The book of burrito

“And so it came to pass that the breakfast burrito became the dominant life-form on the planet.” –Richard Lindsay

And the breakfast burrito began to speculate as to who made the breakfast burrito.
And there were differences of opinion.
And then there were terrible breakfast burrito wars.
And breakfast burrito fought breakfast burrito.
And some breakfast burritos were more equal than other breakfast burritos, no matter what lip service they received.
And there was a breakfast burrito dark age.
And there was a breakfast burrito enlightenment.
And a lot of breakfast burritos lost faith.
And there was a breakfast burrito golden age.
And the breakfast burritos became decadent.
And thus our story opens on a world full of brazen, decadent, hedonistic breakfast burritos– in pursuit of nothing but the ultimate pleasure.
***
Two breakfast burritos sat in a dimly lit room, each filled with passions only fully felt by their kind. They were saucy. They experienced a burning within.
At last one of the burritos dared speak its mind. “I hunger.”
The other replied, “I, too, hunger, passionately.”
“What is to be done?” moaned the first.
“The solution is simple,” said the second. “We eat.”
“What is it we shall eat?” said the first.
“We shall eat each other,” said the second.
“Oh, the shame!” said the first.
“It is a necessity!” cried the second. “There is no shame in necessity!”
“How shall we proceed?” said the first.
“We shall position ourselves in such a way that we may comfortably eat each other,” said the second. “We shall lay beside each other, each facing the opposite way.”
“Not the fabled ‘11’ position?” said the first.
“The same,” said the second.
“I am afraid!” said the first.
“You are a prude,” said the second. “You act as if you have never eaten another burrito!”
“You have ruined this role-play!” said the first.
“It isn’t working for you?” said the second.
“It was, but then you ruined it,” said the first. “You had to go all metafictional.”
“I am a modern burrito,” said the second.
“I am a classic burrito,” said the first.
“You filthy, loose burrito!” shouted the second.
“On with the sex already,” said the first burrito coldly. “I have tired of this game.”
***
For millennia burritos had no individual names. Then arose a particularly kinky burrito. This burrito declared that in an age of hedonistic excess it was proper that a burrito should have a name. An individual name. A moniker. Thus he went by the name ‘William the Great.’ He also declared himself king over all burritos. This, however, was accepted by very few burritos. Those who did accept it were of a submissive nature.
William decreed that all burritos should have names. This was primarily to aid in the new practice of burritos selling other burritos into bondage. Burrito slavery.
***
“Breakfast burrito you are my brother.”
“No. I am brother to all breakfast burritos.”
“Then I am still your brother.”
“Do not labor the point.”
***
One day a breakfast burrito came home to find its love mingling with a fresher, more exotic breakfast burrito. It was the end of the perfect burrito relationship. Or the beginning.
***
“I cannot tell one breakfast burrito from another. They are all the same to me.”
“You are a racist!” replied a breakfast burrito.

“To me all breakfast burritos are equal. They are the same in the great table of the universe.”
“You are an egalitarian!” replied a breakfast burrito.
***
“Here is what we will do. We will refresh your filling. New rice and beans for old. New sauce. Not too much– not too little. Your choice of other fillings for a fee.” The burrito plastic surgeon was patient and understanding. “While we are exchanging your filling, we will refresh your flour wrapping. New skin for old.”
“But then, what will be left of me?” cried the middle aged burrito. “If you replace my inside and my outside, what is left of me?”
“That is a question for the philosophers,” said the doctor. “But if you ask me, it leaves your soul. You will be reborn. As a newer, better, fresher burrito.”
“But will it not in fact be death?” cried the patient.
“I still believe in the great burrito maker in the sky,” said the doctor. “I am old fashioned, though I know it is against the ways of science. We were made by a greater burrito. You have nothing to fear. You will be born again.”
Then the burrito doctor tore apart the other burrito and made a new burrito. He told the new burrito it was the old burrito. And the new burrito believed.
***
“Burrito,” said one burrito, “You are rolled too tightly. Let it hang out.”
***
The burrito’s best and oldest friend is the tortilla chip. Though the chip sometimes jabs holes in its burrito companion. The burrito forgives this transgression. The chip, after all, is just a simple creature possessing only the base instincts. The burrito possesses the nature of forgiveness and grace, though throughout the world this does not keep one burrito from hurting and killing another, for either ideological reasons or for sport.
***
“If a burrito had wings it could fly.”
“You are a fool. If a burrito were meant to fly, it would have wings.”
***
“Why do burritos exist?” asked the young seeker.
“To enjoy the hedonistic excesses afforded to them in the world,” replied the guru.
***
In the final burrito war, the war to end all burrito wars, hot oil was dropped on each side by the other. The burritos were flash fried. They were frozen where they stood or lay. They were crispy statues representing their civilization, culture, and technological advancements. Then the rains came. At last there was nothing left. It was as if there were never a burrito in the world. The lizards rose and they never knew of the burrito.
The burrito was forgotten. A burrito is but a momentary pleasure in the eye of the universe. This ends the lesson.

