Letter from Lower Price Hill

Gentle Readers, I’d like you to know that the streets of Cincinnati run this way and that, without regard to whether or not you want to get THERE from HERE.  Such is life; a philosophical lesson to be learned.  (Yes, that was a semi-colon.  Get over it.)

Searching for a long-lost relative, half way up the hill, neither HERE nor THERE, ChronicJimmy had time to reflect.  About a long lost love.  A yearning for marital bliss, and the hopeful possibility of a messy divorce.

You see, ChronicJ missed his window of opportunity in the sunny state of California.  Instead of years of wedded bliss, now the most he can hope for is years of civil union-ness.  What a bitter blow.  And in the midst of such a shallow depression, ChronicJ’s ever-helpful sister sent him a link to a Wikipedia article with the note:  “Why don’t you move to Iran or Mauritania, you whiney pain in the ass.”  Here is the link:   http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Homosexuality_laws_of_the_world

Well, what do the laws of some backward towel-headed nations have to do with those of the Beacon of Liberty?  And aren’t Muslims, Catholics, and Bible-Thumping Baptists just god-damned annoying?  (That is, unless they are black or brown.  Chronic Jimmy has nothing against oppressed Members of Darker Races (MODR), even if they are narrow-minded.)

Though an enthusiastic fan of the Miss America (wait, or was that Miss Universal?  or Miss Milky Way? or Miss Miss U?  or Miss USA?  or Mz. Tery?  or Mz. Informed?)  pageant since the tender age of three, ChronicJ is furious at that bleach-blonde bikini-wearing slut for growing up in a household that didn’t hold gay rights in the highest esteem.  Though it may be true that the Islamic-terrorists-who-hate -Great-Satan-America often kill homosexuals whenever they have the opportunity, isn’t it true that a dippy beauty contestant representing the progessive state of California should just damn well KNOW BETTER!  I spit on her spiked heels!  Death to her colorist! 

OK.  Let ChronicJ compose himself.  Though many rights have been violated throughout the centuries from one society to another, isn’t it time we all came together, held hands, sang Kumbayah, and had a sip of chardonnay together?  Well, except in those places where enjoying a glass of wine is punishable by death.  In those places, please have a delightful cup of tea.  If you are allowed out of your house.  Please, ladies, put on your bourquas, find Uncle Sahid, and tootle on over to the local tea-house for a drink of solidarity.  And remember, when in Saudi Arabia, let the human with the penis do the driving.

Fascist Americans!  Shame on you!  Let Freedom and the wedding bells ring for all throughout this great land!

Gated Community in Brown County Possible Cult Site

ChronicJimmy would like to regale his readers with tales from the Queen City.  While attending a party in Lower Price Hill, he overheard a conversation by a mysterious man in a lovely silk blouse who recently purchased a home in a gated community in prestigious Brown County, Ohio.

OK, so you are amazed that 1. ChronicJ could gain access to the Price Hill elite and 2. that there could be anything gated in Brown County other than the county jail.

Months after the Madoff arrest, the financial chatter has died down among all the heirs to the various junkyard and Port-o-Let fortunes which through the years have allowed LPH to become a hotbed of culture and philanthropy.  Sadly, some lost big in the stock market debacle and have had to move back into tinfoil double-wides with kindly dope-smoking cousins.  But I digress.

You see, our hosts in LPH were smart enough to have “diversified assets” and thus escaped utter ruin and continue to live a cultured lifestyle replete with cases of Bud Light 08 (a fine year) and gallons of Jack Daniels whiskey.  Indeed, ice is still selling well and they have little worry that they will have to give up their boat, captained by a Bill Clintonesque fellow in a brown velour suit and christened the Slippery Cigar.

Anyway, the gentleman I overheard speaking about a “compound” he was building on the lake seemed to have most details in order.  Organic vegetables, nude sunbathing, chemical-free mosquito repellant, and masseuses on hand to keep the Great Leader in a good mood and fullest open chakra (centered of course in the lower abdominal region.)  Still, there was one nagging issue.

“I don’t know if I should deflower all the virgins myself or contract the work out.”

“Where are you going to find any virgins in Brown County,” his stunned listener replied.

“We might have to import them from Millersburg.”  The future cult leader had a thoughtful mien.  I admired his lovely accent, which placed his origins in the environs of Cheviot.  Fascinating place.

