index

In examining the legacy of the Clinton Administration, we need to put the Blow-Job aside for the moment. In order of magnitude, perhaps he will best be remembered on the face by the spewing of the press over his presiding during the most lustily robust economy in this nation's history.

   Of course this swelling was foreplayed by those who came before him., who pulled out upon his election. While his Welfare Reform was lauded around the world, it seemed to climax to early to be memorable. His Foreign Policy seems to satisfy only him, having fired off alot of missles without hitting the target and then not reloading, leaving the Pentagon palms up in how to handle it's privates.

   Tittilating hope for a Common Sense Drug Policy was aroused when he stripped bare to the staff of the Office of National Drug Policy. Once again he disappointed his bedfellows by prostrating himself under the table, and began the erection of the most Draconion policy machine thus far.

   On the up side, his novel use of cigars stimulated the tobacco industry, seeming to put a smoking shaft in every mouth. Due to the lack of a solid handhold on the dictum of truth, however, his performances before grand juries have been hard on his credibility. In putting it in, to perspective, his defenders say he had it blown for him. Now he will have a dickens of a time with his private agenda, pushing it through whatever crack in the system that exposes itself. By inserting himself into Columbian politics, he demonstated that he was not using his head. Such backdoor, end-around tactics have had a negative effect on his approval pole.

   Interest in shooting a load of money at his Presidential Library has softened. The structure, a tower with two smaller domes, has been covered in latex to protect it from abuse. The downturn in Arab support has left the President trying to shove it through Congress. He has stiffened his resolve and thrusts onward, probing for someone who will lay down for him their bottom line, even if it is just lip service.

   He offers as a piece of himself to do what he can while still on the inside. Finding his promises impotent, most demure. Confusion over these comings and goings has left his office personnel mired in a sticky, gooey mess that gets cold faster than they can clean it up.

   Which brings us back to the Blow-Job, unfortunately embarrassingly enough of a legacy to overshadow being taken seriously by another nation on this planet.

   Mr. President, in trying to remain upright in matters of an ambassadorial nature, you garner mostly snickers. No one wants to be in the same room with you without protection. The best advice you could possibly offer to anyone is to pay for the dry cleaning.

   You are the butt of many humorous jabs. The ones who will miss you most, write jokes for Leno, Letterman, etc.; you will be a tough act to follow. In the future, no one will be able to mention your name without rolling his or her eyes.

    For all your desperate lashing about to invent a respectable legacy, know this one thing to be true. The image you leave behind involves grease paint, funny shoes, and a squeaky red rubber nose.

         The Old Biker
         (Author Unkown):

When it comes to bikes
and barroom fights,
well I guess I've seen me a few.
I've straddled the Hogs
and run after the broads,
and swilled down an ocean of brew.

It took me some years
to dry behind the ears,
and learn to keep my mouth shut.
To not lose my cool,
and not act like a fool
over some drunken, barfly slut.

Now, I got a few bumps
and I took my lumps
when some bozo
was knockin' me down.
But more often then not,
I came out on top,
and I thought                                  I was the baddest in town.

I packed a piece in my boot
when I rode on my scoot,
and my belt held yet another.
And if I got any lip,
somebody'd get hit-
I was one no shit, badass fucker.

It was Friday night
at the ol' Blue Light,
my favorite scooter tramp bar.
Yeah, I was struttin' my stuff
and actin' real tough,
playin' biker superstar.

With a gal on my lap,
I was into my rap,
full of coke, tequila, and beer.
"I can ride any putt,
or kick any butt
better than any damn biker here!"

I sat there and glared
while the jukebox blared
some silly ass cowboy song.
And I howled out the tune
and kept time with a spoon,
while the gal massaged my ol dong.

I laughed and I joked
and was taking a toke,
when an old dude
bumped into my stool.
With a glance at the crowd,
I barked out real loud,
"Hey, you crazy old fool!"

"Are you touched in the head,
or just stupid instead?
Are you spastic,
you damn clumsy ox?
Get outta here fast,
or I'll beat your old ass,
and they'll send you back
home in a box!'

There wasn't a sound
as the old dude turned round
and heaved one long and tired sigh.
A crusty galoot,
he looked tough as a boot,
and he fixed me
with his one good eye.

