KELLY & KLEIN thank you for taking the time to visit, read, and comment. We’ll return on January 4th for another year of attempted entertainment so, we wish all our readers a Happy New Year!!
Gone fishing
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Monthly Archives: December 2015
THEY’RE COMING TO TAKE ME AWAY…
By
Zachary Klein
And I deserve it. I did it to myself. I should be locked up. Time for someone to rip my fingers off the clicker, keyboard and telephone. Time to chill in a rubber room and get force-fed Thorazine.
But why now, you ask?
Close to five hours keeping company with Wolfe watching thirteen asswipes screaming for dark meat. Listening to…NO Syrians! NO Mexicans! NO Muslims! NO Obama! But no NO to all the White meat mass-murderers who can get guns at a fucking show without having to bother with a background check. That’s why.
Along with no NO to all the stupid ass lies that catapulted us, bombs first, into the Middle East. Licking chops at the prospect of slaughtering towel-heads, despite the loss of sixty thousand American Ground Pounders, Wingnuts, and our coalition partners. Not to mention hundreds of thousands Iraqi and Afghani people who had gornisht to do with the Saudi terrorists who brought down the Trade Center.
They fucking pretend nothing needs to be said about those Middle East wars, instead just pander to voters’ fears and ugliest instincts. Christ, if I believed in these mooks’ collective worldview, or believed that most Americans felt the same, I’d start inviting friends and family to Jonestown for a Kool-aid party.
Every single one of them makes me sick. Worse, ashamed I share the goddamn country with ‘em. That little ”White wannabe,” Marco Rubio, a man able to combine JFK’s youthful boyishness with Nixon’s sleaze, said in an interview on The Kelly File, It’s not about closing down mosques. It’s about closing down anyplace — whether it’s a café, diner, an Internet site — anyplace where radicals are being inspired.
Right. Ignore the First Amendment and shut ‘em down. Just like that. But let’s not even talk about gun control—that’s supposedly a Second Amendment right. This son of immigrants, (who wouldn’t have been allowed into this country if Rubio’s promises were in effect at the time), squealed like he’d seen the Walking Dead when the Calgary-born, Texas plaid-man of the people (by way of Harvard and Evangelicals), Teddy Cruz, told boy-toy he wasn’t a real conservative. The Canadian Cowboy reminded the twit he had once proposed a path to Green Cards for our undocumented. Rather than stand behind this minimal shred of humanity, Rubio gulped and stuttered that he wouldn’t support that now. Worse, if All That Glitters doesn’t nail the nomination, my money is actually on the little bitch.
But I’m not done with the bible-spouting, flag-waving cowboy, who has blood drooling from his mouth instead of spit. We will carpet bomb them into oblivion. Them being ISIL despite their embedment within major urban areas within Syria and Iraq. Cruz not only wants to bomb, he wants to gloat. I don’t know if sand can glow in the dark, but we’re going to find out. This prick should have been the one riding the bomb instead of Slim Pickens in Dr. Strangelove.
And speaking of doctors, Malpractice Carson (who averaged a little less than one lawsuit every ten years so I’m probably being a little mean) hasn’t remembered the Hippocratic Oath; in fact, he’s moved into physician-heal-thyself status. Mr. Nice Guy is opposed to allowing Muslims to run for President and compared Syrian refugees to “rabid dogs” —although not during the debate. His solution? Create a Shangri La in, I believe, Jordan because, in these camps they have schools, they have recreational facilities that are really quite nice. Doctor, you’re fucking with my head.
No, not Jeb! He’s a piece of burnt, dried-out toast. Looked like a guy who wanted to be anywhere else and couldn’t figure out why he had listened to Daddy and Mommy. But even he couldn’t stop from taking a shot at dark. Jeb! said he would prefer to give asylum to Christian rather than Muslim refugees. A polite way of saying, Fuck the desperate Syrians.
This whole debate was a venue of vultures preying on our worst fears and the worst sides of our national character, all the while showing the worst sides of their characters as they pushed and shoved to get airtime. Every one of them, including Fiorina, with her, let’s become a Silicon Valley Nation. Yeah, just what we need. A government populated by the Zuckermans of the world. THEY WOULD FIRE YOUR ASS, lady! Just like they did before.
As for the fat fuck, look, I like New Jersey. Hell, I’m from Carteret. But there are two kinds of Jersey people. Those that never leave, and those who leave and never move back.
So, PLEASE, PLEASE keep Christie at home. You voted him into office. The only blowhard “experienced” enough to fight ISIL never served a minute in the military or even understands the word “diplomacy,” but has the faux cajones to blubber, I cannot allow New Jersey to participate in any program that will result in Syrian refugees — any one of whom could be connected to terrorism — being placed in our State. Then happily flaps his chins “yes” when asked if that included five-year-old orphans. Christie also bellowed that he’d be more trusted by Jordan’s King Hussein than Obama. Hat’s off, shmuck. Hussein’s been dead since 1999.
