The Crank

The GOP: Snatching Defeat from the Jaws of Victory

The Crank

I got an email today from Reince Preibus, or whatever the F his name is, the head of the GOP. It seems that they now want to hear from the average Republicans—you know, people with real jobs—about how they can improve the party’s platform. I will now relate to youse’ my rather Cranky reply:

Dear Reince (or whatthefuckevergetarealnameplease),

1. To start with, please stop all Republican elected officials from ever, EVER making any statement related to the goings-on inside a woman’s manufacturing area type parts. EVER. No one from our party really knows just what-a-goes on in thar’ anyway, so it’s better we just left it be. The good Lord’s doin’ just fine without our input, no need to go fuckin’ everythin’ up, so to speak. I think you should make it real painful for any politician who strays from this rule, like maybe a six million dollar fine. And maybe throw in some waterboarding, first offense. This is a game I like to call ‘Stop the Bleeding’.

2. Every time an old white Republican man goes in front of a camera, make sure there is a Hispanic, a black person, an Asian-American, some young women and a Native American standing to his sides. This will go a long way to countering the grey-pasty-white-wrinkly-effect (GPWWE) we seem to have on our viewers. As yet there is no camera filter on Earth that can combat this, but NASA is working furiously on this very issue.

3. Similarly, please do not schedule group shots of old white Repubs. This will look more like a zombie attack or a Rolling Stones concert than anything political. We don’t want to scare the populace any more than we already have, especially the ones on bath salts.

4. Please leave out references to anything related to the following terms: marriage, sexual preference, borders-fences, and killing babies. These terms cause an immediate and forceful shutdown of any audience’s give a fuck levels. While we all may believe strongly in one or another of these, we live in different times now. Baby-killin’, carpet-munch’n, crotch-likkin’, butt fucking, fudge-pakin’, fence jumpers are more welcome here than we are. Besides, most of these themes can now be found in video games and our junior high curriculums. We must adjust to modern times, even if it does mean the end of the world as we knew it…not to mention God’s eternal damnation of all mankind. And please don’t finish a diatribe with the words, “And how’d that work out fer’ Gomorrah?” On a related note, I did really enjoy the movie Godzilla vs. Gomorrah. Sorry, I think it’s Godzilla appreciation month here at the Discord. At least I hope so, otherwise I’m starting to worry about this bunch.

5. If you are running for any office and you are in the middle of an endless desert, one thousand miles from anywhere, and you want to speak frankly about something to someone you trust, don’t bother. Even the vultures circling above your heads have Iphonea and they’re recording your every word for YouTube, aka, remain in character at all times, 24-7. Don’t even talk in your sleep.

6. The following terms are our only concern now: debt, deficit, entitlements, immigration reform and tax reform. Stick with the fucking message people, this aint rocket science. We need to blanket the whole news cycle with printouts showing the actual demise timeline of Medicare and Social Security, telling everyone that ‘they’ are actually going to throw grandma off a cliff when it all goes belly-up. We want to save at least most of it, or the parts of grandma that don’t annoy the shit out me.

7. Do not forget, our party, along with libertarians, is the only people that take into consideration human nature when trying to resolve a problem. Them other folks are all ‘Star Trek’ about things, living in their own fantasy world, where people don’t move to avoid taxes, where business owners care more for them that making a profit, where China and India are not part of the whole ‘climate change’ thing, and where Government knows best. You know… la-la land.

8. Engage a commission that gets paid, well paid, to search out media bullshit and bring it out immediately, forcefully and non stop. We need Fox times three. That should shut them up, or kill them, one or the other (see Scanners).

9. The next Repub candidate for Prez and VP WILL be a Hispanic and a woman, or STFU.

10. No more primaries. They killed us. Do a deal like we used to—nominees decided in a cigar smoke filled, darkened room…the ones with glasses of brandy and stacks of cash all rubber-banded together in little brown paper bags. You know, like how they pick the Pope.

A Realistic Crank

Cranky Predictions for 2013

The Crank

2012 is over, thank the Lord. Every year for the past five, I thought the next year just HAD to be better. How did that work out? Not so good. I sincerely hope this year will actually be better than the last, but ah-aint-a-holdin-mah-breth. Here are my predictions for 2013, which has implications for the global economy, rock & roll, and comedy bloggers everywhere.

The Rolling Stones:

They will all die onstage amidst their latest tour, but the show will go on anyway. Keith Richards will later be revived and, in his current disguise, will be the only one to survive the upcoming zombie apocalypse.

Ozzy Osborne:

He will put out a Polish wedding dance music album called Goin’ Off The Rails On A Nagel Train. I am 100% certain of this, but there are several title variations are possible…Roll out the War Pigs?

John Boehner:

Boehner’s home town will unveil a bronze statue of him, but no one will be able to tell them apart.

Harry Reid:

He will resign as Senate Leader after being asked to actually accomplish something. Then we will discover he’s had Alzheimer’s and has been living throughout his tenor under the volcano at the Mirage. The reason none of the 190 some-odd-bills sent from the house were voted on was because he couldn’t remember where he put them.

Chris Christie:

Unfortunately, New Jersey’s Governor will be the subject of an intervention when the New Jersey State Police find him at 3AM, drunk and naked, trying to break into a Krispy Kreme factory “to ride the glaze machine.”

Hugo Chavez:

The Venezuelan leader will die of cancer and Sean Penn will be elected the new President of Venezuela.


Hockey will resume but no one will notice—even some of the players, especially those with multiple concussions.

Barack Obama:

He will approve the oil pipeline, but only if it goes through Venezuela so we can pay them and Canada for the oil. When it’s done, he will veto the purchase of any of the said oil because he doesn’t want to risk polluting the Gulf of Mexico as it’s shipped back. Liberals will later hail this as a “major victory for the environment.”

Kim Kardashian:

She is pregnant and her ass will get so big it will be named the Eighth Wonder of the World by Guinness Book of Records.

Our Budget:

No budget will be passed this year, mainly because it’s been so long since we’ve had one no one really remembers how to do it. Oh, and we will go over the fiscal cliff eventually, only to find it was only a three foot drop.

The Congress:

They will find out the hard way that trying to take guns away from people with guns may be “problematic.”

The mentally ill:

They will protest that the terrible shootings are blamed on guns instead of the plight of inadequate care of the mentally ill. The media will call them crazy, as it’s obviously the gun’s fault.

The Department Of Justice:

They will charge RGIII with treason.

Sly Stallone and Arnold Schwarzenegger:

This duo will make one more action/adventure film about old men fighting for freedom. It’s going to be called What did you say? Heh?? They will then start a garage band called Sly and the Family Schwarzenegger, which will never make it out of the garage.

Piers Morgan:

He will spend the rest of his life inside Heathrow Airport when he gets deported from America, but England refuses him entry.
The Queen later said, “It took 40 years to get rid of him, you keep him.”


Progressives will come to the realization that people with differing views DO need to be respected. They will then shake their heads and say, “No, that can’t be right.” They will giggle, make a ‘pppfff’ sound and say, “Never mind.”

