Comrades, finally I tired of living in Conservative Texas and decided to drive to the People's Paradise up north. Of course I mean Kanuckistan. I am staying here at the Westin Grand, which fulfills my every hope for a progressive hotel: expensive, only two towels, and thin enough to make a kulak laugh. $2.50 for coffee you make yourself, $15 for internet access, and done in colors of brown which remind me of the finest potatoes. Credit-card calls which are $1.25 plus 110% of the operator-assisted rate. Ah. You have to admire a hotel which can take cheese-paring directly to money-grubbing. A true progressive is never satisfied with an expensive base price. The true progressive can wring a quart of lemon juice out of the single slice of lemon in a $15 drink.

But there's something in the air, too, to make me into an even better progressive for I am prolier than thou. Last night I had an erotic dream, my first one ever with a woman. And it was with comradette Janeane Garofalo.


I dreamt that she was snuggling up to me, and I put a hand on the back of her neck to soothe her. "Janeane, there's no need to be afraid. It will all be fine," and she quivered, looked at me with her big, hurt eyes, and hooked a leg around my thigh. I stroked her until she stopped shaking.

I called Bruno to tell him of this; he'd refused to come because he's having so much fun shooting the nano Jimmy Carter rabbits with a pellet gun, and Pupovich is going to be very surprised by a UPS delivery he'll get shortly.

"Theocritus! You're dreaming about a woman?"

"It was Janeane Garofalo, Bruno. Don't get your knickers in a twist."

"Oh. That thing. Could you get the grease off your hands?"

"It was a dream, Bruno, a dream."

"Yeah, but dreaming about that thing and you might never get back. You remember the time that Jodin Morey came over with that Janeane thing. We had to spray the Rancho with hot naphtha mist and still, in Our Many Titted Empress's room gobbets of grease appear, suppurating on the walls, like flies in The Amityville Horror. You remember how you had to explain that to Hilldog?"

"Yes, yes, yes, Bruno. I told her it was lube for the Hildo Hydra, and she bought it."

"But if you keep on dreaming about Greasy Garofalo, there will be hell to pay."

"And just what do you think you're going to do?"

"I'm going to tell His O'liness that I have a signed first edition of Das Kapital here at the Rancho along with 2500 pounds of lobster. You know that that will bring in all the really big talent-shitting pigeons, like Katie Couric, Brian Williams, all of CNN, and Jon Stewart. And I will not clean up that talent shitting. Not again. You know that the Couric Head can talent shit more in 30 minutes than George Soros and Howard Zinn can in a lifetime."

Bruno continued. "So you shag your ass out of Kanuckistan, if it makes you dream of canoodling with Miss Crisco of 1967."

And so I left.


The bit about the dream with Gawdawfulo is completely true. It's been decades since I woke up sweating from a dream but I did last night. I had my hand on the back of her neck, stroking her and muttering sweetly to her. I'm still shaky and literally may leave Canada early. It was that traumatic. I have listened to her talk with Keith Olbermann and it was so bad that my hands were paralyzed and couldn't find the remote. Which normally I can play like a Steinway.

Gloria Steinway?

Commissar Theocritus,

That sounded like the perfect time to prevail upon Canada's most excellent Health Care system and obtain some pharmaceutical relief from your erotic experience of the Janeane kind.
One good thing that could come out of it, would be if she were to stay at the Ranch, so that our MTE and the Hildo Hydra could have plenty of lube. She could also be used for the blood sacrifice for Hillary is none other could be found.

Marshal Pupovich is going to get another package from you? I didn't put a return address on the one I sent him. I hope you didn't either.

Comrade Theocritus,

I never imagined the most romantic moment in your entire life would come in a dream. Comrade Gawdawfulo must have turned you on more than you imagined when she was at the Rancho.

I have never seen her to be more lovely than in the portraits painted by you and Comrade Red Rooster of your lovely time at the Rancho del Rio with her.

Admit it. You were jealous of Jodin Morey as he mounted Janeane with all four feet off the ground in levetational ecstasy. And just in case, for Comrades like Ivana Tinkle, and Obamugabe, here is a link to that post so they may take in and savor that lovely vision with their own eyes. Behold the momentous occasion by Clicking Here.



Really. It was real? OMG. Must be the Universal Northwestern quadrant Prog mind you tapped into to. Yes, this can happen. You can pick up on the thoughts of those who are in close proximity. This is dreadful. Or, could it be that Calvin and Hobbes have hexed you into getting back to the Rancho as soon as possible. Who knows?

Commissar Theocritus wrote:
But there's something in the air, too, to make me into an even better progressive for I am prolier than thou. Last night I had an erotic dream, my first one ever with a woman. And it was with comradette Janeane Garofalo.

