For centuries, English speakers have been fond of using fanciful collective nouns to designate groups of specific bird and animal types. These metaphorical expressions of multitude identify an essential characteristic of a given creature and apply it to the group as a whole. For instance, everybody's probably familiar with "a gaggle of geese" or "a pride of lions", but there are also more evocative poeticisms, including:

A murder of crows
A skulk of foxes
An exaltation of larks
A parliament of owls
An ostentation of peacocks
A tower of giraffes
A pounce of cats
An obstinacy of buffaloes
A sloth of bears

We, here at the Cube, can use the same sort of onomastic ingenuity to develop collective nouns for political groups and the like. I invite you to tap into the great hive-mind and see what you can come up with. Here is a small list to help spark your creativity:

A kindred of fellow travelers
An illiterate of soldiers
A remedy of central planners
A predation of Republicans
A revolution of college kids
A “forlorn hope” of radicals
A deportation of kulaks
A douche of reactionaries
A mercenary of shopkeepers
A dagger of capitalists
A munition of Bolsheviks
A massacre of thought-criminals
A sympathy of Islamists
A strut of stockbrokers
A pornography of Catholics
A brilliance of Marxists
A gulag of bureaucrats
A sophisticate of academics
A pollution of SUVs
A gratuity of taxes
A compost of liberties
A blight of conservatives
An orgy of lobbyists

A pantload of revolution?
A cemetery of Democrat voters?
A sleeper cell of inner comrades?

It would help, of course, if these idioms were presented in a sentence, or even in a situation...

Also I think that multitudes of Marxists, liberals, and other kinds of lefties would be better measured / designated by "columns."

E.g. "This is the fifth column of war protesters I've seen passing by Union Square today."

Red Square wrote:A pantload of revolution?
A cemetery of Democrat voters?
A sleeper cell of inner comrades?

It would help, of course, if these idioms were presented in a sentence, or even in a situation...

Excellent idea.

Let's try A pollution of SUVs: I was having a wonderful commute in my hybrid this morning, sipping blithely on my grande latte from Starbucks, until I came upon a pollution of SUVs - must have been a dozen of them spewing noxious, greenhouse gases.

Or how about this: On Wall Street today, a dagger of capitalists leaving the NY Stock Exchange got involved in a street fight with a remedy of central planners. "The capitalists," one eyewitness reported, "were getting the best of the planners. Then, a munition of Bolsheviks arrived and helped turn the tide." Unable to withstand the pantload of Revolution, the capitalists were sent packing like a deportation of kulaks.

A wetdream of speakers.

(Sorry, that's a tad crude, but I still think Comrade Pelosi is hot despite her being a Menshevik trollop.)

An Administration of mass murderers.

" The idiot gave me a mocha smoothie when I specifically asked for a French-vanilla cappacino, I denounced him for the mistake and decried his business as an Administration of mass murderers."

A breath of New Directions

" The sudden appointment of the far-left radical to the committee struck me as a breath of New Directions."

A purveyor of progress

" The trial-lawyer spat upon the face of a young pro-life activist as a column of screaming skanks declared him a purveyor of progress."

A sophisticate of academics

As the indealistic sophomore strolled through campus, a sophisticate of academics exited the Ivory Tower, causing her to pause and look on with reverence and awe.

A perfection of Democrats

As President Hillary Rodham Clinton strode to the podium for her first press conference as Commander in Chief, a perfection of Democrats, known as the press corps, leaped to their feets and applauded.

- A greed of capitalists

(I think that "a greed of capitalists" is a more fanciful collective noun for them)

- A guevara of progressive students (or is it "a whole guevara of T-shirts"?)
- A klan of krackers
- A flaming of transgendered persons
- A spock of nerds (rymes with "a flock of birds")

- A global-orgasm of Peace.

"On December 22 everyone in the world is going to have one big global orgasm of Peace and alter the whole energy pattern of the earth and stop war, man."

