Ever notice in all of the Psycho Dave posts that Psycho Dave never interacted with anyone but me? Oooh!!!
Yeah, this is your M. Night Shyamalan twist ending.
“I have a magnificent plan to fix all the money problems in America,” says Psycho Dave, throwing down a stack of stapled papers on my coffee table. “And we should implement it immediately.”
“Okay, so what is it?” I say.
“I’m going to shit in your mouth,” says Psycho Dave.
“Well, I don’t think this is a plan that I can get behind,” I say.
“Your extreme partisanship shows that you’re not serious about fixing the problems facing our nation,” says Psycho Dave. “All you’re doing is playing the same petty political games that got us into this mess to begin with.”
“I don’t want you shitting in my mouth,” I say. “Shitting in my mouth is a horrible idea.”
“Once again the Party of No rears its ugly head, naysaying everything and offering no ideas of their own,” says Psycho Dave.
“I have a great idea, it’s called not shitting in my mouth,” I say.
“You are obviously an unserious person who doesn’t want to confront our current fiscal reality,” says Psycho Dave.
“I’m serious about you not shitting in my mouth,” I say. “That’s an awful plan and it won’t solve anything.”
“That’s not what New York Times columnist David Brooks says about my plan to shit in your mouth,” says Psycho Dave, conjuring the columnist from the aether. “He says my plan is the most comprehensive and courageous proposal anyone has ever seen in their lifetimes.”
“Does this plan involve shitting in David Brooks’ mouth?” I say.
“No it does not,” says Psycho Dave.
“Then David Brooks doesn’t know what the word courageous means,” I say. “He doesn’t know what a lot of words mean, and his ratio of wrong things said to correct things said is so lopsided toward being wrong that I swear he’s being a paint-huffing helmet-wearing buffoon on purpose. Plus he looks like a child molester.”
“Well, all his other Washington friends think my plan is bold, courageous, and very serious,” says Psycho Dave. “It’s doubly serious because I’m wearing a tie.”
“Tie or not, your plan doesn’t involve shitting in their mouths,” I say. “And furthermore, how does shitting in my mouth fix anything?”
“According to research from the Heritage Foundation, shitting in your mouth will reduce unemployment to negative 9 percent by 2020,” says Psycho Dave. “That means… uh… you know however many people are unemployed now? Not only will they have jobs, they will have a second job on top of that.”
“You still haven’t said how exactly shitting in my mouth is supposed to do that,” I say.
“It’s called the Invisible Sphincter of the Free Market,” says Psycho Dave. “It’s the cornerstone of capitalist thought, courtesy of Adam Smith. You’d know that if you’d ever stalked a girl who was taking an economics course at community college.”
“You’re not shitting in my mouth based on your wild and creepy misunderstanding of economic theory,” I say.
“I can get a few Democratic politicians to suggest that you at least should let me rub a turd on your lips,” says Psycho Dave. “Will that show you how bipartisan and serious my plan is? Are you willing to compromise? Meet me halfway here?”
“I don’t think you appreciate my firm conviction of keeping feces away from my mouth,” I say.
“Well, if I can’t shit in your mouth then I’m shutting the government down,” says Psycho Dave. “And then everything will be worse and I’ll have no choice but to blame it all on you and your ideologically stubborn and intellectually bankrupt refusal to work with me on the important issues facing our nation.”
“Could you do your blaming somewhere that’s not my living room?” I say. “I have more constructive things to do other than debate the dubious merits of you shitting in my mouth or not… things like eating a whole bag of rock salt.”
Psycho Dave leaves with his courageously bold and serious plan. I don’t know whether he plans to pitch a similarly serious plan to Ninja Vicki where if she signs over ownership of her lady parts to him that it will keep the sky from falling, but I seriously doubt she will be as patient and cordial with her dissent as I was, mainly because she hasn’t spent all morning drinking rum out a whale skull.
“Give me half a million dollars,” says Psycho Dave, sitting at my kitchen table with an old school adding machine overflowing with paper. He’s also wearing a visor, as if he’s some sort of anachronistic accountant.
“What makes you think I have half a million dollars?” I say.
“Nothing, and that makes me suspect that you actually do have that kind of cash on you,” says Psycho Dave.
“And what do you need half a million dollars for?” I say.
“A new start-up business,” says Psycho Dave. “I call it Speed Hating.”
This raises my eyebrow. “Go on…”
“You know how Speed Dating is supposed to be a very quick way to meet people for dating relationships, right?” says Psycho Dave. “Speed Hating is going to be the very quick way to end those potential relationships before they even begin.”
“So you’re going to abort a relationship in the dating womb before it even has the capacity to turn into a loveless, soul-sapping, emotionally-devastating fiasco?” I say.
