TURKEY HOLOCAUST DAY 2011.

Let me be among the first 40-foot helium-filled balloons to kick-start our national parade of giving thanks. That's right, we're just about to butt heads with Turkey Holocaust Day, and to be perfectly honest, its about time. A little tryptophan poisoning might be the perfect prescription for these trying times.

Doubly comforting because this particular holiday isn't about greasing the wheels of capitalism with the fire- hose of consumer debt like that other holiday about a month down the road, which shall remain nameless. And this one doesn't hide under any religious robes either. It's purely about the journey to Comfort City through the Gluttonous Woods. Food, family, friends and football. 4 of the 5 Fs.

So, allow me to express my gratitude for the 4th Thursday of November. One of the little things that goes a long, long way to making life worth living. And here's a couple other examples of what a middle-aged round-headed political pundit bows his head and gives thanks for.

Barack Obama. Because no matter what you think of his policies, you got to admire his ability not to get involved in them.

Dick Cheney. 6 Heart attacks and the man still manages to go on a book tour. How does a guy without a heart, have 6 heart attacks? It would be like Rick Perry contracting a brain tumor.

Rick Perry suffered a 53 second brain freeze during a national debate. 53 seconds. It only took the San Francisco Forty Niners 8 seconds longer to score 2 touchdowns last Sunday. The Niners!

Former Democratic New York Congressman Anthony Weiner who escaped the press by entering sexual rehab. "I'm a sexual addict." Yeah. There's another name for that. We call it-Male. The man is simply suffering from a not so atypical case of Y chromosome poisoning.

Newt Gingrich for refusing to go gently into that good night. Even Brett Favre is saying "give it up, old man."

Herman Cain, whose long-form, cross-country, Fox News audition has exceeded all expectations. Roger Ailes must be so proud.

The Occupy Wall Streeters. The 1% dismiss the Occupiers due to questionable hygiene. Just because you smell odd doesn't mean your message is any less true. The fact they can't afford Chanel No. 5 may be part of the point.

Bill Clinton who refuses to go away. God bless him. Although, President Obama might harbor another opinion.

Michele Bachmann. Her Newsweek cover photo made her look spooky so supporters complained they cherry- picked a creepy looking photo on purpose. Then the magazine put the entire photo shoot up online, asking, "which one would you have picked?" And everybody shut up.

The entire Democratic Party, for failing to realize they're in the middle of a war. Republicans attack them with torches and pitchforks and the Democratic response is to introduce legislation to reform pitchfork safety standards.

The entire GOP, which is waging an internal war for it's very soul. The GOP Soul. Short book. Put it on the shelf right next to Great Democratic Leadership Battles.

Sarah Palin. Who refuses to go away. God bless her. Although, Mitt Romney might harbor another opinion. Or two. Diametrically opposed to each other.

Pat Robertson who called the Republican presidential field too extreme. Pat Robertson blasting his party for extremism. That's like having your drug intervention hosted by Lindsay Lohan. And Charley Sheen is driving the van.

You can't make stuff up like this. See, I'm telling you. Life is good. Thankfully yours.

Check out the website: willdurst.com

December 2011

WEARING MY DEBATE FATIGUES.

Time to sound the alarm on an ominous political epidemic sweeping the nation today. A feverish America finds itself larynx deep in the throes of a severe case of debate fatigue. As evidenced by the most recent gathering of GOP candidates in Nevada, which by any unofficial tally should count as the 367th debate in the past four months with about 519 to go before an actual nominee is grudgingly settled upon.

Nowhere are the symptoms of this malaise more apparent than amongst the participants themselves, who have slowly shifted from irritable to ornery to downright cantankerous. And it's going to take more than a short regimen of low-grade antibiotics to kick this virulent bug.

You could say the last debate got a bit testy. You could also say that girl scouts make ineffective NFL middle linebackers. In nickel coverage. Against Aaron Rodgers. Mirroring the emotions of their constituents, the candidates are starting to get on each other's nerves like somebody else's disco music pinning the red in a bathroom with stainless steel walls.

After Rick Perry accused Mitt Romney of hiring illegal aliens to work on his lawn, the former Governor of Massachusetts put a condescending hand on the Texas Governor's shoulder and received a look that would liquefy granite. Fortunately, Mitt is made of stiffer stuff. But only the presence of TV cameras kept the two from making a date to meet under the bleachers right after school.

Perry's frustration is evident. The shine on his campaign has faded to root cellar dim partly due to an inability to form a complete sentence in public. Himself admitting, "debates aren't my strong suit." No. Not your strong suit. Weak suit. Leisure suit. Bathing suit. Or birthday suit. Face it, debates aren't your Bermuda shorts. And neither is foreign policy Herman Cain's black socks with sandals.

Michele Bachmann was confused by Libya being part of Africa, and Newt Gingrich may have scuttled his entire campaign by vowing, as nominee, to engage President Obama in a series of seven three-hour long debates. Smooth move. Like telling a man with heartburn you plan on serving nothing but jalapeno burritos for dinner the next two weeks. And the sour cream has curdled. Plenty of Tabasco, though.

The seven nominees in attendance spent the evening snapping at one another like hyenas over the last piece of zebra calf muscle. When the subject of immigration arose, they climbed across their podiums playing king of the hill on who would implement the strictest enforcement. Variously promising to utilize the National Guard, electric fences, predator drones and I think somebody mentioned alligator pits. Domestic alligators, of course.

The experts claim these things are designed to build better candidates. "His new found confidence is a direct result of being hardened in the primary debates." But where does "battle tested" end and Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome begin? Could John McCain's punch drunk staggering be attributed to the head blows he sustained over six months of these internecine conflicts four years ago?

Luckily for everybody, the next debate is more than three weeks hence. Plenty of time to grab some air and arrange a few photo-ops in stately poses such as handing out Halloween candy and voting. Not forgetting the most important presidential business of all, begging for more money. Power ties off. Knee pads on.

The New York Times says Emmy-nominated comedian and writer Will Durst "is quite possibly the best political satirist working in the country today." Check out the website: Redroom.com to find out more about upcoming stand-up performances or to buy his book, "The All American Sport of Bipartisan Bashing."

November 2011

TRICKLE UP ECONOMICS

It's all a dance, really. A Democratic president summons the gumption to call for higher taxes on the rich and Republicans cry like third graders having their ice cream taken away and given to the neighbor's dog. Invoking the hoariest of chestnuts; that oldie but goodie; as predictable as mushy green grapes in a fruit salad: The Class War Boogie.

For some reason, it's always a war with these guys. The War on Christmas. Culture Wars. War on Terror. The Crusades. Then they accuse Democrats of being emotionally unequipped for battle. Well, which is it? You can't have it both ways. Actually, you can. It just makes choosing which one to cruelly abandon to the wolves of winter that much more difficult. Or not.

When taxes are raised on the rich, that's class warfare, but when subsidies are handed out to giant corporations who siphon jobs offshore so that rich people can have more money, that's Trickle-Down Economics. What Barack should do is rename his efforts to balance the playing field, "Trickle-Up Economics." That would at least confuse them. Although after watching the last couple of debates, confusion does not seem to be in short supply.

We're not even allowed to call them rich anymore. They're "job creators" now. And yes, jobs are being created. In Mexico. And Vietnam. And China. The American Dream is alive and well, just not here. It's our own damn fault, really. American workers have ruined everything with their irrational demands for safe working conditions and a living wage. Who do we think we are? Stockholders?

Republicans have been as strident as a looped siren in a stainless steel silo in their opposition to a specific Obama proposal called the Buffett Rule, which calls for billionaires like Warren Buffett to pay the same tax rate as their secretaries. The GOP prefers the Jimmy Buffett Rule, which postulates that anybody worried about next month's rent money—start drinking Margaritas until they pass out.