GlobalOrgasm.org

*And Iran, Iran so far away..... I had to get away* ( I was compelled to throw that in there)

Umm,

A Baldwin of Actor-vist

A cabal of neo-cons

A zenith of Zionist

A embellishment called Hope (Arkansas that is)

A cache of campaign ca$h

A trove of trolls

A pride parade of pansies (the flowers of course).

A gaggle of lollygaggering feminist protestors

" I watched as a gaggle of lollygaggering feminist protestors wandered aimlessly outside a tattoo parlor."

A cluster of idiot concentrate.

Comrade Otis wrote:On December 22 everyone in the world is going to have one big global orgasm of Peace and alter the whole energy pattern of the earth and stop war, man.
GlobalOrgasm.org

I wonder if it's only human orgasm that counts - or an orgasm with a chicken or a toaster (or a vacuum cleaner if you're an Evangelical Christian), or a dead deer on the side of the road will just as much change the energy pattern of the earth and stop war?

If my neighbor's dog humps my leg on Dec. 22, is world peace more likely to ensue or less likely?

If Comrade Marshal Pravda just killed a few million bacteria in his throat with a spray, depriving these microscopic toiling masses of the wonderful gift of love, of the multiple orgasms they could have had otherwise on Dec. 22 (millions of repeated orgasms!), did he tip the scale for the war? And if the war doesn't stop, should we hold Marshal Pravda personally accountable for treason and war crimes? Demote him to Private Pravda, perhaps?

If some sort of rays (waves) emanating from us during orgasm exist as a fact of objective reality, and can effect earth's energy patterns, stopping wars and saving lives, shouldn't we then be demanding federal funding for such activities? Shouldn't the Democratic Congress headed by Nancy Pelosi grant a few million of taxpayer dollars on research, to create a device that would amplify such waves and thus secure world peace, stop terrorism, and pacify the war-mongering right-wingers in the US?
<br>I looked but couldn't find the page where you can sign up a s a volunteer - but I'm sure our friend Gareth will be quite busy this Holiday Solstice Season.


Gareth is warming up for the First Annual Solstice Synchronized Global Orgasm for Peace

I'm sure the death rate will rise however, due to countless bondage and S&M mishaps.

And let's not forger Gareth's favorite inspirational website - https://masturbateforpeace.com


They now have new posters - https://masturbateforpeace.com/posters.html

Eeewwww....

"Don't pull that grenade pin, stoke your bifkin"

Proof that one's re-education is never complete.

Red Square wrote:- A greed of capitalists

(I think that "a greed of capitalists" is a more fanciful collective noun for them)

- A guevara of progressive students (or is it "a whole guevara of T-shirts"?)
- A klan of krackers
- A flaming of transgendered persons
- A spock of nerds (rhymes with "a flock of birds")

Yes, I prefer A greed of capitalists, myself. It's quite evocative, as in:

"A greed of capitalists slithered into the board room at Big Oil's headquarters, assembled around a prodigious table of mahogany plundered from Brazil's virgin rainforest, and resolved to raise the price of gasoline in time for the Thanksgiving holiday."

Nice work with a spock of nerds. It's dead-on.

More collective nouns:

A mccarthy of anti-communists
A patchouli of hippies
A hirsuit of feminists
A concern of environmentalists
A eunuch of UN officials
A grove of treehuggers
An explosion of martyrs
A "nine" of gangstas

Upon approaching the park, I not only could smell incense in the air, but also could hear the sound of poorly played acoustic guitars and bongos, in addition to the familiar "pat pat" of a hacky sack bouncing off of birkenstocked feet. At that point, I knew a patchouli of hippies must be on the other side of the trees.

The FRENCH connection :

A lilypad of Frenchmen
An escargot of Frenchmen
A retreat of Frenchmen, or A whiteflag of Frenchmen
A mime of Frenchmen
A paradox of Frenchmen

How about "a patch of TV viewers"?

