This one is called “Profiling is wrong.”
Old lady ablaze
Oh, sure. Blame the guy holding
The gasoline can.
Dave calls this one “Endangered.”
I see panda bears
fucking tigers from behind
This zoo is awesome
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I found this story about how the British military in World War II hid maps and escape tools in Monopoly boxes for POW’s in Germany and Italy to use in escaping their prison camps very fascinating. Psycho Dave found it to be an excuse to rip up board games to see if the government left him anything.
“Nothing,” says an exasperated Psycho Dave. “No secret maps painted on the sides of Jenga blocks, no coded messages in the Peppermint Forest of CandyLand… but I think that Pop-o-matic Trouble game can be used to send messages through telegraph wire. I need to run more tests on it.”
“The government isn’t going to hide things in board games again,” I say. “People barely play them anymore.”
“But board games are perfect for prisoners,” says Psycho Dave. “They’re the perfect audience for games like Monopoly and Risk that take all day to play and crush the human spirit. Who do you know that felt better about their lives after a marathon game of Monopoly?”
“You’re never going to be able to sneak that stuff into board games again,” I say. “Now they know to look for that sort of thing.”
“So now what do we send our imprisoned soldiers in our humanitarian packets?” says Psycho Dave. “A Nintendo DS and a bag of batteries? You don’t think the Taliban won’t just take that for themselves? Even glorious martyrs for Allah love playing Nintendogs.”
Twenty minutes and a bunch of bubble gum vodka shots later we’re on the phone with the Pentagon pitching them an idea to bundle escape items into Dungeons and Dragons game kits to be sent in humanitarian packages to our prisoners of war. America’s religious extremists already think it’s the game of the devil, surely Islamic extremists would share the same sentiments so they’d be loathed to inspect the Great Satan’s game. And even if they did, they’d never understand it (hell, most Americans don’t even understand it either), allowing vital information for escape to slip through under the guise of a campaign to retrieve The Sword of Kings from the Cave of Tiamat.
But alas we failed our saving throw on dialing the phone and ended up calling up a Waffle House in Alabama. They didn’t seem interested our plans, and didn’t pick up that when we say “the Elven Ranger has a long bow and high agility points” that means the bombing on Omaha Beach starts at dawn.
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The sports news is full of stuff about college basketball coach Rick Pitino admitting that he was being extorted by a woman that he slept with who wasn’t his wife. The one aspect of this story that got my attention is that he said he paid her $3,000 so she could get an abortion because she didn’t have health insurance. Three grand for an abortion? That price sounds pretty steep so I decided to do a little research and call a whole bunch of people on someone else’s cell phone. Because, hey, they’re not my fucking minutes.
“So how much does an abortion usually go for?” I ask.
“Why would I know?” says Tina the Lesbian. And she has a point. Until lesbians learn to shoot sperm out of their fingers they won’t have much use for abortions.
“Why would I know?” says Ninja Vicki. And she also has a point. No one’s touched her in years and no one’s likely to do so in the near future either, so she has no reason to be aware of abortion costs.
“Hundred bucks, and that covers the cost of the fishing line I put at the top of the stairs,” says Psycho Dave.
Well, Psycho Dave’s a do-it-yourself kind of guy. But I’m looking for the retail cost.
“It’s probably cheaper in Canada,” says Samurai Cathy. “Mexico probably has buy one/get one free coupons.”
“How much of that abortion price goes toward the abortion itself and how much goes to other stuff?” says Mikka. “You know, salaries, overhead, kevlar vests, bullet proof glass… you get the government to subsidize those extra costs, you’ll probably get that cost way down.”
“I don’t see abortion as something you want to do on the cheap,” says Avonia the Wiccan Pimp. “I’m willing to pay more so I don’t bleed to death.”
“Well, I assume the final price is something that varies from state to state, county to county, town to town,” says Anonymous Doug. “Whatever the market dictates. Pitino’s in Kentucky… don’t see a lot of abortion clinics down there in Bluegrass country… yeah, I’d buy three grand as the cost.”
“I think Rick Pitino should do condom ads,” says Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat. “He can look at the camera and say “It’s either 17.95 for a value pack of Trojans, or three grand for an abortion. Do the math.’ That would be an effective ad.”
I’m looking at this 3k price tag for abortions as something to use in approximating the costs of other things unrelated to terminating a pregnancy. For example, for a new car I’m not willing to pay more than five abortions for it. A good engagement ring might run you an abortion or two. Going to law school? You’ll need to abort an entire NFL team roster’s worth of unwanted pregnancies, and that’s not counting the cost of books.
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Psycho Dave is frying up bacon in my kitchen while wearing a big blue ribbon on his lapel.
“Did you win first place in a bacon-stealing contest?” I say.
“No, I’m getting myself ready to be on a blue-ribbon panel,” says Psycho Dave. “Just as soon as President Obama gets that health care reform of his passed.”