You know what, they're right. It is a class war. The rich started it and their side is winning. They've bombed the middle class into submission burying jobs and pensions, playing chicken at the precipice with default to protect their precious aristocracy from paying one puny penny more in taxes. Cheap. Cheap. Cheap.

40% of all income gains in the last decade have trickled up to the wealthiest 1%. The richest 400 families in this country control more money than the bottom 150 million people put together. We're moving from Depression levels of income inequality into French Revolution territory. Isn't that Madame LaFarge over there in the corner knitting?

What is it with the rich? How much money do they need? How many cars can one person drive? How many beluga caviar cream cheese canapés can they consume at a single cocktail party? How many silk pajamas with platinum threads can you spill your Dom Perignon White Gold Mimosa on at a time? Okay, three. That's what Hilda is for. One of the things.

And these are the people complaining about a class war? You want rules, how bout the Rolex Tourbillon Rule? Mandating that any job creator wearing a watch worth more than a house who ever mentions class warfare, gets a hose shoved down his throat and goose liver pumped in until pate leaks from their ears. Less war-like. More food-fighty.

The New York Times says Emmy- nominated comedian and writer Will Durst "is quite possibly the best political satirist working in the country today." Check out the website: willdurst.com to find out more about upcoming stand- up performances or to buy his book, "The All American Sport of Bipartisan Bashing."

October 2011

MISTER MUZZLE & NUZZLE

The Republican strategy for 2012 seems simple enough. It's a numbers game. They plan to flood the market. Set up an all- you- can- eat candidate buffet. If you don't like the potential nominee in front of you, try the next steam table. An appetizing aspirant is bound to bubble up. Or not. But at least you're moving around and getting some exercise.

The latest and greatest Great White GOP Hope to throw his hat into the ring is Rick Perry, and its no ordinary hat either; we're talking ten gallon here, folks. It appears we got ourselves another governor from Texas looking to be president. Yep, that's just what this country needs. And species- jumping hookworms. More of those too.

To Texas Democrats, he's "Captain Haircut," and to watch the high ranked coiffure campaign is déjà vu all over again. He's George Bush Lite. And yes, the redundant heights of that phrase are indeed vertigo inducing. Similar to saying… uncomfortable bus seat. Or… disingenuous oil industry spokesperson. Perry is the candidate for those of you who couldn't cozy up to Dubyah due to his intellectual elitism.

Governor Rick himself highlighted this distinction, crowing to supporters that he went to Texas A&M while Bush went to Yale. Ain't that just like a Texan? Bragging about attending a less prestigious school. See, he'd be better for the nation because he's not so smart. And already leading the polls. The Pied Piper of lowered expectations.

Perry claims he only entered the fray because God told him to. Of course, Michele Bachmann says God called on HER to run for President. So, either someone is fibbing, God is off his meds again, or we're talking about two entirely different deities. Begging the question: which god hates America that much? Kali? Pele? The Mighty Thor? Eric Clapton?

The longest serving Governor in Texas history possesses a mouth big enough to match his hat, having accused Fed Head Ben Bernanke of treason and calling Social Security a Ponzi scheme. Not to worry: staffers are proving their mettle with some nifty major league hemming and hawing and harrumphing and walking back that statement faster than a toddler can spit milk through his nose.

Demonstrating his Lone Star kick- buttedness, Perry vetoed a bill banning the execution of mentally retarded inmates, so he doesn't just embrace the death penalty, he nuzzles it. 234 on his watch. Probably can't go to sleep until sneaking a peek at his dog-eared lethal injection technical manual stuck between the mattress and box spring. One of those humane proponents of electric bleachers.

James Richard Perry also gained a bit of notoriety last year when he shot a coyote while jogging. Hate to play tennis with this guy. If he carries a .380 Ruger with hollow points while jogging, you'd always give him the net worried his racket handle had a built- in bayonet. And what does he pack on hunting trips, a Howitzer?

Be interesting to see if Perry can sell himself nationally while still maintaining Texas has a deal with the federal government allowing the state to secede at anytime. Should investigate whether that option is mutual. In the meantime, they're sliding another dish under the sneeze guard. It's smooth and chunky and piping hot. Hey! Is that Chris Christie?

The New York Times says Emmy- nominated comedian and writer Will Durst "is quite possibly the best political satirist working in the country today." Check out the website: willdurst.com to buy his book, "The All American Sport of Bipartisan Bashing."

September 2011

Killer Carnivorous Snails From France

You don't need me to tell you that this country is broke. Not just broke. Flat busted. Unflush. Tapped to the max. No bread or cabbage or scratch to speak of. Moolahless. Holes in our pockets. Fresh out of chump change. Sans simoleons. Hands sparkling clean of any filthy lucre. Moths flying out of our wallets. Lot of red numbers. Flinching from the whistle of the wind over our empty piggy banks. Got us a dearth of dead presidents is what we got.

So it's high time we start acting like it. As has been pointed out by pundits and politicians o'plenty, the guvmint needs to do what normal Merican families do when they run into desperate straits: pretend nothing is going on while we watch reality TV shows and drink lots of beer. No, no, no. Tried that. Didn't work.

First off, we got to stop handing over money to rogue nations that simply use it to buy guns they then turn on us. If we insist on helping these toads out, we should eliminate the middleman and furnish the guns direct. We can buy in much bigger bulk than they, procuring them cheaper, saving bundles of cash. And we taxpayers keep the kickbacks instead of the politicians. Win-win.

Secondly, we should take advantage of this Arab Spring democracy movement. Provides the perfect cover to lay off some of our under performing dictators. Isn't it about time we co-opted a new generation of despots? Since they'd be junior journeymen oppressors, they should cost less. Like major corporations lay off expensive senior executives, we'll replace our pricey aging tyrants.

But we all know it's not enough to make a few minor cuts in the budget, we also have to work on increasing revenue. And I don't mean selling off ancient public institutions like various national monuments or Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Their resale values ain't what they used to be. Although it might help to seasonally adjust the bottom line.

We need to think outside the box. Direct Research and Development to produce and sell something that every American needs. Like an anti SARS serum. The deal is, we engineer and market the antidote now, then fashion a huge penicillin-resistant SARS scare later, and have the FDA approved shot or salve or cream or whatever available at your local pharmacy in time for cold and flu season? Tie-Ming. Not just a city in China.

Doesn't have to be SARS. Could be anything. If SARS is too scary for the squeamish, lay down a few well-placed rumors of rampaging mutant Killer Carnivorous Snails from France and change the product to Fast Acting Snail Repellent. Same formula. Different packaging. Then ratchet up the panic with a bunch of infomercials. You know: news stories. Fox. CNN. Bloomberg. Create an imaginary vacuum and fill it. Worked for the Tea Party.

Even if it does eventually come out the whole event was manufactured, the residual damage would be minimal. What's the worst that could happen? People lose faith in their elected leaders? Oh no. Not that. The government is already lying to us on a regular basis, the least we can do is figure out how to make some money off of it. Got to ask ourselves: What would Microsoft do?The New York Times says Emmy-nominated comedian and writer Will Durst "is quite possibly the best political satirist working in the country today." Check out the website: Redroom.com, to find out more about upcoming stand-up performances or to buy his book, "The All American Sport of Bipartisan Bashing."

More: willdurst.com

July-August 2011

RUN, NEWT, RUN!

Out of elective politics for over a decade, dithering on the sidelines like a moody Southern fried Hamlet, Newt Gingrich jumped back into the ring announcing plans to run for the 2012 Republican Presidential nomination. And for every analyst and every pundit and every satirist everywhere, allow me to say: Hooray! Thank you, kind sir, may I have another?