“You’re going to raid the Amish?”

“Sure.  They won’t have a clue what’s going on.”

“How are you going to accomplish that?”  The puzzled man poured himself another snort of Jack.

“Oh, I don’t know,  maybe I’ll start some sort of band camp where all the counselors speak German.  The Amish would send their kids to that kind of thing, wouldn’t they?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll figure something out.”  The Great Leader stretched his arms and stated that he was going for a walk along the river.

“Dude, you won’t find any Amish down there.”

“I know, but maybe I’ll find a twelve-year-old without any brothers.”

Now mind you, ChronicJimmy found this conversation quite disturbing.  But since he has no intention of ever stepping foot in Brown County, Ohio, he’s not sure there is much he can do about the whole thing.  And besides, it was just idle chitchat from one touched eccentric to an incredulous stranger.  The Compound will most likely never come to be.  Koolaid, anyone?

Among the Unemployed in Ohio

Despair, OH – Patty DuCake has been sent by the editor of this blog to the middle of a state called Ohio, where unemployment reigns supreme, and rust-belt factories are eroding at ten times the normal rate. 

Will the last person in Dayton please turn out the eco-friendly lights?

There won’t be much left for Ohioans to do by the time this recession is over.  The poison sidewall made in China doesn’t have a home.  None are going up.  (Can you believe it’s cheaper to make that stuff over there, and ship it thousands of miles, then to make it here?)

The GM plant in Mansfield is of course scheduled to close.  That’s a perpetual rumor started in 1971.  One laid off worker complained that he was “finding it hard to cope” on 90% of his usual salary.  Well, we’ll move on.

For other workers, being laid off is truly a hardship.  With unemployment benefits of 50% of a weekly salary of $350 per week, life is difficult.  And thus the underground economy is booming.

“I planted Mrs. Galipurdy’s garden yesterday, ” Jake Johnson told this reporter.  “She gave me $50.” 

Formerly a picker/packer at a local distributor, Jake receives a paltry sum through the Ohio Department of Jobs and Family Resources.  “I appreciate any buck that I can make.  I house-sit, I mow lawns, I help employed friends repair their decks and build sheds.”

Is it wrong to avoid taxes on these transactions?

Jake looks me dead in the eye.  “Are you some kind of fucking moron, or what?”

“Or what, I hope.”  Patiently, I explain that ”as a journalist, I get paid to ask questions with obvious answers, and pretend that I just don’t quite understand.” 

Jake wipes some dirt from his nose.  We are standing in a garden in which he has recently planted cucumbers and tomatoes.  “If they can just keep throwing money at the screw-ups at AIG so that they can keep their yachts and don’t have to cancel any appointments with their personal trainers, I can do some honest work and keep all the proceeds to feed my family.”

I ask if Mrs. G will be giving him some produce once the harvest time arrives.

“I don’t know.  I’m sure she probably will.”

I suggest that he make some sandwiches with the fruits of the garden and freeze them for harder times that may come.

“You mean a depression?”

I nod.

“Well, if that happens, even dipshits who get paid to ask stupid questions might lose their means of livelihood.  And wouldn’t that be a shame.”

I thank him for his time, and wish him luck.  He throws a clump of fertilizer at me as I leave, and boy, does it stink.

A St. Patrick’s Day Massacre and Sex on the Sidewalk

Well, ChronicJimmy was back in Cincinnati to celebrate St. Patrick’s day.  So he and a few friends were standing outside a famous (and authentic) eastside Irish pub when out walked several interesting characters.

Two dark-haired girls with streaked hair in mini-skirts and green feathery boots were followed by a tall, tatooed white guy in a bandanna followed by a tall black guy who wasn’t wearing a bandanna.  The two girls were snuggled up against one another when the white guy stuck his finger up one of the girls’ skirt.  She didn’t seem to complain.  Perhaps she was drunk.  Next thing you know a guy on a motorcycle pulled up onto the sidewalk.  The “big, mean, hairy” bartender came outside and greeted him.  Hmmm.  Normally he would have thrown a self-righteous hissy fit and told the dude to get lost.  Didn’t happen.

Well, a guy playing the bagpipes came along after that and ChronicJimmy decided to leave the digital entertainment and concentrate on listening to the guy in the plaid skirt (no one molested his private area, at least at that time).  Anyway, apparently “mr index finger” removed his digit from one girl and grabbed the other girl’s hand and walked away. 