"Now look, son" he said,
with a shake of his head,
"I'm a biker not lookin for strife.
Dont be fooled by gray hair
or this eyepatch I wear-
I've been on two wheels all my life"

"I'm weathered and gnarly,
but I still ride a Harley,
and I ain't never backed down yet.
But I'll buy ya a beer
and we'll skip this beef here,
If you'll show an old man some respect."

"You think I care
about your fuckin gray hair?"
I shouted, and
slugged down my beer.
"You can bet your gray stubble
there's gonna be trouble,
you half-assed, old, dipshit queer!"

I could hear my own breath
and the room smelled like death,
and the old cat just stared at the floor.
Then he lifted his head
and the words that he said
I'll remember when I'm a hundred and four.

"Well, I gave you an out,
you damned kid lout,
but I guess you're as
dumb as you look.
You just ain't been told
'bout respect for the old."
And with that he threw a left hook.

At the end of his wrist
was a cast iron fist
that damn near
knocked out my brain.
And when the fog cleared
my vision was bleared,
and I couldn't remember my name.

The old coot's voice hissed,
"Now dont get me pissed.
Mind your manners and just be polite.
Let's make our mends
and all go home friends,
and forget this stupid ass fight."

I got to my knees
and let out a sneeze
that spewed blood all over the floor.
I shoulda stayed down,
but, like a jerk-off clown,
I stood up in the puddle of gore.

I said "Your really a sucker,
you gray bearded fucker,
you half dead, old, bag of guts.
Kiss your scoot goodbye,
cause you're fixin' to die..
Then he kicked me
square in the nuts.

The crowd made for the door
as I thrashed on the floor,
in a pain like I never had felt.
But through all the raw hurt
in the blood and the dirt,
I went for the gun in my belt.

But I just made things worse,
the old guy was first,
and his boot came down on my hand.
With a sickening crunch,
the bones popped in a bunch,
and I tried but failed to stand.

Well I guess he got mad
'cause the rest was real bad,
as my rudness he attempted to cure.
There were steel-toed kicks
and roundhouse licks,
you get the idea I'm sure.

With my ribs all mushed,
and my fingers crushed,
I was just this side of dead.
My bones were broke
and I though I'd croak,
but I heard the words that he said:

"I may be gray,
but I got this way
by out-toughin' shitheads like you.
Real bikers ain't old
till they're dead and cold,
and I've got some more livin' to do."

Then he walked out of the bar,
and I heard from afar,
as his bike's big engine caught.
And as the blood dried,
I lay there and tried
to figure out what I'd been taught.

And the moral seemed clear
through the blood and the beer,
though it hurt too much to stir.
With an old biker dude,
don't ever be rude,
Just smile and always say ......SIR

(a retired soldier's opinion)
NEVER AGAIN, should the United States commit its military forces without first commiting the will of the American people to that effort.
Our soldiers, sailor, airmen, and marines do the bidding of the United States. They do not go in harm's way for their own gain or on their own accord. They do it for the American people and our way of life.
Dissent
The Constitution of the United States guarantees the freedom of speech of all Americans. The people in the military place themselves in harm's way to defend the rights of Americans to speak out.

However, should some Americans find themselves opposed to a military action, they should protest the actions of the government, and not focus their protest against the men and women of our Armed Forces. Nor should they travel to foreign countries, which are in armed conflict with the United States, to carry out their protests.

If you are an American, and you want to protest, do so in the United States for all to see. By going to a foreign country, which is killing American servicemen in combat, and demonstrating aginst the United States action, you are giving aid and comfort to the enemy and encouraging the killing of American servicemen by a foreign power.
In our book, that is treason."

Subject: A Great Story:

This is so funny!!!!For all of you who occasionally have a really bad day when you just need to take it out on someone!!! Don't take that bad day out on someone you know, take it out on someone you DON'T know!!!

Now get this. I was sitting at my desk, when I remembered a phone call
I had to make. I found the number and dialed it. A man answered nicely saying, "Hello?" I politely said, "This is Patrick Hanifin and could I please speak to Robin Carter?"

Suddenly the phone was slammed down on me! I couldn't believe that anyone could be that rude. I tracked down Robin's correct number and called her. She had transposed the last two digits incorrectly. After I hung up with Robin, I spotted the wrong number still lying there on my desk. I decided to call it again.