His re- entrance onto center stage is welcome on many fronts. First off, the guy's name is Newt. Never in the annals of political mockery have we had the chance to make herpetological jokes before or after. And rest assured we will avail ourselves of the opportunity. Expect the phrase Lizard-Boy to reassume a central role in the national lexicon soon.

Then there's his penchant for routinely ratcheting the rhetoric up past eleven. Hundred. Our recent precipitous plunge into polarization can easily be traced to Gingrich's scorched earth ascension in the early 90s. There are no honorable opponents in Newt World, only despicable traitors. Each disagreement, a nuclear war. And anybody who isn't a white male Christian poses a major threat to democracy as we know it and should be vaporized only after having his knees broken as an example.

"Obama is the most radical president in American history and views the citizenry through a Post- Colonial Kenyan perspective." "The gay fascist movement wants to overthrow the government and destroy religion through violence." He's a trash-talking intellectual poseur with the subtlety of a hippo in a tutu.

The good news for Gingrich is that he ranks very high in recognition polls. The bad news for Gingrich is that he ranks very high in recognition polls. The founder and spokesman of Renewing American Leadership comes equipped with more baggage than a Carnival Cruise liner taking on the contents of two stranded sister ships. Might be three people tops in the country whose opinions of the former Speaker of the House haven't solidified like frozen chicken grease.

Love him or hate him, there's no in-between; and that includes his own party. To some Republicans, he's Moses who led them out of the desert to the promised land of taking back the House in 94, for the first time in 40 years. To others he's Voldermort. Sparking an ill-fated government shutdown then resigning under a cloud of ethics violations: some still refer to him as "He Who Must Not Be Named."

Dr. Newton Leroy Gingrich is generally considered an ideas man. Not good ideas necessarily, but big ideas. Accusing enemies of being socialist Nazis. That's new. Also odd ideas, like claiming his adulterous behavior stemmed from loving his country too darn much. So essentially, he did to two mistresses what he wanted to do to us. Thanks ladies. And yet, he attracts evangelical followers with his traditional family values platform. And having three wives just proves he's Extra Traditional.

Gingrich can't win and if he's half as smart as he thinks he is, he has to know that. So, why is he running? To what end? Increased face-time to sell more of his twenty plus books? Can't get enough of the sound of his own voice? Or is his responsibility simply to throw bombs at all the major edifices and let Mitt Romney waltz through the smoldering ruins unscathed? The only problem is, like sweaty nitroglycerine, Mr. Gingrich is highly charged and unpredictable. A human IED. Run. Newt. Run.

The New York Times says Emmy-nominated comedian and writer Will Durst "is quite possibly the best political satirist working in the country today." Check out willdurst.com to find out about upcoming stand- up performances or to buy his book, "The All- American Sport of Bipartisan Bashing."

June 2011

No-Fly Guy

No one said being President was going to be easy. And no one was right. You get yelled at for doing things and you get yelled at for not doing things. Often both times by the same people. Which is kind of like saying, "even when you agree with us, you're wrong." That's a tough hill to climb.

Take Libya. Please. After it became apparent the native uprising against Qaddafi was not going to replicate the successes of Egypt, President Obama got lambasted by Republicans for not immediately leaping tall buildings to help them freedom loving Libyans, like some guy from Texas would have done. Then, from the other end of the same street, the Rip Van Winkle Republican Anti- Interventionists awoke from hibernation and objected to any involvement. Ever. Anywhere. If these folks had their way, they'd take away his passport.

Through a series of delicate negotiations, Barack managed to cobble together an International alliance to enforce a no- fly zone over Libya. Good timing, eh? We finally get most of our boys out of Iraq and boom, up jumps another crisis where we get to carry the democratic load. Superman should have warned us; this superhero thing can get a wee bit tiresome. I guess the deal is, you get used to running two wars, it's not easy trying to get by on just one. Going to have to face it, we're addicted to war. Oops. Don't call it war.

This endeavor, altercation, conflict, campaign, enmity, friendly fracas, (not a crusade) is shaking out differently. At least we don't have to worry about being accused of ulterior motives since there obviously isn't any oil in Libya, oh… uh, scratch that. Wait, I got it. One big difference is we have actual allies this time around instead of imaginary friends. And the coup de gras is the Arab League throwing in with us. An inspired consideration when you insist on invading Arab countries.

Of course this skirmish, dispute, clash, carnage, quarrel, grapple in the sand has nothing to do with Islam or oil, its about, um, promoting democracy and getting rid of a bad guy. So if I were Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi, I'd watch my back. The man is obviously harboring weapons of mass seduction. Then again, maybe we'll wait until they find oil in Tuscany.

The oddest thing about this onslaught, strife, contention, assault, incursion, discordant havoc is discovering the biggest problem with having allies is having to work with the allies. Who knew? Not an overly large worry for cowboys with a penchant for going it alone. Should be okay though, since history has shown the French and the English are both easy - going, low - maintenance types. Wonder whatever happened to those shy, retiring Germans? After all, they know North Africa like the back of their hand.

We're calling it Operation Odyssey Dawn, after the girlfriend of some Marine who hung out too long in bars along the shores of Tripoli, I guess. But even with a name like a ship out of the Carnival Line, getting rid of Qaddafi will be no cruise. The guy is nuttier than a U- Top- It Sundae from Dairy Queen. Gave himself a military rank and chose Colonel. Uses his own people as human shields. His name begins with a Q, its not followed by a U, he plays by rules we don't even understand. If that don't spell crazy, time to get a new dictionary.

The New York Times says Emmy nominated comedian and writer Will Durst "is quite possibly the best political satirist working in the country today." Check out his website: willdurst.com, to find out about upcoming stand-up and television performances or to buy his book, "The All- American Sport of Bipartisan Bashing" and newest CD "Raging Moderate."

April 2011

THE SLEEVES OF A VEST.

This is but a snapshot. A frozen moment in time, guaranteed to transmogrify on an hourly basis. So, knowing the situation is fluid, here's your Friday budget update and if I were you, I'd find a nice comfy chair to plop down into, because this promises to be more frustrating than translating Sanskrit into Japanese using Morse Code smoke signals in the rain.President Obama released HIS budget plan, which calls for tens of billions of dollars of program cuts mixed with tax increases. The Republicans countered with THEIR plan specifying nine figures of cuts only, and Ron Paul, well, he just wants to invade China, give them a proper thrashing and take all our money back. Meaning that although we're less than two months deep into the 112th Congress, looks like business as usual.

Abstract theory time is over now and actual programs are being singled out for devastation, decimation and elimination, and as we all know: one man's pork is another man's paycheck. But this is about symbolism, not jobs. Tea Partiers were promised $100 billion in cuts and they're going to get $100 billion in cuts, even though Charlie Sheen has a better chance of being appointed St Sebastian's Girls School choir chaperone on a field trip to Vegas than the GOP proposal has of surviving a Presidential Veto.

Nevertheless, Conservatives are cementing their ideological bona fides by rounding up the usual suspects and painting budgetary crosshairs on the faces of their mortal enemies: the EPA, AmeriCorps, Public Broadcasting, and AMTRAK. The ugly little secret being—spending at the Pentagon will rise and nobody needs talk about Social Security or Medicare until experts have analyzed the polls on this present skirmish at least a gazilliondy times.

