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Monday, March 10, 2008
MY OLD MATE SPITZER
No sooner had I settled comfortably into the realization that while I'd been comatose my old pal Eliot "Who me? privileged?" Spitzer had been elected to senior office, than I find that he had also been taking advantage of my absence to negotiate some cut-rate nookie with members of my stable. How fondly I remember the days of old when he and I would oil ourselves with sweet-smelling extra-virgin walnut oil and wrestle naked on the carpet of the west room of the Megalopolitan at dead of night. What intensity! What enthusiasm!
He never did know when to stop, though, and now apparently it has all turned around and nipped him on his bony and sadly over-hairy buttocks. Serves him right for being a Democrat.
Friday, March 07, 2008
POP WENT THE WEASEL
Went out to buy a new Maybach today. The doc told me when I woke up that my old problem would not return, and that I could drive around in the biggest most expensive car I could find without any diminution of my full priapic glory.
The doc was wrong and now I shall have to put yeshiva boy on to him to compensate for my misery. Within 30 seconds of slipping into the back seat of the glorious chariot, my dick had disappeared into my groin with a plop, and it has not yet reemerged.
Meanwhile I returned home to find my daughter Alison spreadeagled on the glass top of the dining table under the ministrations of an extremely attractive but apparently (to me) unavailable young lady while some shaggy and spotty male friend filmed the activity lying on the floor beneath them. I roared like a wounded elephant, which merely provoked the youth to point the camera at me. The girls just carried right on. Dolores told me that both of the children had walked away from the rigorous presbyterianism of their upbringing and become Episcopalians. It figures.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
RumpleDixon awakes...
I came to the other day to discover that after two years in a coma, the country was still in the hands of the greatest president it has ever had, but that little Mikey is still in charge in NYC. Well, you win some and you lose some. An unsurprising minus on the account was the sight of my rent boy son sitting beside the bed, mooning over this extraordinary creature in a dog collar; the latter, who glories in the name of the Rev. Pildore Strumpleside, is, I am led to understand, his gay lover and I have now banished them both from the house under pain of castration. On the plus side, in the last two years Dolores, my otherwise dreadful wife, has done some rather remarkable things. As I was asleep she decided that she could put up with me after all, and has managed my finances with a ruthless astuteness that even I could never have managed. Her ability to drive the aged and infirm out of their homes is really quite unparalleled. She has also, however, taken up with God, albeit a vengeful and thoroughly bloody-minded one, and pledged 10% of the income she is making with my money to some frightful church. Vinny, of course, is no longer available to me to sort this out--but I wonder if that yeshiva boy, who seemed so unpromising but turned out to be a true genius of looming violence, is still available?
Friday, May 05, 2006
TYPED BY STUMP
This is the first outing with my new prosthetic fingers. Those of you wondering where I've been -- if any of you have actually noticed -- might wonder what I mean by this. Well...no sooner had I finished that last post over a year ago than Vinny turned on me again in all his southern Italian viciousness. This time he did a thorough job, and didn't even bother to apologize. He removed every single one of my fingers with the same paper guillotine as last time, and then put them in a food mixer and chopped them up into little pieces in front of my eyes. My only compensation was to besmirch him from head to foot with a vigorous fountain of projectilely vomited lunch, which had been heavy on tomato sauce. Unfortunately, I then ruined the effect by myself collapsing into it as it puddled on the greasy floor of the disgusting restaurant kitchen he borrowed for this vileness.
I still have no idea why he did it, and I don't suppose I ever will. The Yeshiva boy took care of him -- he is a more effective operator than I had given him credit for -- and Vinny has been fed to the bluefish in the harbor.
Monday, April 04, 2005
PROLE GRINDING
Goodness, but it certainly is good to be back in the saddle -- and, if I might say so at my advanced age, more vigorous than ever. I do not speak here of what I am going to do with the freshed-thighed young lasses of Bridge of Scrapie when I make my spring pilgrimage to the Auld Sod, although there is no more delightful post-coital sight, I would say, than the sight of a pair of firm white buttocks after they have been spiritedly pressed into the young shoots of heather on the hillside behind my ancestral home of Castle Scrapie. Even now the wee Marys, as soon as they have attained the minimum legal age, compete to be first of the season with the mighty Hamish and proudly bear the ericaceous impressions home to show their younger siblings.
But no, in this case, I am referring to something else. Yesterday I launched myself on an aggressive terrorization of my more elderly tenants, and this time I didn't do it with solo telephonic harangues, but to the melodious sounds of their front doors being broken in by Vinnie's 'boys' and the shattering of glass as their possessions were jettisoned from their windows.