“How do you see that working out?” I say.
Psycho Dave gives me a quote from former Alaska governor Sarah Palin’s Facebook page on the topic of the fear of health care rationing: “The America I know and love is not one in which my parents or my baby with Down Syndrome will have to stand in front of Obama’s “death panel” so his bureaucrats can decide, based on a subjective judgment of their “level of productivity in society,” whether they are worthy of health care.”
“I’m going to be on the Obama Death Panel,” says Psycho Dave. “I’m gonna make money killing retards and old people by way of mathematical equations and balance sheets.”
“There’s not going to be an Obama Death Panel,” I say. “That’s just Sarah Palin talking crazy as usual.”
“But it’s an awesome idea,” says Psycho Dave. “I’d be like the Simon Cowell of the panel, telling old people their lives are absolutely horrid and that they should die. And there’d be a Paula Abdul-like judge who would feel bad about telling someone it’s not cost effective for them to bring their retard baby to term. And there’d be a Randy Jackson guy on the panel who’d be like ‘Yo, dawg, paying your terminal illness treatment… I’m just not feelin’ it, dawg.’”
“Health care like the Gong Show… a novel concept,” I say. “But it doesn’t change the fact that the Obama Death Panel is a total fantasy.”
“But I have the ribbon,” says Psycho Dave.
“And a fine ribbon it is,” I say. “But it’s a ribbon for a panel only exists in Sarah Palin’s mind.”
“Do you think she’d pay me to be on that death panel?” says Psycho Dave. “You know, the one in her mind?”
“I don’t think so,” I say.
But Psycho Dave has given me a great idea on how to get revenge on the Wheatleys for wasting my time yesterday with the fear that I’d shoot up a gym because I don’t regularly go on dates. Ah, the look on their faces when I showed up on their doorstep and told them I was with the Obama Death Panel, and that the government had decreed one of them would have to die for the good of America. The real kicker was when I gave them the revolver with one bullet in it. I haven’t seen that sort of unbridled fear in their eyes since that time I told them they were going to be sent to the Obama honkey concentration camps. They hid in their basement for 23 days.
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While I celebrated Fathers’ Day with a bottle of Old Granddad and a tub of sink cleaner, I was visited by Psycho Dave who was wearing a lab coat today.
“Do you think we can set up a DNA lab in the back of a van?” Psycho Dave says to me.
“I don’t think you want something like that being motion,” I say. “One sharp turn and everything spills.”
“We’d park it first before doing work,” says Psycho Dave.
“Why do you want a DNA lab in a van?” I say.
“Because I have a new business plan,” says Psycho Dave. “It’s a mobile paternity testing facility. Just because you can’t get onto the Maury Povich show doesn’t mean you can’t make sure that kid is actually yours.”
“But we have a lab in town that already does DNA tests like that,” I say.
“True, but this one comes to your house,” says Psycho Dave. “This is America, where we have everything delivered to our lazy asses as God intended. It’s called Manifest Apathy. Look it up, it’s in the Constitution.”
“It is not,” I say. “Anyway, if these people are too lazy to leave the house to confirm that their child is really their child then I doubt they have the money to even afford such a test.”
“The DNA Van can do the test cheaper than the normal labs,” says Psycho Dave. “Our overhead is lower. Literally, because it’s in a van and they don’t have high ceilings.”
“So are you going to wait until people call you or are you going to drive around neighborhoods like the ice cream man?” I say. “But instead of handing out ice cream you’re taking blood from people?”
“We’ll be the Ice Cream Man only on Fathers’ Day,” says Psycho Dave. “Because what better time to celebrate being a father than by confirming that you actually are the father? Every other day we’ll be like the pizza delivery guy, coming to your house when you call.”
“And are you going to be doing the driving or the blood testing?” I ask.
“Whichever one lets me tell a guy that he is not the father of the child in his arms,” says Psycho Dave.
It’s important to know what you want in a job, even if you don’t necessarily know what that job is.
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Psycho Dave is in my living room with a dry erase board, drawing what looks to be some sort of math equation but I suspect it’s really just a lot of nonsense to make whatever he’s about to tell me sound smarter than it is.
“I’ve figured out how to definitely determine whether waterboarding is torture or not,” says Psycho Dave.
“It’s pretty obvious that it’s torture,” I say. “We prosecuted Japanese soldiers in World War II for waterboarding. People who have actually been waterboarded like Governor Jesse Ventura and Christopher Hitchens say it’s torture.”
“But it’s not obvious enough,” says Psycho Dave. “There’s still a lot of denial and doubt amongst the chattering classes. And I want that doubt erased if I’m going to apply to the CIA to be a torturer. I’m not going into work to do pussy-ass enhanced interrogation techniques. I’m in it for the torture.”