Word on the street was that this was some sort of entourage from the “Rock of Love” reality program.  You know, it follows Masterpiece Theater on PBS Sunday nights. Brilliantly done.

Well, later in the evening, in the wee hours of the morning, a gangsta shootout occurred on Rt. 75.  Be sure to get bullet-proof glass if you commute on that highway, honey!  Lord, shades of 2006 and that ridiculous murder after a different bar “incident.”  Goodness, are we nothing more than road kill waiting to happen?  And isn’t Clifford “T.I.” Harris also involved in  a reality show connected to that horrible melee? 

All ChronicJimmy can say, sweeties, is that if you give someone “the finger” you’d better watch out!  No telling what might happen next!  (And ask your man wear his finger’s been before lovingly grasping it.  You don’t want to be eating no tuna with your corned beef on St. Patty’s Day.)  Hmmm, seems like people can’t get enough “reality” in their lives, can they?

The Bernie Mac Diet

Honestly, I saw a link today on Yahoo! for the Bernie Mac diet.  Apparently he follows “one simple rule” to keep himself fit and trim.

Hmmm.  There is evidence that when you stop inhaling oxygen and exhaling carbon dioxide you will lose weight.  But it’s an underground kind of regimen that isn’t for everyone.

Memo RE: Spreading Rumors That are True, Signed: Da Boss

To:  All Department Managers

From:  Your Fearful Leader

Re:  Rumors of Impending Layoffs

It has come to my attention that a certain individual in the maintenance department has been stating that layoffs are imminent.  As department heads I expect you to control every word that comes out of your employees mouths.  If such control eludes you there will be consequences.

Let me remind all of you that information regarding plant staffing is my domain and my domain alone.  Should you hear gossip being spread about the recent visit of Divisional Manager O’Malley and Minion Marstall please keep in mind that these two individuals met with me and me alone, and thus only I have the authority to authorize any talk on said subject.  Knowledge of layoffs in Texas and Dubuque has been cordoned off and none of our underlings should be aware of these happenings.  Thus the meeting planned for Monday must not have any relation to these unknown actions as far as you or anyone else who works for you would know.

It is troubling to hear how quickly rumors spread and how rank-and-file employees sometimes take it upon themselves to draw conclusions from activities that they have been made to understand very little of.  For example, the cancellation of last year’s Christmas party invoked a spate of worried gossip that business was bad.  This was not the reason said party was cancelled, current sales stats notwithstanding.  As the head of this facility it falls upon my shoulders to do all the thinking and I would thank you to remind your staff that all information and knowledge stems from this office and this office only.  Didn’t I see to it that bonuses were distributed in lieu of the usual drunken holiday celebration?  Unquestioning loyalty and trust is what is expected from every last one of our employees.  Anyone needing explanations for my actions is disloyal and should be watched closely.

Indeed when the CFO resigned last year and told her immediate staff before I had the chance to call a meeting and do it myself, OFFICIALLY, I realized that management needed to be reminded of their place in the food chain.  I am the King of the Jungle.  As a department head, you are a hyena directly reporting to me.  All others are smaller ungulates, such as dik-diks, and as members of a herd should refrain to rely upon their own powers of reason and wait patiently for my analysis before acting or speaking of anything other than fantasy football or the weather.

Though this should have been perfectly clear from the beginning, if you still are uncertain about this issue please come and see me in my office, as my door is always open except when I am on a conference call or conferring with Ms. Puddingout on an important matter of plant safety.

Sincerely,

Bent Wood

Plant Unified Director

Mable’s Marshmallow Manufacturing, Inc.

Deters: ‘This is off-the-charts weird’ | Cincinnati Enquirer | Cincinnati.Com

Deters: ‘This is off-the-charts weird’ | Cincinnati Enquirer | Cincinnati.Com

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World’s Best Job Opens Up in Cincinnati

Times are tough.  Unemployment is high.  But ChronicJimmy wants to do his part to help his fellow Ohioans keep their spirits up and find steady employment in a very shaky market.

Perhaps you have heard of the job on an island in Australia.  Sunshine, warm weather, blue waters.  Well, let’s face it, only a freak would want a job like that.

