List XI

1. Female newsreaders distract the nation by breastfeeding during broadcasts.
2. The government is spending millions on renovating the public transportation system.
3. The people are famous throughout the region for their bleached-white teeth.
4. Crowds of flag-burning protesters accidentally tend to become crowds of burning protesters.
5. Crime -- especially youth-related -- is totally unknown, thanks to the all-pervasive police force and progressive social policies in education and welfare.

March Madness

Last night I listened to the President of the War on Terror's speech, my head pressed against the wicker of the empty newspaper box.

Here we are, nearly seven years into his reign, and the President of the War on Terror still can't get through a speech without uttering the words "Ngo Dinh Diem" or "Archibald Cox."

Anniversary

Thanks to Gold Star Mom Speaks Out for posting this:

http://iraqmemorial.org/index.php

"Episode Fourteen: Did Ann Coulter Really Kill That Guy?"

RHODA: What makes Ann Coulter cadaverous, Mary?

MARY: They found the mouse frozen and stiff. Hair ruffled, eyes open -- as if it were still running away from me.

RHODA: Why does CNN call Ann Coulter a "conservative commentator" and not a "bigot"?

MARY: The mouse was next to Tony's big shoes. Eyes open and hair ruffled in an infinite accumulation of equivalent intervals.

RHODA: I mean, she's not "commenting," Mary.

MARY: The mouse I scared to death next to Tony's giant shoes exists in an irreversible time made abstract, in which each segment need only demonstrate by the clock its purely quantitative equality with all the others.

RHODA: Did Ann Coulter really kill that guy last year?

MARY: The mouse has no reality apart from its exchangeability.

RHODA: I guess she might have. Remember when she tried to poison Supreme Court Justice John Paul Stevens?

MARY: Under the social reign of commodified time, time is everything, the mouse carcass is nothing. He is at most the carcass of time.

Is 5

is there with or without the box mounted
is inevitable
is here
is most commonly associated with the "dick cheney memorial slum"
is housetrained and loves people
is comfortable
is a solo women's ragtime dance of african american origin
is in fact a not so thinly veiled step to the left
is caused by a number of things
is multiplied many times
is a violent shaking throughout the coach
is on its way
is less concerned with storage in her dream workstation
is barely noticible but there
is a doll with a difference
is 5
is like doing 1000 abdominal crunches with your hips or shoulders
is given in figure 2
is worsening
is gone (and the sequoia is back to normal)
is at club loco
is the youngest in his family
is a bad tie rod end
is still there
is a central storage area allowing employees a chance to get away
is characterized by the fish staying in one position wagging
is thankfully gone
is similar to flutter and can be instantly destructive

Dick Cheney Memorial Slum

I couldn't hear the Mayakovsky Tree through shut windows.

The penitential rites of late winter, the rosy pulp of Science Diet Senior Formula Lamb and Rice stuck in soft spots between mouth and belly. The closet drowsy, dull.

I licked my belly in the Dick Cheney Memorial Slum, the corner of the closet behind Tony's large shoes.

The Vice-President of the War on Terror lounged, flush and consumptive, on a pile of old coins.

Is there a furry space between tongue and gloam where half-digested tuna flecks hide?

Are they gone yet, Shimmy? His thin lips delirious. And chins wagged like rank dog tails.

"How can I help you, Vice-President of the War on Terror? It's your slum, not mine. Who are you afraid of?"

The soldiers in dark glasses and eye patches. The daredevils and pirates who rumbled the Walter Reed Army Hospital catacombs with mold and mice and rats and lice.

"I listened to the testimony as I slept under the ottoman, Vice-President of the War on Terror. Our soldiers want to know why you didn't just shoot them on their way out of Iraq -- when you didn't need them anymore."

He squatted on his foul, smutty haunches.

"You live in the far-flung steps of underground bunkers," I continued, "and detest your own troops. You've disappointed them."

I can't do it alone, Shimmy. My pockets aren't big enough. Once upon a time, the White House respected its troops. The soldier persists in the belief that he is lucky to be there. But he arrived too late.

Barefaced Austin Texas

The TV showed breaking. The Mayakovsky Tree said, "A cat’s my favorite animal."

The other side of the hallway, the kitchen wall, some skittering.

The Mayakovsky Tree said, "A splashing blur, the silver scales of tasty fishes, the slanting cheekbones of the ocean!"

The TV showed belied, thinking news. They threw up his story and their control of six men.

What, Mayakovsky Tree.

A bar hooted. The TV: "I’d like to know if I know it. What bar in Austin, Texas, eating news?"

That a cat, the TV, what torts in hand a bar in Austin.

Cat's his favorite animal. A sack of groggy bumblebees. A drainpipe vase. Spinach dip.

Ann Coulter, the other side, half-lidded and gloomy and crouched before her wine.

A man replete it?

A man replied, "What about this hand at Ann Coulter. What threw up this story so there's nine lives. That the TV show believes it?"

The bastard hand godless church spinach dish.

The major U.S. flotilla chips. There's no way U.S. ports have been with him. Don't touch me or pick me up. You'll never find me.

Texas, the Mayakovsky Tree said. Texas. Taciturn. The deal told me if it's true. My way-favorite animal.