Will Durst's Year 2008 Current Column

Durst Case Scenario Logo

6.23.09

Grading Democracy On a Curve

Want to take this time to congratulate the Iranian people for upgrading to a participatory government where they feel empowered enough to take to the streets to complain. For those of you who have been too busy digging under bushes for returnable bottle deposits, there is major rioting going on in the country formerly known as Persia, due to their sneaking suspicion of rampant voter fraud. Hundreds of thousands are risking arrest, death and worse demonstrating their shock at the corruption of their leaders. Of course, here in the US, we’ve learned to take that sort of thing in stride and grade on a curve.

The election results in dispute find Members Only aficionado Mahmoud Ahmadinejad winning the Presidency with 63% of the vote. Well, there’s your problem right there. Mahmoud, Baby. You want to rig an election, you don’t claim 63%. You squeak by with 51%. Didn’t you guys learn anything from Karl Rove? At least let the other guy appear to win his home district. After all, he’s not Al Gore.

In that knee jerk manner as peculiar to totalitarian regimes as bikini waxing is to cast members of “Gossip Girl,” Iranian authorities blamed America for the unrest. That’s right. We’re responsible for their amateurish rigging of a phony election. They may have a point. In a way, it IS our fault. Re-repressing a populace after they’ve Twittered and Facebooked and Tranny Shacked is like trying to stuff the subjugation toothpaste back into the tube. Best way is to razor the nozzle off, cram the domination back in with a rubber spatula then staple the nozzle back onto to the tube. Which is a bit unwieldy. But much easier when not exposed to the sun guns of the Western media.

Of course, our excitement over this burgeoning democracy may be a bit premature. It’s not like the dissident challenger, former prime minister, Mir Hossein Moussavi, is a raging capitalist. We keep referring to him as a moderate, but in Iran, a moderate is any Shi’ite who’s run out of bullets. Another inconvenient truth.

Even if the election is overturned, (about as likely as the eventual victory celebration being held at an Irish pub,) you might want to hold off on sending that Constitutional Starter Kit. Don’t think they’re quite ready for a string of NRA chapters is all I’m saying. Just to get on the ballot over there you need the okay of the Supreme Leader. And there’s another problem. How free and open is your election really when you have to clear your candidacy with somebody called Supreme Leader? Sounds like the eternal adversary of Moose and Squirrel.

The Supreme Leader in question is Ayatollah Khamenei, a totally different despot than the Ayatollah Khomeini but they do share the same barber. In response to the massive officially banned protests, Khamenei recanted his initial rubber stamp of the election and called upon the 12 member Council of Guardians to investigate the vote. Unh-hunh. Oh yeah. That’s going to help. Kind of like putting the 2000 Florida election into the impartial hands of one of the candidate’s brothers.

Of course, one big difference is, in Iran, when they talk about hanging chads, they’re not referring to cardboard punchouts, but foreign journalists named Chad. Pretty sure they have hanging Jeremys and hanging Rogers as well. Not to mention a soon to be veritable rash of hanging Mir Hosseins.

Will Durst is a San Francisco based political comic who writes sometimes. This is one of them.

Catch him at the Mason City Limits Comedy Club in Mason City, Illinois on Friday and Saturday June 26th & 27th. Go to mclimits.com or call 217.482.5233 for more details.

Or check out his Rooftop Comedy minutes at Rooftop Comedy.

Just a heads up. Taking the month of July off to write my little one- man show, “The Lieutenant Governor From the State of Confusion,” so you’ll get nothing till August. Have a great summer. Stay cool and dry and vertical. Or hot and wet and horizontal. Whichever works.

6.17.09

DC Pious Minvan

One of the biggest joys of the open road is its pure democracy... Bentleys and Pintos idling side by side at the same red light. Limos, BMWs, Fords and those little enh cars that look like they’ve been squashed between two big rigs, all subject to the same speed traps, congestion and potholes big enough to swallow locomotive engines. Valet attendants who can be reliably counted on to scrounge around gloveboxes for loose change while burning an eighth of an inch of rubber off of high end Pirellis and cheap Chinese retreads with total egalitarianism.

That is not to say that all cars are created equal. With the license comes the knowledge of which ones to avoid getting stuck behind driving uphill cross town in traffic. Elderly drivers wearing hats rank high on the list. Tinted glass is right up there, as well as any ride sporting bass vibrations rippling the back windows. Hummers most especially, but any gas guzzling SUV with their thick headed tank-like attitude clogging our paved arterials like permanent transfusions of liquid pork fat on wheels.

Conversely, there’s the Toyota Prius. It’s not the automobile that rankles. A sensible car. The car of tomorrow. Today! No, not the vehicle, rather the people in the drivers’ seats that make you want to drag a body out from behind the wheel and knock it in the head with giant plastic inflatable cartoon hammers and make “thunk, thunk, thunk” noises till the tolls come down. Political correctness and piloting a one and a half ton piece of sculpted steel traveling 88 feet per second go together like little league practice and freeway median strips.

These are the same people who 30 years ago drove VW Vans, and though they now wallow in luxury options such as antennas and floorboards, their former tenuous command of the road has disintegrated badly and they appear flummoxed by this new horsepower dealie thing. Not to mention, the quietude, which has to be unnerving. And isn’t it a shame these beautifully designed $25,000 MSRP Japanese machines arrived on our shores sans turn signals?

In addition, the Pious operator’s manual apparently comes folded inside some sort of secret deed granting sole possession of the entire road to the bearer. 57% of Prius drivers say they bought the car because “it makes a statement about me.” It’s all about them. Just like DC politicians, they exist in a special world where everyone else is invisible. A sentiment subtly reinforced by the way they misoperate the machinery.

But we cannot in good conscious anoint the Priutics with the imprimatur of Worst Drivers on the Road. That recognition has been meritoriously earned by the countless screeching veers caused by a vast fleet of clueless Minivan drivers shifting aimlessly across our byways. Prius drivers think they ARE the Messiah, but Minivan drivers know they have been charged with the greater responsibility of shepherding many tiny snot nosed Messiahs to and from band practice. Talk about mobile germ labs.

While Prius drivers make sane folk honk and curse and pound dashes in frustration due to turning left from the center lane and stopping for no apparent reason and refusing to turn right on red, minivan drivers will do all this, only slower AND you can’t see around them. What I’m saying is, if Toyota ever makes a Prius Minivan, do not even think of leaving your driveway. And if you live near DC when that happens, you best remain parked safely in bed.

Will Durst is a San Francisco based political comic who writes sometimes. This is one of them.

Or check out his Rooftop Comedy minutes at Rooftop Comedy.

6.9.09

Saint Taxes

The government has it all wrong. Yeah, yeah, I know. Who’s ever heard THAT before? “This Just In: Water Is Wet.” What’s got my knickers in a big old knotted ball the size of Kobe Bryant’s ego this time around is the age- old practice of politicians balancing their financial shortsightedness on the backs of the little guy. The little BAD guy. I’m talking about sin taxes. Of which I might be secreting a bit more firsthand outrage than the rest of you guys, since I’m pretty much that little bad guy everybody is talking about.

Oh yeah, I’m bad. I eat red meat. Often. And I drink and even smoke. Not so often, but still. Not much into sweets, but make up for it with the savories. Cheetos? Doritos? Kettle Brand Salt and Fresh Ground Pepper Krinkle Cut potato chips? You betcha. And what drives me nuttier than the pecan pie shelf at a truck stop off the I- 95 in Georgia is the self- righteous attitude these pillars of the community adopt while squeezing folks like me tighter than a two headed nickel in a vise grips.

We sin tax targets aren’t allowed to squawk either, because, well… we’re sinners. We’re expected to quietly cower in our greasy damp smoky donut crumb littered corner as they slap and gouge us for doing things every 4th grader knows oughtn’t be done. Like pouring stuff into our bodies that is used to wash the rust off of chrome bumpers. For cupping our hands over our ears making la la la noises whenever a nutritionist pops up on TV. And possessing less impulse control than a mountain lion in a fish market after closing time.