ChronicJimmy has heard that there is now an opening at the Cincinnati morgue.  Qualifications include:

1. No social skills.
2. Low IQ.
3. Sick son-of-a-bitch.
4. Must fail drug test.
5. Registered sex offender a plus.

Please contact Joe Deters, Hamilton County Prosecutor, if interested.

Islamic Law Instituted in Northern Kentucky

Editor’s Note:  Patty DuCake has a problem of mixing Nyquil with strawberry schnapps.  Please do not believe everything you read.

Covington, KY — They call it the Flattop.  A hideous monstrosity, taking up a block of Covington near the levee.  Night-time seasonal employees of the IRS often walk around the building during their lunch hour for excercise.  Prostitutes and their pimps are kept outside the compound by an eight-foot iron fence. 

Recently a change has taken place in this neighborhood.  The package stores have been shuttered.  The Brass Ass has become the Brass Houkah.  Where marijuana plants once grew, poppies blow gently in the breeze.  Hordes of pregnant, unwed teens have been eradicated.  Tube tops have been banned, and homosexuals have been driven across the Ohio River. 

“We can’t have any ham sandwiches anymore.  Those are the rules.”  Alice Dayby, unit supervisor at the Flattop, has agreed to meet me at the Taco Bell around the corner.  “They don’t serve any pork in this place,” she notes.  “So I guess they don’t really need to change their menu.”

Alice has lived and worked in Northern Kentucky for over twenty years.  She is amazed at how swiftly everything changed.  “I know we’ve always been considered like the armpit of the tri-state area, even with all that new construction and everything going on at Newport on the Levee.   We’re not Cincinnati’s Red Light district anymore, I can tell you that.”

She advises me to visit the former Peace Bell area of Covington if I really want to get a feel for what life is like under the new Islamic administration.  “They’ll be having a stoning in the  morning.  7 a.m., I believe.  Not all the strippers had an easy time changing their ways.”

I decide to go for a walk.  My cold medication has kicked in and I am completely wired despite my runny nose and itchy eyes.  During the period of transition I am able to walk about with just a head scarf.  New laws are currently being drawn up concerning the conduct and behavior of females.  It is expected that they will not be permitted to walk without a male family member, and that their clothing will be completely covered by a heavy black burqua. 

I stop at a gas station to buy a pack of gum.  The clerk looks morose. 

“I see you have a notebook,” he says.  “Please tell the world that I cannot make money if I can’t sell beer.”  He tells me his name is Hussein.  “I didn’t bring my family here from Jordan so these uptight Koran-thumpers could tell me how to live.  If they forbid my daughter to go to school I will have to flee across the river.”

He explains to me that other moderate Muslims are also upset.  “There are West Africans here who fled their homeland to escape violence.  They have no respect for these fundamentalists.  What are they to do now?”

I express my sympathy with him and take my leave.  The sun is rising and the Waffle House across the street has many customers.  I decide to drop in for a cup of coffee.

I sit at the counter next to a young man who appears to be about 22 or so.  He is eating a stack of pancakes with no bacon.  I ask him what he thinks of the changes going on in his community.

“Dude, like, I used to drop into the Brass Ass from time to time so I’d have some place to spend the money I was making down at the package store down across from the IRS.  Now it’s like my life has new meaning, you know what I mean?”

I ask him what he means.

“I never realized how rad these Muslims could be, man.  Turns out that Allah doesn’t want a single guy like me to just like go out on a date with a woman, but like, it’s totally cool to be a righteous instrument of Allah’s wrath when some little slut gets out of line. ”

I ask him what he means.

“You know, like she wants to go hang out with her girlfriends and maybe meet up with some guy at the Dunkin’ Donuts.  Totally not Kosher.”

They say that?

“You know what I mean.  So anyway I’ve joined a group of Allah’s Soldjurs and it’s like my duty to rape these chicks on behalf of Allah.”

I spit out my coffee. 

“Seriously.  I get plenty of action and I don’t even need to look at porn anymore.  My life sure has changed for the better!”

I get up to leave. 

“You better watch yourself.  You shouldn’t be talking to strange men.”  The tone of his voice sends chills down my spine.  His T-Shirt reads:  “ADH  Allah’s Designated Hitter.”

I don’t want anymore coffee.  I set a couple of bucks down on the counter and then head for the door.