As expected, folks have taken to each other's plan like a pod of giant squid to hot air ballooning. Obama continues his tap dance down the middle. The Right whines he hasn't cut deep enough and The Left pouts he's gone too far. He compares the GOP strategy to a dieter who vows to lose 30 pounds, and does so by cutting off a leg. And the Repubs fire back he's a girly man scared to make the tough decisions, who could provide better leadership by curling into a fetal position behind the couch licking the cat's butt.

Congress has to pass a spending bill before March 4, or the entire government shuts down, which wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for that whole roads and hospitals and customs and air traffic controllers thing. Everyone agrees the gulf between the two combatants is wide but a new fiscal reality is here to stay and will affect education, security and agriculture, meaning more students per class, fewer cops on the streets and larger pieces of pig hoof in your wiener.

While the adversaries bristle and posture in public like male porcupines in pre- mating heat, Barack remains confident he can find common ground with the GOP leadership in private. Good Luck. Considering the smug intransigence of the Boehner Clan, that sounds like the political equivalent of pinning your hopes to escape a burning building on tying together the sleeves of a vest.

Will Durst is a writer who often tells jokes to drunks in bars. Check him out at Zanies, Downtown Chicago, February 22- 27.

March 2011

THE BARACK HUSSEIN OBAMA 2011 STATE OF THE UNION DRINKING GAME!

NEEDED TO PLAY:

• 4 taxpayers of any sex: 1 rich white banker- type wearing dark suit with loosened tie. 2 ordinary folks wearing jeans; 1 in a blue or flannel work shirt, the other in a white shirt, sleeves rolled up. 1 poor bedraggled person wearing clothes that look like they were retrieved from the bottom of a rodeo dumpster behind the animal performer stalls.

• 1 living room with a TV tuned to the State of the Union Address.

• 1 shot glass per person. Everybody brings own, scattering array on coffee table in front of TV. Banker gets first choice for use during game. White shirt picks next, then work shirt. Banker pockets last shot glass as well, and Rags either rents it from him, steals a replacement from the kitchen or drinks out of own cupped hands.

• Ante up 25 bucks. Cash. Except Banker, who tosses in an I.O.U. and Rags who everybody just avoids eye contact with.

• 3 packages of steamed Vienna Beef Chicago style hot dogs in the middle of table with butter grilled buns, tomatoes, onions, and some of that weird neon green relish on the side.

• 1 bottle of bourbon.

• A large stash of beer in cans on ice. Rags gets whatever is on sale, like Heileman's Old Style Ice Light Dry. Banker gets import of choice. Jeans get whatever they want, but have to buy all the beer, bourbon, hot dogs, condiments and carry the groceries by themselves.

RULES OF THE GAME.

Every time Barack H Obama mentions bipartisanship, everybody has to drink 2 shots of beer. If he talks about the lessons of Tucson, the last person to throw their arms in the air, fall to their knees and shout "Hallelujah!" has to drink 1 entire beer.

Everybody has to drink 2 shots of beer whenever John Boehner appears to cry. 1 shot of bourbon if he breaks down sobbing and disappears entirely from view.

Every time Barack H Obama says "Democratic leadership," the first person to stop laughing is exempt from drinking 2 shots of beer.

If either Vice President Biden or the Speaker of the House Boehner is seen nodding off on camera, last person to start singing "Wake Up, Little Susie" has to drink 3 shots of beer.

If the President says the State of the Union is good, but could be better, the last person to eat a fully accoutered hot dog has to drink 1 shot of bourbon.

Whenever the President defends ObamaCare, everybody drinks 2 shots of beer. If he mentions Congress voting to repeal it, drink a whole beer and throws hot dogs at the television. The first person to hit Nancy Pelosi in the head is exempt from having to drink 2 shots of bourbon.

If the President relates a touching heartfelt story of a supporter who was denied a decent education, Rags gets to kick everybody else once. Twice, if the subject of the anecdote is in the audience. 3 times, if he/ she is sitting next to a 2 star general.

Every time President Barack Obama talks about his resolve and adopts a frowny look with his brow all furrowed and stuff, drink 1 shot of beer.

If the Chief Executive winks at or points at Michelle, all 4 players swordfight with hot dogs. Whoever is left with an intact weenie does not have to eat an entire shot glass full of that weird green relish.

If the president mentions the Chinese President by name, the last person to ask "Hu Dat?" has to drink 2 shots of beer.

EXTRAS:

• Optional: Have all players drink with left hand. Unless left- handed. If they are caught drinking with dominant hand, they must watch the entire Republican response and no drinking allowed.

• If the Dancing Baby from Ally McBeal appears on the screen at any time, stop drinking immediately.

•Banker takes home money, shot glasses and bourbon. The I.O.U. is discarded.

•Leftover beer and hot dogs go home with Rags after he/ she finishes washing the dishes.

San Francisco based political comedian, Will Durst, writes sometimes: this is an example. Coming soon from Ulysses Press: "Where the Rogue Things Go!" Pre- order your copy at Amazon. Feedback: durst@westsideobserver.com

February 2011

THE TOP TEN COMEDIC NEWS STORIES OF THE FIRST DECADE OF THE 21st CENTURY.

Believe it or not, an entire decade has passed since the turn of the Millennium. 120 months. One tenth of a century. More than 3600 days. How did that happen? Its harder to comprehend than a faded Kazakhstani street sign tagged by Mongolian graffiti. As we are painfully aware, much ugly stuff occurred during the decade, but what with all the mayhem and turmoil, you might think nothing worth laughing about went down. You’d be wrong. I know. I know. I know. “Not another Top Ten List. ” Yes. Another Top Ten List. Hey, how many ends of the decade does one get in a lifetime? Maybe seven, eight, fourteen if you’re lucky. So, deal with it, because thar she blows: a list of the Top Ten Comedic News Stories of the First Decade of the 21st Century. And not a Paris Hilton or Somali pirate sighting among them.

Kerry- Edwards- 04. Worst campaign ever. And that includes France in 39. Who would have thought Democrats would fondly reminisce about the charismatic Gore- Lieberman ticket?

The Clintons. He got 12 million for his memoirs. She got 8 for hers. Not bad for two people, who testified under oath for eight years- they couldn’t remember a single thing.

Economic Bubbles Bursting. Dot com. Energy. Housing. Summed up best by Enron Ethics manual on eBay whose seller described it as being in “mint condition- never used.” That could have been the problem. Sold- $250.

John McCain. Old warhorse finally gets his shot. Then couldn’t remember how many houses he owned. Turns out he had 8. Every time I get 4 houses I trade them in for a hotel.

Political sex scandals. Vitter. Foley. Edwards. Ensign. Sanford. And Spitzer, the NY Governor who flew a hooker from New York to DC, because God knows there aren’t enough hookers in DC. 535 that I can think of, offhand. Put her up at the Mayflower and gave her 4 grand. That’s a liberal. A conservative will try to get it for free in an airport men’s room stall. Demonstrating fiscal responsibility.

Barack Obama. Half- black President demonstrates America ready to be Afro- curious. People still freaking out. “Born in Kenya.” No, he wasn’t. He was born in Honolulu. In a manger.

Weapons of Mass Destruction. President Bush was misled into thinking Iraq had WMDs because he was provided with faulty intelligence. Yeah, DNA is a bummer. Turns out it wasn’t Iraq with the WMD, it wasn’t Iraq with ties to Al Qaeda: it was Iran. We were so close. Probably just a clerical error.

Dick Cheney. Accidentally shot a guy in the face with a gun and got the victim to apologize. Then again, who among us hasn’t mistaken a 78 year- old lawyer wearing an orange vest for an immense quail?

Sarah Palin. For those of us going cold turkey on George Bush, the former governor of Alaska is like a double dose of methadone.