It may seem short term tempting, but I’m convinced these new liquor, cigarette and sodie pop surcharges are entirely the 180 degree wrong way to go. It’s a scientific fact that we degenerate reprobates kick off early. Hardly manage to crawl our way into our sixties. Just tip right over. Every time I eat, I can hear my arteries harden. And that’s what the government should be encouraging. It’s those darn health nuts that end up lingering. They’re the ones sucking up all our Social Security and Medicare money.

So I propose; instead of sin taxes, we go the other way around entirely, and institute a series of saint taxes. Holistic tariffs. Longevity levies. You want to live forever? Fine: pay for it. First we throw an excise fee onto fresh fruit. Subsidize distilleries. French fries and cigarettes are handed out like government cheese, but every six months you are required to apply to the DMV for a license to wear a seat belt. Joggers pay tolls based on GPS readouts in their shoes. Beer drinkers receive cash rebates for every six- pack consumed and cholesterol credits can be sold or traded.

Fast food vouchers are handed out on street corners to make up for tofu being illegal and asparagus only available by prescription. Water fountains are removed from public parks and replaced with salt licks. Possession of sunblock is a felony and the only place to get vitamins is from waitresses in jazz clubs. Stress is ladled out free of charge on a regular basis by the federal government. And finally, you can waltz into any bar in the country for nothing but are charged incredible amounts of money to see a doctor. This whole paradigm shift should be easy to implement, especially when you consider those last three, are already in place. Four, depending on how loosely you define the meaning of the word “vitamins.”

Will Durst is a San Francisco based political comic who writes sometimes. This is one of them.
Or check out his Rooftop Comedy minutes at Rooftop Comedy.

5.2.09

Sonia from the Block

The President revealed his nominee for the Supreme Court, selecting a 54 year- old daughter of Puerto Rican immigrants who had been elevated to The Second District Court by George H W Bush. And what a genius political move it was. Sonia Sotomayor: a woman AND a Hispanic. From the South Bronx. A Catholic with diabetes. Regrettably, it looks like the search for an albino midget lesbian unwed Buddhist Bangladeshi mother with a bum leg and lycanthropy fell just a wee bit short.

It was a mite disconcerting that President Obama came up with Justice David Souter’s replacement in about a quarter of the time that it took for him to choose the family dog. Of course that dog is destined to become an integral part of the First Family. And a choice they will have to live with for ten or twelve years. A Supreme Court Justice simply affects the country and the world for the rest of our natural born lives.

Although dogs and Associate Supreme Court Justices do share many commands. A judge must SIT on the bench. They STAY there for a lifetime. Tend to LIE DOWN at the first sight of a third rail issue. SPEAK only when questioning precedents. Clarence Thomas took a year and a half to HOUSE TRAIN. Antonin Scalia is a HEEL. Rumor has it John Paul Stevens’ law clerks regularly follow him around with a ROLLED UP NEWSPAPER. And generally all nine will BEG anytime they can FETCH a consensus.

Though they lack the votes to derail the nomination, Republicans will not ROLL OVER and PLAY DEAD. Their antagonism was evident even during the decision process. Qualms were expressed about the President’s use of the word “empathy” describing his search. It was interpreted as code for a radical left wing activist judge. Empathy, to these guys, is a pejorative. Well, there’s your problem right there. No wonder the GOP approval rating is lower than steel tipped fingernails on a schoolhouse blackboard.

A tape was discovered of Sotomayor riffing off a Sandra O’Connor quote, rhapsodizing about the hope that “a wise Latina woman with the richness of her experiences would more often than not reach a better conclusion than a white male who hasn’t lived that life,” and a chorus of Conservatives jumped so far down her throat only the soles of their shoes can be glimpsed wriggling at the ceiling in choreographed mock fury.

Thus they charge Sonia Sotomayor with racism. For suggesting white men are not the ultimate end- all be- all in this country. Admittedly, this accusation has not been leveled by any real elected Republicans; just the usual peanut gallery rejects of Coulter, Limbaugh, Gingrich and Tancredo. That’s right. Tom Tancredo accusing a Latina of being racist. You can't make stuff up like this. All the gas emitting from these blowhards is just another example of the Hummer calling the minivan annoying. What’s next? Bernie Madoff publicly complaining that the auto bailout math is suspect?

Their determination to escalate a confirmation fight has multiple motivations. 1. It’s necessary for the party to appear halfway relevant. 2. Combat provides an excellent opportunity to energize the base and raise money. 3. And most importantly; they can use the practice. Obstinacy, like a muscle, must be exercised.

Will Durst is a San Francisco based political comic who writes sometimes. This is one of them.
Or check out his Rooftop Comedy minutes at Rooftop Comedy.

5.25.09

Staycation Fun

It's harder than frozen bratwursts to believe we’ve reached the end of May already, but there it is- Memorial Day- delivering a swift kick in the buns to any lingering memory of a very ugly winter. And the mustard rises on another summer. Co- incidentally, gas prices continue to spike.. Again. Hey, alright. Just in time for travel season. What are the odds? Of course, none of us have the money to go anywhere. So, there is good news.

But we Americans would rather spread kim chee on a tofu hot dog at a dental office than give up our summer vacation. Even considering fiscal conditions that are uglier than naked rugby in the rain sponsored by the AARP. So, once again its time to trot out that old Chamber of Commerce chestnut: the Staycation.

We all know the program: Due to incredible brokeness, we go to great lengths to fool ourselves into thinking that we’re embarking on a festive pleasure trip while not actually traveling anywhere. Self- delusion as a budgetary exercise via local tourista escapading. A brave attempt to make lemonade out of surplus lemons infested with a greenish mold and spider mites.

The problem with most folks planning a Staycation, is they focus on all the high points of landmarks- visiting and unfrequented restaurant- frequenting but forget to include all the little moments that truly distinguish memorable holiday excursions. So allow me to help with a couple of handy hints to keep in mind when replicating the ultimate resort experience from the comfort of your own couch.

How to Perfect Your Family’s Fun Filled Staycation.

• Pack luggage like you’re really headed on a trip, then pick a piece to misplace for the duration. Rip off one end of a handle to complete the simulation.
• Duplicate inevitable airport delay by wasting four hours at a 7/ 11.
• Listen to Bjork’s Medulla CD on headphones at high volume as if the airlines sat you next to a screaming infant. Repeat.
• Sit on curb outside your house for 90 minutes because your room isn’t ready yet.
• First night of Staycation, drink way too much upon arrival and pass out on bathroom floor by 10 pm.
• Set alarm for 6 am to receive wake- up call for room next to yours. Knock on door at half hour intervals with cry of: “Housekeeping!”
• Remain in bed most of the first day because of third degree sunburn received after falling asleep at the beach.
• For full tropical experience, dump sand in your bed.
• Watch a pay- per- view movie, then refuse to pay for it, citing lousy reception.
• Ignore neighbors and friends by pretending you are your own long lost twin.
• Eat at a strange restaurant and grunt and point at the menu, unable to speak the native language even if it’s only Floridian.
• Grind broken staples into your carpeting before walking around in bare feet.
• Turn air conditioning off. It’s broken. Call imaginary maintenance man who never comes.
• Food poisoning. 3am. Sound like a match made in heaven? Oh, it is.
• Every two hours, burn sixty dollars.
• And finally, when time to end your Staycation, stuff all the soap and Kleenex and a towel into your bags.

Will Durst is a San Francisco based political comic who writes sometimes. This is one of them.

5.20.09

The Cheney Doctrine

I’m sick of torture. And the fact that we’re one of the countries way up there on the J.D. Powers annual “torture reliability” list makes me unwell as well. As does talking AROUND torture. What this country needs is an up front national referendum on whether we should or shouldn’t be torturing people. Oh wait. That’s right, we did have one. Last November 4th.

These aren’t your normal ordinary everyday forms of torture we’re talking about either: like 12th in line at a understaffed Starbucks or shuffling through life a Golden State Warriors fan or being forced to watch NBC’s prime time lineup against your will, I’m referring to real, state sponsored, “talk or we do something crazy” Jack Bauer on steroids kind of stuff.