The victimization of the poor -- what an underrated pleasure it is, to be sure!
Monday, March 21, 2005
INSIDE THE FABERGE EGG
Some of my many readers may have been wondering lately exactly where I have been. After a positive effusion over the early months of last year, I have been almost silent, I know. Even now I can't tell if I'm going to continue writing to you all, or am going to run out like a river sinking into the sands of a desert. But enough of the fucking poetry.
It all started, of course, with Vinny's amputation of my finger and MY subsequent abandonment in the midwinter Jersey meadowlands without a coat. I must have been crazy to think that I could replace him (he had been my personal hitman, as he now once again is) with a peely-wally black hatted yeshiva boy, but that was, indeed what I considered.
Frankly, after that it was all down hill. My penis disappeared every time I went near an expensive car, my daughter was ejected from Chance after dancing naked in the snow in the school yard (after which one of her nipples fell off), my wife Dolores had an affair with Slobbo the chauffeur (after he had rammed the Maybach into an upper east side abortion clinic that he had somehow confused with little Mikey's townhouse residence), I was incarcerated in Bellevue, and finally la grotesque dame sans mercie brutally shoved a broom handle up my back passage. Of all my friends only Mel came to see me when I was recovering in hospital. I have to say it quite changed my view of the man. Of course, he does hate the English, so we do have something in common.
Is it, then, any wonder that I have been somewhat indisposed?
Still, things must be looking up. I received verbal assurances from the Donald the other day, when we were chinwagging about the best ways to eject non=paying tenants, that I would be invited to the nuptials of his sone whatsisname to that girl with a mom called Bonnie. Can't remember her name, either. Dolores is firmly of the opinion that the wedding will be a tasteful affair, and every time she voices this idiocy I snort with derision. Donald is no more capable of imagining something tasteful than Big Ears is of giving real pleasure to one of those white-thighed young lassies who so willingly fling themselves beneath one in the heather beds of Loch Scrapie-side.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
BASTARDS ARE A-COMING IN
Big Ears's screw ups -- or rather his flunky's -- have now been commented on more than thoroughly, and so it is time, or will be momentarily, to pass on to other more fascinating subjects. The ridiculous and now blessedly deceased Harold Brooks-Baker did the best job of pointing out what a bunch of twits the whole pack of them are -- including La Grande Dame herself.
I knew Maude, as we all called him back then, in his unhyphenated bond trading days, before he'd twigged to the fact that in England wearing shoes without socks to the office was not quite the thing. Still, one has to admit that he was a quick learner, and by the time of his demise his adopted countrymen were surprised to find that he wasn't one of their own. Hardly to be wondered at, of course, considering how far he was up the arses of the aristocracy -- almost as far up, indeed, as that famous broom handle of the vengeful Camilla's was up mine.
But I am now returned to comparative health, and to the bosom of my family, such as it is. Dolores is pregnant with the hairy-backed Slobbo's progeny, while Alison is not sure which particular 14-year-old is the father of her child. I have revived my relationship with Vinny and had Slobbo dealt with. He is, presumably, sleeping with the fishes.
"Don't ask, Mr. Dixon," rasped Vinny (you will remember he was responsible a year or so ago for amputating my finger with a printer's guillotine, when he said much the same thing). "You don't wanna know."
Not much chance of that with the father of my first grandchild, alas.
"But Daddy," Alison said, all innocent, sticking out her lower lip, "I didn't know I could pregnant from that!"
Apparently she used to suck them off, which while hardly an attractive thought for a father, was never likely to come to his notice quite so indelibly unless he walked in on the act itself. But then some idiots on network tv ran a sensationalist news show about how blow jobs had become epidemic among twelve year olds, and my darling one-nippled daughter got the impression that they were worse than a full-bore certified delivery.
Meanwhile, I myself am back in full working order, and paid a lengthy visit to Wanda at the Pierre yesterday afternoon where she did a pretty fine job of leaving me an empty husk. I am planning a trip back to Bridge of Scrapie soon for a concentrated fortnight of pressing the snow-white buttock flesh of wee marys into the tender young shoots of the spring heather. It makes the old heart jump.
I am contemplating whether or not I should take the risk of nipping down to Chelsea to have a sample run in one of the new Bentleys. It is, of course, a serious risk. If it goes wrong I will be faced with having to decide between the Bentley and my mighty Wurlitzer -- and if I go for the Bentley, my trip to Bridge of Scrapie to ravish the newly nubile maidens of the glen will have to be cancelled.
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