Comrade Theocritus, No man gay or straight could resist those tennis shoes she wears.

Kind and generous leader; If you want to have relation with a female, we have a large selection working at our "Hemlock Chain". Comrade Garofalo....Excuse me I need to run for a moment to Throw up..........................................................

Theocritus Please, look at this errrrr, Ummmm, ehhhh, Thing, matter of fact I think she was in the real life "Adams Family" Old friend Let me send one of my Net Jets, Come down here to Camp Fluffy you are obviously upset and tired.

We will send the Goons Highly trained to a Rethuglikan Tea party and let them beat on some KKKapitolist, that always cheers you up. Hey I know we can Fly down to Lousiana and blow up Pupovichs Dacha!!! I know you would like that!!! Think you can put a bag over his head and watch him run around barking. Ahhh good fun....


Commissar Red Star CEO Hemlock Hospitalityä INC
Director of Kicking Doors at Midnight
Keeper of the sacred Plasma Cutter
Herdsman of Rainbow Farting Unicorns
Defender of the Faith

Theo, I used to think that I could never think less of you for any reason. I was wrong. Regarding the delightful Ms Garafalo, I find it odd that such an ardent environmentalist and uber prog should be using a oil-based makeup. Hopefully, it is from a renewable resource, perhaps blue whale or seal pup.

Theocritus, I have no opinion on religious groups and the like that claim to successfully "convert" gays into straights; in fact, I have no opinion on the whole idea in general, since I'm scarcely in any kind of position to enjoy even the slightest modicum of expertise, and indeed, don't really care about it either way.

But after reading your account of the dream about Janeane, I can't think of a more compelling testimony AGAINST making a switch.

You are gay. You are meant to be gay. If Janeane is your idea of being with a woman, then for the love of all that's holy, almighty and otherwise, I beg of you: Please, please remain gay.

Red Star wrote:Kind and generous leader; If you want to have relation with a female, we have a large selection working at our "Hemlock Chain". Comrade Garofalo....Excuse me I need to run for a moment to Throw up..........................................................

Theocritus Please, look at this errrrr, Ummmm, ehhhh, Thing, matter of fact I think she was in the real life "Adams Family"

Comrade Red Star,

I can see things perfectly clear now. Comrade Garofalo's mission is for the progressive idea of zero population growth to save our planet. One look at her and even the tallest and most durable OAK tree would go limp.

For nausea I highly recommend

Commissar, after pondering that picture for awhile (which forced me to consume numerous Alleves, for some unknown reason) I'd have to conclude that the most erotic thing in it is the bottle of spring water she is holding.

If anyone, religious or not, comes to you and offers to help you "switch sides", you'd be perfectly justified in shooting them. Just show the court that picture and no jury in the world would convict you.

On the bright side, I have a title for her new movie: "Scared Un-Straight." (Where the hell is my bottle of Alleve???? Ah, screw it, I'll just get a quart of anti-freeze out of the car.)

Comrade Infidel Castrate,

Your Gawdawfulo-antidote is MOST unequal! I'd like to order a couple of gross, please. Ah, forget that.... can you send over a tanker truck????

Opiate of the People wrote:Comrade Infidel Castrate,

Your Gawdawfulo-antidote is MOST unequal! I'd like to order a couple of gross, please. Ah, forget that.... can you send over a tanker truck????

We can arrange for the tanker truck ... we accept beets or Yes We Can! Personal Checks for payment.

http://www.thepeoplescube.com/red/viewtopic.php?t=3991

Pinkie wrote:You are gay. You are meant to be gay. If Janeane is your idea of being with a woman, then for the love of all that's holy, almighty and otherwise, I beg of you: Please, please remain gay.

Yes, dear Pinkie, it is to be. I keep having this flashback [really] of the dream in which I'm rubbing my pelvis against her, with my left hand (I'm left handed) on the back of her neck, and she is thrusting her crotch at me, and then throws her left leg around my right thigh.

Fortunately I'm wearing khakis and so don't get stubble burn.

But ever since that dream I've been sitting down to pee.

Betinov, J. Gawdawfulo does not in fact use an oil-based makeup. She is nothing but 5'6" of sebum, held into the rough form of a human being, and coated with powder. Show her a bottle of Clearasil and she hisses like a vampire at the morning sun.

Red Star, you have given me an idea. As there are decontamination chambers in nuclear reactors (think <i>Silkwood</i>), we need a decontamination at the Hemlock Restaurants. We'll have a room with a drain in the floor and a huge picture of Janeane Gawdawfulo. This should prove emetic, more so than a banana down the throat.

And to all of my kind and caring comrades, thank you for your concern for me. I'm sure that the maid thought that I'd wet the bed and it was only from sweat.

