LAST TRAIN TO KOOKSVILLE

"The president squinched his face and bit his lip and seemed too antsy to stand still. As he searched for the name of King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia (“the king, uh, the king of Saudi”) and made guy-fun of one of the questioners (“Who picked Gigot?”), you had to wonder what the international financial community makes of a country whose president could show up to talk economics in the middle of a liquidity crisis and kind of flop around the stage as if he was emcee at the Iowa Republican Pig Roast." -Gail Collins, NYT

Nero reportedly fiddled while Rome burned. But George isn't much of a violinist, so he has taken to tapdancing on the steps of the White House, doing his best Gene Kelly impression...

"...I'm singin' in the pain/I'm singin' in the pain/What a glorious feeling/I'm craaaaaazy again!

...and serenading the press corps with an extraordinary rendition of "The Brown Brown Grass of Home" (which most closely resembles that of a stone-drunk Japanese businessman during last call at Karaoke Night at the Kooksville Bar & Grill) all while the United States of America goes down in gas fumes, which is all we can afford anymore.

Pity the poor bastard who has to clean up when the fool finally falls off the stage. He has clearly cracked up, and I, for one, am seriously wondering if he can make it to the end of his term.

There must be concerned whispering going on at the cocktail parties of mental health care professionals in this country. Those folks are trained to see the signs. And yet no one has stepped up to help. No one has done a thing.

Doesn't he have doctors? Doesn't the president's annual physical include a mental health check-up? Or is the psychiatric staff at Walter Reed too busy with the PTSDs and the young men and women with the sides of their heads blown off from - as George in another recent verbal proof of his insanity described them - their "romantic" tours of duty in Iraq?

Isn't there ANYONE in this country concerned about our poor, pathetic idiot of a president?

I guess not. That's why I have decided, even if I am the only one, to hold a fundraising event for President Bush to buy him that much-needed ticket on the Last Train to Kooksville and offset the costs of his long upcoming stay in the Crawford Institute for the Criminally Insane.

I, along with the children from our local elementary school (who, in their innocence and wisdom, can see the signs clearly and feel sorry for the nitwitted narrator of "My Pet Goat") am organizing "Bowling for Nitwits" to be held here at the "Lutheran Lanes" the day after tomorrow.

It's short notice, I know, but we're going to try to squeeze it in before Doomsday.

APOLOGY: Once again I apologize for my long absence to the few friends who still check in here from time to time. The one thing that seems to help these recent headaches of mine is to avoid staring at this computer screen.

SUPERBAMA

Ole talked me into going mountain climbing with him again, but I might have overdone it this time. I've had these blazing headaches ever since my return. Snowblindness. So I've been in the dark, sleeping as much as I can, and I've missed most of this Obama crush that's been going on. I see he's now the frontrunner.

I was at my stockbroker friend's for supper the other night. You might remember him. He's one of those "Independents" who has never voted Democratic in his life but that's just because he hasn't found one worth voting for. So I was surprised to hear, from his own lips, that he is for Barack Obama.

"What?" a crumb of meatball slid out the side of my mouth.

"Yup," he nods, head down, forking his mashed potatoes. "I think I'm gonna finally vote for a Democrat.

I was stunned. I set down my fork and dabbed the corner of my mouth with my napkin. I didn't know what to say. I was in shock. He continued:

"I suppose you're wondering why.

I nodded. This was big. This was very big. Him even thinking about voting Democratic would be like...would be like...

"It's the fundrasing. The organization. The organization and the fundraising. I mean look at the guy! He starts with nothing, pitting himself against the most formidable political machine ever assembled: the Clintons! The Clintons, for goddsakes! And somehow, some way, he has assembled a machine that is light years ahead of the Clintons! He's putting them to shame! He's leavin' 'em in the dust! He's so far ahead that Hillary has to borrow money from herself! How did he do that? Any business person, Republican or Democrat, looks at that and they say, 'That's genius!'

"Genius?" I mumbled. "Not a word you hear too much when discussing politicians.

"So," my friend said, leaning over his peas, "if he can do THAT,...," he tapped his head with his fork, "...if he can do that...", he shook his fork at me, "...if he can do that, well,...," he shoved a forkful of potatoes and peas in his mouth and nodded and chewed, as if I could finish his sentence myself.

