From "Out with the Aughts Edition"

Morning Roundup: Out with the Aughts Edition

So garnishing that $7.50 an hour to pay back the people they robbed would be "cruel and unusual punishment," right? What do you call guys in wheelchairs robbing people at shotgun point then rolling slowly away from the cops? "Monday night on H Street." Maybe we can retrofit this guy's wheelchair with a plow so he can shovel off H Street. Maybe we can put Poopy the Magic Hobo on an all Taco Bell Volcano Taco diet and turn his soilage into muy caliente de-icing fluid. They had a choice, all of them. They could have followed in the footsteps of good men like my father or President Truman. Decent men who believed in a day's work for a day's pay. Instead they followed the droppings of lechers and communists and didn't realize that the trail led over a precipice until it was too late. Don't tell me they didn't have a choice. Now the whole world stands on the brink, staring down into bloody Hell, all those liberals and intellectuals and smooth-talkers... and all of a sudden nobody can think of anything to say.

My New Year's resolution? To put on a Molly® mask, Rorschach Underoos, and a diaper and drive around in a van with a talking dog and a stoner and solve mysteries.

No capes!

Now, a FRIED bologna sandwich, that's good eating. Almost as good as fried salami. It's like cylindrical bacon, all crispy and greasified. With extra mayo. Mmmm-mmm. If they served that three times a day in prison, the population would drop three-fold. Hell, just serve those deathrow last meals every day: burgers, pizzas, steaks, scotch eggs. You wouldn't need a death penalty.

From "Torrential Edition"

DCist Morning Roundup: Torrential Edition

Go ahead and laugh at the gender-bending fish, but you'll be laughing out the other side of your favorite head when eight-foot Daddy CHUD Chinatown Tiresias comes to town, And when some wild-eyed, eight-foot-tall maniac grabs your neck, taps the back of your favorite head up against the barroom wall, and he looks you crooked in the eye and he asks you if ya paid your dues, you just stare that big sucker right back in the eye, and you remember what ol' Jack Burton always says at a time like that: "Have ya paid your dues, Jack?" "Yessir, the check is in the mail!"

(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all, enacted on this same divan or bed; I who have sat by Thebes below the wall and walked among the lowest of the dead.) I have heard the gender-bending mermaids singing each to each. I do not think they will sing to me.

Oh, brothers! We have all gathered here to preserve our hallowed culture and heritage from intrusion, inclusion, and dilution of color, of creed, and of our old-timey religion.

We aim to pull evil up by the root before it chokes out the flower of our culture and heritage. And our women! Let's not forget those ladies, y'all,looking to us for protection from Darkie, from Jew, from Papey, and from all those smart-ass folks what say we come descended from monkeys. That's not my culture and heritage! Is it yours?

And so...we gonna tax us some freeloadin' churchies.

Monkey's Journal. November 12th, 2009: Spandex squirrel carcass in alley this morning, bike tire tread on burst stomach. This city is afraid of me. I have seen its true face. The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of rain and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown. The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder and taxidermy will foam up about their waists and all the whores and fixies and doubleparking genderbending CHUD churchies will look up and shout "Save us!"... and I'll whisper "Maybe!"