Saturday, November 12, 2005

Between a Radio and a Hard Place



There is no pornography in Darfur, but that's where the ULF transmissions beamed into my tailbone told me to go.

The closest substitute is Radio Obdurman, which features the bizarrely ribald agit-prop skits of the genocidal Janjaweed Militia as well as a broad variety of archival programming from Clear Channel Broadcasting. But sometimes you just have to rough it, and not just when you're roving across the world's most dangerous stretch of desert during a massive schizophrenic episode. Even some Best Westerns don't have Spectra-vision.

So as a service to fellow homofacist sadomasochists, I review the titillating potential of some of America's leading conservative radio commentators, now available worldwide via the magic of satellite:



Paul Harvey

We didn't come this far because we're made of sugar candy. Once upon a time, we elbowed our way onto and across this continent by giving smallpox-infected blankets to Native Americans. That was biological warfare. And we used every other weapon we could get our hands on to grab this land from whomever.

And we grew prosperous. And yes, we greased the skids with the sweat of slaves. So it goes with most great nation-states, which--feeling guilty about their savage pasts--eventually civilize themselves out of business and wind up invaded and ultimately dominated by the lean, hungry up-and-coming who are not made of sugar candy.



Rating: 5 Bulldogs

Seriously hot. I want to dip myself in his brill cream, and be "ultimately dominated."








Ann Coulter
Liberals keep telling us the media isn't liberal, but in order to retaliate for the decimation of major news organizations like the New York Times, CBS News and CNN, all they can do is produce the scalp of an obscure writer for an unknown conservative Web page.



Rating: 1 Bulldog

This bitch really turns me off.







Bill O'Reilly:

You know, if I'm the president of the United States, I walk right into Union Square, I set up my little presidential podium, and I say, "Listen, citizens of San Francisco, if you vote against military recruiting, you're not going to get another nickel in federal funds. Fine. You want to be your own country? Go right ahead."

And if Al Qaeda comes in here and blows you up, we're not going to do anything about it. We're going to say, look, every other place in America is off limits to you, except San Francisco. You want to blow up the Coit Tower? Go ahead.



Rating: 3 Bulldogs

Huge subliminal phallus bonus: "podium", "comes", "blows", blow", "Coit Tower". The throbbing megalomania is a plus too. But if you look past the homicidal threats, you see a little boy threatening to take his toys and go home, and nobody ever wanted to fuck that kid.







G. Gordon Liddy

When he listened to Hitler on the radio, it "made me feel a strength inside I had never known before," he explains. "Hitler's sheer animal confidence and power of will [entranced me]. He sent an electric current through my body." He describes seeing the Nazis' doomed technological marvel the Hindenberg flying over New Jersey as an almost religious experience. "Ecstatic, I drank in its colossal power and felt myself grow. Fear evaporated and in its place came a sense of personal might and power."




Rating: 8 Bulldogs
We have a winner.



Wednesday, November 09, 2005

FOX ASKS:



EXACTLY!

As a victim and perpetrator of unspeakable acts of torture, I can verify its remarkable efficacy. Yet the application of massive physical and psychological pain is severely underappreciated by the American public. Without the judicious (and often erotic) application of torture, our entire global civilization would fall apart in days.

Torture feels right...It feels right to hurt those who are afraid of you. If someone is keeping a secret from me, I burn their eyes with Drano and electrocute their penis. Back when G. Gordon Liddy was pimping me out to the Royal Family of Saudia Arabia, he always used to tell me, "Jeff, electrocute their penises."

And he was right.


Tuesday, November 08, 2005

Bear Rape

I want to take a minute to talk about Scooter Libby and bear rape.

This is a bear:



It is an hairy beast of several hundred pounds with sharp claws and three-inch teeth. It's hobbies include eating honey, riding tri-cycles, and searching for precious Gummi Berry Juice. They rarely, if ever, rape young Japanese girls.

Unless poked with a stick.

Most people don't know about the stick, and they remain blissfully in the dark about the widespread use of mind-control techniques implicit in bear rape, as well as duck rape, porcupine rape, dolphin rape, and Dyson Cyclone Vacuum Cleaner rape.

I don't know any other way to say this, so I'll just come out with it: In 1988 at Bohemian Grove, Cheney ordered me and Libby to wrap the Duke of Westchester in a plastic trash-bag, shoot a bear full of meth, and poke it with a stick until it raped him. Hunter Thompson photographed the whole affair:



I am not proud of this; I am merely telling you what happened. And also crying shame that Libby should profit from such an episode, which I am sure is indicitive of a man who has been party to all manner of bestial sexual episodes, and not just this isolated ritualistic attack upon a minor British noble.

And shame on you, anonymous Amazon.com buyers! Your disgusting voyeurism has driven up the price on Libby's puss and piss filled opus to $745! There are plenty of hard-working pornopgraphers who need that money. Or hell, just give the money to me, a bonafide victim of satanic ritual abuse. I'll warp your children for no extra charge. I'm talking nightmare stuff: semen and bone-saws, Thai schoolgirls and Kissenger on acid.

I mean, for Christ's sake, www.jeffgannon.com ain't exactly a cash cow...

Gosch: Reloaded

There aren't many wi-fi hotspots near Karkuk, but you knew I would find one eventually, didn't you? Johnny Gosch, brain-washed sex slave turned correspondent to the war of the surreal, is nothing if not persistent.

I woke up early yesterday morning in a complete daze to find myself in the front yard of this charming couple, who were casually enjoying the joi de vivre of post-liberation Iraq from the comfort of their Miami Lowback Arm-Chairs.



The man claimed to be a certain "Hassez Al-Hamein," an importer of Chinese kitchen appliances. But something rang false in the man's voice, and I couldn't quite place it...He spoke too quickly, and possibly in Sweedish. Either way, I didn't like the looks of his Birkenstocks, so I quickly manufactured an excuse about needing to find a dialysis center and high-tailed it out of there.

The only clues to the last five months are the contents of my urber-fashionable cargo pants, which consisted of:

225 Rubbles
A matchbook from the MGM Grand, with the numbers 1,2,3,5,8,13,21,34 written inside
A schematic blueprint of the U.S.S. Yorktown
An empty bottle of Wet-Light brand lubricant
A note in crayon: Jamhuuriya Militia 011-457-703-4467
A 1986 TOPPS Wade Boggs baseball card
A rather incriminating photo of myself and Harriet Miers
A popsicle stick
A human finger



There is much to unravel, but in the meantime, ponder the beauty of nature's harmonic 4-day timecube:





Awash in a sea of enigma, your pal,

Johnny Gosch