"So," he said with food in his mouth. "Who you fo'?

That was easy. "Well, ever since I heard he got the endorsement of Scarlett Johannson I've been for Obama.

"Oprah not good enough for you? I mean, that's like getting the endorsement from God.

"God is one thing. I'm talkin' about Scarlett Johannson.

"Ah! Well, it's nice to see you're still as stupid as you used to be, Neil.

"I try not to change. It confuses people.

MR. CRISP GOES TO BETHLEHEM

BETHLEHEM, West Bank, Jan 10 (Reuters) - Passing through a tiny "Door of Humility", U.S. President George W. Bush made a pilgrimage to the traditional birthplace of Jesus on Thursday in the occupied West Bank.

"Door of Humility", huh? Geez, that must have been a bit of a stretch for Mr. Crisp.

I hadn't heard much about my hero of late. I guess I assumed he must be out mountain biking or cutting brush or masturbating in the Lincoln bedroom to naked pictures of Karl, but here he was showing up in Bethlehem to visit the Baby Jesus. Alas, the Baby Jesus wasn't there. I happen to know where the Baby Jesus is. He's hanging out with Roger Clemens in an undisclosed location until this steroid thing blows over. He is unequivocally denying everything, hoping to buy time so those needle marks in his ass have time to heal.

But Mr. Crisp didn't know that, of course. Too bad. I could have saved him a trip.

Then again maybe it's good for Mr. Crisp that he didn't know. Maybe it's good for him to get out for awhile, to get away, to try to put a shine on that badly tarnished legacy. Nixon did the same thing and look what it did for his.

And Mr. Crisp had arrived in The Holy Land just in time, just when Iran was attacking our mighty warships with speedboats. It gave Mr. Crisp an opportunity to hammer home his point of what a danger Iran posed to world security, what with all those powerful speedboats of theirs.

Next summer I think I'm going to buy a couple of speedboats and take over the Great Lakes. I probably won't even have to fire a shot.

The U.S. Coast Guard, I'm sure, will cower in my wake, afraid of all those "Born to be Crisp" bumper stickers plastered all over my stern.

But wait! I'm letting my pride get carried away with me. No, that sounds like something Mr. Crisp would say, like that time he was campaigning in Wisconsin and he said, "Wisconsin: Where Wings Take Dream!". I like that one. That's always been one of my favorites from "Little Visits With Mr. Crisp". That and the time he was disparaging the laziness of the French and said, "The French have no word for entrepreneur."

True, "I'm letting my pride get carried away with me" isn't nearly as crisp as the wise and pithy sayings of Mr. Crisp, but at least I'm starting to get a bit of a crackle going. And I'm starting to have some good, crisp ideas, like that conquering the Great Lakes with a few speedboats thing.

Other crisp ideas I've had lately are 1) PICTURELESS POSTCARDS (I think they'll be a big hit), and 2) CHILDPROOF SANDWICHES.

Ah, but it's good to hear some news about Mr. Crisp again!

He so inspires me.

I am so inspired right now, in fact, that I can't wait for the sun to come up so I can go out and buy a new door, a "Door of Humility", so I can go through it, just like Mr. Crisp.

Do they carry those at Home Depot, do you suppose?

NEIL SHAKESPEARE Cosmic Eye

Six months ago the media Nostradamii were predicting it was all but over. It was going to be Rudy vs. Hillary. Book it, Danno.

Last week, after Iowa, the all-seeing, all-knowing David Brooks opined in The New York Times that it was all but over. It was going to be Barack vs. Huck. Cue the Fat Lady.

So imagine my surprise when I woke this morning to find that, after consulting the Oracle of New Hampshire, the press had now divined that it shall be Mama Hillary vs. Grandpa John. Slam dunk.

Youth and Change, the two goddesses that had so fired the imaginations of Americans a scant five days previously, had been replaced by Same Old and Same Even Older.

I predict a furious battle. Ah, what a race it shall be, she with her cane and he with his walker, she in tears and he grumbling about his arthritic war wounds, leading us all hobbling towards the nursing home of democracy.