The big difference being, Keifer Sutherland’s rascally television torturer gets most of his best results simply by raising his voice. “Are you going to talk?” “Never.” Compelling him to move in real close and yell in the dastardly scoundrel’s face: “ARE YOU GOING TO TALK NOW?” “Okay. Okay. I’ll talk. Just lower your voice. The kids are trying to sleep.”

Now we got Nancy Pelosi and the CIA exchanging torture lying charges. Don’t you hate it when lovers’ spats go public? The Republicans are gleefully sliding into the House Speaker cleats up because she has little of the President’s Teflon coating. To many Americans she’s that great aunt who smiles too much at Thanksgiving and always uses your full name when scolding you for poor quality table manners. “William, only cows chew with their mouths open.”

Even Dick Cheney has gotten into the act with a recent talk show offensive defending his administration’s torture policies. And as far as everybody in the nation who sees his face being mightily offended, he’s been successful. This is not a partisan thing. A National Journal poll of Republican insiders shows 57% of them think he’s hurting the party. So pretty much everybody agrees, Dick Cheney speaking on torture is redundant.

He called the enhanced interrogation techniques used at Gitmo regrettable but necessary. And you got to love that phrase: “enhanced interrogation techniques.” Sounds like instructions on how to turn on the fluorescents at a job interview. He’s not being tortured, he’s being solicited to provide easy answers to exceptionally difficult questions. In bad lighting. And those car battery cables attached to his nipples are “nervous system awareness amplifiers.”

What I don’t get is how anybody can defend waterboarding a single prisoner 183 times. Operationally, wouldn’t you think the effectiveness would start to wear off after about 60 or 70? What genius kept pushing, “I know we’ve gotten nothing the first couple hundred times here, but I got a hunch, this next time- we’re gold.” Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me 183 times, shame on me. As my daddy always said: 183rd time’s the charm.

The best way Dick Cheney can help this country is to creep back to that undisclosed location of his, and maybe take Joe Biden with him. Still haven’t figured out why Cheney is so obsessed with selling the positive merits of torture. Though there is that old axiom about one man’s torture being another man’s S&M turn- on, so maybe that explains more about the Cheney Doctrine than we really need to know. TMI. You want torture? Dick Cheney in fishnets. Try to pry that image out of your mind.

Will Durst is a San Francisco based political comic who writes sometimes. This is one of them.
Check out his Rooftop Comedy minutes at Rooftop Comedy.

5.12.09

First 110 Days

We sort of skipped past President Obama’s first 100 days last week due to the looming horror of the dreaded SWINE FLU EPIDEMIC, which now looks about as lethal as your average bunny rabbit furball contagion. Although people do continue to flip out, like Egypt, which slaughtered nearly Every Pig in the Country. But fear not, Anne Coulter was nowhere near the joint at the time. All I’m saying is don’t expect BLTs to show up on the daily specials menu at your favorite Cairo deli.

So let us belatedly jump into this whole 100 day retrospective dealie thing, which recently became a heavy duty benchmark of real importance, because, hey: TRIPLE DIGITS. The media has dutifully kept us informed upon the significance of this monumental occasion and have not used their indoor voice while doing so. But this space will address the first one hundred and TEN days of the Obama administration, hence OUR look back will be 10% more accurate. 10% more comprehensive. 10% better. By being 10% later.

Exactly how has the fourth Democratic administration since 1968 fared in its first 110 days? Unh. Well. You know. About what you’d expect, I guess. Depends on whom you talk to. Not a lot of agreement. General consensus is: “too early to tell.” Or as my knock- off discounted Magic 8 Ball said when consulted: “Still not cleahr. Outlok cloudy. Try again alter.”

Some experts proclaim the 44th President has done brilliantly under adverse circumstances. Others blame him for everything gone wrong with the planet in the last 3 months including the unusually high, late spring upper Midwest humidity. Unfortunately, that vaunted Bipartisan Outreach Program was about as successful as barbed wire crib rails. As they say in Variety and exceptionally frantic frog restaurants: “no legs.”

Neither is Barack getting what you would call your major assistance from either side of the aisle. “We want to work with the President.” Mmm- hmm. The same way a starving coyote wants to work with a nest of baby ducks. One discouraging word circulating the Beltway accuses the Chief Executive of being arrogant, but you know what, at least he’s smart. Because we tried arrogant and stupid and that didn’t work.

From a comedic stand- point, I’m severely disappointed. The foremost scandal thus far has been couple of Cabinet appointments that didn’t want to pay their taxes. Which most of us can relate to. Problem is, Bush was a satirical motherlode and even Clinton hit the ground running as a corpulent womanizer. But Obama is smoother than liquid black velvet affording little purchase to hook a barb onto. Besides, you can’t mock hope. Too much like kicking a small furry whimpering thing with big eyes. Got to wait for hope to scab over a bit.

Not to mention the economy being more fragile than a spun glass step- ladder, so pretty much everyone not named Rush Limbaugh is rooting for him to succeed. But with pirates and pandemics and Pakistan all set on High Menace, the job ahead looks tougher than untying a centipede’s shoe laces while wearing oven mitts. Which is bad for the nation, the world, the planet and the solar system, but good fodder for us political comics. Of course, at this point, we members of the CCJU (Comics, Clowns & Jesters Union,) just might be wiling to take one for the team.

Will Durst is a San Francisco based political comic who writes sometimes. This is one of them.
Check out his Rooftop Comedy minutes at Rooftop Comedy.

5.20.09

The Cheney Doctrine

Will Durst is a San Francisco based political comic who writes sometimes. This is one of them.
Check out his Rooftop Comedy minutes at Rooftop Comedy minutes at Rooftop Comedy.

5.2.09

Not So Frequently Asked Questions About The Swine Flu

Q. What is swine flu?
A. A respiratory disease caused by a type A influenza virus that has mutated into H1N1, and is currently terrorizing the globe. Don’t you read the papers?

Q. What are these papers you speak of? Poor President Obama. Everything happens on his watch. Does he have the worst job in the world right now?
A. Perhaps a close second to Mexico’s Minister of Tourism. That you wouldn’t wish on the CEO of AIG.

Q. Just because of the swine flu?
A. Well, yes, and the earthquakes and the drug wars. Earlier this year, school administrators warned college kids not to spring break south of the border because of the beheadings.

Q. That’s a problem for college students?
A. Nothing chills a tropical surf buzz like a beach full of headless corpses.

Q. Kids today are soft.
A. Let’s move on.

Q. Can I contract the swine flu from eating pork?
A. No, you cannot get swine flu from eating pork. It’s an airborne, not a food- borne disease.

Q. What about bacon?
A. No. You can’t get swine flu from eating pork. Or bacon. Or pork chops. Or honey glazed pork tenderloin. Or Corky’s Memphis style baby back ribs. Or pork lips and linoleum. Or grilled ham and gouda on sun dried tomato focaccia. Or pickled pigs’ feet.

Q. How about pork rinds?
A. (Deep sigh) Yes. You can get it from pork rinds. Stay away from those.

Q. Should I keep my children out of school?
A. Please, no. Your kids are going to need all the help they can get.

Q. Didn’t we just go through this a couple years ago?
A. That was the H5N1 virus. The bird flu. This is H1N1, swine flu. Birds — Swine: different.

Q. What ever happened with that whole bird flu thing?
A. Not much. A few folks got the urge to go to the bathroom standing on a statue.

Q. Shouldn’t that experience have given us a head start with response to this outbreak?
A. Well, it certainly primed the panic pump.

Q. What’s the difference between a pandemic and an epidemic?
A. A pandemic is a bunch of little epidemics. Think bouquet and flowers.

Q. Many Governors have declared a state of emergency but caution people not to be alarmed. Isn’t that sending mixed messages?
A. Yes. And no.