E.g. "A 2004 survey shows that a patch of TV viewers who watch Jon Stewart are much better informed than the viewer patches watching Leno and Letterman. The Stewart-watching patch got 3.5 out of six answers right, while the other two patches got less than 3 out of 6 answers right, when the questions were so damn easy I answered all 6 of them on the fly as I'm sure any one of you would - despite the 2-year lapse. Which means the People's Cube readers must be twice as informed as most TV viewers on any given patch."

"You got 6 out of 6 correct on your first attempt.

Excellent work! But when do you sleep?"


A plague of journalist.

a "plague" could apply easily to many groups:

Lawyers and teachers (Dr. P. exempted, of course!) immediately come to mind, along with journalists.

Bvt. Field Marshal Pravda wrote:a "plague" could apply easily to many groups:

Lawyers and teachers (Dr. P. exempted, of course!) immediately come to mind, along with journalists.

Much appreciated, Redoubtable Field Marshal.

Here's a few more along those lines:

A pox of professors
An indoktrination of edukators

A Sheehan of Moonbats.

"Hey man, there's gonna be a humongous Sheehan of Moonbats over at the Pentagon and they're gonna make it levitate man! Hey pass the patchouli....we're loading up the VW Microbus man, you comin'?"

Ah! A Sheehan of Moonbats. Very nice. Their bark is much worse than their bite!

Here are a few more:

A chamberlain of appeasers
A chompsky of America-bashers
A duranty of dupes
A potemkin of policymakers
A kennedy of moving violations

If we were to neologize both the subject and the attribute, I might also think of ...

a bill of gates
a steve of jobs
a britney of spears
a courtney of love

and, of course....

a nancy of pelosi
a michael of dukakis
a chuck of schumer
a charlie of rangel
a jack of murtha
an alec of baldwin
a jay of leno
a maureen of dowd
a chris of matthews
a barbra of streisand
a brad of pitt

(sounds like a KooKing recipe, I know)

And on the other side...

a britt of hume
a condi of rice
a rush of limbo (an alternative spelling)
a tony of snow
a bill of reilley
a rupert of murdoch

and overseas...

a vlad of putin
a joe of stalin
a hugo of chaves
a mahmoud of ahmadinejad

Now let's try to use them in a sentence... Try to think of a whole courtney of love, and try not to think of a whole nancy of pelosi.

a bonny of fwanks

A Paltrow of Gwyneths (meaning a group of cosmopolitan socialites skilled in the arts of meaningful dinner conservation)

Comrades,

May I humbly submit:

A plague of Petit Bourgeoisie?

As in "I was accosted on the street by a plague of petite Bourgoisie rushing from an Un-Red Star bucks".

I submit as a collective noun for assholes
A Schumer of assholes.

Or a Senate of assholes. Schumer, Leahy, Dodd, Byrd, Metzenbaum (spit, spit), Daschle, Biden, Rockefeller, Clinton, and of course Al Frankenstein Monster.

A shit of Schumers is how I think of it.

$.$., that's perfectly fine, but there's nothing to keep there from being both a shit of Schumers, and a Schumer of assholes, and lice of Leahys.

A rubbish of Rockefellers.
A dipshit of Daschles.
A bozo of Byrds.
A mendacity of Mitchells.

A pitchfork of Pelosis is what I'd like to see.

A purge of counter-revolutionaries.
A mass grave of enemies of the state.
A mob of revolutionaries.
A gaggle of liberal idiots.

A pitchfork of Pelosis? I like it. A puke of Pelosis as an alternate.

A screech of mimes.
A clutch of socialists.
A sneer of journalists.
A pilfer of progressives.

Those are good. I think I'll steal them.

Any time.

Oh. A craven of Jodins.
A moan of moonbats.
A flight of fancy of moonbats.
A bitch of feminists.
A giggle of queens.

As Pup suggested a Babble of Wimmin...

A Wayward of Men...