When the same person once more answered, I yelled "You're a jackass!"
and hung up. Next to his phone number I wrote the word "jackass," and put it
in my desk drawer. Every couple of weeks, when I was paying bills, or had a
really bad day, I'd call him up. He'd answer, and I'd yell, "You're a jackass!"
It would always cheer me up.

Later in the year the phone company introduced caller ID. This was a real disappointment for me, I would have to stop calling the jackass.

Then one day I had an idea. I dialed his number, then heard his voice,
"Hello." I made up a name. "Hi. This is the sales office of the telephone company and I'm just calling to see if you're familiar with our caller ID program?"
He went, "No!" and slammed the phone down. I quickly called back and said, "That's because you're a jackass!"

The reason I took the time to tell you this story, is to show you how if there's ever anything really bothering you, you can do something about it.
Just dial 823-4863.

[ Keep reading, it gets better.! ]

The old lady at the mall really took her time pulling out of the parking space. I didn't think she was ever going to leave. Finally, her car began to move and she started to very slowly back out of the slot.

I backed up a little more to give her plenty of room to pull out.
Great, I thought, she's finally leaving. All of a sudden this black Camaro
come flying up the parking aisle in the wrong direction and pulls into her space.

I started honking my horn and yelling, "You can't just do that, Buddy.
I was here first!"

The guy climbed out of his Camaro completely ignoring me. He walked
toward the mall as if he didn't even hear me. I thought to myself, this guy's a jackass, there sure a lot of jackasses in this world. I noticed he had a "For Sale" sign in the back window of his car. I wrote down the number. Then I hunted for another place to park.

A couple of days later, I'm at home sitting at my desk. I had just gotten off the phone after calling 823-4863 and yelling, "You're jackass!"
(It's really easy to call him now since I have his number on speed dial.)

I noticed the phone number of the guy with the black Camaro lying on my
desk and thought I'd better call this guy, too.

After a couple rings someone answered the phone and said, "Hello."
Isaid, "Is this the man with the black Camaro for sale?"

"Yes, it is."

"Can you tell me where I can see it?"

"Yes, I live at 1802 West 34th street. It's a yellow house and the car's parked right out front."

I said, "What's your name?"

"My name is Don Hansen."

"When's a good time to catch you, Don?"

"I'm home in the evenings."

"Listen Don, can I tell you something?"

"Yes,"

"Don, you're a jackass!" And I slammed the phone down.
After I hung up I added Don Hansen's number to my speed dialer. For a while
things seemed to be going better for me. Now when I had a problem I had
two jackasses to call. Then, after several months of calling the jackasses and
hanging up on them, it just wasn't as enjoyable as it used to be.

I gave the problem some serious thought and came up with a solution:

First, I had my phone dial Jackass #1. A man answered nicely saying,"Hello."

I yelled "You're a jackass!", but I didn't hang up.

The jackass said, "Are you still there?"

I said, "Yeah."

He said, "Stop calling me."

I said, "No."

He said, "What's your name, Pal?"

I said, "Don Hansen."

He said "Where do you live?"

"1802 West 34th Street. It's a yellow house and my black Camaro's parked out front."

"I'm coming over right now, Don. You'd better start saying your prayers."

"Yeah, like I'm really scared, Jackass!" and I hung up.

Then I called Jackass #2. He answered, "Hello."
I said, "Hello, Jackass!"

He said, "If I ever find out who you are..."

"You'll what?"

"I'll kick your butt."

"Well, here's your chance. I'm coming over right now Jackass!" And I
hung up.

Then I picked up the phone and called the police. I told them I was at 1802 West 34th Street and that I was going to kill my gay lover as soon as he got home.

Another quick call to Channel 13 about the gang war going on down W.34th Street.

After that I climbed into my car and headed over to 34th Street to watch the whole thing.

Glorious!

Watching two Jackasses kicking the crap out of each other in front of 6 squad cars and a police helicopter was one of the greatest experiences of my life!

Name withheld to protect the guilty.

Notes From An Inexperienced Chili Taster Named FRANK, who was visiting Texas from the East Coast:
"Recently I was honored to be selected as an outstanding Famous celebrity in Texas, to be a judge at a chili cook-off, because no one else wanted to do it. Also the original person called in sick at the last moment, and I happened to be standing there at the judge's
table asking directions to the beer wagon when the call came. I was assured by the other two judges (Native Texans) that the chili wouldn't be all that spicy, and besides they told me I could have free beer during the tasting, so I accepted.