Q. What’s the best way to avoid getting the swine flu?
A. Wash your hands.

Q. What are you, my mom?
A. Can I help it if your mother was right? By the way, Mother’s Day… Sunday the 10th.

Q. What about those masks I see people wearing? Can they help?
A. Can’t hurt. Just take them off when you sneeze.

Q. Can I get swine flu from petting pigs on a farm?
A. No US pig has been found with the disease. Who pets pigs?

Q. Can my pot bellied pig contract the swine flu virus and give it to me?
A. No, you can’t get it from domestic pigs, I just told you that. Are you listening?

Q. Why do they call it the swine flu then?
A. They don’t. It is now officially SOIV.

Q. What’s that?
A. Swine Originated Influenza Virus. This way, we keep from defaming our proud American factory pig farms.

Q. Any other brilliant advice?
A. Don’t drink the ice water you’re cooling your Coronas in.

Will Durst is a San Francisco based political comic who writes sometimes. This is one of them.
Please check out his video Burst of Durst Rooftop Comedy minutes at Roof Top Comedy.

4.27.09

I Hate Earth Day

I hate Earth Day. I’m serious. It makes my head hurt. Pours buckets full of tiredness into my soul. 40 years of watching it slowly transform from a vibrant subversive movement to an ineffectual Hallmark holiday has sucked all the energy out of me. We’re approaching President’s Day here in terms of vapid commercialization. This little hippie girl got tarted up like a hooker on shore leave payday with parades and coupons and big box stores stocking aisles to bridge the holiday purchasing gap between yellow Marshmallow Peeps and red white and blue Sparklers. “Earth Day Candy. 100% Organic Sugar. It’s green!”

I’m worn out by people so busy proving they’re planet friendly, they end up spraining their own arms patting themselves on the backs for barely remembering to throw an empty beer bottle at a blue bin. And missing. For flaunting their extreme green commitment with a personalized embroidered hemp shopping bag swinging provocatively to the front door of the Park and Rob from the back hatch of an SUV.

I’m sick of the politicians. All of them. The supposedly sympathetic ones, staging their sanctimoniously phony photo- ops in front of CGI forest glens, while their staff is under strict orders to do everything in their power to stall environmental reform to the point of arguing about punctuation. And the unsympathetic ones simply wear me out, expressing their smirking faux concern over the larger problem of cow flatulence.

I’m way weary of the corporations weaseling their way into our wallets with nonsense as transparent as the curtains at Grey Gardens. “Earth Day, brought to you by Dow Chemical. Without whom this event would neither be possible, nor necessary. Co- sponsored by Mobil- Exxon. Spanning the globe to find new ways to teach fish to breathe oil.”

And you know who just drains me? Those big hotels shoving their laminated cardboard placards into our faces from the top of the bathroom sink with the sole design of instilling guilt. “We here at Acme Rest want to see the burrowing barn owl smile. So don’t make us wash your sheets. Oh sure, you can have new towels if you want. You’ll kill Bambi’s mom. Its up to you.” Hey, I just want new towels from the previous guy. Is that going to be a problem?

The naysayers? These people are exhausting. You’d think that since Obama had rescued the fair damsel Science from 8 long years of Executive dungeon darkness, that people would at least say nice things about her hair. You’d be wrong. “We don’t know what’s causing the greenhouse effect. You’re costing jobs.” As opposed to costing lives. Then the idiots keep lighting matches to see how high the pool of gasoline has risen. Hey! Your shoes are wet. What else you need to know?

Al Gore puts me to sleep and Prius drivers make me want to plotz. Not the Prius. The drivers. The EPA? I get drowsy just thinking about them. With their impenetrable lack of bark and bite and teeth and the same goes for the media who can’t even get worked up for one freaking day a year and yeah, that also means me. As I said, I hate Earth Day. But you know what? It sure as hell beats the alternative.

Will Durst is a San Francisco based political comic who writes sometimes. This is one of them.
Please check out his video Burst of Durst Rooftop Comedy minutes at Roof Top Comedy.

4.18.09

Arrgh Diplomacy

It’s bad enough Obama has to juggle two wars while scrubbing the floor of the White House trying to clean up the domestic mess left by the previous tenant, but as soon as he looks out the door, what does he see… pirates. That’s right. Pirates. And no, I’m not talking left handed relievers from Pittsburgh or a limo full of Bernie Madoff wannabes or some Hong Kong cartel peddling bootleg copies of The Watchmen sequel. Actual bilge sucking pirates. With guns and boats and rum and Davy Jones’s Locker and everything. Wouldn’t be surprised to find out they’re brandishing scabbards and cutlasses in possession of a motley selection of wooden prosthetics as well. Shiver me timbers.

You all know the story. A US ship, the Maersk Alabama, on its way from Djibouti to Mombassa, filled with relief supplies, is attacked by two boatloads of scallywags. That’s right. These guys tried to hijack a boat full of relief supplies. They’re not just pirates, they’re BAD pirates. The US Navy surrounds them, and they try calling other pirates for help, but of course no one comes, because, me hearties, THEY’RE PIRATES. And then they got out- sea dogged by a group of landlubbing Navy Seals. And there was a happy ending. Especially for the rescued captain. Less so for the pirates. They were ship out of luck.

These sea bandits have terrorized the waters around the Horn of Africa since the beginning of Somalia’s civil war back in the 90s, boarding ships and holding them for ransom. Last year, it is estimated they were able to leverage over 100 million dollars in ransom, which ain’t bad booty. A lot of doubloons. Pieces of eight o’plenty. Abdullah Lami, a pirate currently holding a Greek ship hostage, vowed revenge. “We will retaliate for the killings of our men.” Dude. Avast. You are a pirate. This is not new news. Retaliation is in ye job description. As is pillaging and keelhauling and walking the plank. Thems that dies is the lucky ones.

Hillary Clinton threatened to hang em all from the yardarm, but a pirate doesn’t fear tough talk, only a bigger badder pirate. Now Obama may look good with his shirt off, the question is, how does he look in a ruffled shirt? And hoop earrings? I think he should stop shaving and convince his staff to refer to him as Blackbeard. Even if the whiskers come in gray, it still works on a couple of levels. Then we buy the Secretary of State a bird to perch on her shoulder. And encourage Joe Biden to appear in public wearing an eye patch. That could even be the real reason behind this week’s Executive Caribbean visit. We’re going to Pirate School. “Buckle your swash in six easy lessons.” Where are our buccaneers? Under our bucking hat.

This was the first time a president was forced to act against piracy on the high seas since Jefferson sent the Marines to the shores of Tripoli. Hence the song. The halls of Montezuma had something to do with tequila, I think. Or an epidemic of bad burritos. 21st century pirates. What’s next: scurvy? Who knew that piracy was a legitimate career track? Besides banking CEOs I mean. Can’t wait for the Vikings and Visigoths to make a comeback. Oh that’s right, they have, only now they call themselves Teabaggers. Talk about arrgh.

Will Durst is a San Francisco based political comic who writes sometimes. This is one of them.

Please check out his video Rooftop Comedy minutes at Roof Top Comedy.

4.4.09

A Little B–12 from the G–20

The excitement is palpable. G-20 Mania has swept the country like blue mold on dead fruit in the crisper bin of an abandoned refrigerator. Especially amongst the 18 Americans aware that the G- 20 is a meeting of the leaders of the world’s top economic nations and not a Bingo call. It may be officially known as the G- 20 Leaders’ Summit on Financial Markets and the World Economy, but it’s more of a potluck dinner for the gated community of the planet’s yuppie nations (the ones to whom dentistry is not unfamiliar) and the casserole of hope and negotiation President Obama carried overseas to London went over a smash: like tuna fish tea biscuits at a cat show.

Make no mistake about it, the G-20 includes some heavy schtarkers. Together, the assembled represented 2/3rds of the world population and 85% of global gross national product. 19 big time important type countries plus the European Union and this year’s special guests: Spain and the Netherlands. Not to mention a whole mess of other countries who either slipped the door guy a wad of Euros or hopped over the velvet rope while security was distracted by a particularly tasty order of fish and chips.