The U.S.:

Will finally accept Sharia Law and all the liberal women will say, “Wait…what?”
We will import “The Liverpool Plan” from the U.K.’s healthcare system, for its managed euthanasia plan for the elderly and the terminally ill. The Older Dems who made fun of “death panels” will say, “Wait…what?” But they will enjoy the surplus of Soylent Green.
We will mint four one-trillion dollar coins so Obama doesn’t have to negotiate the debt ceiling. When the dollar becomes worthless and our debt is downgraded to junk bond status, rich Dems will say, “Wait…what?”


The NFL will make all player-to-player contact illegal, leaving the defense left just yelling “no, please…stop” and waving their hands at oncoming players. Gays will then embrace football like never before.


A contest will be announced looking for the “girl with the biggest breasts in the world.” The winner will then be immediately hired by either Fox News or the Daily Discord.

Catitude: The Cat’s Domestication of Mankind

The Crank

I have cats, two. One is a fat old, crotchety female. The other, male, is a one-year-old walking bag of shedding-fur. I like cats, for one main reason: Steven Hawking couldn’t find the infinitesimal shit they give about anything. I love that. If I wanted some smelly drooly stupid animal to act as if it were a new appendage, I would get a dog. Dogs are for people who need that unconditional love. It’s like living with a two year old for twenty years. No thanx. Bad enough I have to deal with Zano visiting now and again.

Leave cats a box of sand, a bowl of water, a bowl of food, and they couldn’t care less where you are. You go away for three days and you come back and they still insist on an appointment to see them. Upon returning from vacation, my wife goes straight to the female’s favorite room when we get home. Then some time later she will emerge and announce, “The cat will see you now.” The old adage is true: dogs have masters, cats have staff.

These are my fourth and fifth cats, respectively. The only problem I see with cats is their friggin’ tiny lifespan. It’s getting harder to let them go. But for every one that passes, another one needs rescuing—to live a fat-assed Crank-lifestyle. My cats live good, too good. Many times I could swear I heard the theme from The Godfather when I would approach the female. She would be sitting there, looking like a large black furry turkey on Thanksgiving, always sarcastically purring, “Why come to me? What have I done to deserve such generosity?”

Many years ago we had a vet who espoused the use of a specific brand of food, which we adhered to religiously. We found out too late, how the cats expand on this stuff. It was like industrial strength Miracle-Gro-Nip. My other cats got so big, passing Bobcats were like, WTF? We keep them inside now. The bobcats, that is, they’re too scared of our cats in the yard. I had a salesman in the house once and my last cat, DJ, jumped up on the counter next to him. I thought he was gonna shit his pants. He asked what it was. I said, “just my cat.” He said it was a beast, unlike any cat he had ever seen. My cats also have a filtered flowing fresh water system, courtesy of my wife. Only the best for my fat-assed little friends.

Finding A Friend:

The way you meet your furbag may differ, but all of mine have been rescues. Some from the local pound and others find you. Many years ago, my son, then about nine, found a box of kittens in the woods. He came home with them and dumped them on the lounge I was on at the time. Four of them cried and sat, but one snuck his way up my leg, inserting micro-mini claws into my flesh along the way, finally circling himself on my shoulder and went to sleep. “Oh well,” I said, “I guess this one’s mine.” That was Bullitt. Little did I know that as he grew, and GREW, he would attempt to reunite with his favorite spot every evening. The problem being, now I had a three-foot long, fifteen pound cat on my chest. He made watching TV almost impossible. My wife’s longtime friend, Night, came to her from the pound, DJ from a litter of kittens from a relative, and our latest cat-ditions, Beeoch and Cannolli, also came from the pound.


The female is named something we never call her, some French name, Minette. My wife will use it occasionally. The cat ignores it. I call her Beeoch.. She will actually answer to this. She especially likes it when I belch her name…the cat, not my wife. My wife hates it when I belch, Beeoch. Sorry, but it’s like the perfect word to belch. Try it now. You will never belch another word again. Warm soda will help with this procedure.

The thing about Beeoch, she may be old but she remains incredibly powerful. She is Polydactyl, having like 14 front claws, some of which have no ‘fingers’ to retract into. So they are out at all times, making her sound like she’s wearing heels on tile. Just try to trim her nails. She will actually take the pose of a mini rhinoceros, head down, front legs bowed, snorting, while trying to knock your head off your neck. She makes frightening noises too. She is not above peeing on you if she is mad enough, so large towels are in order at trim time. Like Civil War surgeons, who got very quick at no anesthesia amputations, you get rather fast at nail trimming…especially, when it’s like trying to trim Linda Blair’s nails during the Exorcist.

She is also frightening when her ‘friend’ comes to see her. A neighborhood feline stops by nightly to piss her off by spraying the rock outside the back door while she is looking right at her. The sounds the Beeoch makes are absolutely otherworldly. I want to let her out just once, so I can see the other cat’s face, as she noticed Beeoch an inch from her face in full mini-rhino form. After the visitor shits her brains out, she would likely try running as Beeoch kicks her ass. My wife won’t let me, but agrees it would be fun. One day, perhaps…..I think my wife has that conference coming up. Hmmm.

When she wants me to pet her, she will come up to the arm on my chair, and alternately stare at me and the remote on my lap, until I move it out of her way. Even then, I only get her ass. She faces away so I can scratch her back. True Catitude.


The other cat is named after the popular Italian pastry. Why, you may ask? Well, the first time I picked him up at the shelter, he turned upside down in my hands and looked just like a cannoli, albeit a furry one. His coloring is toasty in the middle with white ends. He is long-haired, and almost too cute to be a male. I had just lost DJ and needed a new furball-hocking fur-shedding friend. Besides, he was gonna get wacked, so he came home with us. I thought it was cute the way he would come to me and lick my hand when I went to pet him. He would jump on the chair behind my wife and start to lick her hair. “Oh, isn’t that cute.” As time went by we realized he had a ‘licking’ thing. Totally uncontrollable. My wife won’t let him near her unless he stops it. I thought it was no big thing until one night, as I sat on my chair shirtless, he jumped up and started licking my chest hair. I grabbed his little face in my hands, gently closing his mouth, and said, “Do you need therapy?” His answer was to force his little tongue out from between his clenched teeth, extend it WAY over to the side, and lick my hand.

Eventually he moved onto other obsessive-compulsive cat-type behavior (OCCTB—there, I beat you to it, Mik). Like sharpening his claws on everything EXCEPT the expensive deluxe rope-covered carpeted base scratching post I bought. Luckily, he is terminally cute. He’s like the male model that can’t go by a window without looking at his reflection. So he’s really a Narcissistic, OCD Italian-pastry looking cat. Okay, I could use a little help with that acronym, Mick. I’d have to take an extra ADHD med to figure that one out.


Some cats make great pest control. As we have no rodent issues, little Cannoli has taken to making it his life’s work to rid my abode of all forms of tiny livestock. Mainly crickets. We had an issue last year where they were coming in to cool off when the ambient summer temperatures reached “melt” levels. They came from under the stove, which was also a great 50s sci-fi movie. After lights out, it was Cat Rodeo time. He would sit at the entrance to the kitchen in the dark and spring into action when he saw one. Crunch-belch-next. We no longer seem to have a problem with crickets. He also doesn’t seem to eat a lot of kibble that time of year. I would awake and walk in to see him on the kitchen floor, upside down, spread eagle, fast asleep, tongue hanging out—just like me thanksgiving evening.