Here are the scorecards from the event:

Chili # 1: Mike's Maniac Mobster Monster Chili

JUDGE ONE: A little too heavy on tomato. Amusing kick.

JUDGE TWO: Nice, smooth tomato flavor. Very mild.

FRANK: Holy shit, what the hell is this stuff? You could remove dried paint from your driveway with it. Took me two beers to put the flames out. Hope that's the worst one. These Texans are crazy.

Chili # 2: Arthur's Afterburner Chili

JUDGE ONE: Smoky, with a hint of pork. Slight Jalapeno tang.

JUDGE TWO: Exciting BBQ flavor, needs more peppers to be taken seriously.

FRANK: Keep this out of reach of children! I'm not sure what I am supposed to taste besides pain. I had to wave off two people who wanted to give me the Heimlich maneuver. They had to walkie-talkie in 3 extra beers when they saw the look on my face.

Chili # 3: Fred's Famous Burn Down the Barn Chili

JUDGE ONE: Excellent firehouse chili! Great kick. Needs more beans.

JUDGE TWO: A beanless chili, a bit salty, good use of red peppers.

FRANK: Call the EPA, I've located a uranium spill. My nose feels
like I have been snorting Drano. Everyone knows the routine by now. Barmaid pounded me on the back; now my backbone is in the front part of my chest. I'm getting shit-faced.

Chili # 4: Bubba's Black Magic

JUDGE ONE: Black bean chili with almost no spice. Disappointing.

JUDGE TWO: Hint of lime in the black beans. Good side dish for fish or other mild foods, not much of a chili.

FRANK: I felt something scraping across my tongue, but was unable to taste it. Sally, the bar maid, was standing behind me with fresh refills; that 300lb. bitch is starting to look HOT, just like this nuclear-waste I'm eating.

Chili # 5: Linda's Legal Lip Remover

JUDGE ONE: Meaty, strong chili. Cayenne peppers freshly ground, adding considerable kick. Very impressive.

JUDGE TWO: Chili using shredded beef; could use more tomato. Must admit the cayenne peppers make a strong statement.

FRANK: My ears are ringing, and I can no longer focus my eyes. I farted and four people behind me needed paramedics. The contestant seemed offended when I told her that her chili had given me brain damage. Sally saved my tongue from bleeding by pouring beer directly on it from a pitcher. It really pisses me off that the other judges asked me to stop screaming. Screw those rednecks!

Chili # 6: Vera's Very Vegetarian Variety

JUDGE ONE: Thin yet bold vegetarian variety chili. Good balance of spice and peppers.

JUDGE TWO: The best yet. Aggressive use of peppers, onions, and garlic. Superb.

FRANK: My intestines are now a straight pipe filled with gaseous, sulfuric flames. No one seems inclined to stand behind me except that slut Sally. I need to wipe my ass with a snow cone!

Chili # 7: Susan's Screaming Sensation Chili

JUDGE ONE: A mediocre chili with too much reliance on canned peppers.

JUDGE TWO: Ho Hum, tastes as if the chef literally threw in a can of chili peppers at the last moment. I should note that I am worried about Judge Number 3. He appears to be in a bit of distress as he is cursing uncontrollably.

FRANK: You could put a grenade in my mouth, pull the pin, and I wouldn't feel a damn thing. I've lost the sight in one eye, and the world sounds like it is made of rushing water. My shirt is covered with chili which slid unnoticed out of my mouth. My pants are full of lava-like shit to match my damn shirt. At least during the autopsy they'll know what killed me. I've decided to stop breathing, it's too painful. Screw it, I'm not getting any oxygen anyway. If I need air, I'll just suck it in through the 4inch hole in my stomach.

Chili # 8: Helen's Mount Saint Chili

JUDGE ONE: A perfect ending, this is a nice blend chili, safe for all, not too bold but spicy enough to declare its existence.

JUDGE TWO: This final entry is a good, balanced chili, neither mild nor hot. Sorry to see that most of it was lost when Judge Number 3 passed out, fell and pulled the chili pot on top of himself. Not sure if he's going to make it. Poor Yank.

FRANK: --------------(editor's note: Judge #3 was unable to report)