George W Bush. If Reagan and Quayle had a kid. A Wheel of Fortune President in a Jeopardy world. For 8 wonderful years, he was the Full Employment Act for political comedy. And we welcome him back.

San Francisco based political comic, Will Durst, who writes sometimes, (this being a creditable example) fully expects the next decade to be as fertile, material- wise.

Catch Durst in stand- up mode at The Big Fat Year End Kiss Off Comedy Show XVIII. Dec. 26- Jan. 1. 6 comics. 7 cities. 8 shows. 2,437 laughs. willdurst.com or 415.820.9628. Facebook. Twitter. Blah- blah.

December 18, 2010

THE TOP TEN COMEDIC NEWS STORIES OF 2010

Please be advised: the Top Ten Comedic News Stories of 2010 are not to be confused with the Top Ten Legitimate News Stories of 2010. They are as different as Lasagna and asphalt. Ear wax and linoleum. A lunch wagon sink trap and nuclear lab clean rooms. Toe shoes and track cleats. Christian Science Ministers and health insurance seminars. Sure, sure, there were more serious stories involving death and destruction and devastation o’plenty but we tend to concentrate more on those narratives that offer a break from the tension. That allow us to view the desolation from the lighter side of the vast dark chasm. Like when Mel Gibson, Charlie Sheen, Elena Kagan and the Chilean miners were disrupted by the Icelandic Volcano from attending the World Cup. A worthy account yes, but alas, not esteemed enough for our list. So here they are, the stories from 2010 that most lent themselves to joshing and kidding and ribbing.

10. Dick Cheney’s 6th heart attack. How does a guy without a heart have 6 heart attacks? It would be like Rod Blagojevich contracting a brain tumor. Cheney is so evil, Hell keeps spitting him back.

9. Barack Obama. True to his word, the 44th President managed to unite the country. Against him. Although, the two sides do view him through different prisms. The right sees him as Malcolm X. The left- Urkel.

8. Christine O’Donnell. Delaware Senatorial candidate claimed she’s not a witch. Then the local Wiccan community denied having anything to do with her. Which probably didn’t lead above the fold on her election eve mailer.

7. California Gubernatorial Candidate Meg Whitman. A Jerry Brown staffer called her a “ho” and she went ballistic. “Its an insult to all women.” Nooooo, we’re pretty sure it was specific to you. Spends more than a seventh of a billion dollars on her campaign and still cuts her hair with a salad shooter. Go figure.

6. Glenn Beck. Attempts to reclaim the civil rights movement by holding a rally on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Because isn’t it about time angry middle aged pudgy white guys got a fair shake from society?

5. Health Care. 2700 pages long. Or 2900. They’re still not sure. Lot of stuff can happen in 200 pages. I’ve read Harry Potter.

4. The TSA’s new search policy. Just direct me to the agent who didn’t volunteer for the gig.

3. Sarah Palin. At Tea Party Convention she criticized Obama for over dependency on a Teleprompter while she had notes written on her hand. Which is a 5th grade teleprompter for people who can’t read fast. Every two weeks there’s something with her. Every two weeks, she erupts. She’s like Republican herpes. And I mean that in a good way.

2. George W Bush’s Autobiography. Decisions Decided by the Deciding Decider. Wherein he talks about how glad he is to be out of Washington. That makes about 310 million of us. Online campaign urges customers to transfer book from Non Fiction to True Crime.

1. BP Oil Spill. Largest pile of toxic sludge to hit American shores since Ann Coulter’s latest book. Brightside: Able to refuel jet ski midtrip.

San Francisco based political comic, Will Durst, writes sometimes, this being a laudable example, and expects 2011 to provide him with even richer grist.

Catch Durst in stand- up mode at the 18th Annual Big Fat Year End Kiss Off Comedy Show. Dec. 26- Jan. 1. 6 comics. 7 cities. 8 shows. 2,347 laughs. willdurst.com or 415.820.9628.

December 12, 2010

TOP TEN CHRISTMAS GIFTS FOR WALL STREET FAT CATS.

It’s the most… wonderful time… of the year. And the most frantic and anxious and mind numbing and expensive. The rewarding part is my on- going seasonal side job as a lumpy elfin holiday gift consultant, where it is an honor and a privilege to be able to pass along some hot tips for this year’s Christmas shopping lists. None of which involve surplus uranium tailings from sales to the Iranians.

There’s still more than a few of us struggling to climb out of financial holes so deep we’re being tickled by the tendrils of redwood roots, but we’re not that difficult to shop for. Dollar coins. Discount clothing. Used food. Lint covered gum and pennies. Roadkill wrapped in the Sunday Funnies. We are the re- giftable.

It’s the other end of the spectrum that concerns me. The least needy of us. Wall Street is shoveling out record bonuses. Again. What to get the person who can buy anything? Perhaps the gifts you’ve lined up for your investment banker friends won’t be considered up to snuff. Well, I’m here to convince you to let those worries go. After all, it’s the thought that counts. Ha ha ha ha ha ha.

No, seriously. To ease your stress, we here at Durstco have come up with a catalog of prospective Christmas Gifts that any Wall Street Tycoon would be honored to find under their holiday shrubbery. And who knows, maybe in appreciation, he or she will slide you insider status on the newest IPOs. Probably not, but what the hell, here we go with the TOP TEN CHRISTMAS GIFTS FOR YOUR WALL STREET BROKER BUDDIES.

10. A peacock. Provides the double benefit of being both the ultimate symbol of excessive extravagance and extremely difficult to care for.

9. A copy of George W Bush’s autobiography because, during the holidays, everyone can use a good laugh.

8. A kidney in an ice chest. Purchased from a poor person. Always good to have one lying around just in case.

7. A Lexus. According to TV, that’s what rich people give each other for the holidays. Don’t forget the big red bow.

6. A get out of jail free card. No, a real Get Out of Jail Free Card. You must know somebody who knows somebody.

5. A Faberge Egg. Only 42 are known to have survived. Go for it. Check out eBay. Or call Meg Whitman direct.

4. A pair of Bernie Madoff’s underwear. Or just frame any old pair of size 36s and say they’re his. Its what he would have done.

3. A signed first edition of Tom Wolfe’s “Bonfire of the Vanities” because nothing else says, “Master of the Universe” quite like it.

2. A US Senator. Oh sure, they probably already have one socked away, but who’s ever thrown out a Senator because they went bad? Not Congress.

1. A soul. Odds are, they’ve sold, misplaced or ruined theirs. Just realize in advance they’ll probably sell, misplace or ruin this one as well.

Will Durst is a San Francisco based humor columnist who frequently tells jokes. Out loud. On purpose. In front of people. Who laugh. Ideally.

Catch an example at the Big Fat Year End Kiss Off Comedy Show XVIII, December 26- January 1.

December 4, 2010

DON’T TAZE MY JUNK, BRO.

One thing you can say about this whole TSA enhanced pat down mess: nobody will ever board Virgin Airlines again without ruefully grimacing. Folks are flipping out like wolverines bouncing off of submarine trampolines over new regulations requiring a prospective flier to submit to having his or her naughty bits exposed for all the world to see, or else agree to a groinal groping that would have our ancestors’ fathers brandishing shotguns outside of rural chapels or contemporary school children showing Federal Marshalls on the doll where the nasty agent put his hands. “Bad touch. BAD TOUCH!”

Most troublesome is not the compelling of passengers to slide into second base with complete strangers but rather the suspicion these decisions are being made on the fly with little forethought. Flight crews are subjected to the same sub rosa muggings. Face it, you and I, we don’t know nothing, but even we can figure out pilots don’t need explosives up their butt to bring down an aircraft when a second double bourbon at the airport bar will suffice.

