Sleep didn't come easily that first night. I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling while I planned my next move.

Getting rid of what was left of Jackie's body would require some risk and I wasn't looking forward to it. It had to be done, though; no body, no evidence, no crime. By four o'clock I had made a decision and I could feel some calm ease into me. Between that calm and the fatigue brought on from dismembering Jackie I had reason enough to sleep, and I did. Luckily, I didn't dream.

When I woke up I made a pot of coffee, filled a travel mug and drove to the suburbs. I scoped out the bottle returns at several grocery stores, finding a half-dozen likely candidates with automated counters that were in the lobby and away from easy view of the cashiers. My plan was to hide Jackie's remains amongst my beer cans and then toss them in the trash bit by bit as I cashed in a portion of the returnables at each store, spreading what was left of Jackie from West Bloomfield to Sterling Heights.

The garbage man would take care of the rest.

With any luck at all, the bones would be compacted and buried in a landfill before the cops even discovered she was missing.

I drove back home, dumped all my empties into several large trash bags and loaded them, along with the smaller bags containing Jackie's remains, into the back of the Ranger.

By the time I got to the first store, there was a line at the Kan-Smacker and the light on top was flashing to indicate one of the bins was full. A disinterested bagger dressed in a red smock with the store's logo on the pocket came out and emptied the bin, reset the machine. The guy in front of me continued feeding his empties while I started to sweat.

When it was my turn, I rolled my shopping cart up to the machine and started pushing the cans in. In the bottom of the trash bag I'd put roughly one-fifth of the smaller bags containing Jackie's bones, and once I'd fed the last can in, I punched the button for my receipt, wadded up the bag and pushed it into the trash right next to the machine. In case somebody was watching, I did my best to make it look as though the bag had no weight by gathering it up in both arms before stuffing it into the can. If anybody did notice that something was inside, I figured they'd just think it was bottles that the machine wouldn't take.

Somewhat relieved that I'd got off to a good start, I went inside and picked up a few things.

Everything went according to plan at each location until I got to the last store. As I'd done at the four previous stops, I patiently waited my turn and carefully ran my empties through the machine, but this time once I'd finished I realized that the trash can was nearly overflowing and I didn't want to put my bag right on top. I couldn't take the chance that whoever emptied it wouldn't reach in and pull some of the trash off the top or push down on it and discover that my bag had something besides non-returnable bottles inside.

Even though I knew it might look suspicious, I'd have to dump the bag somewhere else, so I wheeled the cart around and headed out towards the parking lot.

“Hey, don't forget your receipt.” I turned back towards the machine and saw an elderly woman pointing an arthritic finger at the curl of paper hanging from the Kan-Smacker. I went back and grabbed the receipt, then turned towards the parking lot again. “Aren't you going to cash it in?” she asked.

“I just remembered I have some more cans in the car,” I told her. My heart was racing by the time I got back to the Ranger. I tossed the bag into the back, jumped inside and sat down.

Once I'd calmed down, I fished around under and behind the seats until I found a handful of pop bottles, gathered them up and put them in the trash bag. By the time I had rolled back up to the machine, a worker wearing plastic gloves was emptying the trash and the old woman was gone.

I took a deep breath, fed my pop bottles in, listened as they dropped and broke. Then I thumbed the button for the receipt and dumped the last of Jackie's remains into the newly-emptied trash can.

I took my receipts inside the store and bought some pistachios, a case of Blue and a fifth of Jim Beam.

It was going to be a long night and after what I'd been through the past two days, I figured I deserved a drink. Or three.


1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6...

You know, the closer it gets to the all-digital switch, the more I find myself watching no television at all. Except for midnight Sunday broadcasts of remastered 'Star Trek' episodes, occasional snippets of the 'Tyra' show while I eat my lunch and regular checks of the local news, I watch almost nothing.

Oh, and porn... I watch porn.

Last Sunday night, after I'd watched my porn and just prior to viewing 'Star Trek', I turned to Channel 7 to check the headlines and the upcoming week's weather. To my surprise, there was Glenda Lewis anchoring the eleven o'clock broadcast while wearing a purple top that looked like it was frigging painted on! I couldn't take my eyes away from her perfectly-shaped bosom, and even though I'd just, ahem... sat through several sex scenes featuring my favorite porn girl Angel Kelly, Li'l Marty reared his horny head again!