An Agreement of Democrats (Yes We Can!)
A Sett of Kulak Monster (like badgers)
A Corner of Cubists
A Capitulation of Frenchmen (as opposed to the previously suggested Enigma... I don't believe there's anything enigmatic about them)... and to continue in the theme...
A France of Whores
A Torture of Taliban
A Shovel of Proles
A Blame of Partisans

All good, but "a Corner of Cubists"? I always thought it was "a bunker of Cubists" but you have something going there too.

Also, "a cube of squares." Whatever the meaning of "square" is.

A medley of morons.

Isn't "Capitulation of Frenchmen" tony for them? Perhaps a "surrender of Frenchmen," or even "surrender of frogs."

A camp of Germans.

A grasp of Congressmen.

A change of lightbulbs.

A splash of Kennedys (or is a carpool of Kennedys?)

A guilt of white liberals

A fault of Americans

An armchair of war critics

A guevara of ivy league students

A monica of interns

A phantom of climatologists

Red wrote:An armchair of war critics

Very nice.

An asshole of Progressives.

A scourge of environmentalists.

A thug of ACORNs.

Sister Massively Opiated wrote:As Pup suggested a Babble of Wimmin...

A Wayward of Men...

Ah, you beat me to the Collective! Wayward of Men.....OK, I can handle that! LOL

a pisspot of Pelosies

Marshal Pupovich wrote:

Sister Massively Opiated wrote:As Pup suggested a Babble of Wimmin...

A Wayward of Men...

Ah, you beat me to the Collective! Wayward of Men.....OK, I can handle that! LOL

I have GPS that talks in a woman's voice, and I hardly ever get lost anymore. We're mostly happy together, except for the moments when she guides me to the weirdest places, and while I'm in the middle of nowhere thanks to her, wondering if my car has enough clearance for this barely visible dirt road, she comes to life and announces matter-of-factly "there's a better route available." That's when I want to kill her.

My built-in ones don't announce better routes--but it's possible that I lose patience and fire the route before it gets to that point.

But do no ever buy a GM car with satnav in it. My father has one and you have to stop it, circle the car thrice and bow to Detroit to change anything. Honda products, however, let you play with it on the run. And in West Texas, where there is virtually no traffic, that's ideal.

I got caught playing with it in traffic once and was arrested for indecent exposure. I guess south Texas is not as progressive as west Texas.

I want to know about the DPS officer who arrested you. Was he sweating? And not from the heat?

Inquiring minds want to know.

Red Square wrote:I have GPS that talks in a woman's voice, and I hardly ever get lost anymore. We're mostly happy together, except for the moments when she guides me to the weirdest places, and while I'm in the middle of nowhere thanks to her, wondering if my car has enough clearance for this barely visible dirt road, she comes to life and announces matter-of-factly "there's a better route available." That's when I want to kill her.

If Robert Frost were alive today, how different would High School Lit classes be?


The Better Route Available Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry, I have GPS that talks
in a woman's voice, so long I stood
Then drove down one as far as I could
To where it bent my undercarriage;

Then took the other, to be fair,
I hardly ever get lost anymore,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
This barely visible dirt road
It tore it really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
We're mostly happy together except
When she comes to life and announces,
that "there's a better route available."

I shall be telling matter-of-factly
That's when I want to kill her, ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all of these huge dents.

Whose dents these are I think I know....

A more equal poet would be Comrade Clinton's poet, Maya Angelou. She was so equal that her university let her make it nearly impossible to reach her or take a class from her. Now, a professor who is unreachable: that's an achievement. But then my university prided itself on the number of courses taught by professors, even undergraduate ones: about 95%.

When can I get to be more equal and not have to bother with business?

Commissar Theocritus, didn't you once quote Robert Frost's poem,

My SUV may think I'm queer,
to stop without an oil rig near...

I forgot the rest of it.

I believe, my Glorious Roseate Hexahedron, that the two lines were:

My little car must think me queer,
To stop without an oil-rig near;

Yes, and that's where I stopped.