Equal representation under the glove would also be nice. VIPs are exempt from screening, but nobody will divulge who qualifies as a VIP. That’s classified. Isn’t everything? We’re in the thick of classified creep. How long before it’s illegal for civilians to videotape pat downs due to “national security;” the federal equivalent of “Because I said so, that’s why.” Not to mention arresting so- called comedians for talking trash. “Don’t taze my junk, bro.”

The recent bleating from the front lines of the security wars is an indication the natives are restless. Business travelers have tired of securing our safety through their captive inconvenience. Then again, 50% of the people experiencing the procedure are in favor of it. Must be part of that large segment of society that enjoys having their inner thighs pawed and genitals, butts and breasts felt up. Me, not so much. I’ve had less intimate fifth dates.

The flying experience is in the throes of a death spiral, from the evaporation of our nuts and pillows and checked baggage to shedding shoes and surrendering fluids and providing peeks under our underwear to being frisked like common criminals. Where does it stop? What happens when some flippo- unit tries to blow something up with zipper shaped plastique? Will only the Amish fly? A single button bomb could result in us all wearing robes and then the terrorists do win.

How soon before we add body cavity searches to the casual molestations in our pre flight check- lists? Precipitating few outcries even when the airlines try to make some extra coin by piggy backing prostate exams. In the meantime, we fly the overly friendly skies and do whatever they want of us cattle and sheep: bend and cough and walk a little funny and act like nothing happened. More static and drool.

In the meantime, just direct me to whichever TSA screener didn’t volunteer for the job. And no ex- priests if you please. I might even wriggle and giggle and blush and bloom and slip the man attached to the blue rubber glove a card. Hey, they’re intent on creeping us out, why not return the favor? One last question: are we supposed to tip, or only if there’s a happy ending? Least they could do is provide a well- ventilated room for a post encounter cigarette.

Will Durst is a San Francisco based humor columnist who frequently tells jokes. Out loud. On stage. In front of people. Ideally.

Catch an example at DC’s Funniest Celebrity at the DC Improv, December 2, and Rancho Nicasio on Sunday, the 5.

His new CD, “Raging Moderate,” now available from Stand Up! Records on iTunes and Amazon.

Early next year: “Where the Rogue Things Go!” From Ulysses Press.

will durst

November 27, 2010

THANKSGIVINGS OF YORE.

The 4th Thursday of November is definitely the bestest holiday. Food, Family, Friends and Football. 4 of the 5 Fs. I most fondly remember the Thanksgivings of yesteryear. The big old family reunions, which I looked forward to, until about five seconds after I hit the driveway, then it all comes back… why I left home. And they always made me sit at that stupid fold- up cardboard kids table. Never got to graduate to the wooden table because none of them would die. Darn medical advances.

Thanksgiving was my mother’s designated holiday and she thought she was cooking for the Eighth Tank Battalion. Every year she’d seek out a mutant poultry farm and buy a turkey the size of a La-Z-Boy recliner, so it was turkey for weeks. Turkey till YOU trot. Turkey sandwiches, turkey salad, turkey ala king, turkey shakes, until finally, turkey carcass in hot water. Soup? No, Ma, it’s skeleton juice. Gobble till you wobble.

These were potluck occasions, with every family responsible for schlepping their version of a vision of a side dish. Lime Jell-O with olive shreds in it. Because green food is nutritious food. Oyster raisin dressing. Lamb pudding. Creamed rutabaga. Beet pear slaw. Hollowed out pickles filled with ranch dressing and cheese curds. Herring balls.

Thirteen bean salad. No, I wish I were making this up. I had no idea there were 13 different types of edible beans. I had no desire to eat them all at one sitting. I certainly would not have chosen to be in a houseful of 23 other people who had eaten 13 types of edible beans. “Crack a window, Billy. Well, break it then.” Candle flames turning blue all over the house. “Methane is our friend.”

Dinner is delayed because my mother’s sister is late and four assembled families who last ate at breakfast are taunted by the fowl perfume of a roasting turkey for six hours and as frenzied as coyotes suspended over a yard full of wounded bunnies. All of the nuts and chips and some of the throw pillows and smaller children have long since disappeared.

My aunt finally arrives accompanied by her bizarre mystery food. Seems innocent enough; a glass Pyrex dish with tinfoil on top. International symbol for normal food, I believe. But no, it’s a food ruse. A culinary ambush. Lift the foil and this stench shoots straight up. Ceiling tiles curling at the edges. Three rooms away watching football, grown men go “the hell was that?” Children crying uncontrollably, “Daddy, I’m scared.”

A greasy grey mass that appeared to be boiling, but is nowhere near any apparent heat source. Round misshapen objects floating to the surface. Nobody would go near it. Somebody made a feeble attempt and the spoon broke. Mom elbows me in the side: “Billy, try some of Aunt Hoogolah’s Dupamouche.” “Okay, Ma, let me get a separate plate.” The old separate plate trick. We lost more animals that way.

The evening ends with two matriarchs locked in a mortal death clinch, bumping bellies on the back porch with 100 mm. menthols dangling from their mouths while their spouses trade wild drunken blows on the driveway and the kids pelt them with greasy poultry bones from behind raked piles of leaves. Aah, memories. And that was way back in 2009. Some traditions never die. This year, I’m bringing the Dupamouche.

Will Durst is a San Francisco based humor columnist who frequently tells jokes. Out loud. On stage. In front of people. Ideally.

Catch an example Thanksgiving Week all over the Milwaukee area.

The Safe House on November 23, 24 & 28, 414.271.2007, Paolo’s on the 26, 414.727.9332, and the Railroad Station in Saukville, 262.284.3990, on the 27.

Then DC’s Funniest Celebrity at the DC Improv, December 2, and Rancho Nicasio on Sunday, the 5.

His new CD, “Raging Moderate,” now available from Stand Up! Records on iTunes and Amazon.

Early next year: “Where the Rogue Things Go!” From Ulysses Press.

November 21, 2010

DECISIONS DECIDED BY THE DECIDING DECIDER.

You have to marvel at George W Bush’s audacious return to the national stage not to mention his curious timing. After all, there wasn’t what you would call an overwhelming popular demand clamoring for his reappearance. Apparently even putative war criminals got to make a living. But it’s going to take more than one media blitzing book tour to scrub his image. For that he’ll either need another two or three decades of restorative exile or a wire- mesh scouring pad the size of Albania.

Here comes the New Bush, just like the Old Bush. The first volume of 43’s memoirs (oh, there will be more) has been released and though you know in your heart he wanted to call it “The Great Decider” or “Decisions Decided by the Deciding Decider,” cooler heads prevailed at Crown Publishing Group simply titling it, “Decision Points” as told to George Bush by Dick Cheney. No. I just made that last part up. And neither is Amazon bundling the autobiography with “My Pet Goat” but it’s a fiendishly good idea.

Not sure who edited this puppy, but odds are they burned through about 4 spell checks. Ironically, he’s got a long way to go to live up to the standards set in previous Bush Family tell- alls especially the one penned by his mother’s dog. Booksellers will surely decide which section to stock the volume geographically. In Dallas, it will go under Biography. DC, Current Events. San Francisco, Horror. And New Orleans, True Crime.

To be honest, it’s kind of creepy to see Laura’s husband plastered all over the tube again after a two year sabbatical. Like Hollywood rebooting a particularly gruesome series of “Nightmare on K Street” movies. Can’t be easy for him either, flacking 512 pages of redacted reminiscences with an approval rating hovering around the level of “go to snake belly and dig,” but that’s show biz.