By the time the weather came on I was collapsed across the futon, my pants around my ankles, completely spent. And I couldn't remember a word she'd said.

The funny part is, when I checked the numbers here on Almost Okay yesterday morning, I noticed there were several hits from search engines, and guess what... I wasn't the only one turned on by Glenda's mouth-watering mammary glands. Right there on the list, along with a handful of similarly-bizarre, fetish-fueled searches, were the keywords “glenda lewis breasts” and “glenda lewis boobs”! Big as day!

Take a look for yourself! Don't be shy... go ahead and stare! They're absolutely perfect, am I right?

* * * * * * * * * * *

Earlier Sunday evening I'd been watching one of my favorite pornos from the past, “Guess Who Came At Dinner?”, which stars the lovely and talented Angel Kelly. Doesn't she make a beautiful bride?

Written and directed by veteran porn star Paul Thomas (who even wrote and warbled the theme song - 'She's black and beautiful...'), this one's a send up of the Spencer Tracy/Kate Hepburn/ Sidney Poitier flick from the sixties where a white girl brings her black boyfriend home to meet the folks. Only in the porn version, the girlfriend (Angel, of course) is black.

After meeting at Club Med and falling in love, Angel and her beau (played by Joey Silvera) head back home to introduce his new fiancée to the family. The kicker? Joey's family is filthy rich, which he coincidentally reveals to Angel right after she's finished him off orally, causing her to choke and sputter on his man juice.

Despite the fact that he's supposed to be worth over a hundred million dollars, Silvera drives them back to his brother's place in a Volkswagen convertible with a noisy muffler. Every single person who meets Angel stutters some version of the line '...but she's bluh... blah... she's bluh... bluh... she's beautiful!' Even the jack-booted neo-Nazi sister-in-law, played by Angela Baron (who was actually born in Dusseldorf), delivers it with a thick but natural German accent.

Jeannie Pepper plays the maid and Billy Dee is the butler, while John Leslie plays the part of Joey's big brother, who's none too pleased that Joey's planning on marrying a black chick. Until the black chick seduces him, that is. John gets Angel, Billy gets Jeannie and Angela gets a Tegrin bottle in her solo shower scene, before they all end up taking turns with each other during the climactic orgy finale when dinner breaks down into a no-holds-barred sexual free-for-all.

I remember seeing this one when it was newly-released in 1987, and it instantly cemented Angel Kelly's status as a star in my eyes. Another great Ebay find, I paid only twelve bucks including shipping for it and it came with the original oversized box in near-mint condition.

They simply don't make 'em like this anymore, folks!

I have to tell you, folks, I've never liked this Rush Limbaugh. Look at him. Tell me he's not an asshole.

I'm sure a lot of you out there don't particularly care for the guy either, but you have to hand it to him, he gets paid pretty handsomely for spewing his right-wing bullshit over the airwaves every day. I wish I could draw a quarter of his paycheck for saying stupid shit. Hell, I'd say stupid shit for even less than that. Most of the time I say it for nothing. Like today.

His latest diatribe against Colin Powell's endorsement of Barack Obama is a prime example of Limbaugh at his best, though, because at the heart of his argument that Powell's pick for President was based solely on race, there is a shred of truth. I'm sure that when the former Secretary of State and retired General (who George W. famously hung out to dry when he sent Powell into the United Nations after the 9/11 attacks to announce U.S. intentions of going after what ultimately turned out to be phantom weapons of mass destruction in Iraq) publicly endorsed his candidate for the first time this past weekend, Obama's race was a part of the equation.

Come on, Colin Powell has to be happy that there's finally going to be a black man in the White House, even if it's somebody else. It means that if he lives long enough he might get his own turn.

But Powell said all the right things when it came to the more important reasons for thinking the Illinois Senator should become our next President, using facts to make his argument while speaking from his heart about Obama's gifts as a natural leader and statesman, as well as his having the potential to become a 'transformational figure' in history.

Of course, John McPain blew the whole thing off with a nod and a wink saying that it 'wasn't a surprise', implying with that sickening yellow grin of his that he, too, believed the endorsement had racial overtones. Sure, he didn't say it, but his weasel eyes did.

However, Rush spewed it out loudly and plainly for all of America to hear, and he did it in his famous phlegmy bellow, the one that gets the rifle-toting, bible-thumping crowd so riled up. Which is what bothers me.