You know how people get. Always trying to show off by crashing parties they think they should have been invited to. “Hey babe, want to be in the thick of some major diplomatic mix? Got a nice dress? Come with me to the G- 20. I can get us an audience with the Queen or we can wave at Michelle.”

There’s some question as to how many delegations actually decamped in England for this Ambassadorial Set Burning Man: estimates range from 21 all the way to 28. Why is it called it the G- 20 then? Nobody knows. As we can deduce from the situation in which the world finds itself currently mired, math is not our strong suit. Most likely, another suggestion from the same guy who convinced global bankers they could keep selling increasingly risky subprime mortgages to each other for all eternity.

Despite the tortured arithmetic, the G- 20 is not necessarily two and a half times better than the G- 8, scheduled for its annual summer junket this July in La Maddalena, Italy. (just what Italy needs, more plump tourists in July) Besides, the way these things work, the smaller the group, the better chance of achieving anything more consequential than choosing whether the caterer serves creamy or deli style cole slaw at lunch. Say what you will about dictators, they are serenely unencumbered by a paralyzing concern for consensus.

The G-Twenty-Somethings did institute a couple cosmetic financial reforms and supposedly negotiated (deep breath) “a new set of rules for oversight, transparency and conduct for offshore tax havens as part of a broader effort to overhaul the regulatory structure of the world economy.” Yeah. That’ll work. CNN’s closing ceremonies screen bug, “Saving The World,” might have been a bit premature is all I’m saying.

The festivities did wrap with a flourish of glad- handing and syrupy platitudes covered by an over- abundance of “blue skies straight ahead.” But maybe that’s what we need most right now. A planetary panacea placebo; like swallowing Echinacea at the first sign of liver failure. Can’t hurt. And if that’s all that came out of this confab: a global shot of B- 12 from the G- 20, fine. One thing in optimism’s favor. Its free.

Will Durst is a San Francisco based political comic who writes sometimes. This is one of them.

Please check out his Rooftop Comedy minutes: RoofTop Comedy.

3.27.09

Stuff a Sanitary Sock in It

Oh for crum’s sake. Settle down people. You’re fixated. You’ve inflated this whole steroids thing into a national obsession. Suddenly, steroids are the root of all evil. An Al Qaeda trick designed to devastate Democracy from within. No. That’s not it. It’s athletes trying to cover Father Time’s spread. The average Major League Baseball career is 5.6 years long. If you’re going to make it, better start today. And be willing to do whatever it takes. Especially after Marvin Bernard and Fernando Tatis start going long.

This unhealthy obsession has all the earmarks of payback. Face it: your average baseball writer is smarter than your average ball player. Better educated. Reads more books. Some without pictures in them. Watches PBS. On purpose. And yes, they know they’re smarter and the players probably do too, but demonstrate little, if any, respect; residing at the top of the heap of the cream of the crop of the modern gladiator business.

Try to remember how star athletes got treated back in high school. Now multiply that by a gazilliondy, and substitute free money for test answers and sculpted siliconed strippers for cheerleaders. Pampered their entire lives, these guys never possess a single second’s doubt as to whose existence is more exalted. Theirs. Which is why the girls, the money, the agents, the money, the fame and the money, all seek them out. For 5.6 years and beyond.

Because these grown boys are Mount Olympus’ inheritors, they treat the pesky inquisitive, know- it- all, four- eyed, 8 year old Taurus- driving scribes like spit. And they do. Mocking them. Loudly. In their less than delicate jockular way. In front of the whole locker room. And pretty much do everything in their power to make the sportswriters jobs harder. Not all of them. Not all the time. And not necessarily intentionally. But one guy, once, accidentally, is all it takes to trigger a long dormant stereotype from the formative days of Wedgie City South’s class of ‘whenever.’

With steroids, however, the worm has not only turned but grown teeth and is threatening to chew up the record book and the Hall of Fame. How else to explain the intensity of the outrage? You know what? It’s a game. Everybody’s looking for an edge. Kids are taught; “If you’re not cheating, you’re not trying.” Race car teams lighten loads. Football coaches rip off signals. Hockey players knock out their own teeth to look meaner.

Also, why is the anger focused on a few players and not on MLB itself, which knew what was going on and did nothing about it? Oh, I forgot, they didn’t know. Yeah, right. And Formica is edible. Get off it. Everybody knew. I knew. My wife knew. My Aunt Hoogolah knew. And she don’t play. Much. Anymore. In 1998, there was a bottle of Androstenedione lurking in the back of Mark McGwire’s locker during TV interviews. And the Commissioner didn’t know? Then he’s dumb as a stump and should be put out of his misery with a shot to the back of the head with a splintered maple bat.

The sins of Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens and Alex Rodriguez have received more attention than all the banking irregularities of the past five years put together and right about now, I’m kind of wishing all those investigative reports had switched focus. So give it a rest, would you? Especially with Easter so close; when Christ comes out of the cave, sees his shadow and baseball season starts. And for a brief shining moment, every fan’s October dreams are renewed. Hey, if the Brewers and Tampa Bay can make the playoffs, anything is possible. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Some players cheated and lied. We know. Now shut up and play ball.

Eternal optimist and San Francisco political comedian Will Durst’s seats at AT&T Park are in section 110. Giants and Yankees in October. ‘62 all over again. Except the ending.

And check out the Burst of Durst 60 minute News Broadcasts at RoofTop Comedy.

3.13.09

The Baby Steps Blues

Excuse me, but I got a couple of questions. What’s the damn deal? The hell happened? Am I missing something? I mean, come on, Barack Obama assumed office almost two entire complete whole months ago and I look in the paper and guess what? Equivalence. The war in Iraq… rages on; Global warming… continuing hotness. AND in case you haven’t noticed, the economy… major suckage with the emphasis on the uck. The hell is up with that? I thought we were in line for some change. This sounds like a serious case of the old same old same old. The biggest difference since January 20th is Rush Limbaugh now dresses like a Sopranos Family hit man and his head has gotten bloatier. If that’s possible.

And now Mister Smarty Pants Commander- in- Chief is talking about how any significant improvement is going to take time. “Don’t expect too much too soon.” Oh yeah, great. Change, but small change. Nickels and pennies and dimes. Maybe one of his advisors should remind him that his constituents are not an incremental people. Rather, we have the attention span of hickory ash in a wind tunnel. In the land of “too much is not enough,” tomorrow is too far into the future by at least two days.

This “baby steps” approach is definitely not what people had in mind last November. Pretty sure folks were thinking more along the lines of something wonderful right away. Snap some fingers. Wave some wands. Tall buildings being leapt in a single bound. The righteous smiting of foes. Who can take a sunrise, sprinkle it with dew, cover it with chocolate and a miracle or two? The President can. The President can, ‘cause he mixes it with love and makes the world taste good. And why did we think that? ‘Cause Obama done told me.

We should be waking up right now swimming in sunshine and rainbows and Mylar balloons. Instead; storm clouds all around, and its raining bailouts and bank failures and bedbugs. I’m not kidding. Bedbugs have made a comeback. In the USA. That’s a straight shot of third world right there my friends. I think I would have remembered hearing anything in his stump speeches about bedbugs. What’s next: cholera? Yellow fever? River blindness? Angelina Jolie adopting domestically?

How long are we supposed to wait before the President kisses boo- boo and makes everything all better? Another month? Five weeks? Five weeks and two days? I know. I know. I know. It took longer than sixty days to get us into this mess, it’ll probably take sixty more to get us out of it. But after his first sixty days, FDR had ended Prohibition, vanquished the Depression and was two thirds of the way into world peace, until that spoilsport Fuhrer came along.

Maybe the problem is geographic. After all the District of Columbia was built on a swamp. Kind of hard to hit the ground running when your landing ramp has the consistency of She Crab Soup. Not to mention all the potholes, rolls of red tape and barbed wire the opposition thoughtfully installed as welcoming gifts. Knowing this, I still don’t care. I just want better. No, scratch that. I want best. And I want best right now. And as an American I’m perfectly within my rights to keep complaining, wee, wee, wee, all the way home. So I will.