Cats have another use in the desert. They seem to be immune to scorpions. Beeoch found one to play with one evening. As I watched her on a corner in the dark, I was concerned because, well, the fact is that Beeoch just doesn’t play. She sits eats, shits, pees, and sleeps, so this was aberrant behavior. So, as I got up and turned on the light, she came sauntering over to me holding up a front paw. At the end of one of her polydactyl claws she had centrally-impaled a small scorpion. She gave me the please-remove-this-fucking-thing, post-haste, as-I-am-no-longer-amused look.


Give a cat what it wants to eat. Try a few things. You’ll know which one it prefers. Namely, the one it doesn’t puke up on the carpet. When it’s all gone in a few seconds, that’s the one. The cool thing with cats is this: give a dog some cheap-assed dog food one evening. The dog will eat it, thinking, wow, what did I do wrong this time? It will look at you as it eats the food, the whole time feeling like it fucked up, big-time. Put cheap assed cat food in your cats dish one night and this is what you will see. The cat will walk over to the dish, look down, then look back up at you with a what-the-FUCK-is-this-shit-supposed-to-be? look. A look like you would get from a fat-assed boss sitting at his big desk while looking over your last report with his half-glasses hanging near the end of his nose. Yeah, that look. Total disdain. The cat will then go in front of it and flick her back paws as if she is trying to bury it, like she would do with any turd. You will feel totally beaten, as you should. Some cats eat table scraps, but I do not recommend it. Not only because it may not be the healthiest thing for them, but, if they don’t like the food, they just may let you know. Night did this one evening when he sniffed the scraps, then unceremoniously started to try to bury it. I laughed…er, until I saw the look on my wife’s face.


Cats do communicate with each other on a whole different level than humans. They seem to do it without making a sound. I have watched this phenomenon many times. My last cat DJ, as a youngster, loved to play hockey with milk bottle tops. When he couldn’t find any about, he knew where they were, in the recycle bin in the pantry cabinet. He also knew he never mastered the “open the cabinet door” thing. BUT, he also knew who had, my wife’s long time friend Night. Night, then pretty old, spent most of his life snoozing on our bed and avoiding me like the plague. There was just something about me that seemed to piss him off.

DJ would go to the cabinet door and see it was closed. He would then go down the hall, to the master bedroom. Once there, he would jump up on the bed and wake Night with a nudge. Without saying a word, he and Night would jump off the bed and go to the kitchen. DJ would sit and watch as Night shifted upside down under the edge of the door and with a flick of his paw, presto! Open! I would then see cat-ass as DJ dug for his treasure. Night, his work now done, would saunter back to bed. Next would be cat face with bottle top attached and then finally a hall hockey game would break out. If I threw one down the hall, DJ would actually fetch it and return it to the side of the couch where I was reclined. Weird dog-like behavior for a cat, but amusing.


Buy a Schticky. Buy a good comb/brush, and use it at least weekly. Get a big fucking litter box. Do not ever run out of litter. Ever. This goes for hairball formula and food, too. If you have ever heard one cough up a ball, it sounds like an old man who has been smoking Camels for 50 years, working up his morning lugee. Oh, and it’s called FUR-niture for a reason, don’t fight it, Schticky it. No cheap vacuums either. Cat hair eats vacuums as snacks.

Cats have improved the quality of life for me. I wouldn’t change any of it. I am convinced they help lower my blood pressure. When they seek you out, and fall asleep in your arms, it’s because they genuinely like you and trust you. It’s not because they ‘need’ you. They have their own little personalities. DJ would greet me every day by jumping up on the kitchen breakfast bar when I got home so he could greet me at my height, and would touch his forehead to mine, as equals. You do move on, but you never ever forget. If what they say about the Rainbow Bridge is true, my time there will be quite crowded.


Remembering Night, Bullitt, and DJ, and enjoying Beeoch and Cannoli

Plight of the Phoenix: How I Stopped Worrying About On-Coming Traffic and Learned to Love the Valley

The Crank

Here are some of the dos and don’ts when driving around the Phoenix area:

1. First, learn to pronounce the city name properly; it’s FEE-NICKS. There are other names to learn such as Awatukee (Ah-wa-Too-Kee) but that will be included in the advanced (Core-ss).

2. The morning rush hour is from 5:00 am to noon. The evening rush hour is from noon to 7:00 pm. Friday’s rush hour starts on Thursday morning.

3. The minimum acceptable speed on most freeways is 85 mph. On Loop 101, your speed is expected to at least match the highway number. Anything less is considered ‘Wussy’.

4. Cars/trucks with the loudest muffler go first at a four-way stop; the trucks with the biggest tires go second. However, in the East Valley, SUV-driving, cell phone-talking moms ALWAYS have the right of way.

5. If you actually stop at a yellow light, you will be rear-ended, cussed out, and possibly shot (first offense). Thankfully, recidivism is low.

6. Never honk at anyone. Ever. Seriously. EVER.

7. Road construction is permanent and continuous in Phoenix. Detour barrels are moved around in the dead of night purely for entertainment purposes.

8. Watch carefully for road hazards such as drunks, skunks, dogs, barrels, cones, cows, horses, cats, mattresses, shredded tires, squirrels, rabbits, crows, vultures, javelinas, roadrunners, and the coyotes feeding on people who mistakenly honked.

9. If someone actually has his/her turn signal on, wave him or her to the shoulder immediately to let them know it has been ‘accidentally activated.’

10. If you are in the left lane and only driving 70 in a 55-65 mph zone, you are considered a road hazard and will be ‘flipped off’ accordingly. If you return the flip, refer to rule #6 on honking.

You Bastards! You Blew It All to Hell!

You Bastards! You Blew It All to Hell!
The Crank

I sit here today with a heavy heart, a fogged mind, and one hell of a headache. After barely recovering from the tragic turn of events on Election Failure Day, I am faced with yet another piece of the puzzle from Uh-mericuh—a land without liberty, a land without riches, and now…a land without Twinkies. I was not ready for yet another blow to my rather tenuous grasp on sanity, but this one really takes the cake (sorry).

Farewell Hostess. So some learned official of the Baker’s Union decided to play chicken with 18,000 jobs…and lost. All those poor saps, who probably voted for Obama, were smiling all glassy-eyed at the thought of four-more years, just as they got bitch-slapped by an I-Told-Ya-So. Let me ‘splain to you how business works. When less people buy a product, less product is needed. When less product is needed, less bakers are needed…or, the remaining bakers have to agree to a cut in hours and/or a cut in salary/benefits or something to offset the drop in business. Meanwhile, despite this drop in demand, you all gave management a hail and hearty “F-You!” (Or is it a laurel and hostess handshake?)

You all deserve it, douche bags. You took away my TWINKIES!! Now go ahead and grovel at the feet of your demi-god and ask for alms for the poor. Maybe you’ll get lucky and some, still employed, schlep will agree to get taxed more to pay for your abject stupidity.