Perhaps, of Bruno,

He gives his Liza wig a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake
The only other sound's the shriek
Of the silly voice of silly flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
And Bruno is a queen so cheap,
If thrown off, will the woods him keep?
For me, at last, to get some sleep.

Once More, Comrade Commissar Theocritus,

Much much better than my feeble attempt... but I can only write biographically when picking up where you left off, and then, only in the most facile manner (particularly as it was unauthorized biographical poetry and I would not share more private facets of your life, gleaned from our friendship... In Kanadistan we have our version of Capote in the body of Peter C. Newman, though without the talent, humour, or even character that Capote had... Newman was a journo who cultivated close relationships with many Canadian Prime Ministers and other politicians, to the point of being considered part of their extended families and being Canadian, these politicos naively forgot that their close close friend was a journalist... and so we experienced a "spate of ruptures" as Newman began to write biography after biography... or should I say, publish biography after biography, as I believe he made 'arrangements' with many of his politician 'friends' to write their biographies for them soon after they left office and as such, had many scotch-fueled fireside chats - recorded, in some cases, unbeknownst to the politician - and during which, apparently, no line was drawn regarding what was and was not on 'the record', and this in conjunction with some misunderstanding about them having some say in what the final edit would look like, resulted in a ... oooh... we're sort of back on topic here... a Butchery of Biographies, one coming out after the other - and I believe planned to be released just so as were he to have released only one without first having completed any of the others, his name would have instantly been mud and he would have effectively had every door to his subject matter slammed in his face instantly... and so I'm quite sure that he and his publisher planned the timing of the barrage to the second, having them completed or in the stage of being close to a final edit and ready to go to print... them being full of all manner of dirty little secrets or acknowledgments that something that had long been quietly whispered about, was, in fact, true... He 'bit the hand' of not only former Prime Minister Brian Mulroney, but many other 'friends' in politics, including at least one other Prime Minister, each time pleading the right of the press to give the people what they want, even if it was gleaned during a quiet Sunday BBQ attended by 8 people to celebrate one of the group's birthday... and so, he released biography after biography, timing it just so in terms of giving his audience enough time to get over the buzz surrounding the last before the next came out, thereby maximizing sales, all the while, those who had given him access, I'm sure living in quiet misery wondering what on God's green earth he might have in store for his telling of their life's tale, until it was released... and rightly so... and hence the spate of ruptures, in several cases, quite literally in the circulatory sense.... and although he denies it - Methinks the scumbag doth protest too much - he says he is not lonely for having lost access to his basic subject matter, though to hear it told, he is, in fact, quite alone and lonely now, having fucked over all the people who were, in the end, truly his friends...) While I was hardly writing your biography, I could not and would never include anything I might be privy to which you yourself have not spoken of publicly, and so I produced a perfectly fine little version, but a sterile one nonetheless... you, on the other hand... you have plumbed the very depths... places I cannot possibly go... and once again, have given us something much much more meaningful... worthy of study, certainly. I am taken by "He gives his Liza wig a shake." It is profoundly evocative, to be sure.

Respectfully,
SMO

Dear Sister,

Again you flatter me--this is mere doggerel. Bruno is after all my literary whipping boy. It would be so much more satisfying if he didn't enjoy it.

The movie <i>Capote</i> is very much worth seeing; the acting very good and toward the end you sense the hunger of Capote to get that story. Your labeling of Newman as Capote told me what I needed to know.

How sad for Newman to scorn his friends and therefore lose them for the imagined immortality of publishing books on politicians. Today I was reading an article by Paul Johnson on his art library, acquired when he wrote a history of art, and he writes monographs on various painters. (BTW he thinks that Sergeant is the greatest 20th century world painter.)

He can't reckon how many he has to the nearest thousand, and mentions the name of a single author once, on a book about Rafael.

Mr. Newman sounds the perfect weasel. Not only are his friends his ex-friends but only the second and third rate will deal with him now that his treacherous soul has been revealed. Fool.