“It’s good to see you standing up for your principles,” I say. “So how are you going to prove waterboarding is torture?”
“We have to waterboard hot blonde white chicks,” says Psycho Dave.
“But hot blonde white chicks are our post-apocalypse currency,” I say. “We can’t waterboard our money. We need those women to trade for weapons and fuel.”
“We only have to waterboard a tiny percentage of the hot blonde white chick population to prove my point,” says Psycho Dave.
“So why must we waterboard our nation’s most precious resource?” I say.
“Because so far we’ve only waterboarded Muslims,” says Psycho Dave. “It’s a poor pool from which to test whether something is torture because Americans don’t give a rat’s ass what happens to Muslims. Fuckers couldn’t find Afghanistan or Pakistan on map before 9/11. But there’s one thing Americans care about on a universal level and that’s hot blonde women.”
“I’ve been partial to girls with darker hair myself,” I say. “But I’m not what you would call inline with popular American opinion.”
“History shows that if something happens to a hot blonde white girl and the news covers it non-stop,” says Psycho Dave. “Natalee Holloway, Elizabeth Smart, Jon Benet Ramsey, Pvt. Jessica Lynch… shit, that Ms. California chick gets more coverage in the news than police officers who are killed in the line of duty, and all she did was be a dumbass on television and get called a bitch by Perez Hilton.”
“So you’re saying if we waterboard Ms. California, we’ll find out if waterboarding is really torture or not?” I say.
“Her and twenty other hot blonde white chicks,” says Psycho Dave. “It’s not science unless you can replicate the results, and I like to be thorough.”
“And how will waterboarding twenty-one hot blonde white women prove that waterboarding is torture?” I say.
“First off, they’ll proclaim it was torture as loud as their skinny blonde throats can go,” says Psycho Dave. “Secondly, we televise it. And the conscience of the nation will be so shaken that such a thing is happening to not just one but twenty-one of our nation’s precious hot blonde white women that waterboarding will be instantly decried as torture.”
“Which will mean you’ll be able to waterboard detainees without offending your principles,” I say.
“Because enhanced interrogation techniques is euphamistic bullshit,” says Psycho Dave. “I don’t want anyone downplaying the awful things I do with vague wording that takes all the sass out of it. That reflects poorly on me.”
“Because saying you were at a mass coital exhibition is a lot less interesting and impressive than saying you were at an orgy,” I say.
“I have no more to teach you today,” says Psycho Dave. “Now let’s go to the hardware store. We need to turn your basement in a dungeon of horrors. Then we need to buy an unmarked van to round up women in.”
“All right, but don’t do that thing where you tuck your junk between your legs and sing Goodbye Horses,” I say.
“I promise nothing,” says Psycho Dave. “Now put the fucking lotion in the basket!”
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Psycho Dave is in my living room dressed like Captain Morgan and standing on my couch like George Washington crossing the Delaware River. And though I’m concerned about the cutlass on his belt and the one-shot pistols adorning his vest, I am relieved that he’s not messing up my bathroom or stealing bacon from my kitchen.
“Yar, he hearties!” Psycho Dave bellows. “Set a course for the Spanish Main!”
“You can’t sail the Atlantic Ocean on my couch,” I say.
“Will it at least get me to Somalia?” says Psycho Dave. “I have to go there and teach those people how to be real pirates.”
“What do you know of pirating, aside from your days of downloading everything off Napster?” I ask.
“More than you ever will, you scurvy dog!” says Psycho Dave. “Look at that recent pirate debacle a few weeks ago. Now who was the captain of that pirate crew? No one knows. How can you be pirates when your captain doesn’t have a recognizably cool name like BlueBeard or Captain Hook or Admiral Fistingham?”
“They’re Somali pirates, they probably can’t afford a cool name for whoever their captain is,” I say. “Can they even afford a captain?”
“But they don’t even have a cool group name either,” says Psycho Dave. “Terrorist groups have names. Gangs have names. Why can’t they spend five minutes to come up with a recognizable and marketable name?”
“And you’re going to provide them with such a name, as well as your services as a pirate captain?” I say.
“Damn straight,” says Psycho Dave. “From now on you will address me and my malnourished Somalian seadogs as Captain Psycho Dave Starving and the Fearless Floating Famine. And we sail the Seven Seas on the feared ship ‘The AIDS Harvester’ to quench our hunger for plunder!”
“Yeah, until a Navy Seal picks you off with a high-powered sniper rifle or a submarine shoots a torpedo at you,” I say. “Anti-Pirate forces have a bit of a technical advantage in the weaponry department.”
“But they don’t have my pirate cunning,” says Psycho Dave. “No quarter given, no quarter taken. Unless it’s a sock full of quarters, because I’ll be knocking chumps out all day with one of those.”
“Do you have a parrot to rest on your shoulder?” I ask.