CHANGE

PROFILES IN SEWAGE: William Kristol

No sooner had I landed in Hell on my shopping expedition to choose a destination for the afterlife than I heard a small, distant voice crying out:

"Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

Now what? I wondered. Curiously, there was a newsboy hawking his wares under a stoplight frozen eternally on 'caution'. I turned away. I hadn't even had time to properly assess my surroundings. It was a bleak place, stark even, but that I had expected. The fact that there was water here was a surprise. Then again, without water I suppose you couldn't have golf courses.

"Extra! Extra!

Well, at least they had newspapers here. That would give me something to do on Sunday mornings, since I assumed there were no church services. Then again, maybe there were. Also, if I was going to spend the afterlife here I'd have to check out the real estate section.

"I'll take one, young fellow," I cried. He handed me the top rag on his stack. "Oh God no," I said, "not the Wall Street Journal! I can't read that crap. 'All The S**t That Fits': that's their motto. What else you got?

"We have The Weekly Standard, sir," he replied. Polite young fellow. I liked him.

"The Weekly Standard? That's another Rupert Murdoch paper! He set that up just so that neocon boob, Bill Kristol, could have some place to blather other than on FOX News. Don't you have anything else?

"No, sir. I'm sorry, sir.

"Lemme guess: I bet the only TV station you got down here is FOX, right? Murdoch owns Hell, doesn't he?

"Yes, sir. But I do have some good news for you, sir. Starting Monday I'll be carrying The New York Times.

"The New York Times? Ah, now yer talkin', kid! But wait a minute! I don't get it. Why The New York Times?

"Because starting Monday The New York Times introduces its new op-ed contributor, Mr. William Kristol.

"What?!" I was in shock. "Jesus! Did Rupert buy The New York Times, too? God, kid! Bill Kristol is the second or third biggest idiot on the planet, if he's not number one! Remember his 'Project for the New American Century', a century that lasted all of six years?

"Oh yes, sir. All of us here in Hell are big fans of Mr. Kristol. We love 'Dan Quayles' Brain' down here.

"That's right! Among all his other idiocies I forgot all about that. He was Dan Quayles' Brain! He gave poor Dan his spelling lessons.

"Yes, sir. He was Dan Quayle's Brain just like Karl Rove was 'Bush's Brain'. Are you starting to notice a trend amongst Republican leaders, sir?

"That they don't have brains? That's old news, kid. I couldn't believe they could out-dumb Bush, but you should see the crop they got up there now. I still don't get it, though. Why would The New York Times hire Kristol? They already have that boob Brooks who thinks they have earthquakes in Iowa. Didn't they learn their lesson when they helped Kristol & Company sell the Iraq War? Now they're going to help him sell the Iran War?

"The truth is, sir...and I shouldn't be telling you this...The New York Times is having revenue problems. Their ads aren't selling, especially the luxury goods ads which make up half of their advertising income. They need money, and since the poor are no help in that area they need someone to help them drag the rich neocons back into the fold by presenting themselves as fair and balanced, just like FOX News.

"They're selling out!

"Yes, sir. But this should come as no surprise. As you say, sir, they've done it before.

I was stunned. Hell was falling quickly to the bottom of the list as my chosen destination for the afterlife.

"OK, kid. Gimme one of those WSJ's. Might as well check out the real estate market while I'm here, just to be thorough." I reached into my pocket. "How much you need?

"Ten dollars, sir.

"Ten dollars?! For The Wall Street Journal?! That damn rag ain't worth ten cents!

"Delivery costs are high, sir. The price of gas and so on.

"Gas? You want gas? Why don't you get Bill Kristol to open his mouth, that'll give you plenty of gas. Better yet, you could take it out of his a....

"Be careful there, sir!" the newsboy cautioned me, pointing at my feet. I noticed now that the rock I had landed on was covered with sewing needles. "The permanent residents here keep trying to squeeze through those things...

THE UNIVERSE NEXT DOOR

SHOPPING THE AFTERLIFE

Today I mounted the new calendar. I got it free at the bank. Each month has a pithy saying. January's words of wisdom are from that ancient Greek philosopher, Andrew Carnegie:

"Think of yourself as on the threshold of unparalleled success."