There was the pounding on the door. "Open up in there! Is there a murder going on? Open up in there!" While I was weeping and swearing, "I repent of smiling at a picture of Ronald Reagan! I will never think good of W.! I spit on Ayn Rand! Just make it stop! Just make it stop!" And in my dream Ms. Gawdawfulo kept purring and arching her back, grinding her nasty bits at me, licking her lips, and picking her teeth with an ingrown toenail. Jodin Morey taught her to do that.

And in my dream the Couric Head was floating around. "Janeane, are you sure that you want to do this? Theocritus is not the same as Jodin Morey. Theocritus is a full-grown Texan and not a quadruped Minnesota Moonbat. You know you're supposed to be bred by Jodin Morey, and if you'd actually douched with carbon tet the breeding might have worked. So lay off Theocritus."

Comrade Infidel Castrate,

Regarding the sneakers, I suspect they harbor enough athlete's foot and toenail fungi to be erotically-challenging. I type this as a Platonic-American.

Tovarich, did you have to let the cat out of the bag? Or the beast out of the sneakers? I told you, in confidence, that I had submitted Comradette Gawdawfulo's toe jam to the CDC in Atlanta and they fully expect to find a cure for AIDS from it.

Nothing, no bacterium, no virus, no retrovirus, can live in Ms. Gawdawfulo's toe jam.

I am even thinking of synthesizing it to throw pills of it into Keith Olbermann's mouth when he begins to fulminate too much.

Touring the Vancouver Public Library after the wedding eh?
Van-prog-couver, What a wonderful Honeymoon!

Eggcellent Chicken. Very f'n Eggcellent!

Commissar Theocritus wrote:And to all of my kind and caring comrades, thank you for your concern for me. I'm sure that the maid thought that I'd wet the bed and it was only from sweat.

Do you have a balcony off your hotel room? If so, just do what Rosie O'Donnell did when she woke up in a puddle of sweat, and stand naked on the balcony, letting the night breezes ripple across your skin until you're dry.

Comrade Vlad,

I think I have your answer. It came to me after watching a Will & Grace episode where a bachelor party was thrown for someone and Jack was turned on by a female lap dancer. It turned out that only the top half was a woman. Of course for a little while Jack was terrified that he had joined the dark side and was looking to be cured.

Do not fret, Theo. This "thing" you dreamt about is no woman.

Woman, man--what's the difference? Gawdawfulo is so greasy that it would take grappling hooks and ice pitons to consort with it. Although if you do look at its picture above you can see some serious leg stubble going on.

And the sound of the Gawdawfulo. Flat, affectless, whining... The only good thing would be to take her back to the Rancho and hook her up to a P.A. system and that would surely clear out the Nano Jimmy Carter Rabbits. Plus every rattlesnake in West Texas and snakes are deaf.


Quite seriously, the archetype of Bruno didn't have legs like that.

Commissar Theocritus wrote: Although if you do look at its picture above you can see some serious leg stubble going on.

Comrade Commissar,

Gawdawfolo is only emulating the superior European womyn. Leg and armpit hair are all the rage! Also, she is trying to save the Planet by using less soap. She is the archetype of what all women should aspire to!

I think that we could harvest grease for frying beets and potatoes in--if Pinkie will allow it. Just put La Gawdawfulo between two pressure rollers and we could get gallons of grease. Admittedly it would not be high-quality grease and would reek to high heaven, but what do we need for proles?

Flake as many rust chips off an old assegai as possible, and slice some beets that are not too withered and dried out. Pop them in a gallon of boiling Gawdawfulo grease. Throw in some dog turds to skim precipitate off the top.

Eat the dog turds.

Red Rooster, oddly enough I am just across the street from the Vancouver Public Library. It's on Robson and Homer, as am I.

As I was walking in the atelier with Comradette Gawdawfulo I heard this furious yapping and I looked around. It was the Jodin Morey attack chihuahua charging me, gnashing its little tiny pointed teeth.

I put my hands to my ears and shouted, "Shut up, Jodin! Shut up! Get down out of the ultrasonic! You know that you can break glass with that shrill bark of yours!"

Jodin completely ignored me and went on the attack. Fortunately I had a used Kleenex which I'd used to wipe a quart of Gawdawfulo grease from Janeane--that was the last five minutes' exudation--and I threw it on the ground. Jodin tripped over it--it was at least one centimeter high (we're in Kanuckistan now, you know)--and after he came to he started yapping at the greasy Kleenex and tearing at it with his teeth. With his head perkily cocked to the side.

"I'll be worthy of Mikael Rudolph's trust! I'll tear this greasy Kleenex to bits! I don't care how big it is!" He snapped it up into his little tiny jaws with teeth like thumb tacks and shook it from side to side, growling.