Hell, I don't have a problem with an African-American endorsing another African-American for President based on his race. But let me ask you this: Do you think Colin Powell would have tossed his support behind somebody like Jesse Jackson? The answer is no fucking way.

We're not talking about just any African-American when we talk about Barack Obama. The man is intelligent, accomplished and noble, by any definition of those terms. Don't you think that after eight years of the stupidest President in U.S. history we should maybe try a smart one? With some character? Well, perhaps Colin Powell thinks so, too.

Shit, just look at the choice. Any thinking person in the world can see who would make the better President, and don't get me started on this Vice President thing again. I still don't know what the Republicans were thinking on that one.

So, to sum it all up... Rush Limbaugh is a gigantic ass, and it sickens me that he thinks (as does a large portion of the American population, by the way) that voting for Barack Obama simply because he's African-American is wrong, but that it's perfectly acceptable to NOT vote for him for the exact same reason.

Leelee works the Boston page on Craig's List and specializes in 'true G.F.E., professional gentlemen preferred. Role playing, fetish and fantasy. Dom/sub. No email responses, please.' Hey, her ad is dull but check out that ass... MAJOR league sweetness, my friends.

My Dear Lyzako,

It's beautiful here today. We've just come off a stretch of incredible summer-like weather this past week with highs around eighty and comfortable lows in the sixties. After rain much of the day yesterday, a cold front has brought cooler air, lots of sunshine and a stiff breeze blowing the clouds quickly through the morning sky. A refreshing high of sixty is expected for today, and I'm digging it, my friend.

How's the weather in your neck of the woods? Predictably idyllic, I'm sure.

Recently I've noticed some real slippage in the old gearbox of my mind. At times I am so overwhelmed with ideas, notions and whims that I can barely function as a normal, workaday person, the mental confusion even creeping into and encroaching upon my precious weekend reading sessions, preventing me from being able to concentrate on the words I see before me on the page.

As evidence, I've enclosed a photo of my kitchen table, haphazardly covered with a month or two's worth of accumulated stuff (for lack of a more descriptive term). Bear in mind that the photo and its contents were not arranged in any conscious way, the items you see on and around it simply dropped onto the nearest convenient open spot until there were no more convenient open spots, as you can see. I think the table is a living snapshot, if you will, of what is going on in my brain.

I've developed a tenderness for old technology, which explains the projector. I'm a little more at a loss to explain Sonny Bono's autobiography, other than it was half-off hardcover books at Value Village.

As to the rest of the junk, most of it pertains to what I've come to call my 'reawakening creative spirit', which I'm beginning to believe is what's causing the aforementioned 'gearbox slippage'. I can't be sure, mind you, but it does seem as though simple things that I used to remember to do, simply fly away, while, for the sake of encouraging creativity, I allow my confused mind to meander whatever path it decides to take.

That's great when one is selecting the color of the next pastel, or dragging a brush loaded with paint across a crusty surface. It helps to keep the work fresh and lessens the chance of a predictable outcome, which of course, adds excitement and discovery to the process.

But for keeping the dishes clean, the laundry washed and food in the refrigerator, the meandering mind is a hindrance. For example, I've 'forgotten' to do the dishes three times this week, run the sink half full of hot water and soap only to add another day's worth of dishes on top of the stack.

I've also 'forgotten' to cook some hot Italian sausages that I thawed on Sunday, and if I 'forget' again today, it will be four days in a row. Should I just toss them back in the freezer and 'forget' it altogether?

Speaking of food, simple trips to the grocery store with only a mental list of needed staples have become a chore because I always seem to return home having 'forgotten' one or more crucial items needed for preparation of the day's meal, which then necessitates a return trip.

Last weekend's excursion to Ferndalia Foods was well-planned, though, a long list of items carefully penned onto several post-it notes, from wax paper to oregano to canned tomatoes. I felt confident I would 'forget' nothing when I loaded up the purple Ranger with four cases of empty beer cans, hopped in and drove into town.

After standing in line for ten minutes behind somebody with a trash bag full of miscellaneous bottles and cans, many of which were refused by the machine, I pushed my returnables through the 'Kan-Smacker' (reg. U.S. Pat. Off.), grabbed a cart and made my way through the produce section.