BTW, have you heard the supposition that Capote is the the one who wrote <i>To Kill a Mockingbird</i>? He is Dill of course; Harper Lee never really wrote anything else; once he was drunk on a television program and halfway let on that he did. I have it read by Sissy Spacek and listened to it on one of my long driving vacations. Even though I'd read it three or four times it's always worth rereading. So very evocative.

What you describe about Paul Johnson reminds me of the architectural critic in The Fountainhead. I forget his name now though...

Ellsworth Toohey.

Johnson, now 81 or 82, is very erudite but very full of himself. See amazon for his books. Very impressive. He writes a weekly column in <i>The Spectator</i>. He was much mocked for writing that he hadn't yet met the current pope.

He had one column on neologisms and I suggested suiplenitudinous for him--very full of himself.

Commissar Theocritus wrote:Dear Sister,

Again you flatter me--this is mere doggerel. Bruno is after all my literary whipping boy.It would be so much more satisfying if he didn't enjoy it.

Doggerel for a dogsbody... Oddsbodkins!... sorry... couldn't help myself....that said, if I've told you once I've told you... once... he wouldn't enjoy it quite so much if you didn't use those long licorice whip strings... you know, the ones that come in fake strawberry flavour, fake cherry flavour, fake 'red' flavour, fake 'green' flavour, and black licorice... all the coloured flavours taste exactly the same despite being sold in different boxes on the same shelf... and they're just sitting in the box on the shelf, open... sold piece by piece, so some snot-nosed kid or tweaker who hasn't washed his hands (or the rest of himself) in two weeks touches every piece in the display box trying to get one or two or three pieces untangled from the rest... and they stick together so they hold the others down while they pull their piece or two off so that by the time you go to get yourself a piece of that long shoestring licorice, the entire world has touched it all, after having touched every conceivable part of their own bodies and potentially, other peoples'...

It's no wonder he's enjoying the whipping... of course, since nobody likes the taste of the black licorice, nobody's touched it but you, or him if you're sending him out to get it... the other stuff tastes good and barely stings - more a tickle - and carries ebola... what's not for Bruno to love... on the other hand, if you get pristine black licorice whips that taste like cheap black licorice whips, then where's the pleasure in that for him... no fear of infection... no pain... what's the point...

So, if you want to make him suffer, whip him with something that's dangerously infected by the naked mole rat virus or cat AIDS and which doesn't taste good... he'll be weeping like a... well... like Bruno,after the first lash... you can even tie little cat-o-nine tails knots in the licorice strings... It'll be like the first time you ever had to slap him across the face for forgetting to take off 'the face' before falling into bed and ruining his $500.00 1,000 thread count Eyptian cotton pillow case, and he froze, staring at you wide-eyed and open-mouthed with that hurt puppy dog look on his face, cupping his cheek in his hand, and let out that little high-pitched gasp - more intake of breath than sigh... You'll get exactly the same reaction from him if you use the black licorice whip... of course, I hate to tell you but he really enjoyed it when you slapped him across the face. It gave him an excuse to run, half-tripping out of his stiletto's, his arms flailing as he went, all the way to Lupe's room where he threw himself onto her bed and into her maternal arms and pressed his face against her bosom, and sobbed like a small child until he could sob no more, after which she made him some cocoa, he had an nice hot bubble bath, and his hair wrapped up in a towel, put on his most comfy nightie and felt asleep within minutes... The next morning Lupe made him soft boiled eggs with toast soldiers and more cocoa and by the time he finished, he couldn't even remember what had upset him so much...

I know that in the whole scheme of things it's not as satisfying for you and doesn't at all meet your needs as far as torturing the big queen goes, but it seems to do Bruno's mental health a world of good, and probably costs a lot less than if he were throwing irreplacable pieces of museum quality Galle glass from the turn of the 20th century...

