Sunday, July 16, 2006

P.O.'ed and a Public Aplology

Don't be P.O.'ed...

It has come to my attention that a certain P.O. remains, ahm, P.O.'ed at me for the little Kermit song and prior post to that which depict a certain political celebrity's plastic surgery experience and that if I don't formally apologize before my arrival to Chicago next weekend, he just might not go to any trouble at all to throw my Dad a little birthday party at his house like we had originally discussed, have the pool repaired and filled and the caterers, clowns and balloons lined up by the time I get there. Since goodwill to all is the hallmark of 2Truthy's character, I am formally making this apology in order to clear the air and revive my good standing with P.O.

SO: I apologize for any perceived slight that might have caused discomfort to a certain face-lifted political celebrity and any related parties, but if it is any consolation, I just want to say one thing: face lifts usually start looking A LOT more relaxed as the months go on and I will bet that by now, M. M. is more than likely resembling the younger, youthful M.M. of her early thirties and sporting a more rested and refreshed appearance. Now, I can't really say this for sure since I have not seen any photos of her lately...I'll bet she has got to be knee deep in cow waste over the Valerie Plame fiasco and I really hope that, for her sake, she can get her ouse -spay to help her steer through it before she ends up needing another lift prematurely and is forced to have the job done by one of those third-world doctors in the slammer (OK, I'll stop here as I have to start packing for the trip).

p.s. remember to try to keep the kebobs limited to chicken and seafood as the beef ones these days are nothing more than "Mad Cow on a Stick".......t.t.

Saturday, July 15, 2006


Batter Up!

Softball anyone? Outside of the many Sox games I attended while growing up on the South Side of Chicago, I have never been a "big" fan of baseball. But I do admit that in my youth, I really enjoyed playing on the girls softball league during my summers off at the Park.  Although I wasn't very good, I will say that I was a much better pitcher than a catcher and, in particular, my left-handed curve balls were known to strike out the occasional bullies who then would proceed to sneak from the dugout to the bike rack and leak air out of my bicycle tires. I had to wonder if my coach, who looked a little like Bea Arthur, chose to ignore these pissy little antics...

How life imitates the ballpark. Or vice-versa. I must resort to the defacto weapon of choice best known to the Irish: Words. Plenty of them.

You know the ones - those corporate infielders who are rigging the game by purchasing our politicians who then sell out our country, our team. Breaking and changing the rules to suit them, these hardball right-fielders have turned the game into nothing more than stealing home plate. Period. On top of that, they actually manage to get the clueless, gum chewing, brewski bums in the bleachers to root for them instead of the home team! Whether it's Dubai or Dubya, the fact is, we need to recruit a few more heavy hitters onto the team of government; players who are actually serious about cleaning up not just the diamond but the whole ballpark. Winning back the fans. You don't have to read a copy of David Sirota's new book Hostile Takeover to figure out the RBI: that the best and brightest players rarely end up running anything in this corporate values-driven country.

So when you go to work on Monday, take a good look at your boss -- whoever it is -- vice president or president, editor in chief, CFO, wife, film director, coach, teacher or whatever - and then tell me if you don't think you could actually do a better job at running the place. Aside from the occasional boss who has it all, like say, the illustrious Arianna Huffington (I bet she makes a great boss), there are very few of them in charge with any distinguishable, admirable qualities deserving of their posts. I see it all the time out here in the foul territory of Sycophant Valley. Hacks and whores to the establishment passing off hubris and greed for "leadership".

Deplorable phantom foul balls like old H.R. Hornblower, CEO of - who honestly doesn't have a cultural bone in his body; who secretly yearns to be "hip, and cool" by imposing himself on the talented entertainment community which he knows nothing at all about and has even less to contribute to but is desperate to emulate in order to fill his exploitative, vacuous void of a poseur's life.

Ah, yes, the dog days of summer are indeed upon us and, at the top of the nineteenth inning with bases loaded and the mercy rule nowhere in site, the game will inevitably be called because of darkness.

But don't worry. The season is not over yet. And, anyway, it's only Softball.