Did I need apples? I couldn't remember, and a quick but thorough search of my pockets, wallet, behind my ears and up my ass pointed to what I should have known would happen from the start.

I forgot the list!

Warmest Regards,
Rembrandt Van Sherman-Winkle

I have to admit that I don't remember too much about this flick. I saw it in 1982 while I was attending college at Western Michigan. One of the fraternities there sponsored a weekly Friday night movie that was held in one of the bigger lecture halls on east campus, and Andy's 'Dracula' was the second end of a double-header that also featured his 'Flesh For Frankenstein' as the opener. I'm sure I must have nodded at some point.

I do remember it being very slow.

I also kind of remember the premise: Andy's version of Dracula is sickly and can only drink 'wirgin' blood, so he sets his vampire sights on the three beautiful daughters of his landlord, played by celebrated neorealist Italian director and actor Vittorio De Sica in one of his last film appearances. Dracula (Udo Kier) finds out one by one that the sisters aren't as 'pure' as his health requires, vomiting up the results of his first two tainted meals.

Somehow, handyman Joe Dellasandro (a Greenwich Village street hustler who got his fifteen minutes appearing in a number of Warhol films) catches on to Dracula's plan and takes immediate action, bravely charging in to save the third sister - the youngest and the only one who truly is a 'wirgin', by ably nailing her before the big bad vampire can get there, all the while woodenly delivering his lines in a thick Bronx accent.

Roman Polanski has a cameo.

Directed by Paul Morrissey in 1974 right after he directed 'Flesh For Frankenstein', 'Andy Warhol's Dracula' (a.k.a. 'Blood For Dracula' and 'Young Dracula') features a fine soundtrack by a practically unknown Italian composer named Claudio Gizzi, who also cranked out the score for 'Frankenstein'.

The Main Title sequence has a haunting quality, almost Satie-like in its mathematical simplicity, and the balance of the music is a satisfying listen whether you know anything about the movie or not. Oddly, though, other than these two Warhol flicks, Gizzi's only listed film work was for Roman Polanski's 'Che?' from 1973.

I don't know how rare this LP is, but I have a ten-year old price guide that lists both 'Dracula' and 'Frankenstein' for around ten bucks each in mint condition (which my copies are - so there). It also looks like both soundtracks were released in 1982 (on the incredible Varese Sarabande label), which was the same year these two flicks were making the rounds again with the theater re-release of 'Flesh For Frankenstein' when I saw them in Kalamazoo.

A quick Ebay search turned up just a 1995 import CD that included both scores and when I checked the seller's price I couldn't believe my eyes. Some fool thinks he's going to get a 'Buy It Now' price of $229.99 for it! One CD! And he's going to charge fifteen bucks to ship it! Ha! I love the Internet!

Anyway, I know it's still two weeks early, but Happy Halloween!

I got invited to a Halloween party a number of years ago and spent a lot of time and thought on my costume. I went to Value Village and bought a blue lab coat and a wig. I pinned a bunch of random buttons on the lab coat, punched a lens out of an old pair of sunglasses, trimmed my beard and waxed it to make it look like my goatee was really a fake one, and I'm telling you I looked exactly like the Ghoul. But guess what. When it was time to count the votes for best costume, I came in second to a woman dressed like a Christmas tree!

SPECIAL BONUS RECOMMENDATION SECTION!!!
I've never done this before, folks, but I got turned on to this CD over the weekend and it hasn't been out of my player ever since, so I'm using the Five Star to hip you to a brand new release out there that just hit the streets.

Last Saturday I was browsing the used LPs at my favorite local record shop, Street Corner Music, and they were playing what I thought was a compilation disc of some recently unearthed forgotten soul gems from the sixties. It turned out to be the new album by Raphael Saadiq.

The print is so small on the damned booklet that I had a hard time reading it, but it looked like Mr. Saadiq pretty much did the whole shebang - writing, producing and performing. One minute he's channeling Sam Cooke and the next it's Smokey Robinson... What? You say Smokey's not dead? Whew, that's a relief! One minute he's channeling Sam Cooke and the next it's... it's... Marvin Gaye. He's dead, right?

It's brand new, but it's as comfortable as an old shoe, as familiar as your mama's face, and I guarantee you that you will love it. At least until Jay-Z starts rapping on the last song. But hey, it's the last song. You can always just skip it, right? I'd give it a few listens, though. I got used to it.