What you ignored was this: more and more people saw the items you made it, aka, the crack cocaine of the Diabetes set. Like myself, most people had reduced their intake of the yellow cake, as it’s known on the streets, to the occasional sorrow-drowning glory-days session.

Hostess was to us just what medicinal marijuana is to the afflicted, a way to get a relatively poison-free and somewhat quality-controlled legal hit of our favorite vice. Hey, I said relatively poison free!

How many people will now have to resort to the “no name” brand of treats? Those toxic avengers of snack cakes. How many of us addicted will have to go incognito to a local bodega to try to score some Mexican brands…not knowing just what’s in ‘em. Then, after inhaling five or six packs, we’ll pass out in some filthy alley with crème all over our lips and wrappers at our feet. How many will suffer the deformities and illness caused by manufacturers from other countries putting who-knows-what into their versions of our fix? (Soylent Yellow? It’s fructose!)

The only upside? Some may use the news as a reason for investment. We all know that Twinkies last forever. They are, in fact, on the Periodic Table of the Elements, just under Uranium, next to Romano Cheese. Some of those ones in Fukushima are only now drifting onto our shores. My point is this: if one were to “purchase” a truckload of said item and hold onto it until all current supplies dwindled, one could, theoretically, cash in when one sells the items at a massive mark-up to those addicts…er, purchasers. It could make someone’s future Christmas very bright (Ho, Ho Hos Merry eBay?). I purchased 1,700 myself for just that purpose, but there’s already only a dozen or so left. The best laid plans of Crank and men.

Now, as you all sit at your kitchen tables trying to explain to your wives and families how your ability to provide for them has just flamed out like an Airbus engine ingesting a goose, you all realize, in a moment of frightening clarity, that it may be quite some time before your significant other allows you to avail yourself of the spousal benefits you have so appreciated in the past. That look that she just gave you is clear, and the ice forming around her heart will take years to thaw. And you will deserve it, you heartless bastards! You gave up a union job with guaranteed pay and benefits. You’ve reduced tens of thousands of us to late night inconvenient store runs and homemade crystal Sno-Ball labs.

When you go shopping with your children—which you WILL do, now that your wife has to work three jobs to make ends snack—just what will you say to Little Debbie when she asks, “Daddy, why can’t I get Twinkies anymore?”

You can look down at those little sad teary eyes and say, “‘Cause your Daddy’s an asshole, kid.”

Sad and angry
But mostly just angry

El Crank

Dear Fox News

The Crank

Dear Fox News

I be dribnk since we looz Ohio, hav head prop up on cat, so this be best I typ so deal.

I have ask. Why you lie to me. Mikko say “fox lie”, Family say “fox lie’. Crank say “no, tell trooth.” Crank rong. You lie. You lie like bad toup on Engle guy. Babe with legs at glas tabl say, “hope just around corner.” Legs say “Mitt make all bettr” “Mitt make gas flow, Mitt make food cheap, Babe with big zooms say Mitt make more jobs.” I think, OK, this good, more jobs = more peepl buy my cabinets, Crank pay bills from last 4 years.

Crank get hopes up, bigtime, think maybe get lucky when give wife mony J.Wife no have to pay for me to go work. Fox sed we win big!. Crank hear “cant loose”. Crank hear big head like ET bald guy Rove say,” I write on whiteboard, I know shit- we win!” Crank hear angry femm fat guy Morris say “we win big- 5 pointz!” Crank hear shiney teeth like chicklets guy Eric on The Five say Obama finished. Crank think maybe people get smartr, ignore guys with news. Maybe business guy is best to do business things, things O not do, like rite budget. Not borrow shit not have. Mak sense to Crank. Fuk.

Hannity say polls rong. Oreilly say polls rong. Legs and zooms all say polls rong. Eric sed polls rong. Little Bush lady say polls rong. I think OK polls rong, we win!

Hay Fox….Polls fukkin rite. you all rong. Ask short Austrlyun guy boss why da fuk they all still have job? I ask? Fuk.

Not tru, none of it. No one get smart, no one want things rite. Peepl all want feel good President. Want ‘kool’ guy, not good guy. Want guy to tell bullshit, no one want trooth. Peepl hear lies from news, they buy the whole thing. “I give you shit, you vote me!” Free fones. Fuk. Mitt no give nuthin, jus trooth, no one make calls on trooth. Stupid Mitt. He rich Fuk, he maybe win if giv Ipads? Maybe he win if giv free rubbers, seems all tey want id free fuking, pay for their fuk pillz. Pay fer dis, pay fer dat. With wut? Granchilds maoney. Fuk.

You play with my head Fox, and I pissd. We no win. We lose like drubnk Indian at casino. We lose like one leggd man in marathon. We lose likggggggggggggg… oOpps just took nap. Cat purring like motorboat in head. Put me to sleep.

I dribnk 3 days. 3 fukn days! Blud shugr in stratosfeer. Cat lik twinkie wrappers. Fuk. Like bad dreem. No help, only kiddng. Ha ha ha, stooppid Crank. Dey say Im fat old wite man. Dey say less fat old wite man repullicns. Bettr be young, bettr be beige-brown-blak-libruls. One problem, fat ol wite men rote constushun. Fat old wite men start country. Dems bettr for Minoritys? Repub free slaves, Repub Romneys Dad walkd with MLK… Dems? Dems rite Jim Crow laws. Never unnerstud that.

Oh well, I gess the fact we see shit coming not count. So, U newbees U run things now, we go golf- we go fish-you pay? When shit hit fan, YOU eat. Figgr it out 4 self..stupid fukz…

No mor Rum, no mor coke. Cat like rum. I Go to bed. Fuk-we looz Wife say get life, move on. I say Cant mov-drunk. Not funy she say. Fuk.

Cat jus pee on keybord



We have attempted an intervention, but the situation is complicated because the Crank is so heavily armed. We will keep you posted. Oh, and our editors gave up after the first sentence, but it’s funny, which is about as close to journalistic integrity as we get on this rag. We have forwarded this to the sociology department at Penn State for analysis.

But hey, at least he capitalized Austrlyun. It’s the little things.


Pierce X. Winslow

First Lady Declares Obesity “The Greatest Threat to National Defense”

First Lady Declares Obesity "The Greatest Threat to National Defense"
The Crank

Shortly after the re-inauguration of Barak Obama, I was in line at Carl’s Jr. when they came for me. I had heard about the banning of large drinks in New York and thought, “Wow, good thing I live in Arizona.” People here don’t like so much Government involvement in their daily lives. That’s why Arizona has a stockpile of weirdness. We were free to be as weird as we wanted and we like it that way. After all, true freedom is the freedom to not be like everyone else, even when that means having no brains. It’s who we are.

I had been losing weight, but I had a lot to go to be considered “not obtuse”…er, I mean “not obese”. Someone told me it was a good thing I was losing weight, good for me and good for America. I did not really understand what he meant by that, but I knew I didn’t like it. I now know why.