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I am both a mentalist and a juggler.
Imagine, if you will, three balls.
Now you may say, that seems like a lot of balls. That might be unwieldy.
It seems an unnatural, odd, number.
But I know no bounds and I say, instead, Imagine four balls.
And you say that now I have gone too far.
And I warn you not to interfere but observe closely.
Now you imagine them in air.
And you imagine them spiraling– in control.
And you gasp. And you are delighted.

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Perils of Free Thought , a metaphysical joke book, will be free May 8-10.

“Perils of Free Thought” is a short book filled with aphorisms, jokes, anti-jokes, philosophy, and bears.
Jokes are compact lies. But they are splendid, beautiful lies. Short stories are simple lies, and you can tell them in one sitting. Novels are long form lies. Complicated. Got to hold that lie together. Reality is just a bunch of lies in real time.

David Raffin is a Metaphysicist, Writer, & Performer. His work has been featured in the national newspaper Funny Times and praised by MaximumRock’n'Roll , among others.
Find him at http://DavidRaffin.com

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The right-wing in this country is waging a war against women and, let me be very clear, it is not a war that we are going to allow them to win. But if they do want political warfare, we must expand the field of battle, and we must be on the offensive.

Let us wage a moral and political war against the billionaires and corporate leaders, on Wall Street and elsewhere, whose policies and greed are destroying the middle class of America. Let us wage a moral and political war against the gross wealth and income inequality in America, the worst in the industrialized world, which is tearing this country and our economy apart.

Let us wage a moral and political war against a dysfunctional health care system and fight for a Medicare for all single-payer system. Let us wage a moral and political war against war itself, so that we can cut military spending and use that money for human needs.

Finally, let us understand that when we stand together, we will always win. When men and women stand together for justice, we win. When blacks, whites and Hispanics stand together for justice, we win. When straights and gays stand together for justice, we win. When young and old stand together for justice, we win. When working families stand together, we win.

– Sen. Bernie Sanders (I-Vt.) .

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http://davidraffin.com/podcast/WS/1WSLostEpisode.mp3

This is the lost episode. This was a pilot for a radio show from last year. It was taped a few weeks before the deaths of bin Laden and Gaddafi, who are figures in the episode, along with Henry Rollins. (The later half, with Rollins*, was previously released on the internet.)

http://davidraffin.com/podcast/WS/1WSLostEpisode.mp3

*Henry Rollins was not harmed in the production of this episode.

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Bob explains how to sit in a chair.

via http://angryflower.com

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Can I ask you a question? How fun is a barrel of monkeys?
Because they use it as a scale. And I need to understand the fun quotient of the monkey barrel to understand the fun scale.
And it seems the monkey barrel is rather low on this scale– since other things, of a rather wide range, are always listed as being more fun.

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Donovan performs on Conan.

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Questions about cake
from the book Rhyme or Treason by David Raffin

Why are there no funeral cakes anymore? Why is this event not commoditized by the baker’s guild?
Cake is a standard at every other event. Did bakers find it was unwelcome to price gouge on the cake served at a funeral? When funeral cake was discontinued did the price of wedding cake rise?

I understand the Amish still serve funeral cake. They are set in their ways. They still mix it by hand. They make it themselves, bypassing the commercial bakeries altogether.
Was the cake discontinued for lack of choice? Did the mourned get to choose the color, shape, and flavor—stipulating such in a will or codicil, or were these choices thrust upon the mourned by a powerful subset of the mourners? Did someone finally wise up and say, “Who died and made you God?”

Did funeral cake enter disfavor when it was linked, intrinsically, with culinary fascism? Did Mussolini have a funeral cake? Was there enough for everybody? Is that what sullied its reputation the world over?
When Marie Antoinette famously said, “Let them eat cake!” was she talking about her funeral?