Nice thought, Andrew. Thank you very much. Is that what you told all your steel mill workers as they entered the blast furnace each morning?

Ancient Andrew is not the only one who can dispense great wisdom. My neighbor lady does the same thing. I ran into her the other day and she says:

"So, Neil, what church do you belong to?

"Mabel," I replied. "You know I don't belong to any church.

"Well, I thought maybe you'd changed your mind. It's getting closer every day, you know.

"My mind?

"No! Death, silly!

"Oh, that. I don't worry about that too much, Mabel, because I am on the threshold of unparalleled success!

"Are you now? What idiot told you that? Say, I'd like to introduce you to our new pastor. He's a girl pastor.

"He is?

"Well, SHE is a girl pastor.

"Are you sure?

"Oh, stop!" she said, whacking me over the head with her Lutheran Hymnal. "I'm worried that you're going to Hell!

It got me thinking. Perhaps I should be thinking more about my destination in the afterlife. Maybe I should, like, check it out beforehand. You know, like, do some afterlife shopping or something. Coincidentally, I needed a good New Year's Resolution. And the thing about any good New Year's Resolution is that you have to start right away, at the stroke of midnight.

I figured I'd start with the least popular afterlife destination. I called up my travel agent.

"Round trip to Hell!" I demanded.

"Sorry, we have only one-way tickets to Hell. The closest thing we have would be Iowa. You'll need a major credit card...

"Iowa? I've been to Iowa. Didn't seem like such a bad place to me.

"You obviously haven't been there during Caucus Season.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

SATELLITE DISH

Hello again, everyone, and here's hoping you're having a happy holiday season and best to you and yours.

Sorry I've been out of touch. Two minutes after my last post there was a knock on my door and it was Ole, wanting to go mountain climbing. I never could refuse Ole anything, because it was he who raised me, more than any single person, and so off we went and I forgot to bring my satellite dish. (Luckily, she was still here when I got home.)

Then when I got back the dog was pregnant and I've spent the last two weeks getting the nursery ready. Painting, decorating, hanging appropriate puppy pictures, and reading "Puppy Midwifery" and "Puppies Take Precedent Over Everything" and "Puppies Make The World Go Round" and similar heavy tomes. You know the routine.

And there was a wedding reception somewhere in there too, on the dark side of St. Paul. There were pictures on the walls, I remember, and the bride wore white. There was a full moon, and a car pulled up across the street and a bunch of drunken animals jumped out and started howling.

Also, I bought an old "rusty but trusty" pickup truck to haul brush around the farm, but the right front tire blew moments after I arrived home. I drove around on the rim for a few days but then it snowed, and thank God for that! Now I won't have to deal with that flat tire till next spring.

So now I'm home for the next eight weeks at least, midwifing puppies.

I don't know what kind of puppies they will be. The mother will once again be a "Heinz 57", and the father? Who knows. Maybe a "Baskin-Robbins". But I'm sure they'll be...

"One of a Kind!!! MUST SEE!!! God only made ONE of these!!!! L@@K!!!! L@@K!!!!!"

...which is how I'll advertise them on eBay.

PICTURE: Satellite Dish from the series The Golden Age of the Brassiere Collage 2007 Neil Shakespeare

KEEPING TABS ON THE SLAVEGIRLS

Here's another picture of me from my youth, hard at work at my first job. The day after I graduated from Harvard Business School my father put me to work on his plantation in France. My job was to keep tabs on the slavegirls and make sure that not a single kernel of grain was lost.

It was hard work, but I was good at it, and it signaled my rapid rise in the corporate world. Here I learned all about the value of margins, and I have been living in the margins ever since.

After several decades of such work I have, in fact, become an extremely marginal fellow.

NAPPING IN A MONET

Here's a picture of me in my youth, napping in a Monet landscape. The older I get the more I realize that I've never really awakened. I used to feel guilty about napping. You know, wasting time and all that. Now I love napping. I look forward to it.

Isn't it strange how the less time you have left the more you want to nap off the remainder?