You’ve run a long way from Clifford Case, New Jersey. Shame on you.
Frankly, there are too many more morons to continue the litany. I’m out of breath and losing heart. To put the entire crowd of war-mongering, anti-my-America racist losers into perspective, when asked about our foreign policy disagreements with Putin, the so-called grownup of the menagerie, John Kasich, replied, Frankly, it’s time we punched the Russians in the nose. This bastard actually wants another round of Duck and Cover.
Uh-oh, I hear the sirens in the distance. I have to prepare for my straitjacket and ambulance ride cause they’re coming to take me away…
Tomorrow is my 31st Anniversary, I’m preparing for a colonoscopy, and I’m watching the Republican Debate. It’s a perfect shitstorm. ~ Bette Midler
Guests from Hell
By
Since the biggest entertaining season of the year is now well upon us—starting with Thanksgiving, now past; proceeding into Hanukkah, well underway as I write this; with Christmas and New Year’s upcoming—I thought I’d write about everyone’s looming but generally unspoken seasonal dread. That would be The Guest from Hell.
Guests from hell come upon us in different shapes and guises, but they all have one thing in common: You never want them to darken your door again. Unfortunately, sometimes the dictates of family and friendship require that you do.
I should note that I have never actually entertained a guest from hell. (I must be lucky; my relatives and friends know how to behave at dinner parties. Or maybe I just have good taste in friends and relatives.) I have, however, attended a fair number of dinner parties at which a guest (or two) from hell was present.
Generally, guests from hell can be broken down into four categories: The bore from hell; the drunk from hell; the teetotaler from hell; and the pugilist from hell.
- The Bore from Hell. My most memorable encounter with one of these was at a dinner party I attended several years ago. Among the eight guests were a very cosmopolitan English couple who had arrived in the United States loaded with juicy gossip about the royal family and various members of the peerage. Everyone was totally dying to hear about the latest high-profile hijinks of Charles, Camilla, Anne, Fergie, Andrew, Edward, and whoever other of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II’s spawn and grandspawn and other assorted relations had been doing something scandalous recently. After we were seated, and enjoying the first course, the wife of the couple began relating a saga that involved, if I recall correctly, the Royal Navy, some polo ponies, and an orgy. We were riveted. Except, of course, for the bore from hell, who decided he wanted to discuss…Schubert Now, I bow to no one in my regard for the canon of western classical music. But I don’t need to hear about—over dinner—alternate titles, numbers assigned in the catalogue, conflicting versions of the first line of any given song, or the history of various instrumentations of any of Franz Schubert’s works. Well, anyway…we finally managed to get back on the subject of royal orgies. Just as the resident story-teller was reaching the good part, Bore from Hell interrupted her with: “Getting back to the subject of Schubert lieder,” and treated us all to a non-stop droning monologue about the chronology of part songs for male and female vocalists. Everyone at the table glumly subsided into resigned silence. You could see the thought bubbles over their heads: “Oh, shit, let’s just get this meal over with.”
- The Drunk from Hell. My worst experience with a drunk from hell was at a very flossy Harvard dinner party thrown by a dean and his wife. I was seated at the table next to a very senior professor who had gotten himself insanely drunk during the preceding cocktail hour. He kept pawing me, which was extremely disconcerting for numerous reasons, one of them being the fact that his glowering wife was seated directly across the table from us, staring daggers at him. (I don’t blame her in the least.) Things got worse when he put his hand under my dress, and—I still don’t know how he accomplished this—managed to rip my pantyhose into shreds. (He must have had claws instead of fingernails.) I was considerably younger than I am now when this happened, and I had no idea what to do other than sit still and feel horribly embarrassed and uncomfortable. I know what I’d do now: I’d remove his hand from under my dress, place it on the table, impale it with a fork, and smile serenely at the rest of the company. I pass this advice along to any young women who might find themselves in a similar situation.
- The Teetotaler from Hell. This is the kind of person who, if you ask him or her if he or she would like a drink before dinner—martini, Scotch on the rocks, bourbon, wine, whatever, responds by saying: “No, thanks. I don’t believe in polluting my body with toxic substances.” This is not a person who is interested in maintaining a healthy lifestyle. This is a person who takes pleasure in being a morally superior killjoy. Rational people—good guests—who don’t drink alcohol, for whatever reason, simply ask politely for ice water, a soft drink, or fruit juice. I am always very happy to accommodate them, as I am when cooking for people with real, special dietary requirements, whether dictated by religion, culture, or genuine health issues such as gluten intolerance, lactose intolerance, or the need to restrict salt or sugar consumption.