My research indicates that funeral cakes may have been somewhat akin to giant cookies. Presumably because it was disrespectful to let the flour rise.

What about funeral pie?
Are cream pies somber enough? Fruit? Pecan?
What about a funeral pudding?
Funeral cotton candy? Made at the funeral in a funeral cotton candy machine?

What about fondue? Which is more appropriate? Cheese, chocolate, coconut, honey, caramel, or marshmallow? Again, who will choose?

Milton Snavely Hershey’s body was dipped in chocolate, then caramel, then rolled in coconut. However, there was no dessert served at the reception. He forgot to leave his dessert instructions.
This is not the sort of thing people like to think about. That’s why people die without wills. That’s why people die with wills but failing to stipulate their final dessert wishes.

Today if you attend a funeral and you want cake you are best advised to keep it to yourself. If you stand and say, “Hey, where’s the cake!” people will think less of you.
Do not even think of sidestepping the problem by bringing a cake to the funeral. People may cry.
You don’t want to be known as the one who ruined the funeral.

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http://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/22441-rhyme-or-treason

On Goodreads I’m giving away two paperback copies of my book Rhyme or Treason (the hard fought illusion of choice). Now through April 1.

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Goodreads Book Giveaway

Rhyme or Treason

by David Raffin

Giveaway ends April 01, 2012.

See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.

Enter to win

>

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Rhyme or Treason (the hard fought illusion of choice)

Review:
“A cross between Garrison Keillor and Salvador Dali.” (standup/interview)
- The Northwest Examiner

“Intelligent, humorous, and highly imaginative- always a pleasure to read.”
- Peter Bacho, Author “Cebu” “Dark Blue Suit”


"His perversions are oddly analytical.”
- Jodi Lamm, Author “Titan Magic”

“The amalgam of fantasy and realism, of fantastic plot turns… Certainly, David is a virtuoso at not delivering what an audience might expect. As such, he shows his remarkable skills as a satirist.”
- Sarah Ryan, Evergreen State College

“He’s not your average comedian.”
- The Daily Olympian

Product Description:
A collection of darkly humorous stories and columns. In “Twilight of the Clowns” a traditional way of life ends as clowning ceases to be a viable way of life; In “Everybody Loves a Little Elf” elves save a man’s business but create a literal stink about property rights and slave labor; In “More than One Day in the Life of Igor Igoravitch” a KGB agent is caught up in a web of intrigue that is his own creation; Australians move to take over the world with their national food, the hot dog; The web of lies in Charlotte’s Web is exposed; and the price of the simulacra in the window is finally laid bare.

From the Author:
These stories and columns originally appeared in the magazine Vision? Nary!, of which MAXIMUMROCK’N'ROLL said: “A sarcastic, funny magazine that takes it to you with humor about the general f***ed-up-ness of America- down home heartland America.”

About the Author:
David Raffin is a Metaphysicist, Writer, and Performer. He is a sometime contributor to the national newspaper Funny Times. His work ranges from short jokes and columns to stories unconventional and absurd; subject matter is wide ranging but tends toward both silly and dark. Pretty words about not so pretty things. Visit him at davidraffin.com

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1. New Anthology 2. New Rhyme or Treason

I have a story in the new anthology by Evil Jester Press, Attic Toys .
The book is a collection of dark fantasy and horror edited by Jeremy Shipp and features new work by authors such as Piers Anthony, Lisa Morton, Gary McMahon, Joe McKinney, Jeff Strand, and more.
This is Attic Toys . (Linked is the kindle edition, there will be a paperback edition soon.)

There is a new edition of my book of shorts, Rhyme or Treason .
This one is “The Revised Standard Edition.” It has a new cover, a variation of the older picture. It is available in paperback and for the kindle (or kindle application).
This new version for the kindle has better formatting and a new, working, table of contents. Both versions have new formatting, a new cover, and a handful of longstanding typographical errors have been corrected.
For those who purchased the older kindle version, Amazon is currently deciding whether to send email to previous purchasers to alert them to the change. Either way, the new version should be available to past purchasers for updating on the “manage my kindle” page within a few weeks.

Rhyme or Treason is a collection of shorts that originally ran in Vision? Nary! magazine. Some of the pieces also ran in the national newspaper Funny Times and were reprinted in other on and offline publications.
It features short stories and essays.
You should buy five copies, because that is lucky.