GOOD TIMES IN ARGENTINA

"I don't know what Bush and Cheney are going to do with all that oil money they made on their wars in Iraq and Afghanistan," said my lawyer friend over some Irish whiskey the other night. "Go have some good times in Argentina, I suppose. Like Mengele, Eichmann, those guys.

"Argentina?" I responded. "I thought that was Brazil.

"Brazil, Argentina...whatever. What's the favorite Nazi hideaway these days? Jesus Christ. Tell me this: what was the price of oil when Bush/Cheney took office?

"In '01? I don't know. $30 a barrel? Something like that?

"Exactomundo! And what did it hit the other day? $88 bucks a barrel. Triple! In six years! Triple!! Jesus, those oil buddies of theirs must think George W. Bush is the second coming of Jesus H. Christ and Dick Cheney is God himself.

"And what must the Saudis be thinking?" I replied. "I mean, George and Dick are the two bestest friends they've ever got. But they're Muslims.

"So George must be Mohammed and Dick must be Allah?

"I suppose.

"Another pair of Nazi bastards. I bet Jesus, Mohammed, God and Allah are all holed up in Argentina just waitin' for George and Dick to join 'em. Say, you know what my fellow lawyers down at 'Dipshit, Dipshit, Dipshit & Dipshit' are calling Bush these days?

"Lemme guess: 'Dipshit'?

"Naw. They're calling him 'Four War George'.

"Four War George?

"Yup. He's already got wars goin' in Iraq and Afghanistan but he needs a little meat for that sandwich and that's Iran.

"OK," I said. "So that's three. So how do you get 'Four War George'?

"Cuba.

"Cuba? Is Bush going to commit war on Cuba? But...I don't get it. Cuba doesn't have much oil, does it?

"No, but it'll make a good retirement home for all the old oil Nazis to sit and count their war profits.

AMERICAN D.N.A.

"Now, in terms of whether or not it's possible to reprogram the kind of basic Russian D.N.A., which is a centralized authority, that's hard to do. That would be like me trying to reprogram myself to take my foot out of my mouth and shove it up my ass. You see, I'm used to having my foot in my mouth. It's in my D.N.A. , my American D.N.A. It's in the American D.N.A. to be just plain old batshit crazy. It's easy to get people to go along with you when you're batshit crazy, because they're batshit crazy too. It's in their D.N.A. too. They're Americans!

"You see, when God gave us our D.N.A. for breakfast that morning instead 'Cuckoo Puffs' or 'Fruit Poops' he gave us Americans a bowl of 'Batshit Crazy', along with a couple slices of 'Toast of Stupidity'. The Russians, he give to them a bowl of 'Centralized Authority'. You get it? The French got...lemme see...what was it...oh yeah, the French got 'Snobbyfrogitis'...which sounds like a disease but I assure you it's a breakfast cereal containing French D.N.A. Once again here I am trying to explain all this to you. D.N.A. is scientific. It's somethin' 'scientific'. That means it has somethin' to do with science, which is somethin' I don't perfectly understand, but I come pretty close just by lookin' it straight in the eye. I am not a scientist, but I know what science is, and what it looks like and what it smells like. The same with D.N.A. It's just like Sweden, for example. Now, I'm not a Swedener, but I can recognize a Swedener when I see one in Sweden. When Laura and I were in Stockpond that time I turned to Laura and I said, 'Look! There's another Swede!' It's a gift I have. Just like how I know all about D.N.A.

"What's that?...Question over here?...OK, go ahead. Uh-huh...uh-huh...oh yeah, sure. In answer to your question, the Sweden D.N.A. is cold. It's a cold country up there and that's why God gave the Swedishers the cold D.N.A., so they could stand, you know, how cold it is. But then again, I'm from Texas. It gets pretty hot in Texas. Not everybody knows that. What's that?...The Texas D.N.A.?...Well, Texas is the same as the American D.N.A. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's where God got it. From the D.N.A. mines in Texas. I know there's one over there just outside of El Paso. They got these big trucks. I mean big, big trucks! A lot of demand for D.N.A. these days.

"Next question?...Dubya Dubya Three? Sure, step right up! I'll tell y'all about it.