Did you happen to watch this fool a couple of nights ago during the second presidential debate? In case you missed it, John McPain didn't exactly shine in his so-called favorite town hall meeting-style event.

And the moderator, Tom Brokaw, didn't exactly come off as fair and impartial, either, selecting the questions and allowing the Republican candidate as much time as he needed to remember his answers, while chastising Barack Obama and even interrupting the Democrat at one point when he attempted to go beyond the time limits of the format.

One glaring example of Brokaw's favoritism was a question directed to McPain by an audience member who just happened to be seated in the front row and also just happened to be a former Chief Petty Officer in the Navy. McPain couldn't waddle over to the guy fast enough, eager for yet another opportunity to remind Americans that he'd served his country in Vietnam. Big John extended his flipper to the guy while saying he learned “most of what he knew” about military service from a Chief Petty Officer.

Brokaw nearly swallowed his tongue he was so happy.

I guess it must have been a Chief Petty Officer who showed McPain how to fly his combat jet into the ground - four times.

During the course of the 'debate', McPain insisted on referring to his opponent as “that one”, pointing towards Obama with his crooked little arm to make sure the audience knew who he was lying about, and for the most part was again so intimidated by Obama's presence and command of the facts that he couldn't even face the Democrat as he spoke to him.

I didn't catch the final blow as it happened because I'd nearly fallen asleep, but apparently afterwards when Barack Obama attempted to shake the crusty old bastard's hand, McPain turned away, forcing the Democrat to accept the clammy claw of his wife Cindy instead.

By then, Brokaw was already back stage drinking champagne and playing with himself.

A couple more lowlights... When they were asked who they would appoint as Treasury Secretary in light of recent economic problems, McPain offered a pair of choices which culminated in his more likely pick of Meg Whitman, a keynote speaker at the Republican Convention and former C.E.O. of Ebay. That would be perfect. Why shouldn't we put the person who was in charge of the world's largest flea market in charge of all of our money? It sure seems like the next logical step to me.

In another clear example of his thinking, when asked about whether health care in America was a right, a responsibility or an obligation, McPain said that he thought it was a “responsibility”, before going on to once again explain his plan for deregulation and a phantom tax credit that will be swallowed up by insurance companies.

Obama's answer was the correct one, though: health care is our “right”, and we shouldn't be forced into bankruptcy if we develop a tumor that our insurance company suddenly decides not to cover because we screwed up a question on our application.

Honestly, by ten-thirty I was glad the whole thing was over, and I certainly don't see how the Republicans could in any way spin this one as a triumph for McPain. If he wasn't such a stupid, angry, bigoted old bastard, I would have almost felt sorry for him.

But I didn't.

Hey, did you hear that Buffalo Wild Wings is going to start having a John McCain night? Yeah, all the broken chicken wings are half off, and instead of frying them they're going to be half-baked!

Today's Craig's List girl, Yolanda works out of the Memphis area and considers herself a 'sexpert' in pleasing a man. You can decide for yourself if this 'Superwoman' has the goods for as little as forty roses. For two-hundred Yolanda goes 'around the world, including trips to France, Greece and the Balkans'.

Hey, folks! Welcome to another fucking Monday morning!

Here in Detroit it's overcast with drizzle and temps in the fifties. A beautiful October day!

Once again, I'd like to share a couple of letters from our readers and encourage the rest of you out there to write as the urge strikes you. Jokes! I could use some jokes!

First off, from Anonymous: “What's up with all the political bullshit lately? And why the bleeding-heart liberal point of view? Republicans aren't evil and George W. Bush didn't cause all these bank collapses. Bill Clinton signed the deregulation bill way back in 1999 that allowed banks to merge with insurance companies and other financial institutions. Shouldn't he be held responsible? I suppose you voted for him, too, didn't you? You fag!”

I'd like to point out that the bill to which you refer, Anonymous, called the Gramm-Leach-Bliley Act, was proposed by Republicans and forced through the Republican-controlled Senate and House with such overwhelming numbers that Bill Clinton had no choice but to sign it. This 'veto-proof' law was aimed ostensibly at increasing competition, but the resulting corporate mergers (along with relaxed lending laws) have been cited by some economists as contributing to the current sub-prime lending crisis. I'm no economist, Anonymous, and I certainly wouldn't blame George W. for all of our problems. In my view, simple greed was the main engine that fueled this economic collapse. Rampant, irresponsible speculation by real estate developers (including short-sighted investors and large construction companies eager for juicy contracts) who hoped to double and triple their money in less time than it takes to say 'interest only loan' was the real culprit. Why do you suppose John McCain has more homes than he can count? Because he wants to live in more places than he can count?