This is a newsletter in pdf form . It includes an essay about the Wright Brothers and some music reviews and links. You may print it and hand it out to friends and enemies alike.

Until some point in the apocalyptic future, we will always have http://vision-nary.com and http://davidraffin.com . After the apocalypse, I will meet you over by the smoke and the fire.

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These videos were shot at a Square One house show in Olympia, WA.

This is Scott Erickson . He has an album out titled “Cobwebs & Constellations.”
He may also be found at http://www.myspace.com/scottageerickson

This is Tin Tree Factory . It includes the song “Utopian Futures” and a story about the song in Sweden.
He may be found at http://www.tintreefactory.com/

This is Chelsea Baker telling a story about a fetishist. And a dog park.
She may be found at http://chelseathebaker.com

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http://davidraffin.com/podcast/Royal/1-31-2012_RealityHug.mp3

Small crowd. I talk of love in the night.

[Download ]

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I am a scientist.
After college I went with a roommate to the cut rate grocery and bought some cheap wine. We had decided, looking around at the world and noticing the glamour and high esteem society heaps upon its career alcoholics, that we would become winos. Sometimes people do this during college, but I waited until after. Because I am a very methodical scientist.
We opened that wine, with some difficulty, and the cork fell apart. We poured the wine into glasses. We fished out the bits of cork. Science has proved this: cork is a poor stopper for drink. Also cork is not appetizing or visually pleasing. I read later that the quality of cork has been dropping for years. Some say cork connoisseurs are just looking back fondly to the cork of their salad years.
We stared at the wine and the cork. We tasted it. And then we poured it all down the sink. The experiment had failed. Back to the cork-board.

Generations ago people used to drink ale and cider all the time because the water was unsafe. It was either be a drunk or get typhus. Even the children. Especially the children. They can’t hold their liquor or effectively fight off typhus. So people were sloshed all the time. And this is why we had to wait until the twentieth century to destroy the ozone layer. We could have done that a long time ago, had we the clear headedness required.
People also didn’t like to bathe back then. Not because of the typhus water, but because of the dangers of bathing whilst drunk. It is entirely possible for drunk people to drown in the bath. And if they didn’t drown they might have caught typhus. Especially if they knew a woman named Mary– and back then most women were named Mary. Drunks tend to come up with simple and easy to remember names.
Eventually people switched to coffee, which also tastes awful, and as a result, as I said, destroyed the ozone layer. They also developed a lot of disposable products. They became very productive. They did a lot. Even things that didn’t need done. Because doing things that don’t need done is still doing something, and that’s certainly better than doing nothing. And profitable. Do not think we destroyed the ozone layer for nothing. We did it for profit and convenience.

Our society both hates alcoholics and idolizes them. They make you want to be one, if for no other reason than to stop being one; thus becoming a recovered alcoholic. So if you’re a drunk the world is yours. And if that doesn’t work you can be a recovered alcoholic. Then the world can be yours. By the way, they remind you that a recovered alcoholic is still an alcoholic, so they are all still in the same club. And like all clubs they are exclusionary. People only form clubs so they can exclude others.
If you don’t drink at all you aren’t applying yourself. And no one can help you if you don’t help yourself to a drink. A nondrinker is called a teetotaler, which sounds just awful. An alcoholic is called a social drinker. See how it works? If you don’t drink you’re anti-social.
I have noticed that whether society lauds or damns the alcoholic seems to be dependent on the financial standing of the drunk in question. A rich drunk is classy. A poor drunk is unseemly. But this is class war and to say this opens one up to accusations of the same.

Now, it’s possible that the cork is becoming sub-standard because of global warming. And, as I have explained, global warming is happening because of increased sobriety. And we need increased sobriety because it helps science. And without science we are lost. We’ll tumble into a new dark age– and it will be unsustainable because of the cork problem.
And if we run out of cork we will never be able to stop our wine in the traditional way. But maybe that will save us.

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The library of Alexandria was burnt. Like many early libraries, it was made of gingerbread; which only seems like a good idea until the patrons start eating it.

Later libraries were built of brick. That material solves both of the above problems and also stands up against wolf attack. This explains why wolves today are illiterate.

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http://davidraffin.com/podcast/Royal/1-24-2012_Cruel%20Beauty.mp3

A small crowd, ensconced in darkness.

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My friend Rick has it stipulated in his will that, upon his death, he will be stuffed and then passed on to me so that I may utilize him as a conversation piece.
It is sad that he had to put this in his will, just because his wife can’t be trusted to honor his wishes.
Women.

