Dr. Faustroll is currently on ether sabbatical.  Filling in is the distinguished

I stood on the bridge
and he said ligi
it aint worth it
and I said yeah
so what else is new
but he wouldn’t listen
he wanted to listen to reason
he needed some purpose
he was looking for love
go on I told him jump
go on jump
so he jumpd
but you think anyone
gave me any credit

The Travels and Travails of Dr. Faustroll through the NOMF™

Having escaped from Abu Graibhass with only the souls of my defeat, I would like to reacquaint the all-too-belligerent reader with the science of imaginary solutions by sharing this Zen parable told to me by the plumper of the drunken Bush twins, either Regan and Cordelia, on that heady evening at the Global Hawk technology test celebration in Culpepper, Virginia, in 2001, the day before 9/11 changed everything:
There was once a middle-aged white man in the nation of miserable fucks (NOMF) who was being chased through the Return of the Son of the Mall of America food court by a bunch of al Qaeda hunchmen who had followed us home after the Democrats cut and ran in the War on Terra before we got the job done.

At the edge of the food court there was a green atrium looking down on a forest of plasticine trees with little tags on them explaining how advancements in technology had led to imaginary life-forms that, while they would not save us, would make our surroundings more attractive and profitable as we scurried from one patriotic shopping experience to another. 

To escape certain torture and beheading at the hands of al Qaeda, the  man grabbed hold of an auxiliary power cable and swung out over the tops of the fake trees and landed on a conveniently placed rock climbing wall where he grasped a sickly looking fake branch protruding from the fake cliff just as the power cable snapped from its anchor high above him. 

While the evil al Qaeda homociders in the food court attempted to dislodge the heroically paunchy white Christian from his perch with poorly aimed plastic plates of cheese nachos, gyros, cinnamon buns, and big gulps of Orange Julius concoctions, he noticed a crowd of inner city insurgents of a darker persuasion armed with illegally obtained cans of spray paint defacing the base of the climbing wall with occult gang symbols on the fake forest floor.

Just then a mating pair of Pacific Northwest coast range mountain beavers scurried out of their hole in the fake cliff face and began gnawing on the skinny fake branch to which the slightly obese white person of the male persuasion clung, slowly swinging between two similar and inevitable deaths.

That's when our unlikely but convenient hero noticed a small handhold to his left on which appeared to be a juicy clump of ripe, red, colossal California strawberries with a placard that said: "Shop Safeway for good food at great prices." The fat man cautiously stretched until he could barely grasp a large berry between his thumb and forefinger. 

The splatter of foam and raspberry scented whipped cream from a double vente frappacino with 1% ultra-pasteurized milk and extra cinnamon and angelica extract tossed by the jeering al Qaeda mob above nearly blinded him but did not deter his aspirations and quest for freedomocracy, and the sweet heady aroma of gang graffiti wafting up from the fake forest floor only inspired him to redouble his efforts to obtain purchase of what he felt certain at this juncture in his imaginary life was his one chance of finding meaning in this absurb and terrifying world. Yes! He felt the phony berry snap from its moorings, and he brought it to his lips, pausing briefly to note its complete lack of aroma and almost wax-like texture. 

Then he tossed it into his mouth and took two quick chews before he began gagging and spitting out the imaginary strawberry and shouting in anguish: "What the fuck was that shit?!" as he lost his grip and fell exactly 46 feet 7 and 1/2 inches to the memorial brick garden below where the faint stains of his not quite instantaneous death are occasionally memorialized by a tacky ripped-off roadside flower arrangement.

He never before realized how sweet a real strawberry might taste,. The good news is he never would again.

And if that wasn't enough of a wake up call to get me back on the road to examine this insanely great nation and its not so great insane inhabitants, I received a series of e-mail and phone mail threats indicating that my ongoing observations of NOMF behavior would soon result in the kind of adulation that some obscure Spanish poet with a name that sounded like Mucho Gracias Señor Keiko Orca, as if that means anything to anyone outside the bureau or Dr. Benway. And then the stock market crashed and somebody sent me a poem I wrote 30 years ago that seemed to make even more sense now than it did then, and not because I actually have acquired a nuclear weapon but because it conveys a naive gentility that I have since rejected as counter-productive when confronted with Islamic extremism.

Keeping Busy

when I ain't got time to shit
I got it made
like a fossil
like geography

when the bomb burns
my thankless ass away
this lump in my colon
might end up
the eye of a geode
an egg of onyx
or a diamond

such sweet revenge
to become a gem
perhaps to snuggle
in a nest of gold
on the finger 
of a future queen

each gem and every fleck
of precious metal know
the hatred that I feel tonight

and cancer grows in those
who wear the jewelry
in which the pure
and mindless anger
of every man who died
without time to shit
shines more brightly 
than beauty or love

Oh to return to those days of mere optimistic cynicism! As the Fugs once sang: "River of shit/River of shit/Flow on, flow on, river of shit." Flow on through the heartland of this nation of miserable fucks. Let me leave you with a little nose-tweaking that resulted in my car being burned at the local AM/PM Mini Mart. It's so sad that language is no longer a tool to be used by those who care about it and will play with it and keep it alive. You know some people have been fired for calling a spade a spade? I love a coon in June. How about you? 