Commissar Theocritus wrote:BTW, have you heard the supposition that Capote is the the one who wrote <i>To Kill a Mockingbird</i>? He is Dill of course; Harper Lee never really wrote anything else; once he was drunk on a television program and halfway let on that he did. I have it read by Sissy Spacek and listened to it on one of my long driving vacations. Even though I'd read it three or four times it's always worth rereading. So very evocative.

I have read it several times but not for a very long time... probably since High School, and I suppose I could see how Capote might have written it... but it does not at all remind me of Capote's style, though so much of his other work was so different... nevertheless, he might have... but then there are people who have one good novel in them, or movie, or whatever... who have one piece that for some reason seems almost divinely inspired, and usually has everything to do with their times - their historical context... that contains one timely theme and if written well enough, becomes for whatever reason, representative ofthat time, in some way... but Lee was of that time and it may be thatwhat she was inspired by were the social themes of the moment, not tomention being inspired by Capote... There are those who have that oneseminal piece of art and manage to express it just so, but then aredone... and sometimes they choose to be done. There is nothing so sadas the savant who, having expressed that one seminal work withinthemselves, attempts to redo it, over and over again, obsessivelytrying to make it more perfect or more elegant or to recapture itsmoment... Those are the artists who usually end up in the bin, orattached at the hip to those more talented than themselves, foreverputting up with their abuse while drinking their liquor and takingtheir leavings, and doing their drugs and basking in the reflected glowof their acquaintanceship (pseudo friendship)... though in truth, Ithink that while she was able, Lee's primary job was to keep Capotefrom self-destructing through poor behaviour, and in that respect, shetruly was a friend... one who didn't survive to feel his outwardlyexpressed self-hatred... not that I like to psycoanalyze people, but then he wasn't my friend and nobody gives a shit about my opion anyway...

Dear Sister,

I had repressed that scene about Bruno and me slapping him for not taking off his face--some things are just too painful for easy recollection. Many psychiatrists have done patients harm by forcing them to recover from selective amnesia; their minds, out of self-preservation, <i>chose</i> to blank out something.

But I am a stronger Commissar now than I was then and after a few moments of rolling into a ball, in a fetal position, seeing my knee caps very closely indeed, I with superhuman effort managed to unfurl myself and stand up, and even though shaking, decided that I would just have to face that memory.

And that memory is best faced with music. That's what my head specialist, Dr. Semyon Gluzman, told me. What better than "I will Survive"? As the Gloria Gaynor pulsed out of the B&Ws, I felt my heart rate steadying, and the image of Bruno fading into the background...

Until in he came, dressed of all things as Olivia Newton-John. Now <i>were</i> did that come from? Lupe and I went through every closet in the house--all with their doors open 24/7--and pitched out every item of women's clothes that he had, except a simple teddy. Thinking it might be easier for him to go one day at a time I even got outfits like the Village People. I couldn't expect him to start wearing a pin-stripe suit, could I, right off the bat? I thought, well, the construction worker. The lure of the tool belt. The joys of knowing that recovery can be seen in the distance.

First the Village People. Then Jack on <i>Will and Grace</i>. And then Felix Unger. This last was to be an effort to get him to be neat and tidy and give poor Lupe a break.

But after that Olivia Newton-John outfit...Where <i>did</i> it come from? The closets were clean save for the teddy. And there was no package delivery. None of the hands would be dumb enough to smuggle him in clothing.

So the only possibility is that he has drag stashes. I'm going to turn the rancho upside down and find them. I'll stop this yet...

Commissar Theocritus wrote:
So the only possibility is that he has drag stashes. I'm going to turn the rancho upside down and find them. I'll stop this yet...

Hmmmm, sounds like they may have been air dropped to him?

Is that what he was doing on the roof? I thought he was taking target practice at jackrabbits. You think he was flagging planes?