The conservatives point to organizations such as ACORN for relaxing their mortgage approval criteria in order to get minorities into homes of their own, but the reality is that those loans, however unsound, account for a relatively small segment of the real estate market and for the most part involve homes of relatively low value compared to all the 'bigfoot' homes built in recent years under new construction and the unfinished high-rises that stand along the shore of the Atlantic Ocean in Miami. Greed is caused by the people who have money wanting more of it, not by some poor bastard who's just barely getting by.

There is ample evidence along the way that politicians, Democrats and Republicans alike, have benefited personally from campaign contributions and easy loans from our large lending institutions, which is another good reason for us to stop the lobbying of outside interests in Washington. The math is simple: the bigger the corporation, the bigger the campaign contribution.

And yes, I voted for Bill Clinton. Twice. Also, for the record, I do think that Republicans are evil.

From one of our female readers, pearlygirl09: “I am completely tired of 'Spooged'! Why must you continue this disgusting feature? Do you hate women that much? What are you, a fag?”

Hmm, I sense some hostility from you, pearlygirl09. Do you hate men? I suppose it's difficult for me to defend the 'Spooged' feature, but I'll give it a shot.

Number One: It's easy. That's right, in case you couldn't tell by reading my frequent confessions on the subject, I am one lazy bastard. 'Spooged', on average, takes less than ten minutes to do, and when my back is up against the daily deadline wall, that's a pretty appealing number.

Number Two: It's a parody of all those 'celebrity fakes' you see on the Internet. You know what I'm talking about... like where some geeky, introverted Photoshop whiz takes Jennifer Aniston's clothes off by using software to slickly fuse her head onto some anonymous naked female body, while rubbing one out with his free hand the entire time.

Number Three: It gives me a chance to recognize the female form in all its beauty (and ugliness sometimes), acknowledge favorites of mine from long ago (check out the 'Retro Spooged') as well as the present day, while cleverly poking fun at the whole 'celebrity' phenomenon.

Number Four: There are actual physical laws governing any semi-gelatinous liquid that spills openly onto anything. In the case of 'Spooged' one must take into account not only the trajectory of the spill, but gravity and the various complex curves and planes that together make up the solid human form in all its god-given glory. It's a matter of physics, pearlygirl09, which makes it educational. That's right. I said it. It's educational.

Well, I hope that both of those explanations were satisfactory, and that the rest of you out there with questions or comments (or especially jokes) will get off your hands and write me at: coolhandmarty@gmail.com.

Oh, and by the way, I'm not a fag.

Oh my God! There IS a God! Finally something to rave about!

John McPain is folding up tent here in Michigan! Local GOP leaders, among them the outspoken and bigoted Oakland County Executive L. Brooks (Brothers) Patterson are mystified at the sudden withdrawal of McPain's campaign team, and many fear that the decision may shift the advantage in a number of close local races to the Democrats. Patterson was quoted as saying: “I feel like I woke up this morning and there was a note on my pillow.”

I sure hope he kissed you on the cheek before he left, L. Brooks.

On the down side, this move may open the floodgates for a flurry of anti-Obama ads sponsored by any number of independent bigoted groups dead set on not having a black man in the White House. Stay tuned for more details as they become available.


* * * * * * * * * * *

Another cause for rejoicing! O.J. Simpson is found guilty of armed robbery and kidnapping and now faces a minimum of five years in prison! He could even get a LIFE SENTENCE!

After just thirteen hours of deliberation on the thirteenth anniversary of his acquittal on murder charges in 1995, a jury of nine women and three men returned a unanimous vote of “GUILTY, YOUR HONOR!”, sending the former Pro-Bowler and Heisman Trophy winner to jail.

O.J.'s lawyers asked if he could please "pass GO and collect his $200 first" (Simpson had been planning a celebratory trip to a Vegas strip club figuring he would be acquitted once again), but the judge responded with a resounding “NO WAY! GO DIRECTLY TO JAIL!”