This collection of recollections or more precisely, lack thereof, is about as revealing as an aerial view of an underground bunker. Like a negligee on your grandma. You’re afraid of what you might see but can’t help looking. No problem. To say this print revival effort is not big on revelations is like implying moles don’t need sunblock. Then again, maybe it’s a continuation his own personal, Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, Then Lie, policy. George Bush and introspection: Not a match. The board goes back.

He does nail a colloquial tone in this tome leading off with a self- deprecating tour of his storied misspent youth. Then takes too much time whining about the churlish noise of politics, oblivious to the fact that his good buddy, Karl Rove is responsible for adding numerous decimal points to the decibel damage. Goes on to speak about how happy he is to be out of Washington, and with all due respect, may I say sir, that makes 310 million of us.

Throughout the book, Bush clings to the notion that waterboarding is legal and not torture (cuz a guy said so) which should hold a measure of solace to the segment of the book reading public who would rather be waterboarded than read this unapologetic self- serving hogwash. Although admittedly, compared to other presidential self chroniclings- not half bad. Definitely two steps above the expected “I Can Haz Prezidenzy?” Crayons sold separately.

Will Durst is a San Francisco based humor columnist who frequently tells jokes. Out loud. On stage. In front of people. Ideally.

Catch an example at The Bell Theater at Angelico’s Restaurant in Redwood City on November 13th.

November 19th at Live Wire Radio, livewireradio.org, and Saturday November 20th at the Bagdad Cafe, 503.467.7521, both in Portland, Oregon.

& Thanksgiving week all over the Milwaukee area. Safe House, Paolo’s & the Railroad Station.

His new CD, “Raging Moderate,” now available from Stand Up! Records on iTunes and Amazon.

Early next year: “Where the Rogue Things Go!” From Ulysses Press.

will durst

November 14, 2010

NOT A POST APOCALYPTIC WRAP UP.

First things first. This is a post election wrap-up. Not a post- apocalyptic wrap-up. Yeah, the GOP did well. After a change in Administrations, the minority party won a bunch of House seats in the following midterm election. Ho hum. Whoop ti-do. BFD. In itself, this is about as unusual as a piquant odor emanating from the dumpster behind a fish market.

Happened to Reagan: 27 seats in 82. To George HW Bush: 31 seats in 1990. Clinton: 54 seats in 1994. Would have happened to George W Bush if Nine Eleven hadn’t gone down the year before. It’s a natural contraction. Democracy’s labor pains. Only the gestation period is a bit longer, the soreness more lingering and felt thousands of miles wider.

Like Newt Gingrich before him, John Boehner will discover that conducting the train is different than throwing bottles at the train. Fortunately for him, it’s a train, not a bicycle and he can run right over the broken glass. Because there’s about 2 billion dollars worth of it from untraceable sources lying on the tracks.

The GOP’s biggest problem might have been inviting the Tea Party into their house. Its one thing to chuckle at the antics of the red headed stepchildren acting up at the backyard barbecue, and another entirely after they move in and you attempt to carry on a conversation with other adults while they persist on waving pitchforks and torches, poking and scorching the ceiling. “Could you keep it down to a dull roar, please? We’re trying to watch ‘Lobbyist Idol’ here.”

Admittedly the number of seats changing hands this time around was a bit high. North of 60. About fifteen percent of the total lower body. Erasing Democratic gains of 06 and 08 combined. But look at the bright side. Ummm. Unh, no. Not that. Wait. Ummm. Okay. Got some. The Democrats can book a smaller banquet room for their Freshman Class Induction Party. No more need to stock up on those 50 pound bags of Blue Dog Chow. Franking costs go way down with shorter Christmas card lists.

You could make a good argument the Tea Party is responsible for throwing one House of Congress into the GOP’s column and another out of it. The wrestler’s wife lost. Christine O’Donnell may not be a witch but neither is she a US Senator. Same with Sharron Angle, except for the witch part. Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid was preordained to lose and to lose bad to any halfway decent opponent. But as luck would have it, he didn’t face one.

The red tide seemed to congeal after hitting the Rockies. California, Oregon and Washington avoided the brunt of the anti- incumbent wave. Most likely due to the fact that the weather is nicer, giving Hope and Change a longer shelf life.

Don’t be distracted by the parties incessantly trading bipartisan air kisses. Like the handshake before the first round of a prize- fight, it’s simply a ritual and nobody expects any true civility. When the Administration says they want to work with Boehner and McConnell, they do. The way a five year old with a magnifying glass wants to work with ants. Same goes for Republicans. Sure, they’re offering up an olive branch now, but be real careful; might just be a painted paralyzed asp with the anesthetic timed to wear off on January 8th.

Will Durst is a San Francisco based political humor columnist who frequently tells jokes. Out loud. On stage.

Catch an example at Rooster T Feather’s in Sunnyvale Nov 4- 7. roostertfeathers.com/ 408.732.7781.

The Lark Theater in Larkspur on November 12th. 415.924.5111

The Bell Theater at Angelico’s Restaurant in Redwood City on November 13th.

Coming up: Portland & Milwaukee.

His new CD, “Raging Moderate,” now available from Stand Up! Records on iTunes and Amazon.

Early next year: “Where the Rogue Things Go!” From Ulysses Press.

will durst

November 7, 2010

DON’T VOTE.

Don’t Vote. You don’t have to. No one’s going to make you. This isn’t the Soviet Union. You won’t be forced from your beds and dragged to the polls against your wills. Relax. Take a chill pill. Let it go. It’ll all be fine without you.

Things are pretty good the way they are, aren’t they? Well, okay, some stuff could be better. Then again, could be worse. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. And if it is broke, leave it alone; who knows, maybe it’ll fix itself. Or let someone who knows what they’re doing fix it. What if you make things worse? How would you feel then? Not good, I bet.

It’s a pointless exercise. You’re only one person. What possible difference could a single vote make? Forget Florida. That was a long long time ago. Ancient history. You’re not going to change anything. They ignore you. You ignore them. And everyone knows those absentee ballots are impossible to fill out and they don’t fit in the envelope and then you got to find a post office and a lot of them aren’t even open anymore.

Besides, you’ve seen the ads. Who could vote for any of these people? According to the television, they’re all crooks. Corrupt agents working for special interests connected to the Chinese government or representatives of a dark criminal conspiracy whose ulterior motive is to enslave our children and extort money for tropical junkets so they can cavort with naked room service waiters.

They’re all alike. There isn’t a dime’s worth of difference between them. It’s like choosing between slamming your fingers in a car door or slicing a three inch deep gash in your thigh with a rusty screwdriver. Anybody who can be elected, shouldn’t be. The inmates are running the asylum. It’s just a puppet show. Don’t you realize you’re being played? Politics is fixed, man. The Tri Lateral Commission runs everything. If voting were actually effective, they would have been made it illegal by now.

It’s all so confusing. Not just the lesser of two evils. More like the evil of two lessers. You’re supposed to know whether some barren deserted beach does or doesn’t get blanketed by a thick film of 30- Weight because of offshore drilling? Find another beach. What’s the big deal? What do you care if your 401k is now a 100.25k. You’re not planning on retiring soon, are you? Good. Best not.

Don’t you have better things to do than stand in line in some smelly garage? Jog on over to your neighborhood library during the hour its operating and read up on other people who never voted, although admittedly they didn’t write a lot of histories. You could work on that extra room for Grandma for when she moves in after the nursing home loses its subsidized funding. Or wave bye- bye to the paramedic unit and rec center while taking a farewell trip on your local mass transit system. That would be fun.

No one’s going to blame you. Who’s to know? If voting is a right, so should not voting be a right. For some people Tuesdays are just biorhythmically bad. Don’t vote. Stay home. Who cares? But remember, if you don’t vote, you can’t bitch. And you do do plenty of that, don’t you?