“Yeah, instead of getting three minutes to find out if the person across from you is dating material, you spend those three minutes berating them for their shortcomings and wrong-doings,” says Psycho Dave.
“But how does the person know what shortcomings and wrong-doings the person across from them has if they’ve just met?” I say.
“You fill out a thorough questionnaire before the event,” says Psycho Dave. “And you leave us the numbers of your ex’s so we can conduct further research to see why you truly are not dateable.”
“And I take it most of the seed money you want from me is for the research,” I say.
“Research, overhead, printer toner, a diamond-encrusted codpiece, fresh breast milk from Romanian whores, the helicopter from Airwolf…” says Psycho Dave. “You know, standard business expenses.”
“Right…” I say. “So the Speed Hating… it’s both people yelling at each other about what’s wrong with their relationship that they haven’t had yet? Or does one get to go for a minute and a half and then the other goes for a minute and a half?”
“No, it’s like a normal relationship,” says Psycho Dave. “The bell rings and you either get to yelling or you go right to passive-aggressive stares and emotional unavailability. Either way when those three minutes are up you have completely broken up with the person you hadn’t even dated yet.”
“It would save a lot of time and money…” I say, musing on the implications of Speed Hating. “And in a lot of cases, you wouldn’t lose anything either. Sometimes your girlfriend wrecks your car. Sometimes your boyfriend punches holes in your wall. Sometimes possessions get nicked during the move-out stage of the failed relationship. None of that happens during Speed Hating.”
“So are you going to give me that half million dollars or what?” says Psycho Dave.
“I have six Pounds twenty,” I say.
“Why do you have British money?” says Psycho Dave.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I do recall drinking a whole lot of vodka and laundry detergent the other night. Maybe I was drinking with the Queen. That’s the joy of alcohol-induced blackouts. Anything is possible!”
Psycho Dave declined to take my six pounds twenty (or 10.08 American) as an initial investment into his Speed Hating business because it wouldn’t cover the cost of a gallon of Romanian whore breast milk, let alone Airwolf.
I remember the time many, many years ago when Psycho Dave ran for political office. Might have been 2002 or 2004… the double-naughts were a wild time, man. Anyway, he was running against State Representative Jim Cougar, who had won his seat in the 80’s when he claimed to be John Cougar Mellancamp’s half-brother and everyone believed it and then when it turned out he wasn’t no one really gave a shit because by then Mellancamp dropped the Cougar part of his name and started singing on car commercials.
Anyway, Psycho Dave ran a really dirty campaign… the low point being the fliers he put up around town saying “Let’s Shove a Baseball Bat Up Jim Cougar’s Ass and Break It Off.” And there was a picture of Representative Cougar x-ed out by two Louisville Sluggers. And if that wasn’t bad enough, one night someone actually went and shoved a baseball bat up Mr. Cougar’s ass and broke it off.
“Do you feel any portion of responsibility for what happened to Rep. Cougar?” I asked Psycho Dave, being the only member of the press he would talk to. And by “press” I don’t mean that I worked for a newspaper or television or radio station; I just typed up things and stuffed the papers in trees for the squirrels to read because they need to know about current events more than humans. “Do you think you contributed to an atmosphere where someone could deem it appropriate to act upon the violent rhetoric and imagery you’ve been supplying to the public at-large?”
“Look, when I allude to baseball bats violating my opponent’s anus and being broken off while still inside, I am only talking in colorful metaphors,” says Psycho Dave, holding a press conference while standing in my bathtub because of the acoustics. “And when we start outlawing metaphors then only outlaws will have metaphors, and then how will America describe things? Illegally, that’s how! And that is not what our founding fathers intended!”
“But metaphors are used to creatively compare one thing to another,” I say. “The whole baseball bat up Mr. Cougar’s ass thing actually happened to the letter… no metaphor, simile, or hyperbole about it.”
“Well, while you’re talking about hyperbole, I’m talking about the issues that affect this congressional district,” says Psycho Dave. “Issues like why does Representative Cougar live in a hotel room?”
“Because you put out a commercial a month ago saying ‘Go to Rep. Cougar’s House and Commit Arson,” I say. “And then someone torched his house to the ground.”
“What that ad says in full is ‘This November, Go To Rep. Cougar’s House and Commit Arson Because He Face-Raped the Constitution and Wiped His Dick with the American Flag: Vote Psycho Dave For Great Justice,'” says Psycho Dave. “And the arson didn’t happen in November, it happened in June.”
“I don’t think timing is the issue,” I say. “I’m pretty sure it’s the arson.”
“Yeah, well the arsonist wasn’t registered to my political party at the time, so it has nothing to do with me,” says Psycho Dave. “And he most recently rented that Batman movie where Arnold Schwarzenegger is Mr. Freeze. Obviously someone aligned with my interests wouldn’t have rented a movie that I have such hate and disgust for.”