Will Durst is the political comic who writes sometimes. This is one of them.

Check out the book: The All American Sport of Bipartisan Bashing, available from Amazon.

3.06.09

Bye American

Can we stop with the waving of the sharp instruments for a minute and speak rationally to this whole ugly recession mess we find ourselves currently mired in? C’mon. You know what recession mess I’m talking about. You’re packing a bag lunch and taking mass transit to visit the public library to use their ancient computer to check out the job classifieds on Craigslist for crum’s sake. Yeah, THAT recession mess. Well, you’ll be glad to hear we’ve positively identified the bad guys responsible for this meltdown and they end up having awfully familiar faces.

Go ahead. Guess who’s to blame? No, not the subprime mortgage brokers or Bernie Madoff and his ilk or those reverse Robin Hood hedgefund speculators throwing trillions of dollars worth of derivatives around like paper towels at a chili cheese dog eating competition. Nope. The dastardly bums that created the world wide financial crisis is… us. That’s right. You and me. And I hope we’re happy.

For making former Silicon Valley start up CFOs toil as Indian casino valets.. For driving down the price of 2 year old Porsche Boxters to the level of a 96 Taurus with a blown head gasket. For forcing casseroles and meatloaf onto the menus of 3 star Michelin chefs. It’s all our fault. And how are we doing it? By not buying enough stuff. Damn us anyway. How dare we?

Who cares whether we’re employed or not? Don’t we realize we are the pistons that drive the free market engine? It’s our God- given patriotic duty to go out there and buy stuff we don’t need with money we don’t have to impress people we don’t like. We don’t do easy. We do compulsory.

Remember how good it felt to buy that brand new DVD we had no intention of ever watching? Aren’t you just itching to tear the shrink- wrap off of something with your teeth right now? Anybody can conspicuously consume when things are going well and money geysers from the ground like it did between the Bushes. It takes a true retail soldier to run up credit card bills when banks are raising interest rates so high, it would not be too far off the mark for them to utilize a dorsal fin as a logo.

I wouldn’t get this squishy if I wasn’t seeing pubescent girls get punched in the gut with our selfish frugality. Girl Scout Cookie sales have sunk to levels not seen since Jimmy Carter was scolding us while wearing cardigans. The Girl Scouts! Okay, that’s it. I don’t know which of you commie pinko yellow rat cretinous toads managed to hypnotize the rest of us into believing we’re so broke we can’t afford a couple of measly packages of Thin Mints, but you’ve gone too far. You fiend. How soon before we take out our parsimonious wrath on the innocent producers of Sham- Wow and Snuggie?

Ladies and gentlemen, I implore you; open your wallets. Ask yourself, “what would Paris Hilton do?” It doesn’t matter what you buy. A Jonas Brothers lunch box. A $75 grass fed, hand massaged, Kobe beef porterhouse steak, bathed in boysenberry infused truffle butter. A 96 piece Limited Edition Pewter Napkin Ring Set in the shape of the characters from the Lord of the Rings. Ford. Besides, this isn’t about you and me people. This isn’t about America. This isn’t about Detroit. This is about the Girl Scouts.

Will Durst is the political comic who writes sometimes. This is one of them...

Catch Durst blogging live from the Masters Tournament in Augusta Ga, April 6th- 12th. Masters.org.

And the book: The All American Sport of Bipartisan Bashing, available from Amazon.

2.26.09

The Tomorrow Speech

Barack Obama’s initial foray into that belly of the beast known as a joint session of Congress was nothing less than a resounding… semi- success. Sort of. It wasn’t quite a State of the Union Address. His Inaugural pre- empted that. You get one or the other. That’s the rule. This was a State of the Union Address Lite. With only 60% of the expectations of your normal State of the Union Address. A pseudo SOTU, if you will.

Stepping into the den of 535 lions, (okay, 534 and Roland Burris,) the new President proved himself to be a worthy equal to Ronald Reagan when it comes to lofty unbridled optimism. Which is good. Because he spent most of his first thirty days warning us about the true state of the economy. Which is bad. Really bad. Oh don’t get me wrong, it could be worse. So far, no nostril leeches. Fingers crossed.

Obama used the forum to echo Fed Chair Ben Bernanke’s assertion that we could easily emerge from our financial crisis in two years if we just get this banking mess under control. Oh, is that all? You might as well say: “we can marry the princess and live happily ever after, as long as we kill that pesky pack of three headed dragons smoking on the drawbridge.. And all we got in our pockets is a couple of expired credit cards, a bent rubber paper clip, 43¢ in change and some green lint.” Then again, who knows? Maybe we elected ourselves President MacGyver.

One small problem with The Blueprint For The Future is a distinct lack of those pretty skinny white lines on it. But this speech wasn’t about specifics. It was a halftime pep talk from a coach whose team is down by 4 touchdowns. “Don’t you know who we think we are? We’re America dammit. When we say we’re going to kick some serious innovative butt, you can bet the wind farm that we will. And the rest of the world better damn well get out of our way.” He even called for sacrifice. Which to Americans is the equivalent of saying “nostril leeches.”

In the peanut gallery, Nancy Pelosi bounced up and down rooting on Team Obama like a cheerleader whose Gatorade had been spiked with No- Doz. All she was missing was a pleated skirt and some pom- poms. And Joe Biden filled the role of court jester again by allowing himself to be the butt of the President’s jokes. He’s becoming the Tommy Smothers of the new Administration. “The public always liked you best.”

Right now, the President’s approval rating is Teflonizing everything he touches. One of those instant polls revealed that almost every single Democrat and 1 out of every 4 Republicans were inspired by Obama’s 52 minute colorized impersonation of FDR. Although considering his unremittingly upbeat performance, I see him more in the mold of that other populist Depression Era hero, Annie: “The sun’ll come out tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar. That tomorrow, there’ll be sun.” A sun that is going to solve all our energy needs. And oh yeah, did I mention, we’re going to cure cancer. Tomorrow. Of course, as they say in the song. That darn tomorrow… it's always a day away.

Will Durst is the political comic who writes sometimes. This is one of them...

He'll be blogging live from the Masters Tournament in Augusta Ga, April 6th- 12th. Masters.org.

2.21.09

The Best Cabinet Money Can’t Buy

It was weird to hear the words that flew out of Barack Obama’s mouth when asked to comment on one of the four or five or FORTY of his Cabinet appointments that were forced to pull out before their confirmation hearings commenced.

“I screwed up.”

Unh. Yeah. You did. Big time. Like you were brandishing a Phillips head the size of an eighteen- wheeler mounted on six- story scaffolding surrounding bevel gear teeth normally used to rotate observatories. But how nice to hear you admit it. Not to disparage any of your predecessors, but it’s a refreshing citrusy change, if you know what I mean and I know you do.

Now, obviously it's not the President’s fault when his staff selects candidates less qualified for a Cabinet position than a Catholic convent receptionist meets the criteria for bouncer in a biker bar, but for crum’s sake, dude, you got to start vetting the people you got vetting people for you. You know what I mean. Get someone you trust to vet the people you have vetting the people who are in charge of vetting your appointments. Or you could even… nah, that should be good enough.

Two Secretary of Commerce nominees have slunk away like hyenas chastised from a zebra carcass by a pride of dusty lionesses. Governor Bill Richardson, a Democrat under investigation for doing something bad. Pissing off the Clintons, I think it was. The other was Senator Judd Gregg, a Republican under suspicion of pissing off other Republicans by being part of a Cabinet with a Clinton in it. So, once again, it’s all about the Clintons. Which is just the way they like it.

Gregg had decided to take the job only if the Democratic Governor of the Granite State agreed to appoint a Republican in his stead. Which is not a deal. Because deal making is a bad thing and can get you impeached. This was a good thing. Similar to a deal, but different in so many subtle yet vital ways.