Will Durst is a San Francisco based political humor columnist who frequently tells jokes. Out loud. On stage.

Catch an example November 1 at the Rrazz Room. 222 Mason St San Francisco 94102. therrazzroom.com. 415.394.1189.

Rooster T Feather’s in Sunnyvale Nov 4- 7. roostertfeathers.com/ 408.732.7781.

The Lark Theater in Larkspur on November 12th. 415.924.5111

The Bell Theater at Angelico’s Restaurant in Redwood City on November 13th.

His new CD, “Raging Moderate,” now available from Stand Up! Records on iTunes and Amazon.

Coming next year: “Where the Rogue Things Go!”

October 30, 2010

HELEN KELLER’S MUSHROOMS

The precise word to explain this season’s big new trend in campaign financing is obliviousness. Earlier this year, the Supreme Court ruled that everybody is allowed to give as much money as they desire to anybody they choose and absolutely nobody needs to know about it. The upshot of which has all of America knee deep in the oxymoronic spectacle of a very expensive free- for- all.

In a flash, We, the People, have become Helen Keller. Blind. Deaf. And Dumb. With an emphasis on the latter. Because nobody cares. La di dah. Makes no difference where these surreptitious tsunamis of decoy dollars are originating from: religious nut jobs, public service unions, defense contractors or foreign benefactors trailing behind them leaky puddles of nuclear radiated waste. Off shore. Under shore. Paulie Shore. Sho nuff is fine.

This de- reform has rendered us totally incognizant of which profligate special interest group is spending how much money for what candidate or why or when or where it’s given. And our collective response is to care less than a whale about rain. Orwell was right: Unenlightenment is strength. And with it comes the understanding of what it’s like to be a mushroom. Kept in the dark and fed compost. We revel in the delicious bewilderment of knowing influence peddlers are scurrying around shadowy crevasses like cloaked cash cockroaches and the light switch is broke.

What happened was, way back in the bad old days, Nixon committed the cardinal political sin of getting caught abusing campaign funds, so post- Watergate, Congress was shamed into replacing hard money with soft money which slowly turned into liquid money but now the floodgates have opened and that marvelous misty money is morphing into magic money, soon to transform into virtual money until Steve Jobs figures out a way to beam commercials straight into our heads. And if that prospect doesn’t drive you right into downtown Crazy Ville, then you were hitchhiking in its suburbs to begin with.

There are plenty of reasons why patrons would want to remain covert. They’re shy. Afflicted with an unsightly rash. Currently enrolled in the Witness Protection Program. Breaking in a new toupee. Still haven’t recovered from that ghastly spill in Gstaad. Still haven’t recovered from that ghastly spill in the Gulf. But few of those excuses contribute to the public interest.

We are painfully aware that our politicians are, how do I put this delicately, beholden to certain large contributors. A polite way of saying “hookers with the appetites of hippopotamuses in heat.” But now the ante has been raised higher than a giraffe’s ear. More ghost money means larger favors rewarded with a wider roped off space at the public trough forcing the rest of us to crowd around the short rutted end. Knee- pads are destined to become standard issue behind every Congressional desk. If they aren’t already.

The scariest part is, we’re only seeing the tip of the secret donor iceberg and the Ship of State’s wheel has been splintered. If this flood of clouded currency proves successful, there aren’t enough lifeboats in the Pacific Fleet to rescue us from of these perilous waters. So you might want to whip out your shark resistant water wings. Only one thing puzzles me: if ignorance truly is bliss, why ain’t I happier?

Will Durst is a San Francisco based political humor columnist who frequently tells jokes. On stage. Catch an example October 25, and November 1 at the Rrazz Room. 222 Mason St San Francisco 94102. therrazzroom.com. 415.394.1189. At the 142 Throckmorton on Oct 24.And Rancho Nicasio on Oct 31.Rooster T Feather’s in Sunnyvale Nov 4- 7.The Lark Theater in Larkspur on November 12th.

October 23, 2010

DON’T GOT MILK.

Hey guys, Will Durst, your candidate for Lieutenant Governor from the State of Confusion, here to warn you about a dangerous conspiracy being foisted on an unsuspecting American public. A malignancy so embedded, it is guaranteed to be lurking in your refrigerator right now. Poised to poison your person. Yes, I’m talking about the terrible torment that is… Milk. Heifer Hooch. Guernsey Juice. Raw, skim, 2%, whole, condensed, evaporated or goat. Its all the same thing: depravity in a glass.

Because he’s bankrolled by fat cat, out of state dairy bosses, my opponent doesn’t want you to know that Milk is responsible for more damage to this country than any other liquid. And contrary to the wishes of Ordinary Americans, he continues to support corrupt and unconscionable Milk subsidies. Think of it: our military forced to kill the enemies of freedom using outdated technologies just so entrenched special interest groups like public school kids can drink Milk.

Simply by ridding our nation of this terrorist fluid, we could generate jobs, decrease the deficit, stop wasteful spending, keep Sharia law from being implemented in suburban municipalities, and improve the education system to insure our children a brighter future with the triumph of the free market over socialism. Outlawing Milk would also improve our air and water quality and nourish families by inhibiting male pattern baldness and erectile dysfunction. Rather than wasting the malevolent opalescence, I suggest we exhaust current inventories by bathing in it like 30s starlets.

This isn’t just about Milk, but its seditious sisters as well, butter and cheese, not to mention, sour cream. Milk causes phlegm, chalky tongue, bloating and the humiliation of adults photographed wearing Milk mustaches. Most experts agree that Milk is the ultimate gateway drug. 99% of all heroin addicts began their descent into substance abuse hell by initially succumbing to the temptations of Milk. Excepting the lactose intolerant. Or as I like to call them: the Lucky.

Ask yourself, where does Milk come from? Mostly cows. Passive and ubiquitous, scattered over the countryside, watching and waiting like bovine sleeper cells. Till the cows come home? Yeah, with state secrets. Mad cow disease? That’s Milk in a nutshell. Cry over spilt Milk? No, rejoice. What about female human breasts? Do I have to remind you how obscene and opposed to everything pure and holy they are? Didn’t think so.

My opposition sneeringly refers to Milk as “The Perfect Food,” but try drinking as little as 3 gallons in a day. You’ll die. Doesn’t sound so perfect to me. Sure. Sure. At first glance Milk seems innocuous enough with that soft white milky appearance, but think how quickly this substance can turn dark and foreboding with the simple addition of a few tablespoons of chocolate. Something else they won’t tell you: Milk was the name of a known San Francisco Supervisor and practicing homosexual. Ever hear the phrase, “Milked him dry.” Not a pretty thought, is it?

Don’t be fooled by this plague of protein’s propaganda. Nothing less than the future of this country is at stake. Pasteurized is just another way of saying fluoridated. From now on, whenever you see one of those Got Milk ads, just remember, it might as well read, Got Infantilizing Pinko Perversion? And if you vote for my opponent, you’ll have it in spades. I’m Will Durst and I approve this ad. Paid for by The Committee for Goodness and Decency.

Will Durst is a San Francisco based political columnist who frequently tells jokes. On stage.

Catch an example of which, October 18, 25, and November 1 at the Rrazz Room. 222 Mason St San Francisco 94102. therrazzroom.com. 415.394.1189.

In Oconomowoc, Wisconsin at the Arts Center on Oct 23.

142 Throckmorton on Oct 24.

And Rancho Nicasio on Oct 31.

His new CD, “Raging Moderate,” now available from Stand Up! Records on iTunes and Amazon.

Coming next year: “Where the Rogue Things Go!”

October, 17 2010

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