As I said, I was in line at Carl’s Jr. when they came for me. I was just sitting in the Ram, waiting for the Mensa candidate wearing the headphones to take my order. I had Joe Walsh on the stereo, his new release, Analog Man. I was jamming to I’m Just Lucky that Way (Walsh’s follow-up to his now 20+ year old hit Life’s Been Good). As I pulled up to the ordering area, I opened my window to speak to the little black box on a stick. But then there was a loud noise, followed by gunfire. As I turned around to see what looked like a Swat vehicle followed by a large bus, I felt the sting of cold steel against my neck. When I turned back, there was a large man in full swat regalia holding a gun to my neck.

“Out of the vehicle,” he said. My response? Probably the wrong one. “Say WHAT?!” It was then I found out firsthand how quickly and easily a fat man can be forced through a truck window. Two larger men stood me up.

“On your knees”, one of them said.

Again, my response was not the best. “Do you see the scars on my knees, I cannot kneel.” I then found out firsthand just why the Doctor told me never to kneel. My deluxe Golfer’s Style Deputy Stainless steel left knee did dent his gun stock when he hit me, so I was in pain, but still laughing.

I was lead into the bus and forced into a seat on the aisle over the rear wheels. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I realized I was not alone. I was in a bus full of what looked like Wal-Mart regulars—you know, layers of fat surrounded by not enough clothing. People who obviously lack mirrors in their homes.

I was probably the thinnest one on the bus. As I looked around for some kind of signs to tell me just who the fuck I was being held by, I saw a placard over the driver’s head that read: Dept. of Homeland Security: Lipid Division.

Oh shit, they went and done it after all, I thought.

Like the scene in Planet of the Apes when Charlton Heston sees the half buried Lady Liberty and shouts, “You bastards, you blew it all to hell!” It was kind of like that only more dramatic.

When the next line of Wal-A-Tubbies was marched in, I started to yell for an explanation but I felt a small hand on my shoulder. I turned to see a little old fat lady. She told me to be quiet. I watched through the window as my beloved Ram was put on a car transport, never to be seen by me again.

As we rode to who-knows-where, all I could think of was my wife, and how she would arrive home from work to find I was gone. I must admit that the mere thought of being away from my wife for any length of time now scares the Hell out of me. At first I’m sure she would rejoice, but I know she would eventually miss me. Well, I hoped so at the time.

As the bus rolled to a stop, the driver’s armed guard stood up. “OK fatties, up and out, single file, and NO SHIT, or I shoot.”

As I got off the bus, I looked around to see only beige—beige everywhere in the form of sand. Lots of sand. It was about 110 and dry, so I figured we were somewhere west of Phoenix, but not quite California. Quonset-hut type buildings surrounded us, and we were whisked off to one. As we were walking, I noticed we were being watched by someone in a rather strange uniform, kind of like if an Italian Policeman’s uniform and a Nazi uniform had a child. As I looked closer, I recognized the little prick from the lifts in his shoes, and the fact that he was standing on a box. It was New York’s Mayor Bloomberg! He was now called the Generalissimo, Co-President and Field Marshal for Life Bloomberg. I left the line to spit in his face.

I woke up on a cot in one of the huts, my head hurt like a som’bitch. That little old fat lady was wiping my head with a cool wet rag.

“Hey, you are awake,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Crank,” I said.

“You made quite a scene out there…got a lotta balls. No friggin’ brains, but lottsa balls.”

I told her that was what my wife said to me on our first date, and she laughed.

By the third day we had named our hut ‘Jabba’. We were fed twice a day, rice, vegetables and some kind of soy shit. It was gross drivel with only water to wash it down. I was having major withdrawal from Coke, and we were all shitting our brains out from the soy overload. They did manage to get me my Ritalin substitute, but no other meds were forthcoming. My tremors returned as did the arthritis. Pissed off–shaking with pain and hunger—the word ‘fuck’ became nearly my entire vocabulary, similar to my Zano rebuttals.

By the fourth day I learned everyone had named their huts ‘Jabba’ as well. We saw no officials, were told no news. We were not able to communicate with the outside at all.

On the sixth day, we were led to a fence on the perimeter of the ‘encampment’ to put it nicely. A line of busses pulled up, and people started to get off the busses. Wait, I thought, these were not fat people. No these were family of the incarcerated. I watched intently looking for my wife. I felt a hand touch mine through the chain-link fence. It was her. She was crying and simultaneously pissed off, something women are really good at.

“Bring any snacks?” I asked.

“Don’t talk,” she said. “We don’t have much time. You were arrested the day after he was re-elected. Obama made being overweight illegal. He has dissolved Congress and he runs Homeland Security. The Department of Justice, the S.E.I.U. and the E.P.A. are his army.”

“Are you OK?” I asked. “What has happened to Gort?”

“Honey, I’m sorry, but your truck is gone forever. All vehicles with under 30 M.P.G. are to be melted down to build Chevy Volts,” she said.

“Oh God, they dun melted my Gort!” I named my Ram Gort after the robot in the original Day The Earth Stood Still movie. Like the Gort robot, my Ram was stupid as a doorknob, ridiculously strong, tough as all hell, and loyal to a fault.

“All the Walsh CD’s too?” I asked.

“Yes, them too,” she replied.

“Not Walsh! Those evil bastards!”

“The government raided Hostess Bakeries this morning, killing 120 people.” She then put her hand on my shoulder through the holes in the chain link fence and whispered. “Crank, listen to me. They burned the Twinkies, all the Twinkies. And the Coke is all gone. They drained all the stored syrup into the river. It was just like the old movies about prohibition that you made me sit through on the fucking History Channel. Obama disarmed the regular military too. But we are fighting this. Sure, you are a fat man, but you are MY fat man, and I want you back.” With that, she said goodbye, and was led back to the bus. I watched her as she went away, wishing she was here to make us some of her great Linzer Tarts, or peanut butter/chocolate chip cookies. Couldn’t she have at least smuggled-in a Snickers?

After a few weeks, one of the guards started to sneak in barbeque sauce. It made the soy shit edible. He did it because his brother Bubba was one of us, only the Feds didn’t know it. They were from West Virginia, but his brother was in Mesa, attending A.S.U., and everyone in West Virginia has the same last name. One night, the guard, Billy-Bob, told us that some of the guards were having second thoughts, as many of them had friends or family incarcerated. He told us they were going to rebel and set us free. They just ask that we run like hell when the time comes. I said for him to take a good look at us, and say that again. He laughed.

It seems as though lots of Obama’s army was starting to fold like a Chinese car in a head-on with a bus, as we started to hear about skirmishes throughout the land. Everyone had stopped paying taxes by then, so like Europe, they were running out of cash fast, and China told Obama to have a nice day. Regular Army stationed in other countries were not forced to surrender their weapons as the stateside ones were, and were all on their way back to the U.S. to help with any overthrow. Whose Navy and Air Force were they using to get home? I was later told that the only real help was from Israel and Australia. When asked if he could help get some of the troops home, Netanyahu had said, “This one’s on me. I hate the bastard.”

The end came one day when some fat ex-Marines greased themselves up and squeezed their asses into some Harrier jets we had sold to Israel. We all heard the missiles hit the guardhouse, looked up to see a jet with a blue star on it, and that’s when we ran. Well, we were fat, so we kind of hurried away. We all looked like a slow-motion wave of human flesh as we scurried out into the desert. The running of the Weebels? We later stole the bus that had brought us here, and heard on the radio that some of the Harriers went to D.C. and Obama was forced to give himself up to the Portly Protectors of Freedom (which is also a good new name for the Republican Party).