“If a person of consequence put out an ad saying that someone should kick my imaginary wife in the cunt, and then someone actually does punt my wife betwixt the wickets, I’m not going to go bother looking at the cunt-kicker’s voter registration card or his Netflix queue,” I say. “And after I take care of that asshole, I’m going to look at the person of consequence who put out the ad saying someone should kick my wife in the cunt and tell that person that, while he didn’t commit the kicking himself, he sure as fuck had something to do with it.”
“Hey, why has there been no mention of the violent rhetoric of my opponent?” says Psycho Dave. “He says he needs help to be victorious in November. Victorious how? Like a horde of Viking rapists? Pillaging my land and burning my village and ravaging my women? My opponent won’t say, but I think it’s clear what he means with his blue eyes and blonde hair and that one time he was in a canoe.”
“Even if that had any semblance of truth to it, the issue isn’t that both sides do it therefore no one is guilty,” I say. “The issue is that one side, namely yours, does it a lot fucking more and a lot fucking harder. It’s like the difference between Mikka and a porn star. Yes, both have sex, but one of them is doing a lot more fucking than the other. You have to look at context.”
Note: This was back before Mikka was dating Samurai Cathy, back when Mikka was lucky as hell to get a drunk hook-up once a year. Lean times, man. Lean times…
“And what about the context that no one has acted upon any of my other ads against Mr. Cougar?” says Psycho Dave. “There was the Smash Rep. Cougar’s Windshield With a Brick if You Love Freedom ad, and has his windshield been smashed? No. And what about my ad saying Throw A Flaming Bucket of Your Feces at Jim Cougar, Godless Devourer of Babies Straight From Your Womb? Did anyone throw a flaming bucket of feces at him? I think not. Why do I not get credit for the things that didn’t happen?”
“Because the news doesn’t report on all the murders that didn’t happen today,” I say. “But you were playing dice against the chaos of society with your constant demonization and violent imagery in the media and this time you rolled snake eyes and the chaos responded by lashing out in the form you had predetermined. Oh sure, you didn’t mean to… it just popped in there… but it’s too late and now the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man is here, but instead of destroying New York he sodomized your political opponent with a baseball bat. You’re not legally responsible or liable, but you share moral responsibility for it.”
“Look, I’m not responsible for what marshmallow men or crazy people do regarding the things I express for wide public consumption to shape public opinion, and I’ve been very responsible with what I’ve said and done during this entire campaign,” says Psycho Dave. “I mean, it’s not like I: 1) published a chart consisting of gun targets on a group of people I opposed; 2) employed a constant stream of provocative phrases and images regarding guns in my communications to the media and society at-large; 3) cultivated the support of citizens holding signs saying things like “We Came Unarmed… This Time”; 4) fed into their paranoia by telling them that we have to defeat these targeted people or else they’ll destroy America, steal your guns, and enslave you under socialist Sharia death panels; 5) supported other political candidates who recklessly throw around phrases like ‘second amendment remedies’ or refreshing the tree of liberty with people’s blood… (catches breath)… and then after all that one of the people I targeted on the chart ended up getting shot in the head along with a bunch of other innocent bystanders. I mean, that would make me a fucking awful human being, wouldn’t it? What kind of asshole would I be if all that happened?”
Well, asshole or not, Psycho Dave ended up losing that election, probably because he put his name down to be listed on the official ballot as Ramon Cunnilinguini and our district has a strong anti-Italian bias.
I was busy seeing where I could buy a Turbaconducken – which is a chicken shoved up a duck’s ass shoved up a turkey’s ass and all those dead animals are covered in bacon – when Psycho Dave comes into my house wheeling in a sewing machine.
“Quick question,” Psycho Dave says to me. “Has anyone invented a Snuggie that has a flap for your dick?”
“So that you can piss without having to sacrifice being toasty warm?” I say.
“No, so that you can get a handjob from some woman whilst staying toasty warm and having your arms free to hold your beer or pull her hair because she’s into that sort of thing,” says Psycho Dave.
“I think if you’re wearing a Snuggie there’s a slim chance you’re going to be in a situation where you’re going to be getting a handjob,” I say.
“Yeah, because they don’t have a dick flap,” says Psycho Dave. “But they will… and I’m calling it the Tuggie.”
“I hope it’s stain-resistant,” I say.
“Good point,” says Psycho Dave. “Because you just know she’s going to wipe her hand off on your Snuggie after jerking you off, that inconsiderate whore. The Tuggie is not a towel, it is a blanket with sleeves and a dickflap so that your cock won’t get cold when she’s cranking on it.”
“You know dudes are just going to use it to masturbate, right?” I say.
“All inventions are like that,” says Psycho Dave. “Why should the Tuggie be any different?”