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by David Raffin

Mitt Romney ate a puppy. Now they will all feel they have to do it. I hate politics.

Just a few years ago no one would ever think eating a puppy would gain votes. In fact, political advisors would have argued against it. Now it will become the norm. A year from now a candidate down in the polls will ask his advisor if he should eat a puppy. The advisor will say, “Just one?” Just one will be nothing. It will be seen as pandering and nothing more. I don’t even pretend to know what they will stoop to next year, let alone the year after.

By that time we will be talking of hunting zombies. And erecting zombie proof fencing. And how we, or rather the other side, have coddled zombies for too damn long. And how the other side is just a bunch of zombie enablers.

When zombies are the 99% they will eat the rich. This is the good thing about the zombie uprising, if you are of the correct political bent– and willing to look on the sunny side of life, vis-a-vi zombies.
You must admire zombies. They just keep plodding forward. They are goal oriented. They have but one thing on their minds.
They cooperate pretty well together, for being essentially selfish. But they have the same goals, a commonality, and I think we can all agree that is what works for them.
Zombies are green. They eat free range. However, they are not willing to pay extra for it.

Of course they will eat the rich. They just won’t eat them first. The rich are best served as a desert. They are for eating last.
First it’s the poor. The slow. Teenagers having sex, perhaps. The easy pickings. A nibble here and there. Appetizers is what they are. And the zombie legions grow.
Then the rich, like cake. What a zombie craves. People who can afford a gym membership and adequate healthcare. Lean and delicious.
They’ll try to buy their way out, the rich. That’s what they understand. That’s the way they think. But the zombies just want sustenance. Money is useless to a zombie. You can’t buy a rich man’s kidney, after all; you have to tear it from his flailing body, as he screams, “Don’t eat me! Don’t make me like one of you!” Because that is his greatest fear. That and higher taxes on the top 1%. Zombies and higher taxes on the wealthy. These are the things of fear.

And that’s clearly the way they want to go, the rich, torn apart and eaten by zombie hordes. Otherwise they would have done a little something to help stop the zombie plague at the beginning. But they didn’t. So, ultimately, they will be eaten.
They are fools, and I pity them.

I learned everything I know about pitying fools from Mr. T.
Because Mr. T is surrounded by fools and he pities them. As do I.
He says, “I am surrounded by fools!” and then he turns melancholic and says, with less bravado and a touch of, yes, pity, “And I pity them.”
The thing about Mr. T is that he is so filled with anger it only registers as love. That’s his magic.
Of course, I pity the fool who doesn’t eat Mr. T cereal. And since that hasn’t been manufactured in 20 years, that’s pretty much all of us.
Then again, I think that only applies to those of us who are fools. Or zombies, who don’t eat cereal. Fools. That diet cannot be healthy. And it has moral issues.

I am always a bit flummoxed about whether it’s “pity the fools” or “pity the fool.”
Just one particular fool causing all this strife for Mr. T. So I guess I’ve really learned nothing from Mr. T. And that is some Socratic wisdom. Which is something.

In the coming apocalypse, when the zombies arise, when civilization falls, when the power grid is decimated, It is the lack of clean clothes and the indignity of washing dishes by hand that I shall most regret.
Who am I kidding? I shall not wash dishes as I travel nomadically and I shall always wear new clothes pilfered from shopping centers. Though I will have to fight zombies while shopping, I mean stealing. I argue this is a crime of survival. I know there will be some survivors who demand that a capitalistic ethic must be adhered to even after the zombies rise. To them I say, “There is almost no difference between you and a zombie.”
Besides, I think those people will be trying to sell me something. There is nothing worse than a post-apocalyptic salesman. They’re worse than any zombie. The high pressure. The false appeal to desire. The zombies just want to kill you, and I find that refreshingly honest.
In the absence of Mr.T Cereal, you can still eat cereal shaped like cookies, donuts, and fruity pebbles. That’s cereal shaped like prehistoric colored rocks. But it tastes like sugar and artificial color. Green jellybeans actually taste green. That’s the wonder of food science.
Artificial flavorings taste like chemicals. There should be only one, and it should be called, simply, “artificial flavoring (nonspecific).”
I think processed foods are going to turn us into zombies.

You’re better off eating the rich. Think of it as a preemptive strike.