As our bus made it back to Phoenix, my wife heard news of our escape, and was there to greet us. As we all got off the bus, she ran to me and we hugged like never before. It was then I noticed she had a package with her. She had an evil smile and giggled as she handed me the package. It was a box of eight Twinkies and a 20 oz Coke. I thought about how many milliseconds it would have taken me to scarf down the lot, and slowly I handed them back to her.

“If I lose weight, it will be because I want to, not because I am being forced to. It’s all about American freedom. They will never succeed in…oh, the hell with it, gimme that damn Twinkie.”

After the last gulp of Coke, I leaned back and belched the word “FREEDOM!” Freedom tasted real good to me. Twice.

I bought the first new Ram (Gort II?) off the transport when they restarted production. Thank the Lord them shifty little Italians at Fiat discretely moved all the plans and stampings to Italy when the shit went down. They were the only truck out for almost a year. Walk-a proud Sergio, Walk-a proud.


Rebutt! The End is Nigh!

The Crank

Please let me preface the following article by stating that I may not be writing this whilst in the best of moods. The Crank’s humble domicile has experienced a water issue of biblical proportions. I am writing this after three days of industrial wind machines 24-hrs a day, cats locked up in solitary, bitching constantly as they tend to do, a spouse asking “when will it be over?” as incessantly as a kid on a car trip asking “are we there yet?” So forgive me in advance.

After spending way too much time reading internet news sites while waiting for the economy to recover before I die, I have recently started to view these sites in a new way.  I believe it is something everyone should do. I now read only the title of an article, and then go directly to the comments.

It sure is an eye-opening look into the psyche of America. The un-educated, the badly educated, the well educated, all sitting at a computer somewhere, not doing any work. Many people all calling each other names, like Zano, or making lame arguments for things they cannot really defend, again, like Zano.

My next question is this: what is Zano? Uneducated? No, the only people on Earth that can attend school for 20+ years and still not have a fucking clue as to the real world are Islamists. They attend Madrassas and learn to hate. One plus one? Anyone? Anyone? Yes, that’s right little Achmed, one plus one is kill the Jews! What happened in 1492? Anyone? Yes, that was the year Death to America started. How does one make a Falafel? Yes, you ask your wife to make you one, or you beat her to death, and then ask your daughter to do it. In Catholic school, we at least learned the three Rs along with our hatred.

Although it took some seven years for that four year degree, Zano did in fact, well…attend, for lack of a better term, college. Is he badly educated? Maybe so, but I doubt that the backwoods of Pennsyltucky is the bastion of communist/progressive thought. No. he in fact is somewhat well educated. What then, you may ask, went wrong?

It’s a question that I ask about many who write the comments on articles online. What went wrong? I can tell you exactly what went wrong. We have all gone deeef. AH SAY, AH SAY WE’VE ALL GONE DEEF! It must be that. How else can so many supposedly well educated people scream at each other all day and fail to successfully make even the most basic of arguments? Speech should be free, but bullshit talking points should be a felony. In which case, of course, most of you assholes would be in jail, and I wouldn’t have to listen to talking points any more.

I was ‘taught’ by my educators in elementary and junior high school that we should never ever stop learning. We should always be ready to change our thinking when presented with a reason to do so. If I wasn’t able to do this, I would still have an Italian Afro, platform shoes and drive an Iroc-Z. And that, my friends, was in grade school. I think I was taught things in high school, but that was the late 60s and early 70s. That 70’s Life? Actually, I don’t recall much of the 70s, but I was told I had a great time…

I feel that everyone has stopped learning. Stopped listening. Stopped realizing that everyone’s ideas must be respected, no matter how they differ from yours. Zano stopped listening to me when he was just a ten. I guess belching “I’ve got you now Luke Skywalker” at the local Burger King on the way back from seeing Star Wars lost its thrill. It was a great belch. Got an ovation from those nearby…well, those ‘too nearby’ didn’t all make it, but I digest…er, digress.

On one hand, we have someone in office that has no clue as to governing. Golf? Yeah sure. That other thing? Not so much. On the other hand we have Max Mittroom, flipper extraordinaire. And his hair is perfect. Hello Loosah, I’d like you to meet Loosah. But the way the comments read out you would think if you didn’t pray at the altar of one or the other, you were doomed to Prelimbic Mutiodness. Endless drivel by ill-informed or the terminally non-informed. If that is the way it is, that is what we will get from the campaigns, hate and lies.

And, that is what we deserve. We talk bullshit, we get bullshit.

Obamabots, Libtards, Rethuglicans, Democraps, and in Zanos case, Patriotards. The list goes on. If you have ever used one of these words in a comment, I want you to go, right now, in front of a mirror. I want you to turn you back to the mirror, and look over your shoulder and slightly down at said mirror. You, my friends, are looking at your brain on politics.

I remember pictures of Reagan and Tipp O’Neill, sitting in a back room at the capitol, smoking brandy and drinking cigars, er…wait, well you get the idea. Johnson and Kennedy did the same. Clinton did it big time. I also remember some great legislation coming out of those meetings, meetings where the President, Speaker of the House and the Leader of the Senate actually sat down and got shit done, amazing as it seems. It’s called In Committee. Part of a President’s job is to manage the two houses, to have input in legislation. There has been none of that for over a decade. There may be no one left alive that knows how.

The Senate hasn’t passed a budget in almost four years. That is an unbelievable fact, people. The first time in history a President’s whole term will not produce a budget! The House has sent some 90 pieces of legislation to the Senate, only to have them shelved by Harry Reid. The way a law/bill/budget is SUPPOSED TO come into being is it is written by both Houses, and put to “Committee” to compromise both into one piece of legislation. That is how it’s been for 200-plus years. Harry Reid will not send anything to Committee. Nothing. They both claim the other isn’t compromising, but let’s be clear, no one, I repeat, NO ONE, has ever suggested actually CUTTING ANYTHING. NOTHING. They both talk about reductions in future increased spending. Paul Ryan’s evil dangerous rethuglican budget actually INCREASES spending, just not as much as the Democrats want. Anything else is a lie. Throwing grandma over a cliff is something we all are doing if we don’t have real reform now.

When you say you will “cut” if they “tax” then that’s only a compromise if you actually “cut” anything. Everyone who says that “the other side” is dangerously cutting from anything is LYING to you. They may move funding out of one area into another, just ask Mikko as he sees actual heathcare providers cut and overseers increase. That’s not a cut, but it hurts the same. A true cut lessens spending, not just takes it away from one and gives to another, usually involving a company owned/operated by a lawmaker’s brother-in law, or big campaign donor. 

Our American Bureaucracy is big enough to close useless programs and send that money where it will do the most good. It’s what needs to be done, along with Tax reform, closing corporate loopholes, stopping subsidies and increasing taxes directly and through increasing economic activity by less but SMARTER regulation. There will be no real action as long as the both current parties’ leadership in the House and Senate are still here. No one has the balls to tell the American people the truth. To coin a phrase, you can’t handle the truth.

