What’s Not To Love About a TKO?

Here is the big end of the year scoop on the first sacred shopping day after Christmas, a scoop being an old fashioned word that refers somewhat archaically to a hot, pulpy item, fresh off of a rolling press, a phenomenon that once gave off a warming heat and light that is no longer what it used to be.

It is difficult to understand how this vital news item passed like some stray Egyptian in swaddling clothes through the clutches of the crackerjack professionals at Fox News, or how after demonstrating such superior zeal in uncovering the crummy details of the annual war waged against Christmas by heathens, reprobates, and scum who need to be shoved down a rat hole and kept there, and which parenthetically would have been a story otherwise difficult to find amidst the raging blizzard of inscrutable, mind controlling tinsel imported from China if not for Fox News, somehow they overlooked the outcome.

Allow me to substitute, then, however, poorly, for the pros at Rupert Murdoch’s Fox News, such as Glenn Beck, Bill O’Reilly, and the blonde bimbo with the owlish eyes, lascivious lips, and embalmed, creamy complexion whose name escapes me.

To near unanimous acclaim, decisively and superlatively, Christmas has once again emerged victorious.  Christmas this year kick some mind fucking ass, up and down the block, not by some foul below the belt, not by some simple-minded decision, split or otherwise, not according to any rules derived from some poufy French Marquis, but by a massive, nearly hemorrhagic, technical knockout.

You would think that a technical knockout, which only occurs once an opponent has been haplessly bloodied, bowed, and whipped enough to pass the litmus test of a disfunctioning suburban house-husband, would make the pancaked faces at Fox News nearly delirious with an unbridled, if somewhat reconstituted from concentrate, joy.  But, sadly, and alas, such is not the case.  And this is what has me worried.

What in these jaded times does it take to satisfy the man who wants everything so that same said man does not have to wake up wanting more in the middle of the night?

Overwhelming victory and near global domination, it seems, does not adequately turn the trick.  Not for Rupert Murdoch. Not for his complex networks of cogs, sphincters, and controls. Not for the obsequious fawners who spread his manure.  Do you realize how old this man still is, how long he has been ravaging international goods and services, how deep he sticks it in, how wide?  I didn’t think so.  No mere funny looking, bald headed dweeb, this.  Did you know that he is not now and has never been an American?  Did you know that you don’t have to be an American to become the boss?

Bill O’Reilly is a man, certainly, not commonly identified with what could ever be called happiness.  He is more clearly a man who is proud to suck in his gut and squeeze tight on a regular basis, a man who thrives in the role he performs as the grown up former tough kid, bigger than other kids, who learned at a relatively young age to perceptively terrorize the freaks and sissies prancing about in black framed glasses and red Converse sneakers before it was cool, while simultaneously keeping sufficient distance from the real tough kids, who kicked ass indiscriminately based upon less intellectual gleanings such as mood swings.

The other star on the Fox News menu, Mr. Glenn Beck, I will grant you appears to be happy periodically, in that bipolar manner that used to be called, inaccurately as it turns out, paranoid schizophrenia.  His manifestations, however, or series of same, are likely less a true clinical reaction than a melodramatic response mechanism discovered to be useful in the marketing of sordid wares to the demographically vital segment of a lost audience that still yearns for the sadly gone but not forgotten emotional tiddly-winks provided by the late and lamented Guiding Light and Days of Our Lives.  I think, again sadly, that if Mr. Beck, the man and not the mogul, was really happy in an all night loving kind of way, he would not cry so much, nor swell so much, nor require the airy substances provided by Ding-Dongs and Twinkies.

The remaining thespians at the American version of Fox News don’t really count for much in a policy sense, and thus never need to be asked the question why, especially the guy with the face that looks, and the name that sounds, remarkably like douche, or the pasty guy with suspiciously kinky hair who is rumored to shove small squares of unlined paper up his ass daily, and rotate digitally.  Plus, he may not be the only one. Word is, there may be a cult at work, said to include analytical Barbie, who really ought to snip that annoying inch of hair that continues to grow shaggier and more potentially unruly under cover of darkness nightly, and in the name of clarity get a demonstrative West Coast boob job once and for all.  Order, after all, must be maintained.

So, again, I need to focus, and ask.  What does it take to mend these broken hearts?  If Christmas isn’t good enough, then what?

And this is exactly what has me worried.

I may have a personal conflict of interest here that may require a full disclosure.  I’m just trying to be as honest as the professional models here, although I am not certain, understandably, how far to take it.

But, sometimes I hear noises.  I sometimes hear voices that growl like dogs.  I sometimes hear, amidst the bark of Bill O’Reilly and the sobs of Glenn Beck, murmurings that sound awfully, convincingly, like a threat, or threats.  Sometimes, I am compelled to turn away.

And because I would rather not end up at the wrong end of a stick, any stick, roasting like a pygmy over an open fire after the hunt, I have to ask.  Are you talking to me?

Furthermore, I have a confession to make, one for which I hope I can be forgiven in advance.  In truth, I have a hell of a hard time picturing the world above described on Fox News, where the puffed up God that Glenn and the gang claim to know so well looks down with special purpose only on those who look so remarkably like Glenn and the gang.

Is there room for discussion here?  Or am I supposed to just shut my fucking mouth and keep it shut?  I’ll admit that I’m a lot less worried about their pal, God, than I am about Glenn and the gang.   If that God is so tough and infallible and all, why is he scared to show his face?  It might help.  It’s been six thousand years, right?  Why not join the party?  Why not here and now? Is he worried about blemishes?  Is he too busy getting a facial?  Is he, God forbid, hiding in the closet?  If, indeed, he is a clearcut ‘he’ and not a secretive ‘she.’  What a reason that would be.

So, for no more than ranting deliriously out of turn, am I supposed to end up like the buffalo and the elk, like the Cherokee, the Chippewa, the Cheyenne, the Apache, the Algonquin, the Delaware, the Sioux, the Seminole, the  Mohawk, the Menominee, the Navajo, the Comanche, the Osage, the Cree, the Kiowa, the Ute, Yakima, the Ohlone, the Zuni?

Would it make any difference if added some irrefutable facts to the discussion, facts that are based upon the exact same fact checking methodology pioneered by Fox News, facts that are every bit as reliable and trustworthy as the facile projectiles spewed from the launching pads of Glenn und da bund?

How about this one?  The authentic birthday boy, Jesus, who chronically needed a shave, was a dead ringer for Yassir Arafat, right down to the size and shape of the circumcised penis, his coffee colored skin, and the dreads underneath his do-rag.

Did you know that Christmas is not American, that Un-American activists have been known to openly celebrate Christmas with foreign smoke and mirrors, that Christmas has in fact been artificially enhanced and manipulated by Chinese engineers working selflessly around the clock, which is the major reason why you, and not me, owe them so much fucking money?

Or this?  Fox News is a vital cog in the pre-industrial machinery still buried in desert sands and wielded by European, Persian, and Arabian royalty to control the stench of the stinking corpses that remain underfoot and refuse to disappear, that for all of his efforts Rupert Murdoch, although still officiously a royal lackey, has been seriously promised the next available hot spot on the A team?  All he has to do, besides suck, is swallow.

Would it make any difference at all?

No, I didn’t think so.  I can understand, believe me.  It wouldn’t make any difference to the Ayatollah or the Taliban either. There’s some spooky motherfuckers for ya.  You betcha.

But, you can’t blame a brother for trying, can you?

About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
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