If only it could have been Friday the 13th! Now THAT, my friends, would have been POETIC JUSTICE!

I'm so excited that I'm quivering... and it feels like... like... like I'm about to SPEAK in TONGUES! YES!

Oops, no... Sorry, I think I shit my pants...

My Dear Lyzako,

I can remember no other vice-presidential debate in my lifetime to which I looked forward with such anticipation as the one taking place in Missouri tonight between Sarah Palin and Joe Biden. My hope is that the proceedings will shine a much-needed spotlight on the long list of egregious shortcomings attached to the Republican ticket.

I picture that segment of America who has been championing Palin's pioneering 'maverick' spirit and her hockey mom status as qualities that make her worthy of the presidency watching in stunned disbelief, slack jaws hanging even wider agape as her pathetic grasp of the issues and her obvious lack of insight into solutions becomes glaringly apparent while she babbles on in that nervous, beauty queen pseudo-babble-sound-byte-speak of hers. The sudden realization that their beloved Republican-Super-Mom-Vice-Presidential hopeful has no business in the White House will make them drop their weapons and bibles in haste while they swiftly administer a series of solid slaps to their collective foreheads, thereby once and for all causing them to 'see the light' and consequently pull the Democratic lever come November.

Alas, though, it's just a fantasy.

I continue to be surprised at the number of people who always buy into the complete line of Republican bullshit every four years, including the ridiculous notion this time that Sarah Palin can simply roll up her sleeves and 'git 'er done' once she's in the Oval Office. Both you and I would normally consider these folks intelligent. They are hard working, often creatively entrepreneurial and solid citizens in most every way.

Unfortunately, many of them also believe that an enormous man dressed in white robes with a flowing beard is sitting at a desk counting how many times they take his name in vain. To each his own.

Almost as much as another four years with the Republicans at the helm of our economic and foreign policy, I fear their misguided choices to replace retiring members of the Supreme Court. Do we really want Sarah Palin, yet another born-again Christian, who attends a church where the notion of speaking in tongues is considered some sort of primitive communication with our 'Higher Power' deciding who should sit behind the bench of the highest court in our land?

I can tell you with absolute conviction that I, for one, do not.

Among the deficiencies in logic promulgated by Governor Palin (ideas also held in high regard by the far right and much of the Republican Party) is the conflicting notions that abortion is wrong because it takes human life but the war in Iraq is right because it is our 'mission from God'. Killing is killing by any stroke of the sword, and I have to believe that any 'God' would see little difference between collateral damage and terminating an unwanted pregnancy.

I'd also like to point out that in the vast majority of human history, tribal economics and survival instincts have caused many a child birthed without a penis to be either eaten or casually tossed into the river because of her perceived weaknesses and lack of ability to contribute to the welfare of the society as a whole.

But I digress.

In the long run, I predict that this debate will make little difference in the decision-making of the Red States once those folks get into the election booths in a month. Just as they have blind faith in a Christian 'God' that tells them it is permissible to kill Muslims in 'His' name while making it a sin to terminate an embryo during the early stages of pregnancy, they have faith in the Republican Party to do no wrong, and no matter how ignorant Sarah Palin comes off tonight, they will smile, believe and confidently vote her in.

Because 'God' says it's right.

The rest of us here in America, though, the incredulous ones who can't believe that anybody, anywhere at any time, would ever take this Republican ticket seriously, will have a hearty chortle or two. Right along with the rest of the world, who happen to be laughing at us and not with us.

Warm Regards,
Marty Sherman

PS By the way, I'm getting pretty tired of hearing what a brave POW John McCain was. Sure he served his country in Vietnam. Yes, he got shot down and spent years in an enemy prison camp where they tortured him in every way imaginable, both mentally and physically. Does that really make him courageous? More courageous say than his opponent? For all of you who think so, why don't you put yourself in Barack Obama's shoes for a day. The number of death threats he has received and incidents of stolen and defaced Obama campaign signs are too numerous to mention here, but if you ask me, the fact that he's continuing to go forward with barely a public acknowledgment of the deep-seated racial hatred he experiences every single day on a first-hand basis here in the United States as he campaigns for one of the most difficult and thankless jobs in the world is a great measure of his courage, not only as a candidate, but as a man. If you don't believe me, just Google his name plus 'swastika' and you will see ample evidence of the KKK rearing its ugly head.