The new Secretary of the Treasury, Tim Geithner, forgot to pay his taxes and now he’s in charge of the Department in charge of the IRS. So we got that going for us. From this day forward, any of us gets busted for any sort of tax irregularity, all we got to do is whip out a picture of the Sec Treas and say- “Just following the big guy’s lead.” And if you believe that, then let me introduce you to my good friend Bernie Madoff, who is going to make us a bundle.

Finally, former Senator Tom Daschle told the press he was sorry he didn’t pay his taxes. $128,000 worth of sorry. Now I don’t know much, but I’m pretty sure once you get three digits left of the comma, “sorry” doesn’t cut it anymore. No wonder the Democrats are so adamant about how the rich don’t want to pay taxes. It’s a knowledge that stems from personal experience.

Of course, this could all be just a clever ploy by the Obama folks to raise money. See, the deal is, they appoint a whole series of deadbeats who are forced to pay their back taxes and pretty soon this whole stimulus thing is totally covered. Next up: Wesley Snipes for Commerce, Chuck Berry for Interior and Willie Nelson for Agriculture. Who will change the Department motto to: “Smoke em if you got em.” Advice the President may be taking to heart on the South Lawn as we speak.

2.14.09

Tax Cut Zombies from The Planet No!

It is the stuff of nightmares. Hear the shabby shuffle of their soft somnambulant stutter and your skin begins to crawl. To see their haunted hollow eyes on the cable news shows taking no notice of their surroundings is a spiral straight into terror. The worst part is the cries of the children as they cower behind couches, hands over their ears blocking out the monotonous intonations of the mind numbing mantra- “Tax Cuts. Tax Cuts. Tax Cuts.” They are the Tax Cut Zombies from the Planet No!, and they are not of this earth. Okay, maybe they are, but they sure don’t live in the real world.

Citizens of America, stay in your homes. The Minority leadership has unleashed their legions of virtual undead to battle the White House’s economic stimulus package with a soul sapping single- mindedness and they’re still out there. “Tax cuts- good. Spending- bad.” The slogan echoes mournfully off of marble as the empty husks of conservative humanity stumble through the halls of Congress with heavy plodding steps and outstretched arms lurching from microphone to microphone.

It is a purely defensive tactic borne of panicky desperation as the GOP recoils from the horror of their first Congressional- Executive confrontation in 14 years lacking relevance. In the House, they stood as an impenetrable wall of flesh, with not a single vote for the plan coming from their ranks. And the only three Senators to cross the aisle were the two ladies from Maine, who in the privacy of their own homes, are rumored to dress up as Democrats, and Arlen Specter, who pulled a Blagojevich, trading his support for inclusion of a pet project. But a good pet project. As opposed to all those bad pet projects. Which get called pork. By the pigs. Go figure.

In a courageous attempt to find common ground, Barack Obama risked infection from the mindless drones, meeting them en masse; yet not a single soul was able to summon the will to escape from the voodoo spell placed by Rep. John Boehner (R- Hell). He’s a powerful sorcerer who fuels his entranced hordes by reading aloud fragments of the sacred ancient texts of Ronald Reagan. No one knows how these pitiable wretches slid into these depths of depravity. It might have been their penchant for playing hardball and simultaneous disinclination to don helmets.

Repelled by light and logic and with no thought for food, water or self- preservation through long- range sustainable employment opportunities via shovel- ready infrastructure investment, the dull unthinking brainwashed shells sense their strength is in numbers and clutch together in a pack through Media- Land marching to the beat of a non- existent drummer. The most frightening aspect is not the glee they take in their current state, but how good they are at it. Like they were spawned to drag their feet.

But even though the Chief Executive may have successfully dodged the slow moving reanimated ghouls that are the Tax Cut Zombies from the Planet No!, his learning curve has barely begun to arc. For soon he will inevitably encounter the dark forces of equally if not more terrifying inhuman threats such as: the Lobbyist Vampires of Capitol Hill. American Werewolves in Baghdad.. The Ethanol Children of the Corn. Nightmare on Wall Street. The Return of the Son of the Bride of Frankenstein’s Social Security Meltdown. The Texas Oil Profits Chainsaw Massacre. The Night of the Living General Accounting Office Estimates. And Aliens 12,000,000. In Congress, no one can hear you negotiate. No, they can’t.

2.10.09

Triggering a Silent Scream

The President is not what you call dim. He’s obviously aware the only thing worse than a bleakening economy is a bleakening economy where the most depressed of us are forced to watch the least depressed of us get handed eight figure bonuses. And no, that’s not counting the two figures to the right of the decimal point. It’s one thing to be supplementing your diet with discount cat food. It’s another thing to have your nose rubbed into the tiny tins by the people responsible for compelling you to munch on the Meow Mix.

So, St. Barack made a big deal of reassuring the public that at least a modicum of accountability will exist on his watch by announcing a cap on executive salaries for the banks that want to be part of the government bailout. And the number of banks that are looking to be part of the government bailout is approximately… all of them. Times two.

In retrospect, it’s not difficult to figure out why all these trusted financial institutions went belly up. The people they got running those things have the same sense that god gave a beach pail full of green plastic Easter grass. Proved to be more self- centered than the backstage bathroom mirror at a Debutantes Ball in the Hamptons. Crazier than naked flagpole sitters in a blizzard.

They bought into their own Tom Wolfe “Masters of the Universe” BS. Mesmerized by the siren song of a little thing called unregulated greed, which ended up sucking them drier than a four- day dead possum on an interstate outside Tucson. Making them weep and keen and cry that it was up to us to bail them out or all hell was going to break loose, and we, like the large mouth suckers we are, snapped at the bait. Pulling muscles in our rear haunches rushing to give them palettes full of cash before our retirement accounts retired for good.

So what do they do with all our bailout money? Help out society and homeowners by fixing the sub- prime mess they created? What are you, nuts? They spent it on themselves. AIG arranged a little spa vacation at a Ritz- Carlton.. Citigroup tried to buy a $50 million corporate jet then put their name on a stadium. Wells Fargo planned a staff retreat in Vegas to “recognize team members by emphasizing their value to the company.” Recognize their value to the company? The company’s broke. You could recognize that value with a shovel, a six- foot hole and a pointy stick.

AND despite their worst year since Hoover, Wall Street passed around 18 billion dollars in bonuses. To the exact same idiots steering our grocery carts down the pet food aisle in the first place. Who will undoubtedly find loopholes the size of Saskatchewan in the President’s edicts, but, at this point, like the size of the Valentine, it’s the thought that counts. Even if only one guy gets his hands slapped, it's ten more red knuckles than we’ve seen in 97 months.

What we’ve been experiencing is bank robbery in reverse. The perps didn’t even bother wearing masks. And triggered absolutely no silent alarms. The problem is, those security cameras in the lobby are pointing the wrong way. You should do what I do. Now, every time I make a deposit, I ask the teller for 2 pieces of identification. “Oh yeah, what’s your mother’s maiden name?”

1.31.09

The School for Scandal. Version 2.1

A politician making lemonade after being pelted by a bushel of media chucked lemons is as familiar as red yarn on the handle of a black bag on the luggage carousel at O’Hare. But few alive have seen the likes of Rod Blagojevich. Not content to stir up a nice cold pitcher or erect a simple stand, the former Illinois Governor is challenging Minute Maid’s supremacy in the field of citrus concentrate. Refusing to exit the stage quietly after removed from office, he instead has gone on the offensive. Some might argue the 52 year- old Democrat has given a whole new meaning to the word “offensive.”

His fruity crusade began after being impeached by the Illinois Assembly on a vote of 114- 1, leaving many to wonder: who the hell was the 1? His barber? No. Turns out it was his sister- in- law. After all, she’s got years of cranberries and stuffing to share with the guy. Then, in spite of delivering an impassioned yet loopy closing argument, the State Senate voted 59- 0 to convict and booted Blago right off his gubernatorial perch into the long snaking lines of the newly unemployed.