The Peace Bell park is about a mile away.  The sun is up now and I’m scared of what I will see. 

Stay tuned for more.

The Devil in the Belly, A Degenerate French Cardinal, and Late-Night TV

What do all three of these unsettling phenomena have in common?  An obsession with the dark art of ventriloquism.

ChronicJ knew he was in trouble when he flew to Chicago only to learn that his fellow travellers were intending to attend a ventriloquist show at a local theater.  Violins started shrieking and he could see an old episode of the Twilight Zone playing out in his head.  What had he gotten himself into?

 

It was a wasted weekend in which the Devil played his part as surely as if he had been summoned by a Ouijii board controlled by Ozzy Osbourne.  In Green Bay the Bengals ended up playing a shitty game resulting in a win.  Surely a pact with Satan had been made. 

 

Blaine Chowder was planning to marry his agent, Malcolm Anulas, with the puppet Larry Kotter serving as the Maid of Honor.  Since Larry was technically an inanimate object, his participation in the couple’s sexual perversions would perhaps not qualify their shenanigans as a threesome.  So the marriage would legally join together a couple, not a threeple, and thus at that time be legal in the State of California. 

 

Such was the power of Blaine and Larry over their audience that when mention of the impending nuptials was made during their act, a hypnotic spell was cast and all present were programmed to log onto Overstock.com the next day to purchase wedding gifts for the devious pair.  ChronicJimmy himself felt powerless to do anything to stop his own online shopping, resulting in a rubber bed-in-a-bag from the Marta Stewpot collection, along with several pair of electrified ice tongs being sent to a double wide in Santa Monica.

 

 If George Bush didn’t mention Blaine Chowder and his surly puppet Larry Kotter in the famous “Axis of Evil” speech, Dick Cheney wasn’t doing his job.  Never before were two such sick and twisted individuals perched upon the same wooden stool in a major American city.  It is rumored that they were the first to introduce Big Boy to angel dust martinis, sending that beefy Midwestern icon into a downward spiral ending with his current lowly status as a drunken Mick perched atop an all-you-can-eat rat-infested gut-wrenching poison slophall on Rt. 65 just outside of Hammond, IL. 

So please, Dear Reader, avoid this type of entertainment if you care at all about your mortal soul. 

 

Can ventriloquism make a comeback? | Stage | The Guardian

“Ventriloquism started life in ancient societies not as entertainment, but to get in touch with the dead. In Greece, Africa and even the polar regions, people believed that departed spirits took up residence in the stomachs of prophets from where they foretold the future. (The word ventriloquist comes from the Latin term meaning “belly speaker”) . . . From day one the church saw it as the work of the devil, except in France where they were much more relaxed. Cardinal Richelieu even hired a ventriloquist to play a practical joke on a bishop he did not much like.”

 

A Feature Profile of Ventriloquist David Strassman, Published in the London Daily Telegraph, 1997

“Ed Sullivan considered his show incomplete without a “vent“. Now neither of Sullivan’s two mighty successors, David Letterman and Jay Leno, will have anything to do with what they call “prop acts” . . .Odd that a practice with this kind of pedigree should have become stage entertainment; and even odder that it should have evolved during the late 18th century into a form almost exclusively associated with the dummy, cousin only slightly removed from the devil doll, taker of pins and curses, comer to life.”

  Catharine Price at Mother Jones describes her experience at the convention with Christian illusionists:

“As the annual convention of the Fellowship of Christian Magicians kicks off on a hot July afternoon, the campus of Indiana Wesleyan University is awash in displays of irreverent reverence. Ventriloquistsconverse withScripture-quoting puppets, unicyclists pedal through the halls, and a man plays “Amazing Grace” on a turkey baster. In the gym, vendors sell mysteriously materializing Communion cups, paper that dissolves in water (perfect for making sins “disappear”), and fire-spouting Bibles ($50 each, they open “withor without flames”). Visitors to the auditorium are greeted by a Noah’s ark and Jesus, life-size and complete with cross and crown of thorns, made from balloons by a group of self-described “balloonatics.” Outside, preteens wearing gold crosses and short shorts practice high kicks: The five-day event coincides with a gathering of the Fellowship of Christian Cheerleaders.”  

 

http://separateholy.wordpress.com/2008/11/11/ventriloquism-is-not-of-god/