But somewhere, on some website, some angry asshole sitting at his computer at work, not working, wasting everyone’s time buying into the lies, will be calling someone a derogatory name simply because they believe something differently from them. Take the whole Chick-Fil-A thing. Now I don’t give a rats ass what gays do, or who they do for that matter. None of my business. I also think if the owner of CFA wants to believe in the historical definition of marriage, so be it. I may not agree, but I will not stop his freedom to think that, or speak it. Listen, bullies everywhere, both social and political, please do not make political statements using food. I have an amazingly large “problem” with that.

Bullies all reach a point where people originally on your side turn against them. Bullies, by any name, are not helpful to anyone, especially themselves. They will see this soon enough. Or, they will continue to have verbal diarrhea on websites, only helping to prove my theories.

Like the plumbers say when installing a new septic tank, “Someone has to go in the old one and switch the pipes.” Don your Hazmat suits people. That would be us…the time would be now.

I dare Zano and Win-slow to put this up and not feel the head bobbing smarmy self-important need to add their unneeded and unwanted opinion. This is my opinion, not yours.

Luv ya both


(Space for zano/win-slow opinion here)

Eat at Joe’s

Told ya so.

P.S. Crank’s tip for the day: ADHD is inherited. If you have ADHD, find someone else that has it and procreate. A double dose will make sure your offspring will have the ability to jump between dimensions at-will. They just won’t remember much of what happened.

I did; they do.

Honey, We Have a Problem

The Crank

On one sunny, hot as the hinges of Hell, day here on the surface of the sun, I was alone on the showroom floor. My cell phone rings. I see it’s ‘home’ so I pick up expecting to hear something like a ‘I’m home from work. See you soon, honey,” kind of thing. Well, not so much.

Instead I hear, “Honey, we have a problem.” The rest of my month would never be the same. It started out relatively upbeat. We were going up to Flagstaff to see the Cardinal’s training camp and to catch a meal with Zano and fambly at the Japanese knife-fling-y place.

She said, “There’s a note from Ozzy our neighbor. He apparently had to shut off the water main to our house as he saw water running out of the garage onto the street from under the garage door. The whole house is wet. Come home NOW!”

Ah, well, uhhh, lets see. First I’ll call the boss and let her know I’m closing early as I am all alone. I’d better put a note on the door. I’ll go lock the side door. As I run to the side door, keys in hand, I see a terrifying sight. Coming towards the door is an elderly couple. Have you ever seen Tim Conway when he does his old man impression? You know, the foot-shuffle at .00003 mph? That was a tad Jeff Gordon compared to these two. Since I wasn’t about to lock the door in their face (which would have been funny, in a Pythonesque sort of way), I let them in. They want new kitchen cabinets. They wanted to “walk” around and look at the displays. Oh gawd. I wanted to pull out our hand truck if it would speed them up.

I call the boss. “Can someone come here quickly?” I got the slowest…what…no? “Oh well, thanks anywho.”

As I stand with the couple, answering questions, I am visualizing terrifying things. Cats doing the backstroke thru the living room. Wet electronics. 113° and No A/C. And, above all, a simultaneously wired and overwhelmed spouse.

After the longest 40-minutes of my life, they bid me goodbye and slowly exited the building. I hit the lights and locked the door the second the last shuffle cleared the door. With my metal knees popping like driving over bubble wrap, I jumped into the Ram, and made it home in 50-seconds. Having power beneath your foot is a welcome thing when you have to be in two places at once, and the Hemi ‘flew’ me home as I watched the fuel gauge drop before my eyes. As I entered the house, I started to make a mental note of the things I saw. Note to self: a mental note isn’t worth the neurons it is written on. I’m old, and there just isn’t any more room on my ‘mental white board’ to write anything else. From now on I must use paper.

My first question to her as I saw my wife standing there in full Def-Con five panic mode was “Are the cats ok?” She seemed bewildered why I would ask that. After all, didn’t I have E.S.P. and already surmised how the problem didn’t affect them? I could, though, tell which areas of the carpet were water-logged just by watching the cats go to the bedroom by way of…like-Wisconsin.

My wife had already called a plumber, and his Buttcrackness was already en-route. I walked into the garage and saw where the water came from. A valve on the back of my water filter/softener had blown, spraying water over the two bags of white tile grout I put beside it. Then said water, milky white by now, slowly roamed throughout my house. Thru the laundry room, the living room, the master bedroom and master closet.

“I have to call the insurance company,” I said. I called them and surprise surprise, I got a hooman. I asked if they had a local water abatement team they worked with. They said they would have them call me. The plumber arrived and told me he can loop around the system and restart my water for the low price of $306.18. “Don’t even fucking ask,” I said, “Start!”

The water in the Azirona area is hard. It’s some of the hardest water on Earth—liquid concrete as it’s known by my neighbors. It’s like taking a shower in sea water, which has only one benefit: when you fill up the tub, turn on the shower, and play ‘submarine incident’, it’s slightly more realistic. Suds are, as of now, a thing of the past. The maker of the water system came a week later and replaced the offending part at no charge, then he fucking CHARGED ME to re-hook-up. “$200.00! You want me to pay you when your machine has caused thousands of dollars in damage to my home?” The straight faced answer was…well…yes (actually “si”).”

The abatement team arrived that first night and life as I knew it was over. They methodically went through the house with Star Trek-like technology, measuring the wetness of everything. Sheetrock had to be removed, base moldings, carpet and padding. Vanity cabinets moved away from walls, toe kick covers trashed. When that was over, in came the fans. Yes, the Fans. Nine green industrial type wind machines capable of reversing the rotation of the planet, along with three de-humidifiers. As they plugged them all in, one by one, I saw the lights dim. I went outside and watched the electric meter as it sped up to near light-speed. Like in Space Balls it eventually “went plaid.”

Making noise like the machine that awakened Frankenstein. I fought back the impulse to shout, “It’s alive!” It was spinning so fast it seemed to get translucent like it was winking in and out of our dimension, like Dr. Who’s Tardis just before it disappears.

I could just see the white-coated nerds at Aridzona Power leaning over the monitors and jerking off like they were watching internet porn as my kilowatt usage went stratospheric. It wasn’t till the team went to leave that I heard the rest of the news. It was Friday night; they said they would be back on Sunday night to retrieve the evil green blo-jobs.

I learned to read lips that weekend while watching TV. The good thing was that one really didn’t need sound to watch the Olympic Women’s Beach Volleyball. I especially studied the hand signals intently. Sleeping was just not gonna happen. I was up for about 72-hours that weekend. I get in such a lovely mood when I’m tired. They named me The Crank on a good day. The phone would ring and I would answer: “WHAT!” Yeah, I was a real peach by Sunday night. I “helped’ them out with the machines. Tossing them like so many trash bags, seeing how good they were at catching them. In point of fact, these kids did an amazingly good job of stopping the damage, treating the wet areas for mold, and drying it all out. It must be a thankless job. So I didn’t thank them.