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My dear friend Morgan Picton has this legitimate concern vis-a-vis imaginary girlfriends:

I’m secretly in love with an unmanagable number of people. Five to seven secret breakups and we should be back to peak efficiency.

I may add, myself, that I have but two women I am secretly in love with.
I just hope to god they don’t find out about each other. That could be problematic.

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Where is the best place to have an aural migraine? The library.

An aural migraine, also known by the unwieldy phrase “migraine aura without headache,” is a disruption in vision featuring blind spots, wavy lines, dizziness, etc.

When people are having one for the first time, they sometimes think they are having a stroke.

The best place to have one is when selecting books in a public place. This way you can try to select books while simultaneously being able to see and not see and also feeling like you may fall down.

But you have to stay there until it passes because you can’t drive.

The Friday parking space show-down.

Friday evening I attempted, and succeeded, to park on the street near the new country and western nightclub.

I pulled up to back into the parking spot and used my signal. Then, quickly, a huge pickup truck positioned itself directly behind me– effectively blocking my access to the parking spot. I rolled down the window and motioned him around the deserted street (but for parked cars). He honked three times long and loud. I pointed –over the car– at the parking space he was blocking and motioned him around. He leaned on his horn again.

I sat there. I have all night. I do not bend. I fought a free speech fight and had my artistic work protested by morons. I’ve had a gun aimed at my head. I have no fear of rednecks in pickup trucks.

After several minutes and more honking he roared around me, almost side-swiping me (on the deserted street, save for parked cars). I parked.
(See also, Hawnk! )

When it snows outside, I am the month of May.

I went out to see the Greta Jane Quartet and stayed until they took their first break. The street snow was at the level of slush.

I went to the grocery store to stock up on potatoes and onions for the snowstorm. All the people were being funnelled into the same checkout lane. I stood with the 20 pounds of potatoes (15 Russet, 5 red) and a bag of onions because I am too manly to use a basket. And I held it shifted to one side, the side that did not collide with a car last summer.

The man and woman in front of me were buying three large bottles of juice drink (10% juice), a jug of water, a pack of donuts, and a container of ice cream. They were examining the ice cream and discussing the calorie count.

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by David Raffin

I struggle with how to describe our processes to the inevitable alien visitors. Someday you’ll be happy I put the time in. So far I have come up with: “The tears of children are used to lubricate the machinery.” I think this will work as a universal statement.

If I then have to explain the Republican party primary system, I’m going with: “The Republican primaries are essentially a popularity contest for unpopular ideas.” They could say any crazy thing. We have developed a system where crazy sells. We enjoy entertainment.

There will be a jobs plan. It will involve setting up factories on one side of the nation that manufacture mirrors. On the other side of the country factories will be built that manufacture smoke. We already have the smoke factories, so really what will be proposed is a system of incentives wherein private businesses will be encouraged to manufacture mirrors by eliminating all corporate taxes on companies that make mirrors or reflective objects and also paying out to them a refund on the taxes they do not pay. It will also be alright if they set up their factories overseas. In fact, it will be encouraged. That way, we like to think we are encouraging others to take a good hard look at themselves. It goes without saying that all clean air regulation will be repealed, lest we not have enough smoke to reflect on domestic mirrors.

Think of the hopeful candidates, each one, as one half of a two man comedy team. In the end the winner will choose a running mate, who will be carefully chosen for his or her qualities. It will likely be one of the other primary hopefuls. However, one serious problem that has developed in the system, as it has broken down over time, is that all the candidates want to be the straight man on the team. No one wants to be the comedian. Every one of them loudly proclaims, “I’m the straight man!” “Vote for me, “I’m the straight man!” Every time one of them proclaims this the others clamor in, “You can’t be the straight man! I’m the straight man.” They say it with all seriousness. They insist on it. They do their best to play it straight. In groups, each starts his presentation by saying, “Speaking as the straight man here…” Each just desperate to be the straight man. This mixture of surety and desperation is an inadvertent comedy. It has to be. True comedians, employing wit, have not been allowed to campaign in generations. They can’t get past the primary system. That is what the system is for– weeding out non-straight men.

Straight lines, in isolation, are often aggravating to listen to because they make no damn sense, have no real payoff. That is why candidate speeches have many of the qualities of a joke, yet people do not often laugh.
Newt Gingrich is nostalgic for child labor, on the record, and also he loves trains. And tying women in distress to the railroad tracks. He promises, if elected, he will grow a thin mustache he can twirl. It is important to point out that he is not joking.