“I have a Furby,” says Psycho Dave. “Now hand over your bags of Doritos. I’m commandeering them for a pirate party.”
Instead I kick the couch and make it topple over, sending Captain Psycho Dave Starving sprawling to the floor.
“Parlay! Parlay!” says the captain. “Damn it, I landed on my fucking keys.”
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Psycho Dave is in my kitchen eating my bacon and building what looks to be some sort of front desk appartus out of my kitchen table. It’s this improvised carpentry that gets my attention and warrants questioning.
“I’m building a bank,” says Psycho Dave. “Welcome to Separate Unity Bank.”
Psycho Dave has pretended to be many things. A Vietnam veteran. The ambassador to Senegal. Hugh Jackman. But a banker? This is new, so I ask him what his angle is.
“I want to get some of that money the government’s giving away to keep the financial system from collapsing,” says Psycho Dave.
“But the government’s only giving money to huge banks,” I say. “Little banks are just getting swallowed up by the FDIC.”
“Separate Unity is going to be a huge bank once I build this desk,” says Psycho Dave. “We’re going to be too huge to fail. If we go down, everyone goes with us.”
“How are you going to pull that off from my kitchen?” I say.
“Explosives,” says Psycho Dave. “And that’s the Separate Unity difference that makes us Number One in customer satisfaction.”
“You don’t have any customers,” I say.
“You’re one of them,” says Psycho Dave. “I stole a hundred bucks out of your wallet and opened up an low-yield/high explosive Irish Republican Army account for you. And then I wrote on a survey that you were quite satisfied with it. That means I have 100 percent customer satisfaction.”
“I was going to use that money to buy a few cases of Point of View Lager,” I say. “The beer that changes tastes depending who’s drinking it.”
“Your money is better off in my hands than in stimulating the local economy like that,” says Psycho Dave, who then holds up one of my kitchen knives. “And there’s a substantial penalty for early withdrawal.”
“What’s the interest rate on my IRA?” I ask.
Psycho Dave reaches into his pocket and pulls out a 20-sided Dungeons and Dragon die, rolling it on the floor. “Hey, 12 percent. That’s pretty good in this volitaile market.”
I want to argue that interest rates are not set by the roll of D&D dice, but I get the sneaking suspicion that’s how these things are really determined anyway.
“Hey, you want to roll for a home equity loan?” says Psycho Dave, holding up a box for the board game Trouble. “It’s prime plus whatever comes up on the Pop-o-Matic bubble. But first you have to beat me in a game of Connect Four before I can approve your loan.”
“No,” I say.
“Stratego?” says Psycho Dave. “Ants in the Pants? Chutes and Ladders? Perfection? Here at Separate Unity, we will work with you to solve problems that don’t exist. What about Guess Who? I have a version where the game pieces actually talk, but only after a lot of mescaline. ”
“Where’d you get all these board games?” I say.
“The local Salvation Army is very lax with their security,” says Psycho Dave.
This is why I bank with Panchovia. They rob trains, not local charities.
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He prefers dirty limericks, but the constraints of the haiku form intrigues him…
Latex squeaks, drool drips
“Call me the Sultan” he says
Grandpa is very scary
Have fun trying to sleep tonight.
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Psycho Dave is rummaging through my closets, and it looks like he’s stealing my winter apparel.
“Hey, I need those coats and scarves and furry Russian hats for the coming winter,” I say to him.
“Well, I need them more,” says Psycho Dave. “I just made a huge purchase with the money I earned from my deal with the Pentagon to show tits and vag to Iraqis to make them pliant to American ideas.“
“What did you buy? A chalet in Aspen?” I say derisively.
“No, I bought Iceland,” says Psycho Dave.
*blink* *blink*
“What do you mean you bought Iceland?” I say.
“I mean I bought the entire country of Iceland,” says Psycho Dave. “Iceland was going bankrupt and… well, now I own it.”
I don’t ask him the details of his purchase, because with Psycho Dave it’s best not to know the details of his exploits. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let him take my winter coats.
“You do know that Iceland is rather temperate, right?” I say. “It’s an old joke… Icleand is really green and Greenland is really icy.”
“I have no time for jokes that don’t end with someone having their human dignity horrifically violated,” says Psycho Dave, continuing to pile up my fleece collection. “And as the owner of Iceland I have even less time.”
“So what are you going to do with Iceland now that you own it?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” shrugs Psycho Dave. “Probably fuck it.”
“You’re going to fuck Iceland?” I say.
“I fuck everything I own,” says Psycho Dave. “My recliner, my couch, my vinyl copy of Frampton Comes Alive…”
“But we’re talking about a country here,” I say. “A whole country.”
“If I don’t fuck Iceland, who will?” says Psycho Dave. “Say, you want to be prime minister? I’ll let you get sloppy seconds.”
Well… all right, but he’s still not taking my damn winter coats.
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