"Ouch! Ooh! My neck hurts! We need a Czar of Greasy Kleenex so I won't hurt my neck shaking a greasy Gawdawfulo Kleenex from side to side! Mikael will mime our demands on the Capitol Steps and Paul Krugman will prove mathematically that if we had a Czar of Greasy Gawdawfulo Kleenex then health care would be free and Rosie O'Donnell would sweat Chanel No. 5 off her balcony!"

Then Jodin sniffed and started howling. "Janeane! You've been eating polyunsaturated animal fat! How can you do this to me? And I can taste that you weren't eating fair trade fermented tofu! How do you think that we can ever make the Prog Who Will Come if you won't stay on your diet?"

Comradrette Gawdawfulo looked down, quite a way down, at Jodin and sniffed, "Jodin, I'm here with a real man, Commissar Theocritus. He may have spent the first part of his life canoodling with men but he's a real man, unlike you. Jodin, even though you are a chihuahua, you can't even lick your own balls!"

All the excitement caused Jodin to faint, like one of those fainting goats.
He fell over, onto the grease-sodden Kleenex, which squirted out Gawdawfulo grease all over the pants cuffs of everyone within 30 feet, including my svelte pink tux, and then peed himself.

Poor Jodin. So exciteable. And the tux is soaking in Varsol as I write.

You must get that to the dry cleaners in Vancouver! Although it will probably cost you your first born to get it cleaned.

Jodin is like so jealous, and really I think it was the wedding cake that did it more than anything...

Comrade Theocritus,

Comrade Red Rooster has provided visual flattering but allow be to, in an infinitive-splitting obsequious manner, say: "Bitchin' pinko suit! But too bad about the bitch." The way the hat is perched on your head makes it look like you've taken to gang-style 'do-rags: progress!

Comrades, the agony! The agony! Bruno keeps calling me. "Theocritus! I can smell that bitch's nasty bits in Texas! WTF do you think that you're doing?

"First of all, I'm all the woman that you'll ever need. Gawdawfulo? She's a diesel squeeze job. And you know that she doesn't clean up at all. You recall when she was at the Rancho. Even the nano Jimmy Carter rabbits ran shrieking into the night. Zarkoff was so distressed; he had a half a box to fill to send to Pupovich.

"And just what do you think that you're going to do to that Gawdawfulo woman? <i>Breed</i> her? I swear, Theocritus, that all the dogs in the Westminster Dog Show in Madison Square Garden couldn't breed that thing.

"Just get your ass back down to Texas and help me with these freaking nano Jimmy Carter rabbits."

Update: last night I dreamt that I was in Keith Olbermann's office and he was sniggering with a friend. But the salvation was that I was making room for the next meal and doing it in his sink.

I woke up sweating, again.

Tonight is my last night. I can only hope that the nano Jimmy Carter rabbits will not appear.

Comrade Theocritus,

I blame Canuckistan for revealing to you a perfect world and thus upsetting lingering doubts about the exploitative nightmare that is AmeriKKKa.

Rumors abound that visitors to Canuckistan are treated to complimentary health care. Perhaps you need a visit to a doctor, as these dreams are becoming quite serious.

Since you're American (and in Canuck eyes, an Original Submission Sinner) and likely (again from The Superior North America point of view) convert to state-run (and, later, proselytizer for) health, the Canuck proles will surely submissively step aside to wait another day, week, or month for you. If not, you can certainly file a Canadian Human Rights Commission case against them, and it won't cost you a cent.

{prog off}
Just your ethics, Canadian taxpayers in general, and the named "offender" in particular.
{prog on}

Tovarich, tomorrow I must leave the great People's State of Canuckistan and return to the USSA. I find that it is none too soon. I have been sleeping more and more and more... And today have not even left the block that the hotel is on. It's a lovely room, although underdecorated, on the 26th floor, with wonderful views. Meant to be a condo.

But the dreams, comrade, the dreams. Do you think that the national health care here could give me some Demerol?

What happens if tonight I dream that I'm fondling Nansky?

Why, Theocritus, you'll have to tell us how many balls she has! I'm told they're a closely held and guarded secret.

There are three--just like any pawn shop.

Darling Erudite...what trauma, what horror you have endured. The very thought of that thing rutting up against anyone is enough to make a recovered bulimic retch.
You will surely need an entire weekend,atleast, of JiffyLobo treatments. I'll pray to Lenin for your peace of mind.

Thank you, LnT; I'm still shivering. When I hear a sound I jump like Jodin Morey and make little tiny yelps, also like Jodin Morey.

First Gawdawfulo and then Olbermann, but bear in mind that in the Olbermann dream I <i>was</i> shitting in his office sink. And I know he's proud of it.