have a big water tower that says CRAZY FUCKS in big letters. Until we have the funds and influence to build the real thing, please feel free, as part of your homework, to post your Photoshopped cult compound suggestions and renderings in the Blog comments.

Drive thru please.

So, the new book will officially be out any second, or already is in some areas. My eighth book! Today I looked at them all on the shelf over there in my office, by the little altar, with the picture of me and the incense, and the sign that says, “I rule, you drool!” and I said, “How did a humble kid from the back woods of North Carolina, the son of a mill worker, who put himself through law school by shoveling coal for frail people on cold winter days – oh, wait, that’s not me?” Then I said, “Wow, I have written eight books. So I haven’t really done an honest day’s work in like fourteen years. Maybe I should get a job or something.” And as I was talking to myself, a rooster crowed outside my office.

(You see many years ago, when hurricane Iniki devastated Kauai, many chickens were released from their cages, and now, with no natural predators on the island, we have a huge population of feral chickens.)

So anyway, a rooster crowed. So I grabbed the new paint ball gun off my desk, ran outside and started blasting away, hoping to knock his middle-of-the-afternoon nuggets into the next town. I strafed the whole perimeter of the property, a line of day-glow pink spots drawing across the grass like I was perforating it so I could tear off my neighbors yard and mail it away for valuable prizes. But despite semi-automatic fire, determination, and a desperate need to be distracted from this part of the new book that I’m having trouble with, the rooster did not falter. Once out of range in the neighbors yard, he crowed once again. The bastard!

He hates my freedom. That’s what’s going on there.

I mean, I can sleep as late as I want. The book isn’t leaving without me. It will be exactly where I left it yesterday. So if I want to get up at nine, or ten, or noon, well, it just doesn’t matter. But the rooster ( I’m sure there’s one, a head rooster. A large and in charge poultry potentate, pusillanimously planning my pre-dawn perturbation.) will not let it happen.

So I have armed myself. And if the odd tool shed sports a Pollacking of pink, and if the neighbors dog heretofore known as Willy would suddenly be more appropriately named Spot, well, there is collateral damage in war. Freedom is not free, my countrymen.

And I know what it is like to run an unpopular war, believe me. Because if you think people get miffed about a rooster going off at dawn, you should hear the kind of thing they shout when you blast off a salvo of CO2-powered pellets under their bedroom window. Don’t they know that chicken carries salmonella? That’s a pathogen. Sure, the rooster might look harmless, just sort of loud and obnoxious, but have you seen what salmonella can do if it gets on your cutting board, and then on your salad? Poop out a fire hose, that’s all I’m saying.

So tomorrow, first thing, after I creep out of elephant grass in my camo-jammies, and have a cup of coffee, I’m going to throw open the fridge door and blast the shit out of the half-carton of eggs we have in there. No, they’re not roosters, but they have the materials to be roosters. Even in their little carton, all lined up like good little soldiers, I can feel them hating my freedom. And when I’m done there, I’m going over to the neighbors and having a look in their fridge.

I shall not falter, I shall not be wavier, I shall not rest until I have done every thing in my power to avoid getting on with writing this next section.

So what I’m saying is, thanks everybody for ordering the new book.

Peace. Out.

You guys know I love the new words the kids are using today. (Officially, that’s the most lame-assed middle-aged thing I have ever composed,besides “I don’t think so honey, if I take another viagra the ceiling fan is going to re-circumcise me. Sorry.) Anyway, words…

From time to time, I run across a few I’d like to work into my vocabulary, usually more for the sound than the meaning.Some of the loyal boardies have gotten me using the Tard variations(Fucktard, Botard, uptarded, and my own personal gaming alias Ubertard) to a point of nearly intolerable political incorrectness, but here’s a few I found on my one my favorite web sites, Urbandictionary.com, and below that, a list of political words that appeared in the NY Times a couple of days ago. All toward helping us achieve more colorful speech and writing.

Your homework, list your fave obscure, new, or made-up word, and really good or funny acronyms are welcome.

kthxbi shortening of “k thx bye”. The K is short for OK, which is short for oll korrect, which is a facetious alteration of All Correct. thx is short for thanx which is a facetious alteration of thanks which is short for thank you. Bye is short for goodbye, which is an alteration of alteration of God be with you. “kthxbye” is the pinnacle of English’s advancement, shortening “All correct, Thank you, God be with you.” into seven lowercase letters. Humanity is doomed. Obviously, it is used to end a conversation *fast* that you don’t want to be in anymore.

Whiny bitch: Here’s your hamburger. Anyway, as I was saying about how bad my life is…

Whiny bitch: I have no friends. Wan wan wan.

douchewaffle An offshoot of the highly popular douchebag. Use in a derogatory sense.

Literal definition: a waffle made using the contents of a douchebag.

Abstract definition: a person who has surpassed the usual level of a ‘douchebag’ and is now at a whole new level of doucheness.

After his accident, Bob Novak is officially a Douchwaffle.

Booty Chirp (noun) a chirp aimed at getting into your pants. (alt) Use of a Boost Mobile phone to call for sex.