The cats had to be sequestered in a non-affected bedroom, and were convinced that they had in fact done something hideously wrong and were being punished for it. “Uh, that wet spot is too big to be us, boss.” I joined them from time to time just to keep them company and feed them. Have you ever seen cats beg? It wasn’t nice. Dogs are used to begging. They have made it an art; cats, not so much. You could tell they were new at it. They weren’t very good. Every time I would go in the room, they would try a new position, a new meow. I could just hear the old black female as they huddled before my next entrance: “Listen furbag, you get on the dresser upside down and put your paw out like this, while I look up from the floor and do the big-sad-kitty-eyes thing. That should do the trick.”

While I got used to the constant headache and drone, the bare floors and the clothes being in new-fun-to-find places, my lovely wife was having none of it. It wasn’t pleasant. I, of course, needed to be reminded every 30 minutes for 3 days of what has happened and how awful it all was, lest I just happen to forget. I was a bachelor for many years before marrying my wife. This was still luxury compared to conditions I have lived in before.

I could feel the loss of privacy with strangers going through the house, and the dirt and dust that followed the abatement. It was bad for us both, but after a few days we begrudgingly accepted it as a temporary state. If it wasn’t for an alert neighbor who knew how to shut off the water main, I would be in much worse shape. He saved me, big time. As of now, after meeting with the insurance adjuster, I am in the middle of getting the insurance company to give me a realistic amount of cash for me to make it all right again. It will take time, but it will be even better than before. It has to be-gulp-I promised my wife. It’s my job.

Crank (twitch-twitch)

P.S. A note to the local H.O.A (home owners association):


The fact that my cul-de-sac is now the fifth largest lake in Aridzona, I should have been your first clue I had a flood. There was lots of garbage, some things that can not be replaced had to be discarded, mementos and such. I put it all out days before they took it. Get a fucking life please, you fucking control freaks. One of my neighbors uses the curb as the place to store his three pails and has for many years. May I humbly suggest fucking with him? If I see you in that shitty little grey car of yours taking pictures again, my Ram will earn its name and make Long Island-style road-pizza out of you.

All our Luv,

The last soggy house on the left….

The “No Mas” 16

The Crank

There are sixteen widely used terms today that invoke nausea in me every time I hear them. I would like them from this moment forward stricken from all political discourse. Once one of my ‘16 forbidden phrases’ (similar to Carlin’s seven dirty words) are used on TV, or in print, they take on a life of their own. These are terms I never want to hear again. I’m sure I speak for everyone, and by everyone I mean six people, when I say please stop!

Here they are, in no particular order:

Outside the box

If this saying were to have its way, we would ALL be thinking outside the box, which would mean that inside the box would be a very lonely place indeed. I envision Zano sipping a specialty coffee alone in a room starting a political party. AND, if everyone thought outside the fucking box, then to be different one would have to think inside said box. Ponder that one. It’s a ‘sound of one hand farting’ kind of thing.

Fiscal cliff:

There is no fiscal cliff, unless we are taking about Road Runner and the Coyote. That cliff is followed closely by an Acme safe to the noggin. There are only stupid people making stupid decisions with other people’s money based on their bullshit agendas or the lining of someone’s pockets. That’s not a cliff, it’s an indictment…or at least it should be.

Civil rights

There are only MY civil rights. There is no YOUR civil rights. If I want it, it’s a right, if you want it, tuff shit. But what if YOUR civil rights oppress ME? Yeah, see what I mean? It’s all bullshit. A regal word has been reduced to birdcage liner. Beaten to death like a Syrian rebel.


See above. You can not disagree with anyone not of your exact color. Nope, not ever. Can’t. Why? We say so, that’s why. No reason. Dr. King is surely whirling dervishly inside his mausoleum hearing that word made so meaningless, after so many have died for it.

“Hey Joe, we got nuttin’ for a comeback on his last campaign ad.”

“That’s ok, just call him a racist.”

It is what it is

Just what the fuck is it? Is this another Clinton definition of is is thing? Couldn’t it be what it’s not? How about what it was? I know, it’s what it’s gonna be. It makes me want to smack the shit out of people who say it. Then you can quote this back to them when they ask why I did it. Sorry, many, it is what it is. Hey, but I did call 911.

At the end of the day

Yeah what? The fucking sun goes down. We all fall asleep.

(See also) When all is said and done. Another stupid phrase. Please. When all is said and done, you shut up and do nothing? Is that what it’s supposed to mean? Now, let’s put these two together.

“When the sun goes down and we fall asleep, we shut up and do nothing.”

Very profound.

With all due respect:

Graciously excuse me please while I jam this twig in your eyeball. Permit me, kind sir, to throttle you within an inch of your life. When someone hears this, their sphincter involuntarily clenches up. It’s like when I read a Zano feature.


STDs are viral. Mad fucking Cow is viral. Videos are not. “I must have touched the railing and got this video from someone.” “Oh, I got a bad video and now it hurts to pee.” I hope it doesn’t last too long. Why don’t you just rub that ointment you got from the clinic onto your YouTube and call me in the morning?

Epic fail:

This fucking phrase is an epic fail. Every time I hear this, it’s like drinking a Slurpee too fast. I get brain freeze, or as they call it NY, Bloomberg Syndrome. Until something fails, there is no way to know in advance of its demise, epic or bleepin’ otherwise. Just say what you mean:

“I hope your idea fails so grandly that many people get hurt and you spend the rest of your life in prison.”

Wow factor

You mean to say impressive, right? Then why not just say it? It makes you sound somewhat intelligent, unlike using the words ‘Wow factor’, which over the course of time seems to have lost all of its….ahem.

A-ha Moment:

This phrase signifies the dumbing down of the English language at its finest. Kind of like when Hugh Laurie has that spaced out, faraway look, when he’s just discovered the cure for something. Or, when I’m looking through the my trunk for my lost car keys and suddenly realize the sound I heard yesterday—the one that seemed kinda’ funny at the time—was, in fact, my keys sliding off the trunk lid onto the road…only to be immediately run over by a truck. Now, whenever Dr House has that look, I scream out “holy shit, the keys fell off the car!”


No. What if I’m “sensitive”(code)? Then what, Mr. Masculine know-it-all, huh? Why don’t you put on your big boy suspenders and stop using this. Oh, and stop using that one too.

I’m just sayin’:

If I was writing, I’d be just writin’. If I was cooking, I’d be just cookin’. Of course you are just saying…unless, of course, you’re simultaneously writin’ and dancin’. That would be very different, now, wouldn’t it? I’m just multi-taskin’? What you really mean to say is that you think what you said is true, but you won’t go to war over it.

Racial Profiling:

Israel does it very effectively. If I’m looking for an Arab terrorist, I make sure to feel up every old white woman, especially the Nuns, and the children with red hair. Sorry, but they should put up jumbo pictures of all eleven 911 terrorists in every airport with a sign saying, “If you look like this, we want to ask you a few questions.”

Politically Correct:

What you mean is that your testicles are tucked WAY up inside your body, and you do not wish to offend anyone on earth-simultaneously-with a word, gesture, or a non-verbal cue. It’s called the profound pussification of society, which has now proven to be fatal to said society.

Any questions?

The Crank