I have to admit though, Pupovich, I thought that he was conspiring with you on the talent-shitting pigeons. I found <i>more talent shit</i> on my garage door. And I'm sending Bruno for you, Pupovich, in his sequined platform mules.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Have you stopped to consider that Bruno may be the one with Talent Shitting? That perhaps, just perhaps, that is why he chooses to wear uncomfortable high heels regardless of them going in and out of style?

Bruno has his own style, and cares nothing for the tidal waves of fashion. Now I admit that that style can male children cry, women faint, and strong men pale, but it is a style nonetheless.

No, the talent shitting was entirely too high for Bruno to be doing it. The only non-avian creature that could do it would be, er, Nansky Peloski.

What a great picture of Comrades Pelosi and Feinstein. Was this before, or after they put on their makeup?

This was the before picture for a Sherwin-Williams ad.

Perhaps Commissar Theocrttus, you fail to remember Bruno's protesting at the top of that pole? Clearly he was high enough to have spoiled your garage doors from that height!

No, no, no, no, no! That pole is on the north forty, and the garage faces to the south! And I'll give Bruno one thing. It's about time. He's toilet trained. I mean, his mouth lives its own life; his actions are unrestrained, but he's toilet trained.

It was a challenge, I know. I found that the <i>New York Times</i> was required for that. Bruno would have an accident and I'd swat him with a paper. It didn't matter. If you're 6'4" and built like a line-backer, that doesn't much faze you. But when I started hitting him with the NYT, he'd blench.

"Theocritus! Don't <i>do</i> that! The smell! My lord but the stink of that thing."

"You mean you can smell it over your 'accident'?"

"When you hit me with that...thing...I can smell it on me for weeks. You know I'm more latitudinarian than that."

Well, whether through intransigence or stupidity, we had to do this over and over and over. After being hit by the NYT a hundred times, Bruno finally was toilet trained.

But it lowered his IQ to the point that he stumbles over the word "refrigerator."

How about a talent of pigeon shit as in "Yesterday, as I was driving past Rancho del Rio Grande, I saw Commissar Theocritus outside scraping a talent of pigeon shit off from his garage door; however, I did not (most definitely did not) see a Pupovich of conspirators laughing in the bushes out front."

A talent of pigeon shit? Brilliant, Doctor, just brilliant. I did worry for a bit though about overburdening that collective word <i>talent</i>--it's first-rate for a talent of pigeon shit, but what do we use for say Congress?

Oh. Silly me. A den of Congressmen. A clutch of Senators.

I too thought that I saw a Pupovich of conspirators laughing in the front. Which is why I decided to aerate the soil with my S&W 1006. I didn't know that greasewood could make anguished cries, but then one learns, doesn't one?

A trunkload of progressive votes.

A cemetery of Democrat voters.

A cemetery of Democrat voters.

Theo, are you recycling?
That's Red's #2 post in this thread, right after the all-time favorite "A pantload of revolution".

No, I'm not recycling. I'm having head troubles.

One of Pupovich's talent-shitting Schumers dive bombed my tin-foil hat and knocked it off. I missed 15 seconds of vital satellite propaganda and that makes me <i>so</i> confused.

Laika the Space Dog wrote:

A cemetery of Democrat voters.

Theo, are you recycling?
That's Red's #2 post in this thread, right after the all-time favorite "A pantload of revolution".

a pantload of Korean corporate culture and company rules. sorry, just venting...

i will be singing this soon:

Doctor, as a Made Progressive you are permitted to vent.

Even the best Made Progressive can get full to the Plimsoll line of rules and regulations. Daily I thank Stalin that somehow I manage to call the shots. It's a small, shitty town and a very small life but it's a wide-moat life.

a skid mark of sensitivity
a sack of social justice
a kracker of renal failure

Ex.: If Rush Limbaugh had a skid mark of sensitivity or at least a sack of social justice, then Wanda Sykes wouldn't have to wish a kracker of renal failure upon him.

"Skid mark of sensitivity." Very nice.

A vomit of political correctness.
A Pelosi of stupidities.