He’s got a point. Now all we need is Vince the ShamWow guy to hock this product for us and we’ll be as rich as astronauts. No, we’ll be richer than astronauts!
Psycho Dave is building a lemonade stand. And by building I mean he took my couch and my coffee table and put it out on the sidewalk. Now I know he’s not doing his own Alex’s Lemonade Stand because Psycho Dave thinks that the cancer charity is hiding some sort of unexplained evil behind the story of a dead child.
“Why are you selling lemonade?” I ask.
“Oh, I’m not selling lemonade,” says Psycho Dave.
“You have a two pitchers of lemonade, a bunch of plastic cups, and a sign that reads ‘Lemenayde,’ with the last ‘e’ written backwards,” I say.
“I’m not charging for it,” says Psycho Dave. “I’m giving it away.”
Pause. “You pissed in a pitcher, didn’t you?”
“Oh, it’s real lemonade,” says Psycho Dave. “A special brew, but lemonade nonetheless. And it’s free.”
“So why are you giving away this special brew of lemonade for free?” I say.
“Because it pisses off some bitch in Chicago,” says Psycho Dave who hands me an opinion article written by Terry Savage, who on a summer day found three girls with a lemonade stand who were giving their product away for free. This got a bug up her vag because apparently free lemonade is symptomatic of the communist decline of America. But this joyless woman was there to stand up for poor little capitalism and its retarded brother free enterprise, turning herself into the new symbol of our great nation: a crazy lady with no soul screaming at children for offering free lemonade, and then proudly bragging about it.
“Is that all?” I say to Psycho Dave. Usually his schemes involve doing stuff to spite more than just one person.
“Well, you remember that Sharron Angle lady from Nevada who said that rape and incest are part of God’s plan?” says Psycho Dave. “Well, she’s doubling-down on the dumb and giving me a great product idea.”
Psycho Dave gives me this new snippet of an interview with the Republican nominee for the US Senate from Nevada, again regarding the issue of abortion regarding exceptions for rape and incest:
Stock: What do you say then to a young girl, I am going to place it as he said it, when a young girl is raped by her father, let’s say, and she is pregnant. How do you explain this to her in terms of wanting her to go through the process of having the baby?
Angle: I think that two wrongs don’t make a right. And I have been in the situation of counseling young girls, not 13 but 15, who have had very at risk, difficult pregnancies. And my counsel was to look for some alternatives, which they did. And they found that they had made what was really a lemon situation into lemonade.
“So this is rape lemonade?” I say. “You’ve made rape lemonade.”
“It was God’s plan that rape lemonade be made, according to the crazy lady in Nevada running for high political office,” says Psycho Dave. “I’m just the hand the Almighty has chosen to stir in the roofies and give it away for free.”
“I’m not sure the concept of rape lemonade becomes less objectionable when you don’t charge for it,” I say.
“Are you going to say ‘no” to the Lord when he comes to you and tells you to make some rape lemonade?” says Psycho Dave. “God will not be denied His beverage of choice.”
“Did God tell you to use my couch and coffee table to distribute rape lemonade?” I say.
“It was implied,” says Psycho Dave.
I take back my couch and coffee table. I may be an atheist, but I know for damn sure the omnipotent and omnipresent do not imply.
The BP oil fucktastrophe down in the Gulf of Mexico has prompted people who may or may not have been conjured from the ether after a night of absinthe and fiberglass to ask what would the crew at Renal Failure do to stop the gushing eco-shitting leak. Probably because at this point, our guess is as good as anyone elses.
We thought about sending Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat down there with his arc welding laser attachment, but like most cats he will not go near the water.
Psycho Dave wanted to stuff the leak with dead hookers. Apparently according to his research based on jokes made on the Internet, over the past decade or two America has produced more dead hookers than any other consumer product. More than street crossing chickens, priests and rabbis who like to drink, and anonymous people knocking on doors who you may or may not know.
Bernie’s wife Marlie didn’t have a plan until she heard that BP meant British Petroleum. Her plan is to plant nail bombs in Parliament until Northern Ireland is free from British rule, which is her plan for everything.
Tina the Lesbian suggested that we spread a rumor that the oil leak wants to get gay married, as it would be the only way to mobilize conservatives to help the environment.
Ninja Vicki suggested that Tag Larkin should stem the flow of oil by shoving his dick in the hole to stem the leakage, but Tag Larkin refused, saying that Tag Larkin doesn’t just shove his dick into any ol’ hole. That hole has to do something for Tag Larkin other than just be there. Tag Larkin is not going to do all the damn work. Also, Tag Larkin doesn’t like that he can’t handcuff the oil leak to his headboard.
And Samurai Cathy just wants BP CEO Tony Hayward to spill his own intestines. In his own swimming pool.
Why we don’t get asked for help more often is beyond me, but readily apparent to everyone else.