I was madd horny so I booty chirped Jamie and told her to get her ass over heah.

fo’ shizzle my batmitzvah

what ghetto jewish kids say

jewish kid 1: what up jewish kid 2: fo’ shizzle my batmitzvah jewish kid 1: wurd dawgie

diet whoopass

A can of Whoopass with only 1 calorie per serving.

I will open a can of diet whoopass on these townies because I am watching my weight.

badonkadonk An ‘ebonic’ expression for an extremely curvaceous female behind. Women who possess this feature usually have a small waist that violently explodes into a round and juicy posterior (e.g., 34c, 24, 38). Other characteristics would be moderately wide hips and a large amount of booty cleavage (i.e, depth of butt-crack).

Her badonkadonk made a brotha pop mad wheelies

Slang Only a Velcroid Would Love By TOM KUNTZ

Actorvist A politically involved actor. (Also, raptivist, the hip-hop version.)

Bafflegab Confusing or unintelligible speech, doublespeak.

“As the parade to the rostrum continued, the bafflegab glossary expanded: Narrowing Parameters, functions of situational variables, diagnostic-planning activity, …”

The Wall Street Journal, March 14, 1967

Barking Head An aggressive or loud broadcast commentator.

Belligerati Any belligerent person or group; as a group, pro-war commentators.

Bogsat [Bunch of Guys Sitting Around a Table’ target=’_blank’> Policy or decision making by a small group of associates.

Bomfog Platitudinous political rhetoric or obfuscation. (From “brotherhood of man under the fatherhood of God,” closing line of a radio speech by John D. Rockefeller Jr., on July 8, 1941; later used as a slogan by Nelson Rockefeller.)

Cave [Citizens Against Virtually Everything.’ target=’_blank’> Persons who seem opposed to all real estate or commercial development or change. Hence Cave people, Cave dweller, Cavie.

Conchie A conscientious objector to military service. Also conshi, conshy.

“We’re ‘conshys’ too – but we don’t work at it.”

Stars & Stripes, Aug. 30, 1918

Doubledome A scholar or intellectual, esp. a highly educated person who holds impractical or unrealistic views.

“Then the doubledomes in Washington set a deadline.”

“Sayonara,” James A. Michener

Drag Influence.

“What’s your angle, Flynn? Where do you get your drag?”

“The Mob,” 1951 film

Flush-Bottom A wealthy contributor.

Globaloney An unrealistic foreign policy or global outlook.

Granfalloon Any large, amorphous organization without real identity. Coined by Kurt Vonnegut.

“Other examples of granfalloons are the Communist Party, the Daughters of the American Revolution, the General Electric Company, the International Order of Odd Fellows – and any nation, anytime, anywhere.

“Cat’s Cradle,” Kurt Vonnegut

Johnny Congress The United States Congress.

“Johnny Congress has been busily engaged for some time past in raising the pay of Naval officers.”

Gettysburg Republican Compiler, Jan. 6, 1835

Minarchist An anarchist in favor of minimal government sufficient only to protect citizen rights and provide civil defense.

“The two main divisions within the modern libertarian movement are the anarchist libertarians, who believe in no government, and the ‘monarchist’ libertarians, who believe that a shred of government is tolerable.”

The Los Angeles Times, Nov. 1, 1985

Mister Whiskers The United States government or one of its law-enforcement agencies.

Neverendum A series of referendums initiated until the desired outcome is achieved, (specif.) referendums on the status of Quebec.

Panda-hugger A specialist in American-Chinese relations said to be too accommodating to Chinese perspectives.

Politainer A politician who is an entertainer.

“Jesse Ventura and the Brave New World of Politainer Politics”

The Star Tribune, Minneapolis, May 4, 2000

Red-Headed Eskimo A precisely targeted bill, law or piece of legislation.

Sheeple Submissive citizens.

“Mrs. Anderson begins every book sale with a lecture, and in this instance she derides taxpayers in general as submissive ‘sheep people’ – or ‘sheeple’ for short.”

The Wall Street Journal, Feb. 27, 1984

Slacktivism Activism which requires little effort.

Snollygoster A shrewd, unprincipled person, esp. a politician.

“A Georgia editor kindly explains that ‘a snollygoster is a fellow who wants office, regardless of party, platform or principles, and who, whenever he wins, gets there by the sheer force of monumental talknophical assumnacy.’ ”

The Columbus Dispatch, Oct. 28, 1895

Turkey Farm A department or agency staffed with political and patronage hirees; (broadly) an underperforming office.

Twinkie Appealing but lacking substance.

“Democratic presidential hopeful Paul Tsongas told the nation’s mayors on Monday that leaders of his own party are advocating ‘Twinkie economics’ by appealing to popular tastes without offering substance.”

Associated Press, June 17, 1991

Vampire State A nation or state seen as consuming excessive resources or taxes, esp. if it delivers services poorly or suffers from chronically weak economic conditions. [Often a play on “Empire State,” a nickname for New York state.’ target=’_blank’>

Velcroid A person who seeks the company of the powerful or famous in an attempt to borrow glory by proximity. Hence velcrosis.

Zoo Plane An airplane carrying journalists accompanying a traveling politician.