I'm reminded of the soundtrack for Hardware where the song goes: "This is what you want. This is want you get."

Dear Dr. Faustroll 

Isn't it true that you are a racist and that the only persons of color you have on your staff at the Portland Pataphysical Outpatient Clinic, Lounge, and Laundromat are mechanics, housekeeping staff, personal assistants, and garden help? Isn't it also true that you wrote and published this hateful piece on the anniversary of the assassination of Martin Luther King?

CRAWLFORWARD (PRPA) – Third Under-Assistant White House Press Secretary Stephen "Captain Ron" Padgett today blasted the liberal media for “once again distorting reality and taking good clean fun out of context to advance their anti-Christian agenda in a time of war” by reporting that President Bush prepared for the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday earlier this year by ordering his domestic staff to watch a Japanese version of Song of the South with subtitles. 

The Bush administration has been under fire in recent memory for perceived insensitivity toward the poor and minorities, in light of its reluctance to cut short vacations while Hurricane Katrina killed hundreds and left several thousand missing. Bush's popularity among the disadvantaged threatened to plunge into negative territory after former FEMA Director Michael “Charlie” Brown led a group of visiting liberal press whores in a rousing rendition of Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah during a drunken tour of flooded New Orleans neighborhoods in a rented helicopter paid for by Alaskan Republicans hoping to influence the 2008 elections. 

Bush only worsened the perception that he is an ignorant honky motherfucker when he posed for pictures with the sleeves of his $240 Calvin Klein work shirt rolled up as he praised Brown’s morale boosting activities, even saying “You’re doing a great job, Brownie,” and suggesting he was considering opening his daily briefings with Old Black Joe.

Bush went so far as to begin paraphrasing Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah in his town-hall meetings with handpicked supporters, such as during the recent Peoria trip where a nine year old boy suffering from Elizabeth Diane Downs syndrome asked the First Idiot “Is it true, Mr. President that even I can help in the war on terror, and make the nation a happier place?” 

“You sure can, Jimmy,” the President smiled, continuing: “Your attitude assures me and all of God-fearing America that there’s plenty of sunshine headin' our way. My, oh my, what a wonderful day.” 

When asked later during the same appearance whether he still believes there was a connection between Saddam Hussein and the attacks of September 11, the president answered, “It's the truth, it's actual. Ev'rything is satisfactual.” 

While tens of thousands of protesters massed outside calling for his impeachment, the president’s holographic helpmate was beamed to the National Archives where the original Emancipation Proclamation was on display. 

"My personal hero, Mr. Abraham Lincoln," Bush’s imaginary image said, "signed this here document declaring the end of slavery in the midst of the Great Depressionistic Civilian War on Jan. 1, 1963, and this is the only time it will be brought out of storage because it was written on toilet paper with a Japanese ink pen and you can see the thing crumbling before my very eyes." 

"It seems fitting don’t it that on Arnold Rufus King Day, I come down here and look at the Emancipation Proclamation in its original form instead of just imagining I’d been here before, see," Bush said. "Abraham Lincoln recognized that all men was created equal, and Uncle Remus was the first black actor ever to work for Walt Disney, who was a great man in his own way, according to some. Arnold Rufus King lived on that admonition to call our country to a higher calling in which everybody has a choice of ring-tones and free-roaming, and today we celebrate the life of an American who called Americans to account when we didn't live up to our ideals and killed him." 

“What I appreciate most about the legacy of the Reverend Doctor Arnold Rufus King is how he was always so optimistic and wishful, having dreams and such, see, such as I am who knows the difference between cups and their foolishness and how half fooled they sometimes are, and who can forget that great song he left us as an inspiration when we’re sometimes feeling down, besides me? I don’t remember the whole thing, see, but sometimes I find myself singing this part." 

"I can see him now just as plain as day, singing and dancing and making everyone appreciate what they got here in this great land of ours. Can't you?" 

Everybody's got a laughin' place, 
A laughin' place, to go ho-ho! 
Take a frown, turn it upside-down, 
And you'll find yours I know ho-ho! 

After his holographic appearance at the National Archives, Bush fell off his bike twice at the Secret Service training facility, where he was taken for a tune-up in Beltsville, Md. After the second fall, the president’s image completely disappeared, and his popularity shot up by nearly 20 points. 

Ebony Lillywhite

Dear Ms. Blackie Ass Sucker -

Well, of course I wrote that, and yes I'm a racist, if it makes you happy, although I find that label too narrow for those life forms and inanimate objects I find beneath my contempt. The truth is I'm a specist. You'll be happy to know I also employ several animals in similarly low-paying dead-end positions, including lab rats and contributors from the Al Franken forums. 

If you’re still surfing the Ted Stevens interweb, I’m sure you’ll find other far more offensive pieces I've written, including a popular translation of The Bible, one of Sarah Palin's favorite books. I can also assure you that I am not about to rest upon my laurels and bask in past offensiveness. No. I are committed to pursue tastelessness wherever it might lead, and I suspect I will soon quote presumed Republican vice presidential candidate Sarah “Sirhan” Palin responding to questions from the liberal media with a curt: “Eat my snapper, you bitches.”

Dr. Faustroll
Imaginary Pataphysician