Because of his inspirational theatrics, every former playbook for arrogant politicians accused of scandal and disgrace has to be thrown out the window. So, if you ever find yourself caught dead to rights, here’s a revised list of the top 10 actions to take. The classics still apply. None of the following will work without being applied over a base of: deny, deny, deny. Remember this is about survival. Follow Master Blagojevich’s lead. Chances are he will make more from his book deal than he ever hoped to extort from his constituent victims.

10. Hold a press conference to read a poem. Stay away from the arty crowd like Verlaine, Rimbaud or Sylvia Plath. Pick a heterosexual who didn’t commit suicide. Someone classy, like Kipling.

9. Remember who is the victim here. You are. Claim a vast left or right wing conspiracy. The more fantastic the presumed motivation, the better, such as: they had to get rid of you in order to raise taxes. Or they kicked you out because you knew too much.

8. Two words: The View.

7. During all media appearances, carry a Bible. If no one’s going to buy that, try Winston Churchill. A book by him. Not desiccated pieces of his mummified corpse.

6. Witch Hunt. Keep repeating the phrase: Witch Hunt. Which hunt? This hunt? That’s right. Witch Hunt. Occasionally throw in an “unconstitutional” as well, just to break it up.

5. Compare the effect on your family to a national disaster. Pearl Harbor. RFK’s assassination. The day CBS canceled “Dallas.”

4. Keep telling the press that you CAN’T WAIT to tell your side of the story. Then never ever ever get tricked into telling your side of the story.

3. Can never go wrong blaming lawyers. Fire one of your defense attorneys. “Though convinced of my innocence, he was terrified to offend the powers that be.”

2. Lump yourself in with other oppressed leaders like Ghandi. Nelson Mandela. Martin Luther King. Joseph Stalin. Hah. Last one was a test.

1. Finally, the number one reason you can’t quit is you don’t want to send the wrong message to your children. “This is not about me. This is about standing up for the kids. And the elderly.”

Will Durst is a political comic who occasionally writes a little. This is one of those times.

Please buy Durst’s book. The All American Sport of Bipartisan Bashing. Great Valentine's gift.

1.25.09

The Honeymoon is Over.

It might have been the shortest honeymoon this side of a drunken Britney Spears careening off of quarter poker video games in Vegas. I’m talking about Barack Obama’s relationship with the press after his Inauguration as the 44th President of the United States. His hands- off grace period might even have edged into negative territory. There was no celebratory carrying over the threshold here. This was more like- dropped like a sack of potatoes on the porch. Major veranda dumpage. Honeymoonus interruptus. The epitome of a honeymo.

First he was criticized for giving a workmanlike speech. “Very un- transcendent.” “Where was the poetry?” Then, even though he mentioned no names, he was faulted for dissing George W Bush by declaring that America is ready to lead again, implying that someone, who shall remain nameless, wasn’t very lively in that whole “leading” line of activity.

Why stop there? He could also be accused of fostering a frigid climate, failing to float ethereally out to the podium, neglecting to turn the Reflecting Pool water into wine, demonstrating an obvious refusal to feed the multitudes with 7 loaves and 7 fishes, a marked inability to part the Potomac and not raising Lincoln from the dead. And while we’re at it, how come he didn’t he use his ears as wind baffles to protect the crowd from the briskness?

But that’s the media. And that’s their job. The rest of America couldn’t care less. Wedged tighter than jarred anchovies in the middle of 2 million of their closest friends, the multitudes were just happy to see or hear or even be near this defining moment of democracy. For many, it was like going to heaven and coming home. Only they had to walk. Both ways. The Metro lines were so long you’d think they that had pinned hundred- dollar bills to the seats. And cabs were like available mortgages in Florida: a charming but imaginary concept.

And even with all those people, not a single arrest was made. Not that there wasn’t any crime. After all, Congress was still in session. But, except for an overriding fear that someone might be crushed or speared by Aretha Franklin’s hat, the executive transition was peaceful. The only glitch of the day was when Barack Obama and Supreme Court Head Justice John Roberts danced around the oath like two frozen footed teenagers on a first date. Then two Senators went down during the Congressional Lunch. But Ted Kenney is fine after suffering from fatigue. And 91 year old Robert Byrd quickly recovered from being informed that the new president is actually a Negro. “What? He fathered two black children? Unnnnnh.” Thud!

Dick Cheney garnered much attention in his Dr. Strangelove garb. Apparently Voldermort’s enchantment spell wore off an hour early. Reportedly, the outgoing Vice President was in a wheelchair due to a pulled hamstring while moving boxes. Apparently, even empty, Pandora needed them back. The Vice- President moving his own boxes. Yeah. I buy that. Or maybe he’s trying to weasel workman’s comp on the last day of his government job.

Finally, to show their affection, the crowd lovingly serenaded George Bush’s departing helicopter as it flew overhead. Poor baby. Hardly anybody paid attention to his farewell address, and absolutely nobody asked for a forwarding address. Then again, with the shape he left this country in, let’s just put it this way; he is not getting his security deposit back.

1.11.09

5 PRESIDENTS

It is the wackiest photo- op since Sarah Palin went herself a- turkey- farming. 3 ex presidents, the current president and the future president all kicking it old school, chilling in the Oval Office talking about what cool carpeting abounds. The five of them together IS a great image. And if Barack Obama is serious about that economic stimulus plan of his, we could raise a ton of money selling poster- sized copies of this historic gathering for use as a bipartisan dartboard. And George the Younger conveniently positioned himself in the middle to act as a natural bulls eye.

What the New York Post dubbed Club Prez was either a power lunch on steroids or the world’s most exclusive fraternity hazing. Can’t you just imagine the elders pulling an Ashton Kutcher and pranking Obama with a dribble glass or faking a Pakistani nuke strike on Kashmir? Nobody knows what subjects were breached, but the general consensus is personal experience was offered up as advice. For instance, the Bush boys and Jimmy Carter might have cautioned against getting stuck in the quicksands of the Middle East and Bill Clinton probably advocated the installation of an in- house dry cleaning operation. I’d love to report the five of them fought like raccoons, knocking over furniture and bloodily emerging with torn lapels and black eyes, but they all sucked it up and played nice. I’m sure nobody wanted to answer to Laura if anything happened to the new china.

The Oval Office bonding picture is destined to become as iconic as that Vegas snapshot of the Rat Pack outside the Sands that people regularly Photoshop themselves into. An insertable gap in the photo appears between Clinton and Carter, who reportedly get along like tinfoil and teeth. Something having to do with who deserved the title of “Mister Peace Maker” back in the 90s and who deserved “Mr. Grandstander.” Jimmy Carter (and isn’t he getting a bit long in the tooth to still be called Jimmy?) is starting to exude that smug self- righteousness you normally associate with your priggish Aunt Hoogolah. Starting to look like her too.

As lease- holder of the residence where lunch was held, Dubyah was the very soul of genial host, but does appear to be chomping at the bit to get the hell out of public housing. “I want to thank the President- Elect for joining the Ex- Presidents for lunch” forgetting he’s contractually obligated to stick around until January 20th. Complaints arose that Obama upstaged the President by addressing the press. But come on, upstaging George Bush? At this point, a #2 pencil stuck in a ceiling tile could upstage George Bush.

This is only the second time in recent memory anybody’s seen such a congregation of POTUSes and I doubt the fancy word guys have come up with a plural moniker yet. So here’s our chance for linguistic immortality. There’s the old favorites. Assembly. Army. Pride. Quiver. Swarm. Parliament. Clutch. Caucus. Mob. But I’m shooting for something more suitable- like the locusts: a plague. Or maybe the lapwings: a deceit. Stud of mares- yeah, you wish. Closer to a prickle of porcupines. Labor of moles. An unkindness of ravens. Shiver of sharks. Lamentation of swans. Mutation of thrushes. Nah, none of those work. Gaggle? Giggle? Sludge, snort, flutter, bloat? Jamboree? No. no. no. Wait. I got it. A Port-a- Potty of POTUSes. Inimitable, alliterative and apt.

Will Durst is a political comic who writes sometimes. This is one of them.

	Today's Daily Dose Durst's current column in Working Assets' News for Change
	Durst Case Scenario Archives