Each candidate reveres the cartoon figure of Ronald Reagan and acts accordingly. First, they give honors to the name of Ronald Reagan. Secondly, they try to conduct themselves as they picture his cartoon image behaving. The best thing about Ron Paul is when he chases a roadrunner off a cliff and then stands there, in mid air, his legs spinning in place, not falling, until he looks down. Then he plummets.
The candidates take turns running into a painting of a tunnel on the side of a stone mountain. If they fall down that’s slapstick, they are disqualified. They say Reagan could have done it. This is true. Unfortunately, successfully running into stone walls at full speed was his only skill.

Rick Santorum said, “Number one, graduate from high school. Number two, get married. Before you have children. What does that mean to a society if everybody did that? What that would mean is that poverty would be no more.” Because no one with a high school diploma and a family is wanting for a job. He is a master magician. His big finish is when he saws a poor person in half. He says he’s creating employment opportunities that didn’t exist prior to his act. He’s a job creator. And he goes through so many. “People die in America because people die in America,” Santorum said. “And people make poor decisions with respect to their health and their healthcare.” Like voting Republican.

I’ve checked the closet of each candidate. They are filled with corpses. I have come too early.

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by David Raffin

A sign advertises, “Free Hugs.” It is a protest over the commercialization of hugs.

The dirty secret is – When you sell hugs you become… a capitalist.
There is a question about whether you want a hug from someone “just giving it away.” I mean, maybe it’s not a very good hug. If they have to give it away.
The price of hugs is variable on the market, it fluctuates. Some people make a killing on hugs. Some lose everything.
There is an inequity, an imbalance in the distribution of hugs. Some people get much more than others. They tend to go to the ones who can pay for them. A wealthy man receives, and is offered, more hugs than a poor man. For generations people have not challenged this unequal distribution. It is taken as a part of the natural order.

The secret of capitalism is that hugs cost as much as you are willing to pay, whatever the market will bear.
One day, as a result of a hug, you could lose your shirt.
If you need a hug you will be charged more for it. Some people think that is wrong but it is just business.
The price of foreign hugs are driven up by travel costs and desire.
Sometimes there are two for one deals– these are a rip off– the price of the paid hug is raised to offset the supposed freebie.

Often free hugs are not really free, but a system to sell you something else; a sales gimmick. This trickery hurts consumer confidence.
And a free hug is dependent on someone being willing to accept it. Which is hard, because people are suspicious when it comes to free hugs. They want to know what it means. Especially men.

People who run around hugging everyone cheapen the whole affair.
Millionaires can buy all the hugs they want. This does not exhaust the supply but only serves to drive the price up so the poor can no longer afford it, or forces them to sell. That’s how people start selling hugs. It’s ugly when you examine it.

Like this:
One millionaire buys a painting for 5.2 million dollars, from another millionaire. The artist starved to death. It is a still life.
One millionaire. Two millionaires. Three millionaires. A gated community. Job creation.
Millionaire food is the worst. Purina makes it, it tastes awful. But it’s very expensive. That is what makes it so desirable.
I kid the millionaires, sitting there, eating that terrible millionaire food, wondering how they got themselves in such an odd predicament. I mean, they have to buy hugs. And they always wonder about that. Is a bought hug real? Or just commerce?

When the aliens land I have prepared the following explanation: “We have found evil to be an extremely profitable philosophy. We hope you are kinder than we have been.”
Then I will offer them a free hug, and I will stab them in the back.

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When Rick Santorum’s great, great grandfather went through Ellis Island, the guy who interviewed him asked his name.
“Smyth,” he said.
“No,” said the immigration man. “Henceforth, your new American name shall be SANTORUM!”
“But why?” asked the distraught ex-Smyth.
“Because I hate immigrants,” said the immigration man. “You people are ruining this country. With an odious name like Santorum, your great, great grandchildren will never be elected president.”

Today, Santorum dribbles in from behind.
If you can’t beat ‘em, Santorum.

If elected, Rick Santorum promises swift action on the “Santorum problem .”

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I got a haircut. I looked at it in the mirror, and it looks nothing like Hitler’s. That’s the mark of a good haircut.
There was a guy in the town I grew up in who always looked like Hitler. Charitably*, I blamed the haircut. Why he grew the mustache– that is a conundrum.

*I suppose this was not so charitable toward whoever cut his hair. Then again, that person was probably a Nazi.

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