- The Pugilist from Hell. This is the guest who will start a fight with anyone, any time. Both sides of the political spectrum produce this creature. The fight is always about some hot-ticket cultural, religious, or political issue that can’t be reduced to simple sloganeering, which is what the pugilist always does. The pugilist always thinks he’s in the right, and everyone else is completely wrong. Not just wrong, but evil. This does not make for a jolly evening.
Well, that about wraps up my list of Guests from Hell. Certainly there are sub-categories, such as the Drunk Horny Guest from Hell (which I believe I described above); or the Drunk Pugilist Guest from Hell (not uncommon); or the Teetotaler Pugilist Guest from Hell (a ghastly permutation of the breed); or the Drunk Bore Pugilist from Hell (I think we have some cross-breeding here), but you get the point. I’ve been there, seen that. And I wish they could all go to dinner by themselves and leave the rest of us alone.
That said: I wish you all the happiest of holidays, a very good New Year, and…a Guest from Hell-free guest list. With respect to the Guest from Hell-free guest list: Am I asking too much?
BETTER DEAD THAN RED
By
Zachary Klein
I’ve never lived in a Communist country. Never lived in a Socialist country either. But in our capitalistic United States, money is the gift that keeps on giving—even after you’re dead. Money for nothing, (but the chicks ain’t free).
Admittedly, this isn’t the way I usually think about dying, but since I don’t believe in heaven or hell, the notion of money pouring in post mortem, (something I rarely experienced in my lifetime), may lift my thoughts when I see the White Light.
Over the years I’ve ranted and railed against vast wealth accumulated in too few hands. That hasn’t changed. But I just don’t see much downside to lining my pockets from six feet under.
Here’s a look at some people who have been partaking in death’s affluence for decades. All figures are approximate since different sources report different amounts—but with these numbers…who’s counting?
Albert Einstein, dead since 1955, squared away $10,000,000 last year alone. And this before the supposed line of scientific instruments, tablets, and computers bearing his name hit the market. I shoulda’ gotten a degree.
Let’s face it, no matter how political I am or ever will be, no one will ever mistake me for a White Bob Marley. I can’t hold a fucking tune. And though he’s been dead since 1981, no matter. Mr. One Love chilled with a cool $18,000,000 last year. That kind of scratch scores some really, really good shit. But even with all that money, he might have a difficult time finding a dealer. Now that would hurt.
Believe me, Marley isn’t the only singer who no longer has to sing for supper.
John Lennon, who died in 1980, does pretty well at $12,000,000 a year. This for a guy who curled up naked and used to warble All You Need is Love.
And it’s impossible to speak about love, death and money without noting that Elizabeth Taylor (2011) rakes in $25,000,000 per. Imagine if she also got alimony.
To put her yearly earnings into perspective, the entire estate of Richard Burton (dead since 1984) was estimated in 2013 to be worth a paltry $50,000,000 total.
I guess it’s better to slug down pills AND alcohol.
Of course, many other actors have their hands out, even if it’s in front of their headstones. The “King of Cool,” Steve McQueen, who died way back in 1980, earns a nifty $9,000,000 yearly.
A pretty good reward for making his Great Escape.
And please, let’s not forget Marilyn. Her medicine chest gets replenished with the $15,000,000 a year. I’m guessing that JFK and the Yankee Clipper are gritting their teeth with envy. Or, given their lives, maybe not so much.
Lest you think that only pop culture superstars and actors get this gig (and, yes, these days Einstein is exactly that), think again.
Dead since 2004, Ray Charles manages to earn a solid $10,000,000 a year. In fact, Ray’s earnings have risen since his death.
Theodor Geisel (aka Dr. Seuss) dumps about $9,000,000 into his hat every year. No wonder the Doctor’s cat has a smile like the Cheshire’s.
And believe it or not, the cumulative net worth of Rodgers and Hammerstein has also been upwardly mobile. (Oscar died in 1960, Richard in 1979). Does $235,000,000 sound like Some Enchanted Evening to you?
There are so many dead people earning that I can’t list all. But I would be incredibly remiss if I neglected “The King” despite the fact that Elvis, who died 1977, isn’t the highest annual earner. That honor goes to yet another “King,” Michael Jackson who, since his death, 2009, has earned close to a billion dollars.
Now that’s one hell of a lot of toys—if he can use them. (And enough to fund some new exquisite videos). 
Still, the “original” King is making $55,000,000, which ain’t exactly chump change. That’s over $150,000 a day for being dead!
I guess Stephen Sondheim (alive, but expected to earn after death as well) knew what he was talking about when he wrote:
I like to be in America, Okay by me in America, Everything free in America ~ West Side Story (1958)